Little m Long a

I suppose when compared to varied celebratory events that take place in a child’s life during the normal course of a year, the fact that any kid can get excited about commemorating the milestone of having successfully completed another year of existence is absolutely amazing.  Let’s start with the  two big ones.  Gift occasions, that is.  You’ve got Christmas and Easter.  Then there’s Valentines Day.  Oh, and Halloween (not so much a gift occasion but I have to believe that the dispensation of immeasurable quantities of processed sugar for having to do nothing more than recite a pithy line, “Trick or Treat!” has got to rank real high on any kid scale of favorite holidays.)  And I didn’t even mention that you get to actually be Belle or Jasmine or Captain America.  Little known Halloween fact that the costume actually manifests your child’s fantasies.  Yes, Halloween is a big one.  July Fourth celebrations can be quite pleasing, a truly enjoyable family time.  And let’s not forget about some of the lesser billed holidays like Columbus Day, Arbor Day, Ground Hog Day, Bastille Day and Earth Day.  There’s the county fair and the state fair.  Annual festivals.  Sprinkle in some siblings’ birthdays, cousin’s birthdays and a classmate or two’s birthday and you’ve pretty much given yourself an excuse to spoil your kid rotten at least once during each and every month of the year.  That being said, there is nothing quite so exciting to a young child as a their very own birthday.  That one day of the year that is exclusively their’s.  We have all experienced the joys that come with trying to teach a toddler how to share so when a day actually comes along that belongs only to them and no one else, it’s special.  Yesterday was my third Z’s day.

My middle Z, Zia, turned three years old on Saturday.  It was her day to shine.  Finally, there was a day all about her, something she lobbies for quite verdantly on just about every other day of the year.  I know she’s the middle child and that this type of behavior is pretty much to be expected, but the girl is relentless.  To say that Zia and I have the best relationship would probably be stretching things just a tad.  Adversarial is the term that usually comes to mind.  I can’t quite explain it but Zia seems be able to elicit the absolute worst personality traits I possess.  Traits that I never even knew I had or those that I thought were buried way deep she has dredged right to the surface and splayed them open for all to see.  I have embarrassed myself in front of family, friends and total strangers.  She’s not malicious.  She does not possess a callus bone or thought in her tiny little body.  There’s just something about her inability to cope with difficult or adverse situations and her total body meltdown during these times that causes me to act like a fool.  I’m the guy at the hypnotist show that acts like a monkey when he hears the word ruby red rutabaga.  The one that said, “Oh, this hypnosis thing is all bunk!”  and, “He’ll never hypnotize me.”   I just can’t seem to help myself, I’m under some strange spell.  The sad thing is that the damn hypnotist forgot to undo the spell and worse yet, sent me home with a three year old that only knows how to say ruby red rutabaga.  I suppose we both have a barrier, a wall so to speak;  her inability to appropriately cope with difficult situations and my inability to appropriately respond to her inability to appropriately cope with difficult situations.  The cycle is not only vicious, it’s absurd. 

Yesterday, I was able to start chipping away on my side of the wall.  Tearing down the fence, if you will.  How, you may be asking?  Alone time with the enemy.  That’s right, I met my demons face to face, mano a mano.  A scared stiff 42 year old mature father of 5 face to face with a fearless (and quite strikingly, cute) curly haired 3 year old little girl.  With five kids it’s difficult to have alone time with any of them.  I am taking at least two to most events, but generally my three oldest so when a one on one opportunity arises it’s a rare occasion.  Such was the case yesterday with my little birthday girl.  My wife has scheduled several classes at our local Children’s Museum for the express purpose of giving Zia one on one time with us.  By us I actually mean she gets to take Zia to these classes.  God, it feels good to actually be able to reverse the meaning of that term, even if it is just this once.  Anyone who is, has been or is even thinking about being in a relationship for any length of time surely realizes that when a woman says, “we need to …..”  what she really means is, “you need to …..”  So my wife usually takes Zia to these classes but because of a work snafu was unable to attend.  

