Merry Christmas to all...

I hope I didn't give a false impression of myself in the last post.  I'm not the Calm Dad.  I was just so excited that I actually kept cool for once.  There are about ten thousand other times where I lost it, but there are plenty of posts to come about that stuff.  Let's talk about today.

I love Christmas.  I know, not what you'd expect from a midwestern Jew.  But some years ago, I discovered the real Spirit of Christmas.

Deep Backstory:  Ok, growing up Jewish, it's hard not to hate Christmas.  Non-stop Horrible Christmas Music (not be be confused with the good stuff, which we'll get into later).  But the really bad remakes from whoever is the pop sensation of the moment.  Santa.  Caroling.  All these things are completely foreign to us.  And then there's tree envy, the lost chapter of Freud's last book.  And you know the whole Santa thing is bullshit from the get-go, so you're not into that.  What Christmas means for Jews is the movies and Chinese food.  Along with all the other Jewish families in your city doing the exact same thing.  So there's something very anti-Christmas that's deeply rooted in my past.

Okay, so it's about seven years ago, and I go back east with The Wife, who's only The Girlfriend at this point, but we're back in Jersey in December.  Lots of family close by, some flew in.  Picture a roaring fireplace.  Cozy sweaters.  Two feet of snow.  And some unexpected treats:  The first being eggnog.  Not the gelatinous, funky, gag-inspiring stuff you get from the store.  No way.  This is the real stuff.  Home made.  With lots of good whisky and a healthy shot of Cognac.  Left outside to keep cold, topped with freshly grated nutmeg.  So sweet, so warm, it's like sitting on the couch with your favorite uncle on one side and the golden retriever you always wanted but never got on the other, while the plaid afghan blanket keeps you warm and the fire keeps you warmer.  You are transported to a Norman Rockwell painting.  The other unexpected treat, good, no, great Christmas Music.  John Gary.  Go look him up on iTunes right now.  Or Ella Fitzgerald.  People who knew what they were doing.  Nat King Cole.  Why don't the radio stations play that stuff on the holiday?  And then, Santa came.

All the kids were there, when suddenly, there's Santa (uncle John) in a great Santa suit, complete with beard and glasses and sack of presents.  Of course, the youngest one instantly burst into tears and ran screaming towards her mother.  But the other kids, the little ones, were so filled with awe and wonder, you'd have to be made of stone or a member of the Taliban not to be moved by it.  Presents were handed out, from the Man himself.  And everyone goes along with it, especially the ten and eleven and twelve year olds, because even though they know it's Uncle John, they want it to be Santa for the younger kids for as long as possible.  It was a magical moment, and a magical Christmas.  Finally I get it.  That's what everyone was talking about.  Now I see why it's a big deal.   And now, although it makes my great grandmother roll in her grave back in Minsk, I love making a big deal out of Christmas.  I love shopping for a tree, making ornaments, making eggnog from that every same recipe, knocking myself making home made yodels (picture to come) even though it takes four hours, especially when you fuck up the recipe and have to make it over again.  I love a house full of people for Christmas dinner.  I love watching Samantha come down the stairs Christmas morning, and that look of absolute joy and wonder at the mountain of presents under the tree (ah, the joy of having only one).  I love it like I never thought I could. And I hope you do too.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

All about the ABCs

Some years ago, I decided to become and EMT (emergency medical technician and very common crossword puzzle answer).  This was before I found out how much they make.  Slightly more than minimum wage.  It was a tremendous amount of information to digest, and at times became a little overwhelming.  I talked to my instructor, and told her, I was afraid I'm not getting all the facts right, all the procedures, the numbers, etc.  And I'm really afraid that when I find myself in a emergency situation, I'll forget everything and my mind will go blank.  (This actually happened and I'll talk about it on another post).  So my instructor told me, "If that ever happens, just go back to the basics, go back to your ABCs." (in this case, our ABCs are "Airway, Breathing, and Circulation.")

My sister, mother to four children, gave me very similar parenting advice. "ABC - Always Be Calm.  Unless your child is in immediate physical danger, there is no need to yell."  I love this advice, even though I don't follow it as much as I should.  I think my sister is an amazing parent, and it's remarkable advice considering the household we grew up in.  Yelling was the most common form of communication in our house.  Until I was twenty, I thought this is how you're supposed to get your ideas across.  I'm learning now there are alternatives.

