Having children can pose incredible challenges to your Marriage. Recall, if you can, all the Fun Things you used to do together before you had kids, all the Shared Experiences and Unforgettable Memories.  Maybe you hiked mountains and took Selfies when you got to the Top.  Maybe you went to Fashionable Restaurants and took pictures of the Fashionable Things you ate and posted them on your Fashionable Facebook Page.  Maybe you took vacations to Exotic Islands or European Countries, and talked with your friends about how the Water in Aruba is so warm, or how you had this really great wine in Rome that you simply cannot get anywhere in the United States, which made you feel so cultured and well-travelled because that’s how you felt when you talked about things you simply couldn’t get in the United States, or maybe you just said “the States,” to sound extra European.

I don’t know what you did, but the point is, you did stuff with each other that was Fun. When you add Kids to the Equation, however, stuff like this gets way more complicated.  Try hiking with a baby in one of those expensive Hiking Baby Backpacks that are not nearly as seamless as advertised.  Flying with children is like flying with children – just ask anyone who has flown with children, or better yet, ask the poor people who had to sit next to them.  And there is simply nothing Fashionable about posting anywhere a picture of a Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich, which begins to comprise of a much greater percentage of your diet than you ever thought was possible, once you figure out that going to Restaurants is a huge waste of time and money and energy and the very definition of Not Fun.

So what is the previously Happy and Well-Traveled couple to do? Without further introduction, here is my Eight Ways To Stay Married With Children Survival Guide.

1. Don’t refer to each other as “Mom” and “Dad.” Why? Principally, because if either of you hears the words “Mom” or “Dad” again, you are likely going to Scream, because you hear those [_____] words all day long, and all the deep-breathing that you are doing isn’t [______] working anymore.

2. Look at each other. This may seem either obvious or pointless or both.  How, after all, can you avoid looking at each other, absent an express dispute causing you not to look at each other?  Actually, with Children, it is easier than it sounds.  Sometimes in the mornings, when I am racing around the kitchen preparing lunches and thinking about all of the various things that need to get done that day, I barely notice L, who barely notices me, because she is hurrying her way out of the house for her early shift at the hospital.  Or, I think, maybe she is just trying to avoid making lunches and doesn’t actually have to go to work, which is a preposterous thought, because of course L has to go to work and she isn’t just making up her start time or the fact that she is a Nurse Anesthetist, but these are the kinds of crazy thoughts that crop up in one’s mind when you have kids and you are having a Moment.  You just start blaming your spouse for things they really shouldn’t be blamed for, such as, in this case, Working.

3.  Fight Irrational Thoughts When You Are Having a Moment.  See paragraph 2 above, last sentence.  Your spouse, for example, may actually need to use the Restroom – he’s not simply trying to temporarily escape the Scrum.  In this regard, it is Vital to remember that you are all on the same Team.

4.  Don’t Take The Team Thing Too Far.  While it’s critical to remember you are on the same Team, don’t let your spouse transform solely into your Teammate.  Your Teammate is that guy who [insert crazy/ill-advised/poorly thought out thing(s)] when you were on the same team in college or high school.  Your spouse is not that, and we can all agree that this is something we should be thankful for.

5. Remember – It’s Often Harder Than It Looks.  Don’t underestimate how hard it is to manage a house and keep it all up when you are away and your spouse has the kids.  Nothing makes putting the Laundry away harder than when your kids take it all out again for no reason.  Dinner probably hasn’t been made because the kids are constantly beckoning (see paragraph 1 above), or because someone got Hurt, or because someone Peed on the floor (if you’ve read this blog before you will notice there’s lots of Peeing on the floor in our house).  Try to keep that all in mind, and remember all the Team stuff in paragraphs 3 and 4.

6. Give each other some “me” time. We all legitimately need breaks from all the chaos that is involved in children-having.  Give your partner some well-deserved time away.  Let them do something without the kids.  It doesn’t have to be extravagant.  In fact, it could be down-right pedestrian.  Nothing makes going to an Obnoxious Grocery Store and buying Obnoxiously Uninteresting Items at Obnoxiously High Prices at all glamorous or enjoyable other than doing all that with your kids in tow, because then the whole experience is simply Obnoxious.  Without them, though – it’s like no less than a Vacation. For more on Vacations, please see Item 8 below.

7. Don’t keep detailed track of the other person’s “me” time. It never adds up and you are never going to win the argument that your spouse got to take 2 hours at the Grocery Store while you only got 1.5 hours with your friends at the bar.  It’s not an argument worth having.  Just tell yourself it all evens itself out in the end, even if it doesn’t. Again, recall all the Team stuff in paragraphs 3 and 4 above.

8. Redefine what is “Cool” and “Fun.” Take, for example, Minivans, or Summer Vacations to The Jersey Shore. Before kids I used to Bag all over people who drove Minivans.  What the [____] are those things, I used to ask?  And all those old fogies that took vacations to the Jersey Shore?  Come on!  How lame!

You know what we’ve done that last three summers for our Summer Vacation? You guessed it.  We drove to the Jersey Shore.  In a [_____] Minivan.  And you can see how one of those went for us here:  https://letterstoflorence.com/2015/09/02/our-summer-vacation/

I know, how Cool and Fun and what a great way to Recharge!

Just keep telling yourselves that.

Now, you go call that Babysitter and get out there on the Town and be You again! Take those fun Selfies or those pictures of your Fried Calamari and post them wherever such things are posted.  Go take that bike-ride, or get that Couples Massage, or see that Movie that’s Not Animated and/or Rated Higher Than G.  I am sure that after reading this you can already feel your Marriage becoming healthier and more vibrant.  It probably even feels like Therapy, without the Therapist or the Bill (or the Therapy).

You know, the other day, I started looking at one of Tim Ferriss’ books, which purport to tell the reader how to do amazing things in 4 hours, like begin and end a workweek, or develop a Great Body, things like that. And then I realized that exactly none of this content was geared toward me, because there is nothing at all impactful that I can do, like begin and end a workweek, or tone my Abs, in only 4 hours.

As is probably clear by now, I couldn’t even read his book.

But I can get my kids out of bed and to the bus-stop in 21 minutes, which I accomplished this morning, which was a Personal Record of mine; and if you are wondering how I did that, here is my How To Get Your Kids Out Of Bed And Out The Door In Twenty-One Minutes Guide:

– Try not to run so late next time, because this is highly unlikely to be accomplishable with any degree of regularity.

– Open up their Bedroom Doors and blast some kind of inspiring theme music from your nearest music-generating source (phone, computer, or for nostalgic effect, 1990s era Boombox). This morning I chose the opening song from The Lion King, and I will tell you, those kids rose up out of their beds like all those various animals around Pride Rock, though in a much more confused/alarmed manner.

– You’ve got to really master the Bathroom. While you’re brushing one kid’s teeth, someone’s got to be peeing.  Otherwise you’ve got to deal with Lines, and you can’t have any Lines, not with only 14 minutes left.  And if you’re thinking, well, you’ve got three children, isn’t there necessarily someone waiting, there isn’t, because he or she is going to skip all this and just Go when they get to school (and we’ll do an extra vigorous brushing tonight, or so you should say).

– If someone misses and Pees on the floor, you’re going to need to clean all that up later. I know, that’s kind of nasty, but sometimes Parenting is kind of nasty.  Incidentally, I kind of thought with E that I wouldn’t have nearly as many instances of this, but it turns out that you Girls, or at least my Girl, can miss just as well as the boys can, and at the most inopportune of times.

– Don’t let them do anything when they get downstairs before they put their jackets and shoes on. That’s right, no jackets and shoes, no breakfast; and you go on and tell them that you don’t care if that’s not what they always do, that they never eat breakfast with their jackets and shoes on, because that’s what everyone’s doing today.  And then Roar at them.  Like Mufasa.

– On matters of breakfast, these are not circumstances in which the children should have any choice. So when someone says something like, “But I wanted…”, you cut them off before they can finish their sentence because nobody’s got any time for that and if they don’t want to be hungry they will Eat Their Damned Toast.

– Some kind of bull[____]’s going to happen, because it happens every morning. Usually in my house it is E and G getting into some kind of Skirmish over something like who got a Yellow Gummy Bear Vitamin, or who is sitting in who’s chair at the table, or something like that.

Now, I don’t know the manner in which you Bring It On, but now you’re down to like 6 minutes left, and it’s [____] cold outside, and you still need to get all the backpacks all packed and the lunch boxes all stuffed, so now’s the Time to Bring It. “It” means that Voice and/or Look that indicates Business, and that there will be no more [______] around.  I can usually tell when I’ve adequately brought It when J starts saying things like “Guys, Dad’s not kidding, didn’t you hear him, finish your breakfast, or we’re never having breakfast again!”

