MenGetPregnantToo

Hidden Secret: Parents are Allowed to Look Forward to Kindergarten

I was standing outside my son's school the other day, waiting for his grade-one class to pour out the side exit. By my side was my daughter, alternating between chucking dirty leaves on my back and tugging on my coat sleeve. A mother waiting next to me for her child's school day to end asked:

"How old is she?"

"Four." I answered.

"Kindergarten next year?"

"Yup."

"You must be looking forward to that." she said.

You mean we're allowed to admit it?? 

The discussion which followed was filled with affirmations of things rarely admitted to in my usual circles. Sure, I love my kids. But I often imagine September 2012, when they both will attend a full school day at the same hour, and be picked up together...six hours and twenty minutes later. Presently, my daughter attends pre-school two mornings and three afternoons per week; a schedule which can sometimes prove counterproductive to what I'd like to get done in a day. My work schedule, as you may have guessed, is not Monday to Friday, 9 to 5. This means that once both kids are on the same schedule, and I'm home on a weekday morning, I'll be in a quiet house with only my own time to manage.

As mentioned during my conversation with that mom outside the school: of course I miss my children when I'm not with them. I find it difficult when long hours at work means I don't see them for a couple of days at a time, or when I have to sit in front of them and explain which grandparent or friend is going to be there for lunches or suppers since mom and I are going to be out of the house. But, when anyone is home with a 7 and 4 year-old for an extended period, you know you’re always on. “Dad, can you help me with this?", "Dad, come see my drawing", "Dad my tummy hurts", "Dad, my sister is touching my Lego", "Daddy, my brother won't play with me". I felt relief the other day when I heard that mom express, out loud, the same sense of fatigue which can accompany a parent's responsibility to always put a child's needs first. Or, at the very least, consider them before being selfish with your own time.

Conversely (isn't there always a flip-side?), I have friends who are parents of teenagers. I see how different their houses are from mine: the way their kids are asleep until late morning (or later), leave for work or school, and return only to eat supper and disappear to their rooms or out with friends. The communication from their children often consists of a teenage Morse code: grunts and nods. I remember being a teenager, the last thing I wanted to do with my spare time was to have a conversation with my parents, much less share my free time with them. I've been warned by those parents to cherish these years: the years when my kids want to be hugged and cuddled, when they need help with their puzzles, when they wander into your room with fuzzy heads and sleepy faces hoping to crawl into your bed on a weekend morning before you trundle downstairs to share an hour of cartoons and newspapers. I've been warned about how fleeting these years are, how they not only pass by quickly, but how their youth and dependence can disappear in the blink of an eye.

I believe it, I really do. It's hard to imagine, but I know it's true. And I know I'll miss their childhood once it has grown and moved out.

But for now, at this moment, it felt really good to hear from another adult that it's ok to look forward to a quiet house, because (blink) although their youth is (blink) fleeting, and I'll miss it (blink) when it's gone, right now I just want to (blink)...darn, I forget what I was gonna write: gotta go, the toilet paper roll just rolled away from my four-year-old...she's stuck on the toilet.

 

Newborns & Golden-Agers Hint at a Symmetry to the Universe

Have you ever been singing to yourself a song which seemed to have disappeared from the airwaves a decade ago, only to hear it mysteriously revived hours later on your favourite FM station? What are the chances?

Have you ever thought to yourself it's been a while since you've seen your favourite old movie, only to notice it on the programming grid later that week? What's with that?

Friday afternoon, I received two phone calls less than an hour apart. The first was from a neighbour who thought she was in early labour, the second was from my mother: my 94-year-old grandmother was being taken to the hospital. The wheel of life was grinding out one more rotation.

In Roald Dahl's "Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator", Charlie's aged grandparents pop pills (Wonka-Vite) which peel back so many years, one of them disappears into nothingness and the other three are reduced to infancy. To solve this dilemma, Willy Wonka reveals another pill (Vita-Wonk) which can return these children to adulthood. The option exits to return the quartet to a more vibrant version of their former selves - 30-year-olds for instance - as opposed to the retirees they used to be. But no characters in the story want the grandparents without wrinkles, without stories to tell, without the hints of wisdom and dashes of grumpiness which accumulate over eighty years of life.

I sometimes imagine how nice it might be to have a do-over. Maybe I'd work harder in school, maybe I'd practice piano a little more diligently. But, then I wonder: how would that work, exactly? Would I return to elementary school with the knowledge I've already accumulated in this life? What fun would it be to have an adult’s mind yet be surrounded by elementary math and 7-year-old friends? Conversely, if I went in cold, without my current life experience, wouldn't I make the same mistakes all over again? Besides, my butterfly effect would be nullified; all the people whose lives I'd affected would have those changes reversed, for better and for worse.

