Not big enough to matter, Too small to win

I fell in love this morning.

I fell in love with my two year old little girl this morning.

She broke my heart too.

Don't get me wrong.  I respect Oprah Winfrey quite a lot.  She is a self made woman who has helped so many people in the world.  She has single handedly become a force in so many areas of life its senseless to even name a few.  BUT.  I can not stand the touchy feely people who are her fans, are her studio audience and her millions of TV viewers.  All of them probably hang on every dripping word she utters and quote her meticulously and swoon at her mention.

Bleh, goich, uch, stick a finger down your throat, agh gag me with a spoon com padre.  They are so, so, so, TOUCHY FEELY.  phoi. No, Stay away from me. No, you can not stroke me.  Stay away I say, go over there.  No, don't come near me.  In fact don't even look at me.

So then, how did it happen that I find myself reading the ULTIMATE touchy feely book.  How did it happen? Its from 1990, its probably way out of date too.  I ll tell you.  I really had nothing else to read.  I don't have a library card and there aren't many books for me in the local branch anyway and I am not of the Nook, Niche, Fire, Kindle generation to read a book on the computer (even though my good friends Mother is a newly committed book reader on Kindle, so, lame excuse from me) and I don't feel like reading my Isaac Singer 600 page short story book for the tenth time.  So the only book left in my collection here unread was... wait for it,  "Healing your Aloneness:  Finding Love and Wholeness Through your Inner Child"   With sentences such as: "The natural human state is a heart that is filled to the brim with love and light", and "We are each being challenged to choose between love, peace and life or fear, war and death."  Oh goodness.  I think I ll take the fear, war and death just so I won`t have to listen to you.  Please turn up the volume on my Cannibal Corpse record to 11. Ahhhh, death metal, that's better.

And then I get to the intro sentence in chapter two: "The way we were treated as small children is the way we treat ourselves the rest of our life."  And, "Because we were not truly valued as children.." Furthermore that, "It attempts to control the child by telling it what it `should` or `should not` do and all the bad things that will happen if it doesn't do it `right`".   And BAM.  I had to ask myself, "am I valuing my little child?  Is she important? Or is she just a vessel that is meant to be filled up with my so called knowledge?" Where is my wisdom?  I was turning into the authoritarian dictator taking care of her and just thought of her as an empty head, two year old who had to have sense, her maturity installed.  Well you know what?  That's not good.  That isn't going to help her in later life.  In fact the way I am treating her, she will always need to be told, instructed and filled by someone with "knowledge" for the rest of her life.  She will be dependent on people telling her how to do it instead of her taking it apart and exploring it herself and figuring it out.  That is no way for creativity and wisdom to develop.  I just have been taking too many things away from her because she wasn't using them correctly.  Granted, a two year old wielding a pair of scissors with the point looking to go through someones eye should have them taken away, but not the little pictures or puzzle pieces or modeling dough or little animal stickers.  And she should be told, "this is how you hold the scissors, with the point held down with your hand covering the point".  The problem is that she is two years old.  She isn't big enough to matter.   She has nothing important to say and nothing worth listening to as Louis CK comedian has said (I ll find his quote).   And she is too small to win.  Her older sister will always beat her these days in the memory card game and put together the puzzle faster and get to stay overnight at her friends house, while this little two year old, is, well, too small.  I don`t want her to grow up not thinking she is valued or important.  Even when she is two years old.   

It says in my oh so touchy feely book that little children always want to be hugged, and its true.  My little two year old will always cry when I take something away from her.  Then after five minutes of crying she asks for a hug.  In my opinion its because she wants to re affirm that we still love.  But I think she still has to fight hard to feel important.  It`s tough when you are the youngest.  I know.  I ve been hugging her, but I have to hunker down and VALUE her more and let her know that even though she is a little tiny girl, she is important.

 Oh, goodness, some of this wet stuff is coming out of my eye.  You silly goose, touchy, feely person, go over there. Go to the corner.  Stop this Oprah wannabe posing. 

On top of all this heart rendering introspection I have had, on top of that, my little girl cried hard for me this morning when I was leaving to go to work. I had been with her from 7.30am till 10.30am then her Mother came back and I had to be at work at 11am.  She cried hard.  For me!  She wouldn't let me leave the apartment.  She wouldn't let me close the elevator door, she wanted me to stay home.  I fell in love with her, and my heart was broken at the same time.  I was late for work, but, aw, forget that, I'm in love.    

Green Monster

Disclosure:  Don't read this while you are eating or if you have eaten recently.  This may not be for the weak of digestion or the easily appalled.  I aim to gross out.

