Embedded Files
nyfamily.pdfFatherhood & City Life (with Jokes)
Fatherhood & City Life (with Jokes)
After leaving CNN, my nights became restless and full of crying. Not my crying - at least, not at first - but the crying of my newborn son. I was now in charge of a human being, and that human being did not approve... until I gave him a bottle.
So began the next phase of my life and career. With my wife starting a new job with long hours, I became a stay-at-home dad. Those first few years were incredible, as I spent each waking moment helping my son explore his new world, learn new things, and potty train. My life changed in so many ways, and as my son napped, I set out to transcribe the profound ways fatherhood touches the soul. But, in the end, I just settled on a bunch of jokes in a weekly blog I cleverly called DAVE WEEKLY.
Besides entertaining my family and friends, the blog did gain a little bit of attention. I was featured in the magazine New York Family Brooklyn as one of their "Dads We Love." I was also interviewed by a friend for That's IT LA.
In 2012, I unintentionally wrote my last entry for this blog. By then I was very busy with TWO kids, not posting weekly anymore, and focusing my writing efforts on ANIMAL BITES. Fortunately, the blog still exists, ready to embarrass my now-much-older sons. Some of my best articles are buried deep inside it. With the help of my wife Jennifer (the world's best editor), I picked out some favorite posts that weren't featured in the NY Family magazine article, and copied them below.
Well, I did it. I went ahead and bought our little one his or her first gift. Even though this Christmas will happen before he or she is born, I couldn't resist picking up this little present when I was in Boston last weekend:
Yes, I know it may be too early to determine exactly where our child's baseball preferences will lie, but I'm pretty sure he or she will be a Red Sox fan. Just a father's hunch.
Plus, I've already taken some precautions to make sure he or she will never root for the Evil Empire.
I've labeled dangerous items in the house with the Yankees logo - open electrical outlets, paints, drugs, knives, etc. That way our child will grow up associating bad things with the Yankees.
Since we're in New York, we feel we'll have to teach our child "Right vs. Yankees" early on. When he or she gets a little older, we'll probably expand this treatment to build up a love for the Tar Heels, too. For example, on the rare occasion when our child does something wrong and needs to be grounded, we'll just say he or she is being "Blue Deviled." If we need to deprive him or her of dessert, we'll just call the punishment "The Krzyzewski."
And, trust me, our kid will not want to be "Steinbrennered." Let's just hope it never comes to that.
There are many advantages to living in the city, and, contrary to popular belief, you don't have to hold your nose to enjoy most of them (except on garbage days). In the city, you can avoid high gas prices by walking everywhere, go to some of the best restaurants late at night, and get a new cultural experience by simply riding in a taxi cab (okay... you might want to hold your nose for that one). However, for all the upsides there are some downsides: for example, my apartment has no central air, no dishwasher, and sometimes no hot water - especially if family is about to visit. Perhaps one of the biggest inconveniences is our lack of a washer and dryer. That leaves us with only three choices: don't wash our clothes at all, burn them, or trudge down to the dreaded laundromat. Usually we go with the third option, since we don't have enough matches.
There once was a time when we could get away with doing laundry just twice a month. That was before we had a child. These days we visit the laundromat at least once a week, thanks in part to Kyle's ability to dirty clothes before wearing them. The laundromat isn't far away, thank goodness, or we'd probably be burning his clothes too. Still, a short walk doesn't typically lead to a pleasant experience, especially on days when the laundromat is busy.
A packed laundromat is like a steel cage match. If there's a free dryer, and you can get to it first, it's yours. If you can't get to it, you run the risk of being trapped in the hot, tight quarters, forced to listen to the TV's talk show repeats ALL DAY LONG. So you do whatever you can to get to that free machine, even if you have to shove, tackle or punch several people along the way. Of course, that's the polite way to nab a machine. The laundromat vultures don't even wait for one to get free - they'll take your clothes out and throw them in a cart or on the floor if you're not there the second the machine stops.
