What My Kids Don't Know Hurts Me

2011-12-29T06:03:00.000-08:00

The Fun -- and Pain -- of the Holidays

During the holidays, my brother and mother visited. My daughter, 7, said, “Spending time with you is the best present of all.”

My brother said, “Aww. Belle, you always know just what to say.”

My son John, 5, responded by saying, “Yes, and if you had a white beard you’d look just like Santa!”

While John might have bruised his uncle’s ego, it was nothing compared to what he did to his own father. The kids got Disney Scene It, a game involving watching DVD clips of Disney productions and answering trivia questions about them.

Belle and John, both incessantly seeking control, fought over the remote. John, strong as a Clydesdale, ripped it away and clocked me right in the orbital bone. Nearly plumb knocked me out!

John, always knowing just what to say, said, “Oops. Sa-weee.”

Then not 5 minutes later, Belle is showing her uncle how she can bounce her new soccer ball on her knees and for some reason, as it's getting away from her, she kicks it full force -- right into her uncle's face from point blank, hitting his check and glasses.

Fortunately, his blow didn’t hurt. I was the one who ended up with the egg on my orbital bone.

Here’s to the holidays. And to them ending—so I can heal.

2011-11-25T17:48:00.000-08:00

The Necessary Evils of Parenting

I recently went to the dentist. The hygienist was very nice. Her poker was very mean. That is, the tool she used to scrape tartar off is also the one she uses to poke the gums of customers. What could be the purpose of this?

I asked a friend who is a hygienist, and she said it's to see how your gums react. Isn't that a bit like shooting a squirrel to see how it would react?

Alas, dental appointments are necessary evils, as are Family Fun Nights. You know, the Friday nights when the school welcomes all parents into their petri dish to inhale as many germs as possible while kids share food and toys at alarming rates. At the most recent infestation, my kids were playing bean-bag toss while eating the greasy free popcorn handed out by volunteers. Bean bag, popcorn, mouth. Repeat.

The next three nights, my five-year-old, John, woke up hacking.

If a parent declines to go to Family Contagion Night, said parent is a deadbeat. And your seven-year-old looks at you with a sad countenance, replete with a fat lip ala Cindy Lou Who from The Grinch.

Going to Family Fun Night is a necessary evil.

Then there's changing clothes. Locking my door for privacy is a necessary evil, even at home. The other day, my five-year-old ran down the hall, slammed full speed into the door, bounced back up and wiggled the handle. "Hey, Dad! Wait 'til you see our costumes!"

I didn't know it right away, but I'd soon learn that it was quite necessary to see the kids impersonate Eminem and Paris Hilton:

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2011-11-19T14:23:00.000-08:00

I Can't Believe We're Having This Conversation

Earlier this school year, a boy went to my seven-year-old daughter's school locker between classes. He offered her a real ring and said they were boyfriend and girlfriend. After school, when Belle told me this, I couldn't believe "it was starting" so early. I felt like Homer Simpson:

I couldn't believe she and I were having this conversation when she was seven. So I told her that it was great she found a friend she liked so much. However, it was inappropriate to be dating someone at age seven. And even more inappropriate for him to be offering her valuable merchandise.

Belle frowned. "When can I date someone, Daddy?"

"When you're 60," I said.

She looked worried. "Seriously?"

"No, but not until high school."

"So what do I tell this boy?"

"Tell him you'll be friends, but you can't be his girlfriend right now because you're both seven and it's inappropriate."

"But Daaaaaad, what if no other boys want to be my boyfriend?"

At this point, I decided to boost her confidence, but I'm not so sure now that was right call. I said, "Belle, you're so smart, talented, and pretty you'll have boys lining up in high school to be your boyfriend."

She winced, rolled her eyes and said, "Daddy. Awkwaaaaaaaard."

Almost as awkward as a new poll showing that, in Wisconsin, Packers Quarterback Aaron Rodgers is now more popular than Santa Claus or Mother Teresa.

I respect all three. But while Rodgers does a lot of charity work--especially for the American Family Children's Hospital with kids who have cancer--he shouldn't be more popular than the saintly Teresa. In fact, I can't believe I'm having this conversation, either. Then again, I never saw Mother T throw a 60-yard touchdown on the run.

As for Santa, I can see Rodgers being more popular. After all, Rodgers is a real person. And, he never got booed by Philadelphia Eagles fans.

At least Rodgers wasn't voted more popular than Abe Lincoln or Jesus.
We'll leave that to Denver fans' view of Tim Tebow. And, of course, the poll participants ranked their approval of THEMSELVES higher than all of the above. Talk about awkward.

2011-11-13T12:53:00.000-08:00

Thinking With His... Stomach

My five- and seven-year old kids have a new game they love to play. It's called "Something's Changed."

The person who is "It" spins around and the other players try to memorize how the person looks. When the person who's It leaves the room, s/he changes something about his/her appearance. The other players try to guess what has changed.

My wife was It, left the room, removed her socks, and declared, "Something's changed."

My five-year-old son, John, guesses, "You removed your nipple cover!"

He had been referring to her bra, of course, which thankfully was still in place.

My wife flexed her toes and said, "Um, no, that's not it."

I said, "John, this is a FAMILY game. Let's keep it clean."

I have no idea where he gets these notions, any more than I know where the party band LMFAO gets theirs.

Although, in John's case, research may have an explanation. An article in Psychology Today suggests that our moods are determined as much by our stomachs as our brains. Comfort food releases chemicals that make us happy.

That's certainly true for John, who is happiest when he eats. Like the time he giggled while placing a half gallon of milk upside down on the top of his head.

"John!" my wife scolded. "Put that back in the fridge. Where’s your brain?”

John shrugged and, in all seriousness, pointed to his tummy and said, “Here?”

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2010-12-05T16:56:00.000-08:00

When Life Gives You Lemons, Make Blog-onade

This week, the kids were in the car on their way to school. They buckled themselves but Belle, 6, didn't close her door on the sedan all the way. When Belle's mom pulled out of the garage, the door flung open and speared the side of the garage! The glass shattered and there was $2,000 worth of damage.

"Oops," Belle said.

Fortunately, everyone was OK. When my wife called me, I was taking my mother to the hospital for surgery out of town. I told my mom that the car v. garage accident was "All part of our elaborate plan to make you forget about your surgery!"

"It worked," my mom said.

We hired people to fix the car and the garage door, but I got creative fixing the drywall in the garage--I simply used one of Belle's stuffed animals for insulation:

We're expecting an energy-efficiency rebate from Uncle Sam any day now.

Today, my son John, 4, wore his black pirate hat and took out his telescope and declared, "Argh, I'm a pirate."

"OK, Pirate John," my wife said.

"Don't call me pirate--my name is John," he said.

"Do you have to go potty, John?" my wife said.

"Pirates don't go potty," John said.

"Do they wet their pants?" I asked. No wonder they had so many diseases.

"No," John said. "They sit down and say, 'Man overboard!'"

I'd hate to be in the row boat when that happens.

While I'm sure Belle would have LOVED to make her brother walk the plank, she was too busy being Rudolph and trying to perform a timeless Christmas carol. But even that went awry:

It was a tough week--dealing with a surgery, a car crash, home damage, a pirate who won't go potty and deer with a droopy nose--but we made the most of it. It's good to see the kids picking up on this outlook. For example, Belle's friend was sucking on ice from her drink. Belle said, "What are you doing?"

"Sucking ice," the friend said.

"Oh, OK," Belle said. "I won't tell anyone you suck."

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2010-07-18T11:00:00.000-07:00

Kids Meet NFL Players, Get Hugs!

The kids and I stood in line for an hour at the local zoo, waiting to meet Green Bay Packers Pro Bowl Receiver Donald Driver and Coach Edgar Bennett. It wasn't so bad, because the zoo keepers brought around animals for the kids to see while waiting. A parrot said "hello" to the kids.

John asked the parrot if he could say "Donald Driver." The parrot just stared. Must be a Vikings fan.

When the time arrived to meet Donald Driver, Belle gave him a picture she drew of him:

Donald loved it and said, "Thank you Darling," and gave her a hug!

Then Donald said to Johnny, "Hey kid, come here." Johnny turned and ran away screaming. Donald hadn't meant to scare him, and Johnny's just shy. So Donald pulled me out to exercise with him and the kids. Except Johnny didn't want to move. So I had to run in place while holding 50-pound John. Donald jokingly asked me to "get those knees up!"

