Things have unraveled a bit at Casa Whaley. My wife is working from home, and has been since last month. We have two small children (one seven-year-old, one nineteen-month-old) who are now out of school and with her all day. Some days I come home to a calm house where I'm greeted with a running hug from the baby girl, another hug from her mom, and a short but effective wrestling match with Logan, who is usually hunkered in front of a video game in a back room. Those days we accept the quarantine with a smile.
Other times my wife stands in the kitchen with her head down, palms flat on the island's surface, one eye twitching, a few strands of hair taking the Albert Einstein approach to style. She breathes slowly, deceptively calm. She stands there like she's trying to hold that boulder from the beginning of Raiders of The Lost Ark on her shoulders. At her feet confetti is scattered across the floor. As my eyes adjust I see that it's not confetti, it's Froot Loops. The living room floor is a landmine of stuffed animals, children's books, blankets, crumbs, hard plastic toys that are really fun to step on, and clothes. It doesn't take long for me to realize that at some point in the day, something has gone awry. My wife looks at me as if to dare me to say something.
I usually don't say anything.
It's at about this point that my baby girl comes trotting up to me and hugs my leg. She has no idea that anything is wrong. There's always a content smile on her lips, usually a greeting of "Hi daddy." All around her is the evidence of her destruction. This day has driven her mother to near insanity, has made her question whether or not she could go on with her work and home life in such chaos. To Abby, it's Tuesday.
The kids have their ways of dealing with the cabin fever too, though. Their daily lives have also been uprooted. As normal, one night I got settled (and by that I mean I walked through the door and stripped down to the bare minimum amount of clothes necessary to keep my dignity in front of my family) and took the baby to get her diaper changed. My first mistake was allowing her to drag the Nerf rifle along with her. I figured she'd need something to keep her distracted, and there were no bullets in it. What harm could it do?
We get back to the master bedroom. Yes, we still change Abby on our bed (if you want to know some of the earlier dangers of that, read Episode 2: Speedbag). Logan is lying on the bed, watching Youtube videos on the Xbox. I lay Abby down and get to work. The first blow came from the left. A swipe of neon green and orange connected with my temple and sent a jolt of pain and shock through my head. It startled me more than it hurt me, but it was still unexpected. Before I could process what had happened, though, the second blow came. The Nerf gun bounced off my forehead.
"Abby! No!" I said, but she was already on swing number three.
My second mistake was not taking the gun away at that point.
In order to change a baby you need two hands. Those same two hands can't also fend off an attack while they are attempting to fasten the diaper around the baby's waist. I was already mid-fasten when the gun hit me, so I had no other choice but to finish the job as quickly as I could while the shots rained down. In the background I heard laughter. Logan was getting some free entertainment, it seemed, while my daughter rifle-whipped me.
All told, I really only took about five shots before she understood that she needed to stop. She's at that age where it's funny when someone says "Ouch!" Looks like her mom and I have some work to do.
As for Logan, I'll be collecting Nerf bullets for the next few days. I'll gather all the guns. Load 'em up. Wait for the perfect time to strike.
No one laughs at me.
Moral of the Story: Stay sane out there, people. That cabin fever's a bitch.
Thursday, April 23, 2020
Monday, March 16, 2020
How Not To Dad: Episode 17 - Sippy Cups Suck (AKA The Leakening)
My daughter and I sit at a dining table. Sunlight from a perfect Spring day slants through the windows. A bird chirps from somewhere in the distance. There is laughter and merriment in the neighborhood, and Abby and I sit with smiles on our faces having a light lunch. She picks up her sippy cup and sips, ever so daintily, from it and then places it securely on the dining room table.
"Thank you father," she says, and offers a little bow of the head. "This milk is exquisite. Two percent?"
"One." I counter. "Only the best for my little angel."
"Angel indeed!" She says, smiles, and sips from her cup again. When she sits the cup down it leans and threatens to tip over, but she catches it. We share a glance after the near incident and then both chuckle heartily as if we were the ending shot of a sitcom credit sequence. Probably frozen in place and everything.
So none of that crap happened.
You know why? Because a toddler's cup is not used for drinking as an adult's cup is. It doesn't just sit on the table or the high chair tray and never move. The reality is that holding liquid is only one use for a child's sippy cup. Abby's has been used with equal measure as a hammer, a baseball, a watering can for our floors, a step stool (never goes well), a stress management tool (she throws it), and a comfort device, as sometimes she likes to just carry it around with her for no reason. We've been through at least half a dozen cups over the past six months, and I've come to a very grim conclusion.
There isn't a sippy cup on earth that doesn't leak.
I'd love to see what qualifies as a good test procedure to see if a cup is leak proof or spill proof. I picture a group of engineers standing proudly beside a table in a lab, grins and nods of approval rippling through them as one of them reaches out and gently lays their prototype sippy cup on its side. Another one keeps a timer. They stare at the cup. Ten seconds later an alarm goes off, signaling the end of their experiment. They all shake hands and congratulate each other. Job well done, right? The cup has survived ten seconds of lying on its side. One of them slaps a "Leak Proof" sticker on it and sends that baby over to the marketing department.