I remember a Joan Rivers joke from her late night days.  You remember her? "Oh, oh oh oh, please"  I have to find a link to this joke, but for now it went something like, and I paraphrase: My young daughter was eating something, a piece of meat or maybe fruit and she suddenly said, "Mommy I don't like this I'm going to spit it out".  But instead I said, its OK darling you don't have to eat it and I took it from her mouth, she spit it into my hand and I put it in my mouth and finished it.  Only a Mother of a child can do that.   Or perhaps a Father.

I went to the Mother of God pharmacy to get some medicines.  No joke, that's the name of the pharmacy.  I wonder if it will become a chain?  Somebody would complain.  Well, needless to say, its a local pharmacy.  My wife has a discount card from it and its just down the street from our apartment, so its convenient.  I wonder what the Catholic Church would have to say about that?  Mother of God giving discounts.

My daughter has had a snuffed runny nose for over a month now.  What is up with that?  Its the end of May, beginning of June and the warm weather has finally entrenched itself,  but she still has double barrel green snots running out of her nose every ten to fifteen minutes.   I thought it was allergies but my wife says if it was allergies it would be clear and watery.  This mucous is thicker than Heinz ketchup and it pours just as slowly.  So sometimes I see this stuff coming out and I say to myself, I got a couple more minutes before it runs into her mouth, lets finish this puzzle first then I ll tell her to blow her nose.   And she never feels it herself.  I always have to tell her to go blow her nose.  You would think that big gobs sitting below her nose would be felt.  But what do I know?  Rasputin had all kinds of food and tidbits sitting in his beard, he didn't know or didn't care. Or both.

But you know what? It really doesn't bother me.  Its like the Joan Rivers joke.  She could take the food from her daughters mouth and eat it herself and it didn't bother her.  I just calmly tell her to go blow her nose, the stuff is just about on her lip.  It really doesn't gross me out.  Maybe its from my DNA so I feel akin to it.  Something like that, I don't know.  Something like your own farts never smell bad to you.

Her pre school teacher politely asked us to do something about it  as soon as possible and in the mean time to keep her at home.  She said kindly to my wife one afternoon that she (the teacher)had to run to the bathroom because she was going to throw up.  She was nauseous for the rest of the afternoon.   This is a teacher who has to put up with ten to twenty running noses a day.  I kind of was getting proud of my daughters condition.  Wow, she grossed out a pre school teacher.  I mean that has got to be hard to do.  My daughter should get some sort of an award, "was able to gross out the teacher" award.  Then again it might not do well for my daughter`s reputation, unless she was in high school already. 

So last week my wife took my daughter to the clinic to get it checked out.  Now there are people you can`t gross out.  They work with entrails from every orifice very professionally.  Kind of like embalmers working with cadavers.  Not phased one bit. So they took a sample.  They told her to blow her nose and then put a sample on one of those little wooden sticks and then on the slide.  Doctors are pretty awesome that way.  They don't bat a lash, blink an eye, all in the days work.

A friend was visiting for a couple days and staying with us in the apartment.  A pretty tough guy.  A journalist who has had gang members in Albania stick a gun to his head and say get out of here or we will blow you are out of here.  He was embedded in some units in Iraq.  He has seen land mines blow up taking body parts with it.  So he said.  Comes breakfast and I am sitting across from my daughter who is drinking her breakfast tea and eating a kids yogurt snack.  I look up casually from my cup of tea and notice a slow moving green sludge making its way out of her nose.  Ah, I got a couple minutes, let her drink her tea.  My friend pours himself a cup of tea and sees my daughter.  His eyes are riveted on this green monster oozing like a snail out of her nose.   He can`t take his eyes off of it. 

SUDDENLY, a sneeze.  I look up at her and see the sewage go flying from her nose direct dunk into her tea cup.

"Awesome, little girl.  That was some great basketball you hooped there.  That was really a fantastic shot," I said.  She smiled and looked proud.

I heard a gagging behind me and my friend just had time to put his tea down on the counter and run to the bathroom and then I heard a loud retching sound.

Now what was that all about?  I went to the bathroom.  "Are you all right?",  I asked my friend.  He looked up at me from the floor of the toilet room with bloodshot eyes.  The smell of last nights dinner repackaged was starting to waft out of the little room.  "That was the grossest thing I have ever seen".

Huh?  Off the record, do you think my friend was lying about seeing all that action as a journalist?  Maybe he didn't get out of the green zone in Iraq, pun intended.  Or, maybe, to paraphrase Joan Rivers, "Only a Father".  Yay, that`s me.  

   

Big enough to Matter, small enough to win.

