Overheard on the playground

"Daddy?  Spiderman can beat up Jesus."

Actual quote.

Connor has gained an encyclopaedic knowledge of Your Friendly Neighborhood Webslinger^TM: his alias Peter Parker, his beloved Aunt May, adversaries Venom, Green Goblin, Doc Octopus, Electro, theRhino, Kingpin... and so on. He gained all this without the benefit of seeing a Spiderman movie, reading a comic, seeing a cartoon, and so on.  That means he learned it on the playground.

Thing is, we're not exactly taking him to Sunday School. So it appears he's getting a primer in world religions on the jungle gym as well.  Not a working knowledge of such matters, mind you, just the facts as they can be comprehended by a team of five-year olds: Jesus was powerful.  He had magic powers. That means he's like a superhero.  And those with superpowers, by definition, must fight for supremacy.

I guess on that front he has a point - Spiderman has a better costume, better physique, and a cooler job, while Jesus, as Patton Oswalt duly noted, has the powers of an X-Man sidekick.  So maybe there's something to this: if he comes home Monday and equates the government shutdown to the kids who refuse to roll the kickball when it's not their turn, well, I'd be duly impressed.

The idle questions of a preschooler

For whatever reason, whenever I've had a get-together with some of Connor's peers, the idle chit-chat with other parents always turns to difficult questions^TM.  And, even more surprisingly, I'm somehow viewed as a sage, someone equipped to provide wise responses^TM to posers like:

Your kids play so nicely together. How can I get my boys to get along?

It's all about incentive. Like, "sharing toys means you get to stay  up 

10 minutes more". Give the kids a reason to get along. But keep it small

and  time-focused, or you'll be in the business of buying matchbox cars 

and pumping your kids full of ice cream each night just to keep the peace.

My son told me, "Daddy, I don't want you to ever die." What do I say to that? 

Be honest.  Death is a part of life.  It gives life meaning, a reason to do 

stuff today, because we never know when we might not be around anymore.

 Without death, we'd always push stuff off to tomorrow.  And what would 

you rather hear... "Let's go to the playground  today?" or "What's the hurry?

 We can go to tomorrow?" 

How can my kids be good eaters like Connor?

Have them help you cook stuff they like.  When they start seeing those 

different elements come together, they'll have a better appreciation for 

different tastes.  Or if that fails, give the food disgusting names. Because a 

kid may not like "hummus", but a four year old will be intrigued by a big 

serving of "stork poop".  

But I'm in trouble.  I mean, who do I turn to when my son poses a question like,

Daddy, why is that man shaving his chest?

Right?  

Let's rewind a bit.  Connor at T-ball: pretty good hitting on a tee, now a champion base-runner, fields foolishly, and throws like Elaine Benes dances. In his defense, Connor's a lefty, and I see him trying to map the throwing motion of all the righty coaches into something similar.  That means bending his elbow into his body, warping his wrist inwards, and doing a whole lot of Tommy John surgery-inducing movement from his funhouse mirror interpretation of a game of catch.  So in an attempt to provide a major league ready role model, I let my son watch some baseball.  He's rapt - he thankfully watches so little TV that this is not a surprise.  But it's a live event, so that means commercials.

And that's when we get 28 seconds of Gillette ProGlider Fusion fun. Now, the innuendoes surrounding  manscaping would ordinarily go completely over Connor's head. But intercut into the footage of Ron Burgundy's never-ending pool party circa 2013 are images of a man "tidying up"  his pectoral area.

Now, my son has seen me shave.  But when I shave, I:

• use shaving cream (I'm a sensitive skin kid of guy)
• don't shave in a series of quick flourishes (I would need fourteen titches if i shaved with the level of relish used in a TV spot)
• never shave my chest.

So when he asks, I tell him some people do that.  And that opens Pandora's box.  

"Why don't you shave your chest?" 

I never wanted to, Connor.

"But your chest is hairier than his, Daddy." 

Yes, because he shaved it. 

"Would your chest have less hair than his if you shaved it?" 

It depends on how I shave it.  

"Would you have muscles like that if you shaved your chest?" 

I think if I had muscles like that I would shave my chest.  

"Can you get muscles like that?" 

Oh look, Connor, the game is back on!.  

Ugh.  Now I understand why my wife watches all TV via Tivo.  

The  saving grace to this awkwardness? The fact that my son missed the inference that Kate Upton likes below-the-waistband clear-cutting. Because that would have led to some really bizarre questioning that I don't want to think about.

What the hell has parenthood done to me?

So I'm driving around town today with my son in the back seat.

  On the way to Little League practice. 
  
  While I was driving my minivan.

  With Kelly Clarkson on the radio. 

  And my son and I were singing along. 

I don't even know me anymore  Man, the 31-year-old, post-punk listening, PBR drinking, Nat Nast wearing, online-dating, international-vacationing, Bohemian-index-lifestyle version of me would pity the 41-year-old version of me.  And the 25-year-old version of me wouldn't even acknowledge the current version of me (likely because of the alcohol-induced myopia and excessive narcissism, drizzled with a healthy dollop of denial)

I blame my kids. 

