Second coming

activerain.trulia.com

It's been said a million times and is a cliche for a reason, but it bears repeating: Having a second child is like writing for "Saved by the Bell: The College Years." Sure, you may try a few different things at the beginning (baby goes in the crib first night home, Zack doesn't get the girl), but eventually you find a groove doing what you know works best for you (following my wife's lead on just about everything, bringing back Kelly Kapowski).

Unlike "College Years," however, having two children will run at least 18 seasons in prime time before continuing forever in syndication. Yet every day is a new episode with its own story arc and hopefully more laughs than tears.

I only came truly to appreciate this aspect of being a dad, the importance of stopping to smell the butt paste, when our son was born in June. I love my daughter, of course, but my mindset was totally different after three years of being a dad.

It started right at birth. As I was waiting to go into the delivery room three years ago, I got choked up thinking about how my daughter was going to change my life forever -- for the better and in ways I knew I could never expect -- mixed with the sheer terror of becoming a first-time dad. I was trembling as I took photos of her while she wailed on the heat bed. It was an out-of-body experience in hospital scrubs.

When my son was born, however, there were no tears before I entered the delivery room, just a few butterflies in my stomach and an eagerness to meet him. My mind was clear as I held my wife's hand and cried through my surgical mask as we saw him for the first time. I was not scared so much as excited to complete* our family.

(*Whether our family is "complete" -- and I don't mean getting a dog -- has yet to be decided. If I were a betting man, setting my money on fire would be the safest wager right now.)

To be sure, there was definitely an adjustment period after we came home from the hospital with our son. And by "adjustment period," I specifically mean "getting peed on like I was a fire hydrant next to a kennel." If our armed forces are looking for creative ways to train bomb defusers, have them attempt to change a newborn boy's diaper while staying dry. Even though we seem to have moved past that phase in his life, I am still wary every time his privates make a public appearance.

But after a few weeks and all of us developing new routines, my wife and I discovered what many had told us: the adjustment from zero kids to one is infinitely more challenging than from one to two. I found myself not sweating the small things the way I might have when my daughter was a newborn.

When athletes reach an elite level, they often describe how the game slows down in front of them. That's how I feel; the kids are growing up way too fast but I never forget just to enjoy my time with them. It could be going almost nose-to-nose with my son and making random noises so he starts giggling. Or it could be singing the ABCs like Brad Rogers from Crash Test Dummies while brushing my daughter's teeth before bed. (The song really kicks in right around the letter "M," naturally.)

All I ever wanted to do professionally was to work in newspapers, and I did that for 11 years. After my daughter was born, all I ever wanted to be was a good father. After my son was born, all I ever wanted to be was home for dinner at a decent hour. Changing careers ended up being a lot easier than I thought. And any doubts I had about my decision are erased when I get home to see both kids smiling -- and then start helping with dinner.

It makes me feel warm all over.

No, wait. Too slow on the diaper change again.

Party people

When we moved into our new house, I was included in an email group of neighborhood dads. I went to a poker night one of the dads organized, where I felt like a kid on his first day at a new school, except I brought beer instead of a backpack.

All of the dads were very friendly and I was looking forward to the next poker night, which happened to be a recent Friday night. But I could not attend because -- and I'd like to think the guys poured one out for me in between hands -- I had to help set up for my daughter's birthday party at our house the following day.

(Lawn update: The sun has been making rare appearances after rains of biblical proportions and I've been able to tame most of my grass, save for the swamp that is slowly forming in one part of my yard. One Sunday afternoon after mowing, I was on our deck, drinking a beer, grilling and listening to '90s Pop Radio on Pandora; I reached Peak Dad when Hootie and the Blowfish came on.)

My daughter's party was my first encounter with the Birthday-Industrial Complex. It was a far cry from my birthdays growing up. We played Kick the Can, Put the Can on Your Head and Throw the Can. Then we all fought over one small cupcake and got Tetanus shots instead of a goody bag.

We had a party at our daughter's play place when she turned 2, but at that age all of the kids are like diaper-wearing sheep. We could have put all of the wrapping paper from her gifts on the floor in front of them and they would have been content. Now, as the kids turn 3, they need to be corralled and entertained at the same time.