Belle and the other 10 kids ran wind sprints with the Packers, and I had to run with Johnny on my shoulders. Luckily, Coach Bennett noticed my jersey -- bearing the name and number of Packers Quarterback Aaron Rodgers -- and asked me to run slowly to mimic the star QB. Bennett laughed and cheered my modest gait.

Most kids wore Packers gear, but of course there were two kids in Bears jerseys. Donald made them do twice the jumping jacks. The kids took it well and Donald was quite sporting with them afterward.

It was a lot of fun and well worth the wait. Speaking of waiting, later in the day the kids were playing with dolls and Belle said, "Daddy, we have five girls and one boy in our pretend family."

"And how many bathrooms are in your pretend house?" I asked.

"One," Belle said.

"Uh-oh," I said. That poor boy would do a lot of waiting in his pretend life.

"But Daddy," John declared, "the bathroom has five potties!"

2010-06-23T18:11:00.000-07:00

'Children' Sounds Strangely Like 'Collusion'

The other day, my kids worked their way into a circular vitriol. "Daddy, Belle's hitting me."

"No," Belle said, "Johnny's just trying to get me in trouble!" And on it went.

I explained to them that if they both kept their mouths shut, neither of them would get into trouble.

"We wouldn't?" said Johnny, who's four.

"It's called collusion," I said. "Can you say, collusion?"

They paused.

"Daddy," Johnny said, "Can we please keep our mouths open?" You wouldn't think I'd have to teach them the word collusion, since most kids seem to be born with an innate sense of how to act it out.

Like when they conspire to convince me to let them watch TV. "Daddy, can we watch Diego?"

"No John," I said, "we don't have a DVD player with us. After all, we're at the botanical gardens."

Five seconds later Belle chimes, "Now can we watch Diego?"

Maybe that's why collusion sounds so much like children; they're practically synonymous. "I'm sorry, Belle," I said, "but we're still at the botanical gardens." Never mind that it was 75 degrees and sunny and the plants and flowers were in full bloom.

The kids also have conspired to leave random objects in my clothing and shoes. The other day, I went five hours with a Disney princess doll dress stuck in the toe of my work shoe, wondering, "What the heck is that?"

Belle thought that was so funny, she decided to get crazy and wear her pants on her head and her shirt as pants. "Pants on the head, pants on the head... lookin' like a girl with her pants on her head!"

What can I say? The kids like to let their "freak flags" fly.

And not just with their clothes--with my clothes, too. I like to think I'm pretty fit. But John recently ran into the living room with a pair of my underwear and declared to the whole family, "Look at these FAT PANTS!"

Sometimes they intend to be funny. Other times not. Like when Belle was making clothes for her paper dolls. She cut a little too much and ended up with a tiny piece of paper. She held it up to her grandma and said, "Look, Grandma. I made a paper bra!"

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2010-04-23T12:10:00.001-07:00

What's My Name Again?

They say a parent starts losing his or her memory after having kids. Maybe it's the lack of sleep, I'm not sure. Or, it could be a typo, and it's really parents start losing their minds after having kids.

Fortunately, my kids recently tied strings of yarn around random objects throughout our house. And not just one or two objects. We're talking fifty or so.

Tie string around the refrigerator? Check. My shoes? Yep. Cell phone? No doubt. Ketchup bottle? How could you not?

If only I knew what they were trying to get me to remember. "You could remember to turn on your cell phone," my wife said sardonically.

At least my kids remind me how much they love me. Like yesterday, when my five-year-old daughter Belle said, "Daddy, I love you as much as my stuffed animal Kitty."

I frowned. "That's it?"

"Yep!" she said excitedly.

"Well, who would you miss more if you lost one of us -- Kitty or your daddy?"

"Kitty!" she giggled.

Thanks a lot, Belle.

She tried to console me. "I love you both, Daddy -- even you."

"Um, do you mean, 'I love you both -- especially you?"

Belle looked confused. "Something like that."

Worse, the kids already have me with one foot in the grave. Belle said to her brother: "Johnny, when you die you'll see our parents in Heaven."

Johnny said, "Will Mommy go to Heaven first?"

Belle: "No way, Daddy's definitely going first."

"Hmm," I scratched my head. What was I talking about again?

2010-03-28T17:34:00.000-07:00

Partly Clogging With a Chance of Mud Pies

Our furnace went out this week. Turns out the reason was my daughter Belle and her friend (both five years old) had chosen to use the furnace vent in the back yard as a mold for their mud pies.

The furnace guy found the problem, came into our house and said, "Um, do you have kids?"

Why yes, we do. And they love to dance:

Like Max from "Where The Wild Things Are," they also like to make mischief. My three-year-old son, Johnny, opened my desk drawer.

"Johnny..." I said. "What are you getting into?"

Johnny said: "Whatever is in there."

This weekend, we had fun with friends at the zoo. John asked, "Daddy, if I went in there, could that tiger eat me?"

"Yes," I said, "and I don't think he'd even have to chew."

John swallowed. "Oh."

Belle appreciated the sentiment. "You are my best daddy ever."

I said, "I am your only daddy ever."

Belle said: "You are my best only daddy ever."

She can be a real sweetheart. For example, I'm writing my second novel and my dream is to get published. Belle said, "Daddy, I love you even if you don't publish your book." How could a parent not melt?

Of course, the next day she said, "Daddy, it would be great if I could have a bigger room." Guess I better get writing.

2010-02-04T06:02:00.000-08:00

My Son: 'Dad, You're a Tool'

Parenting is a bit like being tickled under your armpits. If you don't invest yourself, if you resist taking the plunge into full involvement into your child's life, you become that guy who resists tickling by kicking and whining. Nobody has fun.

Kids know how to have fun. "If I went to a party with all grownups, that would be a disaster," my five-year-old daughter, Belle, said.

I took the family to the annual office party, held this year at a bar. Fortunately for Belle, there were other kids there to save her from the adults. At the party, I had fun playing pool. Except for the fact that as a pool player I'm . . . streaky. Inconsistent? OK, lousy. When my opponent turned out to be equally terrible, our game kept going and going because we couldn't sink more than one ball in a row.

After awhile, Belle walked by and said, "Daddy, you have been playing pool a loooooong time." I wish I could be great at billiards, but nobody said life is fair. Except for Belle.

"Let's be fair," she said. "I'll pick three books for bedtime and Johnny can pick none." Her brother, Johnny, is three.

"How's that fair?" her mommy said.

"Because we all get to listen to the books I picked."

I read them a book about dinosaurs. It explained that dinos lived more than 70 million years ago. Belle said, "Daddy, is that older than even you?"

Parenting isn't all fun and games. Sometimes, of course, discipline is in order. You have to know what buttons to press. For example, if Johnny had a cell number, it would be 1-800-BURGERS. So whenever he's naughty, his mom hits him where it hurts--his appetite. At first threat of denying food, he snaps right into line.

Sometimes I'm at a loss for whether to discipline the kids or roll with it. For example, is it bad when your daughter declares that lip balm is to be applied onto her Barbies' nipples? Her brother scratched his head at that one, a confused look on his face.

I found it especially interesting, given that Barbie dolls don't have nipples.

Then there was the time the kids were watching Handy Manny, a cartoon about a carpenter/ repairman who has animated tools that talk.

My son turned to me during the show and said, "Dad, you're a tool."

I've learned that, when parenting, life is short. Sometimes, you just have to throw your arms in the air and let the kids tickle your pits. Then, if only for a few moments, life is a kick.

2010-01-20T18:45:00.001-08:00

This Parent Could Use an Avatar

My kids were making art using pictures they'd cut out from magazines and pasted onto paper. They created some really neat collages--at first.

Then my five-year-old daughter, Belle, cut out a shampoo ad depicting several naked women strategically covering each other with appendages and bottles of conditioner. "Let's put it on the fridge!" she said.

To which her mommy responded, "Um, NO."

Not to be outdone, my three-year-old son cut out a picture of a woman in the shower from the thighs down. "Here Daddy, you can put this up in your office at work!" So much for our health insurance.

Belle pointed to a picture of Malificent, the evil queen from Sleeping Beauty:

Belle said, "Her skin is green because she never bathes." Clearly, that shampoo ad is working.

I need an advertisement that encourages my children to not fight. Don't get me wrong, they usually play very nicely. But they're also quite skilled at "pushing the right buttons" to annoy the hell out of each other when they get the itch.