But... Don't tell anyone... I kinda liked it. Especially the Kelly Clarkson bit.

Yo no hablo Espanol

My son is taking Spanish.

This matters to us for a three reasons I can think of right now:

1. My wife and I both think there is a richness that comes from appreciating other cultures, and language is a big part of that.  So yes, we'd like our kids to be able to travel internationally, and at least have two languages in which they can ask for simple directions only to get blank stares.
2. The missus is a Canuck, so multi-culturalism and multilingualism is in her blood. That said multi-culti blood is hoity-toity French rather than Spanish is beside the point.
3. And, in no small part, because one of my big regrets in life is that my ability to speak in a foreign tongue is limited to mangled French that prevents me form speaking in either the past or future tense - I can only discuss what I am doing.  Right. Now.*  And yes, before you say anything, I'm aware my interest in having the kids be polyglots is both vicarious and ironic.

* I can also tell someone to "stay here" in German.  Or ask "What is this?" Both of which are of extremely limited use.  I can also say "Word to your mother" in Greek, which is only useful if I was a rapper. In 1991. Who wanted to get his ass kicked.

He's quite good, or at least he is when measured by the yardstick of being a  four-year-old, non-native speaker.  Heck, this morning he was reading a book to his sister (Knuffle Bunny, if you must know), and started randomly replacing the English words in the story with their Spanish counterparts. Okay, granted, many of the words in question were ones like "Mommy" or "Daddy, but I'm still impressed because (a) it was unprompted, and (b) as mentioned, he's four.

Two-year-old Claire is not far behind in her interest in Spanish.  Her ability to be condescending about it, however, is FAR more advanced than her brother.

See, we have a few Spanish books. And, when it's storytime, Claire occasionally picks one up.  When she does, I get the rolling insult:

"This book is in Spanish.  Mommy reads Spanish.  Connor reads Spanish.  Juanita reads Spanish.  But Daddy doesn't read Spanish."

Yes, my daughter makes a point of listing everyone she knows who can habla Espanol better than her old man. Which, admittedly, is everyone who can habla Espanol.

I get that insult every time.

What a jerk. My only solace is that she doesn't know more people who speak Spanish.

The past-tense pasttime dream

I merely want what all parents want in life: for my son to throw a 98 mile an hour fastball and bat .300, ensuring a free-ride scholarship at a top-flight university (in part due to good grades), thereby saving me and the missus hundreds of thousands of dollars in education costs which can then be funneled into my dehabilitating addiction to single malt scotch.  

I know I'm not alone in that desire. Why? Two key reasons:

• Because by the time he's 18, inflation will drive the four-year cost of an Ivy League-or-comparable education will run $400k+.  I'd prefer to pocket that money instead, because (a) I am selfish, (b) I am a dick, (c) I am lazy, (d) I clearly put my own needs over my children's well being, and (e) as previously mentioned, I really like Oban and Laphroaig 18 year scotch.  
• They don't give scholarships for mathletes,  there's relatively few good football schools with academic bona fides that my wife wouldn't dismiss quickly, derisively, and fairly, and my son likely will top out below 6' 4", leaving basketball greatness outside of his wingspan reach.  That leaves baseball.

So we signed Connor up for t-ball.  And I now know I better start saving for his higher education, because a five-tool player he is not.  His hitting isn't hot. Hitting for power is a pipe dream at best.  He can't field.  He can't throw - I mean, he had the ball in his mitt, went to throw - with both hands, ball in mitt - and proceeded to launch the ball an exacting three feet in the opposite direction form the coach who was his cut-off man.  And hell, he can't even run.  Well, he can run, he just doesn't know what he's doing. He batted, got to first, ran to second, rounded third, and didn't know where home was - so he ran back to the bench.

In fairness, t-ball with the preschool set is unfathomable.  Ever seen little kids play soccer? The way you have the ball and twenty kids in a scrum around the ball, chasing it wherever it might go? Yeah, that's what fielding is like at t-ball, except with more staccato action and a greater chance for injury.  One kid hitting on a tee, ten kids blobbed together in the middle infield, and a mad tangle of grabbing and squabbling with each bunted ball.  I expect Connor's first loose tooth will be by week four, when a slow dribbler results in him being accidentally tackled by his teammate.  And heaven help us if any of the kids develops into a hitting prodigy who belts line drives off the tee - Connor spent as much time with hisback turned playing with the loose infield sand as he did paying attention to the batter.

What does this teach me?  That this "extremely limited TV diet" is clearly not working.  If Connor at least watched a few more Yankees games, at least he'd have the basics down.  Like what the basepaths are. I mean, I was uncomfortable - even the fat British grandmother of one of the kids howled in laughter as Connor  moped when neither the first nor second grounder of the day was hit to him.

Whatever. I guess Harvard's out of the question.  Sigh.

At what age can you administer sleep aids to a child?

Please tell me 30 months.  I think that's more than fair.

Listen, it's not that my kids don't sleep.  They may require some coaxing at nap time, and my daughter has more bedtime rituals than Wade Boggs at his most superstitious, but they fall asleep.

But, like the living dead, just because they were put down doesn't mean they stay down.

