Father Of The Blog

Olivia and Hailey are persistent when it comes to testing their physical and social boundaries. Pushing the limit of acceptability and redrawing the lines of our parental permissiveness. Once reliable our old steadfast rules are crumbling around us. Crafty new legislation is drafted behind closed doors or sometimes on a need to be ratified immediately basis, however to Olivia and Hailey, the newly created laws are written with invisible ink. 

Kim and I attempt to educate long before resorting to punishment but increasingly we find that swift justice erupts as the kiddos become volatile. For Olivia, timeouts are becoming increasingly useless. The last time she was put in timeout, it was for repeatedly dismounting from her chair at the dinner table. She flitted around the table, her mouth half full, chewing, talking, and food falling to the floor. Mimi, our beloved family dog, vacuumed up after her. Kim gave the kid a warning and Olivia disregarded the last chance by bouncing off her chair only seconds after the ultimatum was issued. Kim escorted Olivia to the designated timeout spot where she quietly sat. Four minutes passed and Kim paroled Olivia only to have the detainee willingly stay incarcerated for three times the length of her original imprisonment. Similar to lifelong criminals who decide it’s better on the inside then in the real world.

Since that time, I decided we must try an alternate discipline strategy; revoking privileges. Take away what toys or objects they love the most for a whole day, sometimes longer or until they can earn them back. Kim and I have instilled the belief that their toys are privileges which is actually a good because I think most of these brats today feel they are entitled to anything and everything. It is working for the time being, but I can see into the future and what I know is this; one day the kiddos will have the revelation that they will be able to survive without anything but the things that sustain them. Obvouisly, I’ll refrain from deprivation of basic necessities as a punishment mechanism. Olivia is starting to figure that out already. Just tonight, on their first offence, I had removed their reading lights, meaning no more books for the night and all the stuffed animals that they sleep with on a second violation. I had threatened that if they couldn’t follow the night time rules of no jumping, no screaming, no throwing and no leaving their room (except to use the potty or for an emergency), the next thing I would be removing was their radio. And books-on-CD are a hot commodity.

Questioning what was next at stake, Olivia wondered what I would nix after the radio, “And after that… my ponies?”

I had to think about it for a minute because Olivia has a team of imaginary ponies, “No, I can’t take your imagination away from you.” It is only a matter of time before their room is stripped naked except for beds, covers and bedside cups of water.

***

Unless Hailey is on the brink of utter exhaustion, her body is in constant motion, so timeouts still work as a deterrent on her. Except for this morning:

Hailey is currently going through a sliver tongue, pursed lip spitting stage. Delighted with an annoying substitute for speaking, she involuntarily sprays saliva as means of communication.

Me: “Morning kiddo. How about some milk?”

Hailey:  “Plblblulth”

Me: “No spiting Hailey. That’s disrespectful”

Hailey:  “Plblblulth”

Me: “You spit again and you’re in timeout!”

Hailey:  “Plblblulth”

Me: “Ok, you’re in timeout for spiting and for disrespecting me!!”

Hailey:  “Plblblulth”

Me: “You can take yourself to timeout or I will take you there!!!”

Hailey:  “Plblblulth”

Me: “You sit on this spot for three minutes. You’re in timeout for spitting and being disrespectful!!!” I run to the kitchen and slam several cups of milky grind-and-brew coffee. Three short minutes pass. I squat down eye level with Hailey and assume a sweet caring dad role.

Me: “Ok Hailey, why are you in timeout?”

Hailey:  “Plblblulth. Plblblulth. Plblblulth.”

Irony is difficult to interpret coming from a three year old at seven o’clock in the morning.