I have said quite clearly that I think patience (which is indeed a virtue) is very difficult FOR MEN to nurture, even to have.  I am wondering if you do experience patience if it is like a seed and will grow and develop and blossom inside your (my) soul and psyche.  OR if it is a one off deal which if it appears in one case it doesn`t mean it is constantly within you (me) and must be established again EACH and every time when it is needed.  Sadly at this time I think the latter is true. Patience may appear, but it will just as easily disappear again. 

Just such an incident occurred the other day from this writing. 

But first, I must recall last Fall, 2013, an incident of negative outcome.  Now I am quite ashamed about it and have to live with the memory.  In hindsight I will and do think myself ridiculous that I had such pitched clashes in which I could feel the "fight mode" surge in my body ready to do battle.... against a two year old.  Yes its true.  I realize when the little angel will be five I will ask myself "what the hell were you thinking at that time?  C`mon, a two year old?  What happened with you? Are you a lame brained moron?" (I won`t answer that last part).  In my defense, two year olds are much stronger than their age implies.   They have very particular strengths which can confound even Generals of Patton's legend.  Combined with such outlandish demands that either make you stop and think or make you blow your top.  The former is the goal which we should strive for.  "Wait a sec, these are not adult minds we are dealing with lets approach this with calm and collect and not overreact"  Again, sadly the latter is more than often likely to happen.

The culprit was of course food again.  The individual in question with which the conflict happened was the same two year old who occupies my house to this day, namely my younger daughter.  I think we were still feeding her those jars of mush with vegetables and meats mixed to a healthy and tasty paste.  I even enjoy them.  At any rate, we of course fed her other stuff but her variety was terrible, if not worse, then today.   It was supper time and I had to give her a substantial meal, but since she had already had a jar of mush at lunch I had to give her something else.  The best I could do was a jar of homemade noodle with vegetables soup from Grandma.  My daughter had seen me cooking it on the stove and had said "No" when she saw it.  That triggered the fight mode in me from that moment.  I said, you are going to eat this.  She said, "No".   I said yes and put a small bowl on the table at her place.  She said "No" more defiantly and I said sit down and eat that.  I was incapacitated and couldn`t go through the various other methods to try to get her to eat it.  She walked over to it and took it off the table and was going to take it back to the sink.  She didn't even like stuff sitting at her spot if it was vile to her.  Of course her little two year old hands were not steady enough to bring a bowl of soup back to the kitchen and some of it spilled on the floor before I got it and towed it right back to her place.  She tried again to rid her place of it and the adrenaline in full control, I picked her up with one hand, spanked her soundly several times on the bottom with the other and took her to her crib where I placed her in the dark room  and put the bars on her crib so she couldn't get out.  The point was for her to sit there and think of her actions while she cried miserably and angrily. 

I wonder why I did place the bowl back at her place when it was quite certain that she would still refuse it and try to get rid of it again.  I can only think that the adrenaline inside of me wanted a fight.  So I was taunting her by putting the soup back in order to get the fight.  I did.  I won the battle. Ultimately I lost as I reflect on this episode, in hindsight, and wish I could erase my stupid, terrible, senseless reaction.  

So just a couple days ago from this writing, same individual, wanted to stand on the window sill high (as high as she is tall) above the ground to look out the window to see if the garbage truck was coming.  She got a chair over to the window to get up there.  "No, no, no, no.  You can`t look out the window like that.  You go and get some clothes on before you look out the window.  You can not stand in the window completely naked without clothes.  Get some clothes on".  But no.  She wanted to look out the window right at that moment without any clothes.  And she went into cry mode and said she was going to hit me if I didn't let her look out the window.

In Europe they don't have such problems with nudity.  Since women can and often do go semi nude on public river and lake beaches, even public pools.  In America these places of nudity are limited otherwise it is illegal to bare oneself in public places, beaches and poolside.  At a retirement home once I was at in the state of Florida, a little grand daughter ran around the pool nude.  An elderly American woman asked the owner to get a bathing suit on her.  Her Hungarian Grandmother who also lived there, exclaimed, "she is two years old, whats the problem?"

I lifted my little girl down from the windowsill and stood her on the floor.  I held my arm out and she hit me.  "OK, now go get some clothes on",  I said.  She ran off to her room, crying, but she realized what she had to do.

No trace WHATSOEVER of that dreaded adrenaline.  I was calm and I wasn't upset at all.  The need to do battle hadn`t arisen.  I don't know why, but a fragment of a Frank Zappa song comes to my mind.  "Look out where the huskies go, don't you touch that yellow snow".  That yellow snow, a symbol for negative adrenaline, HADN'T come inside me. I hadn't been touched by the yellow snow, that terrible adrenaline which sparks the fight mode.  Victory, dude.  You must be a Father now, a mature one who can handle it rather than flying off the handle.  I went back to cleaning the kitchen where the window was which she liked to look out to see the garbage truck.  I was doing the dishes with my back to the window.

