I’m supposed to be a “play-oriented, calm, flowy and creative” parent, right? I’m trying, but I fear that battle is causing my kids to experience me as inconsistant and moody. Sometimes I’m capable of redirecting their behavior to something more positive:

“Hey kiddo pants! Instead of squirting all the lotion in the toilet, let’s do an experiment to see what happens to cheese when we leave it in the sun. Hurray! Project! Let’s put on our super duper lab coats and goggles!”

And sometimes I’m not.

Far more commonly it’s “COME ON! NO LOTION IN THE TOILET!” followed by a defeated sigh and a long gaze at my phone.

From their perspective, then, moisturizing the toilet can result in a chipper detour or a terse scolding from a tired old man. I’m unpredictable and that’s probably one of the worst things a parent can be, right? I suppose it’s worse to be a consistent dick, but you get the point.

I’m subscribed to a parenting email called “The Daily Groove,” which, as the name suggests, sends me daily nuggets of wisdom  about being “present” and generally “groovy.” But what if that’s not the kind of person I am? How can I (or we, if you’re feeling similarly) merge the most deeply ingrained aspects of our personalities with the attitude we’re all told is best for the well-being of our children?

In other words, How can I be myself and not screw up my kids?

That’s a truth shrouded in hyperbole. I’m a hot blooded avoider — equal parts Latin and Swiss (though not genetically). When shit goes down, I’m either in the middle of it, yelling and fixing, or off in the corner cleaning something and visualizing my safe place.

There’s  pressure to be a “better” person after becoming a parent. We’re setting an example from which unformed minds will learn.  But we’re expected to become more patient and flexible, while surrounded by uncooperative people we’re hopelessly in love with.

It’s like trying to cure someone’s foot fetish by getting them a job in the women’s shoe department — too many triggers. People go on retreats and meditation blobbidy blah blahs to find their center and relax, yet somehow, I’m expected to do the same thing while a 2 year-old plays the tambourine in my ear?

What’s interesting, however, is that the coolest adults I know have complicated parents, or grew up in less than optimal situations. It might have been difficult, but somehow fostered a uniqueness and strength.

People who had amazingly “groovy” upbringings seem to end up in rehab, or worse, working at a boutique moccasin shop in Taos, New Mexico.

There must be a middle ground between honest/real/true and all super flowy and stuff.  The trick is to find it without losing yourself, or your integrity.

Five years ago, I could shower whenever I wanted. Nothing was stopping me from turning the dial to that bullshit “massage” setting and standing under its annoyingly weak pulse for an hour at 2pm on a Saturday.

It’s much better now that our boys are older, but when one of them was 2 and the other an infant, taking a shower was an event that had to be scheduled and announced. Specifics about its length, and the inclusion of other bathroom activities had to be communicated. ”Would now be an OK time to take a shower?” is something my wife and I asked each other almost every other day. If we brought our phones it was an unspoken — though perfectly clear — message that, pre-shower, we would be perusing the gossip sites from the toilet.

The subtext of all this was, “Can you handle the children by yourself for 20 minutes while I experience some guilt-ridden alone time that doubles as overdue body cleansing?”

Sometimes we even felt it necessary  to brag about how dirty we were, or how long it had been since we last bathed, just so our request would more likely be granted without any begrudging “I haven’t showered since Wednesday” or “I have dried guacamole on my shoulder from 3 days ago.” The desired response was, “Oh, God yes. Please take as long as you need,” though I don’t think either of us ever received it. “Gross. Yes, fine … do it now” was  more typical.

Some showers had a halftime show performed by the co-parent who yelled “Are you almost done?” through the door, which meant, “It’s been 10 minutes, so you’re clearly just fucking around in there. Come help me!”

The shower is loud enough that the sounds of family dysfunction were drowned out, leaving the bather in a state of blissful ignorance. I saw it as a Zen chamber where I could meditate (albeit lamely) without leaving the house. Upon turning off the water, and hearing the cacophony downstairs, any achievements made in the direction of Nirvana quickly dissipated. The post-shower routine then became a comical exercise in how quickly I could apply enough pomade that my hair didn’t look like it belonged on the head of  1976 Dorothy Hamill.

I would quickly get dressed, and fly down the stairs, only to find that everything had suddenly calmed and I could have taken my time. But then it was too late. Getting back in the shower was out of the question. Taking two showers in one day was the equivalent of a nap, and a preposterous luxury.

Meanwile, the non-showering parent had built-up a good deal of parenting capital, and could announce his or her shower plans with complete impunity. “Ok, now I’m going to take a shower,” was loaded with entitlement. You got to go first, and now I’m going to milk my opportunity for all it’s worth.

If you’re thinking this is a similar dynamic to who orgasms first during sex, you’re right. Relationships change after you have kids.  It’s also true that, while I’m the one complaining, all of this was, and is, way worse for my wife.

“MEN!  Are you over 40 and lacking the energy you had in your teens? It’s because you have depleted levels of testosterone! All you need is MORE TESTOSTERONE and our medication will trick your body into making more of that magical youth serum so you can start feeling like your virile self again! 50 is the new 18!

I’m assuming you’ve seen the commercials with the sad dumpy middle aged guy who looks like he would love to throw a football but only has enough energy to eat microwaved corn dogs and stink up the seat of his recliner.

We should all dread the day when men over 40 start feeling like they’re 18 again. I don’t want pudgy little bald dudes playing mailbox baseball and smashing pumpkins. Testosterone depletes as we age so we can start making more rational decisions that aren’t based on desires to procreate and conquer. A drug that boosts it will bring a whole host of social problems including but not limited to:

Castle construction boom
We don’t need any more giant stone houses with moats, but if every old dude suddenly has balls filled with young spirits, prepare to wait for a lot of drawbridges, which sucks when you have to pee.

Dramatic increase in cystic acne
Imagine your Dad with giant zits on his chin and forehead. OK, now stop … I’m sorry.

The death of technological advances 
I hope you like the computer you have now, because no one with ragin’ T is gonna give a shit about semiconductors or RAM.

EAR HAIR PANDEMIC
It’s already a huge problem for older guys. Add some extra T and  it’s the new mustache.