Case in point: Belle bossed Johnny around incessantly on how to play with his toys and Johnny sighed, rolled with it and said, "OK, Belle." Eventually, he couldn't take the bossing any longer. Belle screamed, "Daddy, Daddy!" When I arrived in the bedroom, Johnny was sitting on her back, arms folded, grinning.

Of course, this isn't new. When I was a kid, my big brother used to sit on my back, rub my face in the carpet and giggle. He called the game, "Chris: Meet the Floor." We'd get reacquainted nightly.

Some days--when the kids are fighting, shoving random objects in the toaster and eating the leftover pizza only to put the crust and Tupperware back in the fridge--you feel like an Avatar stuck in Pandora:

You're jumpy, your butt hurts and it feels like the movie will never end.

These are the types of days when you put your children to bed early and almost immediately fall asleep. Before bed, Belle said, "This is the longest day of my life."

I said, "Why?"

She said, "Because it's the first day I've noticed."

2009-12-14T18:53:00.000-08:00

The Cure for the Hangover

With all the excitement on Christmas night, my three-year-old son, Johnny, couldn`t sleep.

"Want to snuggle with me?" I asked.

"Yes, Dada," Johnny said. He crawled into bed and promptly head-butted me. "OK Dada," he said, pulling the sheets up to his chin, "Now you get out."

He head-butted me again, and I felt a bit like the guys from The Hangover:

With all the presents, Johnny also didn`t quite make it to the potty, and instead settled for going No. 2 in his underwear while playing toys in the living room.

His mommy said, "Remember Johnny, where do you go potty?"

Johnny said, "On the floor in the living room."

At least he`s honest.

Meanwhile, my wife teased the kids that they didn`t get any lumps of coal. Our five-year-old daughter, Belle, said, "Mommy, you`re the silly Big Dipper."

During Advent, I tried to emphasize to the kids that it is better to give than receive, and that it was important to be on the Santa's Nice List. The kids did pretty well. Until we opened presents.

Then every time their uncle handed out a present that was NOT for Johnny, my son folded his arms, stuck out his lower lip, puffed out his cheeks and bent his brows into a "V."

"Dada, I`m SO mad," Johnny declared. "Look at my Mad Face!"

We all tried not to laugh, which of course just made the Mad Face more pronounced.

We finally made it through Christmas without anyone puking for the first time in three years. However, three days later, breakfast didn`t agree with me. I puked.

Belle made me a clay bracelet, "For you to feel better, Daddy." I felt better right away. Before bed, she approached me and said, "Do you feel all better, Daddy?"

"Yes, thanks. Your bracelet did the trick."

Belle said, "OK, but remember: Tomorrow when you have breakfast, don`t eat so many blueberries. Just do what I did, take enough to make a smiley face. You see, that way you know you won`t puke!"

"Thanks, Dr. Belle."

"You`re welcome."

Now, we don't have to worry about puking on New Year's Eve. Just eat a smiley face of blueberries and you're good. Happy New Year!

2009-11-20T16:58:00.001-08:00

Embarrassment and Buck Rogers' Love Child

My son, Johnny, has been learning to use the big-boy potty. On Thanksgiving, he sat down and said, "Dada, the seat's too cold." I blew warm air on it. He sat back down and said, "Ah, all better." What are dads for?

Answer: They're for embarrassing. On Friday, we were at a botanical garden with lots of respectable old ladies around. There are plenty of signs asking people not to touch the flowers or climb on displays. I told Johnny several times, "Follow directions."

A few minutes later, we were looking at orchids when Johnny said, "Daddy, follow erections! Follow erections!" Half the old ladies were appalled; the others slapped their knees.

Johnny also created snickers when he shouted at a store, "Daddy, I have a big one in my pants!" He, of course, was referring to the poop in his underwear.

My daughter, Belle, isn't to be outdone. She likes to tell her little brother in public, "Johnny, don't do that -- or SO HELP ME GOD..." a phrase I assure you she has NEVER heard from either of her parents. (OK, maybe once or twice.)

Fortunately, I'll even the Embarrassment Score when Belle and Johnny are teens who won't be seen with their dorky dad. Or, when they're dating someone who looks like the spawn of Rob Zombie, I'll show them this blog.

Speaking of scandals, everyone knows Dora the Explorer, right? But I bet you DIDN'T know Dora is actually the secret love child of Buck Rogers and his robot: Ah, to live is to suffer embarrassment.
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2009-11-01T18:12:00.000-08:00

The Meaning of Life -- In a Candy Bar

For Halloween, Johnny went as Winnie the Pooh. Belle went as Princess Belle.

As they trick-or-treated, older kids dressed in ghastly costumes approached. A big bully in a skeleton outfit approached little Johnny and roared in his face. Johnny didn't cry, didn't even say "Oh, bother." After the skeleton left, he sadly said, "Daddy, I don't like skeletons at Halloween. But I LOVE candy."

Leave it to Johnny to find the meaning of life while trick-or-treating.

Belle also became ensnared by an unexpected skeleton.
Poor Belle. At least that house gave out big candy bars and margaritas to the adults.

Johnny didn't let the creeps get him down.

2009-10-22T09:31:00.000-07:00

A Knight in Charmin Armor

My daughter, Belle, just turned five. My son, Johnny, is three.

They've recently taken to playing with dolls and action figures. My kids judge whether these figurines are "good" or "bad" depending on the state of each figurine's manners. In the following video, Johnny declares one of his action figures a "bad guy" because he has horrid manners:

And what could be worse than saying, "Gimme, gimme?"

Johnny said he wants to be a good guy, a knight in shining armor. Except, when he says it, it comes out "Knight in Charmin." Hmmm, speaking of Halloween...

Johnny is still working on getting out of diapers. The other day, he and Belle were playing with action figures and he filled his diaper.

Belle waved in front of her nose. "Pee-yew, Johnny," Belle said. "You're making my breath stinky."

Some of their figurines have dogs. Belle calls them all "Lily," which is the name of her grandma's dog. And all these figurine dogs have bad breath, just like Lily.

"Why do dogs have stinky breath, Daddy?" Belle said.

I decided to be truthful. "Because dogs lick their butts," I told her. Belle stared blankly at me. Meanwhile, Johnny spun and spun around for fun, giggling all the way until he thumped into the wall. Luckily, he bounced. It was reminiscent of the Great Gonzo from the Muppet Show.

I'm proud my kids have good manners, although sometimes it's displaced. For example, the other day Johnny extracted an entire meatloaf from the fridge, carried it into the living room and ate it like a Snickers bar. "Wanna bite, Daddy?" he said. We both discovered we could take eight bites and still say "Arrrgh!"

Yesterday, I folded the laundry and sorted it in neat piles on the living-room floor. Johnny walked through, knocking over half of the piles. I frowned at him. "What do you say, Johnny?"

"You're welcome," he said. Hey, at least he's polite.

2009-09-16T12:48:00.001-07:00

Parenting is Messy

Ever dispense hairspray toward your bouffant, only to have it squirt in your eye because some of the spray had caked onto the nozzle? That's what it's like having small children.

The other day, the kids found a puddle of mud in the backyard. Every kid should get to play in the mud; it's a blast. But the next thing I knew, I had mud on the fridge, sink, my pant leg and in my eye. My four-year-old, Belle, thought it was great. "It's like chocolate milk!"

My son, Johnny, jumped into his inflatable kiddie pool and did a face plant through the foot of muddy water and down to the bottom of the pool. He stood up with an entire side of his face suddenly purple. I thought, "OH MY GOD!" and braced for an ambulance ride.

Meanwhile, my wife laughed hysterically because she knew our daughter, Belle, had thrown a big piece of purple chalk into the pool earlier in the day, only to have it mostly dissolve before Johnny's face plant. Johnny wiped his face and I could see his hand print in the purple chalk on his face. I turned to my wife. "Very funny."

She slapped her thigh in hysterics.

Another example of my Hairspray Theory is when little kids "help." Last weekend, Belle was stirring dinner. "Daddy, I'd like you to check the recipe so I know ex-act-ly when to stop stirring."

"Just keep going," I said.

"Dad! It's important to stick to the recipe!"

"Belle, it's just rice."

"Oh."

We had southwestern chili with rice and it was delicious. Belle did a great job. And, before we ate, we prayed in thanksgiving for the food and offered prayers for kids who didn't have food to eat.

Belle said, "Or worse--kids who have no toys."