That's why, for 3rd birthdays, many of her friends are having parties at a play place that I can best describe as Chuck-E-Cheese's on steroids relocated to Burning Man. The walls are white, the pop music is loud and the kids' screams of (mostly) delight are louder. I would gladly chip in to help this place secure a liquor license.

What stunned me, though, was the cost. It might be cheaper to go to Burning Man than have a party at this place. That's why we decided to have a more low-key house party, which also was a month before my daughter's actual birthday because we are expecting a second child any day and OH MY GOD A NEWBORN IN THE HOUSE AGAIN WHAT WERE WE THINKING?!?!

Our first task was having our daughter pick at theme. She chose "Frozen," a movie she loves despite  only watching the first 20 minutes approximately 750 times. Then my wife sprung into action, figuring out "Frozen"-themed food (pretzel sticks were "Olaf's Arms,") activities (wand-making, anyone?) and decorations.

The biggest discussion we had, however, was how much pizza to order. We figured about two pieces per kid, but what about the adults? Would they eat, since the party was over lunch? Or would they just finish what their kids left behind? We assumed adults would eat, which is why, naturally, we had about five whole pizzas left at the end of the party.

This seems to be a problem at most kids' parties, with the hosts at first cheerily asking the adults to help themselves to some pizza but then desperately pleading with them to have a slice. So, I'd hereby like to propose a Party Pizza Rule: The number of slices to be ordered for a child's birthday party is the number of kids coming to the party times three. This gives the kids lunch and the parents a little something to nosh on without forcing pizza on anyone. Or, the kid eats all of the pizza and, combined with the cake, lapses into a food coma in the afternoon. Everyone wins!

Despite the extra pizza (which we tried to give away at the end of the party like an adult goody bag) and the bad weather (that pesky rain forced the festivities mostly indoors), everyone had a good time and there was only a meltdown or two -- but then I got a cup of "Elsa's Punch" and was fine.

The best part of a kids party, however, is no one lingers. The party officially ended at 1 p.m. and by 1:03 p.m., it was only our family members left in the house. Our daughter's party did not break the bank nor my wife and me and, most importantly, our daughter had fun. The smiles on her face make everything worth it.

Now, please, take a piece of pizza before you go.

Getting high on grass

(Not my actual lawn)

When it comes to lawn care, there are two types of homeowners: those who pay others to do the work; and masochists.

I came to this realization one recent Monday morning, following a Sunday of yard work, when I could barely raise my arms and my legs felt like I was walking in quicksand. Yet I couldn't stop admiring the lines in my freshly cut grass nor thinking about what I would do differently next time.

That I would develop a green pinky (I'm trying to stay humble and earn my green thumb) kind of surprised me. The first time I mowed the lawn at our house was the first time I mowed a lawn in my entire life. My mother did the mowing when I was growing up; she would not let anyone touch her lawnmower. If we came back from the beach on a Sunday at 2:30 p.m., she would be mowing by approximately 2:33. It could be 90 degrees, and the lawn looked like a parched putting green because it hadn't rained in 20 days, and she would be pushing that mower.

My wife and I lived in an apartment and then in a townhouse with a postage-stamp-sized front lawn a neighbor graciously cut for us when he cut his own. So when we bought our house, it was finally my turn. On the recommendation of my cousin, I bought an electric lawnmower and trimmer. I assembled them in my basement and charged both batteries. I read the instruction manual and watched a few videos online for best practices.

And then I let everything sit in my basement because it was the middle of February. This proved problematic a couple months later, during the first warm weekend of the year, when I needed to start mowing and had not recharged the battery. It took almost a full day that first time, but by sundown, our lawn was freshly shorn. I felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment.

But here's what I didn't realize about your lawn in the springtime: IT DOESN'T STOP GROWING. Between the rain and the fertilizer, the grass is like a boy going through puberty. And, much like that teenager, I realized pretty soon I'd be whacking much more frequently than I anticipated.