– Speaking of lunches, hopefully you made them beforehand, but if not, I’ve got nothing for you. You’re screwed.

– Don’t spend any time thinking about how you really ought to get started earlier, because you already didn’t do that.

– Don’t spend any time wishing your kids were more self-sufficient, because they aren’t, and they never will be, even if at some point in their lives they almost certainly will, but since that point is not Now, it is entirely irrelevant, and may as well never happen.

So there you have it, folks. It’s not nearly as elegant or inspiring or fun-to-think-about as Tim Ferriss’ solutions, but at least you made it out the door, onto another much-longer-than-Four-Hour Workweek.

You may recall that we have a Rule in our House that goes something like this: whenever one Parent suggests something involving the Children that will inevitably be ruined by the fact of their involvement, the other one shoots down the suggestion in the strongest of terms, complete with insults and character attacks, all of which are accepted as necessary to enforce the Rule.

While the Rule is fairly effective at eliminating poor decision-making, it isn’t entirely fool-proof. For example, last week Gavin asked Levia if we could go to The Diner for dinner, a request Levia relayed to me.

“Did you just have these kids yesterday?” I asked, with over-the-top snarkiness.

“But it’s his birthday,” Levia replied reasonably.

“Even worse! Then he’ll be spending his birthday on Time-Out, after we don’t have fun at The Diner!”

We ended up going to The Diner, and I spent the majority of the time shooting Levia various kinds of nasty I-Told-You-So looks, because, after all, I Told Her So.

Sometimes, however, strict adherence to the Rule can have Unintended Consequences. This past weekend, Levia mentioned that she needed to make some Returns to various stores at The Mall. Ordinarily, any suggestion of going to The Mall makes me immediately sweaty and anxious, but for some bizarre reason, every Black Friday weekend I find myself thinking that it might be interesting to take a trip, which is totally insensible, because it is never interesting at all. Nevertheless, I suggested that we all might go together, and wouldn’t that be fun?

“That’s just Dumb,” said Levia flatly.

“You’re right,” I said, immediately recognizing the Error of my Ways. And then, perhaps as Penance for my ridiculousness, I said, “the children seem reasonably occupied, why don’t you just go and take care of the Mall Stuff yourself, and then…”

Before I could finish the sentence, Levia declared that she Wholeheartedly Agreed, and bolted out the door.

Hindsight of course is 20-20, and so it’s clear to me now that Levia knew exactly the manner in which the children were “reasonably occupied.” Having discovered various bottles of Glitter (footnote #1), the children had turned our entire basement into a bad replica of a 1970s-style disco club, and Emery was so well covered in Glitter she looked like a large Christmas Tree Ornament.

(Needless to say, I still haven’t gotten all the glitter off the Basement Floor, or Emery, who still looks strangely sparkly three days later.)

As you can see, complying with the Rule (coupled with having a Shrewd Wife) back-fired, having landed me in perhaps the one situation that might be worse than having Kids at the Mall. At least we weren’t tempted to try the pictures with Santa.

(Footnote #1 – the label on the Glitter Bottles states that it is appropriate for children ages 3+.  That’s bull[____].  That [_____] isn’t appropriate at all.)

The other day I went into a Verizon Store, needing to get a new phone. My old one wasn’t working any longer, making me more convinced than ever that, in all of Apple’s marketing and promotional wisdom, they didn’t forget to implant some kind of self-destruction mechanism that gets algorithmically triggered right around the user’s Upgrade Eligibility Date, forcing the purchase of another one.

I don’t take these kinds of shenanigans – whether real or entirely made up in my own head – lying down. Indeed, as Levia can attest, I treat basically every consumer purchase as a kind of war.  Of course, I don’t try to negotiate the price of things like cereal in the supermarket.  But with regard to pretty much everything else, I make the entire affair as painful as possible for everyone involved .

For example, it took me months to conclude our Minivan purchase a few years ago.  Typically, most people drive away with new cars feeling reasonably satisfied, even excited about their purchase.  Not us.  By the time we finished, the car salesman hated me, I kind of hated me, and Levia was totally done and absolutely ready to stuff all of the children into the backseat of our Honda Accord, car-seats or no car-seats, and make the best of it. Anything to make the tortuous process just [______] end already. 

As we all probably know, unlike Minivans, the prices of cellular phones in stores like Verizon Stores are largely non-negotiable. But that didn’t prevent me from trying.

“Hello,” said this young techy-looking guy as I walked into the store, who somehow made his bright red Verizon Wireless collared shirt look reasonably cool. “What brings you to our store today?”

“Well,” I said. “My phone pretty much doesn’t work, and I think I am eligible for an Upgrade.”

“OK. I would be delighted to help you with that!” he replied, with artificial but strangely believable enthusiasm.

After he confirmed that I was indeed eligible for an Upgrade, he brought me right to the newest iPhone product, the iPhone 7, and went through all of its glorious features and sleekness and coolness.

“So,” he said, “is this the one you want to go with?”

“No,” I replied rather flatly, and maybe rudely in hindsight. I am really no better than a small child in places like Verizon stores, in that I become immediately hungry and therefore cranky and/or just want to go home.  “I actually just want a new version of what I have now.  Is that possible?”

I have made something of a habit of this whenever I have to buy a phone – that is, buying the previous version at a price that is either free or significantly lower than the asking price of the newest product. I learned this general money-saving technique from my father.  To take an example, he raised us as rabid Yankees fans, and perhaps the one thing a young boy taught to love a particular sporting team might really want would be a shirt with a current Awesome Player’s name and number on the back.

These kinds of shirts, however, were typically too expensive for us. But that didn’t stop my dad from making the effort.  At the end of every season, particularly a season in which a shirt-worthy player might have been traded to another team, he would go to a nearby sporting goods stores and try to find that player’s Yankees shirt, which was usually on sale for a pretty significant discount, because who wants the shirt of a player who’s not on the team anymore?

We did, supposedly, and so in 1991 we were the only kids on the playground sporting Dave Winfield Yankees shirts, and when our friends pointed out the inconvenient fact that Dave Winfield was actually on the California Angels, we just shrugged and looked away in the way young boys do when they are embarrassed and want to change the subject.

Perhaps it is not surprising then that I don’t watch the Yankees, or even baseball, any longer. But the lessons regarding the value of a dollar stayed with me, and I’ve made it a point to impart these lessons onto my own children.

For example, one day Jacob pointed out in a sales catalogue some kind of Lego Set that cost $100.

“Can I get this someday?” he asked.

“That thing’s $100 dollars,” I replied. “If we went around buying things that are $100 dollars, we wouldn’t have enough money for food, and then we would starve.”

Which ended the conversation rather quickly. And if I was unsure whether he understood my point, however exaggerated and imprecise, it was confirmed the next day, when he was with me at our local YMCA membership desk signing Gavin up for Youth Basketball.

“How much is the registration fee?” I asked the YMCA guy.

“$100,” he replied.

“Do you have like a Long-Time Member Discount or something?” I asked, not pushing this too hard, because, after all, this is the YMCA, and the guy is really like an 18-year old kid, but still not having enough shame not to ask.

“Uh, I don’t think so.”

“No problem,” I said. “Sign us up.”

When we got to the car later, Jacob had a very sad look on his face.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“You just spent $100 and now we are going to starve.”

Now, most Parents might be upset with themselves for creating such fear and anxiety in their children. Not me.  Clearly, I made my point, and I expect Jacob to grow into a thrifty young man, and hopefully not too psychologically harmed.

Back to the Verizon Store.

“Oh,” the Verizon Guy said, in response to my request for an outdated phone. “Well, we do have the iPhone 6s, but the pricing really isn’t all that much better than the 7, and you probably want a better phone, right?  The iPhone 7 is way better.”

“Not really,” I replied. “And what’s this “S” business?  Can I have, what would you call it, an iPhone 6 Not S?”

“Well,” he said reluctantly, “I guess I can go in the Back and check for that one. It’s pretty old though, and really outdated.”

You’d think I was asking this guy for a bunch of cups and a string.

“Thanks,” I said. “And while you’re back there, can you check if you’ve got anything older, like a 5 or something?”

“Uh, I am pretty sure we don’t have any of those,” he said, clearly growing annoyed.