2009-08-30T18:37:00.001-07:00

Boom Boom Potty

Potty training is as much an art as it is a science. Some parents swear by letting their kids wear underpants or read a book about Elmo going potty. Some like to drop Cheerios in the toilet and have "target practice." None of these worked with our son, Johnny, so we had to improvise.

Recently, while he was trying to go potty, we listened to the song "Boom Boom Pow" by the Black Eyed Peas. He had success, and we celebrated.

Now, every time he goes potty, we play "Boom Boom Potty" on the laptop:

He booms, he pows--right in the toilet! Works every time.

Johnny's an innovative kid. For example, on Labor Day, we picked apples from our backyard tree and together made apple pie. Mmm... Then Johnny dumped the cinnamon on the floor and made "cin'mon angles."

He also invented a new Olympic sport by rubbing yogurt on his feet and "skating" across the kitchen. Like the Russian judges, I gave him a really low score. I know, I'm biased.

While we were recently camping with family, my wife tried to make a bonfire so we could toast marshmallows. Unfortunately, we couldn't get the fire to stay lit. My brothers came by and got it going by lighting birch bark.

My four-year-old daughter, Belle, said, "Thanks, guys, for helping us start the fire. Mommy's not an expert at that."

We had a lot more fun fishing. I didn't even have to put hooks on their lines. I simply tied a blue sailboat to the end of Johnny's line, and every time he reeled it in, he joyously celebrated catching a sailboat:

Belle and Johnny both fell off the pier while fishing, and my brother and I had to scoop them out. We were standing inches away, but they lost their balance so fast they fell in. Luckily, the kids wore their life jackets and weren't harmed.

Hey, at least we didn't let them teethe on a python:

Being a parent of young kids is almost enough to send you running for the hills. Or, at least, running after your bare-butted son as he sprints out the back door through the yard--with all the neighbors watching--and your family laughing at you as you try to track him down. That's NOT funny.

2009-08-08T11:46:00.001-07:00

A Parent's Post-Traumatic Stress

While I was recently changing my son John's diaper, he farted in my face. Twice. With no diaper on. I think I have post-traumatic stress.

It reminded me of Alfred Hitchcock's famous quote: "There is no terror in the bang, only in the anticipation of it."

However, with all due respect to Mr. Hitchcock, he never changed John's diaper.

I fear Cleaning Day at our house. Belle used to really protest when I'd ask her to clean up her room so I could vacuum the floor, but now she does it without prompting. In fact, last Cleaning Day, Belle came up with a song:

"Today's the day for Cleaning Day
Today's the day for showing respect."

I thought, Cool, nice start.

But then her song turned south. She opened the patio door, stepped out and sang at the top of her lungs:

"Wake up neighbors! It's Cleaning Day.
Come on over and clean my house!"

Those who have read this blog know Johnny, 3, is taller and heavier than his sister Belle, 4. He always says, “Belle, I’ll give you a gentle hug.” Except, for him, giving Belle a "gentle hug" is a little like a "gentle bombing."

Johnny negotiates like a used-care salesman: You try to make him a great offer, but he won’t listen until you start to leave.

John has taken to kissing girls. Before he does, he likes to say, "I'm gonna put my lips on you." Hey, at least he asks for consent.

Often while getting ready for bed, Johnny strips naked and dances like a sumo wrestler. He tries to say, “I've got nothing on my privates,” but instead says: “I've got nothing on my pirate!”

With times like these, it’s great to get nice notes from your kids. Belle recently made a card for my 10th wedding anniversary.

She said, “I love you no matter what I do, no matter what you do, even when I go to Heaven or the hospital. I love you Mom & Dad!”

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2009-08-02T17:52:00.000-07:00

Every Parent's Dirty Little Secret

There's a dirty little secret every parent knows but none will discuss: They all, at some point, get a kiss from their toddler while the kid's nose is leaking. I call this a Snot Sandwich. And, no matter how frantically you scrub your lips, you're doomed to get the kid's cold.

Luckily, I've found a solution:
My 3-year-old Johnny gave me a Snot Sandwich the other day. I had to digest this hoagie right as I was leaving for work--at a time when Johnny suffers separation anxiety. I struggled with this, like many young parents, but have found a solution for that, too.

I say, "Daddy's going to work to earn money to buy milk, videos and toys for YOU." Invariably, Johnny immediately ceases crying and cheerfully says, "OK, bye-bye." Then he skips away to his toys or the pool.

Every parent at some point thinks, "OK, kid, wait until YOU have children!" But this can be a dangerous thought. Recently, my 4-year-old daughter Belle walked up to me with her stuffed-Minnie Mouse under her shirt.

"Hey Dad? I'm having a baby in 5 minutes." A second later she said, "Ding, here's my baby. I'll call her Minnie."

Hey! Don't judge. It takes a village to raise a stuffed animal.

At least Belle did the right thing and got "married" the same day. I didn't even have to prompt her! She dressed in her mommy's skirt and a T-shirt. When asked who she was marrying, she said: "Myself." Hey, she's an independent woman. As Beyonce would say, "I depend on me."

Plus, Belle is already domesticated. She loves using the toilet brush to scrub toilets. She said, "I want to scrub toilets every day." Any takers out there? I wonder if she could pay her way through college...

Or maybe she could be a professional windsock:

Luckily, Belle's career options are open because she is pretty philosophical for a preschooler. For example, while preparing for bed at our house she said, "Let's clean up our toys. That's so novel."

My son has much more basic ideas at his age. For example, he was recently playing with his sister's dolls. He laid down next to them and declared, "Daddy, I want to sleep with AAAALLLLL the princesses!"

Belle decided she was going to give me a prince's haircut (which tells you something about her thoughts on my current hair style). "We're playing haircut, Daddy," she said, using two fingers as pretend scissors--first on my hair, then on my ears, nose and throat. Who knew I had a hairy throat? I thought my throat only felt hairy due to the cold I acquired from the Snot Sandwich.

I'm comforted by Nietzsche, who said, "He who has a 'why to live' can bear almost any 'how.'"

I think most parents immediately realize their kids are their why--but few, including me, realize before they become parents how much their progeny will one day become their how.

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2009-07-13T20:30:00.000-07:00

Testing Homeland Security

My family recently went on a vacation to Seattle. In the airport, I carried two car seats, a suitcase and two backpacks.
What did my kids carry? Nothing. Which allowed my three-year-old son, Johnny, to run through airport security, giggling with joy as he set off every possible alarm. The Homeland Security officers were quite patient, politely asking him to come back and walk through the metal detector again. As Johnny walked back through the detector, his four-year-old sister, Belle, said, "I smell something stinky."

"Is it John's diaper?" I asked.

John giggled as he ran through the metal detector again yelling, "I smell like meat" three times in a row. Fortunately, meat is not an illegal substance on an airplane. But shaving cream is. They made me toss a perfectly good bottle of Barbasol. As if I was going to lather my legs in order to commandeer the plane.

Johnny enjoyed riding the escalators at the airport. "Can we take the escamater again, Daddy? Can we, please?"

At least my kids are polite. They say please and thank you. But sometimes their vigilance for manners backfires, like when we were boarding our plane. "John, you bumped into me!" Belle scolded. "What-do-you say?"

Other passengers giggled.

I sat down in my seat on the airplane and Belle said, "Congratulations, Daddy." I thought, did she mean congratulations on not being arrested by Homeland Security? Congratulations on carrying a mini-van's worth of luggage to Concourse Z?

Oh no. Belle said, "Congratulations on loving me, Daddy." I think we need to work on her modesty.

So my kids are a little wild. We don't call them "Thunder and Lightning" for nothing. That's normal, according to novelist Stephen King. "Schizoid behavior is a pretty common thing in children," King said. "It's accepted, because we adults have this unspoken agreement that children are lunatics." Thank God my kids don't live in a remote hotel like the ones in The Shining:

Lately I've been trying to calm Johnny down by teaching him to meditate:

Unfortunately, he even meditates to the extreme. Maybe he'll participate in the X-Games some day.

So far, he has agreed to take proper safety measures, like wearing bike helmets and life jackets. He recently got a new Disney Cars life vest.

He liked it so much, he wore it all weekend in our house--just in case of a flash flood or plumbing accident.

Grandma sat on a bench between Belle and John and said, "I'll be the pickle in the middle."

John said, "and I'll be the strawberry."

As a parent, some days you're the strawberry, some days you're the pickle.

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2009-06-04T19:25:00.000-07:00

Knock-Knock. Who's There? A 3-Year-Old.