My wife gets her work schedule a month in advance.  On the day it came out, I immediately called her to let her know she had been scheduled to work on Zia’s birthday right in the middle of her class at the museum.  My stomach was in knots.  Without hesitation she simply said, “you’ll have to take her.”  That hamster in my brain immedialetly jumped on the treadmill.  “But what about Zoë’s ballet practice?”  “Zane has soccer practice.”  “Who’s going to watch the twins?”  “What’s your sister doing?”  “Don’t I have to get the tires on the van rotated?”  “I was going to learn how to play canasta!”  “Won’t somebody please just shoot me?”  “My God, don’t make me do this!!!”  What my wife said next made me feel about as low and ashamed as I may have felt, ever.  Again, in her simply stated, black and white world tone of voice she said, “It will be good for both of you.  She’s your daughter.”  And snap, you are now awake!  The spell had been broken.  The sad part is that I completely remember every part of acting the fool. 

We met the rest of the family later that evening at the soccer stadium to continue the theme of “All About Zia.”  Zia continued to beam and the family had a blast.  Our team even won it’s first game.  All in all the day could not have been better.  The most fun I had though, was spending time alone with my little girl, a former foe turned ally.  Happy Birthday Zia, I love you!

It’s inevitable.  I can not recall a single time in the past two years that I have been anywhere with my kids that someone has not stopped me to say, “Boy, you’ve got your hands full.”  The sad truth is that I have yet to come up with a witty reply.  So far, all I have been able to muster is a smile and a half hearted “yes I do.”

On the flip side of the general perception of those with whom I come into contact on a daily basis, those that perceive my hands as full, I honestly do not feel burdened.  Oh, don’t get me wrong.  There are days that I wish would be over sooner than others.  Days that bedtime has come at 6 pm simply to avoid a lynching.  I mean, we start each morning with a head count and I would prefer to keep that number constant.  I don’t need to lose any of the flock simply because, “Daddy just lost it!  Really.  He snapped!”

I truly enjoy what I do.  I love my kids and I’m proud of them, proud of their good manners and the way they act when in public.  It never crosses my mind that maybe I should call the sitter or make other arrangements when the shopping needs to be done.  Oh, we still have the pre-entry speech about “best behavior” and “inside voices“, respect the other patrons of the restaurant, etc., etc.  But I really have to laugh (on the inside) at the shock and disbelief I receive from those who couldn’t imagine taking their own children to the grocery store, the hardware store or yes, even to a restaurant.

Tonight, El Campesino.  The kids had just finished their swim lessons at the YMCA and were starving.  It was already after 7:00 pm and I was running pretty much on empty myself and I really wasn’t in the mood to go home and start cooking.  The very mention of “restaurant” to my kids sets off bevy a squeals and screams the likes of which can only be comparable to the circus coming to town.   I tempered the mood only slightly by suggesting Mexican food this evening.  Usually, my kids go for wings or your typical American cuisine.  Basically, if they serve Mac and Cheese, the place rocks.  They ordered it so much I actually had to institute a rule.  “No more Mac and Cheese at restaurants.  You can eat all you want at home.”  There was also some other under my breath grumbling about how a 33 cent box of Kraft can feed all of us and I’m tired of paying $4.95 only to have you eat half a plate then make a ploy for desert.  But I didn’t want to come off like some crazed tightwad so I used the old “we’re here to try new things” and “let’s order something you can’t get everyday at home” tactics.  And no, it doesn’t really work but I stick to my guns and I pay $7.95 to watch them take two bites of chicken alfredo and push it aside and make their ploy for desert.  Mexican is not their favorite but they knew the only alternative was going home to a cup of yogurt and bed.  “Ole!” came the chants from the back of the van.

The comments began before I could even get inside the door.  “Oh, my.  Are they all yours?”  “My, you’ve got your hands full.”  My kids are so used to hearing it all that they’ve developed their own little spiel.  My boy Z usually starts out.  “There’s seven people in our house.  Mommy is at work.”  Then Zoë proceeds with the introductions, names and ages.  She usually has to do it twice because inevitably a small crowd gathers and someone missed the first couple of names or wasn’t paying attention and realized by the last couple of names that all five of my kids start with Z.  She has never refused a request to repeat the family introductions.

The oogling and compliments usually start sometime soon thereafter.  I counted no less than 5 that felt it necessary to compliment me this evening on how well behaved my kids were and what a good job I was doing.  And of course, there’s always at least one that thinks I’m just so sweet to give Mommy a break for the evening.  I really don’t even try with those anymore.  In the past, I would explain how I was the stay at home dad and had given up my career yada, yada, yada but it’s just not worth it.  I just smile and say thank you.

