MenGetPregnantToo

Kids Remind Me Snow Does More than Just Block the Driveway

Wonder Woman. Remember her?
She is a crime fighting legend with an invisible jet and brass bangles which deflect bullets.
I will safely make two assumptions about the Amazon Warrior Princess: 1) she is not a mommy; 2) she has never owned property north of the 45th parallel.
As any parent knows, while brass bangles may protect well against ammunition, they do little to prevent dirty socks and underwear from piling up. Nor will they clear the pile of spaghetti dishes or the snow blocking a parent’s escape route from the driveway. Wonder Woman could never live in Montreal; while she was gallivanting and crusading against injustice, who would shovel her walk? She’s a fair-weather superhero. I’m a suburban dad facing another Canadian winter.

Any day now, one more chore will add itself to the already mature list which includes such popular mainstays as: laundry, vacuuming, arguments over homework and piano practices, and the fight to occasionally replace Kraft Dinner with a couple of flowers of broccoli (despite the fact that, until April, these are the only flowers to be seen for kilometers).
Soon I’ll be pulling on my snow pants over my flannel pyjamas pre-dawn to head outside and shovel. Did I mention my osteopath warned me against performing any physical labour before a proper warmup? Easy for him to say; he has a snow blower.

Before the first thirty centimeters has had a chance to accumulate, the onset of winter has already started piling on the minutes needed to prepare a 5 and 7-year-old for school, with the addition of snowsuits, hats, and mittens (or, is it gloves today? Hang on, let’s argue about it). My wife says she would never live anywhere which didn’t offer the pleasures of all four seasons. I would be more than happy to oblige, as long as during the winter months we could all move into a Four Seasons. I’ll bet they have a snow blower.

Shoveling the Approach to the Snowboard Ramp by Peter Patau

My wife once described parenting as the most intense relationship she’s ever experienced. This reflects what every parent knows: your children will be responsible for the most infuriating as well the most blissful moments in your life. This is echoed by many of our friends, who already have teenagers and children in university. They remind me constantly what a unique and special time this is - being the parents of young children, and how quickly these years will pass. I remind them they have a snow blower.
But, soon, I know my children will remind me even the Grinch eventually understood the magic of winter. They will wake up one morning and leap onto our bed in celebration of the first major snowfall - which mysteriously always seems to take place under the cover of night. They will rush to get their snow suits on and ask that I not scrape the car windows before they have a chance to etch their names into the frost. They will make me promise not to shovel more than is absolutely needed to thread our way down the driveway in the morning.
My “chore” will become their adventure after school. And what about those municipal mounds - those piles of packed snow and ice the city sculpts into the foot of my driveway the moment I put away my shovel? The kids will point out this is not a cause for nervous collapse. It is to be chipped away at, and carried piece-by-piece in the arms of these little Sherpas away from Municipal Mound and added to Awesome Mountain in the backyard.
To them, I realize, mountains of frozen water aren’t so grave. After all; for children, winter is the season of gravity: sliding on bums, tobogganing on sleighs, and the near-death experience of that first ski lesson.

I’ll never make it through this entire winter without complaining; by February I’ll be wishing we lived in Maui. Then again, in July I’ll feel oppressed by the heat, and in May my humour will be flooded by rain. Thankfully, through all that, there will be all those moments when my kids will remind me that maybe - like The Grinch - my heart is three sizes too small.
This winter they will supply all those intense moments of joy and playfulness. The most intense relationship I’ve ever experienced? Absolutely. All thanks to this little 7-year-old Superman, and - with her bangles replaced by mittens on strings - a 5-year-old Wonder Woman.

Don't Become a Wreck Over Your Kids' Mess

The soundest parenting advice I've heard in years came recently by a fellow dad:

"I know longer stress over a situation purely because of the physical mess it will create." 

It was a watershed moment for me.

*****

Once I embark on a DIY  strategy for the day - for instance re-wiring and hanging three lamps - I become obsessive about completing the job. Despite my wife constantly reminding me not to push myself to the brink of an aneurysm for the sake of a toilet installation, I can't help behaving as though I have something to prove, regardless of the friction it may cause between myself and a couple of preschoolers.

In my experience, stress begets stress. This is an effect which can manifest itself as increased frustration towards my kids throughout the day as I attempt to balance their discipline with my responsibility.
I find it's most prevalent on the days my wife is out of the house and I attempt to complete projects at home while expecting the kids to entertain themselves - incident free - for an extended period of time.