In my home there is no gently placing a cup on a table or floor. Half the cups we have end up lying on their side, a puddle of milk or water resting just below the lid as if the thing had seen too much and pissed itself out of fear, anxiety, or exhaustion. I have yet to find one that can survive Hurricane Abby. And Abby's a relatively calm baby! What do parents of hyper kids do?
So anyway, now I walk into Wal-Mart wearing a brown leather jacket and a dusty fedora, a bullwhip tied through my belt loop. An old man stands in the sippy cup aisle of the infant section, chain mail inexplicably covering his head, shoulders and chest. He holds an ancient sword. When I approach he wearily looks up at me.
"You must choose..." The old man says, his arm sweeping across the aisle of sippy cups. "But choose wisely. For the true leak-proof cup will bring you peace, but the false, leaky cups will take peace from you."
I step forward. My eyes roam the display of colorful plastic cups with their whimsical little pictures of ducks or elephants or Mickey Mouses printed on them. I make my choice."Thank you father," she says, and offers a little bow of the head. "This milk is exquisite. Two percent?"
"One." I counter. "Only the best for my little angel."
"Angel indeed!" She says, smiles, and sips from her cup again. When she sits the cup down it leans and threatens to tip over, but she catches it. We share a glance after the near incident and then both chuckle heartily as if we were the ending shot of a sitcom credit sequence. Probably frozen in place and everything.
So none of that crap happened.
You know why? Because a toddler's cup is not used for drinking as an adult's cup is. It doesn't just sit on the table or the high chair tray and never move. The reality is that holding liquid is only one use for a child's sippy cup. Abby's has been used with equal measure as a hammer, a baseball, a watering can for our floors, a step stool (never goes well), a stress management tool (she throws it), and a comfort device, as sometimes she likes to just carry it around with her for no reason. We've been through at least half a dozen cups over the past six months, and I've come to a very grim conclusion.
There isn't a sippy cup on earth that doesn't leak.
I'd love to see what qualifies as a good test procedure to see if a cup is leak proof or spill proof. I picture a group of engineers standing proudly beside a table in a lab, grins and nods of approval rippling through them as one of them reaches out and gently lays their prototype sippy cup on its side. Another one keeps a timer. They stare at the cup. Ten seconds later an alarm goes off, signaling the end of their experiment. They all shake hands and congratulate each other. Job well done, right? The cup has survived ten seconds of lying on its side. One of them slaps a "Leak Proof" sticker on it and sends that baby over to the marketing department.
In my home there is no gently placing a cup on a table or floor. Half the cups we have end up lying on their side, a puddle of milk or water resting just below the lid as if the thing had seen too much and pissed itself out of fear, anxiety, or exhaustion. I have yet to find one that can survive Hurricane Abby. And Abby's a relatively calm baby! What do parents of hyper kids do?
So anyway, now I walk into Wal-Mart wearing a brown leather jacket and a dusty fedora, a bullwhip tied through my belt loop. An old man stands in the sippy cup aisle of the infant section, chain mail inexplicably covering his head, shoulders and chest. He holds an ancient sword. When I approach he wearily looks up at me.
"You must choose..." The old man says, his arm sweeping across the aisle of sippy cups. "But choose wisely. For the true leak-proof cup will bring you peace, but the false, leaky cups will take peace from you."
I exit the aisle, proceed with my purchase and head home so Abby can test her new cup. As I leave I imagine I can hear the old knight say something, but can't quite make it out.
Later that night...
Thursday, February 27, 2020
How Not to Dad: Episode 16: Icicles and Spidey Senses
Some of the fondest memories from my childhood involved the colder months of the year. There was Christmas, of course. Even better, though, were the snow days that got us out of school and allowed us to head out to a solid white landscape, smothered in fifteen layers of clothes, to throw snowballs and make snow cream and all the other fun stuff we do as kids.
We'd search for the largest icicles. They were usually hanging from the eaves of the house, and if they weren't long enough to grab with a hop off the ground, then it would take a precision-thrown baseball to knock them down. We used to eat them like Popsicles. (Side note: I had no idea Popsicle was a brand name and not the general name for any bar of ice on a stick. I got that red squiggly line under the word after I typed it, and I was like "Oh hell no, I did not misspell popsicle. Fight me, computer!" Turns out I didn't capitalize the word. That's why my computer judged me. Apparently the generic name I was looking for is "ice pops." I like Popsicle better, so that's what you're getting. Just like every carbonated beverage is a Coke, right?)
The past couple of years have not brought much snow. They have, on occasion, brought a type of cold that can cut straight through your jeans and turn your dangly bits to ice pops. It has the ability to glue your car doors shut, and will create stalactites of ice on the bumpers of your vehicles.