Case in point: Saturday night.  While I volunteered at a fundraiser for my son's preschool*,  my wife took the kids to a birthday party for our ex-babysitter Patty's kid.  Now, a few weeks back, we went to a birthday party for one of Patty's elder kids.  We knew what to expect: Peruvians party 'til late (no matter that the birthday girl was a toddler), cake wouldn't make an appearance until 8 or 9 PM at best, and with so many games and activities they kids would never want to leave. So after face painting, dances, sing-alongs, and enough food, chips, cake and candy to make Connor puke (literally), Janelle took the kids home.

Bedtime: 10:30 PM.

Granted, it was a 30 minute drive home. And the kids needed a scrub-down with makeup remover.  But 10:30? That's at least 2 hours too late, maybe more.** My wife told me of the late tuck-in when I got home at 11, and I began to steel myself for Sunday morning when we'd deal with the unholy terror that is two sleep-deprived kids.  But the telling comment from my wife was "maybe this means Claire will sleep in until 8 or so."  I arched an eyebrow at that one.  And I think I had the wisdom to keep my mouth shut and not comment.  That, or I blurted my feelings on that being a pipe dream or crazy or some other ill-advised and not-so-pithy comment that was greeted with a judicious beat-down that I have wisely blocked out.

No matter.  At 6:30, Claire emerged from her room, storybook in hand. crap-filled diaper around her waist. Now, the optimist would say "hey, she often gets up at 5:50, that's a good 40 minutes of extra sleep". The pessimist would take the soiled diaper, shove it down the optimist's throat, and try and sneak in one last REM cycle while his daughter struggled to amuse herself for an hour.

As my wife will tell you, I was the pessimist, as I buried my head under a few pillows and stayed in bed past 8.  Yeah, not the most supportive I've ever been. Don't worry, though, the joke was on both of us - later that day, we took the kids into Manhattan to visit the Guggenheim.  And if you've ever tried to deal with overly-tired kids around a mess of Modern Art that's protected only by small lines on the floor that intimate "please don't touch" - this, after letting them play with a participatory piece in the lobby that encouraged adding graffiti to a wall with crayons - you know the unique brand of hell that was Sunday morning.

* I'd like to say that my volunteering was me being more noble than my wife, but the event was called "Dads Can Cook", so unless Janelle got gender reassignment surgery, this was an event with my name on it.  Oh, and I didn't volunteer so much as I was volunteered (shanghaied?) by my friend Victor.  Aaaaand they had booze and a band, so torturous it wasn't.

** Unlike my wife, I would have packed up the kids and left by 7:30 or 8.  Because I am a dick who puts bedtimes above my kids' enjoyment.  Yes, this is why they will eventually rebel by partying all night as teenagers.  Or, if they are more passive-aggressive, why they'll write tell-all books when I'm a retiree in Boca.  Either way, there will be retribution, and I'll be on the receiving  end of it.

They should really have a warning about this sort of thing.

Morning. I'm prepping lunches for the kids. Claire "finishes" (a spurious distinction, but whatever) and departs for the living room.  Five minutes later, screams.  My daughter runs in, crying and clutching a mini toy car to her head.  She's blubbering something I cannot understand. Then she grabs hold of my leg and hugs me with both hands.

The toy car is still hanging from her hair.  And I can hear its wee motor straining.

Hoo boy.  So I fumble for the off switch. Then I spend five minutes unwrapping her locks from the axles, only to be greeted by a handful of hair.

Indemnifying disclaimer: The hair that was lost? I didn't rip it out, Claire did.
Damning disclaimer: Had Claire not done it first, I clearly would have done
even more damage.

So we've long since discarded the packaging for this gift, and I have no clue whether the product disclaimers warned "Please keep this from the long hairs atop a toddler's head" or "Warning: allowing the car to take a batter-assisted summit of a 2-year ofd's mane will invalidate the warranty." I suspect not.

The F-bomb

Yesterday. My son is napping, sleeping off the last bits of whatever gave him a 100 degree fever.  The phone rings.  It's the pre-school disciplinarian, calling with a question: 

Were you aware your son dropped the f- word in aftercare yesterday?

The backstory: Connor was, unbeknownst to everyone, busy rocking a fever. Shortly before getting picked up, falling asleep during the 7 minute car ride home, and sleeping for fifteen hours, a playmate snatched a toy away. When that happened, Connor muttered, "What the fuck!?!" 

The aftercare teacher wrote us a note, and let our babysitter know. So yes, I was aware.  But she goes on.  

When he said it, the teachers were shocked - shocked! - that a student would say such a thing. 

I'm sorry to hear that. Clearly, no student has ever sworn in class before. My condolences to you and your staff for having witnessed such a traumatic event, the loss of innocence for my son, the other four and five year olds in your care, and for your teachers, who clearly have been blessed to be untouched by the harshness and cruelties of this plane of existence.

And the kids all heard it and went "oooohhh!"

Huh. If this has never happened before, how were the kids attuned to react to one of the seven  verboten words? I call bullshit. (I know, my choice of language clearly makes me guilty.)

I'm not questioning where he heard this language...

Read: I know you swear in front of your kid.  And I am judging you.

