Art School

Sometimes I wonder how my kids view me.  Now I know, thanks to Kyle's nursery school.  This is what I look like to my three-year-old:

Those who know me well can see the resemblance.  I think Kyle got my nose perfectly, though my hair seems a little off.  But I suppose that's artistic license.  This picture hung on the wall of my son's nursery school classroom, with a note underneath: "Kyle says, 'This is my Dad.'"  As if anyone would have thought otherwise.

(Above: the artist and his contemporaries
pose for a class photo)

This masterpiece is one of many works of art that Kyle has created at that magical place called nursery school.  Since his first class in mid-September, Kyle has brought home, among other things, a big Valentine's Day heart, a construction-paper Christmas stocking, a jack-o-lantern made from a paper plate, and a picture of dots that looks like his mother.  They're very sweet, and I might be able to auction them off for a few bucks.

My favorite work of art is the one on his classroom door right now.  It's a construction-paper cutout of a little child wearing winter clothes, including a hat, gloves and scarf.  At least, I think it's a scarf; Kyle's guy is wearing his up the side of his face, over his right ear. 

The artwork itself is nothing extraordinary when compared to previous drawings and paintings by Kyle and his classmates.  No, what makes these images of bundled-up children stand out are the quotes next to them, given by the artists themselves.  From what I understand, each kid was pulled aside and asked to tell the teacher what he or she plans to do this winter.  Most of the artists shared many of the heart-warming images of childhood: building a snowman with mommy and daddy, going sledding with a brother or sister, or just running through the snow.  This is what my boy said:

"I will build a snowman, and then eat the snowman."  Hmph.  Maybe my kid's hungry.  Maybe he doesn't quite understand snowmen.  Or maybe he's slightly cannibalistic.  We'll probably get a better idea when he has to make an Easter bunny.  Until then, I'll assume the quote is just him exploring his own imagination.  He is an artist, after all.

Big Blues

The sports gods are screwing with my attempt to brainwash my kids.  I used to think that getting my kids to root for my teams would be easy, even though I am from Boston and we're living in Enemy Territory.  I figured, as the kids grew up, I'd somehow convince them to ignore their own hometown teams, either by telling them they are instruments of the devil (the Yankees) or they don't really exist (the Mets).  By age two, Kyle was already saying "Go Red Sox," adding that Big Papi was his favorite player.  The kid also regularly wore a Red Sox hat and jacket, making him my own human shield against the barrage of New York insults.  For the most part, it was working perfectly.

(Above: Adam and Kyle experience the agony of defeat
with their friend Julia)

But then there's football. Football was supposed to be easy. The animosity between New York and New England isn't quite as strong on the gridiron as it is on the baseball diamond.  The Jets are obnoxious, for sure, but they don't stir up the kind of hatred reserved for the Yankees.  I don't see myself banishing my kid from our home for being a Jets fan, though I might deny him dessert after dinner.  As a Pats fan, I was more concerned about Peyton Manning and his Colts, anyway.  Kyle has become a fan of the Patriots, too, and whenever I asked for his favorite player, he says, "Tom Brady!"

Then the sports gods smacked us with Super Bowl XLVI.  New England versus New York. Rematch of Super Bowl XLII.

"Who's going to win on Sunday?" asked Kyle's nursery school teacher when I arrived to pick up my son last week.

"The Giants," said Kyle with a devilish grin.  I gasped.  Kyle's nursery school teacher laughed and laughed.  She said they had been practicing it.  It took her just an afternoon to undo three years of hard work.

I never really disliked the Giants.  After all, the greatest coaches of the Patriots, Bill Parcells and Bill Belichick, were with the Giants first.  The current head coach, Tom Coughlin, has Boston ties and quarterback Eli Manning just seems too goofy to be loathed.  I like the fact that he's having more success than his attention-grabbing brother; I just wish it wasn't at the expense of my Patriots.  Twice. 

So now everyone outside our home has been celebrating, while our family is just carrying on.  This year's loss didn't hurt as much as the 2008 loss, when a perfect season was on the line.  Back then, though, I didn't think about my kids.  Now - I can't believe this - I'm actually starting to feel a little guilt for carrying on with my plan.  Is that right?  This year I could avoid anything to do with the parades and celebration.  But what if the Giants win again when Kyle is six?  or eight?  He'd be too aware of it then.  If it's not against the Pats, I think I might go along with it.  Maybe the Giants can still be #2 in our home to the #1 Pats.  If the kids have to root for a New York baseball team, maybe they can root for the Mets.  But is that the start down a slippery slope, with my kids building even more love for the New York teams?  I'm hoping it's not.  I will continue to brainwash as best I can, knowing now that the loyalty fight might be tougher in the days ahead.  Hopefully the Pats will find a way back to the biggest game in sports, but against a team other than New York.  I'm sick of rematches.

