Jenna's Quote of the Day

We were sitting downstairs, still revelling in our post-Yuletide haze, opening selections from the mountain of toys that has collapsed in our living room. I decided to open one present for each of the kids: for Riley, I chose his 1:18 scale Abrams tank, for Mason his Twist and Learn Monkey dumbbells, and for Jenna, her Baby Dora the Explorer.

I opened each, ignoring the dull ache in my fingertips (an injury of repetition, from continuously untwisting those metal wire ties that hold the toys unnecessarily snugly into their packaging), and giving the toys to each child. When I finished the Dora, I announced, "Here's your Dora Baby, Jen."

Her reply: "I not Baby Jen!"

That's My Girl!

Anyone who knows me well knows I've been a  huge Star Trek fan for years. When I was a teenager I lived for "Star Trek: The Next Generation," just about wet myself every time a new Trek movie came out, and watched the shows (mostly TNG and its contemporaries) religiously.

I've managed to sneak "Trek" into the lives of my kids over my wife's objections (mostly to Jenna, about whom she said "let her be a little girl! Ease up on the sci fi stuff!" to which I retorted "she IS a little girl. There's room in her life for Star Trek and My Little Pony and baby dolls.").

Anyway, it's my daughter who has latched onto the new Star Trek movie. She especially likes the beginning, where Captain Kirk is born at the moment his father is sacrificing his life to save him. She always says "Mommy's tummy!" while his mother is giving birth.


If you know your sci fi, you know there's a bit of a rivalry between Star Trek fans and Star Wars fans. I of course fall heartily on the Trek side of things.


Riley and Jenna have drawn their lines in the sci fi sand as well. Riley likes to taunt his sister (and father) by asking "Are we watching Starwors?" knowing that it's Star Trek coming on.


Jenna popped back at him, "No, it Car Cack!"


That's my girl.

Christmas Shopping in the Digital Age

This year marks a change of sorts for us when it comes to Christmas shopping.

Living in Noblesville, relatively isolated from our trusted family, along with a schedule that leaves us little open time, we've taken to doing our Christmas shopping this year guerrilla style, one at a time, at odd hours, and have taken advantage of the technology at our fingertips.

Of course we've done some shopping online, but that's not exactly what I'm talking about (and there's still nothing like the tactile sensation of loading a shopping cart with presents). For instance, last night a late-evening trip to Wal-Mart for bottle inserts turned into an impromptu gift-buying excursion.

Crystal was at home with the kids, who were asleep at 10:30 when I left, and while we have something of an idea of what we want for our munchkins, of course there is still some element of spontenaeity to gift giving.

My chief tool (other than my trusty PayPal card, loaded with cash specifically set aside for Christmas shopping) was my new cell phone. I was able to check my PayPal balance, which was handy, but of course I really took advantage by texting Crystal ideas with photographic accompanyment.

We were able to pick out a few things for Mason, and I could get real-time input, where she was able to see what I bought and offer feedback.

And she even got to share in some of my signature snarky asides, specifically that a I saw a doll that looked exactly like one of Crystal's friend's daughter, and the fact that being in the "Christmas patio" (actually the repurposed lawn and garden center) is awfully creepy to be at 11 p.m., alone, with an army of dolls staring at you with their dead glass eyes, waiting to blurt out their evil baby talk at random intervals.

All in all, it was almost as fun and adventrous as shopping with the wife, and in some ways moreso.

Do I still wish we had a few hours to get some shopping done ourselves? Absolutely.

But these Christmas memories spend just the same as any other.

Random Pre-Black Friday Thought

I'm guessing anyone with three young kids like I do knows how difficult going shopping is with kids. For those who don't, on the scale of difficulty it ranks ahead of creating a house of cards using the entire deck after 6 Red Bulls and a handful of No-Doze, but just behind juggling razor-blade-handled flaming torches while sitting on a running jackhammer.

So here's my random thought as I get ready to retire for the night, knowing Black Friday will be staring at me in the morning when I wake up at a way-too-early hour:

What if we took the three kids out at 4 a.m. for Black Friday shopping? I think neither Crystal nor I would make it out alive, much less get any shopping done at all.

And no, this picture isn't blurry. That's just the frequency Mason vibrates at inside any retail outlet.

One shining bit of optimism, though: We struck first in the Battle for Christmas Present Supremacy by picking up our first major item for one of the kids. I won't say what it is, but it starts with Deva and ends with Stator, and we'll just say Christmas is set for Daddy AND Riley. And it was 30 bucks off and we didn't have to get into a fistfight with a chick wearing Sarah Palin glasses to get it.

Playland fun

Last Sunday my wife had a "spa day" with a friend of hers, so I accepted an invitation from my cousin and his wife to go to the play area at the local mall to let the kids blow off some steam.

Of course, if you've ever been to one of these indoor mini parks, you're aware of the various hazards. First off, it's a simmering cesspool of bacteria like none other, with contagions literally coming out of each pore of every child in the enclosed area, which at peak times has to be around at least 30 or so.

And then my kids show up and all hell breaks loose.

We got there to see a full house, of course, and the kids leapt head-first into the raging waters of mall playland. Mikey, my cousin's son, was already there, so Riley and Jenna had some catching up to do.

It was a typical rush out the door, coordinating dress (including shoes) for the three kids by myself, so it was a bit of a surprise to me when we arrived and Jenna's jeans seemed a little, well, loose. In my haste I'd neglected to notice they were a bit saggy around the waist, and of course with her dodging, ducking, dipping, diving and dodging, it was soon apparent that a half moon was going to be out at 3:00 indoors.

Riley was having no such issues and was hopping from obstacle to obstacle, taking breaks in the big stationary cars, climbing, rolling, and vaulting over his fallen peers, Mikey right there with him the whole way.

Mason on the other hand was simply content to visit his relatives, showing off his newfound abilities to coo, laugh, and bounce on their lap.

Jenna's affinity for visiting public restrooms (but not actually using them) is well documented, and the food court restrooms at Castleton Square Mall are perhaps her (and consequently my) main nemesis when it comes to lavatories.

Jenna has flush anxiety, getting spooked when a toilet flushes. In a busy restroom with automatic flushers, she really gets nervous and usually ends up filling the restroom with shrieks that would make Vincent Price jump.

This time was no different. Her screams bounced off the white tile walls like a truck full of rubber balls the moment I pulled down her pants, so I pulled them back up and quickly ushered her out amid her own sobs and the puzzled glares of my fellow patrons.

But once we got out, in true 2-year-old style, she was ready for another round with her porcelain tormentors as soon as we got back to the playland. Soon she was skipping the asking to go to the bathroom part, deciding instead to skip to the pants-dropping part, which was doubly easy given her pants were so loose.

I decided in the end to tuck her sweatshirt in and give her the 80-year-old-man look with the waist of her jeans inching up perilously close to her armpits.

Making things more fun was Mason, who decided he wanted in on the action and started to squirm, making watching the two older kids, who have in the past established a penchant for sneaking out of the park at random intervals, a dicey proposition.

Riley, on the other hand, had taken to running with three other boys, sitting around like a gang of hoods, missing only their leather jackets and a pack of smokes folded in the arms of their t-shirts. They were sitting body-to-body as if they'd been friends for years, leaning against the giant caterpillar, watching as the other kids played.

Soon it was time to go, so I gathered up my brood over their protestations. I'm not sure how I got them to get their shoes back on.

Then came the next step: "Daddy, can we have ice cream?"

Random Riley line of the week

We were at Burger King a few weeks back, eating dinner. We were finished eating, and pulled the toy out of Riley's Kids' Meal bag to give him.

As always, he was exicted to get his toy, but when we sat it on the table, he looked at the box for a moment, puzzled, then asked, "is it band-aids?"

He was almost disappointed that it was not.

Wal-Mart Paranoia

Parents sometimes sure can be paranoid, can't they?

We took a trip to Wal-Mart last night and were sitting at the Subway in the back when a guy of about 50 or so came and sat near us.

He started talking in Mason, which of course isn't unusual. He asked how old he was and Crystal told him, and we went back to eating.

The guy continued to talk to Mason and ask questions-the usual-"where'd you get that blond hair?" "You want some dinner, don't you?"-that sort of stuff.

Soon, Riley felt the need to chime in. "His name is Mason," Riley said. Crystal glared at Riley and shushed him.

"Eat your dinner," I said.

But Riley couldn't resist the attention. "I'm 4," he said, holding up 4 fingers. The man seemed to ignore Riley.

Crystal looked at me. "That guy freaks me out," she murmured.

I nodded in agreement, then glanced at him again, sizing him up a little. He had white hair and a mustache to match, wearing a somewhat ratty sweatshirt and a baseball hat, and lisped when he spoke. He didn't seem, as Crystal might say, "all there."

We finished our sandwiches as the guy continued to randomly comment about things, and soon my mind kicked into gear. I made a mental note to keep a close eye on the three kids, especially Mason, who seemed to be the the object of the man's affections.

As we went through the store, we were indeed doubly sure that we closely watched the kids, and Mason, sitting in the cart's basket, was buckled in, and Crystal or I were always standing with him.

When the time came to leave, our usual routine is that I take the kids to the car while Crystal checks out. Jenna didn't have any shoes on, so I had to carry her out, leaving me an arm short of taking all three. I took Riley and Jenna, loaded them in the car, and pulled up near the door.

It took only a few seconds for me to imagine the man running out of Wal-Mart with Mason cradled in his arms, and Crystal unloading the cart, oblivious to the fact her youngest was gone. I imagined TV reporters and missing persons reports, and police scouring dumpsters and landfills looking for my son. I also imagined myself seeing the guy with Mason, and pummeling him within an inch of his life.

I watched both entrances like a hawk. Surely I'd be able to see if someone came running out with him, right?