Now, I'm obsessing over the weekend weather forecasts. I sulked one Saturday night when a rain shower passed by, fretting how it would impact the next day's scheduled mow. I'm experimenting with different cut heights for different parts of the lawn, from the marsh-like growth near the back of the yard to that annoying strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street. I observe my neighbors cutting their lawn and note their technique.

But I also see who is behind the lawnmower. There are boys, all arms and legs, fighting to maneuver the machine. There are dads in jeans on a leisurely stroll, pushing mowers older than I am. There's the guy wearing noise-canceling headphones so large it looks like he took a wrong turn from the airport tarmac. The hum of the lawnmower becomes the soundtrack of suburbia on a sunny spring afternoon.

"Most of the people in my mom's group say they hire someone to mow their lawn," my wife told me one day, matter-of-factly.

I was not sure if that was a statement or a hint.

"Well, most guys in the neighborhood don't know what they're missing," I said.

That's when it hit me why I took to mowing the lawn. When you have an-almost-3-year-old who is potty training at her own leisurely pace, when you're a month away from Baby No. 2 and all that means for everyone, when you have demands at work and just the general uncertainties of life, it's satisfying to have a defined goal and a task you can complete and see the results immediately.

The two hours of alone time also is pretty nice.

Bye bye, reason

            Note: Some names have been changed to protect the innocent.

            “Ohhh,” Danny said as they pulled up. “All this time I thought it was called ‘Goodbye Baby.’”

            “No, it’s ‘Good Buy Baby,’” Belle said.

            “See, that makes more sense. I thought the other way was a strange message to send to expecting parents.”

            “I want to get a stroller and a carrier but let’s look around and see what else they have here.”

            They entered the store and the smell of baby hit Danny’s nose right away. He grabbed a cart as Belle led the way, carrying a baby products’ guidebook. They turned into the area with the bottles.

            “We’re looking for a Zyzu,” Belle said. “The book says it’s top-rated.”

            “Look at all these nipples,” Danny said in amazement.

            One part of the display was floor-to-ceiling with bottle tops. Some tops were made for newborns, some promised to let the baby control the liquid flow, some claimed to fit any bottle.

            “I had no idea,” he said.

            Belle continued to read her book.

            “I mean, how do you even know which top is best?” Danny said.

            “‘The Zyzu is the most realistic of the bottle tops we tested,’” Belle read. “‘Its contours were developed from an analysis of 10,000 female nipples.’”

            “I knew ‘breast inspector’ was an actual job!” he thought.

            “We should get that and find another one,” Belle continued. “The baby might not like the Zyzu.”

            The packaging for each bottle and top seemed to have a photo of the same, large-headed smiling baby. He or she had chubby cheeks and bare shoulders.

            “What about this one?” Danny asked.

            “Dr. Green’s,” Belle said reading the label. “I’ve heard good things about this brand.”

            They left the bottle section and came upon a display featuring breast pump bags. A small television monitor showed a woman in a business suit emptying the bag’s contents on her desk.

            “I’m going to get a bag from someone else,” Belle said.

            “They make special bags?” Danny said.

            “Yes, with pockets to keep the breast milk cold,” Belle said.

            They continued on to breast-feeding pillows.

            “Oooh, look at this cover!”

            Belle handed Danny the small package.

            “Owls?”

            Belle stared at Danny.

            “Oh, right, owls,” he said. “This will go very nicely with our owl theme.”

            He put it in their cart and Belle went to look at some clothes. Danny wandered into the diaper accessory area.

            “I wonder if I could use the butt paste,” he thought.

            Suddenly, he felt something run into his leg and then move in front of him.

            “Rowan!”

            Danny looked to his right. A woman with tired eyes was looking toward his feet. He could hear a baby making noise from the carrier in the shopping cart.

            “Rowan! Get over here!”

            “I want this,” Rowan said, holding out a travel-sized container of baby powder.

            “Put it back,” the woman said.

            “I want this!”

            “What did mommy say earlier about being a good boy? If you don’t behave here, no ice cream later.”

            “I want ice cream!”

            “Then put it back.”