... I just wanted to let you know.

Read: You are going to talk to him about that, right?

What I wanted to say was:

Really? Let's get a few things straight. First off, I'm more than aware of his cussing.  The after care teacher wrote us a note, she told our babysitter, and now you've told me. So no, there wasn't some catastrophic organizational failure that prevented this from being known.  You know what? the only thing inappropriate was his choice of words - his reaction was totally appropriate.  Inappropriate would have been what I did at age two, sitting on my grandfather's lap in church, singing the alphabet at mid-volume during service: "A-B-C-D-E-F-G... shit! Shit shit shit!"

And the teachers were shocked? Really ? If they haven't had to deal with outbursts of salty language then they're so new at the job I should be concerned.  Hell, I've been to playtime at that school and heard a few toddlers use words that would make a sailor blush. And if the kids had any understanding of how inappropriate and powerful such words were, they'd blurt them in front of the teachers, when the Mayor comes to visit, and any other time when they know they're guaranteed to get a reaction.  And yes, I admit, I swear in front of my kids.  In fact, I'm not proud to say it, I've sworn at my kids.  But - and this might shock you - my son has only used the mother of all profanities once in my presence, when he parroted the exasperated phrase I uttered as a mantra after a skateboarder plowed into the side of my car while I was waiting at a stop sign... when said board rat didn't get up for two minutes.  And I prided myself in calmly dealing with the issue, removing any power from the phrase so his two-year-old mind didn't lock in on it.

Oh, and let me add - his context was immaculate.  That is precisely the right time to blurt "what the fuck?!?"  You know what? I'm proud of him.  He may read at a third grade level, but his profanity is high school quality.  Call me back when he starts using the gerund version of the f-bomb, or when he moves to graduate level cussing (i.e. interstitial profanity, like if he were to mutter what I said to myself when you called: un-fucking-believable).

Yeah, that's what I should have said. But what I did say was, "I already did."  But I did hang up the phone right after, as passive-aggressively as I could.

A list of things my son requested on his sick day

Connor came home from preschool last night with a 100 degree temperature. That meant, of course, that he got to enjoy an all-expenses paid trip to the living room couch. Sure, the trip was earned - he slept from five at night through to 7:30 the next morning, with only an hour-long spat of writing around in bed kicking my wife and I at 3 AM.  But having a fever at night's end, as any parent knows, meant Connor would wake fever-free, ready for a fun-filled day off from school. And after that much rest, his neediness was off the charts - mostly because he knew he could play me like a kid at Chuck E Cheese with a bucket of tokens (if you've never been, well, don't go - but for reference, it's like a Deadhead winning the lottery and going to Amsterdam... But I digress).

But what did he ask for? Here's but a partial list:

• Can I have some juice?
• I would like eggs. 
• No, wait - French toast.  
• No - eggs and French toast.
• Read me a story.
• Can I watch an episode of Super Why!?
• I want another episode of Super Why!
• Let's play legos.
• No more legos - can we play trains?
• Can we go to the playground?
• Can you read another story?
• Can I have another episode of Super Why!? Please?
• For lunch I want peanut butter and jelly.
• No wait - tacos
• No wait - hot dogs!
• Can I watch Curious George? No? How about Super Why!?
• Naptime? Why? Can I stay up?
• Can I read a story?
• Can i write a story?
• Hey, remember that episode of Super Why!?  Why didn't I get that?
• I want Claire out of my room.
• I want to lay by myself. 
• I want to go back to the playground.
• Ooh, Little League tryouts - can I play?
• Why am I too young? I want to be six. 
• Ooh, I know what I want - an episode of Super Why!
• I want pulled pork for dinner.
• Asparagus or spinach? Asparagus, please. 
• I don't want pulled pork and asparagus.  Macaroni and cheese, please.
• I finished my dinner. Can I have ice cream?
• No - a cupcake.
• No, a cupcake and ice cream.
• Um, is it too late for some Super Why!?

The only logical way to celebrate the mysteries of faith

I always liked Easter as a kid. Granted, there were some strange traditions in my household.  Three come to mind in particular:

1. There would be footprints marking the Easter Bunny's presence in the house.  My Mom would take some talcum powder and make bunny prints from our bedrooms to the living room.  Pretty cute, right?  Just wait.  The carpet was forest green and of an unholy polymer that rendered such lovingly-created footprints into mongoloid shapes.  And they were huge footprints, so we had a monstrous, mongoloid bunny. In our house.  And the footprints originated from my bedroom.  And unlike Santa, this stealthly entrant wanted us to know mot just that he had visited, but that he liked exploring - and, logically, from whence he had come. No, I had a monstrous, mongoloid bunny that clearly LIVED IN MY BEDROOM.*  Traumatic times for a four-year-old with an overactive imagination.
2. Weather permitting, the Easter Bunny provided an egg hunt in the backyard.  However, we are talking late March or, at best, early April.  Before Dad would start raking or doing lawn upkeep.  And we had two  small mutts with prodigious colons.  So the egg hunt usually involved some ill-timed stepping-in-turd mishaps.
3. My Grandmother would get us chocolate. She balanced the books for a warehouse, so getting voluminous candy was not without precedent: Many Halloweens involved getting bags of Jolly Ranchers so big they'd last through the following April. But the candy of choice was chocolate crosses.  To clarify, we'd get a 16-ounce block of chalky chocolate molded like Jesus on the cross.  Eating a chocolate bunny can be traumatic, especially when your Mother has a nasty habit of devouring the ears off of your hollow lupine treat.  But taking the head off the chocolate Jesus - which required the use of a steak knife, given the temper and thickness of the chocolate in question - is the stuff of psychoanalytsts' dreams.