Good Enough for Me

I am addicted to cookies.  I used to enjoy them a lot as a kid, but now, as a stay-at-home dad, it's almost impossible for me to get through a day without them, especially since the second child was born.  Coffee keeps me awake, but cookies keep me sane.  Yes, I know it's not healthy.  I've tried to wean myself off them from time to time, and I think I'm down to one pack a week.  Sometimes I even opt for the gum, but spearmint is no match for peanut butter chocolate chip.  No, cookies are my vice.  It's a little after noon as I write this paragraph, and I've already had three.  Kyle isn't even home from nursery school yet.

Jennifer has laughed at my addiction, and has mockingly called me a Cookie Monster from time to time.  I admit that I am, but she's not innocent in all this.  No, she's an enabler.  Just look at the thing sitting on top of my refrigerator.  Do you see that?  That's a gift she gave me a couple Christmases ago.  Yes, it is emblazoned with the Coca-Cola logo.  Yes, it says, "Big King Size: Ice Cold."   But don't be fooled: there's nothing cold in there.  There's no Coca-Cola in that jar.  That jar was given to me for one thing: cookies.  Sweet, beautiful cookies.  Mmmmmmm.

Where was I?  Oh, yes, the cookie jar.  I suppose it was a necessity.  I was already deep within Nabiscoland by that Christmas, and Jennifer was probably tired of seeing an open package of Chips Ahoy! in the kitchen.  At least the jar is neater.  I like it because it's quieter than the crinkly packaging, especially now that I have to hide my addiction from my three-year-old, who enjoys the treat as much as I do.  Often while he's sitting on the couch, watching TV, I sneak into the kitchen and slowly and carefully open the jar.  I grab a couple and then close the jar, hoping he doesn't notice.  Sometimes I accidentally clang the lid against one of the edges, and then my boy's finely-tuned cookie monitor dings, and I hear, "Can I have a cookie, Daddy?"  It's very difficult to say "no" to that, especially since I can't really say anything at all with a cookie already in my mouth.  Mmmmmmm.

Okay, so maybe that's a little pathetic.  How did it get this bad?  I look at the picture below and I say, how did it NOT get this bad?

Mmmmmmmm.  Where was I?  Oh, yes.  Blaming the child.  Kyle drove me to this.  Back when I was a brand-new parent, with a brand-new baby, I suddenly found myself alone with brand-new dirty diapers, brand-new tantrums, and brand-new anxiety.  Did you know that when a baby wants a bottle, and when you tell that baby you're getting that bottle ready, the baby doesn't sit and wait patiently?  Did you know that sometimes a pacifier doesn't pacify?  Did you know that a baby can cry when he's tired and cry when he doesn't want to nap - at the same time?  Did you know that diapers sometimes don't do the one and only job they are supposed to do?  Did you know that it often takes at least 45 minutes to get out the door with a baby if you are planning on going outside for about 45 minutes?  I think at some point, as I was rushing around, trying to figure out what this constantly demanding child needed, I realized I needed some relief.  Something for myself.  Amazingly, the taste of a cookie did the trick.  Well, not just one... more like five.  Ah, who cared if there was still half a day 'til bedtime?  I was happy, at least for a moment.  Now there's no going back.

Sometimes I look at the Nutrition Facts and laugh at the serving size.  Really?  Do they actually believe a person would eat just one or two of these things?  Maybe some people do, as a special treat in the middle of the day, on a little plate next to one of those miniature cups of espresso.  But these people probably don't buy several packages of Chocolate Chunk at a time, or even go for the supermarket duplex cookies.  They prefer the quality cookies.  I usually don't have time for quality cookies.  Even when I do, I wouldn't eat just one.  Sometimes Jennifer has to stop me from eating a whole package of Pepperidge Farm in one sitting.  Really, what are these "Nutrition Facts" people thinking? 

Time does play a factor in my cookie-eating abilities, and so does my cookie-loving son's highly-sensitive ears.  I must eat my cookies fast, quietly, and with nobody noticing.  So I have learned how to eat them like a frog eats a fly.  I grab a cookie and, using my tongue, zip the entire thing into my mouth.  Now you see it; now you don't.  It's one talent I have perfected as a stay-at-home dad, and I'm awfully proud of it.  I have eaten hundreds of cookies without Kyle noticing, and now I'm sneaking them in as Adam screams for a bottle.  Mixing formula is a whole lot better while slowly munching on some Oreos.