About a week ago one such cold snap swept through our neighborhood overnight and left a few icicles in its wake. It was a weekday and we had gone through our morning routine. The conclusion to that routine occurs when Nikki carries Abby to her SUV, and Logan walks along with them. I watch from the door's window until they're in the car. This morning my eyes found a large, dripping icicle hanging from the side of my car just as my family were heading down the steps. That's cool, I thought. Logan will see that and he'll think it's neat. He may pick it from the car. Maybe he'll drop it on the concrete and watch it shatter, or want to save it in the freezer, or taste it like I would have done (though that one's probably a little unsanitary). All acceptable responses.
That, however, was not Logan's response. As if on cue he saw the ice and made a dash for it. Nikki and Abby were ahead of him, heading toward the back seat to strap Abby into her car seat.
I'm not sure if it's a parent thing or just a human nature thing, but there are times when things go into slow motion, times when your mind has worked something out and is desperately trying to clue you into the fact that it knows some event is about to happen. Kind of like spidey-senses. Say, when your kid is about to fall off the couch or when a ball comes flying at your head, and you react first before you even really know what's going on. Your mind has slowed it down for you, to give you time to process it.
Logan stood up from beside my car, and without even seeing his face (he was smirking, I could tell that from the back of his head. Weird, huh?) I knew what he was about to do. His elbow cocked back and his free hand went forward as if he were a pitcher about to deliver a fastball. Spidey senses tingling, I was still behind a closed door.
All I could do was watch as he launched the icicle towards Nikki and Abby. It shattered on the concrete at Nikki's feet, causing her to jolt. She turned and admonished him, and Logan quickly apologized.
I think kids have a sort of anti-spidey-sense. If mine slows down to let me know something's wrong, Logan's seems to speed up. Don't worry about consequences, just throw the damn thing! his brain tells him. Get it done before you can think about it! He had no intentions of hurting anyone, of that I'm sure, but he didn't allow himself time to understand that he was throwing a pointy projectile at his mother and infant sister.
In the end, it really wasn't a big deal. Even if the icicle had hit them, the likelihood of an injury was maybe 0.01%. If there's any concern, it's that I need to work with him on his pitching arm if he ever wants to play baseball.
That throw needed work.
We'd search for the largest icicles. They were usually hanging from the eaves of the house, and if they weren't long enough to grab with a hop off the ground, then it would take a precision-thrown baseball to knock them down. We used to eat them like Popsicles. (Side note: I had no idea Popsicle was a brand name and not the general name for any bar of ice on a stick. I got that red squiggly line under the word after I typed it, and I was like "Oh hell no, I did not misspell popsicle. Fight me, computer!" Turns out I didn't capitalize the word. That's why my computer judged me. Apparently the generic name I was looking for is "ice pops." I like Popsicle better, so that's what you're getting. Just like every carbonated beverage is a Coke, right?)
The past couple of years have not brought much snow. They have, on occasion, brought a type of cold that can cut straight through your jeans and turn your dangly bits to ice pops. It has the ability to glue your car doors shut, and will create stalactites of ice on the bumpers of your vehicles.
About a week ago one such cold snap swept through our neighborhood overnight and left a few icicles in its wake. It was a weekday and we had gone through our morning routine. The conclusion to that routine occurs when Nikki carries Abby to her SUV, and Logan walks along with them. I watch from the door's window until they're in the car. This morning my eyes found a large, dripping icicle hanging from the side of my car just as my family were heading down the steps. That's cool, I thought. Logan will see that and he'll think it's neat. He may pick it from the car. Maybe he'll drop it on the concrete and watch it shatter, or want to save it in the freezer, or taste it like I would have done (though that one's probably a little unsanitary). All acceptable responses.
That, however, was not Logan's response. As if on cue he saw the ice and made a dash for it. Nikki and Abby were ahead of him, heading toward the back seat to strap Abby into her car seat.
I'm not sure if it's a parent thing or just a human nature thing, but there are times when things go into slow motion, times when your mind has worked something out and is desperately trying to clue you into the fact that it knows some event is about to happen. Kind of like spidey-senses. Say, when your kid is about to fall off the couch or when a ball comes flying at your head, and you react first before you even really know what's going on. Your mind has slowed it down for you, to give you time to process it.
Logan stood up from beside my car, and without even seeing his face (he was smirking, I could tell that from the back of his head. Weird, huh?) I knew what he was about to do. His elbow cocked back and his free hand went forward as if he were a pitcher about to deliver a fastball. Spidey senses tingling, I was still behind a closed door.
All I could do was watch as he launched the icicle towards Nikki and Abby. It shattered on the concrete at Nikki's feet, causing her to jolt. She turned and admonished him, and Logan quickly apologized.
I think kids have a sort of anti-spidey-sense. If mine slows down to let me know something's wrong, Logan's seems to speed up. Don't worry about consequences, just throw the damn thing! his brain tells him. Get it done before you can think about it! He had no intentions of hurting anyone, of that I'm sure, but he didn't allow himself time to understand that he was throwing a pointy projectile at his mother and infant sister.
