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.

Just a matter of time

It was either the 20th century French Existentialist philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre or Hootie & the Blowfish who once asked, "Time, why you punish me?" I was thinking about this the other day as I changed my youngest daughter's diaper after she had eaten more than her older two siblings combined.

Not pictured: Jean-Paul Sartre

Wiping someone else's butt really makes you take stock of your life. If you would have told me 20 years ago I'd have three kids and a minivan, I would not have believed it. But Weezer is now on classic rock radio stations and, when I get a haircut these days, there's a little less to take off the top and a little more to trim around the eyebrows and ears, so here we are.

The truth is, if you would have told me two years ago I'd have three kids, I might not have believed it. Our youngest was -- and I'll ask my in-laws to cover their eyes for the next word -- conceived in March 2020, just before everything shut down. (And I mean "everything": Belle and I decided that month was going to be our last try for a third.) The first nine months of the uncertainty and anxiety of the pandemic were counterbalanced by the excitement of our pending arrival.

The day before she was born, I remember taking the older kids out as they rode their scooters and all I could think was: I really hope starting Ezekiel Elliott over Antonio Gibson will not torpedo my fantasy football matchup. I couldn't fathom how different life would be in 24 hours, so it was easier to focus on on the trivial. 

But then I blinked and I was leaving the hospital with our daughter. (The best part of having a baby during the pandemic? No visitors allowed in the hospital. It like a mini-vacation, albeit one where my wife was recovering from major surgery.) Then I blinked again and the oldest had completed a year of virtual kindergarten, only seeing her teacher in person on the last day of school for a quick photo. Then I blinked again and my son was standing on his tiptoes while getting most of his pee in the toilet. (More on that another time.)

Quarantines, hand sanitizer, vaccines, masks, PCR tests, having vaccines for kids under 5 pushed back, holidays on Zoom, having vaccines for kids under 5 pushed back again... life has gone by real fast the last two years when it hasn't felt like Groundhog Day. I know we are fortunate that everyone has remained healthy, which is all that really matters, and we have been able to work from home. But I can't help wonder if we'll ever really know everything that we've lost in the pandemic.

Belle and I have occasionally debated at what age of childhood the last few years have been toughest for. I maintain it's easiest for our kids, the youngest ones, because they largely do not know what they are missing and, by the time they are older, this mishegas hopefully will be long gone. Time, in other words, is on their side.

Speaking of "Time," Hootie also sang, "The future's far away / And now only lasts for one second." So I've tried my best to appreciate the present and live in the moment. I am grateful I can pick up from preschool and walk home from the bus stop, that I can watch my youngest go from infant to toddler with my own eyes rather than through pictures and updates on my phone.

Because one day I will blink and they all will be grown up. And then I will blink again and they will be changing my diapers.

The truth about lying to your kids

As part of a trip to Florida in February, we made plans to visit Belle's Great-Uncle Buddy, a 93-year-old decorated World War II veteran who looked 63 and still lived on his own. He was very excited to see us and said to call when we got down there to figure out the details.

Sadly, one week before our trip, Uncle Buddy died. It was not unexpected in the sense he was 93, but the suddenness still got me thinking about everything he saw and did in his lifetime, about the fragility of life and preciousness of time.

My daughter, who knew we were supposed to see Uncle Buddy, had some other thoughts, such as:

• Why did he die?
• How do you eat when you die?
• How do you breathe when you die?
• Do your eyes work when you die?
  
• When are you going to die?
• Are you not dying because you wanted to have kids?
• Is Uncle Buddy with Winnie? (Winnie was my brother's family's dog that died last year.)
• Did Daniel's grandmother die? ("Daniel" is Daniel Tiger, a cartoon character who is only shown with his grandfather.)

She asked these and other questions multiple times each day. The first time it happened, Belle and I looked at each other dumbfounded, our minds racing to figure out anything to say, let alone the right thing.

When your children are babies, lies often help move them toward your goal. My 2-year-old some nights only agrees it's bedtime when we inform him that grandma, grandpa, Grover, Elmo and The Count are already sleeping.