And so went another great evening of dining out with my kids.  They didn’t eat all that much but they really were on their best behavior. Zoë asked several times, “Why does everyone like our family so much?”  I suppose she was perplexed as to why people were commenting on how good they were all being.  As long as she has ever known, that is just how you are expected to act in public, especially in restaurants.

My youngest Z is 14 months old.  His very first sentence was, “Thank you.”  Come to think of it, that was Zoë’s first sentence, too.  I really do have good kids.

Yesterday was a long day.  Inordinately long.  I would probably even go so far as to say that there were extra minutes inserted somewhere between the hours of 10:00 am and 1:30 pm.  As the week draws to an end, fatigue rears it’s ugly head around our house and no one seems immune, myself included.  While the kids will bound from their beds bright eyed and jubilant on a Monday morning filled with the anticipatory excitement that a new week holds for them, by Thursday and Friday it’s a bit more like trying to get the uninvited, hung over drunkard who showed up at your party last night to get his naked ass off your couch and out of your house.

On Monday I’ll hear something like, “Good morning, Daddy! We love you!  It’s gonna be a great day!”

By Thursday, it’s pretty much, “Mmmmmfff. Wwwwhhhmmm. I don’t want to get up! I’m tired!”  All in that high pitched only a dog can hear it whine that I’m sure we have all experienced.  If you’ve got a toddler, the tone is burned into your brain and on an endless replay loop like some sort of bad 80’s song.  Try as you may, you can not get it to go away.  And just when you think you’ve got it out of your head the most  insignificant occurrence restarts the cycle.  It’s maddening.

I feel certain that much of my quandry with the time space continuum yesterday was due to my own lack of sleep.  There is a direct correlation between my fatigue level and my tolerance level.  If I’m well rested, heck, even adequately rested there are no limits to how much insanity I can tolerate.  My wife would argue that I am the instigator of much of the chaos around here.  I’ve got no defense.  One of my favorite games is “Hide and Scare” a sick twist on an otherwise benign childhood game where the object is to scare the pants off of the seeker.  Good times.

On the flip side….on those days that I’ve had less than acceptable shut eye, and trust me on this, if there’s anything I’ve learned as a parent it is that you really don’t need as much sleep as you think you do, five hours seems to be the acceptable magic number for me, God forbid you should spill your juice at the breakfast table.  What ensues is the incoherent ravings of a lunatic about how inconsiderate and unappreciative the whole lot of you are.  “What is so hard about drinking from a cup?  You’ve been doing it every day, several times a day for over 4 years!  Did something happen overnight that would cause you to completely lose all muscle coordination?  Juice doesn’t just grow on trees! OK, well it does kind of come from trees.  But we don’t own those trees.  I am sick and tired of cleaning up your messes!  Aaarrgh!!!”

Honestly, most of that conversation takes place in my head.  The kids usually hear the “Aaarrgh” part at the end, though.  But there’s a look in my eyes and on my face that I’m totally sure the kids fear.  They know.  Zoë has even started using one of my lines.  “Did you get up on the other side of the bed today?”  She never can seem to get a quote exactly right.  She’s always got to embelish.

So yesterday’s “straw?” you may be asking.  The markers .  The kids have ready access to the color drawer and had decided to start a little art project yesterday morning as I was cleaning the kitchen after breakfast.  I’m not quite finished when I notice a green trail from the dining table into the study.  It was almost as if they were afraid the’d get lost and felt it necessary to mark a return path.  Actually, my boy Z handed a marker to his baby sister who crawled with said marker in hand to the other room.  Hence, the marked trail.  And she, being of an industrious mind without ready access to paper decided that the next best option would be her twin brother.  That was of course after she ran out of open skin on her own hands.  And where was Z? My boy?  My buddy?  Mommy’s Golden Child?  Standing right next to his little sister head tilted ever so slightly totally absorbed in thought.  It was as if he were standing in front of Dali’s The Persistence of Memory trying to get into the artist’s head.  See what he was seeing as he created a masterpiece.