Finally Crystal came out of the store, Mason still strapped safely in the cart. I took him, and sat him in his seat as if he were made of glass.

I suppose it's instinct to be protective of your children, but I wonder why this sudden wave of paranoia swept over me. It's something parents live with, and is something that serves them well I suppose, if you want to include the better-safe-than-sorry theory of parenting.

But you also suffer from the "you never know" school of thought. What if that guy was totally harmless? Or what if he had been plotting to abduct Mason and do terrible things to him? Will he victimize some other child? Or will he go on just being harmless, freaking out parents with his interest in kids?

Top 50 Blogs, etc.

You might have noticed that I am now rocking my "Top 50 Indiana Blogs" badge at the top right of this blog. Thanks to everyone who voted for my blog. Hopefully you've noticed the transition to this new blog!

Also, fellow blogger Crystal Hammon of LeadingReads sent me an e-mail saying that she's giving away a free book for their birthday to the first 49 children's names she receives.

To participate, readers can e-mail their child's name, birthday, and the title and ISBN of any book (up to $12.99). Please add "Birthday Giveaway" to your subject line to crystal@leadingreads.com.

Fiesta! Or, Waiting for Mommy

Monday nights are typically our off-nights as far as dinner goes. Crystal works late, so it's up to me to either make the kids dinner (I'm no Justin Wilson, or even Graham Kerr, but I can scare up a mean grilled cheese), or visit one of our favorite eateries for either carryout or dine-in.

Last night was even more unusual in that Riley had spent the night with my father-in-law Paul. The erstwhile duo spent the day at Paul's brother's house in the country, wandering the woods and feeding fish.

Crystal suggested we all at La Hacienda, a Mexican joint just a few minutes from her office, after she got off work at 7:00.

So we hacked through the rugged terrain of I-69 and popped into the bustling little cantina at about quarter till. Mason hadn't taken a bottle since I picked him up at 4:00 and was ready for some liquid refreshment.

Being the minimially resourceful dad I am, I didn't forget to grab the diaper bag before leaving the house (though, to be honest, I had to go back in and get it), so I quickly readied a bottle.

We were seated and ordered drinks--Coke for me, milk for Jen, water for Riley, Diet Coke for Paul--and some queso. When the white cheese arrived, I grabbed a smaller bowl and dipped some out for Riley, sliding it toward him, past the glowing eyes of my infant son, who had mischief on his mind, and his siblings were in on the joke.

Across the table Jenna sprang into action. "Daddy, I ga' go pee!" she announced to the restaurant.

I knew it was a ruse, because she had just gone. "Jen, shh," I said.

That was all the time Mason needed. He went to work, grabbing the tiny vessel and dumped it, thick, viscous cheese oozing onto the table. I grabbed at the stack of wrapped silverware, pulling off the napkins. The forks and knives clanged on the table as I struggled to keep the cheese from flowing onto the floor, or onto Mason.

But the thin paper squares were no match for the thick, milky dip, so I asked the passing waitress for a washcloth and some more napkins. She dutifully returned seconds later and cleaned the mess.

Across the table, Jenna was herself in motion.

I sighed and popped a chip in my mouth as Paul chuckled. "Never a dull moment," he said.

"Nope, sure isn't" I said, wiping my brow and shaking my head.

I grabbed another chip, and wondered if the waitress had let a little cheese slosh over them when she brought the queso. A couple of them had a little liquid on them. But it didn't taste cheesy.

"Daddy, I ga' go pee!" Jen said again, too loud.

Riley piped up. "Daddy, I gotta go potty too."

"Hold on just a second," I said, still catching my breath. I dug into the basket of chips again, and noticed that even more of them were wet. I sifted to the bottom, and there was a pooling of white liquid--not queso, but milk--in the bottom. I looked at Jenna, then the ever-more-soggy chips, then Jenna's kid-sized milk that she had shaken into the basket while I was taking care of Mason's mess.

I felt the eyes of the young couple next to us(I'd guess no older than early 20s) boring into my soul.

I asked the waitress for more chips. "She, uh, dumped some milk into the basket," I said sheepishly.

Finally, mercifully, Crystal walked in at about 7:15, just in time.

And no, it didn't get any better the rest of the night. Mason grasped at both my dinner and Riley's (the middle of a table is no place for a 10-month-old), Riley got up to wander the restaurant, and Jenna continued to loudly request a trip to the bathroom (for the record, we went once, with no positive outcome).

At one point I looked at Riley, and he had a baseball-sized ball of rice cupped in his hand and took a bite, grains spilling out either side. Jenna indulged in her second-favorite restaurant pastime of tipping her cup of milk upward as she drinks from her straw, and Mason stretched to reach the kids' communal plate of rice to take his share.

When we left, the table looked like the beaches of Normandy on June 7, 1944. I left a couple of extra dollars for a tip.

All in a day's work, for a waitress or a dad.

Halloween!

The following was originally posted November 2, 2009, at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=1279:

It was our first Halloween with three munchkins, and though Mason is still a bit young to trick or treat, we still dragged him along for the ride, in full costume.

Mase was "Silly Bones," a babified skeleton that for some reason featured a white tuxedo jacket. Jenna was a witch, and Riley, ever the flip-flopper, changed from Batman to Snake Eyes to finally Wolverine, as we patrolled the crowded costume aisle at Wal-Mart Friday afternoon.

Riley has, how shall we say, a large head, and the mask to his costume, size 7-8 (which I presume means it's designed for a 6-7 year-old child), just didn't fit. I trimmed out the eye holes a little, but it still was a snug fit for him.

Crystal slathered a little green eyeshadow on Jenna's face, and she was a rightly scary witch, albeit one with a slight pigmentation problem, as she kept wiping the makeup off onto her costume, leaving flesh-colored splotches on her face.

We loaded Mason up in the wagon and set off (my dad came by to visit and handed out candy while we went door to door.

It was a chilly night, so we bundled Mason in a blanket, and he had a layer under his already-thick costume. Jenna's costume was, as most girls' costumes seem to be, rather thin, so a long-sleeved shirt, a pair of tights, and a jacket had to be enough for her. Riley's costume was padded, and with his extra layer he seemed to cope with the elements just fine.

Jenna had trouble keeping up with Riley, who was raring to get himself some candy. She pitter-pattered up driveways and through front yards, despite my orders to stay out of our neighbors' grass.

Once they reached the front door, Riley let loose with his signature doorbell ringing style, which is to hammer on the button like he's getting points for pushing it. The door opens and Jenna holds out her hand rather than her bag, then, after collecting her bounty, proceeds to stand there. Was she waiting for more? Scared to wade through the throng of other trick-or-treaters? Or just too excited to move?

Finally, she turned and left, her candy bag dragging on the ground behind her.

And on this went for a few blocks, until Jenna, again trying to catch up to her brother, ambled up a steep front yard, caught her boot on the sidewalk, and plopped to her knees on the pavement, just as the front door opened.

Jenna screamed, and I rushed up to get her. The woman at the door was horrified, and apologetically began throwing candy into her bag, saying "let's make sure she gets enough." I thanked her, and declined her offer for a band-aid, before moving on.

Mason cried in sympathy for his sister, but I quickly proved that brotherly love at his age extends as far as the length of a sucker, which kept Mase quiet the rest of our chilly trip.

Riley had his own spill as we headed home, but came away with only the smallest of scrapes on his hands. He whined briefly, but soon quieted as we reminded him of what he was holding.

The prospect of sifting through his loot was more than enough salve for him.

The Hardest Thing

The following was originally posted October 26, 2009, at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=1275:

I just did the single most difficult thing I've done in my entire life.

I told my son that his Mamaw passed away.

Riley is 4 and just starting to understand the word "die." To him, it's a word that relates to video games, where dying means you're-starting at your last save point.

My mother-in-law babysat Riley and Jenna for the first few years of their lives, and the two of them have become really attached to her. Her health problems left her unable to watch them, especially Mason, who was born in January.

She was scared Mason didn't know her and wanted to start watching them again. At the time we told her it was silly and he'll grow to know and love her like the others, and that she could watch them when she was feeling better. We did give her and my father-in-law some babysitting duties here and there in the evenings while Crystal and I went out, but of course for a doting grandmother, she missed having the all-day contact with them.

It makes me sad now that she will be proven right. Mason will not have the chance to really know her, and for Riley and especially Jenna, as they grow their memories of her will grow more vague, and they'll never really know the impact she had on their life, and how much she was completely, totally in love with the three of them. It makes me sad that one day Mason will look at a picture of her and ask us who she is.

Linda had her first heart surgery of the year on Riley's birthday this past February. She passed in October, during her sixth procedure. She was only 57.

A collapsed lung (that was left untreated when the doctors were unable to diagnose it properly) from the first surgery left her on oxygen and unable to walk long distances and making things like picking up her grandkids an almost impossible task.

But still the three of them adapted to her as she did them. They learned to be careful around Mamaw and not step on her oxygen hose. Each time she went into the hospital we talked about how Mamaw's heart was broken and needed to be fixed, and Riley understood.

We'd hoped each operation would fix her problem enough that she could recover enough to spend time with them again.

She died at about 3:30 in the morning, and we got back home at about 7:00. Riley had just woke up and came downstairs just after we walked in. Crystal, who was a complete wreck, somehow summoned the courage to tell him. When I opened my mouth I found I couldn't will any sound to come out.

Finally she got through it, telling Riley that Mamaw is in heaven, and I came over to him. I could see he was confused, and soon he started crying, though I think it was in reaction to our own tears that he knew something was wrong.

I think now he understands that Mamaw is gone and won't be coming back. Last night, at a dinner we all had, he broke down crying, saying "I miss Mamaw." Jenna, who is 2, has just started asking to see Mamaw.

How the hell am I supposed to explain it to her?

Frustration? You betcha.