Parent teacher conferences at Olivia’s and Hailey’s preschool were a couple weeks ago. Kim and I met after work at the school a few minutes beforehand. Sort of a ritual being that the girls have attended the same early childhood education center since birth. While waiting for Roz, Olivia’s teacher, we bought a book for each of the girl’s classrooms’ from the well conceived, ‘if you don’t buy something we’ll make you feel guilty’ Scholastics book fair, adjacent to the meeting rooms. At the sales desk there was a coffee mug full of Hershey kisses, I grabbed a few. Our meeting started off with the normal pleasantries, I handed Roz a kiss and she gave Kim and me a two page document, Olivia’s official report card. No grades, just developmental comments. Kim noticed right away the age was incorrect. The top sheet read ‘four years old’ and she was quick to bring that to Roz’s attention.

“She only three?” Roz is somewhat intimidating, tall, thick, heavy voice, strong character, African American and by sworn word of mouth, the best our preschool has to offer. That is the main reason we requested Olivia be moved into her class at the beginning of the school year. Kim’s status as a co-chair on the parent association is probably what assured Olivia’s placement. “Well she in the wrong class. What she doing in my class? I cain believe she in my class. You sure she not four?”

“Yes ma’am, three years this past August.” Shrinking to table-level, understanding why the children in her class are so obedient and cooperative.

The first subject on Olivia’s report was social skills. “She don’t initiate play with the other students and she don’t speak-up during circle time.” Kim and I are silent. “During free play she always doin somethin off on her own.” The comments Roz were making seemed out of character for Olivia. I wanted to speak-up ‘are you sure this is the same Olivia we are talking about here?’ Speechless, I recoiled and started to feel nervous. Future teenaged Olivia images played in my mind; she’s dressed in ragged black clothing, victorian powder white completion, grunge-punk hair dyed black, facial piercings and a twisted look of angst on her face. “Well, she and Sophie started playing together recently.” Sophie? Not once has Olivia even mentioned her. Sophie is a little Israeli girl who doesn’t speak much. So I imagine future Olivia with future Sophie both gothed-out silently hanging around in the dark corners unnoticed and unwanted.

“What about Joshua?” Kim inquires. Joshua is Olivia’s ‘boyfriend’ who has a picture of him and Olivia posted to the wall by his bed. I found this photo at Joshua’s house during a Halloween party. Joshua and Olivia have been in the same rooms’ at daycare since they were infants. “And what about Anya?” Kim questioned. Anya is an adorable quiet Russian girl who like Joshua has been with Olivia since infancy.

We got an explanation from Roz that Olivia and Anya have drifted and their interests are no longer the same. Hmm, sounds a lot like all the friends I once had. Strange because every night at dinner we ask who she played with that day at school and her response is almost always Anya. As for Joshua, according to Roz, he still gallivants around Olivia. The future is set, a bleak lugubrious trio of Olivia, Sophie and Joshua.

The next item on the report was cognitive skills. “She only hear what she wants to hear and she only completes one task at a time, she cain do more than one request, I always remind her to do things.” This is true, she does get distracted easily. Yet at home she can usually perform multi-step directions, for instance; flush the toilet, wash your hands and turn out the lights or brush your teeth, wash your face, when you’re finished find a pair of socks, put them on and get your shoes on. But those are repetitive every day occurrences and she is starting to do those things without directive. I was starting to feel a bit paternal and wanted to defend Olivia, proclaim that she can follow multiple step requests. But I wasn’t going to debate the recorded empirical evidence right there in front of me to a twenty year veteran.

Next category on the progress report was motor skills, “She can hold her own. She does good in gym and good in the pool.” Well I hope so, with the extra swim lessons and dance/tap/gymnastic lessons she attends weekly. “Her fine motor skills are good too. She can use scissors and loves arts and crafts.” Yes. I have rubbed off on her. One of her favorite activities is painting and she is highly perceptive of color and juxtaposition. Finally I was starting to feel some kind of reward for all my parental efforts. Ok, so maybe Olivia’s future will be stylishly artistic as opposed to antisocial.

The last analysis was special interests; written down were remarks like creative play, cooking and nature. We briefly talked about each of those and Roz wrapped up by adding. “You need to get Olivia here a little bit earlier so she don’t miss out on circle time.”

