The Words Less Spoken

Successful parenting, as "they" say, is 8% patience, 22% common sense, 14% genetic roulette, 13% yelling, 18% luck, 6% tolerance for foul substances and sleep deprivation, 3% television, 8% wise and memorable parental-style nuggets of advice, and 18% what you don't say. The same formula applies to marriage, by the way, although you need to swap out "moods” for “substances”, “sex" for “wise parental-style nuggets of advice, and "telling your wife she looks great no matter what she is wearing" for “genetic roulette”. Anyway, it is the “what you don’t say” category of the parenting formula that is the focus of today's post:

The scene: Me, in shower, 6:30 a.m., Owen peeing in toilet 3 feet away;

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[NOTE FROM REDPLANET: THE MIDDLE OF THIS PREVIOUSLY POSTED ENTRY HAS BEEN DELETED AT THE REQUEST OF THE REDPLANET POSTING STANDARDS BOARD, SO YOU WILL JUST HAVE TO LET YOUR IMAGINATION TAKE IT FROM HERE - SORT OF A "CREATE YOUR OWN CLOUD EIGHT POST" FEATURE. YOU ARE SET UP FOR A GOOD START, AS ANY STORY THAT STARTS WITH SHOWERING AND PEEING IS NATURALLY GOING TO BE HILARIOUS. GOOD LUCK, AND, NOW, BACK TO OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING.

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What I said: “I have no idea.”

See, this parenting stuff is a breeze.

P.S. If you added up the percentages above and were tempted to point out that they totaled 110%, you: (1) have way too much time on your hands; and (2) must be a bad parent because all good parents know that if you aren’t giving 110% your kids will end up in the juvenile home.

3 Hours

Both Deanna and I work in demanding jobs. I often leave the house prior to 5:30 a.m. in order to bill enough hours and still make it home to relieve the nanny by 6. Deanna takes the opposite shift, leaving when the nanny arrives at 8:45 a.m. and often working late or after the kids go to bed in order to get her work done.

While our work schedules frequently leave us wishing we had more time with the kids, I am sometimes amazed at how much we can fit into the time we do have. Tonight, for example, I got home about 6. Deanna called from the office to inform me that she would be arriving home after bedtime and that it was the night to pick up the food we had ordered through Owen’s (now former) Catholic preschool. I changed my clothes, got the boys shoed and the twins plugged into the stroller and we set off down the block.

On the way, Owen kept up a constant stream of chatter. Over the course of our walk we talked about why leaves turn brown on branches that fall off trees, which roofs we would be scared to stand on (consensus, third floor is too high to be hanging out on the roof!), what car companies DON’T make gas-hogging giant SUVs (i.e. Porsche, Saturn, etc.), the price of gas, and why different kites need different amounts of wind to fly. We lamented the passing of our local coffee shop (abruptly closed down due to a lack of business), marveled at the tallness of particular trees, decided to refer to our kick-ass Graco double-stroller as a Graco Turbo to give it a bit more cache, speculated about which houses we might consider moving to, discussed why guys using jack hammers wear so much protective gear (and consequently look like bugs), chatted about my old summer job during college at a municipal wastewater treatment plant, argued about how many banks are in town, and kicked around a bunch more things I am sure I have forgotten.

We picked up the food from the school (all frozen), ordered food for takeout at the local Bohemian restaurant, spent a bit sitting next to the railroad tracks for a premium view of trains going by, and made it back home where we gorged ourselves on breaded pork tenderloin, dumplings, potato pancakes, cooked carrots, beef noodle soup and apple sauce. After hosing down the dining area, I herded everyone upstairs for baths. Baths were followed by a lot of crazy running, with the twins popping their little heads around corners and yelling “boo” as loud as they could. Owen set up a race course using red blankets and a checkered flag, and drew large numbers on paper which he proceeded to tape to everyone's backs like we were running a marathon. The twins were finally wrestled into bed by 8:30 or so.

Deanna arrived home and she, Owen and myself took in a bit of a PBS show on Great Lodges of North America which in turn caused us to explain to Owen what a lodge is (tougher than it sounds, really, even if we certainly know a lodge when we see it. I was surprised to find myself winging this one a bit, as opposed to, say, my aforementioned concise and scientifically accurate exposition on kite sizes and wind speeds) and to explain what a glacier is. All in all, not a bad way to spend three hours.

