Tag Archives: parenting

Who’s the weirdo with the stroller?

I am a periodic sufferer of a condition. Since I can find no official name for this complaint, I am going to name it myself. My problem is called Empty Stroller Syndrome.

Empty Stroller Syndrome (ESS) occurs almost exclusively in fathers of young children. It manifests itself in well-populated areas, including public transportation. A bout of ESS is generally brought on when the mother takes the child from the stroller to some location disassociated from the father, who is left with an empty stroller and no child in sight.

It is important to note that if you are out in public with an empty baby stroller, but have no children in your life, you are not suffering from ESS. You are suffering from being one weird dude.

Empty Stroller Syndrome: the silent stigmatizer.

ESS is an often misunderstood condition due to the fact that, to the unfamiliar observer, the sufferer closely resembles the weird dude aforementioned. Lacking a nearby baby, there is no recognized protocol for differentiating the ESS sufferer from the weird dude.

It dawned upon me that I suffered from ESS while I was riding the metro train in Washington, D.C. With two small children, we have many accessories to carry with us on outings. These many necessities were secreted in and about our stroller, with heavy baggage hanging from each handle.

Every time we boarded the train, my wife took the baby out of the stroller and held him on her lap. When we could sit together, this presented quite a natural scene. But on the D.C. subway, parties often need to disperse, transforming me into a solitary man with his heavily weighted stroller.

Judging from the looks I received from fellow passengers, some sympathetic men recognized, or at least hoped they recognized, an all too familiar case of ESS. Other passengers merely wondered silently about that weird dude who used a baby stroller as a pushcart for his sundry, joyless bundles.

Without the baby in place, the stroller was unbalanced. At every change in momentum, it was liable to tip over backward. Not wanting to risk injuring others, I guarded it closely. This made me look less the innocent victim of a crowded transport system, and more the weird dude whose precious, precious collections of plastic spoons and acorns must be jealously protected from a covetous world.

The shame of ESS. In the past it was difficult to build awareness because fathers were so shamed by their condition that they would not allow themselves to be photographed with their empty strollers.

In most cases, it doesn’t matter to me what strangers think. But I’ve put a lot of work into this fathering business, and I’d rather not be thought of as some kind of unhinged stroller pervert. I have the children to prove that there is a perfectly reasonable pathology behind my distant, glassy stare. They are elsewhere on the train, with their mother, the one competent to be the guardian of cargo more important than empty strollers.

I tried to ease the suspicions of my close companions by turning and yelling things to my family that hinted at more than a passing acquaintance between them and myself. I gave up this tactic when it became clear that the crowd did not relish a loud conversation about the probability of there being a poopy diaper somewhere among them. For those who could not see the family to whom I was speaking, this talk only added to my mystique.

Alas, there was nothing to do but quietly endure my flare-up of Empty Stroller Syndrome. In the distance, I could hear people clucking over the baby. Nobody ever gushes about how adorable my empty stroller is. In silence, they avoid making eye contact with me.

History, trains, dinosaurs, trains, airplanes, and mostly trains

My three-year-old son likes our local historical museum quite a lot, but it is nothing that can prepare a boy for a visit to the various museums of the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C. Nor is it anything that can prepare the dad of a three-year-old boy for the adventure of taking his son to those behemoths.

Archie Bunker’s chair and assorted other cultural artifacts. To a three-year-old, this is one big blah, blah, blah exhibit.

The Smithsonian American History Museum is famous for its many exhibits that hold no appeal to the three-year-old boy. Many of the displays include a panel of text, describing the item and its importance to our culture. I read the first line of several of these descriptions before I was dragged around the corner to see if there were any toys or displays with buttons to push hiding there. I wish the museum would find writers who could explain an exhibit in five words or less. That would be a great boon to every tourist parent.

The saving grace of the American History Museum was the area with the locomotive engines. To a little boy, the world is composed of trains, trucks, and diggers, but mostly trains. While the rest of the museum was a blur of verbose descriptions, fattened with wasteful prepositions, conjunctions, and articles to vex the skidding parent, the train area was a wonderland that needed no words. There were huge hulks with wheels and metal on tracks; who needs a placard to tell them that is the most glorious combination on Earth? Nobody endeavored to drag Daddy away from the trains.

This is the meaning of life.

The Natural History Museum holds dinosaur skeletons. My son enjoyed the dinosaurs, if you only count the first two we saw. After that, they lost their charm. He quickly formed the conclusion that their most prominent characteristics were that they were big and they were dead. Judging by these criteria, the skeletons all turned out to be pretty much the same.