Assuming she made that request because circle time is an opportunity for Olivia to be more assertive in a social setting, I agreed, “Yes ma’am, I’ll do my best.” Kim started to make excuses for me, stating that she leaves for work early and began to run down the list of morning routines that must be dealt with. I gave her an under the table leg squeeze and a little thank you for sticking up for me smile assuring her I was fine with Roz’s suggestion.

Roz held back the candy coating. It was a mixed emotional report, we have never had to endure criticism and blunt honesty about Olivia and actually it was about time. No wonder Roz is a good educator, handling the children is the easy part. I’m guessing the parents who are unwilling to absorb and digest objective criticisms may be more difficult to placate than their children.

***

Hailey’s teacher Jeannine was sick the day of the conferences, so we had to reschedule for the following week. Instead of meeting at the main building on the campus, it took place in a small break-room at the infant/toddler facility. I came straight from work and snuck in, avoiding Hailey, so she wouldn’t think it was time for pick-up. It was a close call because her class, ‘the green room’ had just come into the multi-purpose area where she stalks the entryway for mommy or daddy. Kim was a few minutes behind me, and Hailey saw her enter the building. Needless to say, Hailey ended up joining us for our meeting with Jeannine.

I really don’t even remember the exact details of Jeannine’s discussion. I was busy with Hailey. She was playing with the coffee maker, the audio visual cart, the styrofoam cups, the coffee filters, the mini fridge, a cup full of pens, pads of paper, the post-its, climbing on the chairs, the table and playing with the blinds. We had a Mexican standoff with the office telephone. Jeannine politely asked Hailey not to play with the phone. Hailey stood defiantly, the handset clutched at her waist, her trigger finger tapping the receiver, her eyebrows furrowed from the setting sun shining through the window. Her eyes darted from me to Kim back to Jeannine, a glint of sunlight reflected in her pupil. She was looking for action. “Sweetie, if you can’t follow the rules then you will have to go back to the multi-purpose room and wait for mommy and daddy to finish.” Standing-up with ‘I mean business posture’ I made my move. She exploded, dropping to the ground in a flailing fit of anger and rage shrieking unendingly.

After a good ten minutes of wailing and the associate program director of the school coming in to ‘check on things’ we eventually diverted her with a pen and paper that she could doodle on while we hastily finished the powwow.  Jeannine only had positive things written down on the report. A leader, friendly, parallel plays well, compassionate, smart, imaginative, curios, coordinated and agile. How ludicrous, yes Hailey has great attributes, yes she is all those things, but were you not just here sitting though that half-hour of mayhem? Does she not get put in time-out at least once a day? How many incident reports has she been sent home with? We stopped counting them. Where’s the honesty? We live with Hailey; she is ‘spirited’ to say the least. Born with colic, (she had colic in utero is what I tell people) high maintenance since six months, her last teacher described her as a pistol, (I refuted, “No, she is the bullet,”) she is a wonderful challenge and a blessing but could you please spare the heavy sugar coating. Hopelessly optimistic, we like Jeannine. I would love to omnisciently follow Olivia and Hailey around at preschool, instead of relying on their teacher’s communiqués. I could watch what they do without Kim and me. How they overcome challenges. How they interact with the teachers and children. How much of what I have taught them do they apply? Do they really nap? Do they scream for ice when they fall? Is there anyone who comforts them when they are upset or sad? I know it is futile to think about these things, one day, I will have to let go.

Originally posted on BabyCenter.com 11/17/06

Once a month, for a week straight, Kim leaves a bag of maxi pads on the master bath floor wedged between the trash can and a Dora toilet training seat. Not that I mind, I rarely use the tiny five by five cell of a bathroom. Contrarily, the kiddos prefer utilizing the petite lavatory with its compact low to the ground toilet over the spacious, newly remodeled guest/kid bathroom which sports a manly elongated bowl.