In the end, it really wasn't a big deal. Even if the icicle had hit them, the likelihood of an injury was maybe 0.01%. If there's any concern, it's that I need to work with him on his pitching arm if he ever wants to play baseball.
That throw needed work.
Monday, February 10, 2020
How Not To Dad: Episode 15 - I'm Getting Old, Doo Doo Doodoo Doodoo...
I'm Getting Old Doo Doo Doodoo Doodoo
Did you know that cool has an expiration date? I remember a time when I didn't know that...
When I got my first car, an '86 Honda Civic with a New Mexico tag and luxurious green carpet interior - and an alarm system for those who might want to steal that hunk of raw, four cylinder power - I thought I was the bees knees.
(Quick tangent: The "bees knees" phrase is thought to have derived from the word "business," as a slang word that meant something like the epitome of excellence. Other adjectives that popped up in this period of the 1920's are "the cat's pajamas," the "eel's ankles," and the "elephant's instep." Around the same time, the British came up with their own animal/anatomical part combo: the "dog's bollocks." Henceforth, since the word "bollocks" doesn't get used in the U.S. enough, I will be using that term whenever I can possibly fit it in.)
So back to what I was saying, I thought I was the dog's bollocks. I could go where I wanted. I had a sound system with a cassette player and a cassette-to-portable-CD-player converter that allowed you to play CD's through your car's tape deck. It was a sweet setup as long as you didn't hit any bumps in the road. Portable players were only meant to sit on a flat, level surface with no movement whatsoever, basically rendering them anything but portable.
I drove to school with the music screaming out of that little car. I rocked out to Sublime, The Smashing Pumpkins, Nine Inch Nails, The Deftones, maybe a little 2Pac or Dr. Dre thrown in. I drove with the windows down (I'm fairly sure the A/C was broken). I wanted to feel the music running through me, so it needed to be played at as close to max volume as my little speakers could handle. When they rattled, it was time to turn it down half a notch. Best not test the factory speakers.
I don't think I was too obnoxious with my music, but then again does an obnoxious person know they're being obnoxious? In my experience that answer is no. No they don't. I do remember a high school friend telling me they could hear my music from about three cars behind at a stoplight on the way to school, and that sounds pretty obnoxious to me. But the world was big and I was young and it was a time for excess. Strain those eardrums. Let the music course through you. In that day and age, your music was what made you cool! At least that's what I thought then.
A couple of months ago my baby daughter and I were in town together and she had a little meltdown. The drive home that day brought me to the realization that I had met the expiration date for being cool. I drove with music blaring from my car, oh yes. I got looks from people at stoplights and drew attention to myself like I had done twenty years ago. This time, though, I wasn't singing along to Rage Against The Machine's "Killing in the Name" or "March of the Pigs" by Nine Inch Nails. My phone was connected to my car, and through that phone the Youtube app played a little ditty called "Baby Shark." For those of you that know it, I'm sorry for bringing it up. For those that don't, I'm sorry for bringing it up. I hate that friggin' video.
Also, I love that video. Some angel had seen fit to post a one-hour-long version of that song on constant repeat. Abby rode the rest of the way home in relative silence, enjoying the absolutely insane monotony of that song as it repeated over and over and over and over and over and over again.
So my level of badassery has diminished over the years. I am no longer the dog's bollocks. The streets of Cullman are more likely to hear "doo doo doodoo doodoo" wafting through the air around my car than any hard rock, metal, or industrial band. Instead of feeling electrified by teenage angst I'm singing along with a family of cartoon sharks as they playfully try to eat two children.
Come to think of it that sounds pretty horrific.
Moral of the Story: Embrace the baby shark. By a narrow margin, it's better to hear this song on repeat than the screaming and crying of your child.
I don't think I was too obnoxious with my music, but then again does an obnoxious person know they're being obnoxious? In my experience that answer is no. No they don't. I do remember a high school friend telling me they could hear my music from about three cars behind at a stoplight on the way to school, and that sounds pretty obnoxious to me. But the world was big and I was young and it was a time for excess. Strain those eardrums. Let the music course through you. In that day and age, your music was what made you cool! At least that's what I thought then.
A couple of months ago my baby daughter and I were in town together and she had a little meltdown. The drive home that day brought me to the realization that I had met the expiration date for being cool. I drove with music blaring from my car, oh yes. I got looks from people at stoplights and drew attention to myself like I had done twenty years ago. This time, though, I wasn't singing along to Rage Against The Machine's "Killing in the Name" or "March of the Pigs" by Nine Inch Nails. My phone was connected to my car, and through that phone the Youtube app played a little ditty called "Baby Shark." For those of you that know it, I'm sorry for bringing it up. For those that don't, I'm sorry for bringing it up. I hate that friggin' video.
Also, I love that video. Some angel had seen fit to post a one-hour-long version of that song on constant repeat. Abby rode the rest of the way home in relative silence, enjoying the absolutely insane monotony of that song as it repeated over and over and over and over and over and over again.