By the time your children are 4 or 5, like my daughter, you can still lie. But they have questions about EVERYTHING, so you weigh the consequences of telling the truth -- thereby opening the door for another round of questions -- versus giving them the answer they want to hear just so you can have 90 seconds without being interrogated.

"I've never seen a unicorn," my daughter announced the other day, for example.

"Me neither," I replied.

"You haven't?"

I paused. I thought about explaining how unicorns aren't native to the mid-Atlantic region but decided to go with the truth. Someone had to break the bad news to her eventually.

"They don't actually exist," I said.

I saw the wheels turning in her head and imagined her reliving this exchange with her therapist in 20 years.

"Well, one day I'm going to make one with a rainbow horn and it's going to fly in the sky," she said, and we got on with our day.

With the Uncle Buddy news, Belle and I talked to our daughter about heaven and how people die after they live long, happy lives. She seem satisfied with our answers and then, naturally, moved on to questions about a global pandemic.

When the coronavirus closed her school and limited who we could see and what we could do, we explained how there were a lot of germs everywhere and how we needed to stay home as much as possible for everyone's safety. She randomly drops "coronavirus" into her monologues, and there were some tears during her virtual preschool graduation (mostly from her parents), but otherwise she has adjusted to the new normal.

Little kids have the ability to be wise beyond their years and eat their own boogers, sometimes in the same five minutes. You want to protect them but also prepare them for what lies ahead (pardon the pun). And you never know what kind of reaction or response you will get to something you say.

All you can do is what you think is best, even if it means "agreeing" to ice cream for dinner just so you can finish that work email you've been trying to write for an hour. And then shower them with love after you put chicken and vegetables on the table.

Now, can anyone tell me the best way to explain to my daughter how the tooth fairy is able to find her room?

If this van's a-rockin'...

Belle and I have been a little wistful lately as we watch our kids grow. Our 4-and-a-half-year-old daughter can already apply her own lipstick. Our 19-month-old son, after figuring out he can stand up during bathtime, has discovered the joy of peeing in the tub.

So, after much deliberation, we decided it was time to have a third... row of seating in one of our cars.

Not our van.

That we became Van People was a bit of surprise. But I should have seen this automotive evolution coming. I might have even predicted it five years ago:

Memories might be priceless, but if I can get a couple thousand dollars for my car when I turn it in, I'll take it. That money will not go toward purchasing my new car, though, because that is already in our garage. I'll soon be driving Belle's Corolla, a silver four-door with some pep and a small spoiler so named because it spoils the view out of your rearview mirror.

Belle, in turn, will get a new car. Something a little bigger, something with a bit more room, something that can fit -- gulp -- car seats.

Since then, the Corolla and I got along fine. But then the radio display stopped working. And then the automatic locks stopped automatically locking. And then our kids and our car seats got bigger and the car started feeling small when we all piled in. We could only take the car on short trips that did not require us bringing much more than ourselves.

Poor Belle was packed so tight in the passenger seat of the Corolla with her backpack, cooler of snacks and knitting bag that she could barely buckle her seatbelt. When the kids needed something while we were driving (it's never "if" when you have kids under 5), she would have to contort herself over the center console and effectively moon the driver in front of us.

(If you were expecting a butt joke there, I'd like to sleep in my bed tonight, thank you very much.)

For as long as I've known Belle, she swore she would never get a van. But the door opened for one in part because of the doors on her SUV. Contorting your kids through a car-door opening and into their car seats without any complaining is the toughest game of "Operation" imaginable. The appeal of sliding doors and the ability for our kids to climb into the van on their own, not to mention space for them to spread out, was a huge selling point.

Some couples go out for dinner on their wedding anniversary. Belle and I, in perhaps the most appropriate sign of how far we've come since we said "I do," spent our wedding anniversary at a car dealership saying "I don't" to financing plans and various add-ons to our new van. One month later, everyone is happy and comfortable in our new ride. Belle even lets me drive it sometime.

