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.

Hoop Dreams

Like many kids, ours go through phases when it comes to toys. One second, they're playing with something; .0001 seconds later, they are playing with something else and don't go back to the first toy for approximately three years, if ever.

Our youngest has been very good at exploring the playroom. She regularly rediscovers items and could spend an hour playing on her own. Our oldest has aged out of a lot of toys but has never found an art project she didn't want to try. We have more beads than Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras, enough markers with the caps not-quite-fully-closed to drive me crazy.

That leaves our son, the most finicky of them all when it comes to toys. He plays hard and then moves on, only reusing toys if someone is with him. (If you don't believe me, ask the pile of Super Mario Bros. Legos in the corner of our play area.) His all-or-nothing approach also carried over to reading. He tore through all of the "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" books and then announced he would not read anything else until the new book in the series came out... in six months. It took weeks of cajoling - and several rejected book series - before he started reading the "Big Nate" series, which he also just finished.

All of which is to say Belle and I were a little apprehensive at first to replace the basketball hoop on our driveway as a Hanukkah present for him. The hoop was rusting and would need to be taken down soon anyways, but we both feared spending thousands of dollars on a nice hoop that would just become part of our landscaping. Still, I couldn't deny the voice in my head, like in "Field of Dreams": If you build it, he will play. 

One reason why I was confident was he started playing rec-league basketball. He's on a team of about a dozen boys, ages 5 and 6, with varying degrees of basketball proficiency. The team meets every Saturday for 90 minutes, the first half a team practice, the second a scrimmage against another team. When the coach asked for volunteers to help him, I offered my assistance, although warning him my playing career ended in high school on a rec-league team with friends. (My scouting report was high motor, limited range, tenacious defense - in other words, a Short White Guy.)

And so I've become "Coach Danny," assisting with drills and trying to dodge stray basketballs. We work on dribbling, shooting and passing, explain the importance of getting back on defense and finding the open man. And then we watch everything we teach get thrown out the window once the scrimmage begins. If I had a nickel for every time I've yelled "PASS THE BALL!", I could have paid for a dome over the hoop at our house. 

The league's rules call for man-to-man defense (no double-teaming) after half court and stealing only when someone passes the ball. This, in theory, would allow everyone to practice dribbling and passing and prevent large pileups on the court. In reality, each possession typically involves one boy taking a few dribbles before being surrounded by members of the opposing the team. He then picks up the ball and tries to run away from the defense, maybe taking another dribble or two. 

The longer the boy holds the ball, the closer his teammates move toward him, hands in the air, asking for the ball. The ball-handler then runs to another spot before throwing the ball somewhere near the basket. Whether the ball bounces after hitting the rim or rolls on the ground, multiple boys will fall on top of each other trying to grab it. On the occasions a boy makes a basket, the cheers from parents and family seem a mix of happiness, surprise and relief for one fewer collision trying to corral a loose ball.

I consider a scrimmage a success if only one boy left the court in tears because of a minor injury and no one is bleeding. The boys are tired when it's over and my throat is raw from yelling instructions and encouragement. But everyone has had a great time, including, much to my delight, my son. He began basketball season unsure of his dribbling and barely grazing the net of the 8-foot rims. Now, he dribbles confidently, understands the basics of the game and looks for his shot. 

And while he doesn't get too many shots during the game, he regularly practices on our basketball hoop. I rebound for him for hours in my winter jacket and deliberately miss shots so he can win our games of "HORSE." Best of all, he'll sometimes go outside on his own to play. 

He won't be in the NBA when he grows up, but seeing his interest in basketball grow exponentially in just a few months has been great to watch. Our bet on a basketball hoop has already paid off, and we look forward to its continued, regular use. 

At least until the next "Wimpy Kid" book comes out.