The following was originally posted October 18, 2009, at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=1268:
Thus far I've shied away from the darker side of being a parent, but that ends here. As I write this there are three monkeys swinging around my office behind me, climbing on their desk (a fully nude Jenna is standing on the plastic desk, jumping up and down).

I just caught the word "hillbilly" out of context come out of Riley's mouth, and Mason is crawling around, shutting doors and crawling around under the elevated older children like he's Superman waiting to catch Lois Lane falling off a building.

It's been said that anything worth doing is difficult, and though I know Tom Hanks was talking about baseball when he said "the hard is what makes it great," but the same certainly can be said about being a parent, especially when all three have yet to hit the 5-year mark.

There is constant danger (again, just now, as Riley and Jenna tried to enter the room simultaneously, Jenna was knocked into the door jamb) from sources external and internal-if they're not slamming into each other, they're running around in the store, where who-knows-who could be lurking around the next corner waiting to snatch them up.

Being a parent is to be witness to rampant, wanton destruction, only it's your kids who are King Kongs (each of them) and its your living room, or dining room, kitchen or bedroom that's New York City.

We're lucky enough to have a babysitter who watches the kids at our home, and last week during Riley's nap, he snuck out of bed, went into our bedroom, and did the following: wrote on our bathroom cabinets with a purple permanent marker, took a pair of scissor-shaped nail clippers to Crystal's mommy journal, dumped powder on the floor, and got ahold of a knitting needle, which he used to carve a few heiroglyphics into his bedroom wall.

I could go on and on: crayon marks on the wall (I'm looking at them as I write), endless screeching, completely unnecessary head injuries (just tonight Jenna has fallen off of our kitchen table and slipped off of a step stool trying to reach a marker-again, for I'm sure wholly nefarious purposes-and hit her chin on the desk).

And not all of it is the kids' fault. Disaster can strike during playtime that gets too rough, or even daddy doing something foolish. I can honestly say I never thought I'd be able to say I've bitten my daughter's tongue, but yep, as of last week (I even drew blood). Story for a different time.

But as Captain Kirk once said, risk is part of the game if you want to sit in that chair. But my chair isn't on the bridge of a starship, it's in my living room, and as much as I would like to sit in it, I have two kids standing in it, fighting over a pair of hedge clippers.

I gotta go.

Daddy Heaven

The following was originally posted October 5, 2009 at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=1262:

One of the craziest things about being a parent is that you never know when you'll have a moment to bond with a child.

In some ways I feel like I haven't had a whole lot of time alone with Mason, our 9-month-old. When he was born, I was as busy chasing Riley and Jenna around the hospital as I was holding my newborn son (and, as when Jenna was born, I took the elders home every night rather than stay at the hospital).

Ditto for the 8 1/2 or so months he's been home. Sure I've done all of the essentials: changing diapers, late-night feedings. But as far as the simple, one-on-one moments, they've been a little more spare than with the older two.

That all changed this past Sunday. A crazy busy Saturday left me really exhausted Sunday morning, so much so that I woke up with a headache that really felt like two--one behind each throbbing eye.

Crystal being the wonderful wife she is took the kids upstairs for awhile and let me doze on my comfy recliner for about an hour.

When she announced a trip to the store, the throbbing had subsided to a twinge, and I felt well enough for her to leave the youngest of my progeny.

I ran upstairs and grabbed the big quilt off of our bed and came back down to the recliner. Mason, who has been crawling and more recently pulling himself up to a standing position, had ambled into the office, where he was eating paper he found on the floor. It was about 1:00, the Colts game was just starting, and I knew he was about ready for a nap.

We sat down together, nestled under the quilt, watching Peyton Manning and Co. dismantle the Seattle Seahawks. I pointed out a few key players to Mason, and startled him a time or two when the Colts had a big play.

But soon he started squirming, which meant he is ready for sleep. I secured him in the blanket and rocked him, bounced him, and patted his backside. He lay still, paralyzed by the lovely warmth of the quilt, and he drifted off into the most wonderful stage of sleep for the parent of a baby, when they're peaceful, but not totally asleep. I gave Mase little kisses on his cheek and neck, and he giggled gently. I planted a kiss just in front of his open mouth, and again he chuckled, his face turning up into a lovely little grin.

He eventually drifted off to sleep, and I held him, which is something I typically don't do when the kids go to sleep; I typically find a nice resting spot for them, so that 1) they aren't disturbed by me moving around, and 2) I can get up and do things as necessary. This time I was a little more content to sit still.

Mason laid in my arms for a solid hour, then stirred, wiggled to my other arm, then nodded back off, where he stayed for another 45 minutes or so. Mason is a notoriously light sleeper, and a nap of 2 hours is a rarity for him. But there he lay, snoozing away as the Colts dominated. It was a veritable Daddy Heaven, a Sunday afternoon in a lounger, my little boy on my lap.

I'd like to think Crystal recognized that Mason and I needed a little time together and planned her trip accordingly. Is that the case? I'm not sure.

But I do know it's time to go. Crystal just called from the other room. "Mason needs you," she said.

The Balcony is Closed

The following was originally posted September 25, 2009, at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=1256:

While I've been trucking Riley to the movies since he was 6 months old ("March or the Penguins" was his unofficial first, a matinee screening that lasted about a half-hour before the movie started, through the trailers, and the title card, at which time he started screaming. We ducked out the door immediately), I've been hesitant to take Jenna. She's a bit more squirmy, a bit less shy socially (and therefore less apt to care if anyone sees her being loud), and being only 2 years old, she's less receptive to whispered pleas to hush.

Not that we haven't taken her before. She's been to several movies (her first: the Jerry Seinfeld animated flick "Bee Movie," the first and last that she paid much attention to to date), but all were with Crystal there to take her out when necessary (my former job as a movie critic gave me a convenient excuse of "I'm working," meaning I couldn't leave the theater and forcing her to take her out. This also worked when they had to use the bathroom).

So I was a little understandably nervous taking both Riley AND Jenna alone to see "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs," the new animated film from Sony.

Crystal's mom has been in the hospital, and she wanted to a relatively unemcumbered visit on a Sunday afternoon, so I decided to drop her off with Mason and give the kids a shot at the cinema.

Taking a child of, say, under 5 to a movie is a challenge that some people say, for the sake of the audience, parents should not take on. Posh, I say, given the proper movie. Theater etiquette explicitly states that at a kids movie a moviegoer should expect a little more rambunctiousness from other patrons, so I've never been nervous about imparting my love of the big screen on them.

It always helps when the theater isn't full, though, and we were blessed in that regard (an earlier attempt to catch the movie in Noblesville was quashed with the film sold out; in the downtown Circle Centre theater, where presumably fewer children reside, there were about 10 other people).

So we entered the theater, I armed with gummi bears and two booster seats, scant moments before the movie started. We got sat down and I laid down the ground rules: we're here to see the movie, and no one wants to hear you being all loud. So no talking. If you need to say something to me, whisper.

It took Jenna about 10 minutes to violate my edicts, blurting out a loud, "Daddy, I gotta poop!," which is Jen's standard line for "I'm bored, and want to get up," and rarely means "Daddy, I gotta poop." I shushed her and told her we'd go later, and pointed back to the screen.

Riley was engrossed in the tale, where an inventor maligned by his sardine-soaked town invents a device that turns water to food. When an accident shoots his device into the sky, havoc breaks loose as cheeseburgers, pies, jello molds, and, yes, spaghetti and meatballs, rain from the sky.

Jenna seemed to be enjoying the movie, but was still willing to get up and move around a little. Still, she was being relatively good given the circumstances. She had taken to sitting on my lap and flopping around, and laying her head back into the aisle. When she was sitting she'd turn around and try to get the attention of other moviegoers.

Still, there were no real incidents.

Then, during the movie's climax, Jenna decided she wanted to sit on the seat rather than the plastic booster I provided. She stood up and pulled the faux seat off the chair and it clattered loudly as it hit the painted cement. She got up and stood facing the rear of her chair, and promptly slid into the space between the seat cushion and seat back. The seat popped up, trapping her inside the chair.

She shrieked.

I grabbed her immediately and tried pulling her out, but her feet caught on the seat back, and she screamed louder. I finally, my face reddening, reached in and turned her feet and pulled her out. I hugged her and pulled her face into my shoulder, muffling most of her sobs. Riley gave her a bemused look: "amateur," he no doubt was thinking.

The movie ended moments later, and while there were no comments or even nasty looks that I noticed, I still quickly shuttled my two oldest out of the theater and vacated.

A good theatrical experience, all told. One small incident, but both of the kids were on their best behavior for the most part. Would my fellow moviegoers agree? Probably not.

Will I try it again in the near future? You betcha.

Monsters? No Problem for Big Brother

The following was originally posted September 15, 2009 at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=1252:

Bedtime represents problems for plenty of multi-child households. Not so much usually for us. Mason has been decidedly more difficult to get (and keep) asleep than the others, but for the most part Riley and Jenna have been easy to get to bed, and, aside from the occasional slumberus interruptus, they have slept all night since we counted their age in months using single digits.

Recently, though, as her big brother has introduced words like "monster," "closet," and "RAAR!" to her rapidly-expanding vocabulary, Jenna has required a bit more gentle prodding to comfortably get to sleep. Previously she would flop down into her crib, close her eyes, and drift off peacefully, but that's become more and more rare as her 2-year-old imagination creates beasts and ghouls of all sorts stomping around her bedroom just around 9 p.m. each night.

Last week found an especially difficult night. Riley was in the middle of his bedtime routine as well, but Jenna was a bit reluctant to drift off. Instead of swiftly entering dreamland, she cried and cried, and was inconsolable even as I patted and rubbed her back and laid her baby in the crook of her arm.

I found myself quickly frutstrated by her unwillingness to give up the proverbial ghost. So I called in Riley, and learned a valuable lesson.