Jerry Seinfeld would love to have my kids open for his stand-up routine. Since most jokes by three-year-olds make absolutely no sense, Mr. Seinfeld would seem that much funnier. Here's one of Johnny's favorites:

OK, I admit there's a stench to that joke. But nothing compared to the odor Johnny created when he clogged the toilet, flushed it, and it overflowed. Johnny grabbed the plunger and wildly plunged. Toilet water sprayed everywhere. I wrestled the plunger from Johnny. My daughter, Belle, cried.

As I cleaned up the bathroom, Johnny declared: "Let's get drinking!" I wasn't sure what he meant, but I hoped he wasn't referring to the toilet water. Like a sorority sister, Belle chimed, "Yeah, John, let's drink!" Johnny and Belle hoisted their milk cups in unison and chanted, "Drink, drink, drink!" And people wonder why Wisconsin is always No. 1 in binge drinking? It's in our genes, man.

My wife is from the east coast. She deals with frustration by saying things like, "For the love of God!" The other day, I was disciplining Johnny by placing his stuffed animals on the fridge each time he misbehaved. By the third stuffed animal, Johnny said, "For the LOVE of God, Daddy!" I couldn't help laughing.

As a parent, I often don't know whether to laugh or cry. Like yesterday, Johnny decided he could make cinnamon toast. Except that what he thought was cinnamon was actually black pepper:

Preschoolers are the spice of life.

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2009-04-16T07:55:00.000-07:00

Ready for American Idol

My two-year-old, Johnny, recently started singing "Shake Your Groove Thing."

And he already knows how to exit stage right before Simon Cowell can critique him!

Still, Johnny has some maturing to do before he hits Hollywood. For example, the other day he picked his nose and said, "Daddy, I get burgers from my nose."

"Don't you mean boogers, John?" I said.

"Not burgers, Daddy. Cheeseburgers."

The other day, I sat down with Johnny to explain it was finally warm outside. And, of course, he insisted on wearing his heaviest flannel jammies. To the store. So we went to Target and a woman walked by, looked at Johnny and his older sister, Belle, and said: "I love it, it's spring and the girl's in her Christmas dress and the boy's in his flannel jammies."

Johnny still isn't *quite* potty trained. He's close. But once in awhile, he'll sneak into Belle's room and suddenly get quiet. Really quiet. The other day I interrupted him sitting in Belle's room, wincing.

"What are you doing, John?" I asked him.

"Pooping," he said, luckily still with diaper on.

"John, don't we poop in the potty?" I asked.

"No, I poop in Belle's room!" he said.

Let's face it, sometimes our best attempts at parenting turn out like this:

Lately, though, he has been getting better at using the potty. We're so close I can smell it!

Belle's learning to overcome her fears. "Daddy, that blanket downstairs looks scary," she said. "It scared my pants away."

Neither kid is afraid to share their developmental progress, either. John took the phone while I was talking to my brother and declared, "Uncle Jay, I have my wallet and I have my clothes on. Love you, bye."

Belle's so mature at age 4 she's already joining the Women's Lib movement. She was pretending to be a princess and pretending John was a frog. She kissed him to turn him into a prince, thought about it then declared, "Nah, I turn you back into a frog."

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2009-03-12T06:17:00.000-07:00

'I Lick the Toilet, Daddy!'

The other day my two-year-old son, Johnny, ran into the bathroom yelling, "I lick the toilet Daddy! I lick the toilet!" I sprinted after him and snatched him before he could make good on his promise.

See, Johnny is an extrovert, so everything he *thinks* becomes what he *says* the instant he *thinks* it. Like, "I climb the stove!" at the very moment he tries to scale Mt. Kenmore. Or the time he yelled, "I go potty!" during the quiet part of church.

This say-it-as-I-think-it tendency has become especially dangerous as he learns new words. Especially when he has NO idea what the word means. For example, he recently took off his diaper and chased his big sister, Belle, in circles around the living room while shouting, "I need privacy!" over and over. Belle, running, said, "Then goooo a-waaay!"

As you can imagine, our household typically sounds like a zoo. If the kids skip their naps, it sounds like this:

http://www.rallymonkey.com/oldvideo.php

Which is why I like to put my kids to bed early on those days, pour myself a cold beverage and watch this video:

In the morning, my hair looks like Paul Simon's... by bedtime, Art Garfunkel's.

Don't get me wrong, I love my son Johnny, and introverts are no piece of cake to raise, either. My introverted daughter, Belle, might stop to think about what she says longer than her brother--but that just gives her more time to scheme.

For example, the other day she said, "Daddy, I need a pair of pants. Will you pick me out a pair?"

I said, "You're a big girl, how come you don't pick out some?"

"I want it to be a surprise," she said. "I LOVE surprises!"

So I pick her a blue pair and present them to her.

She frowned. "But those are NOT the surprise pants I wanted, Daddy! I wanted the brown pair!"

That's right, she's already picking her own fashions; she's 4 years old going on 16. And, just when I was relieved she was still watching cartoons and not America's Next Top Model...

...she looked at me in the middle of her favorite show, Go Diego Go!, and said: "Oh Daddy, Diego is sooooo HANDSOME!"

I'm like, wha-wha-whaaaat?

Before I could mentally recover, Johnny said, "I grab Daddy's cell phone!"

I'm inventing a new drink: The Vodka Garfunkel.

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2009-03-03T09:32:00.000-08:00

My Daughter Would Make a Crappy Santa

--The other day, my daughter, Belle, approached me wearing a Santa mask. (When is it not Christmas to a 4-year-old?) "What do you want for Christmas?" Santa Belle asked.

"I want you and your brother to get along," I said.

Santa Belle paused then said: "Santa can't make it this year."

Belle's performance as Santa was matched only by her rendition of a Belle-ephant doing tricks, a role she had in the preschool play:

Who knew elephants wore fairy dresses and said "TA-DAAA!" during their tricks?

Her brother, Johnny, who's almost 3, has learned new tricks lately, too, now that he's tall enough to reach every stereo in the house.
He cranks The Beatles like he's 16.

Johnny also recently discovered how to self-administer a face wash:

To Grandmother's House We Go
Recently, we took a trip to grandma's house and stayed overnight. Johnny slept in his little tent and woke up in the morning saying, "Where me? Where me? I OK. I OK!" I went running in to comfort him.

The next night, I fell asleep watching TV with my wife. She got up and went to bed and turned off the lights. I woke up about midnight in the Lay-Z-Boy, looked around in the dark and said, "Where me? Where me? I OK. I OK!" But nobody ran in to comfort me.

Having 'The Talk'
Now that Belle is 4.5 years old, she can carry a fairly normal conversation. Emphasis on fairly.

"How old are you, Daddy?"

"I'm 33."

"Being 30's not so bad," Belle counseled.

"It's not?"

"No," she said. "When I'm 30, I'm going to still live with you."

"OK," I said, "as long as you don't start dating until you're 30."

Belle broke into laughter. "You're funny, Daddy! Hold out your hand, I have something for you."

I complied. "What is it?"

She set it in my palm. "Dirt from my nose."

2009-01-06T17:09:00.000-08:00

His Future's So Bright, He's Gotta Wear a Potty Seat

Parents often worry about their children's progress: Is little Suzie walking soon enough? Is Billy growing at an expected rate?

I worry because my two- and four-year old act like orangutans in our kitchen, literally climbing on the table and swinging from the light fixture as soon as I turn my back.

Then again, maybe it's not so bad to be a trained orangutan. Look what they can do!

Maybe those talents will pay for my retirement...

Another clear sign of intelligence recently came from my two-year-old, Johnny. He ran out of the bathroom with his trainer-potty seat on his head declaring himself "King, king!"

While some college students can't even declare a major, Johnny already has lofty career goals. Clearly, with that foresight, his future's so bright! And with a potty seat, who needs shades?

He also needs a hair cut. His hair in the back for some reason is naturally growing faster than the front. I'd hate for him to end up with a power mullet like this Texas Longhorns football player:

Yikes. But who needs talent or a college degree when you have super powers, like the ability to fly, according to this demonstration by Johnny and his sister, Belle:
Never mind that their version of "flying" looks more like dogs visiting their favorite hydrant.

What I've learned from parenting, though, is that the immense love you feel for your progeny outweighs all the death-defying trapeze acts they might try. (Even if you feel like a safety net by the end of the day.)

Because, as Belle told me: "Daddy, I mortally love you."