Jennifer nearly got into a brawl with one of these vultures several years ago. It was right in the middle of that 2004 Sox-Yanks playoffs series, so the stress level was pretty high in our household. The normally mild-mannered Jennifer walked into the laundromat just minutes after her wash was done, only to find an older woman removing her clothes from the washer. Jennifer nearly pounced on her, grabbing the laundry and shouting "WE DON'T DO THAT HERE!" Several heads turned and I think somebody gasped, but the vulture didn't let the harsh words phase her. First, she was a lifetime patron and knew the only rule of the laundromat ("Don't overload"), and she wasn't going to let some young Southern girl tell her what to do. Second, she didn't understand Jennifer because she spoke only Polish.
We have tried to make our laundromat experience better by befriending the attendants. However, it's turned out to be a futile effort. We haven't been given priority for the machines. Instead, we tend to get Christmas gifts, usually in the form of a laundry bag, extra quarters, or "new" pairs of socks, t-shirts, and underwear. So while Kyle received some new onesies out of this friendship, I still nearly got a broken nose trying to clean them.
Anyway, I have to be going - there's a load of laundry waiting. If I don't make it back, please tell Jennifer and Kyle I love them... and have them run down to the laundromat in 45 minutes, or someone will steal our clothes.
I often appreciate the things my parents teach Kyle. They helped him learn how to walk, and these days they often practice the alphabet, numbers, and basic physics. Jennifer and I usually enjoy discovering what new things Kyle has learned after spending some time with his grandparents, but I don't think we can ever forgive my father for what he taught our son this past weekend.
Above: Kyle says "no" to his books, his shoes, and the entire commonwealth of Massachusetts
Thanks to my dad, Kyle now has full command of the word "no." For some odd reason, my dad decided it would be fun to practice this word with him, as a way to get him to better express himself, as if his whining, screaming, and flinging things across the room didn't quite get the message across clearly. Now, he also says "no" before doing all those things.
Now, don't get me wrong: I never expected Kyle to somehow miss that word in his vocabulary. I suppose it would have been strange for him to be a full-grown adult and not know what the word "no" means. And learning the word "no" isn't necessarily a bad thing, as no father wants his son to become a "yes" man. Still, I was hoping that maybe we'd get a few more weeks or months before he'd start using the word regularly. I didn't expect it to happen less than a week before his birthday. Now we have a new slew of potential difficulties.
"Kyle, give our guest a hug."
"No."
"But she wants a hug."
"No."
"Kyle, that's not nice."
"No dan kwo."
Jennifer and I are trying to get him to at least say "no thank you." If he's going to refuse everything under the sun, he might as well be polite about it.
This new development is already affecting our daily routine. Kyle now acts like he's at a restaurant, turning away his meal with a flick of the hand and a "no," as if his Cheerios were somehow undercooked. Just before bedtime yesterday, he refused all the books I picked to read by throwing them out of his crib and into the alligator pit (we're still baby proofing). I then started pulling books out of the book basket to see if there was one he preferred. He said "no" to about ten books before I realized that he didn't want me to read; he just wanted me to empty the entire basket and create the mess he usually makes. With the power of "no," he's learning how to delegate! I soon put an end to that, and Kyle went to bed crying. Thanks, Dad.
To be honest, I suppose I deserve this. There once was a time when Kyle would cry over something I'd try to give him (usually food), and I, being the cruel father that I am, would mock him by saying, "Well, kiddo, if you don't want this, just say so!" I would then laugh menacingly, shoving the food into Kyle's mouth as he would wail. Ah, good times. Now that he says the word "no," I can't do that anymore. Now I have to mock him about something else, like his basketball skills.
This whole "no" thing is really throwing me off. I suppose I will get used to it, as I have done with almost every other phase. I'm sure Kyle will add "yes" to his vocabulary soon, too. Until then, it's going to be another battle. I'll just have to stay strong, fight the refusals, and teach that compromise is much better than stubbornly saying "no" to everything. Of course, if I fail with that, I guess Kyle's next step would be to become a DC politician.
"DAAAAAA-DEEEEEE! The sun is up!"
Groan.
"LOOK! The sun is up!"