He eventually brought out an iPhone 6 Not S Plus, which at first glance seems less like a phone and more like some kind of weird self-defense weapon. In all honesty, this was something I had considered since, like it or not, as a Parent I use my phone fairly frequently, and the larger screen seemed potentially helpful.  This was also the version Levia had, and she seemed to like it, and I had asked her if she thought it would be good for me.

“You’ll find a way to complain about it,” she said. Which is pretty much true.  The pain I exert over consumer purchases doesn’t end at the Point of Sale.  It carries on for the duration of the life of the product, when I complain and feel perpetually guilty about how much I paid for it, and when I periodically declare that it doesn’t work properly, even if that’s because I don’t know how to use it.

“We only have this one,” said the Verizon Guy. By now he clearly wanted to end this transaction as soon as possible. He and Levia should get a beer sometime.  Because, sadly for him, I was only getting started.

“OK,” I said, “how much is it?”

“$100, with a 2-year contract.”

While I don’t think spending $100 is as financially devastating as Jacob now thinks it is, that still seemed kind of high.  Didn’t this guy just say this phone was Ancient, and that I shouldn’t want it?  I mean, this thing must suck, relatively speaking, and it’s nearly the size of the Corded Phone I grew up with, back when Dave Winfield was on the Yankees.

“How’s fifty bucks?” I asked, after going through all this with him.

“I can’t really do that,” he said, which seemed completely true, as these guys don’t have much or any negotiating authority, and probably seldom expect to negotiate at all.

“Can you throw in a protective case?” I persisted.

To make a long story short, he couldn’t throw in anything.  I did buy the outdated phone (no case – those things are way cheaper elsewhere), and I will probably do the same thing when this one automatically self-destructs. And if I am perpetually behind on the Technological Times, that’s okay with me.  If we starve, it won’t be because I have the latest iPhone.  And at least I am not wearing a wrong-teamed Dave Winfield shirt.

 

 

Parents, remember the days when all you had to do in the morning was wake up, get the coffee going, find some clothing that reasonably matched, maybe wonder for a few moments what has become of your life, and then get yourself to work?  Better yet, remember when those mornings felt busy and stressed and frazzled?  The traffic, the emails, the overbearing bosses, the unreasonable clients and their unreasonable deadlines, it was all so…

Yeah, in comparison to your mornings now, I think the words you are looking for include “pretty”, “damn”, and “easy.”

Why?  What’s in a morning, in the Land of Small Children-Raising?

I will share with you what’s typically in mine.

Oh, where to begin?   Let’s start in the darkness of pre-dawn, when it all must necessarily start, if I am to stand any chance of getting through this thing.   For me, this is the smooth part, the part when, in the eerie quiet of my kitchen, I come up with the Game Plan: what lunches will be sent, what breakfasts will be attempted, what clothing will be worn, what medicines need to be taken.  Then I get to work, going through the progressions of packaging sandwiches pleasing in their predictability with fruits and vegetables likely to be ignored; of apportioning cereal into plastic bowls and putting Gummy Bear vitamins in Dixie Cups, two for each child; of getting the shoes out of the closets and measuring out antibiotics for the treatment of ear infections.  During this time everything is so under control and well-organized and I feel like I know what I’m doing.  The breakfasts are on separate place-mats, demarcating everyone’s table space, and the lunches are all packed and ready to be put in the Minivan trunk, and I know what the weather is going to be like and whether there is any need for hats and gloves, and if by now if they still haven’t woken up I am so ready to dominate this game go ahead kids wake up and come on down here and BRING THAT [_____] ON!!!

Things start going sideways almost comically early.  What really should happen first is that either (a) J and G wake up at the same time, which would allow me to get them dressed and get their teeth brushed while E is still sleeping; or (b) they all get up at the same time, which, while a little crazy initially, would let me get all the dressing and the teeth-brushing out of the way at once.

But (a) or (b) only occur about 5% of the time, if that.  What is far more likely is that G wakes up first, setting off a nasty chain-reaction of unplanned occurrences.  At first, he is a cheerful morning companion, greeting me as he often does with a big hug and an eager morning smile and dutifully eating his breakfast (likely because he didn’t eat his dinner the night before).  But his morning pleasantness changes abruptly, without any real cause, and for some reason he gets strangely restless, and after I run up the stairs and scramble as nimbly and quietly as I can (he and J share a room; E’s is directly adjacent to it) to find him some clothing, he proceeds to not want to get dressed, and to run away from me when I try to do that.  Naturally, then E wakes up, probably because I wasn’t quiet enough, or because our stairs are excessively creaky, or because G is making too much noise, or does the actual reason really matter now?

At some point in time, which seems now like the distant past, I used to be able to let E hang out in her crib and sing “Maybe” and other songs from “Annie” to herself while I attended to things like dressing reluctant children. She still sings the Annie songs, but she has also mastered the art of climbing out of the crib.  So, before dressing G, I’ve got to run up there and prevent this from happening. G follows me up and into her room, at which point he and E start singing the Annie songs together very, very loudly, which, really, is a bit much for the morning, but since time is continuing to tick away, at least all the noise will start the process of waking J up.  Right?

Nope. When I take a quick peek in his room, he is sleeping as if it’s the middle of the night, as if the ghastly Broadway Performance going on in the other room isn’t happening at all. After I struggle to get E’s clothes on, and address all of her preferences (“I DON’T WANT DAT SHIRT…I WANT DIS SHIRT!”; “I PUT PANTS ON MYSELF!!!”; “NO SOCKS!! NO SOCKS!!”; and so forth), we go into the boys’ room, to wake J up, and to get his and G’s clothing on (at this point, I have forgotten that I previously brought clothes downstairs for G; those will remain wherever they are for the rest of the day).  Well, if you mix Crabbiness with Extreme Melodrama, put it in a long body, and add some curly hair and tight pajamas, you get J, in the morning, having not woken up, and being forced to do so.  I will spare you the details of the moaning and the groaning and the complaints of Injustice and Unfairness in the World; let’s just say that while he’s going through all of that, I am able to, pretty seamlessly, get G dressed and brush his and E’s teeth.  It is at this point that I realize the Fundamental Truth of having three kids: at almost any given point in time, one of them isn’t cooperating.

Tick-tock, Tick-tock.

I tell J that we are going downstairs, and that he should meet us down there when he is ready.  He sadly and pathetically asks if we can wait for him; and I am weak, I can admit that, so we wait.   Have you ever had to wait for something to happen painfully slowly, with a 2-year old and a 4-year old?  Exactly, Charlie Brown – good grief!  In the process, he asks whether G has eaten breakfast.  Yes, I say, he did, because he woke up earlier. “No fair!”, he pouts, adding to the long list of morning gripes.  Of course, this complaint is totally insensible, but I find some patience, and I explain that maybe tomorrow morning, he should get up earli…..

He’s already not paying attention, focusing instead on a few stray Lego pieces on the floor, and remembering they are from some project he might have been working on.  Then he stops putting his clothes on altogether, and starts to continue the project.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

It is at these kinds of junctures that I have taken to gently closing my eyes and taking deep breaths, to exert some control over the now combustible combination of my desire to move things forward, to get on with the next stage (we just need to get down the damn steps!!), and my utter inability to do so.

Deep breath, deep breath.

One more time.. .deep breath, deep breath.

I re-direct him back to putting the clothes on, and I do that calmly, because the deep breathing helps and I’ve gotten my Zen back, however temporarily.  Finally, he is dressed.  Down the stairs we go.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

Now we’re downstairs, in the kitchen, where J and E still need to eat breakfast.  I sit them down and get them started, but E is quickly distracted by G’s running around the imaginary circle that surrounds our staircase and runs through the front foyer and the living room and the kitchen.  So she flops off her chair and starts to follow him, doing something that isn’t quite running, but more like part horse-galloping and part skipping, and I don’t know where she got it from but I know she is not eating her breakfast.  I tell G to stop running and E to stop doing whatever it is she is doing and I gather her up and bring her back to the table.  But now I discover that there is a Number 2 in Number 3’s diaper.  Back up the stairs we go.

While I am changing the tire, J finishes his breakfast, which dissolves any hope of E eating her breakfast, for if she couldn’t sit at the table with one boy not sitting at the table, she certainly isn’t going to do that with both of them not there.  So I pour her milk into the nearest Sippy Cup, our version of The Roadie.  While I am doing this, G declares that he has to use the bathroom, something I encouraged him to do when he first woke up, but of course he refused, and what the [____] do I know, right?  Now, for the life of me, I can’t understand why he continues to forget to lift up his shirt before he pees, or why he can’t just aim the damn thing better, but in any event, he pees all over his shirt, and while I am by no means a stickler about sending them in with perfectly clean clothing, I can’t send him in a pee-soaked shirt.