Riley squatted down outside her crib, right by her face, and sprang to action. "Jenna, it's okay," he said to her through her crib slats, instantly being the Susan Sarandon to Jen's Sean Penn. "What's wrong?"

Jenna blathered something I couldn't quite make out. I heard "monsters," but that's it.

"No, there are no monsters in your closet, Jen," he said matter-of-factly. "They're all gone."

My opening: "Yeah, and even if there are, what do we do with the monsters, Riley?"

"We throw them out the window," he said, remembering my instructions to him when he had the same problems. Then he expanded: "You tell them if they don't be quiet, you'll throw them out." Then he proceeded to do just that, telling the phantoms the way only a big brother can to vacate the premises immediately, only to force them out by the scruffs of their imaginary necks when they didn't move fast enough.

Jenna had stopped crying, and watched her brother sticking up for her, literally tossing her imaginary tormentors out of the window, and within a few minutes she was asleep.

My feeling of helplessness turned to pride, as I realized that my son had an effect on his sister that perhaps no one else in the world could have. He literally spends more time with his siblings than anyone, including Crystal and I. They're together virtually 24 hours a day, and while they bicker and squabble with the best of them, they also have gotten to know each other probably better than anyone knows either of them.

They have a special connection that can't be manufactured, created, or forced, but comes about only from playing, talking and interacting as much as two people possibly can, and moving across the entire spectrum of emotion, from the most loving connection to the most petty annoyance.

And believe me, they do plenty of both.

I'll Tumble 4 Ya

The following was originally posted September 6, 2009, at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=1247:

As Riley and Jenna close in on school age, there's a definite, discernable difference in their needs, physically speaking. They need more exercise.

Riley never really took to soccer (though we strongly suspect that my coaching his team had a lot to do with that), and Jenna's independent streak left us skeptical that she'd take to organized instruction.

Then we discovered the Hamilton County Sports Complex, and our problems in this area seemed solved. They had karate, perfect for Riley, and gymnastics, which our bouncing baby girl would no doubt love.

We hit their summer fair and got to try out some of their wares. Riley did love the karate, but he loved the gymnastics even more, especially their two very large pits full of foam cubes, and even more than that he loved climbing the balance beam and leaping into those pits of foam.

So we enrolled Riley and Jenna both in gymnastics. They were in different "classes," of course, but went at the same time on the same night, which is most convenient for Crystal and I.

And in some ways the two couldn't be more different. Riley pulled the shy routine, refusing to get involved, and sitting while the rest of the class performed calisthenics and stretched. He withdrew, even with personalized instruction in small groups.

Jenna, on the other hand, became the social butterfly without even spending time in the cocoon. On the contrary, her biggest problem was waiting her turn. She struggled and squirmed as Crystal held her, and screamed as only she can a few times in hopes of wriggling free.

She was equally exuberant in performing the activities in spirit, if not in body. Her tiny legs and undeveloped sense of balance made for awkward, weight-shifting histrionics, but she soon began getting the hang of her exercises, be they jumping on the trampoline, navigating the balance beam, or doing a front roll. Her long wavy hair flopped forward dramatically as she tucked her head , but she needed some help getting her body over.

Riley, as I suspected, is a little less trusting, and needs to see that teacher and student alike won't betray his trust by teasing or laughing at him. After watching for 10 or 15 minutes, you could see the itch developing, and soon he was running, flipping, and bouncing with everyone else. We introduced him to a classmate named Jack, and while they didn't exactly get chummy right away, it did help, and soon he was bouncing on the trampoline, gripping the rings, though he got help actually flipping his body between them (he too, seems to have inherited his father's body control), and sneaking a full-on dive into the foam here and there, whether they were at that station or not.

Jenna continued her fear of public toilets (specifically their tendency to flush unnecessarily loudly), cutting into her play time as I fought with her to stay on the potty, until, finally, she went pee pee.

The next week was more of the same, with Jenna leaping headlong, this time wearing her little tu tu as she pranced about, but Riley taking a little longer to get into the mix. This time, though, once he started, he threw himself into it. Even his dives into the foam were more confident, instead of the somewhat tentative foot-first jumps, he did swan dives that would make Superfly Snuka proud.

More Than Any Ghoul Could Ever Dare Try

The following was originally posted on August 27, 2009 at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=1243:

We had a minor familial dust-up this week on Facebook. I won't go into the details of it, save that it revolved around my cousin inviting us to an opening-night screening of "Halloween II."

In jest, I noted that "Riley and I will be there," causing something of a stir among some of my family members, who weren't sure whether I was serious or not. Would I dare bring my 4-year-old to a horror film made by a filmmaker who makes some of the most intense, brutal horror films around, or was I just kidding?

It brought back in my head a post I wrote on my web site, The Film Yap, about how scary movies are for kids (http://www.thefilmyap.com/scary-movies-are-for-kids-and-other-horror-observations/).

I've long suffered people who simply do not understand horror films or the appeal they bring. It's okay, I imagine, since I'll likely never understand dropping $12 to watch Kate Hudson lurch through what's supposed to be a sweet, touching romantic "comedy" that recycles jokes that weren't really all that funny the first time I saw them on some random sitcom 15 years ago.

Horror movies are bad, they say. They make kids violent, desensitize them against violence, and are yet another sign that society is rolling in a barrel bound for hell, firmly entrenched in their handbasket.

Posh, I say.

My generation grew up on slasher films. Freddy Kruger, Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers, Pinhead, all the rest. I have gleefully watched scary movies since I was six years old, and while I'll refrain from the old "...and I turned out just fine" routine (because, really, can I judge myself sane?), I will say they serve a valued societal purpose.

Never dismiss a film as "just a movie." It's never "just a movie," especially for kids. Film's basic primary role is to be a reflection of our society and our values. That's why the good guys almost always win in our films, and it's why we find movies interesting to begin with. We identify with characters.

Are some movies escapist, with no other intention but to entertain someone for a couple of hours? Certainly. But they still teach us something whether we're listening or not (or whether the filmmakers intend to or not).

I'll not go into great detail about my arguments, but I make many in my Film Yap article. Suffice it to say horror films are misunderstood to a great degree. I, as do many scholars, consider them to be modern-day fairy tales, which were horrifically violent in their own right, full of wolves eating grandmothers and witches who cook and consume poor lost children who have the gall to vandalize her graham cracker-house, trolls who devour people and all sorts of terrible things, all with the goal of scaring the crap out of kids enough that they'll not talk to strangers, or wander off by themselves in the woods, or eat some lady's house, even if it's made of candy.

No one to my knowledge has ever suggested we ban the Brothers Grimm.

The graphic nature of all the blood and the gore and such? I honestly can't say it didn't affect my psyche, but I can say a short lifetime of watching some horrific on-screen antics I didn't have much difficulty watching any of my wife's c-sections (the first time especially I was interested to see what was going on). I didn't faint or even get queasy. I like to attribute at least some of that to my tastes in cinema.

I'm one that doesn't believe in holding information back from my children, nor do I want to deny them the realities of what the world has to offer, both in the greatest of the goods and the worst of the bads. My job is to protect them from AND prepare them for the realities of life, which, to paraphrase Michael Jackson, will fear them more than any ghoul could ever dare try.

And along those lines, tell me what's worse for a child: watching a movie where an unstoppable monster kills teens who engage in premarital sex, use drugs, and generally are jerks to everyone, or a romantic comedy that tells young people that the only traits that matter (especially for a woman) are 1) good looks, and 2) a glamorous job, and that you've won the relationship game when you have your first kiss? I think our country's divorce rate would say the latter.

I'm definitely not going to have Riley in tow for Halloween 2. I don't think he's ready for it. But that isn't to say sometime in the not-too-distant future I won't let him peek in on some scary movies. Quite on the contrary. Matter of fact, he got his first taste recently, as I gave him his first primer: the video to Michael Jackson's "Thriller," which is in its own right still very scary.

Riley's reaction? Definitely not what I'd expect. He didn't seem scared by the Michael Jackson werewolf, he marveled at the zombie dancing, and again wasn't spooked by the ending.

Hmm...maybe he's more ready than I give him credit for.

In a Whisper and a Scream

The following was originally posted August 22, 2009, at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=1239:

Here's a lesson I learned this past week: listen carefully. Even if your baby can't talk, they still might have something to say to you.

Learned this lesson the hard way, let me tell you.

Since he was born in January, Mason has slept in our room, in a cradle with one of those removable car seat/carrier things that Crystal calls a "punkin seat" inside it (BTW, the point of the seat is two-fold: being inclined rather than laying flat helped alleviate the rather nasty case of reflux Mason suffered from early on, and also supposedly reduces the risk of SIDS).

This arrangement works well for all of us: he's right next to the bed, making a shorter trip than going to his room for late-night feedings, and we have more control over whether he wakes up the older kids, and we don't have the temptation to let him sleep in our bed when he does wake up. Plus Mason seems to like it.

We had settled into a pretty consistent routine: Mason didn't always sleep through the night, but he was more or less on a schedule, waking up once between 4:00 and 4:30 in the morning, feeding, and going right back to sleep.

About a week ago, this all changed. Mason stirred several times, starting at midnight, then 1:00, then 2:00, then 3:00. By 3:30, you can imagine, we were already getting pretty tired of...getting tired, and it was only getting worse. He was rather insistent that we pick him up, screaming, kicking, arching his back and trying to twist himself out of his seat.

We ended up taking turns trying to soothe him, but neither of us slept well. We speculated:

Was he sick? He didn't have any outward symptoms.

Gassy? A little, but no more than usual.

Hungry? He ate, but still screamed.

The same thing happened the next night. And the next. And the next.

Soon the week turned over, and Mason's restlessness continued. It didn't bother him too much; after all, he has all the day to make up for lost sleep. Crystal and I have only that agonizingly small window between 10:00 p.m. and 6:30 a.m. to catch our winks.

