Married Single Parent

I’m a single parent.

I mean, I’m married and all – 14 years in fact. What I meant to say is I’m a “married single-parent.”

My wife and I both work, and work completely opposite schedules. I work a 9 – 5’er, Monday through Friday in a typical corporate American office environment. I’m also a published author and working on expanding my oeuvre. No that doesn’t require surgery. Oh, and I host two podcasts and will happily accept the occasional public speaking gig. Why not? Like that song in Zootopia, I want to try everything. Eventually I'll get something right.

My wife is a self-employed hair stylist, and a successful one at that. However her days tend to start late-morning or early afternoon and run into the night. She’s lucky if she gets home when one of our three kids is still up.

That means we’re both on our own, and dreadfully outnumbered most of our lives. The little time we get together during the week is usually after 10 PM and I'm ready to crash, having been up by 6 while she's wired and ready to catch up. We try to communicate pertinent information throughout the day, although that is often made harder by the fact that she’s working with her hands and can’t pick up the phone for hours at a time. I on the other hand am a “pencil pusher” by day and leap at any excuse to avoid real work.

Just kidding.

No, I’m not.

Mommy blogs have taken the world by storm, and even I find myself turning to a few I’ve come to follow for ideas, tips, or just commiseration. Odds are there are dads out there like me, who work all day only to come home to work again for another 3 – 4 hours, getting kids fed, washed, and into bed. All the while trying not to snap at them for wanting you to play when you just want 5 minutes to veg out (knowing full well that’s never going to happen.)
We have a 9 year-old son, Sean, who has already charted his course from Notre Dame to the NHL – where he gets the athlete gene I’m not sure because it isn’t from me. He’s also good at math. Another reason I’d demand a DNA test if he didn’t look like me.
Then we have two little girls, Maya (5) and Macy (4). One of them was a cherubic surprise. The other, her older sister, is a brunette agent of chaos sent from another world to wreak havoc on mankind as punishment for global warming and the music of Justin Bieber. They are all three the loves of my life – and I have to remind myself of that all the time.

Fortunately, my kids tend to be really funny too. Yes, every parent thinks that. Either their kid is funny, or their kid is a genius, or worse, their kid is a comedic genius. Well I’m not claiming any of mine are the reincarnated George Carlin, but people do tend to tell me I should compile a list of my funny kid stories and write a book. Well, I’m already elbow deep in book writin’ so a blog will have to do, for now.

Welcome to my world. Keep your hands and feet in the vehicle and remain seated until the ride has come to a complete stop.

                                                     

For the love of . . . just eat a green bean!!!

How do parents get kids that eat healthy?

Notice I didn’t say “raise” or “get them to” eat healthy. I think if your kid loves spinach, broccoli, or even green beans after the age of 4, you hit the kid lotto. We tried. We fed all of our kids nothing but fruits and veggies when they were babies. We weren’t going to make the “same mistakes” our parents made of feeding us junk.

In fairness I was raised on junk because it was cheap. That was the early 80’s. We ate a lot of frozen fish sticks because I guess they were cheap. Mom would make a big pot of chili with little noodles in it and that would last us days. And there were nights she went to bed without dinner to make sure we ate enough. I also recall bricks of unmarked cheese. Sad thing is, the “we eat bad because it’s cheap” excuse is still true and the same reason so much of our country is out of shape and sick all the time. But I’m so not the guy to get off on that rant.

Our son used to love green beans. I mean hard! He would inhale them. Del Monte were his label of choice. Cooked or cold out of the can, didn’t matter. They were like Reese’s Pieces to him as a baby through age 2 or 3. Then something happened. Almost overnight, he just decided that was it. He’d fulfilled his green bean obligation to us. Now they’re repellent to the boy. He’s similar to Buddy the Elf now in that he only has a couple food groups, and one of them requires syrup. Otherwise it’s hot dogs (which we have more or less put the kibosh on because, come on), chicken nuggets, and pizza. That was it for years.