I go back up the stairs, for another shirt.

At which point I hear the cries of E, which sound like she took a mild to maybe more serious-than-mild fall in the course of her horse galloping/skipping.

And then J can’t find the scissors he wants to use to make a cutout of The Tooth Fairy.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

We are obviously not making any Progress.  In fact, we are going backwards.  We are like a bad football team.  We maybe got a few First Downs, completing the old Screen Pass or two, but now we are getting sacked and we are fumbling and we are missing tackles and we are running the wrong way, all at the same time, which I know sounds impossible, but we are finding ways to do it!

I am feeling combustible again.  And, like I said before, I am also weak, so that quickly gives way to despair.  We are never going to get out of here, I think.   What’s the point of all this, I ask myself?  I want to give up and I suck at this and I just want to throw in the Towel. But even if that were a possibility, the plight is existential; there is no real escape.  For if I give up, they would still be there, right in front of me, peeing on their shirts and horse-galloping and complaining, and at this moment, Work looks, if nothing else, like the only way to end this game which I am so clearly losing, and if there is anything worse than losing a game, it is losing a game that doesn’t actually end.

How’s that for inspiration?!?!  Cue up the Rocky music!!  I didn’t hear no bell!!  One more round!!  Let’s get these Things out the door!

Strangely enough, when I declare something like “OK everybody, let’s get going!”, everyone moves in the right direction, that being toward the Mud Room, which leads to our garage, which is where we primarily enter and exit the house. Oh yeah…look at that!  That’s the spirit! I came out swinging!  Finally!  Don’t call it a Come-back! I own this!

But then we get to the Mud Room.  I really have no idea what it is about our Mud Room, but it has become in our house the equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle.  Literally everyone’s movement suddenly stops; all Progress comes to a halt; limbs suddenly become floppy and uncharged; and people start sitting down and staring blankly at things like the lone florescent light on the ceiling, or the washing machine.  It has the same effect if we are coming in from being out somewhere; sometimes, after school, the boys, in particular, will literally not take their jackets off, lie down on the floor, and go to sleep. Yes, they go to sleep!  If they actually do anything in this treacherous zone, it is nothing that furthers the cause for which we are there; it is, for them, an end in and of itself.  One morning, for example, after I stuffed G’s feet into his shoes and tied them up, you know that he did while I chased E, who ran back toward the kitchen?

He untied them and took them off.

Deep breath deep breath deep breath deep breath.

So I’m like, hey, why did you take your shoes off, and he’s like, because I want J to show me how to tie them.  Now J abruptly stops putting his shoes on and says “Oh yes, I can help him do that!”, and proceeds to do so.  Really, I think?  You’re going to be the Good Big Brother now?  Don’t you know that now is NOT the time to be the Good Big Brother? Now is the time for you to ignore his ass like you do literally every other time he asks you for anything, in the great Tradition of Oldest Siblings Everywhere! Why? Because we have to GO!  But I let the whole thing happen while I get E’s shoes and jacket on, and when it becomes clear that no laces are being tied, I put both sets of shoes on, and then the jackets, and at this point I don’t remember or care about what the weather is going to be like, because we are skipping hats and gloves and whatever else may or may not be advisable.

I march them out to the Minivan. I open the doors, and things like snack wrappers and banana peels and unfinished boxes of chocolate milk all fall out like an overstuffed closet, and there are random toys and unfinished art projects and all other kinds of [_____] all over the floors that distract them from being inserted into their car-seats (how, actually, does one get distracted from this?).   Once they are all strapped in, I go back in the house and get the not less than 7 bags of stuff – 3 lunch boxes, 3 backpacks, and my work-bag – and I throw those in the trunk.  Then I realize I forgot the Roadie, so I go back in to get that, which then causes J and G to want Roadies, so I go back in to get something for them, if only for the 3 or so minutes of quiet that will bring. Then I realize I forgot to set the stupid house alarm, which I go back in and do, and then, finally, if I have forgotten anything by now – for example, the close reader might have observed that J’s teeth never got brushed – it is too late, because we are getting out of here.

The game’s not yet over. I still have to unload them and drop them off at school, and I’ve got another 2000 or so words to describe that typical process. But at this moment, we are out of the house, and not still in the house, and I am going to enjoy those facts, at least for the time being.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vacationing with Small Children is an interesting affair, in that it typically bears little resemblance to an actual “vacation”, at least as the term is commonly understood. Whatever notions of stress-free relaxation and unwinding the Parent might have going into it are quickly and rudely dashed by the inevitable manifestations of Chaos and Strife: sibling fights, poor nights of sleep, diverging agendas, and all the other challenges of Child-Rearing that present themselves in Ordinary Time. Only now, of course, you’ve paid some sum of additional money to do all of this; and while you are in a New and Exciting Place, free of the required routines of school drop-offs and pick-ups and extra-curricular activities and the like, you are faced with the intimidating challenge of coming up with a “plan” for your unstructured days, a concept as compatible with the management of small children as User-Friendliness is with Microsoft Windows.

The Experienced Parent probably knows all of this, and sets her expectations accordingly; and it seemed to us, in advance of our recent week-long trip to Cape May, New Jersey, that if this is done properly, what might seem to the Neutral Observer like a futile effort doomed to Failure, could, in fact, turn out to be Successful, even Meaningful, and perhaps even…yes, I am going say this next part….Fun.

Here is how it turned out.

We began by getting off to one of the most inauspicious starts in the History of Family Vacationing. The morning of our departure, while the children grew restless about when we were leaving, and did things like pinch each other and not eat their breakfasts, L packed the last of our necessary items and I took the lead on attaching our newly purchased Bike Rack to the Minivan, on the theory that the good old Family Bike Ride might be a nice way to spend some of our time. It was one of those Bike Racks that you attach to your trunk with hooks and straps, as opposed to the kind that attach to a hitch at the bottom of your car (despite their overall utility, Minivans don’t come with hitches). So I opened the box and read the instructions, which were, at least to me, pretty difficult to follow, especially when having to make small children stop pinching each other and eat their breakfasts. But I eventually made it through them, and got the whole thing all hooked in, fastened and bike-loaded. Once all the final items, including the children, were checked in, we were ready to go, and off we went. So far, so good.

We made it across Southern New Jersey without any significant issues; we didn’t even hit much traffic. In cheerful spirits, while the soundtrack to Mary Poppins continued to play on Repeat in our car radio, we drove toward our vacation rental through downtown Cape May, a charming beach town filled with fashionable cafes and restaurants. We thought about what they might look like on the inside, whether they served good coffee or had interesting artwork on the walls, and we imagined ourselves sitting on outdoor patios with the other beach-goers, wearing our sunglasses and looking all beach-y and talking about whether the Tide was strong that day or which way the Wind was blowing, and we imagined all this because we certainly wouldn’t be going into any of these places or doing any of this, not with our package of Unruliness. Perhaps I was doing too much imagining, or maybe I just got too into the new surroundings; whatever the reason, without slowing down, I drove right over a big dip in the road we were on, at which point the back of the van pretty much completely bottomed out, and the “Deck-Lid Spoiler” (more on this in a short moment), which was bearing some of the pressure from the Bike Rack straps, totally gave out and snapped right off the back of our trunk.

This raises an obvious question: Just what is a “Deck-Lid Spoiler”? Actually, I think we can dispense with that question [See Footnote #1] and ask a better one: why is a Spoiler of any kind attached to a Minivan? Did the Minivan wake up in the morning and look in the mirror and mistake itself for some kind of cool Sports Car? Any vehicle with sliding doors should absolutely not have any kind of Spoiler on it. I mean, right? [Footnote #1 – If you must know, a Deck-Lid Spoiler is this odd looking thing that’s attached to the top of the Minivan Trunk, serving, at least to me, no particular purpose, especially now that I know it breaks so easily].

(These are the sorts of constructive things I think about in trying times like these.)

So what did we do with our broken Spoiler, which was now hanging sadly off the top of our Minivan solely by the electrical cord powering the top-rear brakelight? Well, I come from a proud Family Tradition of using Duct Tape in ways it was not intended to be used, and while I may often forget to bring a lot of stuff, I never leave home without this stuff, because you never know when situations like these may transpire; and, if our fellow Vacationers were wondering whether we were indeed Duct-Taping our Minivan back together after this rather unfortunate mishap, they would have been correct. And I am proud to say that the Duct Tape held up for the remainder of the trip. Mr. Duct – I assume you’re the guy that invented this stuff – you continue to work miracles.