But with Mason playing an all-night game of Red Rover, and Mason was sending psychosis right over. The both of us were quickly turning into two quivering masses of Jell-O, complete with fruit cocktail for brains.

We were fading fast, and quickly reaching end of our rope, which was fraying ever so quickly. It's hard to remember whether it was the fifth or sixth straight night we were facing little or no sleep that I grumped "just put him in his crib!"

Crystal shook her head. A lock of hair fell over her eyes as she held Mason in the dark, bouncing him in her arms while he struggled and wailed. "The last thing we need is for him to wake up Jenna."

So instead I went downstairs for another bottle. It was about 1:00, and I wasn't exactly looking forward to another night of intermittent, random crying at all points of the night. I was ready to give up, just stay downstairs and sleep on the couch. Just anything for a few moments of peace.

I sat down on the couch holding the warm bottle and contemplated, before sighing and going back upstairs. Maybe we can take turns sleeping downstairs, I thought.

But when I reached the top stairs, there was something new, a new sound that wasn't quite the same blood-curdling screams I headed downstairs to.

This was something else. Something strange. Something...silent.

He wasn't crying. I went into our room, and Crystal was laying on the bed.

"That's what he wanted," Crystal said. "I laid him in his crib and he went right to sleep.

I could hardly believe it. I crept into his room and caught the sound of one of his toys, a stuffed seahorse that plays lullabies and glows, plinking out "Mockingbird." Mason was still on top of his clean sheets, his eyelids closed, head cocked to one side. His chest rose and fell steadily, calmly and the seahorse began a new song.

Who'd have thought he was telling us he was ready to grow up? Only seven months old, and he's taking charge of his life, letting us know he's ready for the next step, in as gentle a way as he knows how (which is to say like a sledgehammer), not to worry, that he'll be okay. He can handle it, and we need to give him his space, and he has to grow up sometime.

Yes, all of those things, contained in one single, nonstop, unrelenting scream. He was saying all of those things.

But mostly he was saying "let me out of this damned seat! I'm sleepy!"

Soothing the Savage Beast

The following was originally posted August 13, 2009 at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=1235

What's more annoying to a parent than an in-vehicle non-stop cry?

Anything? Grape juice on the carpet, maybe?

Of course, Crystal and I were a bit spoiled over the past couple of years. Riley and Jenna both were relatively good kids, though, didn't cry much, slept through the night at just a few months old.

We spent so much time counting our lucky stars that when we found out Crystal was pregnant with Mason, we hypothesized that our luck would end, considering he was the lone "surprise" of the three.

And boy, how right we were. He just passed the 7-month mark, and has by far been the loudest, angriest of the three. It's been especially true in the car, when of course we can't soothe him, pick him up, or even otherwise distract him now that he's in a full-sized car seat (rear-facing, of course).

Sometimes we get lucky and Jenna can get him hushed by playing with him or giving him a toy, but mostly she just pokes him in the eye or shoves her foot into his face, making long car drives, especially the relatively long commutes from Indy to Noblesville, pretty harrowing.

With Riley, fate had given us a free get-out-of-tantrum free card.

The Johnny Cash biopic "Walk the Line" hit theaters in the fall of 2005, prompting me to download a large block of Johnny Cash songs and burn them to a CD. I had the standbys: "Ring of Fire," "Folsom Prison Blues," "Cocaine Blues," "Wabash Cannonball," and even picked up his famed haunting version of the Nine Inch Nails song "Hurt."

As I listened to the songs in the car, I began to realize something pretty interesting and damned cool: when Johnny Cash was crooning away, Riley, about 6 months old at the time, didn't cry. As a matter of fact, many times if we didn't put the music on, he would start, only stopping when we turned it on, and if we turned it off or even down, he would grow agitated and cry more.

So we started to test. We tried a variety of other music, from Dave Matthews to the Dixie Chicks to whatever happened to be on hand, even trying simple radio music. It wouldn't work. But Johnny Cash was a flute entrancing a cobra.

And so it worked, almost infallibly, until Riley was about 1 (by which time of course the Johnny Cash mystique was replaced by a heavy sort of bitterness toward his music, since it played almost incessantly for that time.

It was about the time Jenna was born that we tried to mix things up a little. I introduced them to as many of the greats as I could: Bob Marley, Jimi Hendrix, the Beatles. Bands I'd never really been exposed to myself, and Crystal certainly not (she grew up in a home where "oldies but goodies," and later the "rock n roll is the devil" church influence monopolized the airwaves).

I decided I wasn't going to limit them (save for, say, gangsta rap and country music, the latter I especially can't stand to listen to), and popped in "Crazy Train" for Riley, and he was in love again. Last summer, I rolled out "Iron Man" for, again, purely cinematic reasons, and Riley had yet another song (which for months he started with "Has he/wost his wife/has he/wost his/wost his/wife?"), and it was all Ozzy all the time for the kids.

Jenna never really expressed herself in music, feeling content to let her big brother pick the songs. But a few weeks back we downloaded "Baby Got Back" for the karaoke game "Lips" for the Xbox 360, and ever since Jenna has delighted in running around whichever public place we may be in, spitting her toddler version of "Baby Got Back" like a mini Sir-Mix-A-Lot.

In recent months we toned it down a bit, mixing a little Billy Joel into the mix, and Riley's latest is "We Didn't Start the Fire," which provides him lessons in both music and late-20th century history. It's the current song in heavy rotation in our car, and again gets me back to my youngest.

Last week it was the end of another long day, and we wearily packed the monkeys into the car, and they were pretty much all on the grumpy side of the day. Mason bawled as soon as we strapped him into his seat, and we feared another long, frustrating drive home. Riley requested "The Fire Song," and I, not wanting to argue or risk hearing him whining on top of Mason's, hit play, and something semi-remarkable happened.

Back seat silence. Instantly.

"We Didn't Start the Fire" looped all the way home.

Urine, I'm out

The following was originally posted August 6, 2009, at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=1229:

We weren't alarmed when little red bumps starting rising on Jenna's skin.

Most every parent knows that mild allergic reactions can come from almost anywhere: food, laundry detergent, plants, pollen, grass. So we weren't all that concerned.

But still Crystal called the doctor to see if they could help diagnose what was going on when the bumps continued to pop up after 24 hours.

I was eating lunch when I got her first call. I opened my phone to a lot of low mumbling and a lot of screaming.

"Can you come help me?" Crystal warbled from the other end of the line, a symphony of wails, cries and shouts that were unmistakably coming from some combination of my three kids.

The diagnosis, it turns out, is HSP, of which doctors know relatively little, it turns out. It's a virus of some kind that brings about an allergic reaction and can cause a variety of symptoms that include hives, inflamed, leaking or bursting blood vessels, arthritic joint pain, and abdominal pain. It can be serious, but in an overwhelming number of cases it's tantamount to eating too many strawberries.

What the doctor needed to know, however, was whether the HSP had affected Jenna's kidneys. For that, we needed a urine sample.

It was not quite noon when Crystal called me, exasperated, begging for help. We've each learned going solo with three kids is not the optimal way of doing things. Going to the doctor, or anywhere that requires us to stop moving for extended periods of time is nigh impossible.

So I left work, headed to Dr. Dickerson's office to help my little girl go pee-pee. Simple task, right? Given the fact that she's been potty training like a champ the past week (and going just about everywhere), I thought it would be no problem.

It was about 12:30 when I arrived, and Crystal, who I already knew had been fighting a migrane in addition to our kids, was on the edge of breaking. The nurses had sent them away for lunch (McDonald's, natch), which included a healthy dose of juice for Jenna. The nurses attached a potty bag to Jenna's pee-pee parts (though I'm almost certain neither of those terms I used are their official names).

We got back to the office a few minutes before 1:00, and headed to the building's vending machines for more juice and water. Riley was all pent-up nerves, approaching slap-happy status (1:00 is their usual Quiet Time), Jenna was slightly grumpy from having a sticky ziploc bag attached to her junk, and Mason was oblivious to it all, happy just to be getting the attention.

By 1:30 frustration was setting in, and even our nifty little collapsable potty seat wasn't helping. Jenna, who is potty training, has grown to fear public restrooms, with their loud WHOOSH of a flush (her 2-year-old ears hear monsters climbing up her butt), and she mostly refused to sit on the toilet, though at home she's a veritable potty-sitting machine.

So back and forth we went, Crystal and I trading off, offering her juice and water every few moments. By 2:00 Riley was wallowing in his seat like a pig in a fresh mud pit, wailing as the other patients looked on. We luckily had anticipated Mason's needs and got him a bottle, but knew it was only a matter of time before he too demanded more attention.

And still Jenna was bouncing around the waiting room, in her "Yo Gabba Gabba" panties with the plastic bag under them, patiently waiting to collect her urine sample.

It was close to 2:30 when she started her signature potty cry: "Daddy! Daddy! Poo poo in Potty!" I gathered her up, stomped down to the restroom...where a janitor was cleaning one of the rooms while a woman snuck in ahead of us with her own toddler.

So we walked.

Finally, we returned to open rooms, popped in, unfolded her yellow potty seat and flopped her down, collapsing on the bathroom floor butt-first in front of her.

Nothing.

We returned to the waiting room to find we were missing a few--notably, my wife and two sons. I figured she was walking them around, and waited a few minutes before coming returning to the restroom for another shot. It was well after 3:00, and Jenna was tiring of this particular game. She sat on the toilet, sobbing as I begged her to just potty like a big girl. "We'll do the pee pee dance!" I implored.

Finally, a knock on the door.

"Joe? It's Dr. Dickerson. Any luck?"

"None." I said.

We returned to the exam room, and the nurse brought a little potty seat and removed the bag. We bribed (popcicles), begged, and pleaded, to no avail.