This is how my eldest son often wakes me these days. He proclaims that the sun has risen, not-too-subtly suggesting that we should all rise with it, as if the sun were lonely and needed company in the earliest hours of the day.
"DAAAAAA-DEEEEEEEEEEE!" repeats my son, in case I didn't hear him through our booming child monitor. Notice how he doesn't usually call for his mother. He respects her desire to sleep. And Adam's too. I think nothing brings my son greater joy than tormenting his father. "LOOK! The sun is up!"
I groan again and use all my will to not shout something profane. "Go back to bed," I respond, and he hears it because he's young and has super-sensitive hearing, which is piqued whenever he expects me to say something profane.
"But I'm not tired. The sun is up!"
I want to throw a pillow at him to get him to stop, but there's no effective way to do that from my bed. The pillow hits the wall.
"Go back to sleep, Kyle!"
To be honest, this isn't a bad wake-up call. It could be worse. It could be a scream. It could be vomit. It could be Kyle tipping over Adam's crib. A little proclamation that "the sun is up," is rather harmless and amusing at times. I probably would welcome it daily if it weren't so often completely inaccurate. The sun does not rise at 5:15 a.m.
"The sun is NOT up, Kyle! Go back to bed!"
Okay, maybe the sun is up at 5:15 a.m. somewhere. There are parts of Alaska where the sun rises early and then doesn't set for more than a month. But in New York City, in December, the sun does not appear before seven o'clock. That is, unless the Earth is about to crash into it. Then, and only then, I'd be okay with getting up.
"DAAAAAAAAAAA-DEEEEEEEEE!!! DAAAAAAAAAAA-DEEEEEEEEE!!! The sun is up!"
Don't be fooled: Kyle does not believe that the sun is up, either. Only once was he confused, and that was because of a full moon at 2 a.m. When he's up at 5, 5:15 or 5:30, it's because he can't sleep and is excited about going to nursery school, which begins at 8:30. Our clock alarm is set for 6 a.m., but many times that's too late for Kyle. If he's up, then naturally the sun must be up, and if he repeats it enough times, he'll convince us all to get up and get going. But I fight back, determined to stay in bed at least 'til six. Especially during the weekend.
"Go back to bed Kyle!"
"I'm done sleeping, Daddy!"
And so we go back and forth with a shouting duel between two very stubborn people. As you can imagine, my wife absolutely loves this. She often talks about just giving in to the three-year-old, but doing so would require actually getting up, and she usually has no energy for that early in the morning because at night we tend to stay up much later than the parents of two kids should. So she groans an objection as I keep up the battle.
"No, Kyle, we have to rest a little longer!"
"LOOK, Daddy! The sun is UP!"
Of all the battles I pick with Kyle, this is one I win fairly regularly, but that's often because it just lasts until six o'clock. Once the alarm goes off, I stop the fight. Jennifer gets up, looks at me crossly, and then heads to the shower. I shuffle my way to the boys' room, and Kyle jumps out with a burst of energy. He does not admit defeat because he has no concept of time. The little guy runs to the couch to watch TV, and, after changing Adam, I slowly follow him there. As I stare blankly at the television, trying figure out why Jennifer and I didn't choose to raise plants instead of children, Kyle begins a new battle, asking repeatedly for breakfast. Our morning is now officially underway, and, despite claims to the contrary, the sun is still not up.
Believe it or not, there are some who say a person must have more than one child to be considered a REAL parent. Jennifer ran into one such person at work, months before Adam was born. Naturally she was offended, and a bar fight ensued. Once Jennifer came home (and recycled the broken beer bottles), she told me about the comment, and I was disgusted too. How arrogant or mentally unstable would you have to be to say such a thing?
Then Adam was born, and now we're seven months into our two-kid adventure. Sometime last week Jennifer brought up that comment again, after the two screaming kids went to bed and we began the hours-long process of cleaning up and imbibing. Once again, we both agreed that the person who made the comment was wrong, and I'm not just saying that because I don't want hate mail or death threats from my closest friends and some family members. You simply cannot be sprayed by a child at 3 a.m. and not be called a real parent. But these days it is easier to see why someone would make such a comment.