She came back in the room and climbed up on the chair onto the window sill and stood there looking out the window.  Still me with my back turned.  I wasn't concerned.  I knew she had accepted my rule.  I finished the dishes and heard the garbage truck coming and turned to look at her to see how she would react.  She was standing there with some small white socks on which had been put in the color laundry and as a result had turned a soft whitish pink.  That is all she had on.


A wise man once said (or maybe it was a woman in disguise?) Pick your battles big enough to matter but small enough to win.

Two year olds are big enough to matter, but small enough to win.  Usually always. And even if they don`t win, they still win.  And if they lose, everybody loses.    





 



 

Day: Boring, yawn.

Looking over some of my posts, I realize I may be falling to the same tactic that journalists use to spruce up an article and attract readership, namely, over dramatization, hyperbole, or just stressing the stressful parts.  Reading over the daily news one would get the idea that there is nothing but problems and unresolvable chaos in the world.  How is your life?

Its just not true.  Sure we all got problems, even ongoing problems, even problems where we can`t see the light at the end of the tunnel. But look, we get up, we get on our clothes (or even stay in our pajamas as the case may be on some of my Daddy days), have some sort of nourishment or liquid in the morning and then go to work, whether that be to the city, to the office, or staying at home or taking care of the kids.  (In fact taking care of the kids begins even before you start your day).  Then we have our work day.  Is the boss REALLY stressing you out so much and you are under heaps of pressure?  I cant even imagine that current U.S. president Obama is under heaps of pressure during the whole day.  I can imagine that for a good part of the day he sits quietly and calmly at his desk reading things over and thinking about them and making comments and thinking about how to resolve problems, and passing them on to someone else.

The point is, well, there are "scary" days.  There are "Mission Impossible" days, for G s sake.  Even going to the grocery store with your kids can be a Mission Impossible plot, theme music included.  But for the most part, as long as we aren't living in a war zone, life is not a newspaper full of KILLING,  DESTRUCTION, RELIGIOUS FANATICS, ECONOMIC CRISES, AHHHHHHHHH.

Potential fathers, lets not get scared off by what is a very emotionally rewarding, but not so rewarding on the pecuniary side, fulfilling job with some minor flare ups, loss of patience and perhaps the occasional "I CANT TAKE THIS, I NEED A DRINK" incidents.  But that is true anywhere right?

So, listen.  For instance this was what happened last Monday.  For those easily bored, you better leave the room now.  This is no detective novel coming up.

I have to admit I have not been pulling my weight recently on sharing morning duties.  I have let my wife get up, boil the tea water, heat the milk up, get the clothes on, while I get up to cut the breakfast grapefruit.  We used to do one person one day up early, the other person the next day up early, but that was when we had to get up before 7am, which is killer with my DNA.   I meandered in to the kitchen at 8am and cut the grapefruit.  Preschool starts by 9.  We should get there sooner, but.... we don't.  Next year regular school will start at 8.  We ll manage it.... somehow.

At any rate, the Mother and one daughter gone, second younger daughter proceeded to work on a puzzle.  She is really into them and this, needless to say, is very nice morning work.  Problem is, she is getting so good at the puzzles we have that I don't have time to slip in a decent length shower anymore while she does one puzzle.  So she wanders into the bathroom when I am rinsing off, "Daddy, I'm finished look at it."  "yeah, I'm just about done, one minute"  "Daddy look at it now", "Just one more minute", "Daddy look at it now".  Funny how repetition of a sentence is very effective for making someone angry Or moving the butt into action.  I guess it is the same with techno music.  Either you get angry with it because it is so repetitive OR it moves your butt into action. Yeah, little kids are like techno music.  I ll have to flesh that theory out some time.  "One Minute", just enough rinsed off to let myself drip water all over the place and look at the puzzle.  "Yep, excellent little girl.  And you did that really fast, too fast".  "I'm faster right?"  "Yes you are faster".

If weather permits we amble outside to do something.  Either a quick ride down the hill on her plastic motorcycle with me running next to her to make sure she doesn't hit a bump and go flying over the front (yes its happened already) or to the park.  To the park today it is.  It certainly is getting toward tipping point.  This morning there were actually just as many men with their toddlers as women.  In fact I would rather talk to the women than the men.  I am afraid talking to men, it would just devolve into the same old macho posturing, if that is possible watching your two year old kid in the playground.  It will happen.  Sadly though I have to agree with a post from fellow Home Daddy Dustin from Baltimore (rats, I should tag that article here) who lamented the impossibility or creative genius it takes to talk to a women and not appear as if you want to pick her up.  That really you just want to get in a few words here and there between pushes on the swing or helping your kid up the slide, about this and that and the other thing, small parenting talk.   Not going to happen.  Doesn't happen.  So I will remain in my own shell talking to my two year old and even going down the big tube slide once or twice with her.  This takes courage.  I don't have enough courage to ride on the little merry go round bicycles, but my male ego is not damaged by going down the slide.

