Machine Gun Shy

February 26th, 2009 by admin

While we were vacationing at my parents house, in a room uniquely identified by jigsaw puzzles, children’s books, and a plastic golf bag complete with red-and-blue clubs and whiffle balls, two toys of particular intrigue caught my son’s attention.

One of them, a black machine gun, molded from plastic and capped with bright orange for safety reasons, makes all sorts of military noises when you press the button. The other, colored with green camouflage and an orange tip, noisily slides piston-like when you depress the trigger. Oren gravitated toward the black one, but that might be because Siena liked the green one first.

My wife and I are parents of intellectually modern sensibilities, and so toy guns are on an ever-lengthening list of unavoidable but socially unacceptable diversions, one slot above Halloween death imagery and a few slots ahead of dolls that look unlike real people with real plastic surgery. Knowing how carefully we screen our children’s television viewing, my wife wondered if our children would have a clue about these toys, and what they do. So she asked them, “What are those toys?” Oren answered, “They’re worker things.” Siena, being a year older and just that much wiser, looked at the piston-like gun and said, “This one hammers nails. It’s a pliers.”

For a few days they played with the guns as if they were no big deal, picking them and leaving them behind with everything else discovered here: the golf bag, the dolls, the remote control cars, the double-nine Dominos. But on a warm weekday morning, my wife took them out for a walk so I could stay behind and work. Siena said, “I want to bring this,” and she brandished the green machine gun like a Sandinista while it shook out a barrage of imaginary bullets. Having backed ourselves into a corner by not explaining anything about the toys, we were unable to explain why this was a bad idea. “Ask Mommy,” was the best I could do. Mommy said, “Okay.”

We never told them what the toys were called. We never explained what they did. After all, guns make us nervous.

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Double Daddy Dooty Duty

January 21st, 2009 by admin

When my workload is lighter than usual, “work-at-home dad” becomes just “at-home dad.” I become the house husband, a man with an apron (or at least a dish towel) who wanders from room to room picking up after the children.

Less work is no justification for taking a vacation. If anything, I pick up all the slack — I didn’t know there was any slack — and pull double daddy duty: cooking, laundry, cleaning, quality time with the kids, errands. My career, I’m afraid, might be little more than a retaining wall holding back an avalanche of family obligation. Knock away one billable project brick, and suddenly I’m heating leftovers, shoveling snow, and empting the potty. It’s all dooty duty, when I’d rather be working.

I see clearly that the choice facing all working parents — (a) find a job, (b) raise your children — is not a life choice. It’s a day choice. Guilt or gumption gets us out of bed, and we struggle between answering or ignoring the screaming alarm in our room, or the alarming scream from the other.

I don’t believe that our careers are an excuse to ignore our kids. Nor do I believe that playing with kids is a good way to procrastinate at work. The choice is both real and constant, and the parameters of choice can change when we’re not looking. Maybe there is no best choice. Maybe the best we can hope for is that today’s choice is a decent one. It’s all just a game of dress-up anyway, no matter what.

Suppose, just suppose, that instead of spending valuable time to take my kids to the science museum or the aquarium or the play space, I use my time looking for work that takes me even farther my away from them. Does this make me double the bad parent?

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Blownership issues

January 14th, 2009 by admin

When I purchased one-third of a snow blower this weekend, I found myself stumbling across yet another line, the division of “self” and “neighbor.” I’m already blurring the line between work and play, office and home, kids and grown-ups, fun and responsibility. Now my neighbors are sort of like business partners.

I was always against snow blowers in principle. They’re loud, they use gasoline, my kids are justifiably scared of them, and shoveling (when done properly) is both healthy and more precise. This particular model, with its monstrously orange snow-eating mouth and a weight of over 250 pounds,  looks and feels too much like farm machinery than a household convenience. But when your neighbor approaches you with an idea — hey, let’s go in on one together, shall we? — and then it snows like crazy, how do you say no?