That said, Easter was always pretty cool in our household because CANDY.  And lots of it.  

But we had an Easter egg hunt in our house today, and I suspect the kids will call us on it when they're older.  While I was making dinner, my wife hid plastic, goodie-filled eggs all over the living room and dining room. Then, with my parents and my sister and brother-in-law as witnesses, we let the kids loose to rip the house to shreds.  My four year old overestimated the degree of difficulty used in hiding the eggs, my daughter didn't, and my niece was confused why there were not two large dogs trying to bowl her over each time she uncovered an egg (she lives with two sweet but overactive pups).  But the issue was not the hunt, but what was in the eggs.

A third of them had gummi letters.  A third had candied apricots.  And a third had Brazil nuts. Now last year, it must be noted that they searched for popcorn and were pretty delighted.  And the gummies and nuts seemed to be a hit (the less said about the apricots and the girls the better).  I feel my wife is missing the point of the holiday: being traumatized by visits by monstrously tall, podiacally-deformed rabbits that lurk somewhere in your house, providing treats of deities embossed on torture devices  that require gruesome dissection in order to be consumed.  I mean, if they don't get their psychoses via such sugar-induced concerns, the source of their dysfunction will have to instead be fueled solely by our poor parenting.  Of which there are ample examples.**

* Note: as a pre-teen, I now realize there was a second option to the mysterious, monstrous footprints that  originated from my bedroom - I was a were-rabbit, who would change into his bizarre form on the eve of the first Sunday after the first full moon of spring.  This thought, strangely enough, was not as traumatic for me, which is wholly disconcerting for altogether different reasons. 

** Case in point - on this Easter evening,  my folks watched the kids while my wife and I went to see The Book of Mormon.  

The three most terrifying words for a parent

"No school today". For either of my kids.  For Good Friday.  

No school on Good Friday? Really?  Who the hell gets Good Friday off? Teachers, bankers, and... who, exactly? The Catholic Church doesn't get a day off on the Friday before Easter, and you can't shutter a McDonald's on the Black Friday of Filet o' Fish sales.  I know retail does a brisk business on Good Friday - at least, I think I remember that from when I worked that Staples back when I was 19, but I did my best to ignore customers that day (and every day, truth be told). But professionally? No company I've worked for had that as a holiday, and that's in the span of twenty years. Hell, the mail even got delivered today.*

* Disclaimer:  Just because there was mail in the mailbox today does not, in fact, mean the USPS was working today. I was negligent on checking the mail this week, so it's entirely possible the wad of circulars and bulk mail clogging the mailbox was a day or more in arrears. That they're thinking of discontinuing delivery on Saturdays and deliver on Good Friday makes little sense... but then again, they are government employees, so what do I know?

But the point of all this mess is that the kids are unsupervised.  It's not skipping work (an easy task for me at present), it's keeping them occupied.  No sooner did my wife depart for work than the kids were fighting because Claire had crossed the transom into Connor's room. Oh, and that's just the beginning...

Read a story? Sure... but when my two year old wanders off in the middle of "Mr. Mischief" because hearing a Mr. Men book for the thirtieth time does lose its allure, you can't just chase after her to see what mess she's getting into, you need to keep reading because your four year old will settle for nothing less.  And when the inevitable THUMP-BASH-CRASH-WAAAAAHHHH! echoes from the far end of the house, the sprint to the end of the house to cuddle and chide child #2 means child #1 is likely digging through your wife's underwear drawer because why not.  Outside time? Yeah, that's an exercise in consensus building akin to having North Korea and George W Bush do their best star-belly sneeches impression, changing positions at a breakneck pace yet always remaining in opposition and teetering on the edge of full-o open hostilities.  Lunch becomes a buffet. Why have a sandwich when requests can also be made for mac-and-cheese, broccoli, four kiwis, grapes, crackers, and cries for cake, ice cream and chocolate? Naptime! They don't get quality naps during the school day, so the day off has that going for it, right?  Sure, if you can get both of them down.  That involves sitting in the room with one of them, stroking that child's hair to try and accelerate the process of falling asleep and praying that the unsupervised child won't slam a door, sing at 110 dB, crash a bookcase or otherwise make a noise.  Oh, and then sprint-tiptoeing to the other kid's room, doing a  second round of sleep-assisting negotiation, and then hoping that the already-sleeping child doesn't immediately wake up and make noise that negates the insouciant nap of her sibling.

Yeah, it's been that kind of day.  And since Connor was - somehow - up until 9:30 "reading to himself in bed", tomorrow promises to be just as exciting.