The tough part of the day is coming up, lunch time.  Mommy left some homemade noodle vegetable soup to be heated up.  The little boss took a look at it and said, "I'm not eating that, I want the soup from the grocery store".   To hear a two year old say this is actually quite comical, but then again, I have to formulate plan b.   This entails the trickery I don't like to do but all parents have to do.  I put some spaghetti sauce or home made ketchup into Mommy's soup to make it look like the grocery brand she prefers, namely tomato soup.  "Here it is little girl, grocery shop soup.  I have it here."  Little does she know,... "I don't like this Daddy, it has carrots in it".   Rats.  Plan C consists of getting out some of the few staples she does eat,  a piece of ham, a piece of Parmesan cheese, and boil an egg.   I give up too easily.  I should really hook her up to an IV unit and tube feed her spinach soup and a green salad while she is in a strait jacket.  But I guess I could be taken to jail for that. Though I'm not sure for which item, the strait jacket tube feeding or for feeding her spinach soup.

Today she ate all I put on her plate, but if she doesn't like something she reverts to the age old trick, "Daddy, I'm tired. I want to take a nap."  Once she did that and she proceeded to putz around in her bed for two hours.  I realized that I`d been had, made a cad of, manipulated, by a two year old no less.  Somehow that has never damaged my ego.  Like Groucho Marx says, "Why this is so easy even a 3 year old could do this.  Chicolina go find me a three year old, I cant make heads or tales of this".  In other words, these little guys are pretty smart.  I think somewhere along the way in evolution the younger toddlers learned manipulation, the more apt they were to survive.   Its like they know how to manipulate just like beavers naturally know how to chew trees down.   

She is pretty good at the napping.  I'm on the clock now.  I`ve got two hours.  Three if I am lucky and today I am lucky.   I can practically do a whole days work while she is napping.  After she wakes up, we slowly get dressed and then head off to pick up her sister at pre school.  She would have swim class today, but I got out of taking her.  She didn't want to go with me, she only wanted to go with Mommy.  I wont argue.  So instead we go back to the park.  Repeat, rinse same as the morning, except now there are a lot more people both mothers and fathers.  My friend shows up.  He used to own a bar.  He has tattoos up and down both arms and maybe a neck tattoo too.  He is there with his 7 year old girl and his 2 year old boy.  She is very well behaved and is very motherly (or fatherly) to her little brother.

"OK, girls, time to go.  Its 6.15, we got to get home." We don't actually leave till 6.45.  Home at 7.10 I was able to fend off buying potato chips in passing 4 small grocery shops with an amount of crying and whining only with promises that Mommy has a good supper at home. I hope this is the truth.

It was indeed the truth and dinner passes off without event.  I think it was trout tonight.  They both love fish.  Yes in fact I do do some school exercises with the older girl before the dinner time and I will keep this up all throughout her school career, until she passes me in knowledge (I hope that wont be in the third grade, I'm hoping on at least managing till the fifth grade.  She has already passed me in language skills though, but that is another story).  I am not delinquent and care a great deal for her education.

Mommy is currently the favored parent for giving showers and preparing them for bedtime,  so I retire for a bit with the computer.  I do like reading the night time book, but even this duty has passed me by.  However, I maintain my rock star status for holding their hand and telling them a story after the light is out.  As written in an earlier post I have taken to creating new Popeye the Sailor episodes.  Also now I have started a new series about little bear and his piano lessons.  Despite the extreme kitsch of these stories, they are going over quite well.

And that's the day.  No newspaper headlines, no hyperbole, no over dramatization, no guts, no blood, no glory.  Its a long day and for some reason very tiring.  It seems the less exercise you do, the more tired you are. Maybe it has to do with the inward stress exercise of carrying off parental responsibilities the WHOLE day from 7am till 9pm.  What they say about the navy could also be said about daily parenting, "Its not just a job, its an adventure".  Though its not the navy either.

I do reserve the right to resort back to hyperbole, poetic license, or uber stressful situations in some or even all future posts.  Or to even change my mind that this was not a stressful day.  Truth be told, maybe because we were outside so much on this day, it was a tad chilly for May weather, that my younger girl got a stomach virus and a temperature near the end of the week.  I even had to leave work earlier one day to buy some medicines or SHE MIGHT HAVE DIED.       