I never give much thought to spiritual things. I'm a realist, peppered by a hint of cynicism and enough pre-occupation with my daily life as a parent, husband, and being my own human being to worry about whether there is meaning to the universe. If I was asked about a possible connection or energy between all living things and other entities in existence, I would instinctively answer that such a web is pure imagination and coincidence. People don't act crazier when the moon is full; we just take less notice of wackos throughout the rest of the month.

But, could there be some synergy through which newborns and those in their golden years coordinate their efforts? Is it possible there are no coincidences? What if humming my favourite song transmits human impulses to some program director miles away busy compiling a playlist for an FM station? Is it happenstance when I start thinking my wife and I are due for a date night, and hours later she suggests we organize a date night?

Maybe not. Maybe there is no cosmic energy. More likely, people who leave this earth take their energy with them, and leave behind only the accumulated consequences of their actions. And the newborns? They bring only themselves, and their ability to absorb the experiences which await them.

As for grand coincidences on a local scale, the jury is still out: the neighbour’s baby has, for the moment, changed its mind about being ready to join the world and is cuddled in her womb on this grey day, and my gramma is safely back in her bed.

 

 

 

This Toy is Losing Its Marbles...and So am I!

I imagine the brainstorming room at a toy manufacturer being occupied by one of two types of people: either they sweat while painstakingly overcoming the trials of creating a toy which is challenging to children, attractive to adults, and durable enough to handle a grade school workout. Or, they snicker and slap their ink blotters and sketch pads, while frolicking in piles of money as they imagine a parent going quietly crazy while trying to assemble their gadget over a period of hours under the watchful eyes their increasingly impatient and nagging child.

Meet the Imaginarium Motorized Marble Race. "Over 150 pieces" says the box. "Spinning Wheels", "Light & Sound", "Power Lifter". It also takes four AA batteries - not included, but no big deal, - and nine small-voltage batteries, the kind found in watches. Sure these are included, but one can foresee the day they wear out: the chances I'll remember to head to my local watchmaker for replacements are far less than the chances my children will forget to ask me for them the moment I walk in the door.

But let us not worry about batteries. Let us instead focus on other things: the instructions for instance. One challenge for this company, which they would have had to have discussed in the boardroom, is how to clearly represent, in an instruction manual, the more than 150 pieces which eventually construct a marble rollercoaster containing as many as eight towers, each reaching heights of up to more than three feet. Realistically, this would require either a computer simulation, or several pages allowing the parent to not only build each component, but build it simultaneously to the tower next to it in order that they may brace each other, and not simply topple over once their full height is reached.

They didn't solve this in the boardroom. Instead, parents are provided with a single sheet of paper, divided into sections, each of which has a black and white snapshot of one variation of the coaster represented from one point of view. The resulting image inevitably hides one or more of the towers, leading to a  lot of guessing, a lot of toppling, a lot of "Can you hold this, please!?", a lot of "What's taking so long?!", and a lot of "I'm trying my best!" The good news is this is also (hopefully) followed by a couple of "I'm sorry"s, and a couple of "I love you"s.

As the beast is nearing completion, a new challenge will need conquering: if each of the towers weren't initially built on specific angles in relation to each other, the pieces won't interlock. The solution to this is to slowly rotate each tower into the correct position. This must be done extremely carefully as to not create a domino toppling effect forcing you to begin construction anew. Bad enough you will inevitably - due to the enigmatic construction diagram - realize certain pieces need to be exchanged with those in an adjacent tower; a very delicate manoeuvre.

Ok, so the thing is built, rotated properly, transplants have taken place from one tower to the next, and everything seems to make spatial sense. You flick the switch and allow the "power lifter" to carry the marbles to the top of the coaster and begin their travels along the endlessly varied paths of descent to the bottom of the structure where they will be once again lifted to the summit. There should be hours of gleeful observation and cheering on the horizon...expect this is where you realize that if your floor isn't perfectly level, you're in trouble.

See, each piece of track is a slightly concave length of plastic. In the boardroom, someone was in charge of determining the degree of concativity of these shapes, so the ball, with its given momentum, will stay within its grooves, while using a cost-effective amount of plastic, keeping the price-point competitive. Of course, simple physics dictates if your floor is slightly off kilter, the marble will pick up more speed in a given direction, thereby carrying more momentum than can be handled by any insufficiently concave curve near the bottom of the track, where speeds are at their peak. Due to this, the marbles fly off the track, and roll under the sofa.

I would therefore suggest finding, as I did during my second rebuild, a piece of plywood to serve as a foundation. This can not only be shimmed, but can also more easily be slid around the floor to relocate the coaster after construction, once the kids are bored of it...after a day or two. Another option is to move into a new house with level floors. Mine, built in 1955, is obviously imperfect.

I would also suggest investing in an interactive gaming unit, such as Wii or X-Box, or a couple of new children's movies just prior to assembling the coaster. That way, once the two hour construction period has passed and the frustration levels have reached their peak, you and the kids can loosen up with a game of video wake-boarding or a bowl of popcorn.

