WHEN GRANDPARENTS ATTACK!

The title of this post isn’t necessarily about how on my father’s watch this past weekend the baby skinned her knee and another time landed on her face with a bloody splat, but rather about how when your parents live on the other side of the country and they come for a visit, it’s an event, of Woodstock proportions. Only without the music and drugs.

I love my parents and my in-laws but when either comes for a visit it’s all encompassing. They both stay with us and neither rents a car, not that it’s needed, since we tend to spend… Every. Last. Minute. Together. Sure we have fun – this past weekend we hit the Huntington Library where we saw early drafts of the Declaration of Independence and the girls got to splash around in some fountains in their botanical gardens. We also toured the Grammy Museum where we got to see a sweat-stained shirt worn by Neil Diamond and the girls got to dance on the lighted floor from Michael Jackson’s Billie Jean video – but still the 24/7 thing can be trying, especially when there’s kids involved.

Even before we had kids I was never a fan of having people stay over the house, even for a single night. If a friend had been drinking too much I started plying them with coffee early and offered to pay for a cab ride home. If that didn’t work, I just muscled them into the car and drove them home which ultimately backfired one night when I was driving home a drunk friend and we passed a police checkpoint and he mouthed, “F.U. Pig” to one of the cops while toasting him with a red plastic cup filled with Grey Goose.

Anyway, the reason I’m not the biggest fan of people staying at the house is because I’m a morning person and a creature habit. I like to get up early, head down to my office and write. And I do the same thing after Jen and the girls go to bed. But when we have visitors, of the grandparent variety or any kind for that matter, my office becomes the guest room. And I’m sure the last thing people want to do is roll over in the middle of the night and see me typing away to the light of a computer screen. So my writing ceases when we have guests staying over, which dooms me to snacks and reality TV upstairs.

Usually when we have friends staying with us from out of town they have other people to see and other things to do that don’t involve all of us, but when they do, and there’s kids involved, things get complicated. The kids get fussy when “the plans” don’t jibe with feeding and nap schedules and they’re usually not that excited about visiting the “Psychiatry: An Industry of Death Museum.” At least with the grandparents they don’t mind working around the kids’ schedules and are happy to have the day’s big event be a trip to the park. But the trade off is you don’t get the built-in breaks that you get from friends. Granted the folks might babysit the kids one night, but we’re usually too tired to really enjoy it from all the running around we’ve been doing all day. This past visit Jen and I decided to leave the kids with my parents on Sunday afternoon while we grocery shopped in peace. It was the first time we had been grocery shopping together, sans kids, in five years and it was probably the best date we’d had in months. Which is pretty damn sad.

Another problem that Jen and I both have is that we feel obligated to entertain our parents 24/7. We need to have something planned every minute of every day while our parents are in town. Daytrips, tourist attractions and even restaurants are picked out in advance. If things go as planned, which they rarely do, we’re kinda happy, but we’re still wondering if our parents are enjoying themselves. But more often than not, when things don’t go as planned we both get stressed out and take it out on each other and sometimes our parents. I know what you’re saying, don’t plan anything; go with the flow. But that doesn’t work either because we find ourselves equally as stressed trying to figure out what our parents want to do and their pat answer of “Whatever you want to do,” makes us want to pull all the hair out of our heads. Or what’s left, in my case. So ultimately by the time we wave goodbye to our parents at the airport we’re completely exhausted, like we’ve just been to a weekend rock festival in the middle of nowhere, sans the drugs and music. Okay, maybe there is music, but it’s usually from the golden oldies station in the car.




Originally posted on Parents Ask on 3/24/10

THE NEW DAD EXCUSE?

Last week on the website Momversation (say that ten times fast) there was a video discussion about the “New Mom Excuse,” prompted by Parents Ask Managing Editor Jennifer Brandt.  Basically she was wondering how long moms could get away with the excuse of being a new mom when it came to not losing the pregnancy weight, not going to the gym, not caring that their wardrobe now consisted entirely of sweats or that moms were using baby food as hair conditioner. The panelists realized that their kids were now one, two and even three years old and they’re still using the “New Mom Excuse” for just about everything under the sun. This started me thinking, is there a “New Dad Excuse?” And the answer is no. There’s just “The Dad Excuse.” 