Generations ago, neighbors were automatically colleagues if not friends. Like college roommates today, homeowners and their families shared more than just a street or street corner; they shared their lives and their gossip. But soon our fences weren’t designed to keep only our animals in; they kept us in, too. Had you spoken with me only five years ago, I knew almost none of my neighbors — and remember, I work at home, so not getting to know my neighbors would be like an office worker throwing a tarp over his cubicle.

I immediately perceived an advantage, anyway. Because I don’t commute to an office, I don’t have to shovel and defrost at five a.m. I can hurl the minivan into the street, drop off the kids, and return home to manage snow at my convenience. So while my neighbors might compete for “blownership” first thing in the morning, I can use the machine whenever I want. But then I realized that my neighbor — the guy who had the idea in the first place — is a working dad-at-home, too.

It was also his idea to keep the snow blower in his back yard. With a tarp over it.

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Two winning votes

November 5th, 2008 by admin

On the way to the polls yesterday, I asked my toddlers about the second ballot initiative in Massachusetts. ”We like marijuana,” they said, nodding.

When I take them to vote with me, I do my best to give them the same basic experience that I have. At the election before this, I asked one of the volunteers for a piece of paper the kids could use as a ballot. They leant me their schedule, a grid with names, time blocks, and districts. One of the volunteers was named Don, so I had Siena fill in all the Os in Don’s names. Don himself was quite pleased.

In this election, I tore a paper in half and penned a Yes/No ballot with five names: Daddy, Mommy, Siena, Oren, and Nutsy. Nutsy is the stuffed squirrel that Siena brought to our polling location. Both kids got a marker and a “ballot.” We lay on our stomachs on the floor, and with help the kids began to fill in their ovals. Siena voted Yes for me and herself, but No for Mommy. Oren also voted down party lines, giving me and Siena a No, and Mommy a Yes. But in a surprising upset, both Oren and Nutsy tied with two votes.

Yes, Obama did get almost 64 million more votes than Nutsy, but my kids really enjoyed themselves, and we told them how proud we were. And then, this afternoon they heard Obama’s name on the radio and recognized it.

I asked, ”What about Nutsy? Do you think he’s sad that he didn’t win?”

Siena responded optimistically: “Maybe we could vote again tomorrow.”

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Aww, poop

October 20th, 2008 by admin

Yes, it’s that time in our children’s lives where bathroom activities are discussed all day long, and the excitement of an emptied bladder permeates the home.

We’ve read the books, heard form other parents, and tried everything, but we’re not even close. Siena is almost four years old — I’m fond of saying she’s almost a teenager, as if to emphasize the point — and she still insists on wearing diapers regularly. Oren, younger but on a more promising path, follows in her Pampered footsteps.

For me, the stakes are huge. Every unnecessary diaper contributes to the needless destruction of the environment. Every set of soiled clothes — and let me tell you, Oren has some real talent, because he often manages to dampen everything from shirt to socks — is another hour wasted either doing lanudry or battling off tantrums about some unavailable pair of favorite underwear.

It’s my style to put everything on the line, all or nothing, when I’m frustrated or angry. “That’s it, no more diapers allowed, let them constipate themselves for all I care!,” I’ll yell, or “Wear diapers if you want. You can change yourselves, too.” My struggle is in trying to accept the small successes and failures, and not view them indicative of absolutely everything. I am so tired of staring critically into yet another bowl.

Tonight, Siena sat on the toilet, because she wanted to. She invited the whole family into the tiny bathroom and sat there. And before my wife could retrieve Everyone Poops from the upstairs bathroom, it was over. “Did you hear the plop?” Siena asked. I smiled by best dad smile and told her I was proud. From experience, I know these thirty seconds don’t translate into a litetime of happier parenting, but I can’t help but wonder.

My hopes are literally flushed down the toilet. But yeah, that’s a good thing.

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But you didn’t say please

September 7th, 2008 by admin

Our politeness lessons have worked so well that our kids are mirroring them back on us.