Here's a little snapshot of what happens most days: let's begin with my three-year-old son Kyle, who is suddenly STARVING, even though he had a snack not too long ago. He won't stop telling me about it. "I need a snack, Daddy! I need a snack, Daddy! I need a snack, Daddy! I need a snack, Daddy!" This usually happens right after nursery school, while I still have a jacket on and am trying to get a wailing (and also hungry) Adam out of his baby carrier. Since it is, indeed, snack time, I tell Kyle to hold on and I'll get him one soon. There's a pause for about a second... then, "I need a snack, Daddy!"
After I pull Adam out of his carrier, I put him down in his bouncy seat, and I go get Kyle a snack. Adam starts whining for a teether while Kyle complains that the bowl containing his Goldfish is not up to his high standards. While this is going on, I measure out some water for Adam's formula and start warming it up in a bowl of hot water. I get Adam a teether and then take my jacket off. Adam flings the teether to the floor, and Kyle realizes that Goldfish make him thirsty. "I need water, Daddy! I need waaatteerr!" he cries as if we just came back from a retreat in the desert instead of nursery school. Adam is tired and hungry and sick of being stuck in one place, so he whines some more as he tries to flip himself around in his bouncy seat, and each day he seems closer to succeeding. I grab him another toy.
"Daddy, let's play Christmas!" Kyle has developed a new game in which he and I sit down for a half-hour, pretending to give each other presents by opening two of his plastic boxes over and over again while feigning excitement and gratitude (he's practicing for the future, when gifts become less fun and more underwear-like). Christmas will last all year in our house. But tears are streaming down Adam's face, so I tell Kyle not right now. "But why, Daddy?" he whines, "I want to play Christmas." I start to mix Adam's formula, and Kyle forgets how to walk. He trips over his would-be Christmas toy (rejected by that cruel Scrooge Daddy), and falls to the ground. He starts to give that open-mouthed, wrinkled-faced, red-cheeked cry. So I stop what I'm doing to give him a hug and I check to make sure there's no blood and all joints are working properly. Adam stops whining for a second, but once he realizes that his brother is okay, he goes back to his demands. In very kind words I tell Kyle to suck it up and get over it and then I walk back to Adam's bottle and open container of formula. I stand there, confused. Before the cry, did I put one scoop or two scoops in?
As I shake the formula, I pause to tell Kyle to stop licking the dishwasher. I then put the nipple on the bottle and I stop Kyle again, this time before he makes a pretzel out of Adam's arms. "Gentle," I say, "he's still a baby." Kyle doesn't believe me. By now I probably should have put on the TV, but I plan to save that card for later, when I want to have my coffee without a kid jumping on me and scalding my hands. I pick Adam up and he's all smiles. Hooray! Daddy to the rescue with formula! I walk towards the chair to feed Adam, when Kyle blurts out, "I have a dirty diaper!"
I suppose I could just let Kyle sit in it, and sometimes I have told him to wait. But in the end it's easier to just get it over with than to smell it while I'm feeding the baby. So I put Adam back down, and he screams like he hates my guts and will move out once he can walk. But then, after I change Kyle diaper and deny a few more of his "Christmas" requests, I grab Adam and he's my best friend again. Feeding time is here!
So that's about twenty minutes with two kids. Fortunately, the entire day is not like that; thank God for nursery school. And once the TV is on, Kyle becomes too riveted by the plot (Will Oscar find true love? Will Cookie Monster ever recover from that cookie ponzi scheme? Who murdered Snuffy?) to take his eyes off the screen. Adam naps, too, and that gives me a little break. Yes, life with two kids is more intense than it was with one kid, but the jump from one kid to two is nowhere near the perilous leap from zero kids to one. And at least I don't have three kids. Maybe that's when a person becomes a "real" parent.
Of course, adjusting to this new life is taking quite a bit of time, and that's why you haven't heard from me much. I think I'm finally getting into some sort of rhythm, at least until Adam changes his sleeping habits. So maybe, just maybe, I'll be back next week. But I'm not making any promises, at least until the kids go to college.
Page updated
Report abuse