Over the River and Through the Woods

 

Over The River and Through the Woods

A letter to my son on road trip etiquette for the holidays  

I must give you props, big man. You’ve been so well behaved during our long holiday road trips that I no longer feel a year of my life being shaved off with every hour that passes. I can’t tell you much this boosts morale. Without you carrying on like a banshee in the backseat, thrashing, sweating, screaming, and chucking hard plastic objects at the driver (me), everything seems manageable.  As we approach this holiday travel season, which we're all very much looking forward to, I must remind you of a cautionary tale from your past.  As this took place a whole entire YEAR ago, you have no doubt erased it from your memory.  I have not.  It has to do with some simple dietary restrictions that might save you and your family a lot of trouble.  You see, on our last Christmas road trip to see Gran and Gramps, you begged for, and subsequently received, McDonalds.  Does that ring any holiday bells?  No?  Well, then…

Here’s what happened:

You were being the perfect road trip companion, bopping around in your car seat playing air guitar and filling out your sticker books. Your little brother, on the other hand, was very fussy, as he is not a fan of long car rides. He cried and screamed due to boredom and his uncomfortably sweaty seating arrangement.  Like a caring older brother, you tried to calm him down by singing him Christmas songs.  When that didn’t work (he was very irritated and insulted that you thought the gift of music would somehow rescue him from his car seat prison and fill him full of snacks), you basically shrugged him off and kept jamming to the Alvin and the Chipmunks Christmas CD, which we played on repeat for roughly three months that year. You weren’t going to let him rain on your holiday parade.

Your brother's crying got to the point where we decided that an early dinner was in order, so we pulled off of the highway in the middle of nowhere. You really don’t care for chicken nuggets or burgers (even though you say you like them…what’s up with that?), but you always want to go to McDonalds anyway.  Our options were limited; it was either McDonalds, garbage off-brand pastries from a vending machine, or gas station brand beef jerky, which seemed to be procured and packaged by the owner himself.  With that in mind, we ordered a smorgasbord of tasty McDonalds treats: a mango-pineapple smoothie, a yogurt parfait, apples, milk and fries for you and your brother to share. You were both VERY happy as we got back on the road, singing songs in an imitation Chipmunk falsetto and stuffing your faces with a road trip dinner of treats.

About a half an hour passed and your brother was finally content, starring out the window, drowsy and full of Mickey D’s, muttering gibberish to himself. You, on the other hand, got very quiet and pale. At first I didn’t notice, but then I saw you in the rearview mirror looking like a man about to erupt.  I thought of the pie eating contest in Stand By Me.  Your mother and I got more and more concerned as the color in your face drained away completely and your eyes got droopy. We tried to get you to talk to us, which probably drove you nuts because we now realize you were trying your best to calm down your belly. As you were attempting to relax and control your breathing, Mom and I kept shouting, “Buddy? Hey, man? Are you ok? Talk to us, dude. What’s WRONG, honey?” and blah blah blah like a couple of clueless, no-filter helicopter parents.  So annoying!  It was enough to make a guy want to barf. So, that's exactly what you did.

Mommy, the MacGyver of defusing backseat crisis situations, was so impressively quick to grab the first thing she could find just before you tossed your cookies. As you lurched forward, she snagged the green St. Patrick’s Day baseball cap you wear everyday (and would even wear to bed if we didn’t pry it off of your head each night) and you proceeded to fill it with regurgitated McDonalds and God knows what else. It was quite the catch. Your little brother looked on, unimpressed and on the verge of falling into a Ronald McDonald-induced comma-like snooze.

Luckily, we were near an exit, and I immediately got off the road and into a Denny’s parking lot.  I was shocked to see that this exit was McDonalds free, but I noticed one under construction.  I got out of the car and ran over to retrieve you and your hat full of barf, expecting the worst. Mom had managed to catch almost all of it, but the holes in the top of the hat started to act like a noodle strainer and I had to remove it as quickly as possible, grabbing an Elmo diaper from the bag on the floor to act as a buffer. We got you out of the car and down to your skivvies to change clothes. All the while, your brother remained calm in his car seat, taking in the whole scene like a mildly curious pedestrian witnessing the aftermath of a fender bender. As you stood there in the Denny’s parking lot wearing only your Batman underwear and Velcro shoes, you began to realize that your hat may have been ruined and you got a bit upset. Honestly, I just figured we would have to throw it away. It goes on your head, you know. I said, “I know it’s a bummer, but I bet Santa will bring you a new hat, an even better one.” This did not prompt a smile. All you kept saying was, “My hat, my hat…” in a lethargic whisper.

