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.

Night of the Living Dead

So the missus is off in Brooklyn, at her friend's birthday party. I get the kids tucked in.  I'm watching TV in the bedroom - not my usual room at 9 PM, but when I'm a solo parent on the weekend, I like to be closer to the action if one of the kids needs something.  The TV is on low - volume clicker's on "5", mostly to make sure I don't wake up the kids. I roll to my left, to grab my glass of water from the nightstand.

And when I roll back, of the corner of my eye I see her. My daughter, standing there in the doorway.

Backlit. Perfectly still. 

I've no idea how long she's been standing there.  She made no sound opening her bedroom door, and there was no putter-patter of feet on the floor to announce her slink down the hallway. But she's not looking at me, she's looking through me.  And even though I've made what passes for eye contact, she's still completely blank. I call her name.  "Claire." Nothing.  "Claire!" Still no reaction.  And that's when my mid moves to the beginning of Dawn of the Dead. You know - that scene, with the little girl, the really creepy one...

The bit about hopping into bed and attacking only happens at 5 am. 
And instead of biting, he assault comes in he form of a mess of mucus and cold feet.

And that's when I notice.  She is naked from the waist down.

"Claire, do you need to go pottie?"  Still no reaction, but at least the creepy zombie attack vibe is waning. I grab her hand and walk her to the bathroom, where she unloads a quart of urine into the toilet. I re-fasten the  nighttime diaper she so hastily ripped off, get her pajama bottoms back on, and get her back into bed. 

And then I get the hell downstairs. You think I'm going to get another visit by Creepy Girl while I'm alone? No way.

The 11:00 AM Call

You're never ready for the call.  You know... the call.

It's 11 AM, and your children are safe, and in class. But there's a phone in your pocket, and it's ringing. Something's happening in the world. You have to decide whether to answer the call. Can you call in the world's leaders, the military? Are you tested and ready to lead? 

Are you ready to hear what you son did today at school?

I will be honest.  Connor is a bit... spirited.  That's the polite way if saying he is a creature of id, a maelstrom of chaos the likes of which Cthulhu and the ancient ones would be proud.  A boy who can be the sweetest, most compassionate boy on earth one minute, an her to the mantle of Manson the next.

Yeah. yeah. yeah, I hear you. He's just a typical four year old boy.  But in the past few months, I've come to dread when a specific phone number that ends in "4500" appears on my phone, because it comes with news that:

• Connor smacked a kid.*
• Connor bit a kid.
• Connor punched a kid in the face* 
• Connor grabbed a tree branch and bludgeoned a classmate in the back**

* Is it wrong to take solace in the fact that it was merely a slap? I mean, this kid is taking tae kwan do lessons.  Getting a call that "Connor felled a classmate with a four-direction kick to the solar plexus" would have been far more mortifying.

** Okay, I must admit, when I got the back story I was more forgiving. His wild child classmate threatened to punch Connor in the face. The teachers heard and intervened. But when he looked at Connor again, Connor popped him. Not great behavior, to be sure, but at least somewhat defensible (especially if you met his classmate).

** Okay, before you go thinking I take some sadistic delight in my son assaulting others, I don't. However, I try to see the silver lining in this misbehavior. In this case, it's the hope that he'll get a baseball scholarship and save us six figures of secondary education costs. That or he'll be a mob enforcer. Either way, big paydays.

And that call never comes when you're doing much of nothing. Oh, no. The call comes when you've just gotten off the train for work, or when you're just stepping out of the taxi at JFK about to board a cross-country flight.   And that call is from the Family Services Director (read: disciplinarian), so no matter that you're a semi-responsible 41 year old man, you still feel sheepish and embarrassed.

Today I got that call.

And you can imagine how relieved I was that it was because my son was ill.

It's only hours later, while my sleep-deprived and slightly-queasy son groggily watched an episode of Super Why that I realized that - just perhaps - being happy that my son was sick was not the most paternal response to getting the call.  And I thought just one thing.

Why is it the school always calls me first instead of his mother?

Gimme noise

Saturday, 4:30 PM.

A few years ago, that would have meant something far different.  Maybe hanging in the bar with some writing buddies, ostensibly reviewing each other's work, but mostly doing one-armed curls of Sam Adams.  Perhaps prepping for a date - perhaps it would lead somewhere meaningful, more probably a funny story, most likely to nothing more than a pleasant evening.

But as dad to a 4- and 2- year old, it means silence. Horrible, disconcerting silence.

The missus has gone for a run.  The rugrats are napping off a fun, traumatic morning of errands, tae kwon do trials, and grandparent visits.  The TV is off.  And it's too damn quiet.

Noise?   I can process that.  Hell, noise is something I can gladly overreact to, and often do.  But at least with noise I know what the kids are doing. But silence?  That's just a tactic, a Machiavellian ruse meant to lower my guard and get me to think they're complacent, compliant angels.  Let's review some of the more interesting things recently discovered after a protracted bout of things being... "too quiet":

• Claire, covered from the waist down in a mix of loose stool and name-brand diaper cream, explaining she "got something on her book" (that something, of course, was crap).
• Connor, sitting beside a dresser whose drawers were arranged like a grand staircase, holding a to that had previously been seven feet up (The explanation? "The toy fell down.")
• A sculpture in the sink, composed entirely of children's toothpaste, artist unknown.
• A half- roll of toilet paper, floating in the toilet.  Intact, not unrolled.

I would go on, but my wife just returned from her jog, ached her head, and announced "Someone's up."  Claire, fumbling around her room, debating whether or not to go pottie.  Ah, blissful, blissful noise.