So my level of badassery has diminished over the years. I am no longer the dog's bollocks. The streets of Cullman are more likely to hear "doo doo doodoo doodoo" wafting through the air around my car than any hard rock, metal, or industrial band. Instead of feeling electrified by teenage angst I'm singing along with a family of cartoon sharks as they playfully try to eat two children.
Come to think of it that sounds pretty horrific.
Moral of the Story: Embrace the baby shark. By a narrow margin, it's better to hear this song on repeat than the screaming and crying of your child.
Tuesday, January 28, 2020
How Not To Dad: Episode 14 - Barrel O' Monkeys
14
Barrel O' Monkeys
I'm not going to gross you out here. I've done that too much with past episodes. This is a safe place. Just know that I walked through our front door the other day holding my child and, about three minutes later, she hurled. Repeatedly. She and I were bathed in it, let's say, and I'll leave the imagery at that.
Now, on to the meat 'n potatoes of this post (no, that's not a reference to the copious amounts of puke, or what my daughter ate to cause such an outburst, so quit thinking about those disgusting things). Much like any other given moment in the span of my time as a parent, I didn't know what to do. I stood there and thankfully remembered to lean her forward as the event took place so that she didn't choke, but after the deed was done I became neanderthal Luke (See episode 1) searching my cave for a towel, a washcloth, a stack of napkins, or just a simple clue as to how in the hell I was going to begin to clean this mess up.
I started the cleanup by setting my daughter down and taking her shirt off. It didn't occur to me until after I'd started to do this that hey, she probably doesn't want me to rake a puke covered shirt across her face as I remove it. Probably didn't want any of it to get stuck in her eyebrows either. Hindsight is always 20/20. With my daughter screaming and her shirt gone, I pick her up and tip-toe around the mess. I spot a pack of baby wipes on top of the microwave. I'm saved.
Here's where I lose it.
With my one free hand I work the package open and I pinch the top wipe with my fingernails. I pull, and a wipe comes out. It has a friend. And that one has a friend. And the next one. These friggin' wipes are playing Barrel O' Monkeys with me and I'm looking like a half-ass magician pulling a never-ending string of tissues out of the package while my baby sobs in my other arm. Mind you, I'm still covered in puke at this point.
I then do what most any man would do. I get mad. I pull faster, and wipe after wipe is jerked from the bag until finally they spill over the side of the microwave and a few drift to the floor. When the chain is broken, I snap the string of remaining wipes like a bullwhip and I'm left with one. The others scatter into the air and come to rest uselessly at my feet. I wipe Abby's nose, mouth, and eyebrows. I carry her to our bedroom where I lay her down to change her. It is only then that I remembered my shirt and jacket had been, shall we say, severely soiled. I may or may not have dripped said soilage down the hall as I hurried to get Abby cleaned up. Luckily my wife stepped out of the bathroom as I changed the baby, and Nikki wasn't nearly as helpless. Between the two of us we eventually got the mess cleaned up.
We've put men on the moon. We put robots on Mars, and others into orbit around the moons of Jupiter and Saturn and God knows where else. We've sent two satellites on an interstellar flight that began in the 70's and they are still sending data today. We can split an atom. We've sent men into ocean depths several miles deep. Untold thousands of obstacles were overcome in order to carry out these missions. Surely somewhere along the way someone had to figure out how two damp materials could be pulled across one another without clinging to themselves and dragging all the others along for the ride. Is there anyone in any scientific field that knows how to design a package of baby wipes that doesn't make you look like the world's saddest magician when trying to rip one from the package?
Moral of the Story: When your baby wipes refuse to let go, it's you who must let go.
Of your rage.
Monday, January 13, 2020
How Not To Dad: Episode 13 - Ghosts of Christmases Past
In light of the Christmas season that just passed, I thought I'd do a special episode of How Not To Dad that's a little bit different. I did this for two reasons: One, because I just want to and this blog page doesn't cost anything so who am I hurting, right? Two, Until this post I have only exercised my silly side, but I'm quite the nostalgiac (I don't think that's a word but it should be). Let's flex that sentimental muscle for a minute.
Here goes...
Two years ago we - strike that, "Santa" - got Logan a Hot Wheels Super Ultimate Garage as his big gift for Christmas. On the side of the main tower clung a toy gorilla that Logan referred to as King Kong. This giant pile of snap-together plastic costed just shy of two hundred dollars, and it was all Logan talked about when we asked him what he wanted Santa to bring. It had to be under the tree.
So Christmas Eve of 2017 rolled around. The box this thing came in was about the size of the monolith on 2001: A Space Odyssey, and I had the pleasure of wrestling that box into a coating of wrapping paper that was red, white, and silver and would have looked right at home with a Budweiser logo on it. The minute Logan walked into the room the following morning he pointed at the box. "That's the King Kong thing!" He said. It was the last gift he opened that year, and he squealed with excitement as he tore through the beer paper... er... wrapping paper. The look on his face as he opened the present told us we had done our job.