An experiment

This weekend, I propose an experiment for all families:

1. Go to your neighborhood restaurant of some level of niceness/hipness, some time before the  dinner rush (say, 5:45)
2. Ask for a table for "a table for four", with your family on display to the host/ess
3. When the host/ess gives you a line that there are no tables or that there will be a wait of 45 minutes, count the open tops on display and inquire "why the holdup? There are X tables open right now"
4. When you get another steaming pile of BS about "oh, we have a lot of reservations", step outside, go on Open Table (or have your significant other call the restaurant, assuming they were wise enough to not offer verbal protests the host/ess), and see if you get a table

A few weeks back, my wife and I took the kids on an expedition around town at 5:30.  It wasn't meant to be a saga. All we wanted was to try a new neighborhood restaurant.  After walking over to the new place,  we were promptly rebuffed once the hostess eyed up the two less-than-full-contributors-to-the-tab we brought in tow.  This, in a restaurant that was half full, a good 30-45 minutes before the dinner rush would be in swing. Did I mention this was at a restaurant that had been open barely ten days?

I bring this up because this week we went to a local Ethiopian restaurant.  One we hadn't patronized in ages... due, in no small part, to our last attempt to visit to said establishment. Back then, my family was rebuffed for a 6 pm seating due to "a full night of reservations" while the establishment only had two couples seated at a 30-table room.  That was when I first thought of my little experiment.  I would have given it a go, but when saddled with two whiny, hungry kids, finding a dining solution quickly trumps vengeance.

This time, we made a reservation in advance.  Which is the wise move, I am more than aware.  And I like to believe I have a learning curve, though that is sometimes not on full display. So on the chance I actually learn form my mistakes for a few weeks and don't try and turn a local upscale restaurant on a Saturday eve into my impromptu family dining hotspot, give my experiment a go and let me know your results.

The Magnet School System: or, my kindergarten-driven ulcer

Advice for all you parents considering a move to the suburbs.  If the town you're considering features a magnet school system, run.

Don't know what a magnet system is?  Oh, you're in for a treat. The Cliffs Notes version... There are six elementary schools in the district.  But rather than sending your kid to whichever school is closest, you choose your school. Each school is just a bit different.  So you find the school that is the best fit for your offspring.  Sounds fun, right? That ensures that the different socioeconomic and demographics of the town blend, and the folks who would otherwise be saddled with schools in the more disadvantaged areas get to be on an even keel with those in the more upscale neighborhoods. Yay!

Enough of that Fantasyland crap.  Here's how it really works.  

There are six schools.  Each has something a bit different. Some have deeply desirable "concentrations". Others have hooks that are... esoteric, or inexplicable and bizarre.  To protect the innocent, I'll list the schools in the order I visited them:

• School A, "the University Magnet".  
• The "hey, I want that!" factor:  They have a partnership with the local State U that's a few blocks away, and have exchange programs where they crib teachers and resources from the university. The principal seems top-shelf. Test scores rock.
• The "who signed up for that crap?" factor:  It's close enough we likely don't get school bussing. Oh, and it's firmly ensconced in the tony part of town, i.e. its student body is lily white.

• School B, "the Environmental Sciences Magnet".  
• The "hey, I want that!" factor:  It's a new building.   It has that new school smell. 
• The "who signed up for that crap?" factor:  Their testing scores are iffy to awful. It's in "the bad part of town", as in, they've made heroin busts on that block repeatedly (admittedly, after school hours).  And environmental sciences as a hook is, well, strange.  You get to help raise trout.  You know, just like every kid dreams about.

• School C, "the Global Studies Magnet".  
• The "hey, I want that!" factor:  It's a nice school, near enough to the university to snag some additional resources.  The principal seems quite dynamic. Test scores? Solid. And with global studies the kids get exposure to different cultures (so say in 3rd grade, when the kids study Australia all year, they use the didgeridoo in music class, and they have math problems like "If England deports a thousand convicts a year to Australia for 100 years, how many gold medals will the Aussies win in the next Olympic games?")
• The "who signed up for that crap?" factor:  Global studies does not, in fact, mean any language studies.  Explain that to me. Oh, and like school A, it's got a homogeneous student body that will fight over the same color crayon to use for skin tone coloring.

• School D, "the Montessori Magnet".  
• The "hey, I want that!" factor:  They offer more experiential, learn-it-fully-before-you-move-on-to-the-next-topic instruction. It's near my son's favorite playground.  Yes, I'm stretching for positives here.
• The "who signed up for that crap?" factor:  My son would abuse the Montessori system like a pathological liar catching someone on a trust fall. He'd dog it then sprint through assignments. Or he'd go at a fast enough pace to finish the academic year in October.  And the school is crazy small - two classes a grade means you better get along or it'll be an awkward six years.