Poet extinction
Yea, say goodbye to any sentimentality. Men in their 50′s will start eating books of poetry during their work-outs.

OLD-ASS-DADS (OADs) 
No child should ever have to say: “My daddy died from old age while I was napping in my carseat.”

Increases in pillaging
Not sure what this is, but it sounds testosterone based.

Senior citizen wrestling
So gross, but hey, these uber T’ed out homeboys have to get their homoerotic energy out somehow.

Ripped old guys
Have you seen the advertisement with that smiling grey-haired grandpa with the body of Mark Whalberg? Did it make you feel indescribably disgusted, like roaches were crawling on your brain? Did you shiver a little and change the channel, but then want to see it again later and not know why? Are you stalking him now? Me too. Sigh.

I vaguely recall those nights — drunk as the wind, regaling a sober friend with ridiculously enthusiastic opinions about inane topics. My self awareness was blinded by a chemical confidence telling me that I’m incredibly interesting. My sounding board was forced to smile and agree, all the while hatching a social escape plan. Now that I’m sober, and frequently in that conversation electric chair, I feel qualified to provide a few tips to drinkers.

If you’re drunk, and talking to someone who isn’t, and you haven’t the heart (or awareness) to cut them loose, you can at least avoid any statements that start with the following:

1. Oh my God, you have to try these crepes. They are honestly the …
2. You have to understand that this girl was my ABSOLUTE BEST friend when I was in 3rd grade , and ….
3. Sometimes I have dreams that I own a tiger but it’s gentle like a house cat …
4. My kindergarten teacher was …
5. You know what it is about you? It’s something about your …
6. I was a really good swimmer when I was a kid …
7. I miss my dog. He was such …
8. You should really …
9. So, like what does organic even mean anymore? I mean if …
10. I know you think I’m drunk and talking too much, but …

6:30pm — Last night

Silas (4 years old): I want to play the aligator game on the iPad with you.
Me: Not right now, OK?
Silas: But I want to. When can we play it?
Me: Maybe a little bit at bed time.

6:40pm  – After some silent thinking

Silas: I’m super tired.
Me: No, you can’t be tired, it’s only 6:30.
Silas: No, I’m super duper tired and I want to go to bed.
My Wife: Take him to bed, he’s had a long day.
Me: OK, let’s go to bed. But first we have to do jammies and teeth brushing.
Silas: YAY! Don’t forget the iPad!

8:15pm — He’s still awake.

Me: Silas, did you say you were tired just so we could play the aligator game?
Silas: [BREAKDOWN] BUT I REALLY WANTED TO PLAY IT!

Hello and welcome to The Hotel Deception. Will you be taking advantage of our  complimentary dishonesty  facilitation services?

How could he not lie given the fluffy red carpet I rolled out for him. I would do the same thing, and I’m almost forty. It could be three in the afternoon, and if for some crazy medical reason  – that I’ve created for the sole purpose of drawing this analogy —   I wasn’t permitted to eat cake until right before bed, I would  just go to bed, eat the damn cake and lie there for seven hours until I fell asleep. My doctor wouldn’t be there to bust me, so I would only be lying to myself.  After decades of practice, I’m comfortable with that.

The claim of fatigue wasn’t even that crazy for him. He usually goes to sleep around 7:30 at home, and it’s three hours earlier here  in California. Sure, we’ve been here two weeks, so he’s adjusted, but it was just a perfect reason for me to believe him, “He could TOTALLY be tired at 6:30, I mean, it’s 9:30 at home.”

When 8:15 rolled around and he was staring up at the ceiling humming the Scooby Doo theme, it was obvious he’d taken advantage of my trust. Of course, it’s my fault for creating a situation in which lying was completely rational. Given a simliar set of circumstances, any game theorist would calculate that lying is in your best self interest.

Here’s the amazing thing, though. After we finished the game, I think he was having trouble falling asleep because he felt guilty.   When I asked him if he was dishonest, he burst out crying, and then crashed almost immediately. It’s nice to know he has a conscience. I never doubted it, but it’s reassuring to see it in action.

The sweet boy  wants to be honest. I just made it too goddamn tempting to lie. Maybe he learned a lesson. I know I did.

I can’t remember the last time my wife and I made a decision based on classic gender roles. Some are obviously dictated by sex — male vs. female — only a woman can nurse a child, and such. But from a division of labor or decision making perspective, any quintessentially male duties have been split equally between us.

I guess you could say we share a pair of pants. That suggests I also sometimes wear a dress. I do not — and that’s the whole point, right? Niether of us always wears pants. Actually, I do always wear pants (I hate shorts), but not necessarily THE PANTS if you know what I mean. Lindsay sometimes wears a dress, but it’s just a physical dress, not a metaphorical one attached to baking and cleaning.

Basically,  it’s not about pants, dresses, metaphors, the fifties, or even the nineties. It’s about … well, I don’t know. Maybe it’s not about anything. Maybe our gender identity is completely pointless, and all that matters is the physical and emotional differences in anatomy and hormones. Everything else is up for discussion.

Maybe I’m just a lesbian with a penis.

Or maybe I’m misguided and headed for a toupee and a Porche I can’t afford.

It’s been a slow multi-generational transition. My paternal grandfather (Edwin) was a condom abhoring Catholic who worked in a terrible tool factory his whole life to support the four children God gave him. My grandmother, Bernadette, stayed home and wore the dress that now only exists in museums of culture, and Nick at Night reruns.

My maternal grandfather, Bill,  was a college professor, and my grandmother, Roberta, an elementary school teacher. That seems relatively progressive until I tell you that she never drove a car. A middle class Ms. Daisy whose husband chauffeured her to the market and waited patiently in the car twiddling his thumbs as she picked a fine roast.

Neither of my grandfathers ever cooked. The idea made one angry, and the other laugh heartily. It was the only world they knew from the moment they were born until the day they died. They experienced my mother and father’s relationship, but I think it was always a mystery they avoided trying to unravel.

My father cracked the mold as much as possible. He worked and my Mom stayed home when I was young, but he also cooked and said “I love you” and “I’m proud of you.” He showed weakness and wept occasionally as any true product of the 60′s did.