Finally, Crystal whisked her away to the toilet for another chance. Riley was red-eyed, and I was sweating. Mason was sitting quietly in his stroller, plotting.

After a few moments, they returned. Success! A few minutes later (as the clock neared 4:00), the nurse reported no issues with her urine, and no medication to treat the HSP. Time heals all wounds, I guess.

Does that include bruised parental pride?

Fecal Matters

The following was originally posted July 30, 2009 at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=1223:

There are times when you wake up in the morning knowing that something memorable will happen.

And then there are weeks like this one.

It started off right, on Sunday, with an impromptu trip to the Marion County Fair. Like a lot of grandpas, my dad loves to take his grandkids out, challenge them to take on scary rides (this year, when Riley backed down from Papaw's challenge to take a helicopter ride, Jenna stepped up to the plate and promptly lined one straight back to the mound, knocking Papaw Shearer on his behind), stuff them with lemon shake-ups, cotton candy and pineapple whip until they turn yellow, win them a ridiculously large (or small) stuffed animal, and basically show them the time of their lives.

So off to the fair we went. I should have known something was going to go down from Riley's first question to me upon entering the fairgrounds: "Daddy, are we allowed to pee outside at the fair?" I looked at him, his earnest eyes telling me he was genuinely curious, as opposed to those times when he'll ask me a question just to see my reaction.

"No," I said. "You have to find the bathroom." And off we went, to ride go-karts and ponies and tilt-a-whirls and bee rides and everything else. We'd been there for better than an hour, with additional relatives joining, including Riley's best bud Mikey, my cousin's little boy. We separated at some point, and reconnected just outside a stand offering giant corndogs and fries. As we stood in the gravel pondering our next move (we were eyeing one of those car rides where the vintage Mustangs and Corvettes drive in circles), someone spoke up.

"Riley!"

My head snapped to the left to see my oldest, trou dropped just enough, a yellow stream arcing from his hip area down to the ground. It wasn't my son's first experience with public urination, but it was certainly the boldest.

"What are you doing, son?" I choked out in the most discreet voice I could. He looked at me like I had celery growing out of my ears, an unmistakable combination of "what does it look like I'm doing?" and "Please, daddy, don't kill me." His little stream died as we circled around him.

My uncle aptly noted that, since he had already started, the poor kid might as well finish, and Riley didn't need any other encouragement before he started back up, a small tinkle all that was left.

My cousin's wife was quick on the draw with the iPhone, and managed, I learned later, to snap a few pictures in the confusion, fortunately for you all.

* * * *

In the midst of all of this, Crystal and I have decided it's time to wean Jenna off the diapers, leading to all sorts of madness around the house, as she scampers bottomless around the living room, checking out Brobee and Foofah rockin' out with DJ Lance as she potties. She's had a few accidents, most notably one that happened while she was wearing a diaper during naptime.

Crystal's friend has been watching the kids for us at our house, and I got a semi-frantic call that Jenna had a little poopy accident at home and I needed to get there to take care of it.

I got home to get the explanation: Jenna had taken her diaper off during her nap and pooped in the bed, and decided to create Poopy, the seventh "Yo Gabba Gabba" character. The end result was a pooped-out sheet, blanket and dress. The diaper was the cleanest part in the whole ordeal, as Jen managed to get herself smeared.

You know those salt people say when it rains, it pours? It was just tonight that I met Crystal after work at a local family restaurant, waiting for her to get off of work and join us. I had all three kids with me, and decided to follow Crystal's advice to not put a diaper on Jenna when we went out, to teach her better to be a big girl.

I can't say she didn't warn me, but within the first 10 minutes she'd peed in her high chair and threatened it was coming out the other end as well. After much squirming from both of us (and a fruitless trip for four to the restroom), Crystal arrived and promptly saddled our girl with a fresh diaper.

Two public pee-pees inside a week. Too much?

It's all in a week's work.

Pretty Young Things

The following was originally posted June 26, 2009, at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=1196:

The first few heroes of my life were the Incredible Hulk, Bo and Luke Duke, Ponch and John, and Michael Jackson. The first album I ever remember buying of my very own, when I was 5 years old, was "Thriller," and I never got tired of listening to it. I still remember the premiere of the "Thriller" video, the most amazing thing I'd ever seen, and maybe a record that stands still today.

I was with my kids, and my niece and nephew, when I heard that Michael Jackson had died. It had been awhile (months, not years) since I'd listened to anything from "Thriller," and I decided today that it was time for me to reassemble the album and listen to it the way it was intended.

I downloaded the songs I didn't have, put them into order, and got "Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'" as we started eating dinner. Crystal, who is maybe a year or two too young to remember the mania of "Thriller," danced along as we ate.

It had been years since I heard "Baby Be Mine," and when "The Girl Is Mine" started, I looked at Jenna and had visions of dancing to this song at her wedding, handing her off to her husband half way through MJ's duet with Paul McCartney, where they argue over the affections of a girl.

It was Vincent Price's "Rap" at the end of "Thriller" that prompted Riley to stop in his tracks, and his signature creepy laugh was scary enough for him to sneak into the office to turn the radio all the way down.

By the time I got the radio turned up, "Beat It" was half over, and by the time "Human Nature" started, Riley was asking to listen to "Dust da dust da dust" again, which is of course his approximation of the opening hook of "Billie Jean." I insisted we finish the rest of songs first.

I sat down with Mason and a jar of baby food when "PYT (Pretty Young Thing)" started, and Jenna danced along while I "fed" our youngest, which is to say smearing most on his cheeks, nose and lips.

I was finishing as "Lady of my Life" started. Crystal walked by and went into the computer room.

I know they'll never know the effect that album had on me, and for all I know they'll know Michael Jackson more for the sad things that marred his life after "Bad," but it was a nice little bit of catharsis for me, who hadn't really been able to enjoy his music since he stopped being the King of Pop and started becoming that freak who dangled his babies off of balconies and took little boys into his bedroom.

But somehow I don't feel bad for bringing his music into their lives, and why should I? It was a huge part of my life, and I'm only too glad to introduce my children to it. He forever changed popular music, was the king of the music video, and affected my life in ways I didn't even realize until he died.

And he's doing it again. MTV is suddenly playing his videos again, and everyone's talking about MJ again. It's a conspiracy theory for sure, but there are grumblings that this is just too perfect a coincidence that he dies just months before his big comeback tour. It's just crazy enough a stunt for Jacko to do. But that's crazy, right?

Now, if only I can catch MTV playing the "Thriller" video. Think Riley's ready?

Naah, me either. Of course, that's the perfect time.

Boo-Boo Days

The following was originally posted on June 15, 2009 at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=1180:

It was a rough weekend for boo boos, let me tell you.

We got it started off right on Friday evening. We planned a trip to the grocery store, which was delayed when Riley, picking up his toy tank, slipped and fell on it, scraping his inner thigh with two parallel scrapes, each about six inches long, that slowly started to seep blood. A quick trip to the bathroom, peroxide, band-aids, check.

As we were getting home, Riley and Jenna were headed to the front door as Crystal and I unloaded Mason and our first load of bags. My back was turned, and I saw that immediate, panic-stricken look on Crystal's face that shrieks something's wrong.

I whirled around to see Jenna going down, her body hitting the cement. Her knees hit, then her body, and she lurched forward, like a rocking horse with a rock stuck under it.

I sat Mason's seat down and ran to her, and she was crying. Initial diagnosis: nothing major. Two moderately skinned knees. Crystal came running up and I unlocked the door and took Jen inside to get her cleaned up while I unloaded the car.

The final diagnosis added a scraped chin and bitten tongue to her previous wounds.

Saturday was only worse. We took a trip to the Perry Pool, stopping before to pick up pool toys (that we weren't allowed to use) and flip-flops for the whole family (excluding Mason, which is fine, considering, you know, he can't walk).

The two older kids were squealing with delight the entire day, prancing around like show horses, giggling like giddy baboons.

We stopped off at the snack bar for a break. It was all a bit too much for Riley, who gave in to his sugar-infused adrenaline rush and started trotting around the snack area. Jenna, who loves her big brother, followed, in her pretty new pink flops, and their dad yelling at them to slow down before...

Again, she hit the deck, her little knees trading paint with the pavement, scraping her lower leg and one of her feet for good measure. I took her back to the locker room and showered her sorry little joints before returning.

It wasn't 20 minutes later before she fell again. Minutes later again, before Crystal finally, angrily tore the flip flops off of her feet and flung them away, snuggling her at the same time as she sobbed.

We stopped off before home and picked up some antiseptic spray and band-aids before heading home, Jenna all the while saying "Knees...huwt," bringing a sense of empathy that only my daughter can bring out in me.

One thing about Jenna: unlike most kids, band-aids don't make wounds feel better. We pumped the Neosporin on her boo-boos, and I went to apply the knee-sized bandage that still didn't quite cover all the ouchies on her right knee. As I applied it she protested, then let loose with a bloody-murder scream right there in the parking lot. By then it was too late. This was one of those "easy-to-remove" bandages.

So Jenna dealt with it, and since Saturday her knees have been her favorite topic of conversation. When she wakes, when she's going to bed, when she's walking around: "Daddy...knees...huwt." If it was Riley complaining to me like that, I have to admit I'd tell him to suck it up. I'd have sympathy for him, but Jenna's cries have that way of turning my insides to jelly.

Riley, both hoping to make her feel better and to make sure no one forgot about him, showed her his battle scars. They were two little Quints and Hoopers onboard the Orca.

So my two oldest are now the walking wounded.

The Curse of the Bathtub Monster

This blog was originally posted on March 29, 2009 at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=1030:

I had a sneaking suspicion that Jenna's sudden case of bathtub hysteria wouldn't be an isolated incident.

