Man on the Run

I was brushing my younger daughter's hair in her room after a bath when, from across the hall, I heard my older daughter in the bathroom tell Belle matter-of-factly, "Some girls in my class are getting their periods."

A noise came out from deep inside my gut, like the dying moans of a beached whale. I continued brushing my younger daughter's hair in the hopes each stroke could keep her from growing up. 

But I had already seen the past and future of girlhood thanks in part to Girls on the Run, an after-school program my oldest is in that I helped coached last school year. Twice a week, girls in third through fifth grades met to build life skills and run, culminating in 5K races at the end of each semester.

My daughter participated last year as a third grader, and I only knew of the program whatever she told me when she came home from practice. In August, she was on the wait list and upset she wouldn't be on the team with a bunch of her friends. When we found out the child of a coach automatically is on the team, I realized I could help out once a week. So, without knowing exactly what I was getting myself into, I volunteered to coach.  

I was one of two dad-coaches during the winter program and the only dad coach in the spring program. But the only time I felt out of place was when the other coaches were sharing childbirth stories prior to practice one day. "I had an ingrown toenail removed once," I said in a moment of silence. I'm thankful they didn't make me run laps.  

The two lead coaches had been in their roles for a few years and created a well-oiled machine. Each practice involved a lesson on effective communication or self-confidence, for example, with group activities and time for self-reflection, followed by some running. I largely kept quiet and observed, figuring the lessons would resonate more coming from women, plus I didn't want to teach the girls any lessons in mansplaining.

Once school dismissed for the day, the girls stampeded toward our meeting area, releasing their pent-up energy and searching for food, with lots of giggling and loud talking. Some days, the giggling and talking would last for the entire practice but I was impressed with how insightful their answers could be, how wise beyond their years they occasionally sounded.

I say "occasionally" because this still was, at its core, a gaggle of 8-to-11-year-old girls. The group dynamics make for a great anthropological study. Most of the girls congregated with the other girls in their grade, although there was never any hesitation to work with girls in different grades during group activities. There was friendly roughhousing but also lots of cartwheels, dance routines and singing. Elementary school girls are just as silly elementary school boys, minus the constant fear of one randomly hitting the other with whatever object is nearby.

Having a fourth grader also allowed me to see where my daughter came from and where she was going. It was an evolutionary chart in real-time. There were some days where I could not imagine her as a fifth grader, others where it was hard to remember her as a third grader. Time, like the girls during practice, moves slowly before suddenly speeding up.

The Girls on the Run program culminates with all of the teams in the county gathering for a 5K run. Each girl runs with a parent or adult, and the course is lined with cheering supporters. My daughter and I were bundled up and walking more than I wanted to in December. In June, we were sweating and trying to keep to a two-minute run, one-minute walk routine for her, and a two-minute run, one-minute-run-a-little-slower-because-stopping-and-starting-was-not-good-for-my-legs routine for me.

The last meeting of the semester was a party, where parents are invited and the girls receive their certificate for completing the program. As the coaches congratulated each girl, my daughter gave me a big hug. She's asked me to coach again next year. I've already started working on my childbirth story.

In-Laws, In the House

I've known my in-laws almost as long as I've known my wife.

Belle was living at home when I met her. Our third date was New Year's Eve (aggressive, but when you know, you know) and I offered to pick her up. 

"You realize this means you'll meet my parents," Belle said. 

"What do you want? I'm trying to work."

"Yeah, no problem," I said, not realizing until I was driving to her house that I actually was meeting her parents.

Perhaps it was best I didn't overthink it. Her parents were warm and welcoming, albeit busy preparing for their own New Year's Eve party. During our courtship, I would come over for dinner once a week and slowly became part of the family, eventually joining family vacations and feeling comfortable not feeling like I had to be "on" while around them.

My in-laws are great people and wonderful grandparents, and I'm thankful we have such a good relationship.

Yet nothing could prepare me for when they moved in this spring.

For several years, they had talked about renovating the main level of their house, a project that would require them to move out. We have a bedroom and full bathroom in our basement, and extended an open invitation for them to temporarily relocate. It was all theoretical and way off in the distant future.