I touched on this to some extent in my piece on Flirting a couple weeks ago. How when I go into a Starbucks to grab a latte with the baby I’ll have three hot women quickly get the door for me while they let it slam shut in the face of the mother of two right behind me. Or how notoriously unfriendly flight attendants who sneer at moms entering a plane with children will go out of their way to help the “struggling” solo flying dad. Part of the reason this happens is because of “The Dad Excuse.” People just don’t think dads can do what moms have done for millennia. So essentially we get a pass. And when I do something completely normal, something that moms do on a daily basis, like picking my daughter up at school I’m dubbed “Super Dad” by the other moms because they don’t expect me to be able to do what they do. 

But, like the moms on Momversation, I take full advantage of “The Dad Excuse.” I often dress like a bum (though I was never that snappy of a dresser to begin with), I won’t shave for a couple of weeks, I’ll eat like crap, and up until recently the elliptical machine in my office went untouched for five years. But even though Arden is only four-and-a-half, I don’t think there’s a time limit on the “The Dad Excuse.” I think I’ll get that pass for all my shortcomings until the day I ship the girls off to college. Except from my wife.

Sure, I try and use “The Dad Excuse” at home (see my piece on why men can’t multitask), but my wife isn’t buying it. If she can do laundry and wash a few dishes while watching the girls, I should be able to do that too. And I try. “Try” being the operative word. I don’t always succeed. This actually causes Jen to get so irritated at me that she ends up cleaning the bathrooms and doing a lot of the housework I neglect. So maybe “The Dad Excuse” does work for me at home. :)


Originally posted on Parents Ask on 3/17/10.

QUOTABLE ARDEN

This past weekend we were in the car a lot. We had two kid’s birthday parties to attend to. We took a trip down to Irvine to see my cousins. And we also hit the outlet mall in the City of Commerce (where I scored a sweet new pair of jeans from Banana Republic.) So while we were between stops, driving all over the city, Arden says to me, “Let me know if you see any pink cars.” I said, “There’s not a lot of pink cars out there, sweetie.” And her response was, “Then keep your eyes peeled.”

As you know Arden is obsessed with princesses these days, especially those of the Disney variety. And in her effort to be a princess herself she’s asked us to teach her French because “French is fancy” and princesses are fancy. I don’t speak French. I took a C.I.A.-designed quickie course before a trip to Paris in 2003 and I remember very little. Jen’s actually pretty fluent, enough to feed Arden a new word or phrase a day. We’re actually sending Arden to a French immersion camp this summer for a couple of weeks. She couldn’t be happier. Anyway, tonight at dinner Arden said, “You forgot to teach me a French word today.” Jen said, “It’s not too late. What do you want to say?” Arden said, “I want to say Cheez-Its in French.” Jen and I looked at each other and laughed. I said, “Cheez-Its are a brand name. So there’s not really word for it.” Arden said, “What about Fromage-Its?”  Touché.  

IT AIN'T NO PICNIC

Last Thursday afternoon I discovered that the very next day was going to be a Music Festival at Arden’s preschool (a.k.a. one of the kid’s dad’s grunge band would be playing a couple of songs) and that families were invited to have a picnic lunch with their kids after the “show”. Apparently I missed two prior emails on the matter, or maybe I just subconsciously ignored them. Either way I wasn’t winning Dad of the Year for not knowing/remembering about this epic event. But the school wasn’t winning any awards in my book either for scheduling a picnic in the middle of a full day of school. It’s one thing to schedule these things on a half-day (and God knows they have enough of those there) when you have to bring your kids home after the event, but when the kids are this young and you’re supposed to go there, eat lunch and then abandon them again it’s not only disruptive, but it’s also traumatic for some of the kids, especially when some of the kids do get to go home. Arden wasn’t one of them.