It was only a couple of weeks ago that I made the mistake of bathing Riley (at 4 my oldest boy) and Jenna (20 months old the middle of April, the middle child, my only daughter) together, without Crystal's help (she was tending to Mason, our nee-three-month-old little hellraiser).

It wasn't the choice to bathe them together that was off so much as the decision to get Riley out first, leaving Jenna alone in a draining tub, full of changing situations and scary gurgling noises.

We didn't leave her alone in the bathroom, mind you; I was toweling Riley off just a couple of feet away as the water level, which wasn't much more than ankle-deep to begin with), continued to dip. Jenna was standing, anxiously bouncing, as the drain spoke its garbling curses at her, increasingly louder as the water swirled down. Jen started whining, and I could feel her anxiety grow as I grabbed her towel.

When I reached her, her whine had become a full-on shriek, and the bathtub was doing its best to silence her, the last remnants of the bathwater noisily siphoning into oblivion. It was almost akin to the sounds of a garbage disposal, and in Jenna's mind arms were protruding from the hole, gaping at her, intent on pulling her down and making her its latest meal.

Shaking and trembling when I lifted her, she wailed into my shoulder, and I had no inkling that something as simple as draining water would have such an effect on her. I held her as I dried her off, shushing her gently and rocking her. "It's okay, sweetie," I said.

But that apparently wasn't enough. The little girl who had loved baths, whose eager evening "Bafie?" as she ambled into the bathroom always foretold what would become an almost-frantic effort to get into the tub (whether or not she was fully undressed), now not only wasn't excited about bathing, but was terrified of the idea of even approaching the tub.

We've tried several things: sitting her in the empty tub (with the drain plug in), holding her first, comforting, hugging her while in the tub. Crystal has even gotten in the tub with her. It's common practice for us to bathe Riley and Jenna together (with Riley sitting nearer the drain), but nothing can assuage the primal terror that accompanies a bath. Toys have no effect. Haven't tried bubbles yet, but I'm assuming the mysteries of what lurks beneath the pale frothy surface will enhance her fright rather than soothe it.

I know the bathtub monster almost always gets its kid in some shape. Riley wasn't afraid of the drain, but has long been skittish about putting his head in the water. I remember the fear of the monster in the drain.

But for Jen, it's full-on Freddy Krueger time. I'm half expecting her to ask me what the bathtime equivalent of no-doze is.

The Drop Off/The Pick Up

The following blog was originally posted on February 24, 2009 at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=952:

In a small, microcosmic sort of way, the school pick-up/drop-off represents the best and worst feelings a parent can have with their children. Riley, at 4 years of age is our oldest, and is a pre-schooler.

For the first two months or so, the drop-off was an ordeal of tears and clutching begging, a horrible experience for any parent negotiating soothing an upset child and being late for work. You know it's going to come down to being brave enough to just turn and walk out, leaving your screaming, hysterical child begging you to come back, going against every parental instinct to do what's ultimately best for your child.

Then one day the tears will subside, and the next day the kid will casually skip into class (or in our case the gymnasium). Not only is he no longer crying for you; he forgets to say goodbye and give you a hug.

Then the first year starts to pass, and though Riley still boasts that "I didn't cry today," you know that time is long gone. Does it mean we matter less? I prefer to think it means you've been a good parent, teaching your child a touch of self-reliance and helped him build social skills.

The pick-up, though, thus far has been nothing but good. It's all smiles and hugs and not knowing what was for lunch today. It's warm, and represents both an ending (to the long day) and a beginning (of a new time together). Hearing Riley's wanton enthusiasm for the day, whether it's about what "O is for" or who got in trouble that day, it's all good.

It's a daily bit of pure joy every single day, and both of these times, the pick-up and drop-off, well, they're what being a parent is all about.

The Most Powerful Man in the Universe

This blog was originally posted on February 6, 2009, at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=923

When I was little, He-Man was a bit of a controversial figure in my household, at least in the Baptist-enhanced family I lived in. Too violent, they said. He-Man runs around with a sword, chopping people up, and hangs around with Satanists. Yes, before Obama palled around with terrorists, He-Man hung with Satanists.

Of course, none of this is true, and watching even one episode reveals a few interesting things. First and foremost is that there was rarely any real violence more severe than a villain being thrown in a lake. He-Man's famous punch rarely (if ever) connected on another character. He punched mountains (to create a flood-stopping rockslide, natch) he punched vehicles (to stop them), but never another person. The villainous Skeletor? Nope. Beast-Man? Mer-Man? Never raised a hand to them.

And that magic sword? It was used for harnessing the power of Greyskull, and for occasionally deflecting a laser or magic blast, but was never used to harm anyone.

So he was the perfect new role model for Riley, my oldest (he turned 4 on Feb. 2). He quickly became my newest, but in many ways oldest, ally in raising my children right. Of course He-Man is my greatest love of TV characters, something akin to that first girlfriend that you never get over. So I asked for and received a He-Man DVD box set for Christmas last year, popped one in and sat down with Riley for a show.

He immediately fell in love, and the light-up sword we bought him a few weeks prior at the circus became his own magic sword (by the way, best impulse purchase I've ever made). He began stuffing it down the back of his shirt the way I did when I was 8, I even have a video of Riley, fresh in the throes of He-Man bliss, standing up in his sister's crib, naked from the waist down (I believe we were preparing for a bath), bellowing "By the Power of Greyskull!" as he held his sword aloft.

That love has only grown, as I found one of the newer He-Man action figures (they revamped the franchise with a new series of cartoons and toys a few years back), and it's become a full-fledged obsession. We got a couple more seasons for Christmas this year, and it all came back anew.

Last week when I picked him up from pre-school, he told me that he had been He-Man that day while playing with his friends. "Bud, does anyone at your school know who He-Man is?" I asked him. He shook his head without hesitation. "No." I only patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry. They will."

That's because I learned a few weeks back that the He-Man franchise is being made into a new movie. It had been stuck in development hell for several months before emerging with a new director in tow, ready for filming.

You can bet Riley and I will be in line first for tickets.

Easy as 1, 2, 3

This blog originally appeared January 22, 2009 at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=898

Smack in the middle of my third week as the father of three, I got a taste of one of the harsh truths of having a trio of carpet goblins under 4 years.

When Riley was born, it hardly cramped our style. Within two weeks we were eating out again as usual (ah, the good old days); matter of fact, Crystal and I celebrated our first Valentine's Day as Mommy and Daddy with our son at a steakhouse, an apt date night for a couple of eager, excited parents. We didn't even completely eliminated our habit of heading out to Wal-Mart of Meijer at 9:00 at night to grab a few essential items (read: impulse buying).

When Jenna arrived 2 years later, leaving the house got a bit tougher. When we hit the stores, Jenna would sit in the cart's kiddie seat, and Riley would alternate between manning the big section of the cart and running free, darting through the aisles and hiding in racks of clothing, around corners and generally driving the both of us nuts. Before long we were simply tossing Ry into the cart right at the beginning and suffering his whining instead of potentially getting lost or kidnapped.

But now Mason is here, all 9 lbs. or so of him, and though he's small in body, in sprit he's much larger. Last night, our first family trip to the big box retailer of our choice (this evening, the SuperTarget at 116th and I-69), we had that rude awakening. How are we going to tote our children around and still buy things?

We ended up this time stuffing both of the older kids into the cart, and young Mason and his convenient carrying case rode in the seat. It was going pretty well for awhile, until the kids decided to stand up, push and misbehave. There was no screaming, and no real fighting, but it was clear it wasn't going to last.

My ultimate solution was to take the younger and less rambunctious Jenna out of the cart and let her walk. Ended up a good choice, as Riley protested, but still sat in the cart while Jenna followed Mommy to the line.

But it reminded us again that we've officially attained Old Married Couple status, and we're just going to have to be those people who are settled in for the night by 7 p.m.

Nothing wrong with that, right?

Leather and Vomit

The following was originally posted January 11, 2009 at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=880:

It's the lucky parents who have experienced the unique sensation I did last night.

Again and still, it's sickness that's plaguing my older children. They're taking turns this time, spinning the wheel on the game of Life, only moving backward, with colds or bronchial or ear infections digging in to make their (and our) lives miserable.

Last night it was Jenna, as I write just three days short of 18 months old, whose cough had been on an uptick for the past week or so. It started with a brief chuckle, and turned into a raging thunderstorm of breath and mucus, culminating last night with a cough-till-you-puke session, at which time we decided a return to the doctor was necessary.

On 5:00 on a Saturday evening, your options are usually limited to the emergency room or an immediate care facility, and since it wasn't too severe we decided on the latter.

I looked up the nearest care center, made a quick call to confirm they were still open, and Jenna and I hit the road. She was coughing non-stop, and it was taking its toll. She had that unmistakable look on her face that kids get when they're not feeling well, the woozy, tired look, as if they'd run a marathon, then gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson.

I found my way to the clinic, cutting through the sleet and the twilight in the family cruiser. I unloaded Jenna's carcass from her seat, and she gripped me through the leather coat her mother had bought me for Christmas some four years ago, before either of us were parents.

We entered the clinic and approached the closed window, behind which a woman who had the same disinterested look on her face most of us get around quitting time, and said through the glass "just sign in and we'll be right with you."

I sat Jenna on the counter (to my left; I'm left handed), and picked up the pen, trying to stay in front of her while I wrote. Behind me was a middle aged woman.

I got Jenna's name down on the form when she decided she wanted to signing in as only she could. She opened her mouth, and let fly with a geyser of Jell-O and stomach acid, dousing the clipboard, my leather coat, shirt, and pants, as well as her pretty pink parka, her pants, and tiny socks (in my haste, I hadn't put her shoes on). I heard her vomit splatter on the lineoleum by my feet.