He and my mother were on their way to Woodstock but, discouraged by the traffic, decided on a different festival in Mariposa, Canada. My baby pictures show me cradled by a pock-marked underweight hippie with long shoulder length greasy hair that screamed “Peace, Equality, Bob Dylan, Abbie Hoffman, Military Industrial Complex, Fuck Richard Nixon, etc.”  He, like many others during that time, was the Meathead to society’s Archie Bunker. The Archie archetype has passed through being offensive, and gone on to being quaint. Most Meatheads are grandfathers and I’m  left with no mold to break or blueprints to follow.

Many of the fathers I know are in my shoes: not quite sure how to behave in a relationship that society hasn’t defined for them. I assume articles have been written about the “decline of masculinity” —  full of ethnographies about stay-at-home dads who do yoga and feel a little too comfortable around the nursing mothers the’ve befriended at the park. College students are eating the research for breakfast, and writing papers that define the modern man during the demise of gender roles, and blame sexism when they get an A minus.

But, what’s it like to live that life? A life where my day-to-day manly requirements are limited to programing the universal remote and adjusting the tension on the kids’ car seats? My income is paltry, and my influence at best only a 45% contribution to what actually ends up happening. I’m part of a classic nuclear family with very few classically defined roles. We make decisions together, but our wife/mother has ultimate veto power. I’m the chief of staff to her presidency, and though my conscious brain seeks to accept that and usually succeeds, other parts of me reject it no matter what I do.

I find myself brooding and becoming quiet and closed off when my lack of authority is exposed. It’s in my cultural chromosomes to desire that people accept my decisions without question. I feel my grandfather the tool maker coming through more often than I’d like. I’m learning to silence him, and even though it’s probably easier for me than it was for my father, it’s still hard.

But it’s good. The reality is that sharing the responsibility  for everyone’s health and safety is comforting. It’s a burden that sent my paternal grandfather to an early grave from high blood pressure.

I’m glad no one expects or even wants me to be a MAN, mostly because I’m not capable, but also because it seems like it kinda sucks.

Arlo (2) seems to be learning a new word every day. Today it was “Youtube,” on Friday, “Diarrhea.” His tongue is no match for his ambition, though, as he adorably butchers more complicated words . We laugh at him, with him, and about him when he’s sleeping or simply out of ear shot.

It’s as if we’re rehabbing a stroke victim with an amazing sense of humor. Learning to talk for the first time is hilarious, but learning to talk again, usually isn’t. So, we have the best of both worlds — a goofy ball of awkward energy who’s eager to attempt things before he’s fully capable. Enjoying your child’s small insignificant failures before they have the self-consciousness to feel embarrassed, is one of the greatest joys of parenting.

We even set him up to fail so that others can enjoy it as well. “Arlo can you  say spaghetti for Booboo and Mimi [grandparents]?” He says his ridiculous version and we all laugh. He joins in, says it again, and the cycle repeats until we’re all bored. It’s a great show from the perfect entertainer, who keeps the act going until the audience has lost interest and even begs him to stop.  Eventually, he wins us back with “almond” or “California.” No professional comedian can equal his ability to win back a room.

Unfortunately, an adult displaying the same kind of joy in being laughed at, is almost always covering up a sadness. Chris Farley — the first who came to mind —  seemed to have a childlike passion for being a spectacle of folly, but it was clearly a wall he built to keep people from seeing his true vulnerability. It’s beautiful that he never lost the wild enthusiasm to entertain, but tragic that his adult brain tamed the enthusiasm with depression.

My older son, Silas (4), is already showing the signs of embarrassment. He’s still hilarious, but sometimes becomes self-conscious and angry after realizing he’s unwittingly become the source of our laughter. I don’t know where it came from, but it’s there, now, forever.

I’m wondering if it’s even possible to create the perfect entertainer — A person who simply loves to make people happy even when it’s at his own expense. The attention he receives from injuries and humiliations only make him stronger and more confident, re-inforcing the desire that his next show is even more unforgettable.

Wait, did I just describe David Blaine? I’m sorry. Forget this whole thing.

My family had only been in LA for three hours before we wound up at Steve Vai’s house for a barbecue. Most of you probably don’t know who that is. Here’s all the information you need.

He’s the reining king of progressive rock guitar and in case your eyes can’t see awesome stuff, he’s playing that guitar with his tongue. The sweet virtuosity of musical cunnilingus.

I imagine most stories about hanging out at Steve Vai’s house involve LA Gear sneakers and Tabitha Soren passed out in a hanging egg chair.

Not mine.

My wife, two small sons and I romped about Steve’s bachelor pad with two other young families —  including that of Mr. Vai’s guitar technician — each of us ignoring the possibility that we were tainting our children’s innocent souls by exposing them to the epicenter of 80′s decadence.

Steve Vai played with Zappa, Whitesnake, Ozzy, and David Lee Roth, and although I have no direct knowledge of any past drug use, when Arlo smeared his hotdog hands on the immense glass coffee table, the spectre of David Lee Roth bent over with a straw in his nose and a boner in his spandex hovered above him.

I could attempt a lengthy description of the decor, but it might be easiest to display it in a narrative between Steve and his interior decorator in 1984.

Steve: I want the whole house to look like a panther.
Interior decorator: OK.

Pacifiers and rattles were strewn across the black wall-to-wall carpet; half empty bottles of baby food rested atop driftwood sculptures while two mothers nursed their babies on the ten thousand dollar purple corduroy sectional sofa. The juxtaposition of lifestyles could only have been more salient if one of the children was swaddled in Tommy Lee’s boxer briefs.

I hope tonight we’ll all go over to Don Dokken’s house for pizza and lawn darts.

Lindsay and I agree that neither of us is particularly suited to home school our kids. I don’t have the patience and she doesn’t know enough facts. If you want to see my wife scramble, ask her the name of the first man to orbit the earth, or why fire is hot.

I suppose we could do it together, but, save starting a band, there’s probably no better way to ruin a marriage than a joint teaching venture. If we have trouble agreeing on how often our kids’ hair should be washed, how can we possibly find common ground when it comes to the bubonic plague, parallelograms, Van Gogh, volcanoes, robots, love, flatulence, West Virginia mining, Karl Marx, aerodynamics, Native Americans, water purification, congruency, Erlenmeyer flasks, and menopause.