Sure she pleaded and begged to come home, but I could tell Alex was due for a mammoth nap and I wasn’t gonna miss out on that, plus the school has so many days off between “holidays” (like Flag Day) and bullshit “in service” days that I pay for, I was determined to get my monies worth. Though I have to admit that Arden’s pleas did start to thaw my cold heart but fortunately her teacher convinced her to stay so I didn’t have to feel too bad about my decision.

Anyway, after my “discovery” the day before, I asked Arden about the picnic and she said in her politest voice, “Daddy, would you and Alex like to join me for lunch at school tomorrow?” No. But of course this melted my heart and I said, “Of course.” And then Arden went up to Jen and said, “Maybe if I ever have school on a weekend you can come too, Mommy.” Jen turned to me and said, “Okay, there’s no way on earth I’m missing this thing.”

BRAVE NUDE WORLD

So this past weekend was my friend Jess’ “29 Again” birthday and she organized a little dinner, at one of L.A.’s hip and trendy bistros, so she could celebrate with some friends. Amazingly we were able to get a babysitter (for the L.A. “bargain” rate of $15/hr). It turned out the five-and-a-half couples were all parents of young children. The half was because one of the couples had a “new” baby (read: seven months) that they weren’t comfortable leaving with a babysitter quite yet so Daddy filled in while Mommy could let loose. (Wait until they have another kid. They’ll be leaving that one with a 12-year-old neighbor by Day Two.) So of course we had all escaped our kids (except one couple that brought their 3-month-old) and the only thing we could talk about was…our kids. It was ridiculous, everyone was whipping out their iPhones to show each other pictures of their little rug rats. I of course was forced to join in because, well, I have the cutest kids on the planet. And I’ll cut you if you say otherwise.

There must have been something in the air because the conversation quickly turned into a debate on when one should stop being naked in front of their kids and just last week here on Parents Ask there was an article entitled “When Should I Stop Walking Around the House Naked in Front of My Kids?” For Jess it was last week when her almost-two-year-old son caught her getting out of the shower and stared a little too long at her breasts. This pretty much echoed what the expert in the article said, which was essentially that the answer is different for everyone, but generally when you and your child start to get uncomfortable with the whole “in the buff” thing, that’s a pretty good indication that you should start zipping it up. However, for me, when to stop walking around the house naked was a decision I made well before my children were even born.

Perhaps it’s because my father worked for Polaroid and my formative years were extremely well documented on 60-second film stock, but I have very fond and vivid memories of being two-years-old. I remember my second birthday party, I remember my first babysitter Trisha Beckwith and I remember going to work with my father, Fisher Price Farm in hand, while my mother was in the hospital recovering from giving birth to my sister. And because I have so many memories of being two I decided long ago that the day my girls turned two would be the day they stop seeing me naked because the last thing I want them to remember is seeing Big Jim and the Twins bouncing around the house.

For me this was and will be again an easy transition since I’m not the type of person who walks around the house naked anyway, which probably has to do with the fact that I’m not terribly comfortable with my own body. Let’s face it, I’m short, bald and hairy and no matter how hard I try (and really I don’t try) I’ll never have Taylor Lautner’s 8-pack. And my self-esteem wasn’t much improved when the first time both of my children laughed was when they were 3 months old and saw me step out of the shower naked. And both times I said, “Laugh it up now, because in 21 months the joke’s over.”  

The only slightly difficult part of this transition was not one day explaining to Arden that she couldn’t see me naked anymore (that part was easy, I just stopped being naked in front of her), but rather explaining to her that her new little sister could see me naked and she couldn’t. Arden already had a good understanding of privacy at this point. (“Daddy, close the door, I’m pooping!”) so her issue was really about jealousy. She wanted to be wherever her sister was and when I was showering, that happened to be in a bouncer in the bathroom with me. We’re still dealing with the jealousy thing to this day, but fortunately no longer on Battleground Bathroom.

