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.