• School E, "the Gifted & Talented Magnet".  
• The "hey, I want that!" factor:  They offer 90 minutes a week of Mandarin instruction.  Impressive.  They have "electives" to study things that interest them in 1st and 2nd grade, like cartooning or poetry. Their music teaching includes violin and other instruments that aren't just the recorder. Oh, and their gym teacher's won awards for being superb - a not-insignificant factor for parents of a hyperactive party animal (i.e. us).
• The "who signed up for that crap?" factor:  Their test results seem to be on the poor side. It's only K through 2nd grade.  After that, kids transition to another school.  After Superstorm Sandy, someone stole all their computers... and there months later, there's still inadequate replacements. And did we mention that "gifted & talented" is read as "everyone's talented"? So yeah, the title's a big fat lie. 

• School F, "the Science and Technology Magnet".  
• The "hey, I want that!" factor:  They have science labs, greenhouses, beakers. Test scores are through the roof. They've won a bunch of awards.  You know, it's that kind of school.
• The "who signed up for that crap?" factor:  Turnover for the role of "principal" is on par with that of "Spinal Tap Drummer" (they've been through 4 in the past 6 years).  It seems the toughest of all the schools to get in. It's oversubscribed, so for an attention-starved kid like our son, he'll have to be even more of a disruptive nuisance to get attention.

So that's the playing field.  But it gets better.  See, now you have to visit each of these places.  And they pull out the whole dog and pony show to show you why you need to send your kid there.  So now you have new criteria to cloud your judgment... Which school sprang for Starbucks coffee, and which served swill in an urn? Who had generic muffins versus cookies from the niftiest neighborhood cafe versus homemade biscuits in the shape of the school's initials? Which ones had the cutest kids doing the AV pitch and which had principals who seem  Power Point deficient?

The tours dripped with irony.  Showing "schools in action", but spending most of a tour's time in empty classrooms (I think the one subject I saw in action more than any other was phys ed). PTA parents talking about how "education comes first", while leading their tenth disruptive cattle call trip through a first grade classroom.  Breaking into fifteen smaller tour groups, then bottlenecking in the same rare classroom in which students were actually being taught something.

Then there are the tour guides, wide-eyed PTA zombies ready to chomp on the brains of any who have not yet made their school decision.  Each one spoke of their school with the slavish, unquestioning perspective of a realtor at Jonestown.  Seriously, I was expecting they all shared a common tattoo, or had identical purple tracksuits and Nikes at home, or maybe they were all hoping to hitch a ride in the tail of a comet after their kids graduated. They encouraged us to ask questions - one even prodded me to ask a kindergarten teacher about what kind of homework she gave her students. As for any criticisms or concerns about their school? Answered with a degree of spin seldom seen his side of a White House Press Secretary. And this passion was interesting, as each one seemed to refer to a wad of notes to do their walk-through as if they'd never been to the school before.  Which made me think perhaps the principals hired professionals, which would have added a new, surreal level to the proceedings.

But the worst part? The fellow parents. And as you might expect, there were archetypes at play:

• The Researchers: They've done some prep, but they have some questions.  Some awful, inane questions.  Mostly about homework, because it's disturbing just how much people are concerned about the volume of take-home the kindergarteners should expect.  But questions about the age of the school, length of the school bus ride in the mornings, typical school lunches, and "how will this school help my kid get ready for life's challenges?" abounded. 
• The Decisives: the ones who already made up their minds, and felt the need to keep discussing why this school had "everything they wanted". They did their research and wanted you to know it.  Some were so set, not only should you question why they were wasting the morning on a tour, you might suspect that the PTA put ringers on the tour to make things seem even better.
• The Worrywarts: the ones who  were preoccupied not with their choice, but what to do if their choice didn't work out. "If I don't get my choice, can I appeal?" "What if I don;t like it?" "After second grade, can I send my kid to school B?" "Once  they're here, am I stuck with a track through middle school with no chance to change anything?"
• The Consensus-Needers: the ones who were curious what you think.  "Did you go to school A Do you think it's better thank this one?"  "Which school are you leaning towards?"  "My kid likes arts - do you think this school would be a good fit?"  Not that they asked about what my kid was like or what his interests were - all that maters is tat they;re not making their decisions alone.  Validation matters, man.
• The Wide-Eyed Naifs: the ones who said nothing  They just shuffled through their tours, saying nothing, with blank stares, overwhelmed by the whole affair.

And all this type A behavior is over NOTHING. I mean, per the state, everyone's saddled with having to teach the same damn subjects.  They still on get two sessions of PE a week, or a music class a week, or 30 minutes of math a day.  They all have to pass the same damn tests.  All this showmanship, wasted visitation sessions, and agonizing over which school is going to impact whether my kids will go to Oxford or Apex Tech is over the 5% of variance between any of these goddamn programs, a gradation so minimal it'll have no bearing that my kids or I will likely ever notice.  

Well,  no difference that I'll notice assuming I get my top pick.  Because much as I like to pretend I'm above it, I'm just another over competitive parent who wants to say he's looking out for his kids' best interests, when the reality is I just want to make sure I get my preference no matter how trivial it may be. So if you'll excuse me, I have to pore through more demographic data to make sure I don't make a poor choice that precludes my kid from an Ivy League education.  Because we all know School F is the feeder kindergarten for Harvard.

Coordination. wherefore art thou?

Question: When the hell does coordination kick in for a developing child?  If it's any time before age five. my son is hosed.

