Crayon-ing Achievements

"If I had a blog or something, I'd write about this," Belle said, looking down at the floor. 

My eyebrows shot up so far on my head, it looked like my hair had a toupee. 

"Challenge accepted," I said. 

This was in early spring in our playroom, and I really planned to write about what she pointed out in the days that followed. But, as it always does, life happened. School and Hebrew school and gymnastics and laundry and baseball and soccer and birthday parties and Girl Scouts and play dates and laundry and family gatherings and Girls on the Run and lawn mowing (I still needed a little me time) and trying to keep all three children fed with something besides pizza and chicken nuggets and laundry, so much laundry.

It'll make your head spin if you don't stop occasionally to take a deep breath. And there were two milestone events later in the spring that made me pause and wonder where the time went: my younger daughter's graduation from preschool and my older daughter's graduation from fifth grade. 

(Lest you worry about my son feeling left out: Don't worry, he's been living his best life. He wrote a note to his school crush to determine if they could "be friends"; she responded "yes" -- and drew a heart. When asked on a school assignment what the reading was about, he responded: "Earth. It's obvious," leading to a talk with his teacher. And, since January, with a straight face, he has told my 5-year-old that she's 4 years old and turning 5 in the fall, correcting her when she tells him she's 5 years old and even leading me sometimes to double-check the math in my head.) 

My oldest began kindergarten sitting at a little desk in our dining room, watching her teacher on a laptop. She strode into her 5th grade graduation ceremony in the school cafetorium a smart, silly, sometimes sassy, always caring young lady. Sure, middle school girl drama might be fifth-grade-girl drama on elephant steroids, but she has a good head on her shoulders, and it's been amazing watching her start to figure out who she is and who she wants to be. Besides our in-house babysitter and activities director when her sister has friends over.

Speaking of our youngest, while I was very excited at the fifth-grade graduation, I was feeling more nostalgic at the preschool graduation. Our daughter's departure capped nine years of "us" schlepping a child 20ish minutes to preschool four times a week. And by "us," I mean "Belle," who did most of the morning drop-offs and led the Parents' Association the last three years. I'm worried she might start driving south on I-95 on the first day of kindergarten out of habit.

Talking to parents with their first kid in preschool this past year, I wanted to pat them on the head, let them know everything would be OK and then walk away chuckling to myself. I went from breathlessly awaiting photos from my oldest daughter's day in her 2's class to not opening the app for days at a time this year. There is something magical about seeing your child make friends on their own and thrive in a classroom setting for the first time. There is something more magical about not having to wipe their butts after they poop.

Which brings us back to Belle's writing challenge. With all of the school transitions pending, she wanted to update our playroom this spring by replacing a small art table with big-kid desks for each child to have their own space to work. This included buying a crayon organizer with sections for different colors, meaning we could consolidate the roughly 85,482 half-filled boxes of crayons we had into one location. (On a related note, I frequently say "crayons" as "crowns." I used to believe it was a Baltimore accent thing, but now I believe I've been mispronouncing it all along.)

As she sorted the crowns -- er, crayons -- she noted they were different sizes and worn down at varying angles. Some were missing wrappers, some were giant-sized for beginners. Some were standard, others sparkled. But they all had been used and used well. 

She was filling the containers, in other words, with memories. 

"If I had a blog or something, I'd write about this," Belle said, looking down at the floor with a smile on her face.

Your turn, dear.  

The Tooth of the Matter

To understand why Belle said, at approximately 2:50 a.m. Jan. 2, "I can't believe I'm going to be up the rest of the night because of the f----- tooth fairy," we first need to go back about 42 years.

I was born with a small mouth and a short tongue. If I stick my tongue out, it looks like I have a third, fat lip. When I lick an ice cream cone, my whole face approaches the cone the way a bulldog approaches its water bowl. The problem is my tongue is tied very close to the front of my mouth. This causes words to sometimes spill out of my mouth in a jumbled mess, and sometimes I can feel my mind moving four times faster than my jaw. 

My son has inherited many things from me - dashing good looks, a love of reading, the appreciation of a quality fart. He also has my small mouth and short tongue. His dentist told us last year he probably would need braces by the time he's 8 to make more space in his mouth for his adult teeth; I had braces the first time around the same age and then had braces again in my early teens.

He also was self-conscious about not being able to make certain sounds. A speech therapist worked with him twice before telling us the problem is that he physically can't maneuver his tongue and recommended he work with a myofunctional therapist, which is Greek for "not covered by insurance." She is giving him daily exercises for his tongue that we sometimes do together. He already can make his tongue in the shape of a taco. My attempt looks more like an open-faced gyro.

The myofunctional therapist recommended my son go to the orthodontist to evaluate his crowded mouth. We agreed, knowing sooner rather than later he would need braces. What we did not know was that "sooner" meant "one week later," and on Dec. 30, he had braces on a bunch of his top teeth. (He chose for the colors of his braces' bands orange, black and purple, something else he inherited from me.)

So, when he came into our room at approximately 2:30 a.m. Jan. 2, I immediately asked if his teeth were hurting. He said he just needed a drink - from a cup right beside his bed. I tucked him back in and then noticed our eldest daughter's bedroom door was open, which I thought was strange because Belle closes all the kids' doors before we go to sleep. 

But to understand why Belle said, approximately 20 minutes later, "I can't believe I'm going to be up the rest of the night because of the f----- tooth fairy," we need to go back to earlier in the evening.

I would tell you the exact time but that would imply I remembered to put money under my daughter's pillow in exchange for her tooth. Instead, I know Belle told me sometime earlier in the day to do it in the evening, I acknowledged receipt of the request and promptly forgot.