Once we got past the Bike Rack Debacle, the fun really started. J and G began their first installment of an endless series of Fights over such matters as who picked up the bigger rock off the ground, or who had more Ice Cream on their cone; they must have de-Friended each other at least 100 times each during the span of the week. Every time we needed to get in the car – which was a lot, as our house was far enough from the Beach to require a drive – the kids, led by E, would scramble into different car-seats, and inevitably one of them would be sitting somewhere where someone else wanted to sit, and the cries of “No Fair!” would start loudly and in earnest. Whenever that got settled, we would have about ten minutes of relative calm – the length of the drive to the Beach – and then we would dismount them all from the car, hoist our two or three bags of beach-related stuff, and lug it all across the sand toward an area where we could settle. The sand would invariably be too hot for at least one of the children to walk on, so we’d have to carry at least one of them, too. By the time we actually got to a place where we could set up our encampment, at least a half-hour would have elapsed, at which point we were all already exposed to an unhealthful amount of Ultra Violet Rays, because we didn’t put the Sunscreen on before we left, because did I mention how complicated leaving our house was?

Our time at the beach was essentially just a sunnier version of the rest of our time on vacation. The kids all had different Agendas – except for that brief moment when we first got settled, when they all uniformly wanted a Snack. J, for the most part, wanted to swim, except when he wanted to bother G in whatever he was doing. G thought the water was too cold and wanted to fly his new Kite, which, as it turns out, is rather difficult to accomplish on non-windy days, of which we had surprisingly many, probably because one of our Great Ideas for the week was to fly a Kite (and yes, the Mary Poppins fans are correct in their suspicions as to where we got this idea). E was mostly agreeable, except when she too joined in on the Fights or did things to make poor G upset, like mess up his sand castles or steal seashells from his collection. It’s impressive how fast she is picking up being The Youngest.

Notwithstanding all of this Fun and Awesomeness, we would, at some point, need to pack everyone up and go back home. This process was very similar to the process of getting everyone there, except that we were all wetter, sandier, tired, crankier, more disagreeable, and typically hungry, which of course meant we would need to figure out what to do to eat. Now, decision-making always presents challenges, and decision-making with children presents some distinct ones. But decision-making with children with regard to food while everyone is hungry in an unfamiliar setting is really not a place you want to be. One time, we decided we would eat out – and if there is a worse idea than going to a restaurant with small children, it is going out to a restaurant with small children after they have been to the Beach. There was one extremely brief period during this trip in which we appeared to have things under control, so much so that another diner commented kindly on how well-behaved our children were. L immediately shot the gentlemen a Dirty Look. I was confused by this, so I asked her, “hey, why’d you give that guy a Dirty Look?”, to which she responded that he just Totally Jinxed us. And she was right; shortly after the comment, all the Wheels came off. That, friends, is Motherly Instinct. In hindsight, what a Jerk that guy was.

We made sure that we experienced new kinds of Disasters, too. After one particularly active morning in which we rode our bikes and went to the Beach (we were going to make use of that damned Bike Rack yet), we were certain that the children’s eyes were heavy enough to give us all a much needed afternoon Nap. We executed our plan flawlessly. We kept them awake during the whole trip home, singing loud renditions of very repetitive songs (did you know that if you’re happy and you know it, you’re face will surely show it?) and bribing them with sugary treats of various kinds. It worked – they all remained awake, but with very sleepy, Nap-persuadable eyes – and when we got home, a small, perhaps 2-hour long victory was within our grasp…

Then J got out of the car and got stung by a Bee.

If I needed any confirmatory evidence that J is indeed my son, I got it in his reaction to the sting. Now, getting stung by a Bee, particularly for a young kid, is a Serious Matter. But for me and J, this is beyond Serious. While J screamed his curly-haired head off, I, ostensibly keeping my cool, performed a Medical Examination of his hand, where he got stung. I looked closely at his hand and quickly realized I had no idea what I was looking for, and did I mention J was screaming, so I frantically started coordinating an Emergency Trip to the Hospital, ready to call 9-1-1 at any given moment, all the while searching on my phone for how to deal with Bee Stings, and having pretty much no success. I looked at L and said, with unsubstantiated authority, OK, I think we need to go to the Hospital, not knowing where that actually was. At this point, L, for some reason, felt the need to step in and direct us all to Calm Down. The Stinger, as it turned out, was not lodged in J’s hand, and even if it was, there was no need for a Hospital Visit. She directed me to go to the local Rite Aid to pick up some Ibuprofren [sic], to help with the pain, which I did by racing down the street in our Duct-Taped Minivan, bobbing and weaving in and out of traffic like the Driver of an Emergency Vehicle, then running into the Rite-Aid and taking only 10 minutes to find where the Ibuprofren was. And even though none of the heroics described in the immediately preceding sentence actually happened, and even though L managed to calm down J while at the same time dealing with G and E, who at this point were definitely not napping and wouldn’t do so for the remainder of the trip, it should be clear at this point which Parent saved the day.

It wasn’t all Chaos and Disorder. At some point at night (typically far later than recommended for children of their age), they did fall asleep, and those hours were peaceful, even if we slept during every possible minute of them, being completely and totally mentally and physically exhausted. During one of our few windy evenings, we were able to get G’s Kite up in the air, underneath a good, steady wind stream. That kept his attention for a good while, and we kind of took our eye off him. When we looked back, before we knew it, he had unwound all 500 feet of the Kite-string, and his Kite was soaring as high as it could, up toward the pink-tinted clouds, and I can still vividly see his proud, smiling face, gently lit by the remaining light of the setting sun. J got his first addictive thrill of swimming in ocean water (remember that?), challenging the waves and riding them when he could time them right. And then there was E, going along with everything that was going on, singing with gusto about Spoonfuls of Sugar and joining her brothers in pointing out cool cars on the road (i.e. cars for which Spoilers are appropriate, unlike our Minivan, a problem we appear to have fixed). We must have driven past 1000 Corvettes, because we heard from her, at least 1000 times, “Mommy, Daddy, I saw a Cor-ette!”

In the end, I suspect our Family Vacation went the way many, many others go: lots of logistics/small crisis management, little by way of relaxation and personal recuperation. We can hardly say we are coming back to Ordinary Time fully (or at all) re-charged and Ready to Go; and, if we are being honest here, we would have appreciated an afternoon, or even an hour, on one of those cafe garden patios, talking about the way the Wind was blowing, or at least about something other than whether we could Skip The Baths tonight (saltwater is cleansing, isn’t it? It can’t be any worse than Kiddie Pools, can it?). But if we really step back from it all, it’s clear that, at some point, sooner than we think or want, there will be plenty of time for that; kids, after all, grow up incredibly fast. For that reason, our Vacation was really, really fantastic, and we wouldn’t have had it any other way.

We at Letters to Florence are committed to making sure you are Doing Everything Right as a Parent (even though we may go long intervals between blog postings, which no doubt leaves you wondering what you should be doing).  Like all Parents, we know that Summertime raises distinct challenges, especially as we drift into August. All the Progress our Children made during the previous School Year seems by now to have totally evaporated; at this point they are unable to do much more than shoot Water Guns at each other, or go Pee-Pee with the door wide open and not flush the bowl, or cover themselves in General Filth and Dirt, or find new and inventive ways to Piss Each Other Off. The novelty of the warm weather, of the Flip-Flops and the Soap Bubbles and the Summer Clothing Catalogues, may be starting to wear off, even just a little, and you wouldn’t be faulted for longing for some vague idea of Ordinary Time, though you know that doesn’t really exist, at least not at this Age. So, to help you make it through the rest of Summertime, here are Three Key Rules, the adherence to which, we think, is essential to keeping your Summer Fun, Safe and Healthy.

Rule #1: On Kiddie Swimming Pools. Nothing says It’s Summertime more clearly than The Kiddie Swimming Pool. When else would such large numbers of Parents voluntarily let their children swim and splash and go underwater and swallow such water (because that’s what children do with Kiddie Pool Water) in what amounts to, essentially, a gigantic Bath Tub? You think any of those kids took a shower before they got in the pool, like the signs say you’re supposed to? You’re lucky if they took a shower the night before, or even two nights before, if their Parents are as exhausted as we are, and as open to reasons for skipping. Now look, I take my kids to the pool quite often, and I am not at all ashamed of that; and if you’re doing so, then good for you, and maybe I’ll see you there (though if you’re going in the water, you’re on your own). But I would strongly advise you to read no further about the cleanliness, or lack thereof, of swimming pools than what you’ve read here. I’ve heard some people start talking about some pretty allegedly nasty aspects of these pools, and I’ve managed this unwanted information mostly by covering my ears and/or shouting “Lalalalalala!!!”, because if you or I heard any of this information, then we probably couldn’t in good conscience continue to take our kids there, and then what the heck would we do with them when it’s 90+ degrees outside and they are driving us insane? So, stop any further research into swimming pools right here, right now. That smell that lingers on your children for an oddly large number of days after the Saturday Afternoon Swim? Why, that’s just the deep cleansing action of the Chlorine! Mmmm. Smells like…..just don’t look into it any more.