Well, what was I to do? While Mom cleaned you up and fished you out some clean clothes from the over packed trunk, I made a promise to try and bring your hat back from the dead. I grabbed the soiled hat and clothes and headed into Denny’s. It was a pretty busy night. Families were waiting near the hostess stand to be seated as I waltzed in cradling your puke covered belongings. A waitress behind the counter noticed me right away. “Can I help…” is all she got out before I asked, “Would you happen to have a plastic bag?” She was totally unfazed by the request and handed me a large plastic carry out bag with handles. “Restrooms that way” she said with a wink. I thanked her and realized that I’m probably not the first person to visit Denny’s with this predicament on their hands.

I began to rinse out all of your stuff in the Denny’s men’s room sink, which, by the way, was not necessarily an award winner for “Most Pristine and Cleanly Porcelain – Midwestern Division”. It would have to do if the hat were to survive. This was triage.  After about five minutes of scrubbing, the sink began to back up and I had to get paper towels to clear the drain. I was getting water all over the counter, myself and the floor, but I was determined to make the rescue. A 400 pound trucker rocking an Alice Cooper t-shirt waddled through the door as I began round two of Operation Baseball Hat Resuscitation. He pretended like I wasn’t there scrubbing a little kids shorts and baseball hat in the sink, and left without even considering washing his hands. He probably had one of those cute little travel-size hand sanitizers on his key chain, I imagine, because everyone should clean their hands after using the potty (right, buddy?).

At any rate, I think I did a pretty good job. I rung the water out of everything, secured the items in the Denny’s bag, and high tailed it out of there. When I got back to the car you and your brother were hanging out on a grassy hill with mom and things seemed to be pretty normal. You stood there, watching wearily as your brother attempted to put everything on the ground into his mouth (rocks, cigarette butts, candy wrappers, you name it). Mom went back to the car to get things in order as the three of us boys took a stroll along the weird berm of patchy grass that separated the parking lot from a creepy looking forest/drainage ditch that I’m quite sure has been used to stash would-be crime scene evidence. I suggested we sing a song to brighten the mood.  I kicked into an upbeat version of “If You’re Happy and You Know It (Clap Your Hands)” and you looked at me like I was the biggest moron on the face of the planet. Your face said, “Uh, hey Dad? I just barfed up a lung and you want me to jump up and down and clap my hands? Think about it…” I took the hint and suggested we head back to the car.  As I hummed a sarcastic version of Over the River and Through the Woods, we hit the road, once again, en route to Grandmother’s house.

You’re a car sickness sufferer, just like your old man used to be when he was a kid. I eventually got over it, and so will you. I’m thinking that, going forward, it would be in everyone’s best interest if we take a break or two on long car rides. Shaving a half an hour off of the trip just isn’t worth it, especially if we’re spending an hour cleaning clothes in the Denny’s bathroom. Also, let’s pack some healthy snacks as opposed to having a dollar menu meal every time we’re traveling.  Why I’m telling you this, I have no idea.  You have little say in the matter as you cannot feed yourself, nor can you drive.  You’re broke and unlicensed, so this is on me.  Just know that I’m doing my best to make this year’s Christmas road trip a better one than the last.  Oh, and for the record, you never wore that St. Patty’s Day baseball cap again.  I threw it away at Grandma’s house, at her insistence, and she bought you a new one.  Merry Christmas.

To the Little Guy Who Has Been Biting My Son at School:

Hey there, brother. What’s happening? I see...yes, I'm a fan of graham crackers, as well. I might not like them as much as YOU seem to, but they are awesome, indeed. Ok, not to be rude, but enough with the small talk - let’s get down to brass tacks. What's that? Yeah, I don't totally understand that term either, but essentially what I mean to say is lets get down to business. Over the past few months I’ve signed about six “incident reports”, each one detailing a situation wherein my son, your colleague, was the victim of a biting attack. Yeah, I know. Seems excessive, right? I was shocked, too. Honestly, I blew off the first couple of them, thinking, “Hey, it’s probably just a fluke. You guys are so little. These things happen.” But after the fourth one, I got concerned. Now that I’ve signed the sixth one, I’m just sort of angry about it, to be honest. Maybe more scared than angry? No, I'm pretty perturbed. We need to get to the bottom of this.

As you may or may not know, at your school, when something happens to one of the students, their parents receive an “incident report”. This report will detail what went down so that we know what’s up. As parents, we like to know EVERYTHING (NOTE: This trait will become more and more annoying to you as you grow older and we're wanting to know who your friends are, what their parents are like, are those fireworks in the trunk of your car, do you call that garbage you're listening to music, etc. We meddle. It's our way.). The incident reports our son used to receive would say things like, “Your son fell down and bumped his head. Ice was applied to the injury. Three minutes later, he was shoving toy dinosaurs in his mouth and acting like nothing happened. Please sign”. I can live with those. My son tends to lead with his head when it comes to anything and everything, so he already has some nice character scars. I’m never surprised when there’s a self-inflicted injury to report.