We were already a day late for the tooth fairy but no kids noticed because of New Year's Eve festivities. My eldest daughter also figured out who the tooth fairy was a few years ago when she observed the tooth fairy's handwriting looked suspiciously like mine. (I switched from an all-caps style to my version of cursive, but we couldn't fool her.) Since the younger kids still had most of their teeth to lose, we reached an unspoken agreement: She would keep getting $5 per tooth in exchange for keeping the tooth fairy's identity a secret. 

(Yes, $5 a tooth. I'm sure when my youngest is losing her last teeth we'll be Venmoing her $35 a molar.)  

Back to the early hours of Jan. 2. I went back to our bedroom and told Belle our son was OK. She then told me I needed to do the tooth fairy for our daughter. I found some money and tiptoed into my daughter's room. Naturally, she woke up immediately. 

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Uh, just checking on you. Your brother just woke up," I said, closing my door on the way out.

I walked back to my bedroom.

"You need to give her the money," Belle said. 

I walked back down the hall. 

"I don't have a note but I want to give you money from the tooth fairy," I said. "Where's your tooth?"

"I want to keep my tooth," she said.

"Keep your tooth?"

"Yeah."

"OK, here's the money."

I walked back into our bedroom. Belle shot out of bed. 

"I heard the whole conversation down the hall," she whisper-yelled, implying our son could have still been up and heard the illicit transaction, too. The tooth fairy, she told our daughter, had to take her tooth or else would not be doing her job. My daughter ultimately handed over the tooth, and I gave her the $5. 

We closed her door and went back into our bed around 2:50 a.m., at which point Belle, who had not slept particularly well the previous nights, said, "I can't believe I'm going to be up the rest of the night because of the f----- tooth fairy." I buried my head as far under our blankets as possible to muffle my laughter.

I slipped a note from the tooth fairy under my daughter's door before she woke up. The younger kids did not ask about the tooth or tooth fairy the following day. 

Most importantly, the f---- tooth fairy did not keep Belle up. My snoring did. 

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.

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.

A Feat (and Feet) for the Aged

I had a big birthday coming up and was asked what I wanted to do. Party On! Pizza, a Chuck-E-Cheese-like arcade near my childhood home complete with animatronics, greasy food and cheap prizes that "cost" thousands of tickets, closed in approximately 1997. So, I was out of ideas.

Then my parents suggested they could fly in from their home in Naples, Florida to watch the kids while Belle and I stayed at their house for a long weekend. Some warm weather in January sounded great, plus the trip would be a milestone for us: Our first vacation without kids since the middle of the Obama administration. (You had to think for a second how long ago that was, right?)

We have sent the older kids for a sleepover at my in-laws but, since our youngest was born, leaving all three behind seemed unfair to our parents. Also, Covid. These days, however, the kids are self-sufficient in their own ways and knew, if grandma and grandpa were coming to town, they would be getting some new toys and ice cream at some point during the visit. Everyone would win, so I booked our plane tickets.

Every weekend is a busy weekend with kids, which is why we left behind three pages of instructions for my parents (in large font, natch) that included times and addresses for after-school art programs, basketball, swimming and Hebrew school pickup and drop-off. Belle and I went to bed late Thursday night after making sure everything was in order and kids' lunches were packed.

We were getting picked up at 4:45 a.m. Friday morning to get to the airport and, looking back, that's when I realized this was going to be a different kind of trip. Had kids been coming on the trip, we would probably have gotten up at 3 a.m. - at the latest - to get ourselves together, make sure we had everything they needed and wake them up as close to 4:45 as possible so all we had to do was put them in the car. Instead, without kids, we rolled out of bed at 4, put on running clothes for later in the morning and brought our suitcase downstairs.

At the airport, we checked our one bag, watching sleep-deprived parents pushing strollers or carrying small children also in a daze. We took a leisurely walk to the gate and then, with time to spare, took a leisurely walk to find the nearest Starbucks. We spent the flight reading or sleeping, not entertaining a child. 

So far, so wonderful. We landed in warm weather and our long weekend away was underway. 

This is a family-friendly space, but I wanted to share some of the adult things we were able to do:

- Go out to eat after 6:30 p.m.

- Visit the pool without first spending 50 minutes applying sunscreen on everyone and packing roughly 3,529 snacks

- Not set a morning alarm

Thus relaxed, things got a little crazy. Belle wanted to get a pedicure and, capturing the you-only-live-once ethos of this trip, I decided to join her for my first one ever. We both got the basic treatment and I was trying my best not to laugh as the pedicurist manipulated my toes. Then she looked at my heels, which, admittedly, are pockmarked with dry skin despite my recent best efforts to moisturize.

"Do you want to upgrade?" she asked, pointing to the next level on the pricing sheet that included dry-skin removal and massage.

(Artist rendering of my pedicure)

I agreed, figuring there was a reason for her look of concern. That look of concern transferred to my face as she pulled out what looked like a small, handheld grater. She started to, well, grate my heels and I bounced between feeling pain, ticklish and nauseous as the shavings piled up in front of her like she was putting Parmesan on my pasta and I refused to say "when." I now know exactly what Lloyd Christmas was experiencing when he was getting his makeover. 

After what seemed like forever, I hopped out of the chair with incredibly smooth feet and felt like I was walking on clouds. I celebrated my newfound sense of adventure later that afternoon by falling asleep sitting by the pool.

Did we miss our kids? It was hard not to think about them at my parents' house because their photos (along with photos of their cousins) are plastered on almost every inch of available wall and shelf space. And we did FaceTime a few times a day to say hi. Belle wanted to make sure everything was OK at our house and pumped everyone on the other end for information. I looked to make sure no child had any sort of head wound and then went back to admiring my feet.

The kids came up during our conversations but it was nice to have a conversation without kids interrupting. We enjoyed seeing other people with their babies but were glad to be past that stage of parenting and that said babies were someone else's. In other words, we fit right in with all of the grandparents around us even as we brought down the average age of wherever we were by about 25 years.