That's what being a stay-at-home dad has done to me.  Cookies and coffee have kept me from turning prematurely gray during the toughest parts of the past three and a half years.  Could be worse, I suppose.  And while I often cower in a corner with my addiction, there are many other times when my kids make the job easy, and during those times it's fun to live it up... sharing a cookie together.  Mmmmmmmm.

The Real World

Believe it or not, there are some who say a person must have more than one child to be considered a REAL parent.  Jennifer ran into one such person at work, months before Adam was born.  Naturally she was offended, and a bar fight ensued.  Once Jennifer came home (and recycled the broken beer bottles), she told me about the comment, and I was disgusted too.  How arrogant or mentally unstable would you have to be to say such a thing?

Then Adam was born, and now we're seven months into our two-kid adventure.  Sometime last week Jennifer brought up that comment again, after the two screaming kids went to bed and we began the hours-long process of cleaning up and imbibing.  Once again, we both agreed that the person who made the comment was wrong, and I'm not just saying that because I don't want hate mail or death threats from my closest friends and some family members.  You simply cannot be sprayed by a child at 3 a.m. and not be called a real parent.  But these days it is easier to see why someone would make such a comment.

Here's a little snapshot of what happens most days:  let's begin with my three-year-old son Kyle, who is suddenly STARVING, even though he had a snack not too long ago.  He won't stop telling me about it.  "I need a snack, Daddy!  I need a snack, Daddy!  I need a snack, Daddy!  I need a snack, Daddy!"  This usually happens right after nursery school, while I still have a jacket on and am trying to get a wailing (and also hungry) Adam out of his baby carrier.  Since it is, indeed, snack time, I tell Kyle to hold on and I'll get him one soon.  There's a pause for about a second... then, "I need a snack, Daddy!" 

After I pull Adam out of his carrier, I put him down in his bouncy seat, and I go get Kyle a snack.  Adam starts whining for a teether while Kyle complains that the bowl containing his Goldfish is not up to his high standards.  While this is going on, I measure out some water for Adam's formula and start warming it up in a bowl of hot water.  I get Adam a teether and then take my jacket off.  Adam flings the teether to the floor, and Kyle realizes that Goldfish make him thirsty.  "I need water, Daddy!  I need waaatteerr!" he cries as if we just came back from a retreat in the desert instead of nursery school.  Adam is tired and hungry and sick of being stuck in one place, so he whines some more as he tries to flip himself around in his bouncy seat, and each day he seems closer to succeeding.  I grab him another toy. 

"Daddy, let's play Christmas!"  Kyle has developed a new game in which he and I sit down for a half-hour, pretending to give each other presents by opening two of his plastic boxes over and over again while feigning excitement and gratitude (he's practicing for the future, when gifts become less fun and more underwear-like).  Christmas will last all year in our house.  But tears are streaming down Adam's face, so I tell Kyle not right now.  "But why, Daddy?" he whines, "I want to play Christmas."  I start to mix Adam's formula, and Kyle forgets how to walk.  He trips over his would-be Christmas toy (rejected by that cruel Scrooge Daddy), and falls to the ground.  He starts to give that open-mouthed, wrinkled-faced, red-cheeked cry.  So I stop what I'm doing to give him a hug and I check to make sure there's no blood and all joints are working properly.  Adam stops whining for a second, but once he realizes that his brother is okay, he goes back to his demands.  In very kind words I tell Kyle to suck it up and get over it and then I walk back to Adam's bottle and open container of formula.  I stand there, confused.  Before the cry, did I put one scoop or two scoops in?

As I shake the formula, I pause to tell Kyle to stop licking the dishwasher.  I then put the nipple on the bottle and I stop Kyle again, this time before he makes a pretzel out of Adam's arms.  "Gentle," I say, "he's still a baby."  Kyle doesn't believe me.  By now I probably should have put on the TV, but I plan to save that card for later, when I want to have my coffee without a kid jumping on me and scalding my hands.  I pick Adam up and he's all smiles.  Hooray!  Daddy to the rescue with formula!  I walk towards the chair to feed Adam, when Kyle blurts out, "I have a dirty diaper!"

I suppose I could just let Kyle sit in it, and sometimes I have told him to wait.  But in the end it's easier to just get it over with than to smell it while I'm feeding the baby.  So I put Adam back down, and he screams like he hates my guts and will move out once he can walk.  But then, after I change Kyle diaper and deny a few more of his "Christmas" requests, I grab Adam and he's my best friend again.  Feeding time is here!