One morning, about thirty something days ago, while I was getting dressed for work, Hailey curiously wandered into ‘mommy’s bathroom.’ I was expecting to hear the normal clamor of a two year old preparing to utilize the potty however this was not the case. Instead I was challenged to audibly decipher; a caged gerbil scurrying? Masking tape unraveling? Beanbag body-slamming? I poked my head into the bathroom to find Hailey diving into the feminine hygiene bag, retrieving (in her opinion) gigantic foamy stickers, pealing the sticky paper from the super absorbent pads and reassuringly slapping them down to any object within reach. One on the tub, one on the cabinet, one on the floor, one on the shower curtain and one on herself. “Those aren’t stickers honey.” I removed the one from her belly and stuck it on the counter, leaving the rest of her morning art project for mommy to see.

Forward to this past weekend; during one of Olivia’s numerous post-already-been-tucked-into-bed bathroom reprieves asked, “What are dose (those) daddy?” pointing to the bag of off-brand Kotex.

Not exactly prepared to explain the whole menstruation thing I panicked, “Uh…um… Those are mommy’s… diapers.”

She gave me a look of disbelief, “mommy’s diapers?” Her inquisitive face expressed; what does mommy need diapers for?

“Yes sweetie, sometimes mommy needs diapers.”

The thought of it confounded her, “For bed time?” Olivia only wears diapers at night.

I started a long winded rambling explanation of mommy’s cycle using words like puberty, ovulation and fertilization. I droned on, babbling about natural comparisons to phases of the moon, all the while avoiding the details of painful cramping and blood loss which is really the purpose of the pad. After a minute or so of monotone egg-headish lecturing, Olivia sensed my elusive banter and cut me short, “We’ll talk about that later daddy.”

Once again I have made a parental mistake. Why couldn’t I have said, ‘those are to absorb blood.’ I know she needs the truth no matter how messy, instead I gushed around the subject and now she isn’t going to trust me with divulging important information in the future. I need to be, want to be, the person that she can trust and ask anything. Now she is going to rely on getting information second-hand on the ‘streets’ from her buddies at preschool. Not that her little friends aren’t well informed, most mornings while dropping Olivia off at school, I overhear their light breakfast conversation pertaining to current events such as; the world series, child abduction and voting for constitutional amendments regarding stem cell research. It is obvious some parents are talking to their children, why can’t I?

***

Attempting to win back Olivia’s confidence in my ability to be more forthcoming I took her and Hailey to the Science Centers’ discovery room for a morning activity during our ‘daddy day.’ As planned, Olivia bombarded me with intriguing questions and I answered them with the speed and accuracy of a Ken Jennings wannabee, (the guy who won 70 or so games on Jeopardy). What is a crystal, what is a stethoscope, what is a puffer fish, etc. Our bond was strengthening, her trust in me growing with every prompt succinct and correct answer.

After our allotted forty-five minutes were up in the discovery room, Olivia and Hailey requested we go to see the Tyrannosaurus Rex. A massive thirty foot animatronics display depicting an ordinary day in the Cretaceous period which is a must see every time we visit and we have been to the Science Center at least a half dozen times over the past couple years.

Olivia: “Daddy, is the T-Rex nice?”

Me: “Sure sweetie” Which wasn’t a complete fabrication considering no one really knows.

Olivia: “Daddy, what’s the other one doing?” A fatally wounded Triceratops lay under the T-Rex’s foot.

Me: “I think he is sleeping and T-Rex is trying to wake him up for a game of tag.” The lie was more transparent than the balcony level window that we were viewing the exhibit from. One little deception reversed all my hard work. I quickly attempted to make some truthful commentary, “It’s just a big puppet sweetie. Nothing to worry about.” I could tell she was frightened. Not Hailey though, she was having a great time, shrieking every time the T-Rex roared, turning to me imitating the beast and portraying her own dinosaur “roar!” She repeated the scenario over and over again until we got to the cafeteria.