Logan played with it for a couple of months after we'd set it up in his room, but over time it became a really colorful place to set cups and books and other forms of debris that always seems to congregate in a child's room. It spent the next year and a half being a dust catcher. One of the orange strips that connected the garage to a winding, loopy off ramp disappeared. The spaceship that perched atop the highest level of it vanished into a pit filled with balls and cars and Nerf guns and action figures. The massive thing withstood the weather of a hyperactive young boy for two years, but now it squatted in the corner like an abandoned building awaiting a demolition crew.
This past week Nikki and I moved that heap of joy out of Logan's room and onto our front porch. It's destination: the thrift store. For some reason that I couldn't quite pinpoint at the time, it bothered me that we were getting rid of it. It was bulky, it took up space, it wasn't used. There was no reason to keep it. Logan wasn't even all that upset that it was going away.
I guess that was the problem. I was certain Logan would be attached to the toy garage because he'd wanted it so bad, but he'd had it for two years. He's only six years old. That was a third of his lifetime ago. The garage had gotten its fifteen minutes with Logan, and it was time for it to move on.
I thought back on Christmases when I was young. The memories that gathered in my mind were blizzards of voices and laughter and chairs sliding on the floor and silverware on plates and the crackle of wrapping paper. I thought of fifty people laughing in a tiny house my grandparents had owned for half a century. I thought of counting houses decked out with Christmas lights on rides home after dark, and I thought of mom making us sing carols in the car along with the radio station. I remember being seven years old and seeing a red blinking light in the sky - no doubt an airplane - at my other grandparents' house. I believed with every bone in my body that it was Rudolph's nose as he guided a sleigh through the night sky. I thought of being unable to go to sleep on Christmas Eve, and wondering when Santa would show up. I thought of waking up at two in the morning with my brother and creeping into the living room to see the presents, and the sheer torture mom forced on us by making us wait until she and my dad were awake before we started opening them. All that came drifting back when I thought of Christmases past, but not a single thought was given to individual gifts I'd received.
In the end, I decided that the Super Ultimate Garage, now taking up all my porch space, could go on to its next adventure with my blessing. The conclusion I reached is that it's okay for your kid to blow through life giving passing glances to the toys he loved yesterday. The toys, the material things, are not what he'll think about when he looks back to these times in his life.
I hope he looks back and remembers family movie nights watching Home Alone or Elf or The Grinch. I hope he remembers his parents driving his sister and him through the Christmas light display at Sportsman's Lake, and playing with his cousins at the family party on Christmas Eve. I hope he remembers opening gifts with his sister in their pajamas on Christmas morning, drinking hot chocolate, and eating candy from his stocking.
One day I hope he'll set his own child's toys outside when it's time to let them go, and memories of what made Christmas so important will flood through him. If we've done a good enough job as parents, those memories won't center around a toy Hot Wheels garage, but around the people he loves and the times spent with them.
Here goes...
Two years ago we - strike that, "Santa" - got Logan a Hot Wheels Super Ultimate Garage as his big gift for Christmas. On the side of the main tower clung a toy gorilla that Logan referred to as King Kong. This giant pile of snap-together plastic costed just shy of two hundred dollars, and it was all Logan talked about when we asked him what he wanted Santa to bring. It had to be under the tree.
So Christmas Eve of 2017 rolled around. The box this thing came in was about the size of the monolith on 2001: A Space Odyssey, and I had the pleasure of wrestling that box into a coating of wrapping paper that was red, white, and silver and would have looked right at home with a Budweiser logo on it. The minute Logan walked into the room the following morning he pointed at the box. "That's the King Kong thing!" He said. It was the last gift he opened that year, and he squealed with excitement as he tore through the beer paper... er... wrapping paper. The look on his face as he opened the present told us we had done our job.
Logan played with it for a couple of months after we'd set it up in his room, but over time it became a really colorful place to set cups and books and other forms of debris that always seems to congregate in a child's room. It spent the next year and a half being a dust catcher. One of the orange strips that connected the garage to a winding, loopy off ramp disappeared. The spaceship that perched atop the highest level of it vanished into a pit filled with balls and cars and Nerf guns and action figures. The massive thing withstood the weather of a hyperactive young boy for two years, but now it squatted in the corner like an abandoned building awaiting a demolition crew.
This past week Nikki and I moved that heap of joy out of Logan's room and onto our front porch. It's destination: the thrift store. For some reason that I couldn't quite pinpoint at the time, it bothered me that we were getting rid of it. It was bulky, it took up space, it wasn't used. There was no reason to keep it. Logan wasn't even all that upset that it was going away.
I guess that was the problem. I was certain Logan would be attached to the toy garage because he'd wanted it so bad, but he'd had it for two years. He's only six years old. That was a third of his lifetime ago. The garage had gotten its fifteen minutes with Logan, and it was time for it to move on.