2008-11-01T19:01:00.000-07:00

A Frightful Night

As previously reported on this blog, my two-year-old son, Johnny, was mortally afraid of his Winnie the Pooh costume. On Halloween, we did get him to try it on:

But he wasn't too happy about it:

So it was time for Plan B. Johnny, like his daddy, LOVES the Green Bay Packers, especially Quarterback Aaron Rodgers, so he happily went as the future Hall of Famer:

This is further proof that all good Packer fans pooh-pooh the bears.

Above: I dressed up as Captain Jack Sparrow while Belle went as TinkerBelle and Johnny as Green Bay Packer Aaron Rodgers.

2008-10-12T19:21:00.000-07:00

Stages of Change

Rehab counselors say that, sometimes when you're trying to help an addict recover, you have to accept that he or she will probably reject you at first. Then later, perhaps, they'll come around to listening about getting help. I think that's equally true with toddlers.

My four-year-old, Isabella, remembers everything I say. For example, the other day I said, "Belle, please don't run with the toothbrush in your mouth." She kept running, of course. "Belle, you could fall, get a big owie. You don't want to go to the hospital, do you?"

"Yes, I want to go to the hospital!" Belle said, running into her room and slamming the door in my face. That reminded me of Amy Winehouse singing, "They tried to make me go to rehab, but I said no, no, no." >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Two nights later, her little brother Johnny is running with a toothbrush in his mouth, and Belle grabs him and says, "Johnny, don't run with your toothbrush. You don't want to go to the hospital, do you?" It was like our own little Toothbrush Runners Anonymous.

Baby Crack
Speaking of addictions, my two-year-old Johnny is especially calcified to his pacifier. We've weened him down to having it only while sleeping. But he knows it's in his crib, so he'll climb in there to get a hit of the nuk.

"John, get out of there," I say.

My mom's on the phone and she asks, "What's going on over there?"

"Johnny wants his nuk," I say. "It's like baby crack."

Johnny runs by giggling and repeating "baby crack, baby crack, baby crack!"

Belle's addiction is singing and dancing. Here's a sample:

'My Arm Got Stuck'
Belle has other interesting interests. At her recent birthday party she turned four. Belle invited her good friend, and that friend's mom breastfeeds her baby.

So after the party, Belle goes to bed. A few minutes later, I hear Belle screaming and run into her bedroom expecting to see that she fell out of bed or had a terrible nightmare.

"What's wrong, Belle?"

"My arm's stuck in my shirt!" she says.  Indeed, her right arm is stuck in the place where her neck should be.

I help her get unstuck.  "How'd that happen, Belle?"

"I was breast-feeding Minnie Mouse and my arm got stuck."

2008-07-27T09:19:00.001-07:00

Minnie-mizing the Pain

All parents know that bedtime doesn't really happen like it's portrayed on TV -- moms and dads laying down their half-asleep progeny then serenely gliding to the door for one more glance at their sleeping cherubs. No, bedtime is usually riddled with "I'm not tired" and "I don't WANT to go to bed!"

My kids take it a step further. For example, to avoid going right to sleep, my three-year-old Belle asks, "Can I talk to my sleeping friends?" It's her own virtual slumber party with her stuffed animals like Minnie Mouse.

I say "Yes, you may have a slumber party with Minnie as long as you don't wake your brother," Johnny, who's two. Some nights I've seen Belle looking out the window and waving to neighbors who pass by the house. I've asked her not to do that, so she has been getting more savvy with her questions.

She takes a deep breath and asks, "Daddy, can I talk to my sleeping friends for five minutes quietly while laying down and not looking out the window?"

"Yes," I say.

One day last summer, my wife and I put the kids to bed and then I go outside to mow the lawn. Belle looks out the window to watch me while she's supposed to be sleeping.

I spot her.

She ducks. Her eyes peek up over the windowpane and I signal her to lay down and go to sleep.

A few seconds later, I see Minnie Mouse's ears and eyes peek up over the window pane.

Minnie watches the rest of the time I'm mowing, until I walk over to the window and say, "Minnie, go to sleep."

Cheesy Tactics
The next morning, Belle says, "Can I have a cheesy omelet?"

"We're out of eggs," I say. "But you can have some of my breakfast."

"What are you eating?" Belle says.

"Oatmeal."

Belle says, "Would you like some cheesy omelet?"

Juggling Johnny
Later that day, we go grocery shopping. The next morning, Johnny decides to take up juggling. His first practice items? The new eggs from the fridge.

"No, Johnny!" I exclaim.

Belle consoles me. "Daddy, I still love you all the time. And we're going to be friends forever. Because we're not strangers."

We clean up the eggs. Now if I can only get Johnny to try on his new Winnie the Pooh costume. It's warm, fuzzy and cute.

But he's mortally afraid of it. When he sees it, he sticks his head under the coach.

Looks like this Halloween the trick will be on me.

2008-06-26T05:21:00.000-07:00

De-Pants'ed in McDonalds

I have a most eventful family vacation to share with you.

So my wife and I drive from Wisconsin to New York with our daughter, Belle, 3, and our son, Johnny, 2. The first thing that happens on this 22-hour sojourn (uphill over the Poconos both ways) is that we get rear-ended. We yield--the other motorist doesn't. She smashes into the back of our minivan.

Our Sienna is drivable and nobody is hurt, thank God. But we can't open the rear latch the ENTIRE TRIP.
We had packed everything we needed the most near the rear latch. I think I might have been better off dead.

I'm kidding, off course, because had I died, I wouldn't have gotten to enjoy my children getting the flu en route, barfing during stop-and-go construction. Happy Father's Day!

On Father's Day, Belle says, "Daddy, I love you because you fix my stuff." Unfortunately, I can't fix her flu. When we see our relatives, Belle walks in and says, "We were in a BIG car accident. How do you like my new shoes?"

But times like these are supposed to make you appreciate what's truly important, right? I think Belle's getting the hang of it. To wit:

"We have to take care of Johnny," Belle says. "Because he's my only brother. If we lost him, we'd have to buy a new one!"

We have fun on the trip, though. Belle loves wearing her fancy silver dress during her Aunt Jessie's wedding:
And little Johnny gets the Academy Award for Best Impression of Tony Soprano:
But it's great seeing family. And who can't enjoy 10 stops at McDonald's?

Let's face it, when you have two kids under age four in the car for 44 hours--including four hours in a lightning storm/flash flood near Chicago--you have to get the kids all the exercise in PlayPlace they can get.

Even if it means choking down another Happy Meal. So I order the fast food and I'm walking toward PlayPlace in McDonald's holding two drinks. Belle comes running up to me yelling, "Daddy, pick me up! Pick me up!" Before I can explain that I can't while holding drinks, she jumps up and grabs me around the waist with her arms and legs. I'm wearing jogging pants and boxers. So when Belle slides down my waist and legs like a firefighter, my McPants and McUnderwear go with her.

There I am, de-pants'ed in McDonald's. I'm not "loving it." A random grandma and four kids go screaming into PlayPlace.

Does Belle apologize? No. She says, "Daddy, I have to go potty."

So we retreat to the men's bathroom. It's small, so there's just one urinal and one stall. There's a man peeing in the urinal but the stall's open, so I take Belle in there.

"Daddy, I'm a girl, so I don't use a urinal," Belle says.

"That's right," I say.

Urinal Man chuckles.

"I'm a girl, so I use the potty," Belle continues.

"Uh-huh."

"And when I become a boy, I'll use a urinal."

Now Urinal Man is downright cackling.

"And when I turn back into a girl, then I'll use a potty again."

The things kids learn on vacation.

2008-05-11T10:35:00.001-07:00

My Kids are Almost Adults -- Or Something

My son Johnny just had a birthday and I asked his big sister, Belle, how old he is now.

"Two-and-a-half," she declared.

"Close, he's two," I said.

"Right, two," Belle. "And do you know who's going to have a birthday in October?"

"Who?" I said.

"Me! I'm going to be four! I'm going to be an adult, or something."

She may not be an adult, but she sings and plays the "Dora the Explorer" theme song on the piano pretty well for a three-year-old:

Once, while playing piano, she got so excited she fell right off the bench.

Johnny gets pretty excited when I get home from work. He basically does a Big-Ten-Marching-Band high step. I call it the Johnny Happy Dance:

Belle, like many kids, gets her share of bumps and bruises. So I bought her one of those new Winnie the Pooh ice packs. It's genius: Soft, non-toxic, supposedly resists freezer burn. I saw it as a key part of our first aid. Belle, of course, saw it as a key part of her toy chest. She kept making up "owies" to try to get it from the freezer.