            Rowan put the powder back and ran back toward his mom.

            Danny pushed his cart away and found Belle, who had made it over to the bath and bathing section. She put a foam whale in their cart.

            “What’s that for?” Danny asked.

            “It’s for when we kneel down by the tub while giving her a bath,” she said.

            “Wow, they think of everything.”

            “We also have a whale cover for the bathtub faucet.”

            “Do we need bags for our diaper pail?”

            “No, it’s bag-less.”

            “Bag-less? How is that possible?”

            “It just is,” Belle said. “Let’s go look at strollers.”

            The strollers were stacked on two shelves in a large section of the store. It reminded Danny of seeing bikes at the toy store when he was a boy.

            “We’re looking for a Zyzu,” Belle said.

            “They make strollers, too?”

            “The carriers were designed based on an analysis of how 10,000 people cradled their newborns,” Belle said.

            “This company is good.”

            “Can I help you?”

            Danny and Belle turned around and saw a rail-thin saleswoman who did not look any older than 16.

            “Yeah,” Danny said, “we’re looking for a Zyzu stroller and carrier set.”

            “Excellent choice,” she said. “Let me show you what we have.”

            She led them to a corner of the showroom where three strollers were set up.

            “Zyzu makes three models – a deluxe, a sporty and a basic,” she said. “They all have the latest safety features and are easy to set up and break down.”

            “What’s the difference in the models?” Belle asked.

            “It’s primarily in the carrier,” the saleswoman replied. “The deluxe has extra cushioning and is made with space-age materials, so it’s significantly lighter.”

            Danny picked up the carrier and did a few arm curls.

            “Does it mean it’s significantly more expensive, too?” he asked.

            “It’s a little pricier,” the saleswoman replied. “The sporty model costs a little less and is our best-seller. The primary difference is it weighs a little more.”

            She put her foot on a pedal near the back wheel to demonstrate how it closed. Then she set it up again and popped two plastic inserts into the frame of the stroller.

            “All you do,” she said, picking up the carrier, “is pop the this right into the inserts.”

            The carrier was now one with the stroller, and the saleswoman showed them how they could put a cover over the carrier and where they could store their things on and within the stroller.

            “I like it,” Belle said.

            “Me, too. This is the one I have,” the saleswoman said.

            Danny shot Belle a look of bewilderment.

            “It’s real easy and very durable,” the saleswoman continued.

            “It’s not too heavy?” Belle asked.

            “It takes a little getting used to the carrier but it’s fine,” she replied. “And, usually, once it gets too heavy to carry, that means the baby has outgrown the carrier.”

            “OK great, thanks. Do you have car seat bases?”

            “Yup, right over there.”

            Danny grabbed two bases and dropped them into the cart.

            “She has a kid?” he whispered as they walked away. “She’s young enough to be our kid.”

            “Yeah, she was pretty young.”

            “And so little. Her arms were like pencils.”

            “Yeah, she was little.”

            They walked toward the checkout line.

            “Well, I guess if she can have a baby, we can have a baby,” Danny said.

            “Yeah, we’ll be fine,” Belle said, grabbing some child-sized hangers near the checkout line. “Oh, I wanted to get a couple blankets.”

            They turned the cart around and headed toward the blankets. Another couple was already there. The man had a pouch over his shoulders and on his chest, an infant’s limbs barely peeking out from the holes. The woman, pushing the cart, moved slowly and quietly, her hair trying to escape a loose ponytail.

            They didn’t talk to one another so much as gesture and point. The man rocked back and forth gently, rubbing the back of the carrier. The woman put a blanket in her cart and the two continued on slowly.

            “They’re like zombies,” Danny thought.

            “You like this blanket?” Belle asked.

            “It’s got elephants on it, so of course I do.”

            Belle gave him a kiss on his cheek.

            “Promise me we won’t become zombies,” he said.

            “What?”

            “Just promise we won’t become zombies or stressed-out parents.”

            “I won’t become stressed out so long as you behave,” she said, turning back toward the checkout.

            “Fair enough,” Danny said.

            Their total came to $507.24, but with coupons was only $380.11.