I thought back on Christmases when I was young. The memories that gathered in my mind were blizzards of voices and laughter and chairs sliding on the floor and silverware on plates and the crackle of wrapping paper. I thought of fifty people laughing in a tiny house my grandparents had owned for half a century. I thought of counting houses decked out with Christmas lights on rides home after dark, and I thought of mom making us sing carols in the car along with the radio station. I remember being seven years old and seeing a red blinking light in the sky - no doubt an airplane - at my other grandparents' house. I believed with every bone in my body that it was Rudolph's nose as he guided a sleigh through the night sky. I thought of being unable to go to sleep on Christmas Eve, and wondering when Santa would show up. I thought of waking up at two in the morning with my brother and creeping into the living room to see the presents, and the sheer torture mom forced on us by making us wait until she and my dad were awake before we started opening them. All that came drifting back when I thought of Christmases past, but not a single thought was given to individual gifts I'd received.
In the end, I decided that the Super Ultimate Garage, now taking up all my porch space, could go on to its next adventure with my blessing. The conclusion I reached is that it's okay for your kid to blow through life giving passing glances to the toys he loved yesterday. The toys, the material things, are not what he'll think about when he looks back to these times in his life.
I hope he looks back and remembers family movie nights watching Home Alone or Elf or The Grinch. I hope he remembers his parents driving his sister and him through the Christmas light display at Sportsman's Lake, and playing with his cousins at the family party on Christmas Eve. I hope he remembers opening gifts with his sister in their pajamas on Christmas morning, drinking hot chocolate, and eating candy from his stocking.
One day I hope he'll set his own child's toys outside when it's time to let them go, and memories of what made Christmas so important will flood through him. If we've done a good enough job as parents, those memories won't center around a toy Hot Wheels garage, but around the people he loves and the times spent with them.
Monday, December 30, 2019
How Not To Dad: Episode 12 - The Christmas Showcase Showdown
At the end of every episode on the classic game show The Price Is Right, two contestants have to duke it out to win one of two Showcases. One will have a washer/dryer set and a one-night-stay at a Motel 6 in Utah or something, where the other will have a new Ford Mustang, a sailboat and an all-expenses-paid trip to the Bahamas. One always seemed to be crap compared to the other.
As a parent of two kids you play the Showcase on a daily basis, usually minus the awesome prizes. Sometimes it's choosing between a dirty diaper and a Nerf bullet to the left testicle. Most of the time it's more mundane, like would you rather sit at home and watch two hours of some twenty-something kid play video games on YouTube with your son, or take your daughter to her doctor's appointment?
Oh, and you can't say "neither." That gets you into the secret, third Showcase which includes one of the previous two showcases plus a healthy dose of dread as you await the argument that will come later because you decided to be a smartass. (To give myself a little credit here, I would never say I didn't want to take my child to the doctor, or spend time with my kid by watching YouTube videos, but sometimes neither is really appealing).
On Christmas Eve we went to my grandmother's house. My family on my dad's side is enormous. My grandparents had eight children, and those children produced sixteen grandchildren. Now there are almost a dozen great-grandchildren. You throw in a few family friends and some in-law relatives and that's about fifty people crammed into one house. I have spent every Christmas Eve of my entire life surrounded by these people, and I have a great time doing it.
With two kids in tow, though, a few challenges arise. I wish I was one of those lizards with the roving, cone shaped eyes that move independently. That way I could see both kids at once. Instead, it usually devolves into my wife watching one kid while I watch the other. It usually works well.
This Christmas Eve, though, I got a little confident. Surely with so many people around I wouldn't have to keep eyes on them the whole night, right? After all, the house is full of adults, and the kids are occupied with other kids. At least Logan is fine by himself for a little while, surely.
With this illusion in mind I saunter into the kitchen where my brother, two cousins, and an uncle stand and talk. I nudge my way into the conversation. We all share a few laughs and carry on the way we always do, and at one point my eyes lock onto my wife's. She's apparently been trying to wave me down for ten minutes.
I do the whole raise-my-eyebrows-and tilt-my-head-back routine. What's up?
"I need you over here." She calls through the noise.
I saunter back.
"You can either change Abby's diaper or help Logan in the bathroom. He's calling me from the door and she needs a diaper change."
The Showcase presents itself.
I can see clearly what's behind door number one: a diaper change (though I don't know the severity of the soilage of said diaper). What I don't know is what's behind door number two, although there is a twinge of understanding that door number two most likely has to do with "number two." Still, I can only speculate. I'm closer to door number two so that 's what I chose.
Door#2: The son in the bathroom.
It turns out Logan was having some digestive difficulties and needed some encouragement, but by the time I tapped on the door and let myself in he'd completed his duties (hehehe). I told him to go ahead and flush and we'd be on our merry way.
He'd been coughing for the past two days, though, and after he'd flushed the toilet a fit of hacking sputtered in his chest. Eventually the coughs became too much. Logan leaned over.