I would also suggest assembling such complicated toys during the summer months; a decompressing walk around the block to get beer and ice cream is a lot more forgiving on July 4th than it is on thanksgiving.

K.B. - November 25th, 2011.

P.S. Fact: men don't live as long as women. Fact: In a two-parent household, men are more often in charge of assembling complicated toys.

I don't believe these two facts are unrelated. Happy Black Friday, America.

 

Hobbies, Kids, Work, and a Love of Doing Nothing. Good Luck.

I love running. I love writing. Family? That goes without saying. Work is an obligation which, for the most part, I don't mind.

What gets in the way, I'm learning to admit to myself, is that I also very much enjoy HBO, movies, naps, and doing not much of anything when I have a little bit of free time.

Merriam Webster offers two ironically divergent definitions of "Hobby":

1) : a pursuit outside one's regular occupation engaged in especially for relaxation

2) : a small Old World falcon (Falco subbuteo) that is dark blue above and white below with dark streaking on the breast

Isn't that just perfect? The former explanation defines how I think I should organize my free time; the latter is a stalker, dive-bombing victims who display weakness, and not making the most of their time alone in the open.

Running and writing manifest themselves as very similar challenges for me. Both are activities which I  have trouble starting,  I enjoy both more so once I've been at them for twenty minutes, and each fills me with unmatched feelings of accomplishment and pride once I've completed them.

As with many people, the hardest part of developing my hobbies is working at them - even for just a short while - on a regular basis. In Stephen King's non-fiction "On Writing", he says the most important key to becoming a writer is simply to write. Lock yourself in a room, unplug the television and the telephone, and just start doing it. It doesn't matter if your thoughts are disorganized, or the style isn't smooth; just set a minimum word or time limit. Whatever works for you. This sentiment is echoed by most writers: just write.

Similarly with running, or any exercise. Just workout for ten minutes, or five, or fifteen. As long as you tear yourself away from all those other distractions and begin working on your hobby; momentum will take care of itself. One running guru challenged people who claimed to not feel up to going for a jog: head out the door, and jog for ten minutes. If after that you're still not up to it, turn around and walk home. Just run.

The reason this advice works (if you follow it), is that while most of us do have busy lives, it is what we do with our free time which gets in the way of a rewarding hobby.

Yes, there are days, or perhaps an entire week, when I feel I simply don't have time to sit at the computer, or run up the block. But, I spend a fair bit of time lying to myself while watching Dexter, or a rerun of Die Hard 2.

I have a good friend who I refer to as a "Doer"; someone who does stuff. He never wants to sit in front of the TV. He never has an afternoon nap on a Sunday if the kitchen cupboards need painting or the vegetable garden needs more compost. People like that make me wonder if there's something wrong with me. But, I'm a very involved parent who shares in the housework, cooking, laundry, homework, and all the other household duties. But so is The Doer. Is it so bad if at the end of the day I watch Dustin Hoffman's "Marathon Man" instead becoming one myself?

I guess the real test is how often my couch-potatoness gets in the way of developing my hobbies, and how much importance I place on writing or running. As any motivational speaker/life coach would tell me: when it's important enough, I'll make the time.

For me, I know momentum is key. Once I get into the habit of strapping on my joggers three or four times a week, I can't allow more than a week to go by without running. If I do, I then give myself permission to eat more chips, to put off exercise for 'just one more day', or to 'start up again tomorrow instead of tonight...it's been a long week, I just want to relax.'

Similarly with writing. I promised myself when I started this blog I  would post once a week, with designs on increasing that to twice or more when I became comfortable with the interface and format. It worked for a while. Then, one week I gave myself permission to miss an entry; we were away on holiday. 'Doesn't everyone deserve a holiday?' I asked myself. Then it became: 'The kids are starting school' followed by 'A busy week at work.' Lo and behold, I was down to once a month.

What's maddening is: the answer is so simple. Just do it. Turn off the TV, don't read the sports section. When I'm at work with time on my hands, I should write a little - even if it's just a paragraph; I can always come back to it later. After all, isn't that one of the luxuries of blogging? Your work sits in cyberspace, accessible from anywhere on the planet. I should set an alarm and run a little - even just for fifteen minutes. It's still fifteen more minutes than the nothing I was doing fifteen minutes ago. Why isn't the sense of accomplishment I get after doing these things be enough to motivate me for the next session?

Of course, plunking my butt on the couch doesn't involve an hour of spell-checking, or showering and re-hydrating, or sore muscles. But it also provides me with no inspiration or feeling of accomplishment.

Hobbies can do wonders for a busy parent. They can be especially useful for one who feels they've lost themselves in the act of running a household full of kids. They can help you find yourself, and provide you with an identity outside your obligations to other people.

Then again, if I wasn't running after my kids, what would I write about?

Hmmmm...Finding inspiration in a life filled with chaos. That's a great idea for a blog post. I think I'll write about that next week...or next month...or maybe just after the Christmas rush.