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.