But this biting thing? Bush league, dude. We gotta fix this.

You know, it’s not like your name was on the report or whatever. Nobody rats you out at school. That wouldn’t be appropriate, and I agree with the protocol. I had to do my own investigative work. First, I noticed that the teeth imprints were almost identical in each case. During my interviews with witnesses and faculty, I uncovered the fact that we were dealing with a lone bite man (Man? That’s right. Your gender was disclosed, albeit via a sly line of questioning by this investigator). The "biter in the grassy knoll" theory was immediately discarded and the process of elimination began. I won’t divulge the rest of my methods on how I cracked the case, so we’ll just put it like Officer McNulty did on The Wire - it was “Police work.” No further questions need to be asked. However, I will remind you that the door to your classroom is made of glass.

Ok, so, I found this interesting. Are you sitting down? According to your teacher, you bit my son EXCLUSIVELY. No one else is targeted, just my dude. Wow. What’s with that? Is this about a girl? Is my dude antagonizing you? I know he likes to start stuff; he’s always stealing his brother’s toys and running away with them, then throwing them in the toilet and whatnot. He is a bit of a rabble rouser, I know. But might I suggest a harsh word or two? Maybe just rat him out to the teacher if he’s getting on your nerves? I know you don’t have full use of your words yet, so if he steals a toy or tries to mess you about, just start bawling and rolling around on the floor (not that I advocate the cry baby routine, but it’s better than the Cujo routine, ya know?). Snitch on him. The teachers will be on your side in no time and you’ll get your way. Trust me on this. Hey, I’m even cool if you guys need to wrestle – just do it on a padded mat away from sharp corners, avoid the low blows and kidney punches, and NO BITING! (Now…ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls...let’s get REAAADY TOOOO RUMMMMMMBLE!! DING DING DING!). No need to bring the chomps into an already messy situation. Ask Tyson.

To better grasp this situation, I read up on the biting phenomenon. Turned to ye ‘ole World Wide Web. And, the more I read, the more I understand that this is completely “normal toddler behavior”. Hey, my kids have been guilty of a nip or two. My eldest son chomped on his mom’s shoulder during a temper tantrum last night. Everyone was sad about it, trust me, including him. So, I understand that you’re not some mini-Hannibal Lecter. I’m just saying you’ve a got a chronic case of "the bites" and you need to curb it, my man.

Look, I suppose we’re cool. You’re only 18 months old. You could grow up to be, I don’t know, the drummer in my favorite band, or my state Senator, or even my son-in-law (if we ever have that daughter my wife’s been dreaming about – evidently the clothes are WAY WAY cuter). I know that you’re not going to grow up to be some random dude in a trench coat who runs around the streets of Chicago biting folks at night. You are going to get over this. I have faith in you. You're a good boy and, for the most part, my son seems to really enjoy your company. Look, I know this is all way over your head. I know, I know. At the end of the day, this is all just for me. I don't expect you to sit down and read this. You're a busy man.

At any rate, if you do have a free moment and are looking to better yourself, here’s a nice article for you and your parents to read:

http://pediatrics.about.com/od/weeklyquestion/a/1106_biting.htm

Best of luck curbing the habit. Get some rest, and we’ll see you soon. I’m rooting for ya, kido.

Breaking Away - Toddler Edition

An Unwelcome Trip to the Jungle in Pursuit of a Two Year-Old Track Star

My wife and I were ecstatic when our son Jake started walking.  There are a significant amount photos and video clips available to prove this.  We made a pretty big deal out of it.  He even took his first unassisted steps in front of all of our friends at a party we were hosting.  The round of applause was enough to inflate his ego for years to come.  In the blink of an eye, he became more coordinated and progressed to trotting along and even climbing the stairs.  But then, to our dismay, he began running.  More specifically, he began running away from us.  In public.  In parking lots.  In stores.  In restaurants.  And, he did so at track star speed.  The first time this occurs, your heart tends to shoot right up into your throat.  All of your worst nightmares flash before your eyes in a nanosecond: sharp corners, strangers with candy, drunk driving teenaged Facebook fanatics in mid-status update, rabid wild dogs foaming at the mouth and demanding to be played with, poison ivy, exotic poisonous snakes, sink holes, a simple stumble-and-fall that creates significant scaring and disfigurement…whatever.  It’s scary.  Not for him, of course, but for his parents.