Rule # 2: On the Application of Sunscreen. I don’t come from a family of Sunscreen users. I can’t remember as a kid ever once applying Sunscreen, or having it applied to me. Like, ever. I do remember applying the opposite, as I got older and more conscious of matters of physical appearance: Baby Oil, for the express purpose of literally frying my skin under the hot Long Island sun, maybe at Jones Beach or maybe in the backyard while lying on an old, fraying lawn chair. If you are thinking, wow, that’s pretty stupid, isn’t it, the answer would be yes, it is; but that’s what White People on Long Island did back in The Day. None of this, of course, lends itself to being conscious of applying Sunscreen to children – it took me well into June to get into the Habit. But maybe my personal history isn’t the only reason for being Tardy to the Sunscreen Party. To put it shortly, putting Sunscreen on children is a gigantic Pain in the Ass. They never want to put it on and they are always moving around or running away and it’s the morning and you’ve got to get them out the door and no wonder you got it in their eyes and all over your work clothing [expletive expletive expletive]!!! It makes me want to fill up a gigantic Vat of it and dip them all in, one-by-one, like Strawberries about to be Chocolate-Covered, and then, when finished, shout out something like “The Kids Are Ready!”, for no reason, really, because they would very likely not be ready, as they would still need their teeth brushed and bellies fed and all of that, but it would just feel right. And then, to make matters worse, there’s like 100000 different versions of Sunscreen out there, even if you narrow your search to products that are supposed to be appropriate for children. Some are “chemical free”; some are “organic”; some are “mineral based” and “non-allergenic”; some are…are you [expletive expletive expletive] kidding me? Really? I thought it was the UV Rays that I was supposed to be worried about? Now it’s the stuff that’s supposed to protect them from the UV Rays that I’m supposed to be worried about? Oh, come on!

What’s the Parent to do here? It’s very simple, readers – just following these Simple Steps:

1. Get some sunscreen – any kind, really, as that’s got to be better than nothing (or Baby Oil);
2. Do your best to get it on them – a little is probably going to get in their eyes and that’s ok (didn’t you read the label and it’s unsubstantiated assertions like “Sting-Free!” and “Gentle on the Eyes!”; just ignore the cries of “it stings!” from your children, as they are obviously wrong);
3. If you are opting for aerosol, don’t let your kids near the spray-can, as they will absolutely spray themselves directly in the Face (of course, you shouldn’t spray them in the Face either, even when you’re trying to get their cheeks and noses, though that’s always so tempting and seems so, so much easier);
4. If you are sending them somewhere like Camp, ask once if they re-apply it during the day, and assuming the answer is yes, don’t ask again and assume they are doing that (and if they’re not, then maybe ask them to, or at the very least, make sure they are not doing the Baby Oil thing); and then
5. Congratulate yourself for being a heroically conscientious Parent.

Rule # 3: On Nutrition. Studies have shown that Young Children are inherently drawn to highly processed foods, artificial flavors, and Ice Cream in the Summertime, and are averse, overall, to Vitamins and Nutrients. One time, my oldest son J asked me, while riding home from Camp, whether we could have Ice Cream for dinner. I was a bit surprised by his directness; usually, he’s savvier and more incremental in his approach to negotiations. I was like, of course we cannot have Ice Cream for dinner. His rejoinder was “well, look at all those people having Ice Cream for dinner”; whereupon I looked along the side of the road and saw an Ice Cream Stand and a tremendously long line of people standing and waiting patiently for their Ice Cream Dinners, and making me look like the Ebenezer Scrooge of Summertime. Even our youngest daughter, E, a mere 20 months old, often chants “I want Po[p]sicle!” [she omits the middle “p”] during these long rides home (proof, no doubt, of the inherent nature of children’s desire for High Fructose Summers, and not, of course, of our lack of Willpower). How should you deal with this? Here are some methods:

1. We don’t have any methods for dealing with this, as this often happens at the end of the day, when our Creative Energy Tanks are Empty. You can either (i) screw it and get in the Ice Cream Dinner Line, or (ii) say no and hope for the best with regard to a “real” dinner, which they likely will not eat.

So, there you have it, folks – your Keys to a Fun, Safe, and Healthy Summer, brought to you by your friends at Letters to Florence.  Happy Lots of Clothes-Washing!!

Becoming a New Parent is an amazing experience.   It’s life-changing, stunning, exhilarating, mind-blowing, earth-shattering – pick your favorite superlative and insert it here. It can also be terrifying, confusing, overwhelming, and incredibly stressful.   It’s the best of times and the wildest of times, sometimes all at once.

Since you didn’t ask, this advice column is written for you, the prospective New Parent or recent inductee to our community.  I am certain it will help make your transition to Parenthood a successful one.   Without further introduction, here are some of my Pearls of Wisdom for the New Parent.

1.   Be Wary Of Those Experts.  I came across this article a while ago in The New York Times: http://parenting.blogs.nytimes.com/2015/03/26/sleep-training-at-8-weeks-do-you-have-the-guts/?_r=0.  In short, the article appears to suggest that letting babies “cry it out” is an effective way to sleep-train. You know what’s fascinating about this? The fact that just five years ago, when I first became a Parent, the article I read on this topic – very likely in The New York Times – suggested that crying it out makes the baby feel abandoned and neglected. Go figure. It makes me think of all us babies in 1970’s and 80s, sleeping on our tummies safe from our spit-up, or traveling in car seats so sleek and minimalist it seemed like they weren’t even there. What’s that? They weren’t there for some of us? Like, we didn’t have them?  Right. The point is, while you shouldn’t ignore current guidelines (in other words, definitely use a car-seat), don’t drive yourself crazy, and don’t be surprised if all those experts change their minds, or come up with new sets of best practices.

2.   Google Alert!   One of the defining aspects of our generation of Parenting is the sheer volume of information available to us at the swipe of our thumbs or the click of a mouse. Unsure about a particular topic, like [insert particularly nerve-wracking topic]? Just Google it! Bingo?

Now look, I have the technological sophistication of a Commodore 64, so take this with a grain of salt. But doing research on Google makes me feel like I am falling with Alice down the rabbit hole to Wonderland. For any given topic, there are literally thousands upon thousands of viewpoints, all of which, in one way or another, conflict with each other. What brand of baby bottle results in the lowest induction of gas?   What is in disposable diapers that makes them so absorbent and is it harmful to my child? When should the baby start rolling over and sitting up and crawling and walking? Should the baby sleep on an organic crib mattress? Does all the baby food and the milk have to be organic? Heck, while I am at it, how do I wash off years and years of pesticide exposure because I am certain that nothing I ate or drank as a kid was even close to organic?

As any Parent knows, I am only at the tip of the iceberg here.

Again, like in Point 1, I am not saying never Google things. What I’m saying is don’t let it drive you nuts. Do your best. Because if there is one thing that is certain in Parenting, it is this: someone is out there saying you are screwing the whole thing up.

3.   Go Easy on the War on Germs. At some point, the baby will be exposed to the World, and, as we all know, the World is full of germs. If you’re somewhat prone to neurosis, like I am, everything from park benches to restaurant high chairs to airplane seats seem like they are covered in the most potent strands of viral-bacterial mutations. With our first baby, my wife and I would effectively play the role of Haz-Mat workers for the Environmental Protection Agency, clearing out the applicable area and attacking it with a torrent of anti-bacterial wipes and hand sanitizer. You know what happened every time we did that? He would touch (with hands or with mouth) the one thing we didn’t sterilize, like a seat buckle or something. Here’s a fact for you: small children have an innate ability to find these things. That, friends, is just Science.

So what is the Parent to do? I think that some strategic wipe-downs are prudent, and that having some hand sanitizer around is an overall good practice. But consider this. Whenever any of my kids have gotten sick, I have never once thought, “Ah, it must have been that seat buckle I didn’t wipe down!” Because by the time they get sick, you’ve long since forgotten you ever visited the place with the seat buckle. And, in Parenting, if you’ve forgotten whether something happened, it might as well have not happened at all.