Then, earlier this year, they finally found a contractor they liked. Then they had renovation plans drawn up. Then we were figuring out when they would be moving in. Then we were clearing out a shelf in our pantry to accommodate some of their food. Then I was moving my desk from my "office" in the bedroom basement to my bedroom. Then I was helping them unload their cars at our house.

Before they moved in, I mentally prepared by doing a little math. My in-laws said they would be living with us for up to two months. Having watched enough HGTV renovation shows, I immediately added two weeks to their estimate. It's not that I was counting down the days until they left; it was more a way of not even thinking about the calendar during their stay.

Their first morning got off to a rough start. Or, should I say, a "ruff" start thanks to their dog. (Please don't try that Dad Joke at home; I'm a trained professional.) My father-in-law feeding the dog and taking her out for a walk at 6 a.m. woke up all of the kids. Not that the kids were mad; they are crazy about the dog and gave her all the attention she could handle. 

The dog turned out to be the most challenging part of my in-laws' stay for me because, most days, I would be home alone with her. She was used to being the center of attention; I was used to getting my work done without trying to figure out why a dog was whimpering by my desk. But, just as we figured out my father-in-law could feed and take out the dog through the basement each morning, the dog and I developed a truce where I would give her an extra piece of kibble and she would sleep quietly while I worked.

As the weeks went on, everyone got into our new routine. The kids loved having their grandparents around, and Belle and I loved having the help so we could more easily be in three places at once with all of our kids' activities. I felt like a stranger in my own home the first few days but then it was business as usual, despite not being able to do my business as usual in the basement bathroom, my in-house hideaway.  

Sure, I may not have walked around the house in boxers in the morning or before bed. And I may have scooped fruit out of a container into a small bowl instead of using a toothpick to take directly from the container. And I may have held in roughly 56,000 farts. But it felt good knowing we could be there for family when they needed us.

It also probably helped that the contractor was on schedule and my in-laws were able to move out after about 10 weeks. And, to answer your question: No, we are not getting a dog.

Watching You, Watching Me

I've always liked to joke that my oldest daughter is "X-years-old going on teenager," a line that is typically met with an uneasy laugh from other girl dads. Now, however, I can pinpoint exactly when my 9-year-old became a teenager: Friday, May 17, 2024 at 8:13 a.m.

The Gift of Gabb

How we got here goes back to December, when she received a Gabb watch for Hanukkah that some of her friends had. Basically, it bought us a few years of her not asking, "Can I get a cellphone?" because it allows her to call and text people. But Belle and I control her contacts, and we've set it up so she can only contact the two of us during school hours.

Our daughter, who was not a watch-wearer previously, took to wearing her Gabb and not abusing the privilege. The watch became a security blanket, too, allowing her to feel comfortable when we dropped her off at birthday parties knowing we were just a text away. (Being able to leave a kid at a birthday party for a few hours is an underrated parenting milestone.)

It's strange having my daughter in my phone contacts, but most of the texts to me are silly emojis or asking what's for dinner. (The answer, of course, is "Nothing you'll eat.") And it's nice to be able to text her if we need to update her on who will be picking her up from her after-school activities. 

There has been the occasional hiccup, however. During school days, she only texts us during early-afternoon recess. So I was just a bit freaked out when I was working at my office one day and got this mid-morning message: "I am literally so scared right now." I frantically texted her and got no response. I frantically texted and called Belle even though I knew she was in a meeting. Eventually, I learned my daughter's comment was a reaction to a big thunderstorm that had passed over the school. We all had a talk that night about sending texts like that.

Thankfully, we haven't had an issue since. We overhear a lot of voice texts to her girlfriends discussing play dates and updating her grandmothers on what's going on in her world. We'll text her to ride her bike home from a neighborhood friend's house. She's starting to assert her independence with our encouragement. She can watch her younger siblings and figured out the identity of the tooth fairy but still likes to have her mom brush her hair after a shower. On most days, there is a sweetness-to-sass ratio of about 4:1.