I’m certainly drawn to the idea of letting them follow their own talents and interests without being sidetracked by disciplines that don’t suit them. ”Put down that guitar and finish those mathematical proofs” seems like child abuse.

School is a vestige of the industrial revolution, and still primarily focused on producing disciplined factory workers. Sure, there have been some modern improvements like “art” and “music”, but since the Bush administration instituted No Child Left Behind, primary education has become even more regimented. When ten year-olds start losing hair from the stress caused by government mandated tests, I feel like I’m living in a world run by a gaggle of tiger moms.

I hate the idea of my kids sitting in school wishing they were doing something else. Even if that something else is drinking Old Milwaukee on the train tracks behind Nicky Mclead’s house. I learned a lot more about life (particularly the purpose of vaginas) there than I did in organic chemistry. I fought valiantly for a C- in that class and remember absolutely nothing. But if it wasn’t for canned beer and railroad tracks I might never have become a father.

Of course there has to be some discipline; home schooling your kids doesn’t mean they spend all day swilling booze with their Mormon friends (the majority of home schooled kids are Mormon. I made that up, but it might be true). That’s what Brigham Young University is for.

Instead of forcing your kids to diagram a sentence, why not give them a hunk of clay and leave the room for a while? Honestly, which is better for  them? If you’re thinking the grammar lesson, your name is Mrs. Blanchard and you made me fear language when I was eleven.

There are great private schools for the children of people who run hedge funds. There are also a handful of fantastic public schools that aren’t under the No Child Left Behind mandate, but unless you live in the right district, you’ll have to fist fight triathlete moms with botoxed cleavage to secure your kid a spot.

Everyone I know who’s happy and creative achieved that state in spite of their education. Do I trust that my kids can survive like I did — albeit barely?

Maybe I’m where I am today because school was so awful. We make our best friends at school because we’re bonded over the shared suffering, which in turn drives us to creative outlets for sanity. Our love for playing music was born from boredom. Without alienated midwestern teens, the world’s angst reserves might run dry.

Then again, maybe if we try too hard to give our boys a certain type of life and steer them in a particular direction, they’ll be tempted to do the opposite. Honestly, the last thing I want in my family is a Republican senator. I’m not saying I wouldn’t love him, but he probably wouldn’t get my vote.

One of my favorite things to do is sit. I like it almost as much as lying down and way more than kneeling, squatting, crouching, stooping or bowing. Bowing is terrible. Luckily, I’ve managed to do it only twice.

I organize my day to maximize sitting time. If a certain task isn’t conducive, I’ll do it quickly, knowing that when I’m done, I can sit. The absolute best part of a wedding is when someone says, “please be seated.” I’m always the first to follow that order.

I’ve never participated in a standing ovation. I’ll clap and whistle; occasionally I’ll hoot. But I won’t stand. I choose to show my appreciation with raw emotion rather than feats of strength and dexterity.

I’m very tall (6’6″), and while furling my body is basically a controlled collapse, standing from a furled position requires groaning, which often results in a closeted eye roll from my wife. I’m not disabled, or even out of shape. Nor is it related to age. Even as a young man I strived to limit my upright time. My body is an orchestra, and my brain an overwhelmed conductor.

Now I live with a 2-year-old who won’t let me sit — ever. It’s only developed lately since his battle with the stomach flu, but for the last week, he insists that I remain on my feet, acting as if each chair, sofa, park bench, curb, or countertop contains a perilously placed thumb tac. He won’t sit with me, and won’t even allow me to sit when I’m holding him. “Up, Daddy, up, Daddy,” he pleas while swatting at my thigh. I have a little personal trainer who’s young, expensive, and shares a bed with my wife.

His commitment to my exercise regimen proved especially fantastic during a recent six hour flight to California. He napped for the first forty minutes, after which I spent the next four hours carrying him up and down the aisle; his feet brushing against each seated head like a high school soccer team displaying good sportsmanship after a loss.

“Good game”
*Bonk*
“Good game”
*Smack*
“Good game”
*Scrape*
“Good game”
*Knock off a toupe*

The first few trips down the gauntlet were met with friendly “Aww, he’s so cute” faces, but by our thirtieth, passengers stopped making eye contact and simply ducked in the rhythm they’d been forced to practice over the last several hours. I wouldn’t be surprised if seat 17C was still bobbing her head every six minutes from muscle memory.

Maybe my little Napoleon is just trying to keep me healthy, or he’s still needy from being ill. Whatever the reason, I should stop complaining and just enjoy all the attention while he’s still willing to give it. These things have a way of evening out anyway. I’m sure when I’m ninety, he’ll be carrying me to the toilet.

Now, if someone could just mail me some Vicodin for my lower back.

I’m not sure who’s more attached to this stuffed animal: the owner or the owner’s parents. Two years ago when we nearly lost Froggy, Lindsay and I were way more panicked than Silas. He sat and watched — slack-jawed — as his mom and dad tore his home apart like paranoid coke dealers searching for DEA bugs.

We were frantic, not only because of how Silas might react if Froggy went missing, but also because we love that goddamn frog. His aunt got it for him the day he was born and he hasn’t slept a night without it. For the first two years of his life, he clutched it in his armpit like a small purse. I have video of him crying while watching it go around in the washing machine after he puked on it.

There was one rule with Froggy: Never take him out of the house. It was too risky. We thought maybe Silas accidentally brought  him along on a stroller ride with our babysitter, and dropped him in a puddle on the corner of 16th st. and 6th avenue. He denied it, and we believed him.

We searched everywhere, including the freezer four times. We looked in our winter boots, the storage unit, the oven. I even looked down my pants. Nothing. It wasn’t long until Lindsay and I felt as if we’d been drugged.

It was time for Silas to go to bed for the first time in his adorably short life without Froggy. Months prior, Lindsay had been smart enough to buy a back-up which we named Frogette, but she didn’t quite look or smell right. She hadn’t been broken in.

Silas got over it quickly and fell asleep clutching Froggy’s clean, fluffy, pampered — and I’m embarrassed to say this about a stuffed animal –  annoying twin sister. Her pristine appearance only reminded us of how much Froggy not only looked like he lived beneath an interstate highway overpass, but also how much he was missed.