Recently he’s added cheeseburgers (but only plain – meat and cheese) and steak. Even steak was a battle. “It’s the same thing,” I’d explain, “just different, and may I add tastier formatting.” By the way, I apologize in advance to any vegetarians or vegans who happen upon this. I admire your resolve, but I’m a big hairy carnivore, as are my young.   

All three of my kids are picky eaters. I never realized how frustrating it is. We try not to give in but there are nights just to avoid arguments I find myself cooking (and by cooking, I mean microwaving or boiling water for) three different meals. Breakfast is the worst. The only thing they’ll agree on is bacon. Go figure. Many days the extensive breakfast buffet I will lay out looks like this:

Just feel the high fructose corn syrup seeping through you, let it envelop you!

I admit I’m not the best role model. I love junk food. I’ve committed to really working on it, for my weight but also to try to be more of a role model. Maybe I need one of those books like Jerry Seinfeld’s wife wrote (or stole, allegedly) about disguising healthy food as junk food. We did try giving the kids mashed cauliflower as mashed potatoes. Didn’t work. What can I say? I make smart kids.

Although I might make a better example if I didn’t make videos like this!

Tablet addicts - The struggle is real

Six years ago, Steve Jobs stood before a crowd of shareholders, and really the entire world and introduced the next “big thing" – the iPad. I was skeptical.

One of his big highlights was the ability to download books. As a writer, I’m still in love with the feel of paper and biding in my hands. I love folding over a paperback to hold in one hand, or shoving one in the pocket of my cargo shorts on vacation. In my 30-something brain, I saw eBooks as the end of the civilized world.

Admittedly now that I’ve had a couple books in the marketplace and sold a fair share of digital copies, I’m less resistant. Funny how that works. Still, I’ve tried to limit my use of iPads and tablets. I have sausage fingers so I prefer an old-school keyboard. And being in my 40’s now, I have to admit reading on a screen isn’t’ always the most comfortable experience. Its bad enough I have to stare at one for every single one of my jobs.

However, all of my children discovered tablets at an early age. I don’t even know how it happened. They’d see one at a friend’s house – maybe a Leap Pad or some other form of educational toy device. Then it became the inevitable “can I play a game on your phone?” To which you think “well if it will keep them in their seat long enough for us to eat, sure.”

Now each of my children has their own tablet. My son has an iPad, and my daughters both have Samsung tablets (with matching pink cases and their names on the back.)  They are at once the bane of my existence (the tablets, not the kids) and often times my savior as I try to get dinner made for the three of them, or change out of my work clothes (I can only handle so many hours in business casual before my head explodes.)  Quite frankly sometimes I’m just tired and want to sit down and not play baseball or lacrosse or push someone on the swing set.

So yes, call me a bad parent. I sometimes allow more tablet time than I should because it makes for a good babysitter. I know, that’s probably the thing you wouldn’t want to admit in a proper parenting blog, but I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one guilty of it.

I know they should be outside getting fresh air and exercise, especially now that it’s spring. If they have to be inside, they should be reading (kryptonite to my son – don’t get me started) or playing some kind of game. Something that requires them to think and be creative.

But then I remember that when I was a kid, I had a screen for a babysitter too. You see my folks split when I was 5. I was primarily raised by a big wooden floor television with the silver knobs that “clunk-clunk-clunked” when you changed the channel. The only exercise I got was walking from the couch to the TV to change it. Kids today wouldn’t believe the inhumanity.

While I’m not defending such an upbringing, it was what it was. My mom was working her butt off to raise two boys in-between the occasional support check. On her day off, you know, the day she had to do laundry and clean, she would drop my brother and me off at the movie theater with a $20. We’d stay there pretty much all day, hopping from movie to movie. Truth be told, from age 5 to 18, I spent a huge chuck of my free time staring at screens, absorbing other peoples’ creativity.

While it did not create in me an athlete (or even someone with abs) it actually did fuel the creative side of my brain. Hence, two books in the market, full-time and freelance jobs in creative fields, and I’m kickass at trivia!  