Dinner Menu at Cloud Eight: Decibels and Spills

For those of you don’t have three boys aged five and under, or haven’t had the pleasure of dining with us (come on over, I’m making Daddy-Os!), it would be hard to describe the chaos that is dinner at our place. The energy and noise levels are, in a word, “high,” while the competency levels with basic eating skills such as use of a cup or spoon might best be described as “less high.” I have taken to announcing the time of the first spill, much like a doctor pronouncing a patient dead – “Time of first spill, 42 seconds into the meal.” Not a great analogy, I suppose, since if we actually had a dead patient for each spill, our license would have been yanked months ago and all three boys locked up in debtor’s prison for eternity, what with all the malpractice and wrongful death judgments against them. I suppose actually giving them glasses as opposed to sippy cups makes me contributorily negligent, so I would be on the hook as well, but they have to learn somehow. Thank God the only real casualties are our newspapers, work clothes, patience, etc.

Although pictures in this case are not worth a thousand words, and I should actually attach an audio file, I have no idea how to do that, so pictures it is.

Above you can see Cooper participating in a favorite dinnertime game developed by the twins. Hearing any mention of the word chicken, both twins will start flapping their arms like a chicken and squawking loudly. After a bit of this, they both loudly yell “BBAAAAAWWWWK!!!” and throw their arms skyward. Repeat. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Cute the first time, less cute the 187th time. Any fellow diner who sets them off by use of the word chicken is severely punished.

Here we see another popular dinner pastime: Monster. Rarely does a dinner pass without all three boys pretending they are monsters. One will start to growl in an appropriately menacing manner while extending his arms forward like Frankenstein. Soon the others join in the Monster chorus, and all three continue to make monster sounds simultaneously until we are able to restore order or something spills, whichever comes first. Although Cooper actually does the best Frankenstein face, I haven’t been able to effectively capture it on film (rarely daring to bring the camera to the table for fear of spills, fittingly). In the background you can see Deanna is quite enjoying this particular game.

You know, as a closing thought, as chaotic as things sometimes are these days, I am not so naive as to think I won’t someday miss all of this. When we are sitting around a quiet house years from now, with the boys long ago moved away to Canada (Owen), California (Cooper) and Prague (Hayden), these are the memories that will make us smile, and maybe even toss a glass of milk on the floor for old times sake.

Oh, Canada - Part Deux

Our foray across the border into Canada is complete, and I am here, as promised, to report back.

The majority of our long weekend was actually spent in Dearborn, Michigan, where we visited the Henry Ford museum and Greenfield Village. The museum is huge and features not just cars (including the Wienermobile!), but also big sections on planes, American life, etc. It was a pretty cool museum and we were all reasonably entertained, including the two-year-old twins. Greenfield Village is Henry Ford’s collection of historical buildings that he had torn down from various places and rebuilt in Dearborn – things like Thomas Edison’s house and the old Logan County, Illinois courthouse. The highlight for Owen was probably a couple of rides we took in the fleet of old Model T’s being driven around the grounds by retired guys. As if the whole Greenfield Village conglomeration of buildings wasn’t enough, there happened to be a big Civil War reenactment taking place throughout the Village. This meant that encampments were scattered throughout, and the Village was populated by both Union and Rebel soldiers and their girlfriends and wives, hanging out, cooking, playing instruments, cleaning rifles, riding around on horses, etc. Bizarre and fascinating.

Anyway, we set off for Windsor, Ontario after 5 p.m. on a Sunday. Having asked around some, I had learned before hand that Windsor is most famous for its high-end strip clubs. Since I had been the lone vote at the family meeting for a good ole’ fashioned strip club crawl, Sunday night seemed like a good bet. Upon reaching the border, we found that between my wife’s expired passport and our photocopies of the kid’s birth certificates (as opposed to actual certified copies), the Canadians were not anxious to let us in. Having successfully talked our way in, however, we commenced a whirlwind Canadian tour that included a quick stop at the tourism office, a lengthy visit to a Dollar store, where we dropped over $40 on cheesy Canadian souvenirs (nail clippers with the Canadian flag on them!?! I’ll take two please!!), scored a box of Tim-Bits at the local outpost of Tim Horton’s (sort of the Canadian equivalent of Dunkin’ Donuts), played at a great playground along the river teeming with kids of seemingly every nationality, and had dinner at an old-time BBQ place (no broken plates, only three spills, and minimal peeved looks from other patrons – a good meal!) before heading back to the States.