Dinosaur-on-dinosaur violence was an issue that was left unaddressed for too long by the dinosaurs. This display depicts a sad chapter in the demise of dinosaur culture.

It was the human remains that interested him the most. He wanted to know what happened to that guy, whereas the demise of each of the dinosaurs was less intriguing. Based on the many dioramas of various dinosaurs attacking one another, I think he just assumed that they ate each other up until the final tyrannosaurus died of loneliness.

He was also fascinated, and creeped out, by a time-lapse image of a woman posing as a colonial era matron. I might have inadvertently led him to believe that she was a witch, but that wasn’t completely my fault. They buried this colonial lady in a lead coffin; so what did they expect ignorant fathers of future generations would blurt out when they didn’t have time to read the entire description? “I bet she was a witch,” is exactly what our forefathers should have expected me to say. Of course, I meant that she must have been falsely accused of being a witch, but I doubt my boy inferred the distinction. He held my hand as he stared at her changing image, cautioning me not to get too close.

Playing with a nondescript, toy airplane while countless real aircraft sit unappreciated in their quiet, historic nooks.

In the Air and Space Museum, my son went straight for the places where he could push a button or move a lever. He might not have known what the lever did, or why he should take such unbounded pleasure in pulling it, but who cared? It was enough to know that it was a lever, and levers are meant to be pulled with glee by the hands of little bodies. I watched a lot of really fantastic lever-pulling and button-pushing in that museum. Somebody told me there were vintage aircraft in the building as well, but I must have missed that part.

Each day, we rode the metro back to our hotel, and that was the very best part of all. The many museums we visited were a wonderful excuse to ride the train back and forth. But even if they weren’t there, we would have had to ride the train into town every day to watch the grass grow on the mall.

Faulty nipples, puke, and war paint (just another day at home)

Recently, we boys in the family got one of our periodic chances to spend some quality time together without any womenfolk around. Mommy was out for the evening, so we got to play in an estrogen-free zone for several hours.

The night got off to a good start when the baby decided he didn’t want anything to do with his bottle. I got it into his mouth a few times, but he got angry and spit it right out. As fast as I could try to bring the nipple to his mouth, he would slap it away with his little judo hands. He even made all kinds of martial arts grunts, groans, and other assorted utterances. Okay, I’m pretty sure that some of them where baby swear words, but they went well with his karate chops.

Since the baby wouldn’t eat, I thought I’d try to get some dinner into the big boy. While I was in the kitchen, making his meal, I heard him turn on the water in the downstairs bathroom. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m washing my hands,” came the reply from the bathroom.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know.”

This was suspicious, but I had other chickens to fry (literally). I heard him leave the bathroom, so I let it go until the noise of the water running repeated a minute later. “Come here,” I requested. He came into the kitchen looking like a wild island warrior, sporting black, magic marker stripes all over his face, arms, and legs. He even had a little extra for a mustache over his top lip. His hands were clean, though.

He wanted to know if Mommy would yell when she came home. I told him it was a distinct possibility. He wasn’t concerned that I might yell. I didn’t, so I guess he was right. I think he suspected that I might think it was kind of cool, which maybe I did, secretly. I gave him a wet rag and told him to get to work, unless he wanted to take his chances with Mommy.

It could always be worse: I don’t have the first clue as to how to deal with girls. Also, I’d be lost without a machine to toss the vomit-covered clothes into.

Meanwhile, I tried another bottle on the baby, with no better luck. Fortunately, my kids have a dad who figures it out once in a while. With the wailing baby in one arm, I rooted around the pantry with my free hand, looking for a faster nipple.  At last, I found one, but it came with a different bottle system, so I had to wash out the new bottle, one-handed, before I could try my theory.

The baby took the new bottle without even attempting to drop-kick it across the room, though he did shoot me a look and mumble something in baby words about me finally finding a nipple that had an actual hole in it. I let his sarcasm slide, because even in a house flowing with undiluted testosterone, somebody has to be the bigger man.

By now, the big boy had cleaned up all of his parts that he could easily see in the mirror. He was all set, as long as Mommy stayed in front of him. We worked on eating his belated dinner. He gave it the old preschool try, but wanted to give up with still too much left on his plate. I asked him to at least finish his biscuit. This was my mistake, as I had not been clear that he shouldn’t attempt it in one bite. He put about five times too much food into his mouth, which made him gag, followed closely by the puking.

We got him to the toilet mostly in time. There were just a few small spots to clean off the linoleum. His dinner was wasted, but there were no nasty vomit stains to clean up off the carpet. Overall, it would have to be classified as a success, as far as puking goes. He flushed the toilet and announced that he would like some gummy bears for dessert.