But it's something I really need to practice more of.  There have been so many times when I find my stress level reaching epic proportions, and in retrospect, there was no need to get so upset, and there was really no need to get that upset with your child.  The calmer I can be, the better she will be.  And even if it does nothing for her, it makes whatever tantrum she's having much less debilitating and draining for me.

Example.  Samantha has a friend in her class, Gemma.  Gemma has an older sister in second grade at the same school.  So a couple of days go, their mom was sick and their dad was working so I agreed to take them home with my daughter.  Their dad did not leave me a booster seat for their younger child, but said, "it's okay for just a short trip."  I know it was legally wrong, but before you start wagging your fingers at me, I did drive extra slowly, extra carefully.  But i'm getting ahead of myself.

I knew this was going to be a challenge for Samantha.  She has been obsessed with transitioning out of her car seat and into a booster seat for a solid year.  And she's still not forty pounds and even then, we've been clear that it's not going to happen until next school year, no matter how much she weighs.  That does not stop her.  Almost daily she asks for a booster.  When we got to Target or Costco, she wants to see the booster seat choices.  She has several models picked out, and I would not be surprised at all if this six year old figures out a way to charge it and have it delivered.  Along with ten grand worth of Disney crap, a Barbie jeep she can drive, and six inch high heeled shoes, size 9 kids.

So I said to her as we were leaving, "we have to take Gemma and Fiona home, and they didn't leave me a car seat, so they're just going to sit in the seat like a grown up."  Pause.  You could literally see the agony and dispair forming around her.  The frown, in the form of a perfect upside down "U" the shaking of her head.  Soon, tears would come.  This was so fundamentally wrong, so unjust, that her only recourse was to cry.  No, more like wail.  I tried to remember my ABCs, I was calm.  I was rational.  I was logical.  "It's just a short ride.  We're doing them a big favor.  We're helping their mom."  Nothing worked.  I tried acknowledging the situation.  "You're upset about being the only one in a car seat. (sure I'll risk other kids by putting them in a car with no car seat, but my own kid?  no way).    I know.  I would be upset too."  No dice.   Wailing, crying to the point of dehydration.  But I did manage to stay calm, during the entire ride, all seventeen hours of it.  And afterwards too.  When I asked her, "was it really that bad?"  she said, "It was horrible.  This was the worst day of my entire life."  At least she's able to keep things in perspective.  But eventually she was able to calm down, and even apologize and have fun the next day.  So parents, if you see me out with my kid, red in the face, looking exasperated, desperate, ready to flee to South America, feel free to remind me of my ABCs.  Hell, I did it once, I can do it again.

Second Post

Sorry if the last post was unclear.  That asshole outside of Nordstrom's was referring to my child as the potential retard, not my wife.  And I learned recently that until I was three years old, my own parents thought I was retarded.  True story.  ask them.  Ah, the great Circle of Life.

So I'm twenty four hours into this blogging thing, and I have my first fan, Laura, who has an amazing hilarious beautiful touching blog, but I'm not sure how to post a link so look for "my life is a piece of cake" at blogger.com.  

You other viewers need to understand what a pivotal role Laura played in my life.  You see, if there was one piece of advice I could pass on to men thinking of becoming a full time dad, it would be this:  "Get Ready To Be Alone."  Because a funny thing happens when you become a full time dad.  (I think I'll type FTD from now on, unless I get a cease and desist from the flower people).  What happens?  You become invisible.  Had I know this, I would have taken more advantage of this power for my own selfish gains, but I was too tired to realize the upside.  But I'm serious.  Man takes child to park, man gets ignored by every woman with child at park.