As we approached the US border checkpoint, Owen, whose love of Canada had now reached a fever pitch, was loudly singing a song he had made up called “Bad America.” After our efforts to shout him down with an extra loud version of “My Country Tis of Thee” failed, we resorted to the old “you need to be quiet when we get to the booth so we can hear the man talk” trick, which, thankfully, worked like a charm. The jaded security agent at the booth asked us the standard questions in a bored monotone: “Where are you from”, “How long were you here”, “What did you do while you were here.” Deanna’s perky answers caught his attention and he looked up from her expired passport to skeptically drone “You drove all the way from Illinois to go to a dollar store???” Whether he ultimately believed us or not, Owen remained thankfully quiet in the back and we were eventually able to convince the guard, with some help from the hypnotic power of our rockin’ Canadian Dollar Store disco ball, that we weren’t spiriting Canadian children across the border to sell them to wealthy Americans. As we chugged back towards the Dearborn, Michigan Hampton Inn, Owen happily sighed from the backseat, “You know Mom and Dad, Canada is all about fun.” As I stuffed another Tim Bit in my mouth and watched one of our three Dollar Store Canadian Flag pinwheels lazily spinning in the gentle warm wind coming in through the rolled down car window, I could not have agreed more.

Oh, Canada

Continuing on with our international theme from April here at CloudEight, I wanted to relate a tale of my American ignorance. As background, you should know that Owen, at age 5 apparently already preparing for a summer of backpacking around Europe when he is 19, or perhaps sagely predicting the return of the draft, has essentially renounced his American citizenship and declared himself a Canadian. This started awhile ago when our nanny brought him a Canadian Soccer t-shirt back from a trip to Canada. Owen has since periodically declared himself to be a member of the Canadian soccer team, who apparently use our backyard as their stateside practice facility. His love of Canada has most recently been manifesting itself in his cranking out about 6 Canadian flags a day using 8 1/2 x 11 sheets of paper and a red crayon.

Anyway, Owen had been on about Canada early in our Florida trip awhile back, telling us he was now Canadian and no longer an American citizen. As we were walking through the parking lot of the condominium complex where my parents were staying, we spied an SUV with Ontario plates. Shifting into “teaching Dad” mode, I pointed it out to Owen – “Look Owen, this SUV is from Canada.”

On a roll, I decided to “teach” a bit more: “Do you know why Canadian license plates have a crown on them??” I asked.

“No Dad, why??”

“Because Canada has a queen!” I stated authoritatively.

Now, in my defense, I have since learned that Canada is a constitutional monarchy, with Queen Elizabeth of England as the token Head of State. In my not so defense, I must confess that I was not armed with such knowledge at the moment the words came out of my mouth and, due to a temporary brain cramp, believed that Canada had its own Queen. I half-realized the ridiculousness of my statement even as it was leaving my mouth and all would have ended well, despite my momentary lapse into ignorance, if I had corrected myself right then. In fact, Deanna began to wheel around to helpfully say “Canada doesn’t have a queen, you moron.”

Unfortunately, before she had the chance, a gentleman appeared before us out of a stairwell wearing a t-shirt that said “Canada” in 10-inch high letters. His appearance was so perfectly timed to Owen earnestly saying “really Dad?” that it was almost like an elderly Canadian fairy had suddenly descended from the Great White North and materialized before our eyes. Inexorably propelled by this confluence of events, I continued bravely on: “Here Owen, this man is from Canada, we can ask him. Does Canada have a queen??”

The man gave me a sort of bemused quizzical look that let me know almost immediately that not only was I wrong, but I sounded like a complete stereotype of the ignorant American, imparting false information to my impressionable young son. “No.” he said testily. “We have a prime minister.”

Not content to let it go yet, and unable to stop myself, I pushily demanded: “Then why is there a crown on all of your license plates??” Everything sinking in at last, I then sputtered “Is it because of Canada’s former status as part of the British Commonwealth.” Yes, I actually uttered such a sentence.

“Yes.” he said patiently, by this time staring at me more with pity in his eyes than anything else.

“Excuse my ignorance.” I choked out, and hustled Owen off up the stairs; the same stairs up which Deanna had quickly fled upon realizing where I was headed with the Canadian.