Needless to say, I snapped.  “Aaaarrgh!  What are you thinking?”  I can’t hit my kids anymore.  Family services said after the last time that they would start taking children.  I’m only kidding.  They said they would take me.  Really,
I kid.  I don’t hit my kids.  Really.  I don’t.  So I took a huge, deep breath, counted to ten, a few times, and told the kids to go to their room while I cleaned up the twins.  The counting thing really does work.

Then I got to thinking.  They are just going to sit up in their room and get bored and eventually go to sleep.  I decided that they needed more of a punishment than that.  So I made them do the absolute worst thing imaginable, at least in the mind of a four year old and a soon to be three year old.  I marched them back downstairs and made them clean up the playroom.  There was weeping and gnashing of teeth.  I’m also quite sure that there was rending of garments.  Bingo!  Punishment had been meted out.

You see, this past fall we carpeted one of the rooms in our basement and converted it into a sweet, and I do mean SWEET playroom.  The only way I can really get the kids to keep it clean is by way of threats.  I remind the kids about how cool their playroom is and let them know that if they can’t keep it clean I’ll just throw out all of the toys and make it “Daddy’s Special Room.”   The room is laid out perfectly for the media room I have always dreamed of.  To see it filled with Thomas the Train and Hot Wheels, Barbies, Little People and all manner of stuffed animals literally breaks my heart.

The resolve of a four year old boy can be quite astonishing.  After what seemed like hours of begging and pleading to come back upstairs (it was about 20 minutes) and not having picked up a single toy Z took a stand.  “Dad.  I don’t want a playroom.”  How in the world am I supposed to deal with that?  I should have known better.  This is the same little boy that will forgo chocolate cake for desert if it means he has to eat his green beans.  Even if you put the cake in front of him and eat it yourself.  He’ll just politely say, “No thanks.  Now may I be excused from the table?”

I never realized how good the acoustics in that room were.  It really is SWEET!  Thanks, Z for taking a stand.

I’m kidding.  I helped the kids clean up the playroom and we all lived happily ever after. Until the next load of straw is delivered.  Speaking of……”Aaaarrgh!”  I gotta go.  I hear water running.

What kind of parent would I be if I didn’t take a moment (or two or three) to brag, dote, gloat and generally ramble on about how great my kid is?  OK. Kids are.  I’ll match any or all of my five against any takers.  But, today it’s just about Zoë.  My other Z’s will surely have their turns.

Zoë has been taking piano lessons for two years now.  She turned 6 in January.  You can do the math.  My wife and I knew that she was ready to take lessons.  Some things you just know about your kids.  Zoë has a gift.  Our problem was convincing an instructor of the same. Countless calls to potential instructors all had the same result.  “She’s too young.  Call me when she turns six or eight.”  Then we stumbled upon Mrs. B.  Stumbled may imply that it was luck or chance when in actuality it was the dogged persistence of my wife.  I can honestly say that if you give her a task or better yet, a challenge, she will never back down and rest assured she will almost surely prevail. 

Mrs. B. has been a Godsend.  When told of our difficulty in locating a willing instructor she simply stated, “I started playing at age 4.  I’ll be glad to start Zoë.”  Mrs. B. is one of those incredibly talented souls that truly loves teaching.  She exudes confidence and even better is able to produce confidence in her students.  I was basically sold on her as a teacher during my first visit to her tiny studio.  In a small picture frame hanging on the wall is a picture of her some years back standing in front of Carnegie Hall in New York City with a hand scrawled congratulatory note about her performance there.  Now, I’m just a laid back guy from Louisiana, but I’ve had dreams.  I guess that anytime someone has actually accomplished something from my personal list of things to do in my lifetime it automatically earns them a degree of my respect.  Hey, it’s not a very high bar I know.  But there may be some of you reading this that have actually milked a cow at some point in your lives that can now say with all manner of certainty, “Zoë’s dad thinks I’m cool!”