By Sunday morning, we could have stayed another week in the warm weather but also were ready to get home and see the kids. The look of excitement on their faces when we walked through the front door, those first hugs and kisses - that was the best birthday present I could ask for. 

The ice cream cake they bought me was pretty good, too. 

Babysitters Club

"Do you think that's enough?" Belle asked.

She was eye-level with our kitchen counter, looking at a Pyrex measuring cup with vodka in the bottom.

"Sure," I replied, totally not sure if she had half-a-shot or three in front of her.

She poured another splash in the Pyrex and then dumped the alcohol into a Yeti tumbler filled with orange juice. 

We were a little out of practice when it came to pre-gaming but we had an excuse: three kids under 8 and a pandemic. Now, for the first time in three years, we were going to a concert. Even more monumental, we were awaiting the arrival of a babysitter watching the kids who wasn't a grandparent.

Growing up, I remember being excited when my parents would go out on a Saturday night, leaving my brother and I with a babysitter. We would eat pizza, play games, watch TV, maybe stay up until 8:30. I couldn't believe my parents would miss out on such a good time! Who wants to eat dinner after 7 p.m., I thought, or dress up in fancy clothes for fun? 

Pre-coronavirus - and pre-three kids -  Belle and I would have the grandparents babysit every once in a while so we could go out to dinner. The oldest kids were younger and, in some cases still nursing, so we might have left the house after their dinner so all grandma and grandpa would have to do was get them ready for bed. 

Once we were out, however, I understood why my parents - why any parents - valued a good, reliable babysitter. We might have checked the crib monitor once or twice. And the conversation, despite our parents' admonishments, occasionally turned to the kids. But to be able to travel without a diaper bag or buckling someone into a car seat, to eat a meal without getting up 20 times for one reason or another, to have someone clean up the table after you: all parents need a break, even if it's just for a few hours.

COVID and having an infant obviously limited our ability to go out. We would sometimes have grandparents come over during a weekend day for a spell, because nothing says "romance" like a trip to the Verizon store to get new iPhones. 

So I was excited about going to the concert but felt a pinch of anxiety. Bedtime is such a highly calibrated dance, and explaining the routines to someone new felt like trying to make someone an expert on quantum mechanics in an hour. Plus, it had been a busy week and were going on vacation two days later; a night home packing and going to bed at a decent hour sounded pretty good. Speaking of sleep, there's also that cruel math after a night out - you get less shut-eye while the kids still get up at the same (early) time.

But excuses are like diaper pails: they both stink. So the kids got late-afternoon showers and baths and we had an early-evening pizza dinner, reminding them for the 478th time that we would not be around for bedtime. Belle's aunt has watched the kids before and she arrived guns blazing, the "guns" in this case belated birthday gifts for the oldest kids and another toy for our youngest. The kids immediately forgot about us, and we were on our way.

The concert was a lot of fun, even if by around 10 p.m. I might have looked at my watched and yawned. We checked the baby monitor once to see our youngest passed out on her bed. Belle's aunt told us, when we got home, that our youngest went to sleep early, while our older kids stayed up a little later. The kids were great, she said, and she offered to babysit again whenever we wanted her to. 

After a stress-free night out, in a post-concert glow, we might have asked if she were available tomorrow. But we thanked her and agreed we would take her up on her offer at some point in the future. 

Hopefully, by then, we'll have a shot glass.

Potty talk

Loyal readers of this space (hi, Mom!) might remember I wrote last time about a milestone in child-rearing and the word "poopybutt." Today, I write about another milestone in child-rearing that involves poop on butts.

That's right: After eight years, Belle and I have changed our last dirty diaper.

Thank you, Molly Matthews, for all of your help.

We had been dreaming about this moment but it happened so suddenly. Our youngest had shown interest in using the bathroom but we hadn't yet mustered the energy to begin full-on potty training. And then her daycare told us its latest "Potty-Training Boot Camp" was approaching and she would be a good candidate. 

At the conclusion of the one-week program, we were told, she would wake up from her Friday nap and have a diaper retirement party. From that point on, we were only to put her in a diaper for a nap or at bedtime. I'm pretty sure it wasn't coincidental that this particular Friday was the one before Memorial Day weekend, giving her extra time to work out the kinks at home. Still, daycare had us at "we'll potty-train her." 

The concept of changing diapers did not faze me prior to having children, although I was worried about getting peed/pooped on. But then my oldest had that meconium diaper in the hospital and I quickly became an expert, even if I still got peed on occasionally.

Like most parents, we've changed diapers in the backs (and fronts) of cars, in restaurants, in public bathrooms up and down the East Coast, at parks and playgrounds. We've struggled to keep the kids still as we wiped them and doused clothes in OxyClean after a blowout. We've wondered how someone so little, so cute, could produce something so heinous in their pants. I've emptied our diaper pail thousands of times, the smell that wafts up as the trash bag wriggles free from the bin permanently etched in my nostrils.  

When our oldest was potty training, she used a miniature, plastic toilet with a bag at the bottom. We would alternate reading two books while she sat, one an interactive Elmo story where you finally learn that, despite appearances, Elmo does, in fact, wear underwear. The other is titled "Big Girls Use the Potty," featuring a child named Molly Matthews. Before opening "Big Girls" for the first time, I was very confused how a book illustrating a girl using the bathroom did not end up on some school district's banned list. Turns out Molly's stuffed animal "uses" the potty.

Since then, I can't begin to estimate how many times I've sat on a bathroom floor to read those books, how many times I applauded and cheered a bowel movement as if my child won an Oscar, nor how many M&Ms we've given our kids after a mission accomplished.