By mid-day the museum was packed, so I implemented the buddy system. It was so cute and made me so proud to see them holding hands looking out for each other which also instilled a bit more confidence in my ability to take them places I normally won’t because sometimes they have a tendency to dash off in different directions. A few times I could tell they wanted to do just that and I would shout, “Olivia! Hailey! Find your buddy.” And they did.

In the car, on our way home, I was issuing the rundown of the rest of the days’ agenda ending with, “…dinner-time, clean-up and then daddy is going to go vote.” The fact that we had a few previous talks about polling there were plenty of potential truthful answers for me to provide and bolster my ask-dad-anything status. So many issues to discuss: tobacco tax, wage increases, cloning, the whole electoral process, real important stuff to a three year old.

“Are you going to vote yes or no daddy?” An on going debate since Olivia started to notice all the political lawn signs cropping up as of late. The discussions didn’t pertain to any specific issue, just whether it was a yes or no. Olivia liked to flip-flop, yes one day, no the next.

“Well sweetie, that depends on the issue,” and before I could continue.

Olivia proclaimed, “I’m voting pink daddy.”

Hailey didn’t want to be left out either, “Yellow daddy!”

Maybe when they’re ready Olivia and Hailey will come to me with important questions on real life issues, maybe Olivia’s right, maybe, “We’ll talk about that later.

Originally posted on BabyCenter.com 11/09/06.

Among all the titles parenthood bares ‘referee’ suits me. More specifically a Hockey ref. I often find myself shouting, “Hey! (A loud ‘hey’ is my whistle), that’s two minutes for high sticking.” Or “Hey! Two minutes for roughing.” Or “Hey! Two minutes for instigating.” Hockey refs are physically and emotionally tough too. Sometimes I’ll take an elbow while breaking up a tousle or get popped with a flying ‘puck’ if I’m not quick enough to move out of the way. Just as a Hockey ref would, I attempt to let the ‘game’ unfold unimpeded, interrupting only when the balance between fair competition and unjust play needs to be defined and resolved. Determining that equivalence is a delicate and dynamic aspect of the job, inaction may bring jeers and boo’s from the ‘spectators’ and exacting unfair punishment may harbor resentment from the ‘players.’

This past week, while at our school districts’ learning center playroom, a mechanical dancing chicken that, of all things, plays the ‘chicken dance’ song sparked a ‘dance’ between Olivia and Hailey. Coincidently this is the same ditty that blares at some point during every NHL game in our town. The toy bird was at the epicenter of the brawl being stretched tug-of-war-like and spun as the girls used gravitational momentum to fling one another off the chicken. Fake feathers were flying everywhere all while its’ tune playing, “da da da da da da da… da da da da da da da… da da da da da da da…daa daa daa daa.” The result of this ugly battle involved screams, laughter, tears, hydrogen peroxide and a few band-aids. Although I think the chicken got the worst of it.

Instinctively, I wanted to jump in between them and stop the fray but when they started giggling and laughing it reminded me of myself when I play Hockey. I’ll be battling for the puck, in the corner, along the boards or in front of the net chuckling and hyperventilaughing the whole time. Some of my teammates find it obnoxious and irritating, they think I’m not competitive enough or serious enough. “It’s not like we’re playing for the Stanley Cup,” is my repartee. I like to play recreational Hockey for several reasons; one, because it’s fun, two, for exercise and three, to healthily alleviate stress.Both my girls have stress in their young lives. It’s true. Olivia is weighted by carrying heavy leadership responsibilities. Hailey lives in the giant shadow of an older sibling whom she must compete for everything with. Not to mention the pressures of daycare, dance lessons, swim lessons and two over baring parents. One reason they bicker and wrestle is to vent their stress.

First born, Olivia is the one who has to figure things out, toys, puzzles, games, rules of conduct and then must be a good role model and teacher to Hailey. Olivia cares about the affections and well being of people close to her, “are you happy daddy?” And when I come home from ‘playing with the other daddies,’ she meticulously scans my body for injuries, “do you get any boo-boo’s daddy?”

