Tag Archives: fatherhood

Will work for toys

What would a four-year-old most like to do for fun on a beautiful Saturday afternoon? You guessed it: wash windows.

My wife and the baby were out when the boy came to me and asked, “Can we do some housework? Let’s wash some windows.” He then went on to tell me, “We’ll need a bucket and some soap and water.”

No, the boy is not the reincarnation of my grandmother. He really couldn’t care less if our windows were coated with gook. This sudden desire to clean up is not about windows or good housekeeping at all. It’s about toys.

The boy has noticed that there are lots of shiny new toys in that wonderland warehouse known as TOYS R US. Except for some of the toys in the aisles that virtually glow with pinkness, he wants them all. At the rate his parents buy him toys, he has calculated that it will take him months, or even years, to collect them all. This is unacceptable.

It has been explained to him that the lack of all the money in the world is the principle reason why he cannot have every toy. To combat this problem, he is determined to collect all the money in the world himself. Mommy and Daddy have proven willing to give him some money for doing extra chores, but there may be some flaw in his imagining that all the money in the world can flow to him through Mommy and Daddy.

boy with windex and rags

If you hire a four-year-old to clean your windows, make sure you have plenty of Windex, because the spraying is a lot more interesting than the wiping.

Our three-seasons room has lots of windows, and though I was in no hurry to clean them, it seemed a good opportunity to reinforce his work ethic. This could be done just as well with a bottle of Windex and some rags as by schlepping around a bucket of dirty water. We went to work at once.

He was able to reach only the lower part of the windows, leaving me responsible for the rest, for which my only reward would be cleaner windows. The boy kept himself motivated for a while, but his interest waned by the time we got to the outside. “You’ve got to finish the job if you want to get any money,” I warned him.

“So I can get a paycheck?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“Well, I don’t want to be in a mentoring program.”

This was an out-of-the-blue head-spinner. Then I realized that the reference was from one of the inappropriate cartoons we like to watch together. As I recall from the cartoon, a mentoring program entails a slacker employee carrying his mentor, in a harness resembling a Baby Bjorn, while the mentor barks commands at him. I don’t want to be in a mentoring program either.

The boy stuck with it until the job was done, perhaps motivated by the image of a nagging father strapped to him. I gave him two dollars to put into his wallet and two quarters for his piggy bank.

“Can I have two of the dollars with Mr. Lincoln’s picture on them?” he asked.

“These have Mr. Washington’s picture. He was a very good man too,” I explained.

“Yeah, but Mr. Lincoln’s dollars have fives on them. These only have ones.”

Next time he wants to earn some money, I’ll have him do my taxes.

view of back yard through windows

Thanks to a boy with an ambition, we have learned that there is a back yard beyond our windows. Who would have guessed there was anything so useful beyond all the dirt and grime?

A Land Shark is born: baby’s first tooth

The baby is cutting his first tooth. To be more exact, the baby is cutting everything he can get into his mouth with his first tooth. It’s funny how popular culture phrases it as though something destructive is happening to the tooth itself when, in fact, it is the tooth that is tearing up the world as we know it.

I’ll concede that the sensation of that first little nub coming in may be inspiring the baby to bite down on things for pain relief. It would be helpful to know how much trouble this developing tooth is causing him, but we are largely in the dark. The baby can’t tell us because he doesn’t speak English, although I could swear I’ve heard him sigh, “Oh, yeah!” a couple of times, right after he’s belted a grand slam into the upper deck of his diaper.

If teething is indeed causing him pain, he is doing a good job of sharing the joy. That little diamond-tipped blade he has poking out of his lower gum is hell on naked flesh. The fact that it lies hidden behind a baby-soft pair of lips makes it doubly dangerous.

This young man has always enjoyed rolling a parent’s fingers between his gums, but the advent of the tooth has turned him into an adorable little piranha.  It’s as if the tooth has taken charge of him, commanding him to snap at any fleshy target in its insatiable lust for blood.

baby peace sign

“The tooth asks that you respect his right to privacy. No pictures, please.”

Fingers should always tread lightly around a teething baby’s mouth, but this boy bites shoulders now. Of course, it’s not his fault; it’s that demon tooth that rules him. That sociopathic shard of enamel smiles at you from within that happy little mouth, lulling you, endearing itself to you through your gullible weakness for developmental milestones. It sucks you in, toys with you, until you are so deceived that you actually feel betrayed when the shark bites.

baby grabbing at camera

“Okay, that’s it! I said no pictures of the tooth. Give me that camera.”

From my recollections of the first child’s teething time, it seems that there is an unspoken understanding between baby’s teeth and mother when it comes to breastfeeding. Smart babies know not to bite the boob that feeds them. That’s one spigot that no youngster should do anything to turn off at such a tender age. It could lead to the gnashing of teeth, as soon as he gets another tooth to gnash against the first one.