Jake is almost 3 years old now, and his baby brother Adam is a year and a half.  Adam is a gifted walker and runner in his own right, but for the most part, when we travel anywhere on foot, like, for example, from the car to the door of wherever we’re going, I carry him in my right arm and hold Jake’s hand with my left.  It’s simple crowd control that is typically quite successful.  The other day, as we arrived at their Montessori daycare, we were walking along the sidewalk in this fashion when Jake broke my weak grip with his sweaty little hand and darted away so fast that I could barely react.  I have to admit, I was impressed at first, thinking, “Man, my dude has wheels!  Not a bad 40 yard dash for a 2 year old…”  But that brief fantasy of him stealing third base in Game 7 of the World Series was immediately replaced with panic. 

With Adam (a 26 pound pudge ball who has us wondering if there are Samoan genes lurking somewhere in our bloodline) tucked high and tight like a football, I went after Jake.  He sped along the side of the school, one elbow pointing high in the sky, as this is his unique running style.  He reached the grass of the back schoolyard in seconds flat.  Adam and I followed along in hot pursuit.  I couldn’t figure out where he was going or why until I realized he seemed to be on target for a nature path that lead into a hilly, wooded area.  I had to make sure not to run too fast because I didn’t want to shake up my Adam too much.  A quick glance at his face was enough to know he wasn’t bothered by this at all; he was all ear-to-ear grins and giggles and having a blast.  And, judging by Jake’s squeals and long strides, this was fun for him, too.  I, however, was in hell.  Running in a business suit and tie through a muddy field on a summer day, carrying a 26 pound Samoan baby, all the while considering the horrors of my toddler heading into a forest unaccompanied, were shaving a month-per-second off of my life.

Adam and I were closing in on Jake, but then he picked up speed.  He let out a wild squeal, which seemed to indicate that he was shifting into a higher gear, and Adam and I began to lose ground.  Without breaking his stride, Jake hit the trail at the edge of the wooded area and disappeared.  I screamed his name, but there was no response.  Adam and I reached the trail and spotted Jake climbing up a hill; treacherous and rocky with gigantic mud puddles, tree branches and mystery weeds along the side.  I tucked Adam’s head to protect him from the hanging branches and leaves and headed in.  Adam yelled something unintelligible and laughed – he was thrilled.  Jake started shouting “No No!” as he slid and stumbled up the hill, and I could hear him panting.  He was about twenty feet away at this point and appeared to be running out of steam and losing traction. 

About midway up the hill, which happened to lead to a heavily-traveled running and biking trail, we caught him.  He screamed and tried to break my grasp, kicking and crying, “Stop!  Let me go Jungle!  I want Jungle!!!  AHHHHHHH!”  A lady up on the trail, sporting pink fluorescent running gear and way too much jewelry for exercise, stopped her speed walking session and peered down into the “jungle” at a thirty-three year old guy in a suit wrestling a couple of toddlers.  “Everything ok?” she shouted.  I grunted back, “No…yes, we're fine.”  She wasn’t convinced and stood there watching as I scooped Jake up into my free arm and carried both of my sons down the muddy hill and out to the backyard of the school.

Note: It is humanly possible to sweat through an undershirt, dress shirt, and coat in under 5 minutes.  Even my tie was soaked in sweat and my shoes, once black leather Foot-Joy’s, were now the type of kicks you might find along the freeway next to some road kill.  Adam had leaves and prickly forest-type vegetation caught up in his hair, socks and t-shirt.  Jake face was covered in mud and dirt, which had him looking like one of those black and white photos of old football players from the archives of Sports Illustrated.  He lost his shoe somewhere in the fracas, as well, but I didn’t care.  I’d go back for that later.  We took a knee in the school yard, near the tiny vegetable garden and orange plastic picnic tables.  I checked my temper and proceeded to scold him in the most even tone I could muster:

Me:  “Jake.  We NEVER run away from Daddy.  Shame on you, Jake.  That’s dangerous and naughty.  Why did you DO that?”

Jake:  “I GO! To the JUNGLE!”

As if on cue, Adam ripped a nice audible fart that only a good Samoan baby can pull off.  I didn’t even laugh.  That’s saying something.  This was a serious situation.  We all went inside the school looking like a bully had beaten us up for our lunch money, and then decided to drag us all through the woods for good measure.  When we entered Jake’s room, all of the kids and teachers stopped what they were doing and stared at us.  Jake then peed his pants.   As a puddle formed on the linoleum, I explained to the teachers what had happened.   They weren’t surprised.  All the children loved going on nature walks in “the jungle”.  It was their new jam.  I helped them clean up the puddle and change Jakes clothes as Adam became the classroom mascot for a few minutes.  We had a brief intervention with Jake, explaining to him that nature walks are for class time only and that running away from parents or teachers is unsafe.  Jake said, “OK!” and ran off to join his friends in a spirited game of Pin the Tail on Baby Adam.