While my decision to cut the girls off on their second birthday was cut and dry, Jen on the other hand is a completely different story. She sleeps in the nude, walks around in the nude and one time she even helped a female guest open up the sofa bed, while in the nude. I have no idea how this will impact the girls when they’re older, or what memories they’ll have of this time, but right now both kids like nothing more than being naked. Perhaps this is because of Jen’s free-spirited ways or perhaps it’s just because they’re kids. Either way, I consider my house a nudist colony much of the time. Myself happily excepted.

Originally posted on Parents Ask on 2/24/10

Indoor Playground: My Kid Took Off His Socks. So What?!

Last week Managing Editor of  Parents Ask, Jennifer Brandt Herschko, asked me if I wanted to be an "expert" on one of their subscriber questions. The article and my response are posted below...


At some point, we've all felt like the world was watching during certain acts of parenting. During those moments when you feel like you're being silently judged for your parenting (or lack thereof), it can feel hard to hold your own-- to feel good about yourself and your stature (as the person responsible for the child that his chucking french fries across the restaurant). So what can you do about it? Do you say something to the onlookers- the other moms sending silent but deadly assessments your way?

One reader recently asked: How do I deal with a parent glaring and making rude comments about my 4 year old because he took off his socks for a minute at an indoor kid area?

Certainly, there is probably a very appropriate and psycho-analytical response to this question, that we could have had any one of our brilliant and renowned experts weigh in on. But instead, we went right to the source and asked the know it all dad who may (or may not) be the one wondering about your kids bare feet.... Guest Blogger Rick Suvalle of I Peed on My Kid answers:

As a parent who hates the park because of the sand and the dirt and the need for constant slatherings of sun block I’ve been to my fair share of indoor play places and play gyms. I’ve been to the low-rent ones where the Little Tikes Coupes are missing wheels and the ball pits are more pit than snot-covered ball. I’ve been to the boutique ones where they only stock Doug & Melissa wooden craft toys and have “noise rules”. And I’ve been to the fancy ones where you can sip a soy latte as you get your nails done while the kids take a drop-in pointillism class. But one thing that’s always the same is the Sock Rule.

I understand the No Shoe rule because they don’t want people tracking dirt into their establishments, but none of these places have been able to really explain to me the reason for the Sock Rule other than it’s an additional layer of protection from germs. Foot germs? Has there been an Athlete’s Foot outbreak among 4-year-olds as of late? Or ever?  Maybe I don’t want to know the answer. Maybe I should stop putting my 1-year-old’s feet in my mouth. Regardless, a rule is a rule and it’s there for a reason. But hey, what kid hasn’t broken a rule before? And what baby wants to keep socks on their feet? The first thing my 4-year-old does when she walks in the door everyday is strip down to her skivvies. So while a rule is a rule I do understand the desire to air out the old dogs for a minute or two and personally I don’t think what your child did is a big deal. Certainly not big enough for someone to glare at you or make rude remarks over, especially if it was only for a minute or two. So I think you’re right in feeling irritated by this person and there’s several ways I think you can handle this situation if it pops up again:

1)    You could glare back at them and say, “What are you lookin’ at, homes?” “Homes” being the operative word. It makes them think you’re “gangsta” and no one wants to mess with a gangsta.
2)    You could pretend your child has a rare foot disorder and make this person feel bad for picking on someone less fortunate.
3)    In solidarity you could take off your socks too.
4)    You could punch them in the face. Just make sure your bags are packed so you can immediately run away before the cops arrive. It may be wise to have a good lawyer on retainer for this option, just in case.
5)    You could just ignore them and continue doing what you’re doing and seek solace in the fact that you know you’re a good parent and you’re doing what you think is right.

Personally if I had the money for a lawyer I’d probably go with option 4, otherwise I think 5 is probably your best bet.



Originally posted on Parents Ask on 2/19/10.