Maybe that’s why at some point last night, or maybe early this morning (I was too tired to lift my phone and look) I heard rustling in my daughters’ room which is right next to ours. I could hear the muffled but all too familiar sounds of YouTube.  Even my sleepy, two-cycled weed whacker engine of a brain figured out quickly that my older daughter, Maya, had woken up, grabbed her tablet, and was in bed watching videos and playing her dress-up games. My brain told me I should get up, go yank it out of her hands and order her back to sleep.

But I didn’t.

I could tell you because I was still half-asleep and just too exhausted to move. And that is definitely part of it. But the truth; she’s my creative one. Her brother is a jock (don’t know where he got it) and her little sister, well, we’re still not sure. Maya is my artist. She paints, she draws, and she dances. As I often say, she is all my child. I see so much of myself in her, good and bad, that it terrifies me. Yet it also created a special bond in us. As much as she is responsible for 80% of my gray hairs, she is my girl, 110%.

I know how much she loves those silly videos of people opening weird plastic eggs with toys inside, or singing “Mommy Finger”, or creating crafts. As much as I should have, I could not take it away from her. How do I know where she will go with that information one day? Sometimes you just don’t want to sleep, so why not let her download some more brain food, even if some of it is just candy?

Frozen Question

I don't want to exaggerate here, but I've seen Frozen 7,232.6 times.

No, this is not an anti-Arendelle rant. I like Frozen. I think it's a great movie with a good message about the bond between sisters who are very different. I have two little girls at home. One only hopes his daughters will love each other the way Anna and Elsa ultimately displayed.

That said, I do have a problem with one major plot point. It will seem nit-picky to many; just a minor detail that I should get over. Nope. Can't get over it.

It isn't the snowman they made as children being resurrected years later, this time alive and sentient.
I have no issue with the boring rock trolls - other than the design was boring. Come on. You know it is. I think they were either in a hurry to get the movie made or running out of money.

The thing that bugs me about that movie, popular as it is around the world and in my living room, happens very early on, and it sticks in my craw the duration of the film.

How did Anna pay for all that stuff at Wandering Oaken's? She rushed out of the castle, hopped on her horse, and away she rode. How likely is it she had a few spare kroner stuffed in her dress? I've heard people try to explain it away as Oaken knew she was the princess and therefore would give her anything she wanted on credit, or even for free.

Really???

How would he know she was the princess? Did he see her on TMZ or in Us weekly? Oh right, no, because there was no electricity back then! Even if she identified herself after we left the store to follow Kristoff, what are the odds he would believe her? Why would the next in line to the throne be out in the wilderness, during a blizzard, alone?

I'm just saying . . .

Bath time

Our youngest, Macy, is about to turn 4 at the end of this month. She loves taking baths . . . except for the whole cleaning part.

She sits there wailing, screaming bloody murder while I simply attempt to wash her hair. I realize I'm strong but I make a point to use almost zero pressure. And I know it's not from soap running into her eyes - I'd sympathize with that familiar burn of youth. She just hates it. The very act of it. I don't know if it's due to her thin, blonde hair. Maybe she has a sensitive scalp. But she never complains of pain. Just the act.

Is this normal???

Her big sister, Maya, who inherited her follicles from me and has thick, brown, shampoo sucking locks doesn't mind it a bit. I'm the one crying because it takes so long to rinse her hair out. It holds onto the suds like there's a shortage.

The only way  I can get the little one to stop crying while I wash her hair is to agree to let them wash mine next. So once both of them are clean, and after I drain most of the dirt soup they're soaking in out of the tub, I refill it with fresh water and lean in up to my elbows, head hung over the tub.

It thrills them to no end. Oddly enough, while Macy always claims to want to follow in her mother's footsteps and be hairstylist (Maya often claims she wants to be a unicorn - that child is all mine) it is the older one who leads my beautification ritual. I get my hair washed and conditioned no less than three times. Sure, it's a waste of shampoo, but it makes them happy, and quite frankly my wife gets it at cost.

Then comes the styling, for which I'm not allowed to dry my hair first. That's all part of the package apparently. So I sit on one of their little beds while my hair is brushed back and forth, sideways, then back again. Ultimately I end up looking like a drowned rat, but sometimes I get a bow. #dadlife