Tag Archives: kids

A chicken in every pot and a child in every arm: good luck trying to eat the chicken

People without multiple small children at home must think I exaggerate wildly when I complain about the difficulty of accomplishing anything with children underfoot. These people are wrong. I only wildly exaggerate these difficulties part of the time.

Complaining always feels better when you exaggerate the problem. Who wants to be accused of complaining about trifles? But sometimes you don’t have to exaggerate; your carping can flow easily from real life events.

The other afternoon, I took vacation time to care for Buster and Big Man so my wife could pick up a shift at her job. We met at her work and swapped cars. Big Man was napping in his seat, but Buster cried because he wanted to stay with Mommy.

After 10 minutes of trying to reason with Buster and build up Daddy as an acceptable parent, Mommy had to go. Buster cried all the way home. As we pulled into the garage, Big Man woke up. One-year-olds are often still groggy after a nap and need to be held. Crying three-year-olds need hugs. Daddy desperately needed some lunch, but with a child in each arm, that wasn’t likely.

I was able to lower Buster before my arms turned to jelly, but he kept himself comforted by hugging my leg. The floor turned to hot lava when I tried to put Big Man down. He tightened his grip around my neck. I didn’t force the issue, as one crying child is plenty.

I made what lunch I could with one arm and one leg. It was not tasty.

Hands free parenting

Do they sell these at Target? I could really use one. (Image: Keystone View Company)

Buster quit sobbing and lay down on the futon in the sun room. Big Man shook off his cob webs and let me put him down. This would allow me to tidy up before running errands.

Two seconds later, Buster was asleep. So much for packing them in the car to run errands.

But wait, the next time I looked that way, Big Man had climbed onto the futon and sat on Buster’s head.

Buster woke up, crying again. (Big Man is not an inconsequential toddler to find sitting atop your head.) But as long as everybody was up, errands were back on.

A cold front was moving through, so everybody needed to be changed into warmer clothes.

An hour later, we got in the car and headed to our first destination. Big Man was asleep again. Fortunately, all I had to do was open the trunk and point out a box. A helpful gentleman took it away. No, it wasn’t a weapons deal; it was recycling.

Then it was across town to make a merchandise return for Mommy. No matter that Big Man was asleep, I’d just carry him into the store.

We parked. I turned around to face two sleeping children. I couldn’t carry both around the store. We backed out of the spot and drove home to finish napping. Daddy could work while they slept, except that Big Man woke up when we got home.

He was still groggy. He needed to be held.

Meet the Spartans – or not

On Tuesday, my family picked me up after work on the way to Meet the Spartans. This is a public event for families to shake hands and get autographs from members of our pre-season Top Ten ranked football team.

Arriving at the stadium, we waited in line for some free football posters, full of plenty of white space for autographs.

There were other family-friendly activities at the event. These lines were shorter than the autograph lines, so we decided to knock them off first. The autograph lines would still be there afterwards.

We got our picture taken with the Rose Bowl and Cotton Bowl trophies from the last two years. Then we got some awesome pics of the boys in full gridiron regalia.

2030 Heisman

He looks the part, but judging by his failure to pick his way through holes in the crowd, he’s going to need a good blocker in front of him.

Posing for pictures makes football stars hungry. Since the concessions were being offered much cheaper than can be had at an actual football game, our next mission was to stand in line to get the kids pizza and fries. Watching the kids eat made the parents hungry. Another bout of standing in the food lines left everyone fortified and ready to go grab some autographs.

But first the boys had to visit the spirit tent and pick out some officially licensed merchandise to need desperately. It’s nice they have team spirit, but until they get jobs their foremost loyalty belongs to Team Family Finances.

One of the boys noticed people going down to the field. We couldn’t miss that opportunity, and worked our way through the crowd to a little, roped-off, paved strip, about five feet wide, behind the end zone. We milled about there, each boy tempting authority by letting the toe of his shoe creep over the pavement onto actual football field grass.

Introducing your 2033 Heisman Trophy winner.

Introducing your 2033 Heisman Trophy winner.

Having toe-kissed the grass, it was time to go snag some autographs. On the way, we learned that if we hurried, we could go upstairs and check out the coaches’ booth and the press box. We scurried for the elevator and went up eight floors to the press level. It was an amazing view, even from the window opposite the field; we could make out the dome of the State Capitol.

As we explored the press area, Mommy found a wireless phone charger. Being a tireless devotee of cellular communication, she had to figure out how it worked with her phone. I chased the kids around the press box for a while, returning to find her the unofficial demonstrator of the device to the curious and the low-batteried.

Coming downstairs, we found we’d cleverly outwaited the autograph lines. They were down to nothing, mostly because the players had gone. But we still had some nice posters. Nobody came out of there with posters fresher than ours.

How many autographs did we get?

Zip.

How many players did we even see?

Zero.

But we ate like superstars, we touched extra special grass, and we charged our phone like we owned the place.

It was a pretty special day for young hearts.

 

Is the sibling who was mean to you in this courtroom today?