Wasn’t the movie Breaking Away about bike riding in Indiana?  The townies beat the rich kids in a bike race or something?  Guess the title of this article doesn’t really match the content…or does it?  Hmm.   Is my son’s constant desire to let go of my hand and run out into traffic, or into a forest, or behind the garage through the compost pile, or dart into the ladies bathroom at BW3 really just his attempt to defeat the oppressive daddy class and achieve toddler emancipation?  Jeez, I don’t know.  That’s a stretch.  As I write this, I feel bad, like I’m making my dude sound like the most ill-behaved little hellion this side of Leif Garrett (felt like someone need to reference that guy today).  He’s a great kid, so smart and funny and happy.  But, like that song by Queen, he wants to break free.  I'm confident this is the type of situation Freddy Mercury had in mind when he penned those lyrics. 

Any advice on how to curb this behavior would be welcome and appreciated (note: I don't really mean that.  Keep it to yourself).  I recently visited our library to try and find a book that would hit home the dangers of running away.  Of the thousands upon thousands of titles on the shelves, not a single one tackled the subject head-on.  I would write one, but, as you see, I have nothing to offer.  I guess my book on the subject would be about two pages long.  Page 1: I suggest that you hold on tighter to your kid.  Page 2: You should probably issue punishments for breaking away.  

The Great Spank Debate

So, let’s cut to the chase.  I’m dead-set on not raising silver-spoon-in-the-mouth, everything-I-touch-is-gold, don’t-know-the-meaning-of-no, where’s-my-trophy-for-finishing-in-fifteenth-place, undisciplined young men.  I want to raise good little dudes with solid work ethics and impeccable manners.  They’re still very young, sure, but I want them to know that there are rules and consequences and that what my wife and I say is the LAW.  That’s right!  THE LAW!  If we say, “Time to go”, we go!  If we say, “Use the potty and wash your hands”, use the potty and wash your hands!  If we say, “Please don’t smash the television set with daddy’s hammer (hey, how’d you get that hammer?)”, don’t smash the television and I’m sorry I left my hammer out again!  If we say, “Look, you’ve already flushed the toilet.  You don’t have to flush it over and over and over and over and over again until it breaks”, then, yes, please listen to us and have mercy on the toilet.  We.  Are.  The.  LAW, damn it - the sovereign power that controls the minds, bodies, and manners of the children belonging to this household!  So it has been written!

Written or not, our kids aren’t buying that nonsense.  We’re doing our very best to be consistent, using the 1-2-3 Magic methods with varying results, and my wife and I always make sure to enforce the rules in harmony, so as not to contradict one another.  Is it working?  Hell no.  But we’re not giving up.  We’re all born bad, so I don’t expect these guys to immediately understand what’s up and fall in line.  It’s going to take a lot of work, explanation, consistency, and love. 

But, we’ll never issue spankings.  Never.

Spare the switch, spoil the child, right?  That was said or written by someone 1027 years ago, probably in the Middle East somewhere.  There’s a myth that it’s from the Bible.  It’s not.  I’m thinking it was probably etched on some tablet that was used as a Dr. Spock-type manual or something.   Maybe it was a slogan on someone’s family crest.  I don’t know.  I’ll Google it sometime, but for now I’m writing on a blog, so that’ll just have to wait.  According to the elders in my life, it’s virtually impossible to teach children right from wrong without a slap on the rear end here and there.  Interesting.  Don’t get me wrong – it’s crossed my mind from time to time.  Blatant insubordination tests your sanity and limits.  It makes you think, “Hey, seeing as I’m covered in blue Toy Story toothpaste and I’ve been kicked repeatedly in the groin, it would feel so natural to smack this guy’s little tush right about now.”  But, that’s not going to make either of us feel better; smacking a butt in the heat of a temper tantrum.  In my heart of hearts, I don’t believe spanking sends the right message or teaches anyone any kind of lesson.  Well, maybe it teaches the lesson that if someone steps out of line, you smack them.  Or maybe it will send the message that “It looks like my parents are willing to hit me to get their point across.”  Of course, I could be completely wrong and I wouldn’t be surprised.  That’s 100% not out of the question.  When it comes to raising these guys, I’m always questioning myself. 