Our son received an ultimatum when he was almost two-and-a-half: Either your diapers or your pacifier has to go. He kept on sucking and pretty much trained himself in less than a week. To this day, however, I still have to remind him regularly to watch where he's aiming while peeing. At least, living with three ladies, he learned at a young age to put the seat down. He's also discovered the joy and freedom of outdoor urination, and would rather go behind a tree in the backyard than trudge the whole 20 feet inside to the bathroom.

For our older kids, we were with them the entire time they potty trained. For our youngest, all we really knew was she had circle time daily with the other children potty training. "Use potty, get a cookie," she told us each night that week when we asked how training was going. When she came home that Friday, we looked at each other as if to say, "I guess we're really doing this?" We decided she would wear a diaper over her underwear in the car but otherwise followed daycare's instructions. 

There were multiple accidents that first weekend, of course. We went through five pairs of underwear on Saturday alone thanks to a juice box and lots of running around during a barbecue. But after that first weekend, she's really taken to it, even waking up most mornings with a dry diaper. 

We still have to ask her occasionally if she needs to use the bathroom but more often than not she tells us. The sly smile that crosses her face when she hears the tinkle in the bowl always makes me smile. One night, when she had to go No. 2 twice in a half-hour, she informed me very excitedly during her second trip, "I found more poop."

Our diaper shelf in the garage only has a box of nighttime diapers left and the diaper pail sits mostly empty in her room.

I'm not going to miss the diapers, just the little kids that wore them.

Crib Notes

Two-year-olds rarely say things that totally change your world. My daughter, for example, has learned to say "poopy butt" thanks to her brother. But one day recently, she woke up and informed Belle that "my bed is too high."

Her "bed" was a crib and her declaration marked the end of an era: eight years, five sheets, three kids, two mattress covers, thousands of nights of Belle and I standing over the crib's front railing, sometimes rubbing backs, many times just pleading with a baby to JUST GO TO SLEEP.

I built the crib in the spring of 2015, trying to make myself useful in Belle's third trimester before our oldest arrived. Each time we put a newborn in the crib for the first time, the baby looked like a raft in the ocean. And each time, it was hard to believe that one day, not too far away, they would look like a yacht in a backyard swimming pool.

I assumed parenting would be a day-to-day adventure filled with highs and lows. What I was less prepared for was the night-to-night roller coaster. The morning I'm writing this sentence, for example, my almost-5-year-old son came to our room twice between 3 a.m. and 4 a.m. so I could tuck him back in after he went to the bathroom.

To be fair, all of our kids were pretty good sleepers when we first put them into the crib. When other parents asked how any of the babies were sleeping, I always felt a little bad saying they slept 10 hours straight, especially if the other parents described being up all night with their children. But there is no better feeling as a parent of a baby than waking up in the morning slightly confused after a night of uninterrupted sleep and realizing your child did not wake up once. (What I wouldn't give for a night like that today.)

After experimenting with a bassinet with our eldest upon returning from the hospital, we put our other kids in the crib as soon as we came home. I have spent seemingly half my life on a nursery room floor, waiting to help with a diaper change or teeth brushing before a baby was put in or returned to the crib. There is no look as precious as a baby in a milk coma, a punim that recharges you as a parent and melts away any frustration from the day.

Eventually, and unfortunately, all babies hit a sleep regression. For our eldest daughter, it was when she would no longer be swaddled for bedtime. I do remember at least one night where I drove her around in her car seat until she passed out, then brought the car seat into our room. She would require back rubs or someone to sit in her room until she fell asleep; good luck trying to tiptoe out if she were still awake.

We got her a toddler bed for a change of scenery but she refused to use it. She did use a sleeping mat, so long as I was lying next to her, starting around age 2. Almost every night, I would spend at least 30 minutes in her room, until she would fall asleep. And, almost every night, she would come into our room to sleep in our bed. Belle and I knew we shouldn't have let her but, when it was 2 a.m. and we were already sleep-deprived, we just hoped she would grow out of this stage quickly. We didn't expect it would take almost three years.

Belle will never let me forget the time, when our son was home for his first night, she found me fast asleep next to our daughter while she was waiting for me to help with his bedtime. (NOTE: I originally started the preceding sentence as, "One night, soon after we brought our son home..." She read that and was angry at me for forgetting and also angry at me again for falling asleep.) When he was a few months old, I was on the floor in his nursery with him early one morning, trying to coax him back to sleep. I put him on his stomach and he passed out, and that was the day he became a stomach sleeper in his crib, a position everyone advises against. Thankfully, child protective services never came for us, and he slept well in the crib until we moved him to his "big boy" bed before our youngest was born.

By that point, our older children were pros at sleeping in their beds. Our biggest concern was making sure our youngest didn't wake them up with her crying for her middle-of-the-night feedings and they didn't wake her up in the morning as they moved around upstairs like a herd of elephants. When our youngest realized she could stand up in her crib in the morning, our older kids would enjoy climbing into her crib, leaving us wondering why they couldn't have been as enthusiastic being in there when they were her age.

The weekend after our youngest announced her bed was too high, she watched as a I took apart the crib and then was excited when we brought the toddler bed into her room. She put her stuffed animals and dolls on one end and gleefully flung herself on the mattress. Most nights, she lays down and, with a few back rubs, sleeps through the night. More recently, however, there have been nights where she needed a longer back rub and for me to sit with her until she falls asleep.

Part of me enjoys this quiet time, knowing this will be my last chance to do this and, in just a few years, the only time I'll be with my kids while they're sleeping is when I'm trying to drag them out of bed so they get ready for school. Watching your child fall asleep peacefully, feeling safe and secure because you are next to them, reminds you of the joy and fulfillment of being a parent.

But then you remember that, once you get downstairs, there are dishes to clean and toys to put away and probably a night of being awakened for some reason. And you can think only one thing: Poopy butt. 

Taken for a Ride at Disney World

Minnie Mouse and three of her fans.