So there you have it; my unfortunate contribution to Canada’s view of Americans as self-absorbed and ignorant of events beyond their own borders. I will be doing penance by leading the family on a short foray into Canada on an upcoming weekend and will report back for your benefit some additional actual facts about our fair and mysterious neighbor to the north.

Hungary? Pass the Turkey if its not too Greecy

Hello there. It has been awhile. Haven’t even blogged since before Country Day. Hope you had a good one. What’s that? What’s Country Day?? Hmmmm. A relatively new holiday. One in a series of holidays recently declared by Owen here at our place as a matter of fact, the one before that being the somewhat similarly themed (International) Flag Day. I added the international to distinguish it from its American counterpart, since Owen’s interest in the American flag is limited compared to his zest for the rest of the flags in the world. You may be sensing that Owen is into countries and flags at the moment and if you were, you should be congratulated on your keen Internet instincts. Owen has spent his days in recent weeks feverishly cranking out flag after flag using crayons and 8 ½ x 11 sheets of paper. Particularly good ones are then affixed to wooden barbecue skewers. This has left our house looking like a miniature UN, with flags pretty much everywhere. We are constantly quizzed as well. This was relatively easy at first when he was concentrating on Italy and Germany (both favored for their fast cars) and Canada (simply favored). Since the Easter Bunny dropped off a World Atlas that features the flags of even the most obscure nations however, the “what flag do you think this is” challenge has gotten much more difficult for those of us who can’t tell the flag of Trinidad from that of Greenland (I didn’t even know anyone actually lived in Greenland until now).

But I digress. With International Flag Day in the rearview mirror, we recently turned our attention to Country Day. The proximity of the two holidays to each other (a mere week apart!) came in handy as we found ourselves still well-stocked with leftover flags for our Country Day celebration last Saturday. The best part of making up holidays is you get to decide not only when, but how to celebrate them as well. For Country Day, we decided the holiday would best be celebrated by stereotyping each country through Americanized frozen versions of their native cuisines. This is how we here at CloudEight came to be feasting last Saturday night on mini-American hotdogs, Italian ravioli, Mexican mini-tacos, sag paneer from India, and French Toast with Canadian maple syrup. Oh, and Danish Kringle for desert. Not a bad way to pass a Saturday night, as a good time was had by all on this inaugural Country Day celebration. Oh, and Country Day happens three times a year, I’m told, so come on by next time. Our place is the one with the St. Kitts and Papua New Guinea flags in the window. Only one on the block as a matter of fact.

FLORIDA!!!

With Winter continuing its unrelenting march into Spring, we had had enough. The cure for what ailed us....

FLORIDA!!!!!

Cold Shower

“I’m dirty!” the voice behind me said. My head snapped around, and there was my wife of ten years, on all fours, mischievous smile on her face, crawling down the hall towards me. “Take my sweater off!” she ordered.

I know what you are thinking: “Holy @#!$! RedPlanet!, That is pretty hot after ten years of marriage. That Deanna is some woman.”

Indeed she is. And indeed it would have been pretty hot, if she wasn’t holding a stuffed Mickey Mouse wearing a sweater in one of her hands as she crawled along, pretending to make Mickey walk, and had actually been talking to me rather than in Mickey Mouse’s high squeaky voice to the three boys I had in the bathtub at the time. And so it goes.

DaddyOs

I have a number of goals jotted down for the year, one of which, I will confide, is to create a new family dinner recipe. As background, we are often instructed in gatherings of my extended family simply to bring our “specialty.” Since peanut butter on toast is not a big seller at most holiday gatherings, I have long sought to create a signature recipe for these family parties. You know, the sort of dish that people would refer to as “RedPlanet’s famous (insert delicious specialty here)”. Almost all of my attempts have met with failure – everyone but me, for instance, has long forgotten “RedPlanet’s famous Welsh Rarebit.” Having abandoned my efforts, I am now focusing simply on coming up with something the immediate family can enjoy beyond my usual grilled cheese and tomato soup (I have successfully trained the now 22-month old twins to eat tomato soup with a spoon from a bowl and to say “mmmmm” enthusiastically after each spoonful).