The baby took another little bottle. He didn’t seem very satisfied though. He was beginning to miss Mommy, or at least the part of her he knew best. Bottles were not at all the manner of taking nourishment to which he was accustomed, and he would not let the affront pass without complaining to the management.

And then, it looked like things were going to get worse. The big boy had picked up the hand bellows from the fireplace and was aiming it at the baby’s face. He was going to poke the baby in the eye before I could stop him. But he didn’t poke the baby. He held the bellows in front of the baby and squeezed, blowing a puff of air into the baby’s face.

The baby stopped his crying and laughed – not smiled, not gurgled, laughed. It was the best, heartiest, happiest laugh I have ever heard from this baby. The big boy squeezed out another puff of air. The baby practically convulsed with guffaws. The big boy laughed. I laughed.

They did this for several minutes – puff, laugh, puff, laugh. Sometimes, nobody can make a boy laugh like his brother can. Sometimes, a long, difficult night can turn itself around on the simple whim of a child. Sometimes, all the boys of the house just need to hang out and be boys together.

Once in a while we just need our Man Time together, in spite of the consequences.

From the mouths of babes: new medical terms

One expects a certain amount of nighttime tumult from an infant, but a three-year-old can supply you with a considerable amount of sleep deprivation as well. The difference is that the older child should be able to explain his trouble to you. He should be able to, but he can’t.

Your three-year-old is half asleep when he presents you with his nighttime calamity. He knows he’s out of bed and crying, but he can’t really explain why. He can’t choose words very well in his semi-slumber. Also, he doesn’t have the first clue as to why he is crying.

Yes, he may know that he wants a drink of water. But when it comes down to why he is crying about it, he is just as much in the dark as you are. Maybe it’s that things always seem more dramatic with the lights out. Why do you groan so much more about having to get him a drink at 3 a.m. than at 3 p.m.?

It’s not worth asking him why he’s crying. The only thing he can tell you is that he doesn’t know. But since he is crying, and half asleep, it comes out in that spine-jabbing whine, “I-I-I-I do-o-o-on’t kno-o-o-ow.” Save yourself the cringe and just give the kid his water. You can investigate why it was a life-or-death situation at first light.

There are nights, sad to say, when you must try to communicate with the child. The other night, my son came to ask for water because his mouth hurt. I assumed he meant that his mouth was dry so I helped him get a drink. I was already mentally back in bed, when he started crying and said his mouth still hurt.

I asked him why his mouth hurt. He said he’d hurt it with his spoon when he had eaten some yogurt.

Aside: Imagine the Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan scene where Captain Kirk clenches his fists, looks up, and yells, “Khaaaaaan!” Only, it’s me clenching my fists, looking at the bathroom ceiling, and yelling, “Yooooo-guuuuurt!” Yogurt seems to be on course to become the bane of my existence. That night, the problem yogurt was not the one the boy begged me to buy and then wouldn’t eat, it was the one that both vexes and addicts his mother.

“Yooooo-guuuuurt!” (Paramount Pictures)

“I want you to get it out of my mouth,” he said between sobs.

“Get what out of your mouth?”

“It.”

“Is there something in your mouth that doesn’t belong there?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“The hurt.”

“What do you expect me to do about that?”

“Get it out.”

I got my flashlight. I really just wanted to dump him back into bed, but the delinquent parent headlines were already nagging me:

Yogurt Shard Lodges In Toddler’s Throat After Parent Ignores Child’s Plea

Doctors Forced to Amputate Yogurt Boy’s Uvula

Officials Say Yogurt Tragedy Completely Avoidable

I mean, what if there really were something lodged in his mouth – something that didn’t seem worth mentioning to me when I’d brushed his teeth and put him to bed many hours ago?

I shined my light. His mouth was pink and perfect. Nothing was in there that shouldn’t have been, except a bright light at 3 a.m.

“Can you get it out?” he sobbed.

“There’s nothing in there. What do you want me to get out?”

“Now that I’ve extracted the offending yogurt shard, we can begin to patch up this child’s tonsils. Nurse, bring me my hurt-stain remover.” (Image: James Wallace Pondelicek)

“The hurt-stain.”

I can only assume that hurt-stain is a concept manufactured by a sleepy and distressed preschool consciousness. If you know what it is, please tell me. And then let me know if it should be hyphenated; I like to represent these ideas accurately.

I may not know exactly what a hurt-stain is, but I do know what it means to me. It means it’s time for everybody to get back into bed and sleep off whatever ails them.

The next day, when people at work commented that I looked very tired, I told them I just had a little hurt-stain on my eyelids. They said no more about it.