Some of you may be familiar with the Suzuki Method.  I am…now.  Two years ago the only thing I could tell you about the Suzuki Method was that it’s probably best to wear a helmet and don’t grip too tight.  You’ll get a cramp.  The Suzuki Method basically is an educational philosophy which strives to create “high ability” and beautiful character in its students through a nurturing environment. Its primary vehicle for achieving this is music education on a specific instrument (often violin or piano). The ‘nurture’ involved in the movement is modeled on some of the factors present in native language acquisition, such as immersion, encouragement, small steps, and an unforced timetable for learning material based on each person’s developmental readiness to imitate examples, internalize principles, and contribute novel ideas.  In essence, I get to teach my daughter how to play the piano. 

This was all fine and good for the first year when we only used five of the eighty eight keys on the piano.  And only one hand.  I was Master Po and my little Zoë was Kwai Chang Caine.  It didn’t take her long to figure out how to walk on the rice paper without leaving a footprint and now the student has become the Master.  The girl is good!  She’ll hear a song and walk over to the piano and start banging out the melody.  She is somehow able to absorb the notes and structure of a piece of music and repeat it over and over again without the benefit of being able to read music.  She has written a couple of songs, simple little melodies mind you.  But it’s music where a jumbled string of notes and numbers used to be.  I would be impressed with any six year old doing that.  The fact that it’s my six year old just makes it awe inspiring.

I quite often tend to push her a bit hard.  I probably do that with all of my kids but especially Zoë.  It’s just that I am able to recognize that what she takes for granted is a gift.  More than once I’ve had to step back and remind myself that she is only six.  The great thing about kids, however, is that if you do forget they have ways of reminding you.  Just the other day I had Zoë finally cornered and still long enough to practice her lessons.  She sat there, in her underwear, warmed up for a minute or two and started a most beautiful version of Go Tell Aunt Rhody.  Halfway through the song she stopped, pulled her left foot up and stuck it into her face and exclaimed, “Whew! My feet stink!”  Then she started right back in and finished the song flawlessly.  I considered myself reminded.

This past Sunday we played host to Mrs. B’s Family Recital series.  The Family Recital series was the brain-child of Mrs. B. as a way to get the families of the piano students together in a relaxed and informal setting all the while showcasing the talents of not only the students but also Mrs. B.  I can honestly say that Mrs. B.’s incredible tutelage is not exclusive to my daughter.  The afternoon consisted of ten different student performers as well as a piece by Mrs. B.  The house was filled with music, good music.  And good people.  And Zoë?  She played flawlessly, stinky feet and all.

Only 258 shopping days until Christmas. Now that Easter can officially be counted as over, it’s as good a time as any to shift our focus.  The wonderful promise of Easter morning just two days past still has my kids buzzing.  The morning was filled praises and singing of hymns all proclaiming the joyous return of…

The Easter Bunny.  That fuzzy, pink do gooder might as well have proclaimed himself the Messiah.  As far as they were concerned–he’s Easter.  Oh, we went to church.  It’s part of the requirements to make oneself elligible to partake in the Easter Bunny’s Bounty.  My son probably got more out of the service than most in our family.  It is truly amazing the number and quality of questions that a four year old can generate from one picture of the crucifixion.  He went deep.  Really deep.  At one point my head was pounding so from the theological discussion he initiated that I resorted to distraction tactics.  He’d ask a question and I’d counter with, “How many windows are there in here?”  Next question and I’d counter, “How do you think they change those light bulbs up there?”, pointing high in the ceiling rafters.  I know, I know.  Who’s the four year old?

We enjoyed the remainder of our Easter Sunday with just us.  Family.  No plans or agendas.  Very laid back and quite frankly, very satisfying.  There’s nothing quite like watching your kids take that high fructose corn syrup ride to sheer euphoria and then… waiting for the inevitable crash.  Only to watch them refuel and hop right back on the coaster.  They slept really good that night.  Really, really good.

There’s an intervention scheduled for early next week.  My only prayer is that I’m able to salvage at least two or three of them before “the sugar” becomes their God.  I’m not worried about my youngest, though.  I think he’s well on his way making those chocolate demons and Easter a part of his past.

The horrified yells from the other room still echo in my brain, “Oooo!! Z! That’s not chocolate!”     Seems his older sister had left a bunny trail of her own.  Yep, Easter is officially over! 