With Deanna working late the other night, I decided to seize the opportunity to work up something pleasing to my crew of little dudes without regard for her usual demand that meals be “well-balanced.” My endeavor began modestly enough, with a giant can of SpaghettiOs with meatballs as my template. The twist, yes I ADDED hot dogs. What!, you say, SpaghettiOs come with either meatballs or hot dogs, not BOTH. Yes, friends, it was a new twist on an old favorite. Think of those old Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup commercials where someone with chocolate and someone with peanut butter collide and inadvertently combine the two, much to the world’s delight and amazement – “two great tastes that taste great together!” Owen was duly impressed as I set his plate down before him, delightedly exclaiming, “it’s a mix!” This dish, which will henceforth be known as DaddyOs, was enthusiastically received by all. Cooper even had thirds.

Perhaps I should pitch the idea to SpaghettiOs maker Franco American, as it has apparently never occurred to them. I can see the ad now: Guy eating a hot dog rounds a corner and runs smack into a beautiful girl carrying a large order of spaghetti and meatballs, hot dog pitches out of the bun and into her spaghetti (sex sells!) and viola, they fall in love AND have a signature recipe right out of the box. I suppose the guy could be eating a meatball sandwich and she could be eating SpaghettiOs with hot dogs, but I digress. Rest assured that this early in the year, I will not be content to rest on my laurels, and will continue my culinary adventures. Perhaps a little something with Spam. Hmmmm. Stay tuned!

The Walking Man

Recently, based the history of heart disease in my family, my doctor referred me to the hospital to have a “stress test.” The “test” essentially consists of walking for awhile on a treadmill at increasing rates of speed while nine different monitors attached to various places on your chest are read by computer. Mine was an “echo” stress test, which meant that they also took ultrasound pictures of my heart while resting and once my heart rate had reached a certain target.

Now I have never belonged to a health club or had other occasion to use a treadmill, other than maybe for 30 seconds at a store. But lets face it, its not brain surgery. It is, when you get right down to it, walking and/or jogging. That is why I was unprepared for the looks of grave concern and trepidation on the faces of all three nurses as they learned, one by one, of my paucity of treadmill experience. “YOU’VE NEVER BEEN ON A TREADMILL???” they exclaimed, clearly alarmed. One even pressed me, insisting that I must have at least been on one to mess around, even if I hadn’t been serious about getting some cardiovascular activity. I felt like I had just told them I had never taken a ride in one of them newfangled auto-mobiles or seen a talking picture show. I stuck to my story through their interrogation concerning my treadmill experience, or lack thereof, which was easy considering it was the truth rather than, say, some Roger Clemens-style pack ‘o lies. Finally, satisfied that I was genuinely inexperienced and was therefore facing near certain death, each nurse then felt the need to explain in detail how a treadmill works, where to stand, where to put my hands, etc. I assured them that I grasped the basic concept and that it would be fine but I could tell they were not so sure. While all this was going on, they shaved various patches of my chest hair off to attach the monitors, leaving me with a “40-year Old Virgin” style patchy chest hair look. Normally, that wouldn’t be problem, it being February in Chicago and all, but unfortunately for me we are off to Florida for a little down time shortly.

Anyway, the test finally got underway, as I stepped aboard the great machine and it began to move. As it moved, I walked. It was then that things got even more bizarre as the nurses, apparently convinced of my doom mere moments ago, now began to marvel at my treadmill skills with comments that included, and I am not making this up “Are you SURE you have never done this before” and “You are so good, you must do a lot of walking.” The former is a compliment that hasn’t graced my ears since a particularly memorable night back in 1984, although that involved more horizontal-type activity. But the latter, what do you even say to that? “Why yes, as a matter of fact I do. Walked in here from the parking lot, if you must know. I may even walk a bit more later, perhaps around the block, or to the library and back. I thought about turning professional once, but it’s hard to make a living on the circuit, even with my natural abilities.” With each increasing level of speed on the treadmill, they became more open and enthusiastic in their admiration. Finally, my stint on the treadmill having come to a triumphant end, the machine having eventually wrestled my heart-rate up to what the staff considered an acceptable rate, the technician having studied the ultrasound pictures intently for a few moments and having decided I was not on the verge of death, I was dismissed – given my walking papers, so to speak.

As I strode through the halls of the hospital, the fresh knowledge of my natural walking ability lending a newfound confidence to my gait, I could feel the eyes of the staff and patients upon me and hear the whispers – “Who is that? So tall, so obviously talented, one foot placed successfully in front of the other time after time, never tripping or tiring, just moving inexorably forward towards his destination?? Yes, it is he. The Walking Man.”