With Silas in bed, Lindsay and I were still on a mission to find the cloth frog, and thereby reinstate our sense of sanity. We failed, and went to bed.

The next morning Lindsay put up signs around the neighborhood as if we’d lost a cat or an engagement ring, or our bluegrass band was playing at the local Irish Pub. No one called and none of the local stores had seen him.

Two days later, after we’d  given up on ever finding the stuffed frog, Lindsay and I had some downtime while Silas was out with his babysitter. We were sitting on the couch, probably watching something like Six Feet Under, but talking about Froggy throughout. I sighed because part of Silas’ youth was gone, and Claire was mixed up with a strange crowd from art school. I slumped down as a physical manifestation of my depression.

Then I saw it: a tiny patch of green fur on top of the cable box. I took a deep breath, and focused my eyes. It could have been a random piece of felt, or even a carpet sample. But there was no mistaking the matted texture and pale green color.

He was right there all that time, but only visible from a slovenly depressed couch dwelling position. It was my destiny to find him. I always knew in my heart that, someday, my terrible posture would provide me with an opportunity to be a hero.

We pulled him out carefully, like baby Jessica from the well. We both smelled him and hugged him and then felt a little embarrassed. Lindsay wept.

When Silas got home, he was excited that we’d found Froggy, but it wasn’t the drop-to-your-knees-I-just-won-a-new-car reaction we were looking for. He knew he hadn’t taken him out of the house, and maybe even remembered stuffing him behind the cable box. Regardless, he knew it was only a matter of time before we found him.

Jesus kid, don’t do that to your mom and dad ever again.
 
 

Empty bottles of hand sanitizer are strewn about like shotgun shells on an abandoned battlefield. The hum and clank of our washing machine combined with the syncopated rhythm of cats batting around used paper towel rolls provides some white noise.

It’s tranquil here since the influenza agreed to a temporary cease-fire. Retching, moaning, and cries of “Babe! I need some help over here!” have been replaced by meek requests for food and water.

The first attack hit Silas Tuesday morning. Another wave struck younger Arlo on Sunday. Now Lindsay and I wait-out the incubation period, scrutinizing any gurgle or cramp like soldiers in a Vietnamese jungle frozen in place after hearing a twig snap.

“What was that? A burp? Yes, just a burp. Good.”

Every routine bathroom visit is accompanied by a sense of foreboding. The first attack could come at any moment, but the enemy is sly and ruthless, pouncing only after its prey has relinquished all paranoia.

“Well, looks like we’re in the clear,” is almost always followed 4 hours later by, “Remember when I said we were all in the clear earlier? Yea, I was wrong. Either that or I’m allergic to Boca Burgers.”

I’m acutely aware that the enemy has me surrounded. It’s on this keyboard, in my bed, on my glasses, in my slippers. It’s inescapable. Each time I bite my fingernails, I think, “Welp, that’s it. You win, Norovirus.”

Children and young adults are far more physically equipped for being violently ill. At 39,  I certainly fear the discomfort caused by my body rejecting everything inside it. Even more terrifying, however, is the likelihood that vomiting will cause me to re-injure my neck. While the Norovirus will leave me within 36 hours, I won’t be able to turn my head for a week and a half.

At least I’ll be able to blog about how I pulled a muscle puking.

I eat cereal after Silas goes to bed. It’s what I do. It’s who I am. It defines me as a person.

There’s a three hour difference in our kids’ bed times at the moment. The big guy (Silas) sacks out around 7:30 and his little brother (Arlo) is up practicing for a Korn moshpit until 10:30. He’ll take a short break to catch his breath, then clumsily waltz over to me and sink his hand into my bowl of cereal to fish out a nice soggy rice check.

“Don’t you want your own bowl?”

“No, daddy bowl!”

We try to keep our kids clean, but when they make no contribution to that effort, it’s impossible to know what’s on their hands. Flecks of brown Play Doh are simply Play Doh until the one time they aren’t and then everything changes forever and daddy stops eating and talking.

I could wash his hands before he goes splashing into my food, but that would be a tacit approval of his scavenging. Lindsay is no help, “I’m just glad he’s eating,” she says. While I share that gratitude, he looks like a raccoon sifting through the garbage, and I feel like a helpless orphan who isn’t tough enough to defend his gruel.

I sit on the sofa eating like a prison inmate, but as soon as he sees it, there’s no stopping him. I suppose I could sneak down into the basement and eat my cereal behind the boiler, but that would be lonely and pathetic.

Most parents will let their kid eat off of their plate. It’s no big deal — they grab a pea, a piece of broccoli or a bean and pop it in their mouth. Very few parents would let them plunge their hand into the soup and eat it like a thirsty cowboy at a watering hole. When it’s just pieces of food, there’s very little collateral damage, but if a 2 year-old goes wrist deep into milk, it’s inevitable that something gets left behind.

It’s never anything solid  that you could simply pick out, investigate, shrug off, and flick across the room. What’s left behind is a film that rests on top of the milk. You can only see it from certain angles, but when you do catch a shimmering glimpse, it’s clear your snack has been contaminated by the toddler-sheen. I don’t know if it’s sweat from all the moshing, or just a general greasiness, but it rests on top of milk like someone laid a wind breaker on a puddle.

But you love the kid, and cereal is expensive, so you do the best you can to eat around it.

If these look familiar, it’s because they are also the seven stages of grief.

Shock and Denial
During this stage, a parent is taken aback when it appears their child isn’t listening. Because they want to believe their child respects them, the parent assumes the child must not have heard them. They make their request again, only this time, a bit more loudly.

Pain and Guilt
The parent realizes the child hasn’t listened, and in fact, might be actively ignoring them. It hurts deeply, but in the end, the parent understand that something they’ve done has caused their child to behave this way.

Anger and Bargaining
In the face of pain and guilt over what they believe to be an increasingly dysfunctional relationship, frustration begins bubbling to the surface. it’s a completely natural reaction in this state for the parent to become angry and sometimes yell at the child.  The child might cry or return the angry yell, at which point the parent returns briefly to the guilt stage. Because of this, the parent will apologize and bribe the child to stop crying.