Meanwhile, the baby is always looking for something or someone to try his new tooth on. I feel like I should be pushing raw steak at him with a long stick. Does anybody know where I can get a pair of rawhide gloves and shoulder pads?

You’re wasting everybody’s time, Daddy

When you turn four, life picks up the pace on you. Suddenly, you have a preschool commitment. All the clothes you wore when you were three are now too small or too unfit for your level of sophistication. You’ve got to run around town to find the right blue jeans, a backpack, and even a lunch bag. You’re a busy man when you’re four.

That’s why it’s important to still make time to play. And when you do play, you can’t let grown-ups slow you down with a lot of red tape. You know what needs to get done, play-wise, and you can’t afford to suffer a bunch of time-wasting questions from adults.

I was playing trucks with my son the other day. He had a car transporter truck and a car that rides on it. I was in charge of the car while he drove the truck. He would unload the car for me, I would drive it around for bit, then he would come back with the truck to pick it up again. It was all a very smooth cycle until I started throwing monkey wrenches into the process.

One time, he backed up the truck and set down the ramp for me to drive up. “How do I know you’re the right truck?” I asked.

Toy truck with car on top

Foreground: my hand, holding the stack of paperwork the truck driver gave me to look through. Background: my expensive car, about to be taken away on what might be the wrong truck!

“Because I have a number one on the front,” replied.

“That’s fine, but do you have any paperwork I could look at?” I persisted.

He rolled his eyes at the delay, but took out his imaginary paperwork and handed it over.

I looked through the manifest. “It doesn’t say you’re the right truck anywhere in here,” I told him.

“Okay,” he sighed. “I’ll go ask my boss.” He drove the truck across the carpet to the area where his supposed boss hung out. I didn’t see any boss, but it was six feet away, and with my aging eyesight, I could have missed him. The boy backed the truck up to my car again. “Yup, my boss says I’m the right truck.”

“Okay, well, if your boss says so.” I drove up onto the truck with some reluctance.

boy with toy truck

Getting my car onto the truck, quickly, efficiently, and free of paperwork.

A minute later, the truck came back and dropped off my new car. I was delighted. I drove it around the floor with great excitement.

The truck traveled across the room and back again, backing up in the telltale way that indicated it was here to pick up my car again.

“Are you the right truck?” I asked the driver.

“Yes. And I don’t have any paperwork, so just get on!” he replied.

That’s the way business gets done.

Football, putting the kids to bed, and other rough sports

My boys are too young to know much about sports, but they do have an eerie sense for knowing when my interest in what’s on TV has intensified. Something in their childhood instincts alerts them that Daddy wants to watch the game, and they know it’s time to go feral.

My sports season runs from fall to spring, headlined by football and basketball and seasoned with a sprinkling of hockey. Summer has its baseball, and occasionally the Olympics, but those don’t get me psyched up to watch them on TV, which is why my kids are relatively quiet during this period. Daddy can watch all the reruns and reality shows he wants in peace. As it turns out, he doesn’t really want to watch any.

The baby was born in spring, at the end of the sports season. Until recently, he has been a remarkably quiet, contented infant. Through the whole summer, he has been all smiles and giggles. His deep thoughts have been interrupted by tears only for the most sensible reasons. That was the off-season baby.

Scene at football game in early 1900s

With these new wide-screen TVs it’s almost like you’re right there at the game.

When I sat down to watch the first big football game of the year, the baby’s long-dormant sensors fired. Suddenly, I had a loud and proud infant, in mid-season form. He began to whoop and holler, cry and whine, like the most notorious of his breed. Then came the four-alarm diaper blowout.

His big brother joined him in his antics, putting on a show of his most distracting and annoying behavior. The normal consequence of this display would have been for him to go to bed early. On this evening, early would be in the middle of the second quarter. I’d have to endure him until halftime.

Halftimes are too short for parents battling the delaying tactics of preschoolers at bedtime. From having to pee, but not until after several minutes of standing at the potty, to trouble with the tooth brush, everything took longer than the eons it takes at normal bedtimes. Of course, the book he selected for his bedtime story was a nice thick one, with paragraphs and everything.

Third quarters are overrated anyway.

At least I didn’t have to put the baby to bed. Mommy would see to that, when he was good and ready to settle down and be put to bed. For the time being, he was really into this football game. His passion was so intense that his deafening crying could hardly be eased by either parent.

Eventually, the baby wore himself out  and accepted the call of slumber. I think the game was over by then, but I find it difficult to remember. I don’t remember much about the game at all.

I hope my boys grow up to be ardent sports fans. Enjoying sports may eventually grow to become an experience that we can share. More importantly, when I am old and senile, and no longer know or care who’s playing, I plan to cling to just enough reality to go to their houses during Super Bowls and Final Fours and blow up my Depends undergarments like Armageddon.

Buxom woman holding football

My problem may be that I am not enough of an imposing figure. Nobody gives Big Bertha any guff when she tells the fellas to simmer down so she can watch the ballgame in peace.