When I was younger, I made two fashion-related promises to myself:

• I will never purchase all-white New Balance sneakers
• I will never be part of one of those families that wears matching shirts in Disney World

So I was surprised how not-mad I was to be wearing a T-shirt with The Beast in sunglasses and the word "Dad" below it, posing for a photo with the family first thing in the morning at the Magic Kingdom, with Cinderella's Castle behind us. Kids have a funny way of changing your perspective.

(Since you're wondering, Belle's shirt had Belle on it, natch; my older daughter's had Ariel; my younger daughter's had Minnie; and my son chose Darth Vader. Should he become a serial killer, we'll know where it came from.) 

We, along with my parents, spent two-and-a-half days at The Happiest Place on Earth Except for Your Bank Account. Let's get that out of the way: Disney is expensive, although I thought it was a bit excessive when Donald Duck grabbed my wallet during one of the 3-D shows.

Making it better (or worse) is all transactions at Disney can be done through an app or a wristband, so you don't feel like you're spending anything. Many dads (and they were all dads) wore shirts calling themselves "Human ATMs" or that had the word "broke" in the famous Disney font. You really can't put a price on happiness, I guess, until you see your next credit card statement.

Perhaps it wasn't surprising, then, that Disney shows a little mercy and allows Instacart deliveries to people staying on their properties. Belle took advantage of this to get snacks for the parks and to make quick in-room breakfasts each morning. I was skeptical -- there are few things I enjoy more than a hotel breakfast -- but, as usual, Belle was right. Because a day in a Disney park starts early and requires the planning of a high-risk military maneuver and the mental fortitude of a Navy SEAL.

My day started at 6 a.m., when I paid $18 per person via the app just for the right to attempt to jump the line for a given attraction at a given time. At 7 a.m., we had to pick our first "Lightning Lane" ride, and that time window would determine how we mapped out the rest of the day. The app also gives approximate wait times for all shows and rides in a park, and we tried to find attractions with lines no longer than 45 minutes. So, between the Lightning Lane RSVPs, monitoring wait times at other attractions and ordering food for pickup, I spent approximately 80% of my time in Disney with my head down, glued to my phone.

Another 15% of my time was spent waiting in line to take pictures with characters. But all of the kids went home happy: my oldest got photos with princesses; my youngest was overjoyed to see Mickey, Minnie and friends; and, my son, in what is probably a top-three moment of his life so far, met Darth Vader. If Ron DeSantis wants to make more Disney-related laws in Florida, he needs to ban adults without children waiting in line to take photos with the characters. I will grant an exemption to recently married or engaged couples so long as they are wearing T-shirts indicating their relationship status.

But that other 5% of my time in Disney, I had a blast going on rides and watching the kids have the trip of their lives. And that's the thing about going to Disney World: It's fun! The days are long (and we even were back in our rooms before dinner) and there is a lot of walking and navigating crowds. But somehow the excitement of a two-minute ride sustains you long enough until you get to the next attraction. (Parent tip: Rent or bring enough stroller seats for each child. We would not have survived without my parents bringing their umbrella stroller to go with the two-seater rental I schlepped in both parks.)

My concerns about our youngest having meltdowns never materialized, and when she was tired or there was a ride she couldn't go on, my parents would simply walk her around in the stroller. The kids' enthusiasm never waned, and they each had their favorite attractions while also at least pretending to enjoy what their siblings liked. (I'm specifically thinking of the second ride we took on It's a Small World for my youngest.) They already are talking about what they want to see and do during our next visit, and it will be fun to see how their love of Disney will change as they grow older.

By then, I'll probably be in a market for new shoes. And those New Balances sure do look comfortable.

Piercing My Heart

One day over the summer, Belle came home exasperated with our son. In the span of five hours, she reported, he mooned some of his fellow summer campers and had a urinalysis done during his 4-year-old checkup because he wanted to pee in a cup. (In his defense, before dropping trou he did warn his friends, "I'm going to show you my butt.")

I tried my best to convey my disappointment in him but, honestly, I could not have been prouder and felt like my work parenting him was complete.

Not my daughter's ear. (At least not yet.)

By contrast, I nearly choked on my cereal when my oldest daughter, during our breakfast together that morning, explained to me why she needed to wear a sports bra under a loose tank top, including lifting her 7-year-old arms to show me exactly where the undergarment provides coverage.

I thought about those moments recently after my daughter received a makeup set for Hanukkah and got her ears pierced within the span of 72 hours, during which my head was alternatively spinning and exploding. 

"But Danny," you are probably thinking, "it sounds like you have a double standard for what's acceptable for your daughter and what's acceptable for your son."

First of all, you said "butt." Second, as my oldest grows up I'm finally understanding why "dad flummoxed by his daughter" is a TV sitcom staple. What garners an eye roll from Belle can leave me reeling.

There are a few factors at play. I'm much more familiar with the trajectory of boys. I grew up with a brother, and three of my four closest cousins - who also grew up in the same neighborhood - are guys. Four of us recently had a FaceTime not to catch up but to re-watch the 1997 Royal Rumble. There were few pleasantries exchanged, just lots of laughter watching men in spandex try to throw each other out of a wrestling ring. During the call, our one female cousin popped on, said hello, shook her head at us and then signed off. I felt bad we didn't try to talk with her but then the 30-second countdown clock popped up on the screen, and I turned my attention to wondering who would be coming to the ring next.

Then there is the fact our oldest is, by definition, our firstborn. She made me a father and changed my world for the better in ways I still don't think I fully understand. The oldest also is, by definition, your test child, the one you experiment with different parenting and child-rearing techniques. I don't think we scarred her for life (maybe the therapist she hires when she's older will tell me otherwise), so maybe letting her get her ears pierced is the least we could do as a thank you.