Impatience 2: Clothes part 2

If I hadn't known how it works from my first child, I would have been a psychological wreck with my second child.  As it happens, I am JUST scraping by.  JUST.  I am still not accustomed to it and on the verge of devastation. Desperation.  

Let me explain.  Around the age near two it seems, the child chooses one parent it will be more buddy buddy with.  My first child chose me.  For example she really cried hard even if I was going to take the garbage out and leave the apartment.  Sometimes I changed my mind and stayed in, damn the garbage, let it stink the place up.  I don't want to see my daughter cry.

She would demand that I give her baths, brush her teeth, feed her etc etc.  Not always, I mean she loved her Mother too of course, but it seemed she preferred me to take care.  You know, it was the bonding thing.

My second daughter didn't choose me... at all.

I know the story, or at least I should, but no, its really affected me detrimentally. Still.  Its been going on all this school year.   For instance, I wasn't allowed to brush her teeth.  Well, as opposed to our first daughter, our second daughter hated having her teeth brushed.  Granted, I understand now, some of the back upper molars were slow in coming in and they must have hurt her longer, but it usually took both of us to hold her and brush her teeth.  Me holding and taking good care not to break her neck and my wife brushing.  They say you should start brushing from the time the first tooth comes in, but I m certainly afraid cleaning her teeth is going to be a mental scar on her for lifetime.  I hope not. I don't want her to have fake teeth by the time she is a teenager just because she doesn't clean, just because she associates it with being held down like a rabid dog.  Actually many times she did look like a rabid dog while we were brushing.

And she WOULD NOT let me give her a bath or shower.  You can guess what happened the couple times Mommy had meetings in the evening around bedtime and was away for bath time.  Shower not bath.  I was careful not to get the water in my second child's  eyes because they hate that.  But still it was a torture for both of us.  For her by the fact that I was breaking the rules and giving her a shower and not Mommy ("Mommy isn't home and she wont be back before bedtime").  And me on my eardrums and my nerves.  Surprisingly I didn't lose my cool and kept my patience.  I talked the whole way through the process.  "It ll be real quick, just a minute, lets just do your legs, soap time, here, there, everywhere.  We almost got it.  Its going to be done soon.  Its OK, no Mommy wont be back.  Just about done.  Lets rinse off.  We are rinsing off.  Just about done.  No, Mommy isn't home, she cant do it.  Just about done.  Yep, just about done.  Come on now, lets just rinse off the soap."  Against the back drop of "Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo, wahhhhhhhhhhhhhh,  I want Mommy, IwantMommy, IwantMommyIwantMommy.  Mommy do it Mommy do it."  All at above 100 decibels in an echo chamber that is our bathroom.  I don't know how they measure nerve stress.  What is the measurement for tension on the nerves?  Meanwhile, my older daughter is running around happy as a lark, oblivious to the struggle going on, oblivious to the mental anguish that both me and my tiny daughter are suffering.  

 But the biggest problem is that she wouldn't let me touch her with any clothes.  OK, actually when Mommy wasn't home, the biggest problem was the shower.  She let me put on her diaper (when she still was wearing them) and her pajamas.  The strange thing was that she would not let me touch her with clothes if Mommy WAS home.  And this caused me to break every time.    

Bedtime should be a family thing and a parent team effort so I wanted to do my part.  My wife would give the shower to the younger one then tell me to get her pajamas on while she did the other girl.  Oh, boy I'm laughing now in retrospect, but ... not going to happen.  I have written that getting on those jumper pajamas or the jumper t shirts were killers, I have to add to that list the diaper.  Putting on a diaper is easy these days.  Just get it even around her body and connect the tape.  But she just did not want me putting the diaper on when Mommy should do it.  So she would get the tape connectors unconnected after I got them together.  She would wriggle around so I couldn`t get the diaper even on both sides and then even when I did get it on, she knew how to take it off so she would run away from me back to the bathroom and take it off and tell Mommy to put it on.  Or she would take it off and then go run and hide in her spot behind the clothes shelf, naked squeezed next to the wall.  It was a lost cause.

If I did get it on, best to go straight to the pajamas and get them on too.  But that was even worse.  She would be wriggling around so hard there was no way I could get the leg in the right pajama leg.  If I got it in, she knew how to pull it out, then it would be inside out and I would have to change that.  If she got away while I was doing that she might take off the diaper too, back to square zero.  Or she would put her leg in the wrong leg on purpose.  Or both legs in one leg.  My patience had snapped in the diaper faze.  Now it was getting dangerous.  I realized this and knew I had to step back.  If I hadn`t stepped back I would be a yelling maniac, or worse, the yelling maniac, rabid dog.  "I¨m going to get that diaper on you. Rrrr Rrrr.  I want to put that diaper on.  You come here so I can get that diaper on you." It drained me.  I was morally fatigued, not to mention tired.  But I really only wanted to put her diaper on.  That is all I was asking.  Is that too much to ask for?  "I want Mommy, I want Mommy, Mommy do it, Mommy do it."  She ran away stark naked crying.  Yep, I guess too much to ask for.  My fists were clenched, I was gritting my teeth,  "Grr, I just wanted to get on that gd diaper. Rr", I said spewing spit through my grinding teeth.

