Like Charlie Sheen in Platoon, I'm a dad who actually volunteered for this. Now I just shut up and take the pain. My wife is like a sexy Keith David, catching that last helicopter out to work every day, leaving me in the chopper dust of two warring mini-sergeants, Bub and the Priestess, fighting for possession of my soul. And that makes you grandma. Consider this blog my letters home to you. It really helps if you've seen the movie.
“Why do you want to see my poop?
Make your own poop.”
“I just wanna see YOUR poop.”
“No.”
“LET ME SEE YOUR POOP, DADDY!”
HP: “Eat. Eeeeeeeat.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeat!”
(Perhaps she was hungry)
“Do you see my balls here, Daddy?”
“I sure do.”
“This is my BALLBAG, Daddy. Do
you like my ballbag? It’s nice, isn’t it? I said, it’s NICE, Daddy. Isn’t it?”
THE MONOLOGUE
(I’m not too up on my
Shakespeare; perhaps it’s from one of the comedies.)
Mommy, do you want to play with crayons?
Mommy, the crayons are out. THE CRAYONS ARE OUT, MOMMY! Ohh, let’s see if she’s
out. Let’s see if Mommy’s out. Let’s see if she’s just unloaded. (moves to
kitchen, whispering now) Mommy is not ready for crayons. Mommy is out of here.
Mommy is OUT of the lead! Mommy is unloaded.
I'm quite average-sized things, thank you very much.
Uncle Matt and Aunt Michal were
over a couple weeks ago. Bub lights up like the parking lot before a Phish show
every time they are over; he loves showing them EVERY SINGLE THING he can do.
Sometimes he shows them so much stuff that he runs out of stuff to show them.
Then he has to come up with new stuff. Like this:
“I’m NO PANTS MCGEE!”
We were
innocently segueing into the bedtime routine, which includes him going into the potty and
re-emerging all jammied up. Or naked as the morning is early.
We of course lost our shit. I got the
same reaction last time I walked into a room with no pants on, too. Different
reasons, perhaps. This of course resulted in us hearing his new moniker 87 times
in a row. Then came the variants.
“I’m No Shirt McGee!” He had a
good thing going here. Like any good comedian, you ride that shtick till the
wheels come off. “I’m No Socks McGee!” Etc.
Anyhoo, another facet of the bedtime
ritual also includes putting his tiny things away. No, his other tiny things.
What exactly are No Pants McGee's tiny
things, you ask? It all started with his mini Domo, his first “machine” score.
Then he threw in some random game pieces, a 4-sided die he stole from my old
dice bag. The other day, a tiny eraser mysteriously joined the tiny things
party. They all live inside Domo’s little half-egg and only come out when HP is
sleeping. They are eclectic, they are fun, they are choking hazards. They are
the tiny things.
Bub came up with that handle.
Tiny things. I like it. Makes me think of Darby O’Gill. And it’s led
to some pretty awesome conversations around the house:
“Daddy, have you seen my tiny
things?”
“No, Bub. Seriously, I’m not
looking for your tiny things again.”
“Oh, here they are. They’re on
the table, Daddy!”
“Bub, please keep your tiny
things off the dinner table.”
“Bub, HP can NOT have your tiny
things, do you understand?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Seriously, if I see her holding
your tiny things, I’m gonna put them on the big shelf again.”
“Okay.”
“We keep our tiny things to
ourselves in this house.”
“Daddy, can I play with my tiny
things now?”
“Sure, Bub, just don’t put them
in your mouth.”
“Bub, time to put your tiny
things away.”
“Why?”
“Because your sister will be
awake soon, and I don’t want her to see your tiny things.”
“Daddy, you wanna play with my
tiny things?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got my own.”
“Daddy, if HP sees my tiny
things, she will probably try to grab them.”