But Friday morning, May 17, was not one of those days. It was a sunny but cool spring morning. Belle suggested she wear pants but our daughter insisted on wearing shorts. As she did every morning, she walked ahead to the bus stop with a friend, wearing sandals and no jacket.

Right before Belle headed to the bus stop with our son, our daughter sent Belle a text asking her to bring her Native slip-ons to wear instead of her sandals. A few minutes later, she also asked her to bring a jacket "because it's cold now."

"I just have the Natives," Belle texted on her way to the bus stop.

"Okay," my daughter replied. "I am freezing, but whatever."

"OK, well, you should've kept the pants on. I don't know what to tell you."

"Ok," my daughter said. "I'll spend my days freezing."

I'll spend my days freezing. I could feel our daughter's eyes rolling when Belle showed me the texts. It's the perfect combination of exasperation and silliness. I spent about a week using that line around the house as a non-sequitur. ("Danny, you need take the trash out." "Fine, I'll spend my days freezing.")

Our daughter came home from school that day unfrozen and as if nothing happened. That should only be the extent - and result - of our battles with her as she gets closer each day to actually becoming a teenager, but I'm not naive. So I'll just be on alert for these flashes of sass, which I imagine will become more like a steady stream.

I just wish I knew when they'd happen. If only I could set a watch to it.

When Complaining is Always on the Menu

Every weekend, there is one thing Belle loathes doing but we do it anyway. It typically happens early in the morning, before the kids wake up. I offer to help in any way possible, try to make it quick and easy, but I admit I can never do it to completion. 

I am talking about, of course, compiling our weekly grocery list. 

"No lettuce, please." - Any of my kids

"Have I told you how much I hate this?" she'll ask, recipe books and magazines spread out in front of her, coffee in hand. 

"I'm sorry, love," I'll say, giving her a squeeze as I head outside to run. "So, what's for dinner tonight?"

OK, I do know better than to ask that question. Because if I just wait a little bit, until the kids wake up, they'll ask. And unless the answer is "pizza," "chicken nuggets" or "carryout," there are disappointed faces.

It wasn't always this way. We did the homemade purees when our kids were babies, exposed them to a lot of foods and thankfully didn't find any allergies. They would eat avocado chunks or asparagus spears or tomato wedges and we'd think, "This food thing isn't so difficult." 

But then, around 3 years old, their palettes would start shrinking and planning meals became a challenge. This change clashed with our two rules for dinner:

1. We encourage you to try whatever is on your plate

2. There is always something on your plate that you like

Our son, the middle child, was the worst rule-breaker for about a year. Not only would the main course barely hit his lips before he put it back on his plate, but he would loudly announce, "I don't like it" or "Ew, gross," thereby heavily influencing the opinion of his younger sister. Now, he'll quietly let the main course barely hit his lips and then announce, with as much earnestness as is humanly possible to muster, "I tried it and I did not like it." He also occasionally will take his first bite and hold his thumb parallel to the ground before turning it up or down, like Commodus in Gladiator.

It's not like we're making anything crazy for dinner, either. (See Rule No. 2.) But, heaven forbid something green even grazes against a piece of pasta or else cries of "I want something else" immediately ring out. 

Thus, finding a recipe that all three kids like is our Holy Grail, and said recipe is placed in a protective case, like a valuable baseball card, with Belle's coveted check-plus next to it. Recent inductees into the club include fried matzah during Passover and, surprisingly, my mother-in-law's salmon loaf, which she has made twice while she and my father-in-law stay with us as their house is being renovated. (But that's still a story for another day.)

Then, there's the cheeseburger conundrum. We don't keep strict kosher in our house but we use separate dishes for meat and dairy, and I do not eat milk and meat together. Our kids love the Jewish traditions and customs we observe. But, in the process of letting them try different foods, they discovered they also love cheeseburgers. They order them when we go out for dinner and, recently, I've started making them if I'm grilling. 

I wonder if I'm doing the right thing, if I should explain the meaning of keeping kosher, if instead of this being a phase their children and their children's children also will eat cheeseburgers, thereby weakening a core tenant of being Jewish that has sustained us as a people for thousands of years. But then I put the cheeseburgers on a paper or rubberized kids' plate and enjoy a no-complaint dinner for a change.