I had the"pleasure" of watching him flub his way through tae kwon do class today. And I can make all manners of excuses:

• It was after school, and he was tired
• He was hungry / thirsty / cold
• He wasn't on his best behavior, falling over to make a scene
• It was one of the more permissive teachers, so he wasn't getting the best instruction or the firmest discipline 
• The class was exceptionally full, so he was distracted

Or I can go with the likely truth: he's a spaz. 

He spins with the grace of a drunk teamster in five-inch heels.  His stance resembles a bowlegged ostrich. His kicks make him look like Godzilla dealing with a thong-induced wedgie. And when you put those moves together for a series of spinning kicks, instead of pivoting towards the front of the room, he slowly tacks to the left like a Dodge Aries K with a bent axle.  He bumps into classmates. He trips. he slips. In short, he's a mess.

Sure, he's not even five. Most of his classmates have a year on him - he started in the class as early as is permissible.  And his punches and blocks at least have the air of authenticity (though I think that's due in no small part to his fierce "hee-ya!").  But when combined with his inability to string together three breast strokes in the pool without erupting from the water in a trashing convulsion, or to catch a ball without it first ricocheting off his noggin, I do get a bit concerned. 

I know. Nothing's set in stone. At seventeen, he might be getting a scholarship to quarterback at Stanford. Then again, at seventeen he could be working on nursing his eighth self-induced concussion.  Either way, I'm suspecting there's a football helmet in his future.

Houdini

My daughter's in the throes of potty training.  Now, she's been pretty good so far.  Her accidents are pretty much isolated to the mornings.  But sleeptime is still a diaper-only affair.

Naptime. Pour Claire into bed.  Lower the blinds, stroke her hair. Her eyes close.  I creep out of the room.  Barely make it downstairs before I hear her puttering about.  Back upstairs.   

Claire? She's sitting on her floor, flapping her diaper over her head.  No matter that it was a pull-up - she's field-stripped it down to its component parts.  She shoots a knowing smile.  Had she known to say "ta da!" I would not have been shocked.  But my bad - she was in just a diaper, no pants.  Too easy for her to pull that off.

New diaper. Pants.  More stroking of hair.  I walk down the hall. Giggles from her room.  Turn back around.  

Second diaper? On the floor.  Claire's wearing the shit-eating grin of a Vegas magician staring down a disbelieving tourist who, just moments before, had inspected the buckles on a straightjacket - a starightjacket that now lays at their collective feet.  Ugh. Now this is a game.  

Diaper reapplied.  Dress her in new, form-fitting leggings to slow her down.  More hair stroking.   Sneak out again. Instant rustling.  Throw open the door - Claire's en flagrante trying to remove her leggings.  

Her eyes go wide.  She's shocked.  No, she's appalled.    I've pulled back the curtain, broken the sacred covenant between performer and audience.  The magician is never supposed to reveal her stagecraft. 

That's it.  Time to show her who's boss. I lie down with her, stroking her hair until she's asleep.  Twenty minutes later, I walk out.  Only then do I realize I got played. By a toddler.  

Her best trick of all.

Just put a pinch between your cheek and gums

My son is a great eater.  A stellar eater.  It may take some coaxing, but he'll try anything.  And he likes most of it.  Thai noodles.  Octopus.  Wasabi.  The kid's a more adventurous eater at age four than  I was at age twenty.

This, of course, is not true of my daughter.

Sure, she's two and a half, so a lot of her fussiness is her way of exerting some influence and challenging authority.  But she's constantly refusing to try anything. Hell, you can give that girl a meal one day, have her love them,  serve her the same leftovers the next day, and get an "I don't want to try it."  And the logic of saying "you loved it yesterday" just won't fly.

Which brings us to today.

Claire fought me on everything at dinner. Tooth and nail.  Admittedly, the sweet potato was undercooked (my defense: I followed the recipe, Tyler Florence and the Food Network lied to me).  But it was bathed in honey and cinnamon.  It was like dessert for dinner.  She was being a pain on principle.  I coaxed, I bribed, I made train sounds, I asked her questions then shoved spoonfuls of food into her unsuspecting mouth.  I'm not proud.  But after a half hour of wheeling and dealing, I had to throw in the towel so I could get her to  her swim lesson.

Fast forward a half hour.  We're in the pool.  I notice something in my daughter's mouth.  How did she get a goldfish cracker?  Or is that crayon?  No. It's her last bite of sweet potato. My daughter has been sucking on a cube of  sweet potato like it's a wad of chewing tobacco.

Now, that damn tuber was a tad firm, but it wasn't that undercooked.  Of course, now I'm insulted.  I busted ass making a nice dinner - she was going to finish it.  "Sweetie, finish chewing." "C'mon, do it for daddy."  "We'll have to leave the pool if you don't finish."  Nothing.  Time for the heavy artillery.  "Please?"  That last one did it.  She spat the food out into the pool.  So I did the responsible thing.  We dodged the floaty morsel and swam to a different part of the pool.

I felt a bit bad.  Especially later when I heard a classmate say, "look, mommy, pukey!" But that faded pretty quickly.  After all,  it's a kids' pool at the Y. That's not even the worst thing my daughter's done in that pool.