Laid-Off Dad

The threat of filial slaughter. And poop.

It's been a disorienting week, weather-wise. It was warmish, then it got cold, then we got a slushstorm that quickly froze, and on Friday I found myself walking in shirtsleeves while a sultry rain fell on large, filthy ice drifts. If God makes the weather, He's become a little unglued.

The boys and I were trapped indoors on Friday, so we watched "Return of the Jedi" on cable. Which was exhausting, because of all the questions. Why did Yoda vanish when he died? Why is there a big wormthing buried with its mouth open in the desert? Why does that general look like a squid? Why are the Evil Emperor's eyes so baggy? Did he not get enough sleep? Et cetera.

Then came the biggie: "If Darth Vader is Luke's father, why did he try to kill him?"

Initially, I was dumbstruck, and I ermed and ahhed for a while, hoping to disabuse my son of the idea that a father can turn evil and try to slice is boy to kibble with an electronic sword. (I thought of saying "Because Luke always spit bathwater at his brother in the tub," but I thought better of it.) I eventually said something like "it's only pretend, because it's only a movie and in real life all daddies love their children and wouldn't ever cut them open at all." And he bought it, reassuring me that if I ever turned evil, he would save me. "But I wouldn't kill you, I don't think."

Tomorrow I'm off to Disney World with Robert and my parents for five days. (We are also going to the huge Lego store, and I am bringing a spare duffel bag to bring all the purchases home.) I have no idea if I'll have wireless access, or the strength to use it, so this might be my last post for a bit.

Therefore, in the meantime (and inspired by Eden and Dutch), here are a two more pictures of famous cartoon characters defecating:

                        

Attorneys, start your engines.

Everything's all pissss and da-doo

At some point during TwoBert's gestation, we looked into how to cope with sibling rivalry. We took a class and read a few books, but most of that was geared toward the first few months of TwoBert's life. And it worked, mostly, when he was a cooing slug in a blanket. Now that TwoBert has grown into a sturdy, stubborn stanchion of a child, complete with appetites and opinions and a willingness to kick his brother in the head, Robert is feeling bent out of shape. The boys mix it up all the time, yanking toys out of each other's hands and clobbering each other with the sofa cushions. It's mostly good fun, until it's not. And when it's not, the baby gets a free pass because he doesn't know any better.

First of all, in my oldest-child opinion, that's horseshit. TwoBert knows exactly what he's doing. I've seen him provoke Robert with a few jabs to the face, or a head-butt (still my favorite oxymoron), or by busting up his MegaBlock fortress. Robert and I have talked about this, that we're both onto his bait-and-shrug routine, but during our afternoons together Robert asks about a dozen times whether it's time for TwoBert to go to bed yet. Because that is when the Legos come out, and Mike and Biff, stalwart heroes of superspace, can mount their flying carcraft and save the world from giant frog puppets and carnivorous goo-pods that look suspiciously like wet washcloths.

TwoBert's vocabulary is hitting a huge spurt. He's been quick with a thank-you ("da-doo!") for months, but now he's caught onto "you're welcome" ("gelkum!"). He's also learned that the best way to mooch something your plate is to say "please." Except that it comes out "pissss," like his cheeks have sprung a slow leak. This is the lexicon of a diplomat who is learning the game of human politics and favor-currying, and it is precisely why Robert thinks he must be destroyed. By a pulsating, carnivorous goo-pod.

On another note, untold bunches of lady wordsmiths are coming to Manhattan this weekend for another BlogHer event. If you're headed to that opening cocktail thing tonight, I hope I'll get the chance to meet you. You'll know me by my deep voice, which I like to unleash at bike messengers who run red lights.

Dummypants

When I was a kid, people told me I was smart. I'm not sure what they based that on, because one of the strongest memories of my youth is begging my parents to put "Saturday Night's Alright For Fighting" on the stereo, so I could scream along into my spoon-microphone. As I recall, "don't give us none of your aggravation" came out something like "buh flabba nabba no wag-ah-way-bah."