We’ve kind of hit the proverbial
bathroom wall recently in the realm of potty training. We got off to kind of a
shaky start, then it finally caught on (and by caught on, I mean Bub stopped
shitting his pants), and now we’ve kind of plateaued. And by plateaued, I mean:
“Daddy, you wanna check my
pull-up? It’s DRY, Daddy.”
“Okay, great…yeah, no. This is
wet, Bub.”
“Ohhhhhhhhh.” Like he just mis-spoke. Like dry and wet
are like marinade/marinate.
“I’m afraid that’s not going to
net you a gold star, my friend. You wanna tell me why you peed in your
pull-up?”
“Because I LIKE to!”
You can see what I’m working with
here. Like a classic Shakesperean actor playing Dirty Harry:
“What thou must posit of thyself
is dost thou feel fortuitous? Well, dost thou, punk?”
And that’s pretty much it, the
pith. Don’t have to be a child psychologist to see the root of the problem
here. The kid likes to sit in the warm afterglow of his own urinal pleasures.
We’ve tried various methods,
varying greatly in severity and orthodoxy. I put him back in diapers once, I
was so frustrated. Yes, I did tell him once that he smelled like a urinal
trough at Soldier Field at halftime.
Yes, it was also I who compared him to the
only other boy in his class:
“Does Charlie wear pull-ups?”
“No.”
“Wow, I bet he really loves
wearing his big boy underwear.”
“Probably he does,” he shrugged. Like
there’s something wrong with THAT creep.
I’ve played the age card:
“You’re three now, Bub. You’re WAAYYYY
too old to be peeing your pants.”
“Yeah, I just like to, though.”
Again with the shrug. Like I keep offering him broccoli when he’s sitting on a
big, fat oatmeal cream pie.
He has a crush on a girl at
school. Yeah, I went there, too.
“You know, Bub, the smell of a
clean pull-up is a known aphrodisiac.”
“I don’t know what that means,
Daddy.”
“It means Caroline seems like the
kind of girl who would go for a man in some dry pants.”
“Ohhhhh.” Like Caroline would
just have to get off her hygienic high horse and embrace the sog if she wanted
to get with this. F-in snob.
I’ve tried pestering him. Do you
have to pee now? Bub, you need to go potty? How about now? C’mon, I have to
pee, too; let’s simul-pee. And so on.
I’ve tried letting him come to
me. Guess how that went.
We’ve questioned his motives, his
physical capabilities and his commitment to Team Underpants. We’ve tried the
Jelly Belly machine, intimidation, reason, apathy, bribery and full-on begging.
Why just today, this happened:
“Okay, Bub, no school today. It’s
raining. So let’s really focus on keeping a dry pull-up, okay? I think you can
do it, what do you say? You’re one gold star from some Wii time…”
“Yeah, I want to. I just can’t do
it, Daddy.” He sounded so sincere. That’s what makes him so dangerous.
This has been going on so long now
that we initially bought him some rad new Elmo underwear to try and lure him to
The Dry Side. Made a big to-do about it, went to Target, he picked em out, I
actually used the word “awesome” to describe a pair of tighty whities with
Elmo’s face adorning the ass side.
And there they sit, lowly as the
leftover s’mores marshmallows. We’ve tried letting him sport them around the
house as a privilege on two occasions. They lasted approximately 18 minutes.
Combined. It was an extreme privilege to hose down hapless Elmo. I’m so over
you, Elmo; I can speak in the first person now.
And that leaves us here. Still.
Continually. Perpetually. Waiting, hoping, experimenting. Any theories? He’s
all proud of himself because he stands when he pees now. It would be a lot more
impressive if his pants weren’t still on.
I was the room parent last Friday
at Bub’s pre-school, which entails having a snack with the kids, talking
bristle blocks and Honey Grahams. Somewhere in there was sing-song time,
wherein the kids, when called upon, would name an animal to fill in the blank.
Bub picked a bunny.
Not a dinosaur or rhinoceros or
grizzly bear. Not even a fully growed-up, speed-burning, garden-raiding rabbit.