The woman behind the glass looked up. "Oh," she said, suddenly more interested, before a half-chuckle escaped from her lips. Jenna choked out scented sobs between coughs, and a nurse popped from the back with a trash can, then a small pink tub to hold in front of Jenna should she decide to let fly again.

Another nurse came out with gloves, a mop, and other cleaning supplies, and the woman behind the glass slid the window open and handed me two wet wash cloths, one soapy, the other not.

I sat down, cradling Jenna as I filled out the forms. People continued to come in; a tall kid in his late teens, probably a high school basketball player, and a few minutes later a teenager (19 years old, as she announced her date of birth to the woman behind the glass) with a little girl and an older woman in a bright white (and expensive-looking) sweater that had to be the teen's mother.

Jen and I sat there drenched in her vomit well aware of the odor we were producing. The people in the waiting room were not looking at us in that way that people don't look at you when you're clearly the most interesting thing in the room. I looked around; the woman in the sweater had her expensive sweater's collar pulled over her nose. She obviously doesn't handle throw-up well.

It was only about 10 minutes or so before they called us back, but when you're drenched in Puke au de toilette it seems like three times that. Jenna was done throwing up, but her demeanor hardened as it does when she is most vulnerable. She became irritable, determined that these weird ladies were not going to touch her, not for temperature or weight or to give her a lollipop.

She snuggled against me, and whined when the nurse tried to listen to her breathing. She swiped defiantly against the stethoscope on her back and eeked out the Universal Interjection for Child Unhappiness--"UNH!"

She was the same for the doctor,who quickly diagnosed her with the same thing she had before. He offered some samples of a breathing treatment (Riley has a nebulizer that he's been using), and a prescription for cough syrup.

It occurred to me as I was sitting there vomit-caked that this is what love is all about. It's messy, sometimes it smells funny, and you have to wade through a whole lot of embarrassment for it to be worthwhile.

But man is it worth it.

Postscript: as I wrote this, Riley came to me with the GeoTrax trains he's been bugging me for two days to switch the batteries in. The trains are almost identical; one is yellow, the other red. He wanted batteries in the yellow train. It took about five minutes to find the yellow one is broken.

He quickly produced a third train needing batteries. "How about this?"

The Birth Day

The following was originally posted January 5, 2009, at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=874:

There's just something surreal about the Birth Day, isn't there?

No, I'm not talking birthday parties and torn scraps of wrapping paper and stray icing stains with screaming kids and clowns. That day, when you actually physically bring another life into the world.

Today was one of those days for me, the third one I've had, and in many ways the strangest. It started, as days are apt to do, at midnight, but this time my wife and I awake, partly because we'd had a little midday siesta earlier in the afternoon, but of course I'd be lying if I didn't say nerves didn't factor into our later-than-usual night.

Sleep was, I suspect, every bit as fitful for Crystal as it was for, a safe bet considering that I didn't have a large child stretching my uterus like an overfilled balloon, and that I wasn't waiting to be sliced open so that a child could be yanked from my body.

Nothing unusual, even for grizzled veterans of maternity wards, botched IVs, and scheduled C-sections like us, right? Turns out that, had that been the worst of our troubles, we'd have thanked our lucky stars, marched in and cranked that kid out.

We should have realized that little dull tickle in the pit of our collective stomach when Riley, our oldest, coughed himself into vomiting. He's been battling a rather persistant respiratory issue, gone through two cycles of antibiotics, a steroid (see my post "The Prednisone Blues,"), and enough collective Tylenol, Children's Benadryl, and Albuterol to poison a hippo, but there he was hacking once again.

He woke the next morning (which happens to be, as I write this, this past morning) with a 102-degree fever, whining and curling up in the corner of the couch in that way he does when he's feeling icky. Crystal put in a quick call to the pediatrician at 8:30 (actually a sub, as our Dr. D is herself on maternity leave), who got him scheduled at 9:30.

Our C-section was scheduled for 2:00, with a scheduled arrival at 12:00. I leapt up, threw on some clean clothes, and zipped him to the doctor's office. I was in the middle of choosing the wrong exit on the highway when my cell phone rang. It was Crystal, in tears.

"You need to turn around," she said. "Jenna's eye is swollen."

Another lingering issue, as we discovered the hard way a few weeks back that my 18-month-old daughter is allergic to amoxicillin. Her face puffed up, and she was covered in hives, and we switched her antibiotic and waited for the offending drug to be expelled from her system.

It, too, appeared to be back, just in time to thwart our efforts of having a meaningful birth and introduction to the new brothers and sisters. We were only slightly frantic, though.

I got to the doctor's office right on time, got Riley's scripts and got out. Meanwhile, Crystal, who works for an optometrist, called her boss and got some advice on treating her problem. Riley and I got back home at 11:00, just time enough for a quick shower and shave, pack the kids and the luggage into the car, and get to the doctor. You know, so we can start working on birthing this child.

The birth, as it turns out, went smoothly. We didn't know if we were having a boy or girl (a fact that another sub, this one performing Crystal's last ultrasound, more or less gave away while discussing the subject, as she turned away the monitor and said "If you don't want to know, I don't want to have it sticking out at you.").

So, yes, we had a healthy, bouncing baby boy (in the figurative sense, of course), 8 lbs., 5 oz. We had some girl names picked out, but had been stumped with boy names. We decided finally on Mason Alexander (which, by the way, affords the geek in me the opportunity to call him "Lex," after, of course, Superman's arch enemy).

So today was just a bit eventful, quite a bit stressful (there's still a large part of the day that will, for now, remain undiscussed), and as midnight approaches, I'm home with two sick kids, a wife and child in the hospital, and an exhaustion that I'm becoming increasingly used to.

The Prednisone Blues

This blog was originally posted on December 19, 2008 at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=856

So the kids are sick.

Yeah, it's a common thing. They get sick, crabby, whiny, and lay around all day, coughing in your face.

But the Great Illness of Holiday Season 2008 is something different. It's not that my Jenna woke up with dried blood on her nose (our best guesses attribute it to either the dry air or a middle-of-the-night bump of the nose), or that Riley is back on his breathing treatments (to treat a pneumonia-type infection in his lungs).
No, this time it's the prednisone.

It's that little steroid the doctor prescribed, that hateful, vile venom that's currently making my life difficult.

The doctor warned us that it affects kids in different ways. "He might get a little cranky," she said. She may as well have been a meteorologist saying the upcoming hurricane will be making conditions a bit breezy.

Gone for the moment is the sweet little boy who hugs his sister a little too tightly and sleepily asks "Where are we going tonight?" every morning as we ready him for preschool. In his place is a screaming, punching, vicious little cuss who will not be tamed.

The morning ritual has changed from a minor annoyance to an all-out street fight, as Riley struggles, twists, kicks, runs, and screams to stay under the covers, then to keep his PJs on, then to keep his school clothes off.

We had to brush his teeth "the hard way" this morning, something I've had to do only once before, and his customary post-brushing prize-a vitamin-became the morning's hottest point of contention.

Immediately after "the hard way" brushing, Riley, giving the same dilated-pupiled look my cat used to give after he caught a whiff of catnip, immediately screamed "I want my vitamin!" following it with a wail and a choked sob. I reminded him his sister was still asleep, and if he wanted a vitamin, he'd be wise to lower his voice.

This did nothing, of course. He continued to scream louder, and the authoritarian in my immediately sprang to action, declaring that he would not be experiencing the fruity goodness of his gummi vitamins this morning. Not at all.

The battle continued down the stairs, as he refused to go quietly. "I want my vitamin! Please give me my vitamin!" (I have to give it to him that when the chips are finally down, he will try playing the polite card).

The refrain repeated , a bellowing "Vitamin! Vitamin! Vitamin!" like he was a skipping Anthrax CD.

But it was a battle he wasn't going to win, as we finally got his shoes and coat on (and dressed his sister, who had almost no cough left and was as chipper and cheery as a chipmunk) and headed out the door.

But it is ultimately a battle of attrition, no winners, only losers. Ultimately none of us gets what we want (Riley never got his vitamin, we never got our peace), and chances are he didn't learn much of a lesson, because his tantrum was largely drug-induced.

Patience, of course, is the rule, and lord knows we were patient; behavior like he demonstrated would have normally led to a trip to the corner or something even more drastic, but he got off with only warnings and verbal reprimands.
So the question remains: did we do it right?

Toys and Happy Meals

This blog was originally posted on December 4, 2008 at http://www.parentclick.com/BlogPost.html?id=835:

Today, on the way home from preschool, my three-year-old son Riley asked me to turn down the radio.

"Daddy, does McAlister's have Happy Meals with cars?" he asked. We had eaten at McAlister's two days before. As usual, Riley noshed on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

"No, McAlister's does not have Happy Meals," I said.

"But why?" he said.

I was ready to launch into a diatribe about rampant consumerism, and lecture about mass marketing and how some restaurants sold toys to make up for the lack of quality in their food, so that little kids like him would want to go there all the time, or that sucker parents (a group I consider myself a member of) would want to take them, in a blatant effort to a) save time and money, b) relive our own childhood through our children, or c) look like a cool mommy or daddy.

I decided against this course, however. "They just don't like to sell toys," I told him.

"But McAlister's likes toys, too," he reasoned. Can't argue with that.

"Yes, they like toys, but they just don't like to sell them" (Hey, best I could come up with.).

After just a brief moment of pause, his last gasp. "Why not?"

I was done. He had backed me into the corner with his own, undeniably sound three-year-old logic in which he's learned to trust. And why not? It's gotten him out of plenty of scrapes in the past, situations like "that's my toy Mikey just took," or a sly, crooked-toothed grin after he let loose a swear word. I had nothing.

"Because they just like to sell food, bud."

And like that, it was enough. He'd been satisfied, and we had what was probably our first two-way grown-up conversation, as juvenile and simplistic as it was, he reasoned with him, pleaded his case, and, finally, was satisfied with an answer.