The topic of forgetfulness brings me to my next point.

4.   You Are Going To Forget Lots Of Stuff. Many Mothers out there use the gender-skewed term “Mommy Brain” to describe the phenomenon of increased forgetfulness after first becoming a Parent.  I, for one, find that totally insulting. I will go Diaper Bag-to-Diaper Bag with any Mother out there who wants to have a contest as to who can forget the most stuff. In fact, I can’t even have that contest because I forgot the Diaper Bag (uh, you think I can borrow a diaper, Mom who I just challenged to a Forgetting Contest?).

Anyway, the point is, you are going to get calls and texts you forget to return and appointments and meet-ups you forget you ever scheduled. You are going to show up at the grocery store without your wallet, or to the library without your library card.   You will show up at work having forgotten to shave in a shirt stained with apple sauce and socks you probably wore yesterday. Most people understand, assuming they know your predicament. Fellow Parents are particularly likely to get it.   Those that don’t?  You’ll find that, after the birth of your child, your level of caring about such things plummets sharply, so much so that, very quickly, you’ll begin to not even notice.

5.   They Will Hit Their Heads And Be Fine. Research shows that small kids are designed to break their falls with their heads. As with the topics addressed in Point 3 above, this is just Science. The first time around, you will think, oh my gosh, did they get a Concussion? But run of the mill flops rarely result in that. Remember, they are less than two feet tall for a reason. Our second hit his head hundreds of times when he was a toddler. He’s a little salty every now and then, and can exhibit some fairly extreme shifts in mood, but I am sure that has nothing to do with his head-hitting past.

6.   Breastfeeding.   Yes, I do realize I am hardly qualified to give advice on this topic. But I will do so anyway. If your partner is breastfeeding your baby, do not refer to or otherwise indicate that the breastmilk is somehow “free.” How might this come up? Let’s say your partner has to leave the house for a while, and leaves you with a few bottles of milk. Let’s say, further, that you, oh I don’t know, take it out of the refrigerator, thinking baby wants some when she really doesn’t, and forget to put it back, thus letting it go sour. Or let’s say you are freezing and storing the breastmilk, and when you went to close the freezer after that trip for Ben and Jerry’s, the door didn’t quite shut all the way, putting at risk the freezing-ness of the milk. The possibilities here are endless, really, but I think you get the main point: you, the non-breastfeeding party, are placed in charge of the breastmilk, and you found a way to botch it.

Rarely am I as definitive as I am going to be with this piece of advice. If (more likely, when) the botch is discovered by your breastfeeding partner, do not, and I repeat, do not, say something along the lines of “Oh, what’s the big deal, it’s not like we paid for it”, or “Can’t you just go plug yourself into that thing over there and make some more?”

I am not going to get into a compehensive explanation as to why these statements are really bad. This is an Advice Column, and I don’t want the advice here to get lost in the scientific details. Let’s keep it simple. Breastfeeding is neither free nor easy, and you really need to avoid any implication to the contrary. If you ignore all the other pieces of advice in this column, don’t ignore this one.

So, there you have it, readers. I actually felt your confidence levels rising as you read through this posting. See what happens when you don’t ask for advice? Exactly. Should you have any questions, please feel free to contact me by email at oldemailaddress@doesn’tworkanymore.com.

[Our family recently received an invitation to attend a friend’s Important Event.  Below is my RSVP.] 

Dear Friend Who Hopefully Remains Our Friend,

We got your invitation to your Next Event And/Or Gathering.  We are so happy you invited us to come! Count us in.  We will definitely be there!  Happy-face emoticons!!!

One thing, though.  I am not sure what the date, time or location of your Event is, but regardless, we are going to be late.  Please do not try to accommodate us.  You shouldn’t do that anyway, but even if you did, it wouldn’t change things.  No matter when or where you have it, we’ll be late.  If it’s on a day when we have nothing else to do at all, we’ll be late.  If you gave us like a year’s advance notice, we’ll still be late.  If we’re supposed to be late, we’ll be even later.  Even if your Event is at our house, we’ll find a way to be late.  Really, it’s completely unavoidable.  Here are 7 reasons why:

1. Getting our three kids corralled and out the door is like carrying a large pile of laundry up a long flight of stairs without a basket.  Here is how it typically goes.  First, I say something to my sons like, “OK everyone, it’s time to get going!” for the second time, with increased Volume and Fatherly Authority in my voice.  What happened the first time?  Literally, nothing.  No change at all to what they were doing.  Not even like a head turn or anything.  You see, in our house, anything that sounds like a directive or an instruction needs to be said at least twice.  I sometimes declare that I am not going to say This or That Again, and ask, by way of confirmation, if everyone hears me, but who am I kidding? I repeat the same thing the very next sentence.  My daughter, of course, is watching all this from my hip, learning all the wrong lessons.  So much for hoping she’ll be more responsive.  And so much for my lower back, which continues to progressively degenerate.  Carrying kids hurts.
2. As they start moving toward the Foyer, they are distracted at least twice before they finally make it there.  One might see an uncapped Magic Marker bleeding on the couch and want to start a new art project; the other will want the banana that just five minutes ago he wanted nothing to do with.  I say it’s not time for any of this, and that we need to get going.  They then start asking to bring some random stuff along, like un-picked up toys still laying on the floor. I say no, they shouldn’t, because they are not supposed to and because they will likely (i.e. definitely) lose them, and then they will be sad.  Are they convinced?  Of course not.  Am I going to fight them on this?  No.  Why?  Because we have to get to your Event and we haven’t even gotten to the shoes and jackets yet.
3. Eventually, we get to those shoes and jackets. Now, normally, my sons are boisterous little fellows, full of energy and almost constantly in motion. It’s good to be young, isn’t it?  But when it comes time to put the jackets and shoes on, all movement suddenly stops.  Just a minute ago their whole bodies were fully powered by hyperactive nerve endings; now, they are the equivalent of inanimate Rag-Dolls.  Feet that need to stuffed into unforgiving shoe leather, arms that need to be put into jacket sleeves, fingers that need to be placed into gloves – all are suddenly and completely limp.  So I’ll have to put the Baby down and deal with all this, one-by-one, limb by motionless limb.  Now, of course, she gets into the Action, pulling shoes off of shoe-racks and dumping boxes of hats and scarves and gloves all over the floor.  By the time everyone is fully and appropriately clothed, I’ve questioned at least three times why we are going to your Event at all.  Please don’t take offense to that.  I think this pretty much every time we leave the house.  We are all still super excited to come!  More happy face emoticons!!!
4. While all of this is occurring, one of the Grown-Ups has to fill the Baby’s Diaper Bag.  That means someone has to (a) find the Diaper Bag, and then (b) scramble around for diapers, wipes, apple-sauce pouches, sippy-cups of milk and a change or two of clothes, in case of any really bad mishaps or accidents.  Inevitably, what happens is that the Diaper Bag is still in the Minivan, all of the sippy cups are dirty or missing, we are out of baby wipes, and/or the changes of clothes are all still upstairs in her bedroom.  So one of us starts to go upstairs to grab them.  But whoever goes is quickly called back to the Front Lines.  Yep – she just dropped a Number Two, right after the completion of Step 3 above.  Better bring her up and take care of that.
5. On the topic of Excretion, before we leave, I ask my sons if they need to use the Potty. I should have asked them this before I put on the jackets, but I rarely remember to do that.  They, of course, say no, they don’t.  We go through a dance similar to what we did in Step 2 above with respect to the toys.  Again, out of sheer fatigue and a feeling of overall Defeatedness, I relent, hoping I remember to take them once we get to your Event, because they definitely need to go, and we didn’t pack any changes of clothes for them.
6. Back to our house, which we still haven’t left.  I don’t know what your dress code is, but I assume you want us – that is, the Parents – to actually be wearing something, and something above the grade of Bummy Gym Pants and the shirts we slept in.  So, while all of the above is in process, we need to attend to that.  Also, I assume you are cool with us not showering.  If that’s not the case, you really need to put that on the Evite next time.
7. Speaking of us, the Parents, throughout all of this, we’ll begin to have that Silent Argument all Parents have about who is the root cause of this delay and General Unpreparedness (Footnote #1).  Grrr, why is the Diaper Bag empty, we ask our partners accusatorily in that argument we are having in our minds, the one in which we are totally and clearly right?  Grrr, where are the keys to the Minivan?  Grrr, what is taking so long up there to get dressed and now is not the time to be sneaking in that Alone Time you think you need!  Grrr, why are the sippy cups all dirty and Grrr, why do they have so many [_____] parts and Grrr, where are the [______] sippy cups anyway (Footnote #2)?   By the time we get everyone in the car and stuffed into the car-seats, we are both very quiet and clearly annoyed with each other, convinced that if the other could just get his or her stuff together, we might have a chance at being, if not on time, then at least not embarrassingly late. Even the kids appear to sense this, knowing, if only for the first few minutes of the drive, that they shouldn’t ask us for anything.  At that point, we’ll suddenly remember that the birthday gifts or the bottles of wine that we were supposed to bring are still in the house, which we will now need to turn around and go get.