While all of us are forced to put an end to intense sibling bickering as part of our role as parent/police-people, it is another gift altogether to be able to not interfere when you are not needed.
When they are playfully interacting in the next room, or quiet and out of sight, don't go looking for trouble.
What's the worst that could possibly be taking place? 
My kids know not to play with knives and matches; they're not cats peeing on the furniture or tearing apart a sofa; and if they were attempting to decapitate each other, I would know it; there would be screaming, and rolling heads.
If I don't hear any of that, but choose to investigate my children anyway, at worst I will walk into an adjacent room, and discover a mess.

The messes in my house would most likely be: marker on the floors or walls, wood chips scattered on the carpet as our guinea pig attempts to avoid capture; water on the bathroom or  kitchen floor as my daughter plays "dolphin attack" in a sink; or jagged confetti collected in the Berber rug for some art project run amok.

Extra Paint by Emiko Hime

Will witnessing and trying to put an end to this disorder enhance or worsen my lamp-hanging experience?
The kids are happy, they're quiet, they're not flicking breaker switches while I'm busy splicing the wrong wires together. 
I should just walk away.

As my Zen/guru/dad friend said:

"Worst case scenario, it'll involve a major cleanup. How long will that take? Half-an-hour? Forty-five minutes at most? Even if things are really bad, what does that mean;  getting a paint brush and touching up a wall? Isn't that all that worth the peace of a happy child?"

I try to remind myself of that every time I look at an overgrown honey-do list. Using the "I was alone with the kids all day" as an excuse for procrastination only goes so far; especially when my wife ends up completing half the list while I'm away from home.

I just need to learn that while I repair our messy lives, I have to allow for life's little messes. 
If I'm able to complete the project I set out to do, at least I'll have new lamp-light to vacuum by.

 

 

Lesson for Kids: Dad's Time is More Valuable than His Money

It's never too early to teach children the value of "things". 

Often we reward our children's accomplishments with material goods. 
Even in kindergarten, students are rewarded for good behavior with stickers and inexpensive toys.
At home, allowances may be dependant on the completion of chores: make your bed, clean your room, practice piano, take out the garbage.

What happens when the threat of losing a week's allowance, or having a favorite plaything or privilege taken away is not enough to shape behavior?
What happens when the "If you don't do as you're asked, you can't play Angry Birds."  is met with "I don't care."?

We gave my son an iPod Touch for his birthday. One of his friends has one, and our boy had been begging for it for months. He even saved up the money to pay for half of it.
This birthday gift was contingent on two things: that he kept up with his schoolwork, and that kept his guinea pig fed and watered. Both these chores must be done without complaint.
He held up his end of the bargain - as well as a 7-year-old can - as was rewarded with the gift ten days ago. We also revealed he wouldn't have to contribute any of his own money.

Time is Money by Tax Credits

Eventually, as happens in every house, a parent vs. child tug-war began over something so silly that listening to yourself argue about it becomes painful.
As the arguing escalated, he was threatened with the repossession of his new iPod Touch.
He replied with the infuriating: "I don't care."
I saw red, grabbed the toy, and walked out. I was so angry I knew it wouldn't be constructive to argue any further. I left him alone in his room, and stood stewing in the kitchen by myself.

Why was I so furious? What is it about those glib words 'I don't care' that drives a parent crazy?
It took me a while to understand for myself why it hurt so much to be dismissed in that way by my child. Once I understood how to verbalize my feelings, I knew it was vital he also understood.  

Hours later, at bedtime, once both of us were calm, I explained it to him:

What made me most angry isn't that you weren't listening; it also isn't because you were being rude to mummy and me. What hurt me most is when you said you didn't care whether we took away your iPod.
Every time anyone in this house wants something, it means me or mummy has to go to work to earn the money to buy it. I was happy to give you the iPod; you're doing well in school, and taking care of your pet. But when you say you don't care whether it gets taken away, it says to me 'Daddy, I don't care if you have to leave your family to go to work'. And 'I don't care about the things you buy me with the money you earn at your job'. 
That really hurt my feelings.  I don't like taking time away form my family to go earn money. I would prefer to be at home. But, leaving you guys every day is worth it for me if it means we have things we need and want, and things  which make us happy. I had to work the better part of a day just to buy you your birthday present.
If you don't care about those things, it means you don't care about all the time you don't have with me or mummy so we can give these things to you.

I wouldn't let him answer. I gave him a kiss and an 'I love you', and let him sleep on the idea.

I got a big hug the following morning. He got his iPod back a couple of days later.
Is this fix permanent? I doubt it - kids are just that fickle and frustrating. But, as much as he may understand the value of money, he now understands a little more about the value of time, and that there is a cost to time without daddy.

"Can I Blog Too, Daddy?"

