Unleaded Christmas

I saw a blurb the other day that said 25% of American parents are vowing to only give toys made in America as Christmas gifts this year. And to those parents I say GOOD LUCK. No one, of course, wants their kids playing with (or chewing and swallowing, as the case may be) lead-coated toys, but this made in America thing strikes me as an extreme and unrealistic overreaction, since even a casual survey of the bottom of your child's toy collection will reveal that there aren't actually any toys made in America. So, unless your kids have their hearts set on corncob dolls, sock puppets and action figures made out of pipe cleaners, expect some seriously disappointed faces on Christmas morning. That retired grandpa in Tulsa who spends three hours a day making hay corn checker sets out in the woodshed is going to have a banner year as 15 million American parents descend on the shed, having realized too late that he is the only U.S. toymaker in a 900-mile radius.

And what about Santa?? At least there haven't been any recalls (yet!) of toys manufactured at the North Pole. But, having closed his last American manufacturing facility eight years ago (the Rochester, Minnesota plant, following that bitter labor standoff - who can forget those scenes of striking elves chanting "Santa sucks"), how is Santa supposed to honor these parents wishes? I suppose he could start a third list to go with naughty and nice: "Kids with Parents Who Are Ruining Christmas With Their Unrealistic Knee-jerk Reaction." If managing three lists proves too confusing for the old guy, chaos will reign on Christmas Eve as safety-crazed American parents wielding golf clubs and torches chase the confused octogenarian out of their houses. Meanwhile, their children, having woken from all the noise, will scream in horror in the background - the visions of organic American-grown sugarplums dancing in their heads permanently replaced by the vision of Santa cowering in the bushes with his giant bag full of lead paint-infested goodies as the mob slowly closes in. Merry Christmas.

In Hindsight

Mistakes I made this weekend, in no particular order:

Devoting time to watching the Cubs hit into a gazillion double plays on their way to meekly exiting the playoffs;

Absentmindedly shaving a large swath down the middle of Owen's head with a #1 clipper blade (super-short!) as opposed to his usual #2 clipper blade (kind of short), leaving him with a bit of a reverse mohawk look - 4 days before picture day at school;

Telling Deanna that Pamela Anderson seems like a nice person.

There were more, but you get the general idea.

Color-Coded

I have always had sort of a passive admiration for the old hippie value of allowing kids to run around naked. From a practical perspective however, at least for anyone who lives in a house that has anything other than dirt or concrete floors, I feel that running around naked indoors should really be reserved for the potty trained among us or at least those we know aren't going to pee indiscriminately on the couch or take a dump on the carpet.

All that being said, it appears that when you have 16-month olds who are dexterous enough to remove their own diapers, shit is going to happen, if you know what I mean. In the face of the inevitable, the best Deanna and I have been able to do is to develop a code system meant to convey, in as few words as possible, the nature of the problem and need for immediate action.

An excellent example of the utility of such a system came a couple of weeks ago. Deanna was on the first floor, preparing to leave for an early morning work obligation. Upstairs, I picked up Hayden up from where he was playing for his first diaper change of the day and was mildly alarmed to see that his diaper was no longer secured on one side. It wasn't until I laid him prone on the changing table that I saw he had a large piece of poop attached to the entire bottom of his right foot, sort of like one of those sandals that mold to the shape of your foot after a few wearings. As Deanna cheerily yelled goodbye from downstairs as she walked towards the door to catch her train, oblivious to the developing situation I was facing, I began desperately yelling "Code Brown, Code Brown!" Thus, while I dealt with prying the brown sandal off of Hayden's foot, Deanna was able to swoop upstairs and secure the scene in the carpeted room where Hayden had been playing from curious onlookers (Owen) and souvenir seekers (Cooper clearly had designs on a plastic chicken-leg covered in poop that was found at the scene). Once I was done decontaminating Hayden and able to move onto dump site clean-up, Deanna was able to again be on her way and still made her train.

Things aren't always that smooth, and in fact, Code Brown incidents tend towards all-out chaos as we try to contain the problem, but you get the idea.

Code Yellows are off course, more frequent, the most recent coming just last night. Owen had used the toilet and had, of course, left the seat up and neglected to flush. I came upon the scene a minute later to find the twins leaning in and up to their elbows in yellow pee-water, happily cackling and swishing away in their own little toilet water park.