IT'S A HAIRY SITUATION

Anyone who reads my blog knows that my 4-year old Arden has a nest of curly hair sitting on top of her head (and it seems like her little sister is going down that path as well). Having curly hair is a blessing and a curse. The positives are that it’s cute and doesn’t really require much maintenance – maybe an occasional spritz or two from the old water bottle and you’re good to go. None of that brushing and blow-drying crap.  The negatives are that having curly hair is…“cute” and there’s not much you can do with it. 

People often ask me where the kids get their curls and I have to literally put my hat in my hand and explain that many moons ago I too had curly hair, before it all fell out…when I was 21. Yes, I’m still a tad bitter. But the good thing about being bald is that it doesn’t really require much maintenance and according to my wife “It’s sexy like Ed Harris.” I have a feeling she’s just humoring me.  

Growing up in a family of curly tops in an era where both men and women would perm their hair to look like mine, it wasn’t a big deal. But as I got older the ‘fro fad got traded in for Beverly Hills 90210 pompadours and long sideburns and I was suddenly left in the dust. Since then the Curl Revolution has yet to return (except for my own brief hippy stint in high school.) In short I was never really happy with my hair and I’ve feared that one day Arden would feel the same way. However, I didn’t realize that would happen at age 4. 

Arden is currently in a Disney Princess Obsessed phase and she wants to look as much like a princess as possible. She alternates between walking around the house in her Belle and Sleeping Beauty costumes. But in her never-ending quest to be a princess (she’s asked us to teach her a new French word every night because “French is fancy”) she wants her hair to look like a princess too. Unfortunately there are no Disney princesses that sport curly hair so there’s no specific icon we can trick her into looking up to. So on a whim one Sunday morning Jen offered to straighten Arden’s hair. Big mistake. 

With flat-iron, blow dryer and heaps of style gel in hand Jen set out to turn Arden into the princess of her dreams and after a “fun-filled” hour of Jen barking, “Arden, stop moving or I’ll burn your face off,” the transformation was complete. And much to our surprise it didn’t look half bad, except for the back where the curls weren’t exactly uniform so Arden had kind of a rat-tail thing going on back there, but she couldn’t see it so she was thrilled. And it showed…

Arden suddenly became a different person. Instead of being the ultimate defiant four-year-old she became sweet and polite and actually did what we asked of her, though sometimes with a strange “French” accent. She picked up her toys; she actually ate her dinner and didn’t even complain when she didn’t get dessert due to her previous life’s transgressions. And amazingly she actually smiled for photographs like a runway model instead of her usual dour poses as of late. I liked this Arden though I preferred the cuteness of her curls and Jen preferred to avoid future bouts of hellacious straightening. So we had to make sure this was a one-time treat. Or maybe two-time…

Thanks to the mass amounts of product in Arden’s hair it was still straight the next morning so we let her wear it to school that day. This was our third mistake (the second was telling Arden how beautiful she looked) because once at school the compliments continued to roll in, which meant Arden was going to want her hair straight every day. The other parents who will praise anything that’s different about your kid (“Ohhh, you drew on your face, how cute.”) laid it on thick. The other kids came running up to Arden to check it out. She was suddenly popular and I was suddenly very scared. And it didn’t help when Arden’s teacher came over and said, “You know there’s a product that will make it stay that way.” I quickly snapped, “No there isn’t.” The teacher didn’t pick up on my “shut the hell up” vibe and countered, “Yes there is, it’s called-” I shushed her, “It’s called ‘nothing’.” But the damage was done. 

When Arden came home that day she was glowing and on cue proclaimed, “I want my hair straight every day.” I instantly flashed back to high school where my mother would wake up at the ass crack of dawn so she could burn my sister’s hair into submission, which more often than not resulted in my sister missing the bus and my mother being forced to throw a parka over her nightgown and drive her to school in the snow. Even though I liked the new Arden and her bizarre European accent, I wanted the old Arden back and Jen wanted to avoid my mother’s early morning fate. So I came up with a decent comprise, one Sunday a month we’d whip out the flat-iron. But I’m hoping she forgets until high school. And if that doesn’t work out, at least we don’t get snow here in Southern California.   

Originally posted on Parents Ask on 2/17/10