That third row, incidentally, is empty right now but we've been batting around a plan for it. It could involve -- gulp -- another car seat.

As I was writing this, at 6:30 one morning, I saw my son stirring in his crib on the baby monitor. He was calm, so I went back to writing. A minute later, I heard my daughter's voice over the monitor, and then saw her hand give him a book through the crib rails.

I ran upstairs and found my daughter sitting on the potty.

"Why did you go into his room?" I asked.

"He was trying to reach 'Pete the Cat,'" she replied as my son wailed in his crib.

People always joke about going from one kid to two is like going from a zone defense to man-to-man. But what you don't realize until you have a kid is that, in both scenarios, you're playing against LeBron James. All you can do is try to keep the score respectable.

So whether we have a third child or continue to marvel at how our two kids are growing, I was prescient five years ago about my future:

This is going to cost me a lot of money.

My 15 dads

The first day of middle school, I wore a "Central Perk" T-shirt I got after taking the Warner Bros. studio tour in Hollywood. The first day of high school, I wore an orange-and-blue V-neck made of some sort of velour material from Structure. (I might have been wearing corduroy shorts, too, making me a stylish, walking fire hazard.)

Axezon.com

I thought about this as I stood in front of the beer fridges at my neighborhood liquor store, trying to decide which six-pack to bring to my first neighborhood dads' night. You're never too old to worry about making a good first impression.

When my wife and I bought our house, part of the appeal was the new neighborhood was turning over, with empty-nesters giving way to young families. We had a mutual connection with one of the young families, and the dad asked for my email so I could be included in the dad listserv.

Here's the thing: I didn't need any new friends. I have a close group of people that I actively keep in touch with and others from my past who pop in and out, the people whose social media posts might lead me to respond with a text message or phone call.

Most non-family, non-coworker guys I interact with these days have children in school with my kids. Children are natural icebreakers (and glass breakers and ceramic breakers, etc.), and I always enjoy chatting with dads at play dates, even if the conversations inevitably go off the rails:

Me: Hello, fellow dad.

Fellow dad: Greetings.

Me: Did you watch the big sporting event last night?

Fellow dad: AIDAN! That Lego is not food!

Part of me always wonders, as I'm deep into trading stories about baby poop, if the person I'm talking to and I would have been friends in high school or be interacting in any other social scenario if not for our children. Then I realize the answer doesn't matter. What matters is being a parent automatically puts you in a clique with other parents, with even the most casual of acquaintances becoming your support group. It takes a Facebook group to raise a child.

Which brings me back to my first night hanging with the neighborhood dads. Here was a group of total strangers that I would be meeting without the crutch of children. At the liquor store, I was debating between light beer and craft beer. I was worried a light beer would be silently frowned upon but a craft beer might seem snobbish.

I decided to split the difference and walked into a neighbor's house with Fat Tire in hand. I had met a few of the dads previously but only exchanged pleasantries. Now there were a dozen of us around a poker table. Whatever nerves or awkwardness I had went away as the cards continued to be dealt. Part of it might have been the fact that each dad brought his own six-pack but even without alcohol, all of the dads were welcoming and are nice guys.

That first poker night has led to happy hours and a fantasy football league and happy hours and a March Madness pool and happy hours and disc golf(!) and happy hours. I still can't tell you what some of these guys do for a living and don't know some of their children's names (although I could pick them out of a lineup). But if I need the name of a good mechanic in the area, I'd email the group before going to Google. There's always some dad talk when we get together but it's otherwise regular guy talk with friends, the best of both worlds.

Which leads me to the best email exchange I was part of all year, one that epitomizes a Dad Group. A dad sent out a missive one Sunday afternoon on the listserv with the subject line, "Looking for an Axe."

"Does anyone have an axe I could borrow?" he asked.

Less than two hours later came a reply.

"You can borrow mine," another dad said. "Let me know when you want to grab it."

No questions, no back-and-forth and I learned someone in my neighborhood owns an axe. It was a total guy conversation and a thing of beauty, like a velour shirt and corduroy shorts.