Then there was fifth grade, when I placed into an experimental program called "Concept IIB." Instead of set curricula (or tests, or structure, or much of anything scholastic), we spent lots of time sitting around on our own, thinking about stuff.  One of my favorite pastimes was using a napkin as a "butter-pult" and seeing how many pats I could stick to the ceiling. No one ever cleaned away those stalagtites, and as far as I know they're still there. A lasting, rancid legacy of my prodigious intellect.

I liked being thought of as smart, for a while. But when school got tougher, and the grades didn't come nearly as easily, I started to panic. I remember wondering if this was the limit to my intelligence, and if the people who told me I was smart were either idiots, or just blowing smoke up my ass. Or both. All I began to care about was keeping up the smart image, despite my doubts, and it took me a while to realize that I built the most self-esteem when I knew I had worked hardest to achieve something.

A few weeks ago, a colleague sent me this article about "How Not to Talk To Your Kids," and as I read I felt myself nodding along like a devotee at a Pentecostal megachurch. Building esteem was all the rage among '70s parents (right up there with fondue and key parties), but this new study de-bunks the idea that complimenting smartness is all that useful. In fact, there is an "inverse power of praise," whereby some teenagers have trained themselves to read between the lines. If you praise a kid's intelligence, the article says, he's likely to think you're condescending to someone who you think has reached his peak. Whereas if you hold off on the flattery and instead urge him to keep trying, he'll assume you respect his abilities and will stay motivated.

I've caught myself telling Robert he's smart, partly as a reflex of what I heard as a kid. It was hard to control that reflex, but ever since I started praising his effort rather than his intelligence the change in his personality has been palpable. When we first started playing with Legos, Robert often had trouble using his little hands to connect all the little pieces. He had good design instincts, but the engineering was for crap. And when the little planes crumbled in his hands -- which was often -- he'd throw a fit and proclaim most stridently that he would never! play! Legos! again!

He didn't merely dislike failing, he couldn't cope with it. So I began suggesting that he keep trying, that with practice he'd get better, and that you can always learn something new. He'd keep on experimenting, and I'd show him a trick or two, and when his creations started holding together I praised him for persevering. He still has trouble every so often when he tries new things that don't work out, but now it doesn't faze him at all. He just picks up and starts over.

So from now on, there will be far less mention of cleverness and more of persistence. With luck, I'll raise a happy, successful pair of dumb-alecks.

As usual, hubris goeth before a fall.

Remember how sure I was that the mice were on the run? How boastful I was? "Ha," said Fate. "I shall teach you to believe you have dominion over your world, or the ecosystem therein."

Last night, right after I finished that last post, I walked into the kitchen and saw a mouse skitter behind the stove. So I laid a trap for it and went to bed.

I woke up this morning to retrieve the trap before the boys got up ... and it was gone.

It appears the mice have merely been laying low, training in their underground bodybuilding center and using mousetraps in their Pilates sessions. We must now cope with a new enemy, a breed of Mouseneggers who might start making off with whole cantaloupes. From the fridge.

OASAHFLOILABD

Hi again. It's been a humdinger of a week since I last wrote, mainly because I have been swept into the riptide of all things workerly, writerly, rodentally, and fatherly.

Item: The job is currently in the throes of seasonal chaos. It was a comfort to know it was coming, but it doesn't make the slog any easier. Hours will be long and frenetic until my week of vacation at the end of this month, when Robert will get his first taste of ... Disney World. People rag on the Mouse, often rightly, but I'm eager to tell you I can't wait to go and take it all in through his rapidly jaundicing eyes. He was a bit wary at first, because he thinks Disney is full of princesses and stuff, but when I reminded him that 1) "Cars" is a Disney film and 2) somewhere nearby is a huge Lego store, complete with life-size Lego elephants and stuff, he was on board.

Also, the job recently took me aside and told me it wants to pay me a considerable bit more for the work I do. Naturally I feel absolutely chuffed, seeing as the last two jobs asked me to go away and all. Thank you, job, for taking such good care of me. Even though you have no idea this blog exists (please god, let that be true), knowing we like each other so much is a nice change from the angst-ridden shitstorms I'd gotten accustomed to.

Item: Speaking of mouses, I killed my third yesterday. A pattern is emerging: 1) no mice for weeks, 2) bold forays into the living room (and on top of the fridge!), whip out the PB&B (which still smells absolutely heavenly), snap goes the neck. The last one we got was a real bruiser, and his minions have truly been cowed by his loss.