MenGetPregnantToo is a weekly contributor to "The Good Men Project". Every week I will have an article published on their site. There will be an even rotation between original content, and essays previously published on MenGetPregnantToo.com.

Enjoy the most recent original submission:

"Can I Blog Too, Daddy?"

Photo—balleyne/Flickr

Being a Great Dad Means Keeping Your Head Above Water

Parenting is like an amusement park wave pool.
As you approach it, you sense a giddy nervousness; the people behind you, as well as those already in the pool, enthusiastically encouraging you to run in.  The only people not noticing you are the one's who are way up near the paddles. They're either daredevils feeding off masochism, or so desperate not to drown they're focused on nothing other than keeping their heads above the waves.

Wave Pool by seaworldSA

Parenting's shallow end is basic survival: eat, sleep, be clothed and have shelter. As you advance further into parenting, the waves increase in frequency, speed, and magnitude: sleeplessness, office work, laundry, play dates, schooling, home repair, medical emergencies, and tantrums. Wave after wave after wave.
But, every so often, breakwaters can be installed; projects can be delayed, play dates can be rescheduled, and family obligations can be (occasionally) offloaded and reassigned. 

Our family is in the middle of another phase of home renovation. This chapter is scheduled to last 4-6 weeks. Truthfully, this is part of an lifelong ongoing process which has left various corners of our house in need of "cosmetic" retouches. Every homeowner is familiar with them: mouldings which need to be replaced, baseboards left unpainted, a basement carpet which, one decade soon, will qualify as 'retro'.
This current renovation seems to coincide with a convergence of 1.4 million birthday parties, including our son's. (November and December fall 9 months after Valentine's Day and March break - this explains parents drowning in parties this time of year.)
These birthday parties seem perfectly planned to allow just enough travel time between them: both my kids can attend all of them, as long as I give them lunch at 10:30 in the morning, and keep the car twelve mile per hour above the speed limit.
The parties also seem to end at an hour just early enough to for me to still have to make them supper. They will invariable refuse to eat my meal - they've been taxidermied with cake and juice - but they will complain at bedtime they're hungry since they haven't eaten since 4 o'clock.
And with two elementary school-aged kids, I'm only halfway into the wave pool.

The pool deepens as winter approaches: appointments must be made for flu shots, winter tires and tune-up, rust-proofing, gutter cleaning, digging out the winter clothes and shelving the summer stock.
Then I read tweets from people boasting they've already completed their Christmas shopping; that makes me want to stop fighting the big waves, and just let the paddles knock me unconscious.

This Saturday, however, I'm pulling myself out of the wave pool.

I've declared Saturday a Daddy holiday. 
I'm going to find some sport I don't care about on TV, and watch it purely as an excuse to nap on the couch. When I wake up, I'm going to groggily reach for the remote control and fumble around until I manage to reach the movie channel. Then, I'm going to fall asleep to something else.
Knowing that day has been set aside has already made me a better father and husband. I feel energized, more able to put in extra effort, and have more patience because there is a break in sight.
It's as though I'm in the deepest part of the wave pool, but someone has fifianlly signalled to me: "only 5 more minutes", then I can climb out.
It is vital (and difficult) for a couple to maintain a connection outside of parenthood. It is just as important to find solitude for yourself and recharge; it may also be more difficult. When life already threatens to drown a parent in daily duties, making it clear you need to be left alone for a day can be a risky pronouncement. But mental health is as important as physical health. Time to yourself is the psycholigical flu shot during this busy, tiring season.

Tonight, as I tuck my kids in, their night-time questions will be met with more patience. Once they're asleep, I'll be more willing to entertain my wife's ideas about the ongoing renovations. When we all wake up tomorrow, I may have the energy to be more creative with breakfast. All this because I see an opportunity to be selfish, and I'm taking it.
Wave pools can be playfully refreshing on a hot summer day; but, eventually, you have to pull yourself up a ladder and go sit in the shade for a few minutes - alone.

Awesome Wave by Isolino

 

 

The Information Highway is Full of Road Rage and Drunk Drivers

In college, I played "Hearts" so often it interfered with my schoolwork.
Three friends and I would gather on benches, and socialize and gossip as we huddled around the deck of cards.
The game itself was an excuse for us teenagers to have fun and waste more of our parents time and money.

Years later, I became curious about an online forum for "Hearts" aficionados. I logged into (with a pseudonym, of course) the 'Lagoon Room', and participated in my first virtual card game with three strangers.
It had been years since I played; I was rusty and made a couple of careless errors which cost not only me a victory, but also stole the win from one of the other players.
In the chat area below the game square, I was bombarded with every ugly epithet imaginable. From gay slurs, to black slurs, to Jewish slurs and, of course, the standard f-bombs and body parts. My opponent made sure to insult each major category of human, since, of course, I was invisible.
This opponent was identified simply by a series of random letters and numbers. They were reveling in anonymity. The was my first experience with online road rage.