So, I’m driving home today in my stinking Grand Caravan.  I’m really not bitter.  It’s a great family car and my kids love it.  It’s just that exactly 10 years ago I bought a sweet little Miata.  I remember having gone out that morning to get a haircut, cruised by the dealership just to look, and low and behold, five hours later and with $900 less in my bank account drove home in a new Miata.  The deal clincher was that my golf clubs actually fit in the trunk.  That’s all it took.  Sold! To the sucker that needs a haircut.  But that’s really another story altogether.

Two Canadian Geese meandering across the boulevard totally oblivious to the hoards of traffic they were inadvertently stopping.  Meandering might actually imply a bit more haste or concern than the pair were actually showing for it was very apparent that they were in no hurry and not the least bit concerned about the possibility of imminent danger or death.  The woman, on the other hand, was frantic.  Waving her arms wildly yelling at the oncoming traffic to stop and let the geese pass.  At first I thought, “How noble,” and “My, what a truly moving display of concern for these poor unfortunate creatures.” 

I’ll be the first to admit, I have a pretty soft spot for animals of all kinds.  As a kid, I wanted to be a vet.  I had dogs, cats, frogs, hamsters, rabbits..you name it.  I remember crying when my pet turtle died.  It was just a stinky old pond turtle that I somehow managed to catch in a butterfly net but he was cool and I was sorry when he passed.  I had a special little place in the backyard where I buried all of my pets that had gone on.  I still consider myself a softy when it comes to animals.  Except for snakes.  My general rule about snakes is the only good snake is a dead snake.  But since they are reptiles I suppose they don’t really count as far as my discussion goes here.  So anyway, I was moved at this woman’s concern.  Until…

I don’t think these kids went home cheering, “Mommy saved the geese!”  They were truly shaken.  Me?  Just pissed that someone given the tremendous responsibility and privilege of parenthood would risk it all for two geese that had obviously decided a life at the mall is just not a life worth living.  Man, come to think of it, she screwed the geese, too.

O.K. So he didn’t really invent the toilet.  That credit is given to some guy named J.F. Brondel.  Crapper was responsible for at least 9 various plumbing patents that no doubt make something we take for granted every day not much more than an afterthought.  That is, until that little porcelain budda becomes our soul mate. 

I am recovering from the bug of all bugs.  I suppose those in the medical profession would call it  gastroenteritis.  I prefer the more politically correct stomach flu.  It hit me in the middle of the night.  My wife, hit hard by the same bug actually went to the ER.  I guess my fate was still in the planning stages and I didn’t realize how bad the next few hours were going to be or I probably would have gone with her.  The kids were all fast asleep.  Surely they’d be fine alone in the house until we got back. 

We live in an old house.  A really old house.  We have a master bathroom, it’s just not connected to the master bedroom.  In fact, it’s on the complete opposite side of the house.  It was all I could do to muster the strength to get down that hall.  After trip number five in less than two hours, I began researching more convenient options.
A rolled up towel on the floor made the perfect pillow.  A bath mat blanket and I was set.  My travel time had been cut by 25 paces.  At 6:15 am  it dawned on me that I was going to have to get Zoë up for school in just a few minutes.  No way!  I hadn’t been able to pry myself from the bathroom floor for the past 2 hours.  There was no way I could organize the morning routine and drive her in to school.  I crawled back down the hall and back into bed.  I told my wife I was going to try and get some sleep and would get Zoë to school later. 

Zoë would be devastated.  She actually went to bed in her school uniform.  We missed all last week for a family obligation and she really loves going to school. She took it much better than I anticipated.  She came into the room about 8:00 am and said, “Dad, I’m supposed to be in school.”  When I told her how Dad was pretty sick and I’d try to get her in to school later she just smiled, gave me a kiss on the nose and went downstairs.  God bless her.

There’s an old African saying that it takes a village to raise a child.  I’d like to thank just a few of the villagers in my life from the past 24 hours:

Our baby sitter, H.  She came over to watch the kids so that my wife and I could simply suffer through this bug together and get some much needed rest.
The makers of Jif.  It’s so easy to use that a 6 year old can make dinner for a family of 5.
Those Crazy Dancing Penguins.  Captivating.  Really helpful when you can barely focus.
Nuheat makers of in floor heating products for ceramic tile floors.  This is a real plus when making the time saving decision to camp out on the bathroom floor.
Thomas Crapper.  Hey, you didn’t invent the thing but because of you we surely appreciate how it works.