A bunny. Bunnies are soft, delicate. Bunnies get swallowed whole by owls in the
shadowy moonlight. Bunnies are prey.
Quick snapshot of the class:
Seven girls and two boys.
The other boy picked a tiger.
Well, la-dee-dah, Alpha Toddler. It
made sense, in its own way. This other boy is much more physically imposing
than Bub, more developed and better-coordinated. Taller, heavier, sturdier. He
goes down the big slide. He hauls a backpack bigger than his own torso. Probably
full of gold bullion and pride. When the class drew pumpkins, his was so good the
other kids tried to carve it. And he let them.
Bub loves him. And who wouldn’t?
He’s a nice kid. Good-looking, well-dressed, polite. But is that feeling
mutual? I mean, Bub is clearly Robin to this pint-sized Batman. This was all
established in less than two weeks, and that was that. The roles were set. Bub
would now have to best him in a cage match to change that. And bunnies seek protection
in cages, not confrontation.
It’s fine. No, really, Robin has
pulled Batman’s doughnut out of the grease a few times. I mean, he has, right?
The faithful sidekick. The Beta male. No shame in that. No siree.
It’s just that no parent wants
their kid to be the hanger-on, the wingman, the Ed McMahon. The bunny. Instant
survey--would you rather your kid be outgoing or reserved? A tiger or a bunny? That’s
what I thought.
I have nicknamed Bub The
Assessor. It’s not that he’s shy or introverted so much (though he is), it’s
that he really likes to get a feel for any given situation before he decides
how to proceed. He watches, plants all the data into his three year-old bean,
which eventually sprouts a decision to act. Or not. Spontaneous, he ain’t.
But what’s wrong with that? He’s coming
from one parent (me) who has a favorite quote that goes something like: It’s
better to be quiet and be thought an idiot than to open your mouth and remove
all doubt. Only fools rush in. Et cetera.
And yet, I hear myself imploring
him to go play with other kids on the playground. Interact, make friends,
mingle. Practically shoving him into the bouncy castle, where, yes, it’s likely
he will sustain a minor abrasion, but it’s fucking-A worth it. It’s mostly that
we just don’t want him to be afraid. We’re trying to instill self-confidence. At
least that’s what we tell ourselves.
But deep down, we know that the
tiger path leads to riper fruits in the long run. You play your cards right,
they may just name a fountain after you. You will always play point guard and
go to the after-parties. People will remember your name. People will listen
when you roar.
The bunnies, meanwhile, sort of
squeak and nibble in the safe confines of their cages. They are gentle and
fragile and easily cajoled. Their poop is consistently pellet-y and they smell
of wood chips. They look up at tigers with a mix of awe, fear and digust.
Takes one to know one. I tip-toed
my way through the high school jungle once upon a time, so careful not to
rustle any leaves there in the shadows of the mighty felines. I camouflaged my
scent over and over with the mud of anonymity, rubbed that shit in deep, yet
still hoped they’d somehow see me. If only they stopped to bat me aside with a mighty
paw, at least they would have acknowledged me.
We want what we can’t have, of
course. We want our kids to learn from mistakes that we’re not letting them
make. We want them to have everything we didn’t. Or do we? The irony, I’ve realized,
is that I don’t want Bub to be a tiger. Tigers hunt and maul and snarl and
gnash. That’s not the kind of son I want to raise. I’m glad Bub picked a bunny.
In a very John Hughes way, I’ll always side with the bunnies.
'Let's break something new today, HP.' "How about Daddy's spirit?" 'Again? Okay, I've got 5 minutes.'
In the opening episode of season three of Louie, there’s a moment where Louie
walks to his car, which is parked in a construction zone. While talking to the
foreman, the excavator in the background inexplicably drops its massive metal
claw on top of Louie’s car. Louie barely even flinches as the claw smashes down
on his car over and over again. He doesn’t yell or really even betray any hint
of sadness or loss. Louie, you see, is a parent. He’s used to it.