Now, as a blogger, I monitor my comment section carefully. This is a nuisance. It means each time a comment is logged on a post, I'm signaled through my smartphone, and must approve the comment or it will never be published.
I could approve the comments automatically, but I would then risk being side-swiped and rear-ended by online drunk-drivers. These cowards hide behind pseudonyms, and empower their little selves by insulting others.
To filter out these adult-children, I have to budget part of my time as writer to also include literary policing.

As a father, these termites also force me to teach lessons in anonymity to my 7-year-old as he writes his blog. Yes, his blog - an activity which encourages computer skills, literacy, and creativity is also one during which he must learn to hide his identity from the digital schoolyard bully.
What began as: "Don't talk to strangers, and certainly don't tell them your name or where you live." Has evolved into: "Don't sign your real name to that story about your baseball game, nor to the one about your upcoming piano concert."

Even when these digital rodents aren't intentionally gnawing at your self-esteem, they address their fellow readers with the kind of pomposity otherwise reserved for that windbag relative you're forced to invite to major functions.

A simple rule of etiquette: Pretend the people you are engaging in online discussion are strangers sitting across from you in a mutual friend's living room. Speak to an online community in the same manner you would address a human being next to you on a sofa. No matter how nonsensical their comment, you wouldn't insult them or demean their intelligence. If you did, you would be asked to leave, and never be invited back.

Of course, stating such rules is akin to selling water to whales. Intelligent, respectful members of the online community - like mature members of warm-blooded society - already understand and abide by this code of conduct. These are the same people who thank someone for opening the door for them; that allow a fellow driver the parking spot closer to the door because it's no big deal parking ten feet further away; and that don't begin their order at the deli with the word "gimme".

Day 697 - "Come wit it now!" - by Michael D. Dunn

It's impossible to explain to jerks why they shouldn't be jerks. They don't care what you think. That's why they're jerks. The drunk driver doesn't care who's injured due to their carelessness. That's what's so great about being drunk; you can hide behind the euphoria of that fifth Bloody Mary.
The comment troll is high on pseudonyms. He can drown blog posts in bombast, sign his name as "Bloody Mary", step on the gas and surf to his next destination. Another drunk driver on the information highway.

For Parents, Time Change Means as Extra Hour of Parenting.

"If I could turn back time,
If I could find a way,
I'd take back all the words that hurt you,
And you'd stay." - Cher

Cher, last night I did turn back time. And that had me in the kitchen this morning, making flapjacks an hour earlier than I did last week. And tonight, I'll be cooking dinner in the dark; so don't blame me if I burn the chicken.

***** 

I've written before about the battles and misunderstandings between parents and people without kids.
There are typical behaviors from each group which can rub the other the wrong way.
For people without children, listening to to parents drone on like a professor giving a lecture about how smart, cute, and talented their children are, can be mind-numbing. Especially since we all tend to describe our children using exactly the same vocabulary. Only in some cases (mine, for instance) are those glowing adjectives actually accurate.

For parents, listening to the childless get excited about the extra hour of sleep they get when we turn the clocks back can be torturous.
There are two necessary factors which allow someone to benefit from "falling back":

1. The people they share their lives with have to care about the extra hour's sleep.
2. The people they share their lives with have to be able to tell time.

A New Day Brings New Opportunity by Jason Mrachina

 Both my children sleep for a defined period of time. Once those hours have passed, they wake up, and need to be parented.
My son, at least, can tell time. This means he will obey our instructions to remain in his room until 7am. So, though he won't physically report to our room until 7am, at this time of year we hear sounds of singing, train whistles, and music coming from his room as of what was 6am, before yesterday's time change. 

My daughter is only 5 years-old. She doesn't tell time, and has no clock in her room. 
Unlike my son, she's a sleeper. We don't need her to have a clock to dictate at what time she can leave her room.
At least she was a sleeper until the time change made it brighter outside...at 6am. It was then she called for mommy and daddy (at a decibel normally reserved for rescue whistles) to bring her to the washroom. See, her bladder doesn't know to sleep in an extra hour. It contracts after 11 hours; pee on us if we don't like it.

I suppose there are some advantages.
Since I began my whole routine an hour earlier, there's time to blog, shower both the kids, clean up from breakfast, wrap a present before a birthday party this afternoon, and make their school lunches, all before my dad comes over this afternoon to babysit so I can head in the office.
There is also a little more time to myself; to notice things like, despite having shaved 24 hours ago, the greyness of the stubble in my beard; to ponder the ineffectiveness of this new deodorant I'm trying; to wonder how I'm ever going to finish that library book before its due date - three weeks from now.