The spanking issue is controversial in some respects.  There are convincing arguments from both sides (the spankers and non-spankers, to beat or not to beat).  Both my wife and I were spanked as children.  I can speak from my own experience that I was terrified of those spankings.  My brother and I ALWAYS got into trouble together; a regular Bonnie and Clyde (he was the Bonnie, of course).  When we were extra naughty (see: peeing in Zip Lock bags and pawning it off as lemonade to our younger cousin only to be stopped short of serving it by our horrified mother, disappearing without warning in an inflatable row boat across a lake traveled by water skiers and drunken motor boat enthusiasts en route to a draw bridge where people drown every year, huge fist fights and wrestling matches at the grocery store, resulting in the destruction of a Campbell’s Soup display, and shoplifting on the same day, and so on and so forth), our little rear ends met the wrath of ‘The Slipper’. 

The Slipper was passed down to my father by my uncle, who had used it to whop his kids for years before bequeathing it to him.  It had a nice, soft brown suede upper with a cozy, fuzzy-lined inside…and a thick, butt-reddening, message-sending business end in the form of a rubber sole.  To my recollection, it didn’t even have a match.  It was just a lonely old slipper without a partner whose “sole” purpose on this Earth was to dole out punishment and leave marks on the heinies of the insubordinate.

Upon the conclusion of our trial before the parental counsel (and absolutely no jury of our peers), we were told to go upstairs and get the slipper.  Our hearts would beat fast and we cried and moaned (and maybe punched each other a few times) as we made our way to the “spanking chamber” (Mom and Dad’s bathroom).  We’d fish out the slipper from Dad’s closet and pace around the bathroom until he arrived.  When the bathroom door opened, we’d start the appeal process.  It was never to any avail.  This was not a Democracy – there was no due-process.  We were going down no matter what we said.  It is funny to think that we thought we may have a chance of talking our way out of the spanking, as if Dad would’ve said, “Y’know what, fellas?  That’s a pretty darn good point.  We never told you NOT to break all of the windows on that new house being built across the street.  That’s our fault.  Here’s $20.  Why don’t you guys accept my apology and buy yourself some baseball cards.  OH!  And, before you go, why don’t you give ME the spanking.  I deserve it.”  That would’ve been pretty kick ass, but we weren’t very convincing lawyers (probably because we were sobbing and trying to catch our breath - I don't remember Johnnie Cochran using that method), and the slipper caning always commenced.

The set up for slipper spankings broke down like this.  There was a coin flip of sorts to begin the proceedings.  “All right.  Which one of you is going first?”  Bonnie and I would stare at each other for a minute and have a discussion through whimpers.  Who went first last time?  Honestly, it happened so rarely that we probably forgot.  My Dad claims that he used the slipper less than a handful of times, and I know he’s right.  They were just memorable, that’s all.  Light spankings happened intermittently, sure, but corporal punishment in the form of slipper usage was doled out strictly for fitting crimes.  Regardless, one of us would eventually choose to bite the bullet and go first.  Honestly, going first had considerable advantages.  Go first, and you get it out of the way.  It meant that you didn’t have to stand there and watch your brother get his spanking, which only builds anticipation for your turn and is probably worse than the spanking itself: the IDEA of the spanking.  And the God-awful noise.  That rubber sole, in combination with the contact it made on your bare ass, and the echo chamber that was their bathroom, made for high drama.  The raising of the slipper, the huge smack reverberating of the walls, your brother squealing – brutal.  Going first was the move.  Once you were done getting yours, you were too busy catching your breath to watch the other guy get his (Note: “Yours” probably consisted of three love taps at most, but put your hand in the way or try and block the slipper and you got another one).

Before we knew it, it was over and Dad was recapping why the slipper was necessary to further drill home his point (Don’t break stuff, Stay off of the roof, 911 is for emergencies only, etc.).  We’d file out all red faced and sad.  Fifteen minutes would pass and we’d be back out in the yard playing a lazy version of home run derby with a tennis ball and an aluminum bat (see: window damage, shingle damage, television antennae displacement, flower mutilation, fist fights).  And then, one hour later…poof!  It was as if “the slipper” had never happened and we were plotting our next sick and twisted scheme.  I will say the scheme probably didn’t involve anything that got us spanked that particular day, so in that case a lesson was learned and the original offense was not repeated, but the new scheme was, in all likelihood, way worse.

I’m lucky to have parents that love me.  They are amazing and, as I write this, I feel kinda guilty, as if I’m making them seem abusive or something.  They weren’t in the least.  It was the ‘80’s.  Butt’s got spanked with slippers, seat belts were just sorta catching on, Big Macs were good for you, people smoked at the movies, on planes, and in the hospital, Spandex shorts got worn underneath basketball shorts…all sorts of craziness was going down.  They taught us many a valuable lesson and I’m forever grateful.  I'm sure they hated having to spanking us (I think).  They love us, and they didn’t want us growing up to be self-involved, spoiled, silver-spoon-in-the-mouth, where’s-my-raise-for-being-a-mediocre-employee, how-dare-you-tell-me-no, don’t-you-know-who-I-think-I-am, waste-of-space derelicts.