Oh Jeez, he's gonna...
And it came up.
And it was red.
I tried to stay calm. All kinds of ailments, diseases, and physical problems ran through my mind for the next few seconds. Why is it red? Please God don't let it be blood.
"Um, Logan?" I frowned as I studied the pinkish brown blob in the toilet. "Why is it-"
"I ate a cookie earlier."
Oh thank God! Right after he said it I remembered he'd asked for the cookie just a half an hour earlier. It had red icing.
My son was not puking blood.
I told Nikki about the vomit and the alarming color, being quick to remind her he'd had a cookie with red icing not long ago. We asked Logan not to run around as much. We figured he'd gotten hot and that made him momentarily sick to his stomach, and I think we were right. He hasn't gotten sick since.
So that was my Showcase: Pee diaper or poop with a dollop of red puke. I didn't come away with a new car or a trip to a tropical paradise, but on the bright side my son was not coughing up blood. There's always a silver lining.
Moral of the Story: There's not one. Whenever a Showcase presents itself, just choose one quickly and move on. You may think you're choosing the path of least resistance, but then someone vomits and all bets are off.
As a parent of two kids you play the Showcase on a daily basis, usually minus the awesome prizes. Sometimes it's choosing between a dirty diaper and a Nerf bullet to the left testicle. Most of the time it's more mundane, like would you rather sit at home and watch two hours of some twenty-something kid play video games on YouTube with your son, or take your daughter to her doctor's appointment?
Oh, and you can't say "neither." That gets you into the secret, third Showcase which includes one of the previous two showcases plus a healthy dose of dread as you await the argument that will come later because you decided to be a smartass. (To give myself a little credit here, I would never say I didn't want to take my child to the doctor, or spend time with my kid by watching YouTube videos, but sometimes neither is really appealing).
On Christmas Eve we went to my grandmother's house. My family on my dad's side is enormous. My grandparents had eight children, and those children produced sixteen grandchildren. Now there are almost a dozen great-grandchildren. You throw in a few family friends and some in-law relatives and that's about fifty people crammed into one house. I have spent every Christmas Eve of my entire life surrounded by these people, and I have a great time doing it.
With two kids in tow, though, a few challenges arise. I wish I was one of those lizards with the roving, cone shaped eyes that move independently. That way I could see both kids at once. Instead, it usually devolves into my wife watching one kid while I watch the other. It usually works well.
This Christmas Eve, though, I got a little confident. Surely with so many people around I wouldn't have to keep eyes on them the whole night, right? After all, the house is full of adults, and the kids are occupied with other kids. At least Logan is fine by himself for a little while, surely.
With this illusion in mind I saunter into the kitchen where my brother, two cousins, and an uncle stand and talk. I nudge my way into the conversation. We all share a few laughs and carry on the way we always do, and at one point my eyes lock onto my wife's. She's apparently been trying to wave me down for ten minutes.
I do the whole raise-my-eyebrows-and tilt-my-head-back routine. What's up?
"I need you over here." She calls through the noise.
I saunter back.
"You can either change Abby's diaper or help Logan in the bathroom. He's calling me from the door and she needs a diaper change."
The Showcase presents itself.
I can see clearly what's behind door number one: a diaper change (though I don't know the severity of the soilage of said diaper). What I don't know is what's behind door number two, although there is a twinge of understanding that door number two most likely has to do with "number two." Still, I can only speculate. I'm closer to door number two so that 's what I chose.
Door#2: The son in the bathroom.
It turns out Logan was having some digestive difficulties and needed some encouragement, but by the time I tapped on the door and let myself in he'd completed his duties (hehehe). I told him to go ahead and flush and we'd be on our merry way.
He'd been coughing for the past two days, though, and after he'd flushed the toilet a fit of hacking sputtered in his chest. Eventually the coughs became too much. Logan leaned over.
Oh Jeez, he's gonna...
And it came up.
And it was red.
I tried to stay calm. All kinds of ailments, diseases, and physical problems ran through my mind for the next few seconds. Why is it red? Please God don't let it be blood.
"Um, Logan?" I frowned as I studied the pinkish brown blob in the toilet. "Why is it-"
"I ate a cookie earlier."
Oh thank God! Right after he said it I remembered he'd asked for the cookie just a half an hour earlier. It had red icing.
My son was not puking blood.
I told Nikki about the vomit and the alarming color, being quick to remind her he'd had a cookie with red icing not long ago. We asked Logan not to run around as much. We figured he'd gotten hot and that made him momentarily sick to his stomach, and I think we were right. He hasn't gotten sick since.
So that was my Showcase: Pee diaper or poop with a dollop of red puke. I didn't come away with a new car or a trip to a tropical paradise, but on the bright side my son was not coughing up blood. There's always a silver lining.
Moral of the Story: There's not one. Whenever a Showcase presents itself, just choose one quickly and move on. You may think you're choosing the path of least resistance, but then someone vomits and all bets are off.
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