It should come as no surprise that once children reach an appropriate age they start actively looking for and even judging their parents’ behaviors. Are we chewing with our mouths open, or handling food with our hands? Do we say please, thank you, I’m sorry, and excuse me at appropriate times? Personally, I like getting this kind of feedback, because it forces me to practice what I preach.

A week ago, not for the first time, Siena accused me of not saying please. This time, however, I had no idea what she was talking about. She had been crying for a while, and when she finally calmed down she told me that I didn’t say please.

Yesterday it happened again, only this time my wife was the target. After a long bout of upset, Siena explained that the reason she had been crying was that my wife didn’t say please. Again, I think Siena was miscommunicating, but I saw the parallel. Both of these complaints followed our criticisms of Siena, where we pointed out her bad behavior and told her how to act appropriately. With me, for example, I got stern when she took away a toy that Oren was playing with; I demanded she return it and wait her turn. She cried, calmed, and then accused me of not saying please. It’s not the reprimand that makes her cry, she seems to be saying, but rather my delivery of that reprimand. “If you’re going to accuse me,” she thinks, “accuse me politely.”

On the radio I heard an interview where actors, who are now parents, spoke about how they were punished as children. One actor told the story of how he was spanked not by his own mom but by the mother of a friend. “Today,” he said, ”she would literally have gone to jail.” Instead, his own parents thanked her.

Clearly an even gentler generation is on its way. Long gone are the days of “Thank you, may I have another” acceptance. Siena wants something a bit different. “Please, my cherished daughter,” she would have say, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a moment and tell you constructively where I believe your actions, though true to yourself, could nevertheless be modestly improved.”

Yeah, take that, you miscreant. Please.

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Sienna and Orange

August 27th, 2008 by admin

When our son Oren starting using lidded cups instead of bottles, I had a great idea. To make sure that we didn’t confuse Oren’s cups with those of our daughter Siena (spelled with one n), I invented a simple rule: “Orange for Oren.” If neither the cup nor its lid was orange, it would be Siena’s cup.

After about two years, we broke the rule and gave Oren any color he wanted for himself. Siena did this too, though she never seemed to choose orange. Our “Orange for Oren” guideline had inadvertantly evolved into a self-imposed limitation on Siena. This change is made immediately and instantly clear when I attempt to give Siena a cup with an orange lid. She bursts into whiney tears. “Noooo! That’s Oren’s cup.” I try to explain it was okay, but she refuses to listen, her grief quickly progressing into a tantrum.

As modern-day, open-minded parents, my wife and I have always been uncomfortable color-coding our daughter. Before Siena, we swore we would never dress our daughter in pink. That rule failed, but to my mother’s horror, we’re not afraid to dress Siena in boyish colors and patterns, even military-green camouflauge. Her name may be a color, but we’ve tried to keep color bias out of our home … only to end up engineering our own, for orange.

Today I asked Oren what his favorite color is. Blue, he says. I ask him what else he likes. Purple. Green. Yellow. Black. “What other colors?” Red. White. Brown.

Oren has no orange recall. It’s as if he’s desensitized to it. And Siena still adamantly refuses all things orange. No orange plates, no orange cups, no orange clothes, no orange toys.

Single-handedly, I have destroyed an entire color.

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Thinking Inside the Box

August 9th, 2008 by admin

For a long time, my kids’ favorite game was “Get in the Box.” We used a giant cardboard box, sturdy and as big as the file cabinet once inside it. The rules are simple. I say, “Get in the box.” They get in the box.

George Carlin, among others, have griped that today’s kids go to all sorts of specialized summer camps — not just hockey camp, but goalie camp – and don’t just play any more. Carlin thinks kids need to get back to sitting on the grass and playing with sticks. There’s a ring of truth to this, because I can remember (with nostalgia, maybe) digging holes in the dirt with a fallen stick.

When the kids get out of the box, I pretend to be angry. “Get back in the box!” I love this game because of how horrified my neighbors would be if they overheard me yelling this way. “What do you think you’re doing? Did I say you could get out of the box?”