So, I guess that we’ve decided that we’re not going to use the ‘ole slipper on our boys and there’ll be no physical punishment administered, even for major offenses.  No, my wife and I are settling in for fifteen-plus years of good-old-fashioned psychological warfare.  Why?  Because we love our boys and we want them to learn right from wrong…via our clever, brainwashing methods.  I look forward to 2043, when I get to hear what the boys have to say about how we raised them and how they’d never resort to such archaic methods of parenting.  Never.  

Operation: Diaper Elimination

A Veteran Recounts Tales from the Front Lines of the War on Soiled Undergarments

I called my mom the other day to seek her advice on potty training, more specifically, I wanted to know how she handled my personal training regimen during her tenure as a young mother in the late ‘70s.  I cut right to the chase, no small talk.  I imagine this is standard procedure for any healthy 33 year old guy.  Her response was inconclusive and far from helpful:  “You did great, honey.”  While I appreciated the accolades, what I was really looking for is sage wisdom, maybe a cheat code...ideally, The Holy Grail.  While she couldn’t recall a single trick of the trade, she did share an anecdote or two.  Evidently, while sitting on Mom’s lap during a viewing of The Princess Bride at our local Cineplex, my sister opted to wet her pants instead of missing the part where Wesley reveals his identity.  Can’t say I blame her...great film, still holds up.  

According to research done by yours truly (an official Harvard study is pending), my amazing mother is not alone.  It seems that people who survive the rigors of potty training a child have virtually nothing to offer in the realm of helpful advice.  Once they’ve made it through the whole process, they’re like WWII Veterans - details from the experience seem to get blocked out by some sort of post-traumatic stress related defense mechanism, while other battle stories, vivid memories of pee soaked clothes, tears and frustration, are too painful to recap. 

That being said, there are some shell-shocked potty training veterans out there that do enjoy sharing their war stories and unsolicited advice.  Take the nice lady working the checkout line at the grocery store, for example.  We’ll call her Colombo, due to her inquisitive nature and sage ability to dissect a case.  As Colombo scrutinized the items I placed on the conveyor belt (diapers, wipes, baby yogurt, Elmo sticker books, diaper cream, lots of beer, Tylenol, etc.), she asked, “You got kids?”  I felt like saying, “Not yet…just getting the baby room ready in case I meet a nice lady who’s willing to procreate with me.”  But I was kind and opted to settle in for an interview.  “Yeah, I’ve got two little boys under the age of 3.”  “Twins?” she asked.  “Nope, just two dudes who aren’t quite three yet.  One’s teething; the other guy’s potty training.”  Colombo’s face lit up.  “And how’s that going?” (Note: At this point, she’s essentially taken herself off the clock.  She’s not ringing up any of my beer or diaper cream or anything.  She wants to chat.  A longer line of people started to form behind me and they seemed pretty irritated.  It was as if they didn’t even care about my kids.) “Well, teething’s going fine.  Potty training is a little bit tough.  We may have started a little too early.  I don’t know…” 

Jeez, WHY did I go into all that detail???  I could’ve simply said, “It’s going great.  I’ve got coupons.”  But NO, I didn’t.  It really is true what they say – everyone wants to tell their story.  And Colombo knows this, like any good detective would.  “Oh, C’mon!” she crowed.  She took off her glasses, leaned forward, and whispered: “Listen up, honey….”  The woman in line behind me (who was wearing a pretty amazing purple velour jumpsuit) rolled her eyes in such dramatic fashion that it could actually be heard.  Colombo didn’t care.  She continued along in an unnecessary whisper, intent on making her point.  “Kids KNOW when they’re ready, ya see?  It’s up to them.  So don’t you PUSH.” 

 

Well, easy for HER to say!  How rude!  I thought, “Lady, just give me my damn queso dip so I can get home and clean my pee soaked rugs, couches, stuffed animals, bath mats, and electronic devices.” Then I realized I said that out loud and I haven’t been back to that grocery store since.

Now, I wouldn’t say my wife and I were guilty of “pushing”.  At first, that is.  Our son initiated potty training by telling us, in so many words, that his diaper wouldn’t do and that it was high time he peed on a potty.  With that, we went from zero to 60 in a nanosecond and the over-encouraging began.  “Yes yes!!  DO go on the potty!  Diapers are for babies and really old people!  GREAT idea, buddy - pure genius.” 

