Fatherhood

My Grace has a peanut allergy. So far, it really hasn’t been an issue, as avoiding peanuts, peanut oil and such has been easy. Now that she’s in school, it’s starting to suck.

Different parents sign up to supply the snack each day (the politics of snack is another post entirely). Since Grace is peanut-free, we have to supply some alternate snacks just in case the parents bring in something questionable. No problem. When I pick her up from school each afternoon, there’s a little sheet in her cubby that outlines what they did on that day. Included is what the kids ate for snack. Today it said “cupcakes.” “Ooh,” I said to Grace, “You had cupcakes in school today?” “[teacher’s name] said ‘No,’” she replied. “I just had my snack.”

Perhaps I’m just projecting my own feelings onto her, but I felt terrible. All of her classmates are enjoying some nice cupcakes while she sits there with the damn Teddy Grams for the upteenth time. I told the teacher that cupcakes are really fine, but she said that they can’t guarantee that homemade snacks weren’t prepared with peanuts/peanut oil, or on the same counter/with the same knife that had been in contact with peanut butter.

The fact is, I should be glad the teachers are so diligent. They just want to keep my kid safe, and I do honestly appreciate it. It also bums me out to think of Grace, 3 years old and already excluded in a way. F’n peanuts.

peanut allergy, fatherhood

I don’t want this to sound like one of those “…back when I was your age” type of stories, but I’m afraid that’s impossible.

I gave the kids oatmeal for breakfast this morning. When I was a kid, there were two flavors of oatmeal available: Cardboard Box and Cardboard Box with Apple. If you were lucky enough to get one of those shriveled, dehydrated, chicklet-sized shreds of apple, you knew it was going to be a good day. You chewed that thing for every last bit of sweetness it was going to give up.

Flash forward thirty years. Grace’s oatmeal this morning was “Cinnamon Roll.” William had “Banana Bread.” I had to try each one and they tasted just like a cinnamon roll and a slice of warm banana bread. Lucky dogs.

oatmeal, love it or hate it

Now this is pretty cool. I’ve often wondered, as I’m sure many of you have, just what a baby sees when she looks at me and the world around her. Tiny Eyes claims to be a simulation of just that. To use it, just select the age of the baby whose vision you’d like to simulate, select a viewing distance for the little guy, upload a photo (JPEG or PNG) and click “Run TinyEyes!” Use a good headshot of yourself to experience mom and dad as jr. does: in all your fuzzy glory!

So earlier this week, William had his 15 month well baby checkup. Everything looked good, 50% percentile all around (we call him “Mr. Average.” That way he’ll have a starting point with his therapist in 20 years). During the exam, the doctor asked my wife, “How’s his urine stream?” “Um, I don’t know,” answered my wife. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him pee.“* “Ok,” said the doc. “Just let him walk around without a diaper for a bit to see if you can observe him going. Look for a steady stream.”

Now, I must pause for a moment here to explain something. My wife is a teacher, so I have the kids most of the time. While she’s an expert on their PM routine (while I’m at work), I’m very familiar with their daytime schedule. Bill usually has a poop between 10:00 AM and 11:00 AM. My wife wasn’t aware of that, as she’s only been on summer break for a short time. Now, on with the story.

I was in the livingroom when I heard “OH MY GOD” from the playroom. It was immediately followed by, “BRING ME SOME WIPES!” Let’s say my wife was following Dr.’s advice. Let’s say it was about 10:15 AM. Let’s say that William had a significant “evacuation” sans diaper. Oops. His legs, this feet, the floor…you get the picture. The worst part for me was pretending that it wasn’t funny.

Note: Try this again after he has emptied himself. Not before.

*That’s right, we’ve never seen him pee. We’ve been lucky to avoid the whole Old Faithful impression. However, I do have a cool trick that you parents of baby boys can try. Keep a stack of paper Dixie cups on your changing table. Stuff some Kleenex into one of them. Now, when Jr. starts spraying all over the place when you’ve got him on his back, quickly invert the cup over his little wiener, letting the tissue soak up the urine. When he’s done, just throw it away! You’re welcome.

I may as well just say it: I have no idea what I?m doing with girl hair. If left to its own devices, Gracie’s hair looks like she had just gotten two million volts. It sprays wildly across her face and shoulders, giving her the look of one who is seriously mentally ill. I try to put into a pony tail, but most of it falls out only a couple of hours later. But I?m working on it. I’m learning girl hair.

The first step is the combing. You’ve got to psych yourself up for this, because it’s going to hurt her, and that sucks. I use one of those combs with the wide teeth. I’ve found that if you sort of hold the hair in your hand and let it take up the resistance offered by the fisherman’s knots she ties in there over night, you can save her a bit of agony. But it doesn’t always work 100%. This is why she runs away from me screaming, “Nooooooo!” whenever she sees the comb. Recently, I’ve started singing a little song while I comb her hair. Amazingly, it keeps her calm. It goes:

Knots, knots, get out of her hair
Knots, knots, get out of there.