Ultimately, to acknowledge her getting older is to concede she's no longer my little girl, that she is becoming her own beautiful young woman inside and out. In that way, she has really helped me appreciate the time I spend with my youngest, who I have finally admitted to myself will not be a 2-year-old forever. I'm a pushover for all of my kids, but my youngest uses me like the frosted tips booth at an early-2000s boy band convention. At least once a day the following scene plays out:

Daughter: I want something.

Me [Doing 275 other things at once]: No, not right now.

Daughter: [Stares blankly at me, waiting for me to see the error of my ways.] Yes.

Me: [Stares back at her, knowing it's only a matter of time before all she wants from me is money or a ride somewhere]: OK.

The only silver lining to being the father of a daughter is that I'm not the mother. Some of my oldest daughter's responses to me are starting to include more than my recommended daily allowance of sass. But she and Belle have the occasional argument where my daughter will whine and say "Mom" as if it has 35 O's in it. When I go to Girl Scouts with her, I see the individual and group dynamics of a bunch of 7-year-olds and I'm terrified to fast forward to the teenage years.

But that is still a few years away. Right now, she lets Belle clean her ear piercings several times a day and is talking about what earrings she wants to wear when she can take her first ones out. She is growing up, and I'm excited to see what's next.

Incidentally, I have not heard much about her makeup set. It's my youngest, instead, who spends most nights before bed playing with the pretend makeup set in her room. I'll give you one guess who she practices putting lipstick on.

Taking it to The Street

When I told a colleague with one child that my family was going to Sesame Place for the day, she was excited for us. As we continued talking about the amusement park trip, eventually there was a pause in the conversation and I heard what I usually hear from people with one or two children when I discuss doing something with my kids: "I can't imagine having three."

How did we get here? I-95 North past Philadelphia.

It's always said with awe and a hint of sympathy. "I hope you have a great time," they seem to be saying, "and, if you lose a child somewhere in the park, I would totally understand and not judge you."

(Conversely, when someone with one child tells me they are going somewhere as a family, I'll say "Have a great time" but I'm 100% jealous inside that they are not making three different sets of snacks for their outing.) 

We've had three kids for almost two years now and traveled as far as the Outer Banks and as close as the playground at our daughter's elementary school. Each trip requires its own calculations: How long are we going to be in the car? How much food do we need to pack? What gear (hats, sunscreen, sunglasses, jackets, etc.) do we need to have? What, if anything, will the kids do in the car? Do we need a stroller? Did we, in fact, bring all three children?

Sesame Place presented its own challenges. It's two-and-a-half hours from our house and we were doing the park in one day, so it would be a lot of car time. Because this was a one-day trip, we had to make sure we hit all the rides and attractions. And, unlike destinations from other long car trips, there were no grandparents on the other side ready to help. That we were going in the midst of heatwave was not helping our cause.

But our visit to Sesame Place was long overdue. Every toddler hits that sweet spot where their whole world is Sesame Street, where hearing that theme song elicits a Pavlovian response allowing a parent to get them dressed, brush their teeth or simply sit quietly for 25 minutes. We took our oldest to Sesame Place when she was around 2 years old but our plan to go with our son when he was 2 was scuttled by the early days of the pandemic. 

Now, our youngest is almost 2 and watching episodes I first saw seven years ago (Elmo and Abby are still busting boo-boos). We are on the verge of moving past Sesame Street in our house, a sure sign that our kids are growing up way too fast; that my youngest was wearing the same Elmo shirt my oldest wore for her trip confirmed this. Belle and I knew it was going to be a long day but we also knew the memories would be worth it.

At least that's what I told myself as we were hit by 90-plus-degree heat exiting our car and slathered on sunscreen after an early-morning car ride where no one slept. We took the obligatory picture by the Elmo and Big Bird topiaries near the entrance to the park and went directly to the carousel, a strategy copied by seemingly everyone else there. Our youngest was a little confused as to why she was sitting atop an inanimate horse but the second the ride started moving the look on her face was one of surprise and delight, as if she was saying, "Can you believe THIS!?!?"

We thought this would be a good sign for the rest of the rides. Unfortunately, what rides we could go on was limited because either there was a maximum of four people per ride or our oldest kids were too short to go on their own, meaning Belle or I had to go on a ride with one child while the other parent kept an eye on the other children. We spent the whole morning playing three-kid Monte but hit all of the rides the kids wanted to do. My favorite was Navigating a Double-Wide Stroller Through a Sea of Other Strollers. That said, I appreciated the Stroller Code followed at Sesame Place: Park yours out of the way and no one will touch it. It was the peace of mind I needed so I could focus on not throwing up while on the teacups.

For those who have never been, Sesame Place is essentially divided into two parts: expensive and very expensive. I knew going in we were going to spend money on lunch and souvenirs. What I did not expect was to spend $35 on a locker to store our valuables that we used for roughly 15 minutes, enough time to attempt to ford the Lazy River but quickly retreat when two kids were crying and one was nearly swept slowly away. It made the $10 that we spent on some kind of Cookie Monster-inspired, blue-colored ice cream worth it to calm everyone down. (After having a taste, I can say with confidence there was a reason why the ice cream stand ran out of vanilla and chocolate and only had the Cookie Monster-inspired, blue-colored ice cream left when it was our turn to order.)

By mid-afternoon, our traveling party included some tired and cranky people. Kids, too. Throughout the park, it seemed many families were on the edge of a breakdown. There were crying kids and parents with blank expressions as they pushed strollers to the next attraction. Our goal all along was to make it to the big mid-afternoon parade down Main Street, so we got a seat early on the sidewalk. My youngest had been scared seeing the characters in person, preferring Belle or I hold her so she could observe Elmo and Abby from a distance. But once those floats started moving by us, stood and waved at every last character. She was overwhelmed with happiness and gleefully ran down Main Street after the parade ended. 