Whoever said that destruction is a form of creation
obviously never had kids. Destruction around here is part of the culture, the
raison d’ many an etre. Our kids have taken the concept of destruction and
really elevated it to a higher art form. They’ve given it a voice. And they
channel out its wishes with fundamentalist panache.
It starts out as a learning process, cause and effect. What
happens if I put Daddy’s smart phone in the big boy potty and then douse it
like one of those rescue helicopters on a California wildfire? Okay, that’s a
bit of an exaggeration—I would never invest in a smart phone.
The thing nobody tells you is that they only break YOUR
stuff. Any and all of it they can get their grubby little paws on. It’s not
that our kids are reckless or malicious; they just lack a certain finesse with
their fine motor skills that has led to the demise of countless tsotchkes.
‘Hey, I wonder what this [CRASH]…was.’ I’m interpreting here.
Part of it is science. Our stuff is delicate--random
trinkets from around the world, coffee mugs and remote controls. You’re putting
them in the hands of creatures who take CDs out and put them in the Diaper
Genie. They head-butt the windows and use mayonnaise as hair product. What do
you expect when you hand Godzilla a Stradivarius, a concerto? Or kindling.
The other reason is that THEIR stuff has a median melting
point of 3000 degrees Centigrade, and is nuclear fallout-proof. Sure it’s fun
to play with, but you can’t break it if you try (and trust me, I have—Yes, I’m
talking to you singing vacuum cleaner). No, the only things that break are the
Crayons. But they don’t really break, of course; you just have more Crayons, in
more places.
I’m not blaming them; in many ways, it is our own fault.
Having the nerve to possess things of our own in a house now even-Stevened with
kids. We were kind of asking for it. Dummies.
My wife was just looking around the giant playspace that is
our living room the other day for some semblance of US, something with
personality, some relic of a life lived before the dawning of the age of kids.
I was quick to point to my beloved coaster, the one with the farmer standing
next to a seven foot chicken that says ‘This man has a huge cock.’ Totally
age-inappropriate. Nice conversation piece. Hilarious. Beyond that, I’ll have
to get back to you. Um, does a Yankee candle count?
There is a lesson to be learned in all this, and it is
simple—just stop caring. About your stuff, that is. Who cares? It’s just stuff.
Yes, a lot of the things they’ve mangled are actually irreplaceable. They meant
something, some more than others, to us at one time. Maybe they still do. Maybe
we even hold silent candlelight vigils after the kids are in bed for some. Maybe
that’s weird.
But for so many fallen comrades, we offered them a good home
and a handsome display area. And then The Destructors invaded, started
commandeering things. Wasn’t it Sting that said, ‘If you love your stuff, set
that shit free?’ Something like that. Either that or bury it in a time capsule,
then try to remember to dig it up when college comes a-knocking.
‘Daddy, what’s this?’
That’s how it always starts. If I answer the question with
anything other than, “That’s Daddy’s, Bub. Don’t touch it,” I might as well
just put it on the floor and smash it with a ballpeen hammer myself. At least that
way I’d get some exercise. It’s like my testimony alone could have freed that
poor little thing. But now it’s been absorbed, like all the others, condemned
to Thing Death Row.
Yes, HP, that was the last of our set of small Japanese
sushi dipping bowls you launched from the U.S.S. Traytop yesterday. We REALLY
loved that bowl, your mother and I. Bought it in Japan, nearly a decade ago;
the opportunity cost alone to replace it would cost you your first 300
allowances, not that I’m keeping track. And you chucked it to certain doom,
why? Because the yogurt didn’t regenerate fast enough? Really?
Destruction, with kids, is like corporate leakage. We accept
it, even account for it now, try to focus instead on the overall profit margin.
Like Disney or herpes, the destruction is not going away--we just learn to live
with it. This is why Louie was so mellow about his car being destroyed in front
of his face (and why I could totally relate). I mean, It’s just a car, after
all, right?