Other recent Code Yellows have featured Hayden suddenly appearing in the dining room sans diaper and peeing on the floor in full view of us with a gleeful look, and us following Hayden up the (thankfully uncarpeted) stairs while he left a small puddle on each stair. In that latter incident, he actually had a diaper on and our working theory at the time was that he merely had some crushed ice in his diaper that was falling out and puddling as he walked (why we may have thought he had crushed ice in his diaper is a fair question and a whole different story). Anyway, it turned out to be pee and that he must have somehow maneuvered his penis outside of the confines of the diaper.

And so the chaos rolls on in our little corner of the world, with shouts of Code _____(insert whatever color you can conjure up from the less-than beautiful rainbow of colors the human body is able to produce) echoing merrily up and down the halls.

Recommended

Regular visitors will notice that I have recently added a recommended list with links to five blogs over on the right. In the absence of any other inspiration in a busy, work-oriented and not particularly interesting week, I thought I would take this opportunity to say why I believe you should take a moment and check out the five sites.

The first is the blog "How Did I Get Here" by our friend "Stinkerbellmama." Not just a friend, she also appears to be, at the moment, our future family member as Owen has been best friends with her daughter since before they could walk and said daughter and Owen have talked frequently over the years of their desire to get married to each other some day. Things even got to the point where Owen had names picked out for the two sets of twins he was planning for them to have. The first set is going to be named Alice and Cooper (no he does not know who Alice Cooper is - just an amusing coincidence). The second set is slated to have the more unfortunate names of Coasterball and Googly-Goo. I will admit that now that these names have had a chance to roll around in my head for several months, I am starting to find them sort of cool in a quirky, futuristic way - kind of like Dweezil and Moon Unit Zappa. Doubtful anyone stuck permanently with the name Googly-Goo would feel the same. Anyway, Stinkerbellmama, although she posts even less frequently than myself, cranks out some entertaining and thoughtful rants when the mood strikes that are definitely worth a read.

The second link is to Laid Off Dad. Although I have had trouble finding other daddy-blogs that I much enjoy, LOD is an exception. Funny, well-written and all around good reading.

Nothing But Bonfires I read simply to revel in Holly Burn's outstanding writing. I don't know what it is about her writing style that resonates with me but I just love it. It is just so lyrical and good that even when she is on about shoes or hairstyles or, even worse, the Bachelor, things I could not care less about, I read every word just for the sheer joy of it.

Next is Post Secret. Not a blog, per se, this site bills itself as a "an ongoing community art project where people mail in their secrets anonymously on one side of a homemade postcard." A different group of postcards with secrets is posted once a week - every Sunday. It is sometimes funny, often heartbreaking, and always thought-provoking (and addictive!).

Lastly is Sweet Juniper. With the (sort of) demise of Neal Pollack's Alternadad blog as he focuses his writing talents on higher paying regular writing gigs at high-profile parenting sites, Sweet Juniper has to be considered the premier parenting blog out there. In fact, you would be hard pressed to find another parenting blog that does not link to it. And why shouldn't they, I say, as the Sweet Junipers' are consistently brilliant (and prolific!

Summer Part III

"I can't wait for Winter, Daddy!" Owen announced cheerily at breakfast the other day. Now I can't say, living here in Chicago, that that is a statement you hear very often, if ever. I was especially surprised considering it was another beautiful 80 degree day and he had nothing but playing and fun on his agenda for the day. Curious, I asked him what exactly he couldn't wait for about Winter. He then starting waxing poetic about all the fun we were going to have. When pressed for specifics, he came up with sledding, and eventually, Christmas.

Now I view one of my many jobs as a parent as helping prepare my kids for the less pleasant aspects of life, since who wants to encounter the inevitable setbacks and adversity and unpleasant surprises life has in store without the appropriate tools to process the event and move on. With my worrying ways, and my wife's unrelenting and sometimes alarming lack of worrying, I am uniquely suited within the family to take on this task. That is why, in the face of Owen's enthusiasm, I found myself concerned about the letdown to come, as summer eased into the chill of fall, followed by the frenzy and (intermittent) joy of Christmas, and finally, weeks of hard, unrelenting, bitter cold before Spring once again comes around. I briefly found myself telling him how much more fun summer, with its whirlwind of swimming, vacations, fun and freedom was than winter. To his credit, he seemed completely unswayed, and continued to talk about winter with unabated enthusiasm.