Depression, Reflection, Loneliness
Regardless of the outcome,  the parent will experience some sadness over how the situation was handled. Thinking back, they understand this is a bad pattern and an overwhelming sense of doubt about their parenting skills sets in. When the child naps, or goes off to school, the parent is left alone realizing that someday that same child will be leaving for college.

The Upward Turn
“Next time I will handle this differently. They grow up too fast to spend so much time struggling with them over stupid stuff.” This is a very common thought at this stage.  A new energy is directed toward improving the future. The parent/child relationship appears to be headed in a more positive direction. Familial bliss has returned, and the future seems ripe with family vacations filled with laughter and cuddling.

Reconstruction and Working Through
With everyone so happy, the parent does all they can to ensure things stay that way. The parent might attempt to set up systems through which rewards are given for good behavior. The child seems excited about this new game. A new kind of  relationship arises, and both parties express their commitment to it.

Acceptance and Hope
Things are different now. Both parent and child are aware of this. It wasn’t ideal for either of them, but each recognizes it’s necessary if harmony is to be maintained.  After only a few days, however,  this new structure begins to crumble, and the entire process must begin again. The parent hopes the stages will be different this time, but they almost never are. They once again are shocked and enter a state of denial when the child appears to have unlearned all the lessons of the previous few days. All the parent can do is try again, and believe that eventually harmony will stick around.

I wrote this a while ago but could never find a home for it. It lives here now. Hope you enjoy.

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A year ago our parenting method could have been called, “How to be The Giving Tree.” It wasn’t for the squeamish and we were concerned it might eventually land our marriage in therapy.

Our sons are charismatic and wonderful now, but as babies, one was colicky, the other had severe eczema and both were sweatshops of fuss. Even at one and three, they rarely played by themselves or slept through the night.

Despite our babysitter’s proficiency, we avoided letting her do any of the hard stuff like bedtime and night terror negotiations. The price of our parental narcissism was a nearly dateless marriage.

We needed some time alone, but since relinquishing control of the night time ritual was too frightening, we went out to dinner at the comical hour of 4:45pm. Around the time people in Spain start thinking about lunch, we were fighting early rush hour traffic en route to Legal Seafood at the mall. Thankfully it has a separate entrance so we didn’t feel like a tween couple eating in the food court before a 6:05 showing of Twilight.

A restaurant may officially open at 4:30 but unless it’s connected to a casino or hospital, it’s rarely ready for customers until at least 5:15. When we arrived, the staff was in various states of preparation: waitresses were eating; the janitor was vacuuming; the bartender was assessing his vodka supplies and the hostess was texting on her phone. My wife asked, “You’re open, right?” Her nametag read Madison, “Umm, yea, sure, I guess.”

Not the type of romantic start we’d envisioned. As we walked to our table I pretended to have a coughing fit that made it difficult to steer my walker. Lindsay shushed and laughed. I imagined by our third visit the hostesses would come to expect us like they might a near-death couple on scheduled furlough from the nursing home.

None of this bothered us. We were out, sans children, and even if it was only for a couple hours, we were determined to enjoy it. It was more than that, really — we were excited. Sure, the symphony of other tables’ laughter and arrhythmic clinking of glasses is better ambiance than a vacuum cleaner, but we were alone. That was the whole idea, right?

Rich people rent out entire restaurants to impress their dates in movies. Here we were simply arriving early enough to experience the same bliss, like Jake Ryan and Samantha Baker in an extended ending to Sixteen Candles. Of course, we’re significantly older (as evidenced by my reference to a 27 year-old movie), but I haven’t really kept up with romantic comedies over the past two decades.

Lindsay chose a nice booth in the middle of the room, but then changed her mind, moving us to a different one that was “less central and closer to the windows.” We moved once more to a table without a “wobbly top.” She was crumbling under the combined weight of excitement and too many choices. But I learned years ago to stay out of these decisions due to not understanding how they’re made.

After finding the one magical table, we sat and placed our iPhones face up; each of us poised to pounce on a text or call from the babysitter.

“Do you think everything’s OK? Is Arlo freaking out? I mean, I’m sure she’s just letting Silas watch Scooby Doo or something, but Arlo never goes very long without me. I mean what if he freaks out? Oh my God, my boobs are tingling. He’s probably hungry. Just tell me everything’s fine. Everything’s fine, right?

“Of course everything’s fine.”

It took us ten minutes to stop talking about the kids and ignore the echo of our voices in the barren dining room. A waitress, who was still putting her hair up, approached the table,

“Hi, welcome to Legal Seafood. What can I get you to drink this evening?” Lindsay’s eyes turned to pinwheels. She hadn’t considered the possibility of a drink drink.
“Should I get a kamikaze, or just some white wine? How much alcohol really goes into breast milk?”

The waitress looked nervous, not knowing if she was expected to answer the question better suited for a lactation consultant.

“She’s a little excited to be out of the house and away from our kids.” I said.

“I have 4 kids at home.” She responded, forcing a smile.

“Maybe I should just have some sparkling water. No, I want a drink drink. I deserve it. I’ll have a cosmopolitan.”

Her announcement wasn’t met with the amount of enthusiasm she expected from our server.

“Bold choice” I said, filling in.

We opened the stiff picture book menu and gazed at it like Charlie entering the chocolate factory. For years we had eaten huddled over the sink while trying to find a version of the Bob the Builder song that would calm the incessant musical desires of our toddler. The idea of cooking a meal with pots and pans and other civilized instruments was laughable. We had sacrificed indulgences for the comfort of our kids, making Legal Seafood feel like a fantasy world.

We had to be careful. Our bodies were no longer accustomed to un-microwaved food. Lindsay was busy doing battle with all her options and eventually narrowed her choices to steamed lobster or stuffed lobster. I encouraged her to get it stuffed and ordered it steamed for myself -­ just in case. She got another cosmopolitan, and we both unsuccessfully fought our urges to fill up on warm biscuits.

We smiled and laughed and managed to forget about the kids for multiple seconds in a row. We even felt brave enough to mock ourselves for being so over-protective,

“Oh, we can’t leave our kids because they’re so precious and would completely fall apart without us, blah di blah blah. Look at Jason and Lindsay, letting their kids run their lives.”