As I said, devastation and desperation.  Frustration,  patience gone.

Dads, if this too is happening to you, whoa, take it easy, just give in, step back.  We don't want any injuries or worse.  Watch out, at your age back injuries are quite common.  Spleens are quite sensitive too.

Needless to say Mommy is doing her meetings in the morning.  I can be at work after 11.  My littlest girl is enthralled with puzzles these days.  So Mommy has a meeting at 9.30, comes back close to 11 and finds us happily putting together a smurf puzzle.   There you go, no worries.  But I still have back problems.   

Impatience 2: Clothes part 1

I haven`t been out on the highway in a car for some time.  When I was recently, a week ago on Sunday, I was again reminded that men can be such hotheads.  I mean what is the point, men? When you have a long line of cars on a two way, two lane highway, pretty much evenly spaced apart going average 60 mph, 100 km, there is absolutely no reason to pass going into head on traffic.  It endangers a lot of people.  Once you pass one, there are just as many ahead of you.  And yet, men are driving, edging out into the other lane, getting ready to nearly kill everyone by passing.

My Father always did it. My Mother hated it.  I hated it!  He always had some excuse for passing.  "Too much room between the two cars up ahead",  "We will be home faster".  Whatever, Dad.  At least I am still alive I guess.   

Still, the point being that only men do this type of passing. Seriously.  Or the percentages must be like 90 per cent men, to 10 per cent women.  I wonder how many deaths occur from this type of driving?

The further point being that men are just impatient boneheads.  I can say that of men, myself being one.  And I point this out because impatience and bringing up kids  DO NOT MIX.  It should say that on the label of kids.  "Warning, do not handle if you are filled with impatience".  Or, "Warning, mixing impatience with kids can lead to, a, b, c, and d death."  Of course the cigarette companies will vehemently oppose this warning.  But it would be good for lawyers.

In retrospect,  I can`t remember why I was so impatient to get my older girl`s clothes on after her nap. With the younger one, I usually have to get her out in time to pick up her sister at a not too reasonably late time from her pre school.  But when the older daughter was one to two, what did I have to do?   I had to hurry to go to the park maybe?  I have no idea now.  It seems like I was trying to pass into oncoming traffic.  There was no point to hurry.  But I had to!

So there I am trying to stuff her little arms into her jumper shirt.  And for some reason, after the one piece pajama, this piece of clothing always befuddled me.  It would always come on backward, or inside out and I never got the shirt on in the first two tries. 

In the middle of trying to get the jumper on, my daughter would see a free space and get loose and scamper to the top of her parents bed.  She loved that and would give a little baby laugh sitting on the pillows while I was left holding the jumper at the bottom of the bed.  We are going to be late, we can`t do this, we are going to be late for our appointment at I`m not sure what time nor where the appointment is.  And I make a lunge at her.  She scampers to the other side of the bed and brays like a mule.  I remember my pet guinea pig used to do the same maneuver when I had to put it back in its cage after I had let it run around my room some.  She looked at me just like some prairie dog sitting on its hind legs and gave a chuckle.

Don`t ask me how I caught her, but it was another ten minutes of my life "senselessly" shaved off.  Too bad only in retrospect do I have the patience to see what fun that was even for me and that it was funny too.  At the time, in the midst of the battle, the adrenaline was starting to clog my arteries and I was getting upset.  Getting upset? I was frustrated and fuming.  Get over here you little doggie and get your shirt on.  It`s all a wonderful game to them, but for us impatient men, it is a battle to the death.  Well, metaphorically speaking.  Just a bit of hyperbole there, over the edge.   

At some point, in some manner, I would catch her and now it was her turn to cry.  It was time to put on her socks.  Every time I put on her socks she started to cry.  What, what, what is it?  Is the sock too small?  Too tight?  She was too young to talk (besides saying C`mon since she was 16 months old) so I had no idea what the problem was.  I worried that something real bad was happening and because I had put on the socks wrong we would soon have to amputate her foot because the sock was cutting off the circulation.  Well, there was nothing I could do about it.  We had to get to where we were going on time.   I guess she would just have to limp after her foot was cut off.