And so it goes. Summer with its many pleasures is quickly giving way to fall. Owen is now back at his second year of pre-school without a peep of protest (those looking for the requisite touching and bittersweet parental blog entry about letting go as a child heads off to school will have to look elsewhere, at least this year). The only concrete indication of sadness at summer's passing so far has been Cooper's shrill, tortured shrieks and uncontrollable sobbing every time his feet are imprisoned in socks or, God forbid, shoes. If nobody else seems fazed, I am certainly not going to dwell on summer's passing. This point was reinforced this past weekend when I attended not just one, but two gatherings where late night conversations around fire pits with friends and neighbors reminded me that every season has its joys, and that the best way to ward off the cold is to arm ourselves with Owen's cheery enthusiasm for life and to bask in the warm glow of our relationships with friends and family. So, having learned something about life from my four year old once again, I am ready to bid farewell to summer with nothing more than a "thanks for a great time" and "see you again next year" as I head off with Owen and the rest of the crew to pursue fun and adventure in the seasons ahead.

Parent of the Year (POTY) Competition

Each year since Owen was born, we have bestowed upon a lucky parent in our house a Parent of the Year (POTY) award. Competition among the two fairly competitive nominees has always been fierce. Sadly, I have only been able to eke out a victory once, in 2004, largely on the strength of my willingness to continue to get up in the middle of the night for bottle feedings while Deanna, who needs more sleep than me, slumbered happily on. My narrow victory was of course helped along by my arsenal of other parenting skills (such as my unique ability to quickly dress a struggling baby/toddler) and innovations (such as the creation of "the knockout punch" - essentially getting then-baby Owen to regularly fall asleep with the aid of a final extra two ounces of formula after an earlier pre-bedtime bottle). Other years have not featured such close battles. Deanna has successfully (fine, deservedly) played the "pregnancy/giving birth" card to propel her to easy victories in 2003 and 2006. In the face of carrying around 13-odd pounds of babies while moving, setting up a new household, mothering then three-year old Owen, and holding down a demanding full-time job (including working late the night before giving birth to said 13 odd-pounds of twinage), my clear edge in lesser categories such as "skill at swaddling" and "most animated interpretations of children's books" just didn't seem to get me much traction with the voters. 2005 was a closer contest but, despite a year of solid parenting, I found myself once again giving my "happy just to have been nominated" speech to the largely uninterested crowd in the press room.

This year, however, readers o' mine, I have my eyes set firmly on the prize once again. Sure, Hayden's poop-eating incident and Christmas ornament glass eating incident have both been on my watch, but I am optimistic that those hiccups (non-poop scented, if you are lucky) in my record will be overlooked in favor of what has been a year of outstanding parenting. This is my time. Stay tuned for further developments.

They Grow Up So Fast

In recent weeks, 4 1/2 year old Owen has gotten his own place AND started a job, thereby going directly from little boy to adult and skipping those annoying teenage years. I was going to say he had moved out of the house, but the truth is he has merely "moved" into an apartment in the basement. When he is in his renter persona, he calls us by our first names ("Michael, when you get a chance, there is a lightbulb burned out in my apartment"), and acts like we are recent acquaintances - asking us to refresh his memory as to the babies names, complimenting us on our taste in furnishings, etc. We usually invite him to eat dinner with us, which he seems to appreciate. We also have been suggesting each night that instead of making the long trip back to his basement apartment, he sleep in our "guest room" (his actual bedroom) upstairs. To date, he has always taken us up on the offer, although he will sometimes head back to the basement to retrieve "his" toothbrush rather than borrow the one upstairs that belongs to "that four year old" who sometimes lives with us. He has furnished the basement with a table, some plastic food and dishes, and a chair and makeshift desk where he "can sit and relax." As of today, he appears to have constructed a fireplace down there out of cardboard bricks, complete with some hand drawn pictures on the mantle.

As of last week, he also started a new job as an auto-mechanic out on the driveway, where he spends part of each day tinkering with the three plastic foot-powered cars we recently acquired. At first we just had one, but the primeval grunting, pushing and anguished screaming matches between the non-talking twins over the use of it was such that we decided to acquire a second off of Craig's List (a stylish teal and yellow garage-kept model from a far-Western suburb). The third came when my in-laws dropped off a convertible that they acquired second-hand. Anyway, Owen announced one morning last week that he was starting a new job as a mechanic and did not have much time for breakfast as he did not want to be late for his first day. He has a plastic gas pump and various plastic tools which he uses on the job. His boss appears to be a little demanding, as Owen was slated to work yesterday on Labor Day. I offered to talk to his boss about how he should have Labor Day off so we could do things as a family; an offer he briefly considered before announcing that he had been mixed up and did not have to work after all. Now I just hope his boss is understanding of the fact that he is headed off to pre-school part-time tomorrow. Is it too much to hope that his employer offers some sort of tuition reimbursement program?