Item: I'm still spending what little spare time I have writing. Or rather, taking notes while ideas spill out of my head. Makes me feel like I'm running around with a bucket during a rainstorm and hoping to store it all away for when the clouds part.

And the last item: My wife will be out every night this week, and so for five straight nights the Three Men will be free to go it alone. Nights like these are truly magical. The boys tell me about their day while I make them dinner (tomorrow's request is pork chops), we read, we play, we wrestle, we wash, and we pass out. It's completely exhausting, and wonderful.

All of which has me feeling like a Once-Again-Stay-At-Home, Formerly-Laid-Off, Incredibly Lucky and Blessed Dad. And which makes for one helluvan acronym.

Hoop skirts

This time of year always turns me into a giddy little bunny rabbit, because I am a complete geek for March Madness. It's by far the most exciting sporting event on the planet, with hockey and baseball playoffs a distant second. Sure, it makes a joke of "scholar-athleticism" and generates frillions of dollars on the backs of indentured laborers who won't (legally) see a dime of it. But dammit, it's fun.

I get completely caught up in the conference tournaments, and the endless conjecture about who'll get in and who'll be shut out. Then come the first two rounds, rife with upsets and last-second-prayer shots and holy-crap-did-you-see-that?s. I watch as many games as I can, and I keep track of them all on my exhaustingly meticulous hoops bracket that I made on an Excel spreadsheet. As an added bonus, my alma mater (whose website will fry your cones) somehow tied for the best record in its conference and for the first time in a dog's age will be in the tourney. All the more reason to rev my BP into the quadruple digits.

I'm a little perplexed, though, by a new aesthetic development (brought to my attention by Uniwatch), whereby a major sports outfitter (rhymes with "crikey") has conned four schools into wearing a new uniform design for the post-season. The clingy tops make some sense, since they're aerodynamic and show off all the buffness, but the super-billowy shorts are risible enough to transcend self-parody. Granted, my perspective is a bit skewed because I grew up in the Age of Hotpants, but still. Are they trying to turn March Madness into a Highland Games?

Aye, 'tis Madness indeed.

Take five

On Saturday, Robert turned five, which is a big deal for a boy. Five means you can show people your age without holding any fingers back. Five is when things start to take shape. Five takes questions from the empirical ("Daddy, who invented hubcaps?") to the philosophic ("Daddy, will time go on forever?"). Five means kindergarten, where kids and their loopy ideas spend five days a week intermixing with other kids and their loopy ideas. Five means getting a skunk-eye from the grumpy bus driver when you try to ride for free to Nana's house. Five is the onset of full-throttle boyhood, and its sudden differentness from girlhood.

Five means you can declare that your birthday party must be Boys Only, and that its central theme must involve "vehicles." Five means everything has to be fastfastfast, hurling itself through space or around a track or down the stairs, often at "944 thousand 900 million miles per hour." Girls obviously just can't keep up, because they're too crazy about "princesses and clothes and junk." Five means RPMs and ovaries just do not mix. (Which is why five should meet Danica Patrick.)

And after you exclude all of your best girl-friends from your birthday party, five means not feeling the slightest bit awkward when you run into one on the way to the party. The same girl who invited you to her party six weeks ago, who fed you cake and let you jump on her bed and held your hand while you watched the Shrek DVD. Five will make small talk as if nothing is awry and then announce that he is going to his party and sorry, but girls can't go and that's the rule. (In that regard, five is lucky that his friend's mom is so cool.)

Five means taking all your best boy buddies to the Transit Museum and running in and around and through all the subway trains, communing with ghosts who wore fedoras and read about the war and wondered if the Dow would ever break 100. Five means lots of gifts with wheels on them, including some mostly generic Lego sets that inspire you to make "race cars that are completely awesome!" And five means sizing up a lesser gift (a remote-control car that is really isn't all that remote because the control is attached to the car by an eight-inch wire) and re-gifting it to your ecstatic little brother.

And when you tuck him in at night, five will tell you that this was the best day ever, and that you are the best daddy in the world. Which is why five will make you feel as alive and loved as you've ever felt.