When her mommy said, "You have to have a legitimate owie to get the Winnie the Pooh ice pack," Belle immediately ran head-first into the wall to get it.

A few minutes later, she passed gas. "Daddy, sometimes when people toot, it feels REALLY good."

2008-05-04T18:08:00.000-07:00

Going to the 'Beauty Salon'

It seems to happen at some point in every kid's life: Cutting one's own hair in such a way that it looks like a drunk gardener styled it with hedge trimmers.

My three-year-old daughter, Belle, was playing with a six-year-old friend when they discovered some misplaced scissors. Her friend offered to help Belle play "beauty salon." Before that, she had bangs and long hair. Afterwards, she had no bangs and a chunk of hair missing from the middle of the back of her head. It was a sort of reverse-mohawk.

"I LOVE it!" Belle declared. Her mommy didn't, and immediately took her to a friend's house to have a stylist fix it. Belle now has a Beatles mop. Belle loves the Beatles, and her hair. She pulls it off.

Belle has been asserting herself more and more lately. Like the other day when I asked her to clean up some toys before going to the park.

"Daddy," she said, "stop being so naughty. You have to know the truth. If you don't come to the park right now, I'm going to get in the mini-van and drive away!"

"Oh really?" I said. "How about I count to three and then you clean up your toys first?"

"I'm coming," she said hurriedly.

Most people are in such a rush these days, even kids. Belle always wants to "beat" her little brother, Johnny, to get her shoes on before him.

"It's not a race," I told her. After all, Johnny just drools while I put his shoes on for him. Then he says "Shoes! Dance!" over and over like the refrain to "It's a Small World."

"I know it's not a race," Belle said.

"Good, that's settled then," I said.

"It's not a race, but I won," she declared. "I really won."

"Huh?" I said.

"I won the not-a-race," she said.

2008-03-28T18:33:00.000-07:00

Top 5 Recent Kid Quotes

Here are five recent kid quotes I thought you'd enjoy.

5) My 3-year-old daughter, Isabella:

"Daddy, chili will make your heart clammy. It gives you a stomy ache."

4) Isabella:
"A pig is as sullen as a turtle."

3) Isabella:
"Daddy, I ate dinner instead of having a hissy fit."

2) Sometimes, it's what my 1-year-old son Johnny DOESN'T say:
When we accidentally left his blanky with a relative, we gave him what we thought was his "backup" blanky. Johnny promptly put that imposter in "timeout."

1) Isabella, after running head-first into a wall:
"Daddy, we need to move that wall!"

2008-02-13T09:37:00.000-08:00

I Think I Need a Shrink

The other day someone suggested I should see a psychologist. She’s probably right.

Who wouldn’t after spending 45 minutes at the pediatrician's office, alone in a small patient room with a three-year-old and a one-year-old? It's one thing to be home with your full defense arsenal -- books, toys, Dora videos and straight jackets. But the doc's office? It's like being behind enemy lines.

First, an intern came in to assess my one-year-old son Johnny’s cold then declared he had to go get the pediatrician for a second opinion because, well, he's an intern. Nobody believes him. By then I had no diapers and Goldfish rations ran out.

“Daddy, I have to go potty,” says Belle, my three-year-old daughter. So I lug my sick son – who, at 18 months is already as tall and heavy as his big sister – and Belle to the rest room. I look for a nurse or pediatrician to inform them where we’re going so we don’t miss a turn, but it’s a ghost town. Maybe they heard us coming? ("Quick, hide in the toxic waste bin!")

Back in the patient room, Johnny lunges for the used syringe disposal box while Belle jumps onto the doc's stool-on-wheels, coasting and spinning across the room, tongue hanging out like a dog in a convertible.

Johnny is screaming and Belle’s giggling. Johnny figures out how to open the door and run down the hall. Now Belle’s REALLY giggling.

After carrying Johnny back into the room like a riot cop pacifying a protestor, Belle begins running in circles in the room singing, “Fishing down the escalator, fishing down the escalator...” Now there’s something out of a psychedelic M.C. Escher rendering.

After about 20 minutes of that, I stick my head in the pediatrician’s sink to get a thorough rinse. Or was that my children dunking me?

I tried to cope by discussing with Belle and Johnny the elect-ability of Hillary versus Obama, or what free agents the Packers, Bears and Cowboys might sign this off-season. “The McCain-Feingold Bill,” I said to them. “Discuss.”

Johnny and Belle stared blankly at me for a second then went back to reaching for the stethoscope on the desk.

I can see my psychologist now, holding up an ink blot and asking, "When you see this, do you visualize a moth… or your son jumping off the patient table?"

I suppose I can look on the bright side. Maybe the shrink will publish my case study in the APA’s next edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM).

It would probably read something like:

“Symptoms indicate post-traumatic stress and separation from reality. Diagnosis: Just-Took-The-Kids-To-The-Doctor-And-Got-Left-45-Minutes Syndrome.” Text book.

2008-01-07T19:20:00.000-08:00

Strawberry Dances Forever

My three-year-old daughter, Belle, loves to sing and dance about pine cones and strawberries. She composed it all herself.

When I clapped for her performance, she said, “You’re welcome.”

I’d like to think she enjoys singing because of me. After all, I’ve been singing to her every night before bed. Yet these days she says, “Please, Daddy, can you not sing?”

Only took her three years to figure out Daddy played drums in school.

Nice Taste
On Christmas, Belle tried to talk her little brother Johnny into giving her all his presents. She’d look at her brother’s gift and rationalize, “That’s my present because it’s red and I’ve got red on my dress!”

Johnny outfoxed her. Remember that VW auto commercial where the guy wants the car in the lot so much that he’s willing to lick the handle of the door so other customers won’t want it?

Johnny licked his presents so Belle wouldn't want them. It worked.

One Flu Over the Cuckoo's Nest
I felt lugubrious this Christmas when Belle got the flu. At one point, she winced and said, “Daddy, I have the angries in my tummy.”

After about 24 hours, she said, “Daddy, can I paint?”

“No,” I said. “Your brother is awake and he’ll lick the paint.”

“Can you put my brother to bed?”

“It’s 10 a.m.," I said. "I guess you’re feeling better.”

2007-12-06T09:40:00.000-08:00

You Gotta Know When to Fold Underpants

My three-year-old daughter, Belle, has started to “read” the mail. Which basically amounts to pretending to read but really making it all up. The other day, she opened a piece of junk mail and read it to me. She got excited.

“It’s for me!" Belle said. "It says:

‘Dear Belle,

When you’re big, there’s always underpants and sheets to fold.

Sincerely,
Dora.’”

I folded my arms and looked at her. She’s always rubbing it in that she’s on Dora’s Christmas list. “Name dropper,” I said.

Belle—err, “Dora”—has a point, in that there are always chores waiting for you. Like last Sunday, Belle banged on our entertainment center. “Belle, do you mind?” I said.

She continued to pretend to fix it. “I need to get the screws loose.”

I looked up at the ceiling, sighed. “Well, you've already made my screws loose."

At least she’s getting to the age where she wants to help. She grabs my snow shovel with all her 27-pound might and grunts along with me. It’s moral support.

And that’s a lot better than when Belle and her 18-month brother, Johnny, are trying to jimmy the child lock on the knife drawer. I feel like I should just make a tape recording of myself saying “Belle, be careful… John, be careful… Belle, be careful…”

You know, kinda like the tape recording Ferris Bueller made to trick his school principal into thinking he was actually sick in bed when really he was leading a parade down the middle of Chicago.

Speaking of famous cities, Johnny recently pretended he was on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, putting his handprint into the I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.

Then he ran up to me and gave me a “kiss” on my nose and upper lip. His mouth was wide open, his drool hung to the floor and greenish-yellow ectoplasm dripped out his nose. I can't believe I got slimed!

Belle once ruminated about noses. She said: “Did you notice there are two holes in them where you can dig?”

Folding underpants never sounded so good.

Copyright Christopher Hollenback, 2007, all rights reserved.

2007-11-13T19:42:00.000-08:00

They’re Playing My Song

Most people have a song with which they identify. Like when Aunt Delores hears her song, “Baby Got Back,” at a wedding and jiggles across the dance floor.