The real message is that kids play with anything. If they have nothing, they play with sticks, or even trash. That they’ll play with an empty box is almost a cliche today; all the time I hear stories of presents discarded and boxes beloved. Chalk is another favorite, which Oren uses all over the house, and on every surface. Grapes are fun, because they’re round. Compact discs are shiny. Keys are jingly and open stuff. And sticks are, well, they’re always available.

After a while, the game gets tiresome for everyone. They wait longer and longer to come find me. They grow comfortable with the box, no longer anxious to jump out and find me. And eventually, finally, they don’t come out of the box at all. They stay in there, talking and still laughing.

Kids don’t need sticks. They can play beautifully with nothing, too.

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Yes, Please, Door

August 3rd, 2008 by admin

Our please-and-thank-you training is a bigger success than I thought.

When she was starting to talk, I played a bib game with my daughter. “Does the bib go on Daddy? Nooooo. Does the bib go on Siena? Yessss.” At a very young age, then, she grew comfortable saying yes, and in fact I don’t hear that word from many other kids. Oren, too, picked up use of the word. In their tiny voices, the word is adorable in its slides and sibilants and makes our kids seem very polite.

Games are the best (and most fun) way to teach them positive habits. We have all sorts of silly politeness games.

I get them to say please to inanimate objects. When we’re about to enter automatic doors, the kinds that use sensors to detect our approach, I always say “Open, please.” The doors, as if responding to my voice, open quietly. Now the kids do the same. It works like magic.

My wife taught them to say “no thank you” instead of ewwww or yuck when they’re offered foods they don’t want. “No thank you, peas,” says Oren. “No thank you, potatoes.” It sounds as if they’re talking to vegetables. I’ve taken the game further, saying no thank you to the thunder, or a bad smell. Keeping them from practicing their toddlers’ rant – no no no no no — has been great.

As much as these games accomplish something positive — I’m surprised by how people say our kids are so polite — I also wonder if the exaggerated usage makes sense to them. It’s a game to us, a joke, but I know irony doesn’t work with kids that age. Do they think the rain hears that rain-rain-go-away song? I’m not worried, of course; a slanted worldview is a small price to pay for genuinely good behavior, at least at this age.

And then today, as we were leaving the mall, Oren beat me to the heavy glass door at the exit. Instead of trying to push it open, he simply stood before it and spoke politely into the air. ”Open, please.”

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The Random Discomfort of Parenting

July 10th, 2008 by admin

My job, my environment, and my life are a multitasker’s dream. I am working on 20 simultaneous projects. We’re still somewhat unpacked in our new home. And my kids are, well, kids. But when everything happens at once, a certain amount of embarassment is inevitable.

Body language. Oren is obsessed with making up words. One of his favorites, thanks to its rich consonant sounds, is a clear and present vulgarity. I haven’t decided if this is worse than his nude escapades on the lawn.

Prioritizing. Siena insists on wearing underwear without first potty-training. This morning I had to turn around to go home because she suddenly and tearfully demanded a diaper. For the rest of the day I had a tiny pair of panties on my passenger seat.

Reputation. I gave Siena a new business card and showed her the letters of my name. She was so excited that she put the card under her pillow and shrieked when Oren tried to take it. More of my clients should be like that.

Affection. Oren has perfected the art of making flatulence sounds by pushing his lips onto your skin and blowing. Now he does it all the time. To everyone.

Baby’s first argument. My three-year-old actually argued with me like an adult. She said it would be dark when she woke from her nap. I said it would be light. She said it would be dark. I said light. She said dark. I said light. She tantrumed. I raised my voice. She insisted. … Fewer of my clients should be like that.

The art of conversation. The kids are marvels with the telephone. Talking to no one but the dial tone, they hold one-sided conversations that sound amazingly real: “Hi Grandma. Yeah. Yeah. I’m going to school. Uh-huh. Yeah. Yesterday, I pooped in the toilet. Okay. Bye, Grandma.”

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