Now, don’t be alarmed by any of this, Friend who has unwittingly caused all of this Chaos and Marital Strife.  Hopefully we are still invited, because we are so excited to come. Really, we can’t wait, and thanks again so much for the invite!! More Happy Face emoticons!!! (What?  You saw a Crying Face/Raging Lunatic emoticon in there?  Sorry – I promise that was just a typo.)

(Footnote #1: In the coming Love Column – Advice For Parents Who Are Married And Wish To Stay That Way, I will address phenomena like this, and how Parents can Constructively work through this kind of stuff.)

(Footnote #2:  As alluded to here: https://letterstoflorence.com/2015/03/16/how-to-maybe-train-a-catholic/, my Catholic faith follows me like a shadow.  But it’s hard in Parenting to always refrain from expletives.  I am trying my best here, but this is going to get tricky as I do more of these postings.)

Here is the second installment of my new blog series, Parenting Advice You Didn’t Ask For.  Today’s topic: Going For Baby Number Three.  I hope that Parents, particularly those of the Trio-Considering Variety, will find this Analysis to be useful in their Family Planning Discussions.

First, it is important to dispel some myths floating around out there about having a third baby.  Here are some that are particularly misleading:

1.         Myth Number One:  The Baby Will Raise Itself.  I personally heard this one from none other than our Pediatrician.  The idea is that, well…I don’t know what the idea is.  Just because the baby comes third doesn’t make it less Baby, does it?  But it seemed so authoritative, well-researched and medical advice-like, coming as it did from a Doctor.  Well, it’s very misleading.  Third babies don’t magically change their own diapers, or know it’s their teeth that are bothering them and measure out an appropriate dosage of Infant Tylenol. They don’t wake up at night and start to cry and then suddenly think “oh, I’m Third, I should just pull myself together and give Mom and Dad a break.”  Don’t be fooled by this one, regardless of its source.   

2.         Myth Number Two:  The Older Ones Will Raise Number Three.  While a lot might depend on the age of your other kids, unless they are ridiculously mature, I wouldn’t count on this one.  I knew it wouldn’t be true for us.  I still get my 5 year old dressed in the morning in a manner not substantially different from how I dressed him as an infant.  Which, really, is preposterous, isn’t it?  It’s OK for you to think that.  I do.  It’s totally my fault, but if I left him to his own devices, we would never have any hope of getting out of house, making me the self-perpetuator in this self-perpetuating cycle.  As for my 3 year old, he still thinks of our third as, essentially, a large (and not always wanted) toy that we still might return to the store (more on middle children in another posting).  Needless to say, they are not raising our Number Three.  

3.         Myth Number Three:  Having A Girl Will Make It Easier.  I championed this one.  After our daughter E was born, I boasted about my handling of the Gender Issue.  Having a girl after two boys would be the Parenting equivalent of a Walk In The Park.  I even made fun of other Parents whose third baby was a boy.  What could they have possibly been thinking? 

Somebody hit the game-show style “Wrong” sound.  Ok, good.  Because I was wrong.  How?  I’ll give you some examples:

·         E got her first bad progress report from her day-care provider at a mere 9 months old.  Evidently, her style of play was a bit too aggressive, involving, among other things, unwanted, tackle-like hugs.  Her teachers encouraged us to gently correct this at home.  Really?  Already?  At 9 months?  

·         She relishes in things I thought she would scoff at.  Like fighting.  One time, when she was just over a year old, she got into a fight with her brothers over a blanket.  One thing led to another and she ended up on the bottom of a big pile-up.  I pulled off each boy and there she was, flat on her back, still holding on tightly to that blanket.  With her teeth.  

·         I always thought the term “Terrible Twos” was a misnomer.  Our boys were actually pleasant two-year olds; the trouble started at Three.  It’s not a misnomer.  E is exhibiting all the traits associated with the Terrible-ness – tantrums, refusal to be satisfied, straight-up attitude, dirty looks, etc. – at the age of not even 18 months.  Not the kind of accelerated development I was anticipating. 

4.         Myth Number Four:  You Can Take Advantage Of Parental Economies Of Scale.  This was another one I found persuasive.  The thought is that, subject perhaps to a certain limit, as the number of children in a family increases, the amount of effort required to raise each additional child marginally decreases.  The idea sounds so neat and simple.  You could even be all analytical and demonstrate it using a graph with an X and a Y axis.  In Economics, we call this concept Economies of Scale.  I think. 

In Parenting, however, we call this Wrong.  The amount of required effort in child-raising is, at a minimum, directly correlated, on a kid-for-kid basis, with the number of children you have.  This often understates things, at least from a psychological perspective; far from feeling like you’ve got something like 2.7 children, it frequently feels like you’ve got more, like maybe 5 or 6.  That’s, of course, consistent with the experience of having your first and second children – this is labor intensive stuff.  Don’t be fooled into thinking Number Three will be different.  It won’t. 

OK.  So now we’ve cleared up some of the major myths (you’re welcome, by the way).  If you’re still committed to this Three Kid thing – and, really, I admire that a lot, and would now urge your friends and family to consider some form of professional intervention – here are some Helpful Hints and Pointers that you should keep in mind:  

1.       You’re going to need the Minivan.  It’s really absolutely necessary.  Think you’re too cool for that?  Drop it.  Being a Parent of Three isn’t about being cool.  It’s about getting them in the damn car. 

2.       Hopefully, with your two children, you’ve curtailed your going-out-to-dinner habits.  I’m afraid you’ll have to cut that back even more.  I know, it always sounds like a good idea to get out of the house, if only for the change of scenery.  My wife and I used to fall for this all the time, even if we knew it wouldn’t end well.  Now, whenever one of us suggests it, we’ve agreed that the other should firmly and rudely shoot the idea down.  Not just with something like “no, honey, that’s probably not a good idea,” but with something more emphatic and insulting, like “that is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard and do you actually have that graduate degree or did you just buy a bootleg copy off eBay?”  We don’t get offended, since we’ve agreed that’s how the situation should be handled.  Maybe you don’t have to be quite as dramatic.  Just find something that will kill these ideas before they ever get off the ground.

3.       A guy that I work with said this to me the other day: “Wow, with all those kids, it must be hard to give each of them enough attention.”  Brilliant observation, Aristotle!  I didn’t think of that when I realized I sent E to school without any shoes and hadn’t brushed J or G’s teeth in the morning for the past week.  And those are just two examples; I can go on.  That kind of stuff happens. You know what else happens?  Getting a little touchy about what are probably well-intended and/or innocuous comments from peers.  Sorry, guy who I sarcastically called Aristotle and who I was unfairly short with.  It was a rough morning.  

4.       Somebody’s usually crying or about to cry shortly (and that excludes the crying you are doing inside).  If they are not crying, they are complaining or protesting or fighting over something bizarre.  Experienced Parents are able to treat this like the sound of a humming refrigerator – they can tune it all out.  It’s really an Art.  I’m not there yet, but I’ve been working on it.  You will need to as well. 

5.      In a nutshell, kids make things messy, and more kids make them messier.  And I am not just talking about the house and the car (at this moment, I can’t see the passenger seat or the coffee cup holders in my car, as they are both covered in art projects and overdue library books and food wrappers and I am afraid to think of what else). Life, careers, friendship maintenance – all that stuff is challenged, no matter how many kids you have.  We might console ourselves in the thought that, somewhere in the distant future, when they’re all grown up, we’ll look back and reflect on how satisfying the whole experience was, and say things like “wow, that was all so worth it”, or “I wouldn’t change a thing”, or something like that.   Maybe that will happen.  I hope it does.  But those kinds of thoughts are a little too broad and abstract to be helpful, at least for me.  Parenting is fundamentally a day-to-day affair, and day-to-day, it’s pretty messy.  You’ve got be cool with the mess, even love it, for it to make any sense.  There is fun, and beauty, in that mess.  It’s often hidden, but it’s in there.  You just have to find a way to look.