Being the second child Hailey has scrapped for everything since conception and has dealt with; a womb that had just been vacated, stained bottles, collapsed nipples, frayed clothes that hadn’t even been stored, worn toys with failing batteries, soggy edged books, half-soled shoes, even her teachers at preschool are hand-me downs. She is a competitor, “watch dis (this) daddy!” Probably doesn’t help when Kim and I say things like, “first one inside the car wins!”

Back to the crazy dancing chicken: Looking-on, I realized they weren’t fighting over the toy; this is something they always do. They argue and grapple over everything and nothing. It could be an object or a word or an idea, it doesn’t mater. Digging deeper I couldn’t help but think maybe they constantly fight to gain Kim’s and my attention. This is probably true but there seems to be something more involved going on between them and I never saw it until ‘the chicken dance,’ Olivia and Hailey fight because they trust one another with their emotions and feelings; letting it all out, battling, arguing, laughing and crying in the same instant without trepidation, assurance that they truly love each other.

Originally posted on BabyCenter.com 11/02/06

Elizabeth Rose is three weeks old and has colic. She cries, she fusses and she fidgets. She has the quiver lip, a gaping mouth howl and an ear splitting screech.  Her body stiffens, her legs thrash, and her arms riffle. She is having a fit in my lap right now. Three to four hours of screaming a day which is about half of her waking hours keeps Kim and I rabid, barking at each other over trivial stuff.

On the flip side, Elizabeth Rose is the sweetest, cuddliest, cooiest, already saying “da” iest, little bundle of amazement. She makes heart-warming smiles and has the cutest most perfect spiral of life belly button. She is observant, intensely she focuses on the multi textured brightly colored C-shaped link together toy things that I rattle in front of her. Today while in her hand-me-down portable swing, she clutched and pulled down those same linky-chains that Olivia had draped around the top of the swing.

Kim and I have different styles to deal with the crying bouts. Kim gingerly scoops-up Elizabeth Rose tenderly swinging, swaying, lightly bouncing, digging a path throughout the house while shush, shush, shushing her. Kim will change Elizabeth Rose’s position, pat her, rub her, sing to her, and hum to her. Kim exhausts every effort for hours at a time attempting to sooth Elizabeth Rose.

My approach is more of a cave-man style. When Elizabeth Rose’s high-pitched noises start to emanate I will grab her and check her basic needs. Sniff first then look in the diaper and take action if necessary. I’ll ask Kim when the last time she was fed and take care of that if need be. I’ll try the Boppy Sling and occasionally that will suffice. I’ll carry her around the house football style. But I can only take fifteen to twenty minutes before I give in and lay her in her crib and let her cry herself to sleep or until an hour or so passes and Kim will eventually pick her up and run through all of her bag of tricks.

Kim and I are cagey colic veterans. Hailey, once known as Hailey Wailiey, had colic invetro. Yes, I know that’s not possible, but that’s what I tell everyone. It did seem like from the moment Hailey was born she started crying and didn’t stop until she was six months old. From six months until two years of age Hailey was super sensitive and a read-every-parental-guidance-self-help-book-from-the-library challenge. She still has irritability issues, for instance the stitching on her socks must be lined up just right, if not she will get upset, yell at anyone within earshot, peel the sock or socks off, refuse assistance and is irate until she gets the socks on just the way she likes. If I attempt to help, I must quickly dodge a flying shoe or shoes. I have a saying that I have been drilling into her head for a long time to counter her irrational sock-hops, “Hailey, Sweetie, there are lots of little bumps in life. You need to get used to those little bumps.” I have come to realize that control is her motivation for the majority of her out-busts at this point in her life.

Elizabeth Rose cry’s hard, but her colic pales in comparison to Hailey’s six month long scream-feast. In fact, Kim was so shell-shocked by Hailey’s everlasting emotional storm, it took me over two years to convince Kim that it would be impossible to bear two children with colic. There goes my credibility.