Our lobsters arrived. She looked at hers, then at mine, and, as expected, we switched. The joy on her face when she excavated the entire tail was more than worth the price of her asking me the same questions over and over again due to mild drunkenness. Her mouth and cheeks were lightly greased in melted butter, and her teeth glistened when she laughed.

Before long, our table looked like a depot for spare crustacean parts. We weren’t alone anymore either, as the hum of the vacuum cleaner had been replaced by the sounds of people. By 6pm the restaurant was packed, but we were ready to leave.

Arriving home, it felt we’d been gone for a weekend. I remembered what my parents smelled like when they returned from a dinner party, and I wondered if we smelled the same. The kids ran to us for big hugs and we explained to them what lobster is.

We’ve since found a few other restaurants capable of taking us at such a ridiculously geriatric hour. Now that the kids are two and four, we sometimes even go a little bonkers and extend our reservation to 5:30. Hopefully it won’t be long until we’re able to go see a movie.

Around 8am this morning, I received the following cryptic text message from my wife:

Cone? Had I agreed the previous night to buy a traffic cone first thing in the morning? Was the text intended for someone else? Maybe she was having a discussion with a friend about the shape of Madonna’s bras or the best way to extract ear wax.

Fortunately, I knew exactly what this text meant. Having only one good eye, due to conjunctivitus, her depth perception is off, which caused her to press the “n” instead of the “m” on her phone. While “Come” is still an aggressive command, one normally used when training an animal, she had Arlo in bed with her and one eye sealed shut, so I yelled, “OK, I’m coning!”

Silas and I were already awake and in the living room watching Super Friends when I was summoned to fetch my younger child before a crusted flake from his mother’s eye infected him. Normally, she might encourage him to play with her while she gets ready. But now, with the added duty of un-fusing her eyelid, responding politely fifteen times to a 2 year-old showing her how good he is at peeing isn’t something she can multitask.

I opened the door to the bedroom where I found Arlo bright-eyed and smiling; ready for me to scoop him up and tackle the day. Lindsay, as you might imagine, was exhausted and winking. “Take him. I need to clean my eye.” She didn’t have the energy to sugar coat it. There was no, “If you could take him for a moment, I need to do something in the bathroom,” just a gruff, “Get this kid outta here, Mama’s gotta pry her eye open.”

When a couple dreams about having children, the images include rocking a baby to sleep, or watching a toddler take her first wobbly steps. They never fantasize about the real moments of family life, like picking up a child while making sure his foot doesn’t graze your wife’s goop-eye.  Sometimes love is so beautifully pathetic.

Seven years ago Lindsay and I went on our first and last cruise. We realized the first night we’re not cut from the red white and blue cloth needed to truly enjoy the Mecca of American excess.

At a “Get to know your fellow cruisers” dinner, we were seated with a very large couple. I’d put their combined weight somewhere around full-sized van. When they nodded to each other, their jowls flapped enough to send a lighter person into flight.

I know there are people in the world with physical problems and emotional pain which cause them to unwittingly gain an astonishing amount of weight. This couple did not fit into that category.

They knew exactly what they were doing, they were content with who they were, and precisely where they wanted to be. There was no sadness, struggling, or wheezing. I found each of them to be glamorous and nimble in their obesity. While I’m confident their weight put them in the category, the last word I would use to describe their disposition is “morbid.”

That’s not to say they were jolly either – just focused. There was no reason to feel bad for them. They each made choices to shorten their lives through a relentless commitment to ingesting wonderful tasting things regardless of saturated fat content.

They were the Syd and Nancy of food – bonded together forever by a shared passion for savory self destruction. I imagined they even took care of each other by making sure neither went more than a few hours without something delicious. Honestly, it was beautiful to see two people so in love and dedicated to a cause. I was inspired, especially when it came time to order.

When the waiter approached, Syd came alive. The spotlight was on him, and he did not disappoint. For an appetizer, Syd ordered the jumbo shrimp cocktail which I found quite reasonable and surprising, given the robust selection of various bisques. I soon found that appetizers weren’t really his thing. It was the entree that was his masterpiece. Without an ounce of guilt or self consciousness, he stared at the waiter and said,

“For the entree, I’ll have the the filet mignon with a side of filet mignon.”

The filet mignon with a side of filet mignon. Syd was the Hemingway of obesity, and I loved him. Not only did he clearly order two entrees, Syd had the audacity to refer to the second one as a side. Mashed potatoes, green beans, corn, and various kinds of indistinguishable squashes and root vegetables – those are sides. Filet mignon is not.

Unless you’re Syd. In the world of Syd and Nancy, a beautiful steak can be both the principle focus and a secondary concern at the same time. It’s like ordering a shot of Jack Daniels with a Jack Daniels chaser. It’s the most badass thing I’ve ever seen. I’ll have some heroin with some additional heroin because I am not here on this earth to mess around.

In a world of people obsessed with their image, it was refreshing to see this couple using their size as a giant middle finger to waify society. “I’m fat, and I’m not beautiful, and I don’t care.” Good for you Syd and Nancy. May the rivers of your heaven flow with Hollandaise.

As I understand it, two things can happen this year: The world ends (Mayan prophecy), or everything continues as normal (everyone else’s prophecy). Not a lot of grey area there, but those appear to be the two situations. Keep in mind that I get all my news from magazines at pharmacies. Seems like given those two options, the toy/training facility you see below, might just be the perfect gift.

Let’s say the world ends. Terrible, yes, but bad stuff happens to good planets every day. I’m sure some people will survive, and they better know how to grow some serious crops, right? Since the soil will be poisonous (pharmacy mag), this self-contained lab will be the only thing capable of providing the food needed to rebuild the human race. Nice job, toy maker.

Maybe the world won’t end, and as much of a snoozer as that is, it’s probably preferable. If civilization continues to exist, we’re clearly headed toward the legalization of marijuana in the near future, and, as a result, a very different socio-economic landscape.