That moment made my day. But so did being able to spend quality time with the family, doing something out of the ordinary and not letting the occasional breakdown get in the way of having fun. Even the older kids got a kick out of going on the rides and taking photos with Big Bird, Snuffy and Elmo. They saw stars! 

Wait, sorry, that was me after I stubbed my toe on a curb so hard that it turned a shade of purple darker than The Count blushing. It was not quite the souvenir I imagined driving home with but at least the kids fell asleep as the sun set. All three of them.

Playground People

My youngest daughter and I were at a playground recently when I noticed two Dads Engrossed in Deep Conversation. One had a diaper bag over his shoulders; both had feet shoulder-length apart, arms crossing and uncrossing. They were discussing the depreciation of home values -- at least the part of their conversation I could hear when I wasn't shadowing my daughter up and down a slide. 

As they continued talking, I wondered where their kids were. So, apparently, did one of their wives, who walked up to them, mildly annoyed. 

"Do you know where our daughter is?" she asked. 

The dad mumbled something and gestured toward the playground set as his wife walked away. He and his friend directed their attention toward the jungle gym, at least for a few minutes, before resuming their conversation.

I've spent thousands of hours on playgrounds in the last seven years. We've had play dates and family gatherings and just-get-the-kids-outside afternoons. There have been big slides, small slides, swings, tunnel slides, fire poles, jungle gyms and lifting a kid around the waist as they "do" the monkey bars. There have been scrapes and falls and enough snacks to stock a Costco. There also has been great people watching, including some these parents I noticed while with my youngest.  

I don't want to pick on children, but I need to call out the Big Kid on Little Kid's Equipment. If the kid is helping a younger sibling or quickly passing through, that's one thing. But an 8-year-old repeatedly going down the baby slide isn't helping anyone.

I'm usually on the playground wearing workout clothes. And while people might stare at my leotard, I need to be ready for action. Which is why I'm always curious about the Overdressed Parents. It can't be comfortable for the dad in skinny jeans and too-tight T-shirt chasing around their kid, or the mom in a sundress and fancy sandals. Not to mention hot.

During my recent outing with my youngest, there was one Overdressed Dad who also was a Dad Clearly Wearing His Wife's Diaper Bag. He just looked uncomfortable, like a turtle on its back. He probably is wondering why he is traveling with so much stuff but also unsure if he'll be able to find anything in all of those pockets. 

When I'm going solo, I use a messenger/diaper bag with one main pocket for most things. I guess that makes me a Dad with His Own Diaper Bag. I've had mine since our oldest was born and, while there might be a snack in an inside pocket from the Obama administration and very little else, I do not mess with the delicate ecosystem that is Belle's diaper bag. The key to having your own diaper bag, I've learned, is to make sure there is at least one diaper in it before you leave the house. If I remember to check for wipes, that's a bonus.

A close cousin of the Dad Engrossed in Deep Conversation is the Dad on His Phone. I get you might need to check occasionally on emails and texts ("Did you remember to pack wipes?") but the social media feeds will be there in 20 minutes. Be in the moment with your children because there will be a day when you'll have to drag them to a playground rather than vice versa. The one exception to monitoring your phone is, of course, on a Sunday in the fall as you track your fantasy football teams. Gotta have priorities.

I spend a lot of time observing dads but there also can be a parent dynamic at a playground. My favorite is the First-Time Parents. They come to the playground with a stroller and diaper bag packed for a two-week trip. They form a bubble around their toddler, clapping and shouting words of encouragement that also serve as self-affirmations that they are parenting and able to care for a small human being. 

And there are photos. Tons of photos, an album-to-come titled "Junior's First Visit to the Playground!" with roughly 82 photos of the child atop the slide they ultimately refuse to go down. I'm all for documenting new experiences. It's the Parents Shooting a Documentary Film about Their 15 Minutes on the Playground that miss out on said new experiences watching everything through their phone. 

But my favorite people of all on the playground are the Mom and Dad Days Away from Having a Second Child. Mom is doing her best to move around the playground; dad oscillates between worrying mom's water is going to break and following their first-born on the jungle gym. They are trying to distract themselves from what is to come by enjoying what is directly in front of them. They are happy their first child is going to be a big sibling but also sad the kid will no longer have their undivided attention. 

They are excited, confident they have a handle on raising a child. Maybe they see the dad chasing one kid around the playground while the other is throwing a tantrum because he wants to go on a swing and think, "That will never be our children." (Spoiler alert: There is always a tantrum.) In a way, I'm jealous of their innocence. In another way, I'm glad having three kids makes a morning at the playground with one feel like a walk in the park.

Besides, a growing family means you have to think about the possibility of buying a bigger house. And I've heard homes depreciate from the minute you move in.

Guess who's crying at dinner

Belle and I have had young children for so long, our daydreams are about having just one baby in the house. In those halcyon days, we could take turns watching her so we could get other things done, such as exercising or taking a shower without interruption.

One of our recent dinners.

We particularly remember the relative tranquility of the dinner/bedtime routine. Granted, I spent about two years of bedtimes laying on the floor next to my oldest daughter and then trying to slink out of her room as quietly as possible when she finally fell asleep. But at least once I made it downstairs, what little there was to clean up was put away and Belle and I could potentially watch an entire episode of "The Bachelor." These days, once everyone is asleep and the house is cleaned up, we are lucky to make it through 10 minutes of "The Bachelor" before someone is dozing off on the sofa.

Parents with teenagers or kids out of the house always say you will miss the days when your kids are babies, and I can see that, especially as we watch our youngest go through the "firsts" for the last time. One day I will look back fondly on the dinner/bedtime routine. But since that day is not today, I figured I would document a typical early evening in our house for posterity's sake. Because, like "The Bachelor," it's all about the journey.