Guys Night

A fair amount of time has passed without comment by me here. We visited the State Fair (much fun), and spent a long weekend at Wisconsin Dells with three other couples and their combined six children (much chaotic fun). Otherwise, I have been working excessively and have generally found that working a lot is not at all conducive to blogging. Frankly, I don't know how some of these more prolific parenting bloggers do it.

Anyway, tonight was my first night home alone with the boys in some time. We of course took advantage of the opportunity to do all the guy things we like to do when Deanna is not around. I brought home fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn fritters, cole slaw and kidney bean salad (the latter two of which proved to be unpopular with the kids), had a rock and roll dance party featuring AC/DC (although I haven't put on "Back in Black" by choice in ages, it is the first thing that popped into my head when Owen demanded some rock and roll - a testament to its classicness, I suppose), played ring toss with a frozen teething ring and a broom stick, had the 31st installment of the "Great Baby Race" - a semi-regular bedtime race between the twins up the stairs, with Hayden leading the series 21 to 9 - tonight was judged a tie), had a spirited wrestling match on our bed, and read books about cars. We also pretended to watch TV. We are not fans of kids watching TV except as a special treat, yet Owen, oddly, has taken to pretending to watch, laughing uproariously at the hilarious antics of made up shows - tonight it was "The Pirate and the Car" and "Stritterman and the Two Dads" - playing out on the blank screen. It reminds me of how kids who aren't allowed to play with toy guns simply pretend they are playing with toy guns using sticks or whatever. Anyway, there was minimal crying and no trips to the emergency room - a good night!

Summer, Part II

Last summer, my mother, I'm sure in all sincerity, wondered aloud to me whether I was having my best summer ever. I can see how she might say that, since after years of struggling to have kids, we had been blessed once with Owen and then blessed twice more with the birth of Cooper and Hayden in May 2006. Although I am thankful and appreciative every day for those little guys and the joy they have brought to our lives, that appreciation is separate from the everyday unrelenting grind that was last summer with a toddler and two newborns in the house. In short, last summer, with its sleep deprivation and constant feed and caring of two fragile, slightly premature newborns was, in the final summation, probably in my bottom ten summers ever.

Best summer ever, by the way, is, and probably will always be, reserved for the summer of 1983; a summer of firsts and lasts, fueled by hormones, beer, recreational drugs, sun, a newfound sense of freedom, close friendships, and the pure joy of being alive. First girlfriend, first real kiss (and more!), first summer with a driver's license, playing my first concerts with my first rock band, last summer without a steady job (just my lawn mowing business where my hours were dictated by myself and the weather). A intensely happy blur of fireworks, concerts, new friends, parties, movies, cruising around in cars, staying out late, etc. I recall how sad me and my friends were over labor day weekend, as we all realized a truly special time was coming to an end. Happily, I made an audio record of this particular summer, ranging from the sweetly mundane (me and my sister washing dishes) to the classic (me and my friends being kicked out of the local pizza parlor for not having a table).

This summer has been a vast improvement over last, due in no small part to more regular sleep and the increased mobility of the kids, freeing us to wander further afield, eat out, etc. (although Cooper's annoying habit of screeching in a very loud and obnoxious manner when he doesn't get his way - predictably unpopular with those unfortunate enough to be dining in the vicinity - has tempered our desire to frequent restaurants of late). It has also had its handful of moments that create the sort of indelible imprint in your memory (see, e.g. my awesome surprise party!) that enable you to look back, even years later, and say that was a damn fine summer. What has been especially cool though, is enjoying the season through the eyes of the kids. Owen's excitement over vacation and just about everything else is infectious. And the twins, despite not talking yet, have clearly had a ball wire to wire this season. From the second their shoes and socks came off in spring and they cackled with glee as their toes felt the grass beneath their feet for the first time, they have been a joy to spend time with. So, while adult summers, necessarily and probably thankfully, pass by on a more limited emotional plain than those of my youth, watching the kids delight in their own firsts as they have turned into little people with big personalities and an appetite for life has somehow been extremely satisfying. Parenthood, as it turns out, has its own unique rewards.

The Eye of the Beholder

"Aren't these NASCAR underwear classy, Daddy???" Owen, bent over at the waist and talking to me sincerely through his legs so that I can best see the glory of his NASCAR underwear, a blurry red, white, blue, black and orange mess of cars, flames, and checkered flags. I am not sure what his definition of classy is, but rarely are NASCAR and classy used in the same sentence. Toss in the word underwear, and we may just have a sentence that has never been uttered before by anyone.