Here’s an interesting question: Are we properly training the next generation of amazing kind bud growers? This is no different than the space race of the 60′s and the hydroponic lab is the new chemistry set.  It’s going to be hard for us to compete with the rest of the world if we aren’t heavily invested in creating the best pot farmers. Wouldn’t you be proud if the Neil Armstrong of cannabis was an American? He’ll be Canadian (from Vancouver and named “Blaze”), but it would still be nice.

Some might see a toy hydroponics lab, but I see a tiny personal business school.

Thankfully, this toy company has come along and saved us from either nonexistence or irrelevance. If you examine the background of the photograph, they appear to make a companion product called “Talking Microscope,” which is best used after having grown and smoked marijuana made in the Hydro Lab. This place is full service and they deserve some credit.

Waaaaa, I’ve gained weight. But who doesn’t throw on a nice Crisco trenchcoat between the ages of 35 and 39? Meth heads? Good point. Like most modern dudes of my ilk, I’m not doing traditional manly stuff like nation building and wench buying. Back in our heyday, we could get fat and just be the sloppy kings who spill food into our ruffles. Now self-respect, at least for me, has more to do with looking decent (which is honestly the best I can do) than the size of the blonde babe’s rack on the back of my motorcycle. I’m not saying that doesn’t matter, but Lindsay has brown hair, and I don’t have a motorcycle because they’re super dangerous you guys!

When my parents were here over the holidays, my dad introduced us to juicing (you can read about that here), but he also made steaks, pasta, and various other mounds of stuff which we all jammed into our chewers. Does anyone else have the brain malfunction that causes them not to know when they’re full from pasta? It’s like I have Prader Willi Syndrome, but only for penne.

The benefits of juicing only come if you aren’t also eating bags of cookies, coffee cakes, and 11pm triple decker PB&Js.  Basically, I was pouring juice onto a giant pile of starch that was already filling my stomach. “Here, pile of stuff, have some celery water.” I wasn’t feeling healthier, or losing weight. I also didn’t have that mental clarity they say comes from juicing, but that might be the type 8 Diabetes I was developing. I’m not a fat pig, but I felt like one. Let me put it this way: When I land after jumping (which I do rarely), there’s a slight rippling effect. I need to get rid of that because, well, like I said, I don’t have a motorcycle, an axe, wenches or a business card that reads “Executive Vice President.”

Lindsay and I are taking the juicing seriously now by not combining it with pastrami sandwiches. I didn’t anticipate how hard it would be with so much amazing kids’ food around all the time. Last night, I wanted to steal Silas’ mac & cheese and run down the street eating it so no one could stop me. Dieting before included ridding the house of bad foods, but if we throw away the Pirate Booty, Arlo has nothing to eat (he loves Pirate Booty, and yes, we give him apples and other stuff like apples.)

After everyone’s gone to bed, I’m left with Netflix and a pantry full of gummy bears, crackers, and chocolate cookies in the shape of bunnies. It’s like an immunity challenge on The Biggest Loser and I’m faced with choosing between a commitment I made to myself, and the immediate gratification of sugary things made by evil corporations to manipulate the pleasure centers in our brain. I stand there in my slippers with a remote control in one hand and an apple in the other, staring at the cheese curls, cursing them with my eyes.

By the way, all this “junk” we have is from Whole Foods, so we’re still great parents.

When an eight year old finds a mysterious gum ball (GBOUKO – “gum ball of unknown origin”) on his dresser, he doesn’t ask questions. He looks around quickly for evidence of foul play, and chews it. Blue was my favorite “flavor,” but given the banality of that particular Sunday afternoon, even a white GBOUKO got me excited.

When animals find something they suspect is edible, most examine and smell the object before ingesting it. There’s a series of skills and internal alarms built into their DNA to guide them in “food or not food” dilemmas. Sometimes they’ll even back away from actual food simply because they’re not completely sure it’s legit. It’s better to go hungry than die.

The eight year old boy is a different species. Its survival instincts have been out-witted by the cunning desire for candy.

No more than two seconds elapsed between me seeing the GBOUKO and putting the GBOUKO in my mouth. I threw it in like the first handful of popcorn from a fresh batch – no doubts, and not a care in the world. I first noticed its rough texture, then the acidic taste of its coating. I’d never seen this kind of gum in the house before – my parents didn’t particularly enjoy gum, and it didn’t really taste like gum – but that was no reason to be suspicious. Who was I to doubt a gift  from the magic candy fairy who must have broken into our house for the sole reason of placing one solitary GBOUKO on my dresser?

I did what boys are supposed to do: I chewed it. When my teeth punctured the GBOUKO, I was expecting a light crunch followed by a flow of sweet minty juice. Instead, this particular GBOUKO crumbled into a fine dust and instantly absorbed all the moisture in my mouth. I began to panic, and when the dust cloud drifted from my palette into my sinusus, I realized I’d bitten into a mothball.

An unstable person might proclaim, “Now the ski socks I store in my cheeks are protected from their natural predators!” but even at eight, I understood something horrible had happened.

I didn’t spit the mothball out. The night before, I’d just watched a movie in which doctors decided to leave a bullet lodged in a man’s brain because removing it would be too dangerous. I thought a similar situation was possible with chewing a mothball. I was panicked, and eight years old and not ready to watch movies like that, apparently.

With a mouthful of broken dusty mothball, I ran into my parent’s room where I found my mother reading a book. I opened my mouth, and a small puff of what probably looked like smoke, exited, along with the garbled words, “I think I ate a mothball.” “Was it on your dresser?” “Yes,” I said, exhaling a little more smoke. “Ok, go to the bathroom and spit it out,  I’ll call poison control.” She appeared calm. But considering the order of things that are likely poisonous is 1. Snakes 2. Mothballs 3. Dumpster cheese, I’m sure she was freaking out.

I could hear her on the phone. She had to repeat “mothball” multiple times. Then she said, “I don’t know,” followed a little later with “No, I don’t think so.” I’m assuming the other side of the conversation went, “A what?” “Wait, what? Is he of average mental capacity for his age?” “Well, did he swallow it?”

She hung up. “They said to just wash your mouth out and you should be fine.” I washed my mouth and blew my nose incessantly for hours. It was three days before the smell left my sinuses. To this day, if I sniff really hard, I can almost smell my grandpa’s wool checkered blazer.