2:37 a.m. - As I wake up for my middle-of-the-night potty trip, I realize I forgot to take the chicken out of the freezer so it can defrost for the night's dinner.

2:16 p.m. - Prior to the pandemic, we had a stable of recipes we knew we could make quickly once we got home from work. Since Belle and I are still both primarily working from home, we've been able to try new recipes and do some prep during work breaks. Granted, the odds of all of our kids liking a new recipe are roughly 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000-to-1. But you've got to break some eggs to make an omelette. (Especially if an omelette is for dinner.)

5:15 - Having played nice and quietly after coming home from school, the older kids retire to their reading nooks to HAHAHAHAHA just kidding! After hopefully not maiming one another while playing, they turn on the TV. To avoid further fighting, one chooses what to watch on odd-numbered days, the other on even ones. My Nobel Peace Prize for that Solomonic decision must have gotten lost in the mail.

5:20 - While the older kids watch TV, we give them a snack of apples and peanut butter. This was a combination I did not grow up eating and (hot take alert!!) I'm not a fan. But if it gets them to eat a fruit, so be it.

5:25 - I always forget how long it takes the oven to preheat, so it's right about now I realize I should have turned it on 10 minutes ago.

5:25 - The youngest watches Sesame Street on an iPad in the kitchen, devouring whatever food we put in a bowl in front of her. 

5:25:30 - She politely hands the bowl back to myself or Belle.

5:27 - As dinner is cooking, we try to clean up some of the day's dishes in the kitchen and toys in the playroom.

5:44 - "When is dinner going to be ready?" someone asks in from the living room. "In about 15 minutes," we reply.

5:47 - "Is dinner ready?" someone asks from the living room.

5:59 - Dinner is put on the table.

5:59:01 - "I don't like it," at least one kid announces.

5:59:15 - The youngest drops her water cup for the first of at least several times.

6:02 - 6:07 - Everyone is happy and quietly eating.

6:07:02 - "I'm still hungry," at least one kid announces with food still on their plate.

6:13 - The youngest smiles as she runs her sauce-covered hands through her hair.

6:20 - The older kids have wandered away from the table as the youngest puts the finishing touches on tearing up a napkin and throwing it on the floor. 

6:26 - The youngest gets cleaned up and out of her booster seat. We shift into bath time.

6:31 - There are few things in the world more enjoyable than giving a baby a bath. The Buddha belly, the rolls of skin, the look of surprise each time water goes over their heads, the laughter as they splash water. All of this makes it easy to ignore the screaming in my older daughter's room as she and my son fight while talking to my parents on the iPad. 

6:35 - Showing signs of environmental consciousness very early in life, my youngest eschews using a towel and air-dries. Trying to put lotion on a moving, naked baby must be what trying to catch a chicken is like.

6:37 - After more than six years of washing and untangling her hair in the bath, my oldest recently has decided to shower herself. Granted, I still have to work the shampoo through her hair and then take off the shower head to really rinse it, but we're moving in the right direction.

6:38 - Negotiations begin with my son over his bath. Belle arrives upstairs, having cleaned the dining room after dinner. In related news, we're on our third Dustbuster in two years. 

6:42 - As Belle brushes our older daughter's hair, my son has agreed to terms on his bath: Dad will give the bath in under 3 minutes, keeping the timer on his phone visible, after which Mom will get him dressed. (Again, the Nobel Peace Prize must have gotten lost in the mail.) Our youngest, having fought putting a fresh diaper on, poops in said diaper.

6:50 - My son exits the bath with 10 seconds left on the timer and leaves the bathroom. The oldest returns to the bathroom to floss and brush her teeth. 

6:53 - Having left the bathroom to close bedroom blinds, I return to see my daughter has neither started flossing nor brushing. I only have to ask eight more times before flossing starts.

7:01 - "Almost there," I say to myself, taking a deep breath.

7:10 - The oldest children have clean teeth and are ready for story time. 

7:15 - The oldest children finish fighting over what story mom is going to read them.

7:20 - As Belle reads to the oldest children on my son's bed, I'm on the floor in the room of our youngest, surrounded by a pile of baby books. My daughter gives me a book to read, rapidly turns the pages and discards the book, stopping occasionally to lift a flap or feel a texture on the page. We "read" approximately 82 books in seven minutes.

7:24 - Whenever I read to the older kids, I do the occasional silly voice but mainly focus on finishing the book. Belle, by contrast, goes with more of a dialogue, asking questions along the way. ("How do you think the alligator felt when the bunny took his ice cream cone?")

7:26 - Question overheard in the other room: "How did Sonia Sotomayor learn so much as a child?" (Answer: She went to the library and read books.) Question I ask my youngest: "How does baby feel when she is yawning? (Answer, after lifting the flap on the page: Baby is tired.)

7:30 - The older kids get tucked in. 

7:33 - As the youngest nurses, my son comes out of his room for (hopefully) the only time of the night.

7:40 - The youngest goes down in her crib.

7:41 - My son comes out of his room for (hopefully) the last time of the night.

7:43 - Despite no one having been in the playroom for two hours, more toys have piled up on the floor.

7:47 - I spend so much time in front of the sink cleaning dishes that I'm filming a public service announcement next week about the dangers of dish-pan hands.

8:14 - Belle and I finish up our work for the day.

8:58 - Belle makes her to-do list for tomorrow. I ask what is for dinner so I can avoid waking up in the middle of the night realizing I forgot to take chicken out of the freezer.

9:23 - We sit down on the sofa to watch TV. Neither of us wants to move for several hours but...

9:36 - Belle's eyes are closed. I turn on ESPN.

9:44 - I give Belle a nudge and we start to head upstairs. 

9:45 - As I turn off the lights on our main level, I notice all of the toys are back on the floor again.