Belle and I both realize the eating eventually will get better and, before we know it, we'll be spending the equivalent of a monthly mortgage payment at Costco to keep everyone fed. Until then, the search for check-plus recipes continues, the two dinner rules will remain in place and we'll trudge forward, one weekly grocery list at a time. 

And, maybe one day, Belle and I will have time on the weekend mornings to do something a little more fun and exciting. Like sleep in.

Trading Places

Most days, "traveling" for work means I walk from the kitchen to my desk in the basement. (The desk has been moved upstairs for at least the next two months so my in-laws can live in our basement while their house is being renovated, but that is a blog post for another day.)

The view from my office in San Diego

So it was a bit jarring earlier this month when I found myself 3,000 miles from home, in San Diego for three days for a work conference. Exactly one week later, it was Belle traveling for work for three days. This meant the parenting duet we have so carefully choreographed over the past nine years temporarily would be solo performances. 

I felt a little guilty about leaving as my work trip neared, so I compensated by buying as many extra groceries as I could so Belle would not have to worry about whether she had enough grapes for lunches. We explained to the kids how dad would be gone for a few days, and then mom would be gone for a few days. They were primarily concerned about whether their morning smoothie would still be made and what was on the dinner menu.

I was nervous when I woke up way too early on a Wednesday morning to go to the airport because I couldn't remember the last time I went to a work conference but also excited to travel on my own. I might as well have had TSA Pre-Check based on how quickly I got to my gate compared to traveling with a party of five. I might as well have been sitting in first class on the plane, seeing as there were no kids to entertain or monitor and I could doze off as I wished.

I landed in sunny San Diego, bought a single ticket to a Padres matinee and life was pretty good. I'm not much of a schmoozer with strangers but I made a point to walk up to tables at meals and networking times with complete strangers and kibbitz. And the fish tacos. Oh, the fish tacos. 

(I also learned a few things during the educational sessions of the conference.)

Overall, it was a great trip, and it was short enough that I didn't really have jet lag upon my return home. Which is good, because immediately I had to get into the mindset of being home alone with three children. Belle also would be leaving way too early Wednesday morning and returning late Friday night, so I spent Monday and Tuesday reviewing the kids' calendar of events for the rest of the week and literally writing out lunch menus for each kid, the sous chef taking the reins in the kitchen.

In all honesty, it wasn't hard watching the kids by myself because they have varying degrees of self-sufficiency and they know the school-day rhythm. It's just that Everything. Takes. So. Much. Time. I made lunches the night before so I would have enough time to get everyone ready for school so I would have enough time to at least shower before walking to the bus stop. I started the bedtime routine at approximately 4:15 p.m. so everyone would be asleep at just slightly later than normal.

Except for me, of course. By the time I cleaned up the kitchen, caught up on emails and watched a little TV, it was past my bedtime. One thing I didn't do, partly out of exhaustion and partly because I knew I could get away with it, was a nightly clean up of our playroom. 

Like most families, we have accumulated a lot of toys. We try to give away toys as the kids outgrow them and get new ones for birthdays, but there is still a lot of stuff. And when the kids get playing, to quote the great Bruce Dickinson, they really explore the studio space. 

Belle has taken great pains to ensure every toy has a storage location and will spend time many nights putting everything back in its designated place. I will help her, and I'll pick up stray Legos and dolls off the floor. But I've always thought, if we're not having guests over, why put toys away tonight if the kids are just going to pull them out tomorrow? So, I pursued a strategy of playroom containment for two nights and cleaned up Friday night before Belle came home. 

Was every doll, magnet tile and Barbie accessory back in its exact, rightful place? Definitely not, because Belle wasn't there to answer when I asked, "Where does this go?" But I was able to doze off on the sofa waiting for Belle's return with the satisfaction of knowing the playroom floor was clear and, more importantly, the house was still standing. 

The next morning, we were back to being a family of five and life continued as normal. I feel ready for when Belle travels on her own again in the fall. Perhaps by then I'll find those missing puzzle pieces in the playroom.