I know, I know. I asked for it. I wanted a child. Then  wanted  another child. I should be happy they are healthy. I should be happy for this time I get to share with them.
The problem is, the deal was 24 hours a day; not 25.
This time change is reneging on the deal I made heading into parenthood.
I suppose I'll lose an hour of parenting in the spring when we turn the clocks ahead.
Stay tuned for that post...when I complain about losing morning light, and burning myself on the pancake griddle. 

 

 

That Baby-Hater is Dancing with my Baby!!

I've been married for a decade. I have a house in the suburbs. I have two children, a  lawn mower, and a whipper-snipper for the fringes of grass around my UniStone driveway. 
For the second consecutive year, I've renewed our contract with the guys who clear the snow from the lip of my garage down to the sidewalk . 
My life is like a Witness Protection Programme; except, it's a life I chose, and I'm happy here (especially since signing the snow-clearing contract) .

At my sister's wedding on Sunday I was chatting with one of her closest friends; she asked if I had read her article published on The Scrib: "Confessions of a Baby Hater".
Annie is my age, and has also been married for ten years.  She has about fourteen dogs (OK, she has two or three dogs. But, to those of us with no canine family members more than one dog equates to exponentially excessive quantities of hair, drool, and nasty breath), but no children. 
I always wondered why. Now, after reading her post, I know why: she never wanted them. 
Imagine!
We parents always wonder why D.I.N.K.s (Double Income No Kids) don't have children. It's really none of our business; but, as Annie points out in her post, that doesn't stop people:

When you’re single everyone asks you when you are going to get married (for which the appropriate answer is: when I find a boyfriend, dickwad) and when you are married everyone asks you when you are going to have children. My long standing answer was always “I don’t believe in those things”. Most people don’t know what to do with that answer and generally shut their pie holes thereafter on the subject.

I think, secretly, parents are infinitely curious about childless couples because there are Mommies and Daddies who would have made different choices, but felt trapped. As the "Baby-Hater" points out - the statistics don't support our version of 'happily ever-after':

Entering full-blown adulthood, it started to become evident that most people were following some kind of a “life” roadmap. Get married by 25, buy a house at 27, have the first of 2.3 children shortly thereafter. 50% to get divorced at 35.

Having a failed marriage does not mean one wishes they never had children. However, I've heard many parents who share custody and treat their weekend with the kids as an inconvenience. 
My point is: there is no right or wrong when it comes to choosing whether to have children. There are plenty of parents who should never have had children - just ask their kids. There are also bushels of D.I.N.K.s whose tenderness, selflessness, empathy and maturity would make them natural mothers and fathers. The fact that they choose not to have offspring is no shame; those people improve the planet simply by being decent human beings.

When I'm with D.I.N.Ks, I become sensitive about their space and how my kids may be infringing upon it (something I wish more dog owners would do). If they wanted to have kids, but were unable to, I don't want my children to trigger unhappy memories. If they, like Annie and her Husband, made a choice to remain childless, it may be because they would rather not have little monkeys like mine climbing into their laps, asking for rides on their feet, or sharing their French fries. 
So, at a wedding with Annie - the Baby-Hating blog writer - and her husband, I felt protective of their privacy. They didn't want children. They certainly didn't want mine.

My perspective changed once Annie and my 5-year-old daughter hit the dance floor.
The two of them developed instant chemistry as they let their "Backbone Slide", and "Ice-Ice Baby"'ed. My daughter romped as Annie stomped. They grabbed hands and made each other nauseous as they twirled around the center of the bar.
It was clear the two ladies - 32 years apart - shared a kinship. They are both confident, sure about their choices, and make no apologies for non-conformity.
Annie doesn't hate kids. She hates annoying kids. On that point, she and I agree - especially since chronic annoyingness in children is usually borne of similar traits in their parents (thankfully, my kids' formalwear  managed to disguise that part of themselves during the wedding). She also hates being frowned at for sculpting a lifestyle which includes adult time, HBO at 8pm, and dependants who only need to be fed, walked, brushed, and have their poop fall onto a sidewalk instead of into a diaper.

No Babies Allowed - by mil8

Annie left the party at 1:30am. She had to work the next day.
I left at 11pm. I had to work just to carry the kids to the car.
She gets to party for an extra ninety minutes; I don't have to scoop s*** into a bag or vacuum my couch. Everybody's happy; especially my daughter who danced the night away with a baby-hater.