So that's about twenty minutes with two kids.  Fortunately, the entire day is not like that; thank God for nursery school.  And once the TV is on, Kyle becomes too riveted by the plot (Will Oscar find true love?  Will Cookie Monster ever recover from that cookie ponzi scheme?  Who murdered Snuffy?) to take his eyes off the screen.  Adam naps, too, and that gives me a little break.  Yes, life with two kids is more intense than it was with one kid, but the jump from one kid to two is nowhere near the perilous leap from zero kids to one.  And at least I don't have three kids.  Maybe that's when a person becomes a "real" parent.

Of course, adjusting to this new life is taking quite a bit of time, and that's why you haven't heard from me much.  I think I'm finally getting into some sort of rhythm, at least until Adam changes his sleeping habits.  So maybe, just maybe, I'll be back next week.  But I'm not making any promises, at least until the kids go to college.

House of the Early-Rising Son

"DAAAAAA-DEEEEEE!  The sun is up!"

Groan.

"LOOK!  The sun is up!"

This is how my eldest son often wakes me these days.  He proclaims that the sun has risen, not-too-subtly suggesting that we should all rise with it, as if the sun were lonely and needed company in the earliest hours of the day.

"DAAAAAA-DEEEEEEEEEEE!" repeats my son, in case I didn't hear him through our booming child monitor.  Notice how he doesn't usually call for his mother.  He respects her desire to sleep.  And Adam's too.  I think nothing brings my son greater joy than tormenting his father.  "LOOK!  The sun is up!"

I groan again and use all my will to not shout something profane.  "Go back to bed," I respond, and he hears it because he's young and has super-sensitive hearing, which is piqued whenever he expects me to say something profane.

"But I'm not tired.  The sun is up!"

I want to throw a pillow at him to get him to stop, but there's no effective way to do that from my bed.  The pillow hits the wall. 

"Go back to sleep, Kyle!"

To be honest, this isn't a bad wake-up call.  It could be worse.  It could be a scream.  It could be vomit.  It could be Kyle tipping over Adam's crib.  A little proclamation that "the sun is up," is rather harmless and amusing at times.  I probably would welcome it daily if it weren't so often completely inaccurate.  The sun does not rise at 5:15 a.m.

"The sun is NOT up, Kyle!  Go back to bed!"

Okay, maybe the sun is up at 5:15 a.m. somewhere.  There are parts of Alaska where the sun rises early and then doesn't set for more than a month.  But in New York City, in December, the sun does not appear before seven o'clock.  That is, unless the Earth is about to crash into it.  Then, and only then, I'd be okay with getting up.

"DAAAAAAAAAAA-DEEEEEEEEE!!!  DAAAAAAAAAAA-DEEEEEEEEE!!!  The sun is up!"

Don't be fooled: Kyle does not believe that the sun is up, either.  Only once was he confused, and that was because of a full moon at 2 a.m.  When he's up at 5, 5:15 or 5:30, it's because he can't sleep and is excited about going to nursery school, which begins at 8:30.  Our clock alarm is set for 6 a.m., but many times that's too late for Kyle.  If he's up, then naturally the sun must be up, and if he repeats it enough times, he'll convince us all to get up and get going.  But I fight back, determined to stay in bed at least 'til six.  Especially during the weekend.

"Go back to bed Kyle!"

"I'm done sleeping, Daddy!"

And so we go back and forth with a shouting duel between two very stubborn people.  As you can imagine, my wife absolutely loves this.  She often talks about just giving in to the three-year-old, but doing so would require actually getting up, and she usually has no energy for that early in the morning because at night we tend to stay up much later than the parents of two kids should.  So she groans an objection as I keep up the battle.

"No, Kyle, we have to rest a little longer!"

"LOOK, Daddy!  The sun is UP!"

Of all the battles I pick with Kyle, this is one I win fairly regularly, but that's often because it just lasts until six o'clock.  Once the alarm goes off, I stop the fight.  Jennifer gets up, looks at me crossly, and then heads to the shower.  I shuffle my way to the boys' room, and Kyle jumps out with a burst of energy.  He does not admit defeat because he has no concept of time.  The little guy runs to the couch to watch TV, and, after changing Adam, I slowly follow him there.  As I stare blankly at the television, trying figure out why Jennifer and I didn't choose to raise plants instead of children, Kyle begins a new battle, asking repeatedly for breakfast.   Our morning is now officially underway, and, despite claims to the contrary, the sun is still not up.