You have to realize, I'm a pretty non-threatening type of human.  No visible scars, no tattoos, piercings, or brandings.  I wear glasses.  I look a little like Adam Sandler's uncle.  I'm pushing a stroller filled with sand toys, a diaper bag, and that glazed look of someone who's had four hours of sleep for a year.  I'm at the park, playing with my child.  And I'm trying to let it not get to me, but day after day after day, no matter where I go, no matter which park, it's the same story.  I understand that there is a few million years of evolution at work here, but does it have to go this far?   This really happened:  I've been at the park with my daughter, and we're playing (by ourselves of course) and there's a mother there with her child, roughly the same age.  I am completely invisible.  Another mother approaches with child.  First mom introduces herself to second mom, introduces child, then invites second mom to picnic with them.  These women were not friends, they did not know each other prior to this encounter.  So they go off, and have a nice picnic, and my daughter and I, well, now we have the park to ourselves again.  Like I said, I get it.  Strange man, protective mother, it's perfectly natural.  If I were alone.  But I'm there with my daughter.  I have the tell-tale stains from said daughter's various coughs and sneezes and spills on my clothes.  But I now have the power of invisibility, so it's just the two of us.

This went on for about... two years.  And then one day, playing at a park, there's this mother with her kids, and she's with a group of other mothers and their kids.  I know better, so I'm just playing with Samantha on the other side of the sandbox. (Maybe that should be the title of the blog)  And the most amazing thing happens.  She waves to me and says hi.  Of course, my first reaction was look behind me.  Surely she meant someone else.  But no, she was talking to ME.  She must have smelled the desperation on me.  But we started talking,  slowly I remembered how to have a conversation with a grown up, and she became a great friend to me, as well as a source of strength and inspiration.  As I've been a lurker on her blog for years, now it's time to join hers officially as well.  and so should you.

First Post

I’m feeling a lot of pressure here.  I mean, first blog post, I want to hit it out of the park.  But what the hell does that mean here in blog land?  

Why am I doing this?  My daughter just (september) started kindergarten.  The time to do this blog would have been right after she was born, right?  I guess I haven’t had the time until now.  Over the years people have told me to start a blog, so here goes.  Still with me?  

I am a full time dad.  I hate the term Stay-At-Home Dad.  I hate the acronym SAHD.  When people ask me what I do for a living, I usually answer “laundry.”  Which there is a load waiting to go into the dryer as I’m typing this, and another waiting to go into the washer.  Thrilling, I know.  But let me tell you, presoaking with Oxy-Clean really does work on almost any stain.  Thank you Billy What’s-His-Name-Who-Died-Not-Too-Long-Ago.  I used to know things.  My brain used to work.  Now, just imagine a row of rusty filing cabinets, two inches of dust on them, spider webs in the corner.  There’s an eighty year old janitor slumped against a chair taking hits off a fifth of Black Pony scotch.  That’s my brain trying to put a sentence together, so I might have bitten off more than I can chew here.  

I loved being a full time dad.  I used to have dreams of fame and fortune, now I dream about building a puppet theater for my daughter.  That’s not to say it hasn’t been easy, but the most credit goes to Jane (wifey).  The whole reason have been able to spend all day every day for the first three years and most of the days until now have been because I am married to the hardest working person I have ever met.  There is nothing I regret (aside from the ten thousand parenting mistakes I made while doing it, but that’s more for my daughter’s future therapist than for me) about being the mom.  

Let’s face it, that’s what I am.  My wife and I have switched rolls on every level.  She is the bread winner.  She is the strong one.  She is tough as nails, I am soft as eggs.  I’m the one who need to talk about feelings and hug, she is the one who just wants to solve the problem and move on.  But DO NOT call me “Mister Mom.”  how fucking lame is that  that people still love to bring up that title from a fair movie made twenty years ago.  Really?  Did you just really call me “mr. mom?”  Douche.

Although that’s not the worst people have said to me upon learning that I am a full time dad.  “Is she ill?”  that was a good one.  I think my most memorable response heard from a human was, “Really?  Is she retarded?”  I’m not kidding, some dude said that to me outside of Nordstrom’s.  Who says that to someone?  Right away?  I mean, maybe sit down, have some coffee with me, get to know me, talk to my kid maybe, but who just jumps right from “Full time dad”  to “retarded”?   By the way, just got Samantha’s first report card.  All fours (one through four, four being the highest), except for one three.  In the area of “Resolves Conflict Appropriately” which is really hilarious, considering I would score about a negative fifty on that.  So no, asshole from outside of Nordstrom’s.  She’s doing just fine.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I have fabric softener to add.