One of the joys of parenting growing boys is watching them mature to into playing cooperatively together. Seeing them sit and help each other tear apart a LEGO set I spent hours helping them build, so they can mix the pieces irretrievably among the remains of other disassembled LEGO sets I invested hours in, is pure gold.

Seeing any two of them sit shoulder to shoulder in the chair, quietly intent upon the cartoon on TV is a gratifying experience. Even when Big Brother helps Buster through one of the difficult parts of a video game, though I’m kind of supposed to feel bad for letting them play so many video games, I get a feeling of pride for my boys’ desire to be friends with each other.

two mintes of peace

The boys are playing nicely together. Grab the camera!

Of course, nothing gold can stay.

The giggly roughhousing turns sour when somebody catches an elbow. There’s one, insignificant LEGO piece that every boy needs to have in his hand right now, though it’s only value to him is that his brother wants it. Big Brother helps Buster with his game to such lengths that his assistance has turned into a tug-o-war over the tablet.

Peace between young brothers is so gratifying because it is so fleeting.

tackle

It’s always fun until somebody loses a temper.

The two most common phrases in my house are currently, “I’m telling!” and “[Brother’s name] is mean!”

Even Big Man, who can’t pronounce any of the words, lets me know when one of his brothers is mean, and leaves no doubt about who is the culprit.

I most often overhear “I’m telling!” from the next room, but I have to look accusations of meanness right in the eye. It’s not always easy to do with a straight face.

It gets a little tiresome having to hear about mean people several times a day, every day. I’d like to hear about nice people every once in a while, but who notices, much less mentions, when his brother is nice?

Last time Buster came to me to file a meanness complaint against his big brother, I let out my exasperation with their perpetual denouncements. “I know, I know,” I told him. “Everybody’s mean.”

He shook his head. “Everybody not mean.” He held up a solitary finger. “Only one mean.”

“Who?” I asked.

He turned his little, bony finger across the room toward Big Brother. “That one,” he said in his best voice of condemnation. “That one mean.”

At least he didn’t call him stupid, that time. Three-year-olds love the word stupid. It’s their first insult, and insults and brothers go together like farts and giggles. Stupid is not a nice word, though, so we’re trying to get him to call his brother intellectually challenged instead. It will buy some time while he learns to pronounce it.

Meanwhile, we’ll continue acting like we’re listening to all the pleas and accusations that come running to us. In between, we’ll enjoy those fleeting flecks of gold that sparkle when brothers are best friends.

The children’s menu cut & paste game

Whenever we take the kids out to eat, I feel like I’m playing a game of culinary Tetris, rearranging the meals to fit the appetites of children with varying tastes. If Big Brother isn’t going to eat the fries that come with his cheeseburger, that means Buster and I can share them, which means Buster will only want half his macaroni and cheese, so if I eat half Buster’s mac & cheese, and half of Big Brother’s fries, then I don’t really have to order a meal for myself. But will there be enough left over for Big Man’s burgeoning appetite?

Kids have no conscience when it comes to wasting food, or the money that went to pay for it. As the one who has to make the money cover all our needs, I have a slightly different attitude.

Restaurants seem to have perfected the art of sizing every kid’s meal to be the perfect amount of food for 1.5 children, priced accordingly. This is surely the unconscious factor in our decision to have a third child. Now, all we have to do is work on getting them to agree on two meals to split three ways.

Not how it was meant to be used

“Let me know when you figure out the economics of feeding me. I’ll just be right here under this high chair.”

Playing the mix-n-match restaurant game is even more difficult on vacation. The chicken strips in a strange eatery may differ slightly from home-town cooking, throwing the entire table into rebellion. The serving sizes are a wildcard, and the prices are sure to be higher. God forbid it’s one of the fancy-pants joints that cuts their fries on site or has a notion that pizza is something that should be reinvented.

It is especially difficult when Daddy can’t read. This happened on our most recent visit to Washington D.C. So full of himself at finding a burger joint amidst the upscale restaurants, in which feed himself and the two older boys, Daddy decided the menu said what he wanted it to say, rather than what it said.

Using his best gastronomic puzzle-solving skills, Daddy deftly planned out the purchase that would feed all three perfectly, and for only about $12. He confidently approached the counter and ordered the cheeseburger with fries and the macaroni and cheese. He was met with a blank stare. After an awkward moment, the young cashier explained, “We don’t have macaroni and cheese.”

“Of course you do,” Daddy remonstrated. “It’s on the menu.”

The young lady screwed up her face. “There’s no macaroni and cheese on the menu.”

Daddy probably rolled his eyes as he grabbed a nearby menu and promptly pointed out the line that clearly indicated the availability of grilled cheese sandwiches. “Hmmm,” he hawed. “I could have sworn that said macaroni and cheese.”

It’s hard to be quite as deft about plan B when you’re on the spot.

Thirty minutes, and $29 later, they exited, carrying a doggie bag containing a completely untouched grilled cheese sandwich and nearly two full orders of leftover fries.

I guess Daddy’s brain went on vacation too.