Now, she says, “Will you sing ‘Knots’” I don’t question why it works, it just does.

Next, you’ve got to figure out what you?re going to do with it, once you’re done torturing her with the comb. I usually go for the single ponytail. Gathering up her Medussa-esque locks and then wrapping them up in the tiny little scrunchy thing requires manual dexterity that Penn and Teller would envy. Have you ever seen an adult woman effortlessly do a ponytail on herself, without even looking at what she’s doing? That woman is amazing. The single ponytail sounds easy, but it never works for me. The last time I tired it, in fact, one of the Library-Story-Hour-Moms said to me, “That’s a daddy hairstyle if I’ve ever seen one.” Busted.

One option is pigtails. This style is both easier and harder. Easier, because you’ve got less hair to corral at once, and harder because GETTING THEM EVEN IS LITERALLY NOT POSSIBLE. Seriously, just do it once, and call it a day.

Finally, my favorite hair solution: The hat. Just put it on and you’re done. No screaming, no fuss. Plus, everyone says, “Oh, what a cute hat.” This is why God gave us hats if the first place. Use them.

I know I should get one of those books that teaches teenage girls how to make braids and stuff, but if you’re a 34 year old man buying those, you’re just creepy. As for Gracie…let’s hope she likes the short look.

Seriously, I’ve had it. Look, I have two kids, ages 3 and 1. I’ve never been a father before, and (here’s a tip to all you childless adults out there) I have no idea what I’m doing. When you leave the hospital, they shove the baby in your hands with a sample pack of diapers, formula, binkies and a cute little hat. They say, “Good luck, you poor bastard. You’re going to need it.” Next thing you know you’re standing on the sidewalk holding the most complicated little device you’ll ever own (with no user’s manual) and the hospital door shuts. No more pediatric nurses at your beck and call, no team of medical professionals working to answer your every question, nothing. It’s you, the baby, your free bag of stuff and that feeling of “I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to do.”

Now throw a few hundred photographers in your face.

Acquiring a human being of your own whose very survival literally depends on your actions is, as you would imagine, a bit of a stressful time. Every day on the net I see pictures of Britney looking distressed with her kid pressed to her, or Dunst or Reese Witherspoon or any of them. Why do they look stressed? Because they are! It infuriates me. Just leave them the hell alone and let them raise their kids. Now, I know what you’re going to say. “Anyone who chooses a life of celebrity is aware of the fact that they’re giving up a measure of their privacy.” That’s bull. If a celebrity wants to publish photos of his/her kid (and I don’t know why any celebrity would), I’m sure s/he would have absolutely no problem identifying a magazine that would be more than happy to publish the spread. Harassing someone who is carrying an infant, shouting at them, shoving cameras in their faces and taking/publishing photos without their permission is crossing the line. Why is Britney’s baby (or Reese’s, or Kirsten’s, etc) your business? It’s not. Back off. Shame on the jerks who take these pictures, and shame on the jerks who purchase the magazines that publish them. I’m speaking as a parent here. Back off.

Feel free to attack me, but please hold off until you’ve read the entire post.

Playing with the kids is SO. FREAKING. BORING. We all go to the playground at least twice a week, often more. There is a finite number of times I can feign interest in watching Grace do the exact same thing. “Look, daddy!” as she slides down the same red slide for the 118th consecutive time. “Yeah, honey! Wow, that’s great!” Translation: Is it 12:30 yet so we can go home, have lunch at take a nap? Because I’m bored out of my mind.

Grace wanted to have “a parade” at home the other day. So fine, I strap on the marching snare, she takes the recorder* and William is given two cymbals.** We march around the red couch for several minutes while Grace makes up a song. It’s cute and all, but after five minutes I was done. The kids would have done it for a week straight.

Back to the playground. There’s a huge sandbox at our playground, which William loves. He fills and then dumps sand, and…ok, that’s pretty much all he does. Grace loves to run around the perimeter of the sandbox and leap into my arms when she gets to where I’m sitting. Sound cute? Do it fifty times.

Honest, I love my kids, and think of them while I’m at work. But playing with them is killing me. Slowly.

*This is the single most annoying, ear-splitting instrument ever created.

**I stand corrected.

My kids are notoriously picky eaters. I’ve said that pasta and berries are about the only things keeping them alive, and I wasn’t kidding. However, there is one typically despised food that they eat with gusto. Broccoli.

During a recent trip to the grocery store, I put a few florets into the shopping cart, eliciting a cheer from Grace. People looked at us like she was from Mars. As long as I prepare it the right way, she’ll eat it. Here’s the magical recipe.

Boil the broccoli briefly, so that it’s soft but not mushy. Dump it into a bowl and add the juice of one lemon, a couple tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil and two finely chopped cloves of garlic. Cover the result and put it in the refrigerator for a few hours. Serve cold.

I’m telling you, they inhale it. Try it with your kids. The worst that will happen is they’ll say “No.” And you’re used to that by now, right?