The whole process turned me into a frazzled bundle of high voltage barbed fencing.  "Don`t touch me I`m a real live wire"

About a year later after she could speak more, I found out the problem with the socks.  I always put the sock on so that the seam which goes across the toes was a little bit too far over.  The seam was either too far to the left or right and going onto the back side.  It didn`t go across her toes PERFECTLY and she cried about that.  Well, at least she still has both feet.  We didn`t have to amputate.  I wish I hadn`t been so impatient with dressing her.  There was no point.  Exactly like there is no point in passing the car ahead of you on a two way traffic highway.  The whole thing was rather fun and funny.  The wasted time was the time I spent being impatient with whatever.

Don`t be a bonehead, men.    

    

The secret cracked. Where did that sand come from?

One of my favorite comedians, Louis CK, has this joke in the skit "boys and girls" His sister in law has just poured herself a drink after a really hair frazzling day with her kids.  Her young son, 4 years old, comes running in and plops a handful of sand right into her drink.   Louis said he had no idea where the kid got the sand, they live in the city, he doesn`t have sand in his house.  I love imagining this scene where the kid just plops this unknown sourced sand into her drink which his Mother really needs. 

Source cracked.

I was cleaning up this morning, my day with the kids.  I was putting winter coats away into storage.  I was checking the pockets to take out all the used Kleenex, old wrappers, plastic spoons, little dinosaur pictures... the list goes on. I stick my hand into this nice, bright pink heavy jacket of my older girl, now over 5 at this writing, and grab, a handful of gravel.  Little stones.  Ohhhhhhhh, OK.   I get it, of course.

When my older girl was two to three she loved going to the railroad station and then a nearby park with a playground.  She loved watching the trains come in and go out, but she also would look carefully over the stones on the railroad tracks, and then pick some up on a quieter track I would let her go to.  She would hand me the best specimens and I would have to keep them in my pocket.  Then we would go to the park.  At this playground they used pebbles instead of sand in some places.  She would take handful after handful of small stones and push them under this metal grid like playing post center, pushing letters under a glass to a post person.  Again she would study the stones and hand me the best small ones which had no trouble going into these little pinholes and under the grid at her "postal office".  "Daddy, keep these".   Because I am a natural sentimental hoarder, you know those people that can`t throw out old socks or hol(e)y t shirts because they have "memories", I of course pocketed the stones.  Also because I knew the moment after I dumped them, she would ask me for them and if I didn't have them she would have a tantrum.  So in every coat, in multiple pockets, I have several little pebble collections myself.  While she was under four she used to always ask me for the stones back when we got to her postal office.  And I always had them.  These were the special small ones which fit through all the holes.

In the summer it was acorns.  "Daddy, keep this one".  

I was at this higher class, fancy schmancy dinner party during that year when my daughter was 3 or more.  I don`t know how I got invited to that one!  I was wearing a decent, nice, black shirt which I didn`t wear that much, so, got some use out of it. I`m talking to someone at the dinner table and she asks me for my contact, so I pull my jot book out of my back pocket and some small stones drop on the floor from my pocket.  But I don`t know what fell so I lean over from my chair and three acorns drop out of my breast pocket onto my contacts lap on her dress.  Oh.  She smiles, three nuts is kind of a symbol.  She picks them up and is about to put them in her little pocketbook when I say, "oh, um, do you think I could have those back?  I really need those." "Thanks".  Her facial contortions turned stone cold.  She didn`t talk to me anymore after that.  Well, I really did need those acorns to avoid a tantrum.   Besides those had special sentimental value to me.

I had to bring my daughter`s outdoor sneakers home from pre school last week to have for our trip to the woods on the weekend.  I`m about to put one in her little backpack when some sand spills out.  So I tilt it down and like a shovel full of sand pours out onto the coat room floor.  I mean this was more than just getting sand in your shoe from playing in the sandbox.  I am careful with the other sneaker and go out side and just tilt it a bit so it stays in the sneaker.  The sand in the shoe could fill a big teacup.
"My little girl?  What were you doing that you have shovels full of sand in your sneakers?"
"Daddy, I was digging with them in the sandbox."
Uhhhhh, Ummmm? Oh.  Makes sense.     

   After that roundabout, the short of it is that Louis CK has some pretty good jokes about being a parent.  But I am a (way) better father than he is.  I know where his nephew got that sand to dump into his Mother`s drink.  He had it all along in his pocket or even his shoe.  In fact go right now to look into your children's` winter coat pockets.  I know what`s there.  

I cried the day I lost the best, little, special pebble which went through all the slots at my daughter`s post office. But I dumped the pocketful of stones from her winter coat today into the garbage.   Her little sister will get that coat hand me down in two years and it should be a clean slate for her.