We thought it would be easy.  I mean, the guy is telling us he’s ready; he’s practically begging.  We went out that day and bought what we thought were the necessary tools of the trade: cartoon-themed underwear, plastic underwear covers, 2 plastic kiddy toilets for upstairs and downstairs (One frog-shaped noise-making potty that praises the child for the conversion, and one stoic and silent European-looking Baby Bjorn model), and a sticker rewards chart (Elmo, a less-than-anatomically correct monster, gives your kid a thumbs up and a sticker for not wetting his pants).

With that, the campaign began.  And guess what?  It wasn’t easy AT ALL!  NO!  Turns out his request to start potty training was just a whim.  It was as if the guy hadn’t even thought things through.  Sorta irresponsible on his part, if you think about it.  No game plan?  No consideration of the hard work that goes into this sort of endeavor?  Bush league.  He needed constant reminders to visit the potty, or else wet pants were imminent.  When he did have an accident, he couldn’t have cared less.  Soaking himself just meant he got to put on new Spiderman underwear!  Hooray!  The plastic underwear covers?  He said, “No, thank you (read: screamed, refused to put them on.  I understood completely).”  The Elmo sticker chart?  He didn’t get into that at all, and we were probably bad about remembering to dish out the stickers since we were constantly busy cleaning up pee and running the washing machine.  Anyway, he already had sticker books to play with/destroy.  New underpants, featuring Toy Story characters or maybe even Batman and Robin, far outweighed the joy of receiving yet another sticker.  Anything that was remotely interesting, i.e. doing a puzzle, kicking a soccer ball, staring off into space, eating a snack, watching Little Einsteins, coloring, wrestling with his brother, etc., took precedence over paying a visit to the froggy potty. 

His Montessori school/daycare, they being staunch advocates of the potty training process, helped him along and kept up with the reminders.  Still, every day when I picked him up, there were four or five pee-soaked outfits waiting for me (wrapped in grocery bags, which reminded me of Colombo), and he was usually wearing his “backup shoes”.  At times he would even run out of the clothes we brought for him and he’d be wearing emergency clothes that the school kept on hand for cases such as these (see: stained sweatpants with the school’s name written in magic marker on the butt).  His regular shoes got so disgusting that they needed to be retired after just a few weeks.  The backup shoes met a similar fate.

 

We were losing the war.

 

So, what were we doing wrong?  Did we start too early?  Have we scarred the boy for life?  I turned to the Internet.  I wondered what the history of potty training might read like.  How was it handled by the women of the Oregon Trail?  Ancient Rome?  How did Mrs. June Cleaver handle things with The Beeve?  I Googled it: “History of Potty Training”.  It has its own Wikipedia page.  It’s incredibly short, but it’s there.  I would imagine that I’m the fifth person to ever read it.  Maybe I should’ve gone to a more specialized potty training website, a site more credible and appropriate than Wikipedia, but, what can I say?  I was caught up in the moment and I was desperate; shell-shocked, Saving Private Ryan-style, with blurred vision, cold sweats and an odd ringing in my ears.  Sadly, the Wiki page read just like I thought it might.  Essentially:  “Children started and finished potty training at an earlier age at the turn of the century.  That caused pretty nasty psychological issues.  Nowadays, it all does down between the ages of two and three.  Hang in there.  Sincerely, Wikipedia.org.”

Five months have passed now; a trail of tears, endless loads of laundry, and carpet cleaner.  That’s probably a long time, but I’m not sure.  Wikipedia didn’t say.  We’ve been hanging in there and he now seems to be making real progress.  What worked?  What’s changed?  Well, I don’t have much help to provide there, frankly.  You see, the war seems to be drawing to a close.  We may have won this one.  Many underpants were lost, many picnics were abandoned, and many fits of tears and rage were suffered by parent and child alike.  Honestly, I didn’t think my dude would be a 16-year old high school junior making puddles on the gym class floor, but I didn’t think it would take this long, either.  We stayed on top of things and we reminded him and reminded him again to visit the potty until he was completely annoyed with us.  That may have set us back, I don’t know.  I imagine that, eventually, the thrill of putting on new underpants wore off and the humility of creating a mess pushed him towards taking the initiative to visit the potty without reminders.  He seems to have figured it out.  He’s ready on his own terms.  Colombo was right.

As I write this, we are working on a 127 hour accident-free streak.  My wife and I are giddy.  I haven’t been this excited about a streak since…well, its sports related.  I’ll spare you.  But this is huge.  After bath time last night, as we were over-celebrating the streak, everyone high-fiving and shooting Cristal all over the place, his 18-month-old little brother plopped down on the frog potty.  No one asked him to do so, he wasn’t hounded.  He just went ahead and peed without fanfare, stood up, shrugged his shoulders, and waddled butt-naked out of the bathroom down the hallway.