For my one-year-old son, Johnny, that song is the Our Father. That’s right. Not the "Hokey Pokey." Not "Bust A Move." The prayer, set to music, like in church. For some reason, when Johnny hears “Our Father,” he reacts like Pavlov’s dog and dances as if he “art in Heaven.” I have video evidence:

All In Good Taste
The other day, my daughter Belle said, "Daddy, I think Johnny likes Simon and Garfunnnklllrrlll."

Poor Art Garfunkel. Tallest man in rock history and always the shortest end of the stick.

Young children cement my belief that there’s something intrinsic to good music. Sure, everyone has musical taste. Sure, parents indoctrinate their children. But there are timeless songs that can’t be denied.

It’s fun to put on a classic like “All You Need Is Love” and watch even little kids stop what they’re doing and perk up, like a rabbit who heard you open a screen door.

I read a Rolling Stone article about a researcher who discovered mathematical similarities to hit melodies by Mozart, U2, Bach, The Beatles and others. Can you see Bono in one of Mozart’s wigs?

Bonzart.

Johnny has never heard "Amazing Grace." But I bet when he does, he'll bust a move from “Flashdance.”

2007-10-31T16:41:00.000-07:00

Neighbors Give 'Dirty Chocolates' to Tinker Belle on Halloween

by Chris Hollenback

This Halloween, my one-year-old son, John, dressed up as Charlie Brown. To make the costume truly authentic, we drew the jack-o-lantern design on the back of his bald head like Lucy does to Charlie Brown in "The Great Pumpkin." Lucy wants to practice before actually carving the pumpkin, and this gave us some practice for ours, too.

Clearly, John has a future in male modeling.

Meanwhile, my daughter, Belle, who just turned three, dressed as Tinker Belle. She wasn't happy when I drew the jack-o-lantern on John. "Daddy!" she reprimanded. "Mommy said we're not supposed to draw on John."

Luckily my wife stood up for me. "That's just for his costume, Belle. It's special for Halloween."

"And I don't use permanent marker," I added. "This will wash off in less than four weeks."

Belle threatened to cry several times because her antennae wouldn't stay on. (Sound familiar, parents?) But the promise of candy quickly turned her around. She and John scored some good loot from neighbors. Belle kept pointing to hers.

"Look, Daddy, I have Snickers!"

"Actually, those are Ghirardelli chocolates," I said.

"Yes," she said, "Dirty-ol-chocolates."

"No, Ghirardelli chocolates."

"Right, dirty-ol-chocolates."

There's no shaking her conviction--kinda like when people stubbornly voted for Walter Mondale.

Tinker Belle's like Linus, who sits in the pumpkin patch, patiently waiting for the Great Pumpkin to rise up and bring dirty-ol-chocolates to all the girls and boys.

She'll always believe Snoopy has great taste for fine sweets.

Oct. 2006 Post: A Trick or Treat?

2007-10-15T19:43:00.000-07:00

Top 10 Things I’ve Learned From My Two-Year-Old:

10) It's no big deal to scoop leftover soggy Cheerios back into the cereal box. They'll dry.

9) It is possible to remove five rolls of toilet paper from inside the toilet bowl – try salad tongs.

8) If you’re pushing a toy stroller into the legs of your parents, it's OK as long as you say “Scuse me, scuse me!” while you’re doing it.

7) Little brothers can't possibly break, even if you whack them with brooms.

6) Daddies make excellent napkins.

5) How do you get sooooo big? “Eat Skittles!”

4) Mittens are required while eating a popsicle, even indoors.

3) Toddlers are obsessed with grabbing the “hockey puck” in urinals.

2) When do two-year-olds learn to poop in the big potty? “When I learn how to drive, Daddy," mine said.

1) And the number-one thing I’ve learned from my two-year-old is what she said to my friend when he arrived at our house last weekend: "Don’t forget to wipe!”

2007-09-30T13:04:00.000-07:00

Contrary to Popular Belief

By Christopher Hollenback

When my wife catches our kids doing something naughty, she often says, “Did Daddy say you could flush paper down the toilet?”

The kids, of course, never asked me. It's always easier to beg forgiveness. But my daughter, Belle, will immediately come find me and ask, “Daddy, did you say it was OK to flush paper down the toilet?”

“Um, no.”

Belle then scuttles back. “Mommy, Daddy said 'no.' He didn’t say it was OK.”

I wouldn’t teach my daughter naughty stuff. Well, at least not intentionally. She has learned a few new words when her Daddy’s favorite football team screws up.

My wife has a master’s degree in education, so she teaches the kids a plethora of positive lessons.

Belle recently described one. “Daddy, Mommy taught me to keep my pants on. She also taught you to keep your pants on.”

I wish my daughter could keep her pants on when she wants to go to the park. “Daddy, let’s go. Let’s goooo.” We’re blessed to have two parks nearby. I suggest to Belle that we go to the park to the right of our house.

“No, I want to go to the one to the left." It’s nice that she knows her directions. But it’s frustrating when she disagrees for the sake of disagreeing.

“You’re so contrarian,” I said to her.

“No, I’m Belle.”

2007-08-28T10:17:00.000-07:00

Bobbing for Game Boys

Every once in awhile a parent experiences a moment of true bliss. One happened the other day while I’m pushing the stroller with my two kids. The sun’s shining, I'm running, the stroller’s zooming and the kids are cackling with glee.

Other days aren’t so great. Like the one I had last week. I’m getting a bath ready for my kids when I hear a splash in the toilet. Every parent dreads that sound.

I turn around and realize that my one-year-old son, Johnny, thought it would be fun to dunk his cousin’s Game Boy in the toilet. All I hear in my head is the sound of Pac-man meeting his demise.

Johnny’s big cousin was about as pleased to see his Game Boy submerged as my daughter Belle when she got a splinter. My brother-in-law, a pediatrician, volunteers to pull the splinter with a tweezers. Belle, who's almost 3, isn’t convinced her uncle is qualified for the procedure. Let’s face it, he’s not a surgeon.

“Don’t cut me, I’m a big person!” Belle’s sweating pickles until her uncle pulls it out.

Irritable Bedtime Syndrome
Belle was almost as sweaty as I was at bedtime the other night. My wife is working while I’m putting the kids to bed. Problem is, I suddenly have an attack of Irritable Bowel Syndrome, similar to Ben Stiller’s in the movie Along Came Polly.

Except, instead of Jennifer Aniston waiting for me on a date, I’m holding Baby Johnny as he falls asleep. The next two minutes, which seem like two hours, go like this:

Johnny finishes his bottle… my stomach churns.
His eyes droop… I start sweating.
His eyes shut… I lay him down and sprint to the bathroom.
Belle walks by. “Is Daddy making a stinky?”

Not as stinky as Belle’s socks. I purchase a brand new pair, pull them on her feet and they’re too small. I return them, pull the correct size on her feet. Not 30 seconds later, she walks up to me, holding her sock like an archaeologist with a career find. “I stepped in hamster poop, Daddy.”

I’ve learned to roll with such sock incidents. I have more trouble when she comes running up in her underpants, sits in my lap with a book and says, “Daddy, I’m going potty.”

Time for Johnny to dunk my shorts in the toilet.

2007-07-27T11:05:00.001-07:00

What Happens In Tennessee...

I went with my wife and kids to a week-long family reunion in Tennessee with my in-laws. Great folks. Great time. My two-year-old daughter, Belle, learned a lot on the trip. For example, we’re walking up a path to a waterfall in the Smoky Mountains and Belle sees her Uncle John.

“What are Uncle John and [his girlfriend] Megan doing?” Belle asks.

Fortunately for me, they were just holding hands.

“Do you think they like each other?” Belle asks.

“Sure seems that way,” I say.

“Think they’ll keep holding hands?" she says.

“Probably. Your Uncle John really likes her.”

“I like Megan, too,” she says sweetly, one finger in her mouth and swinging her other arm.

Belle sees an inchworm and we examine it for awhile. The inchworm “stands” up at one point, sticking its body up in the air.

Belle tries to mimic the worm, putting her right leg up in the air, looking more like a dog fertilizing a hydrant. “Look Daddy,” she says. “The inchworm is standing like this.”

Her one-year-old brother, Johnny, giggles. “Is Johnny funny about that?” Belle asks.

The trip from our Wisconsin home to Tennessee is about 14 hours by car. We try to limit their video time, so you can imagine the number of books and toys we hand back to the kids to keep them entertained. Johnny looks at each toy for about 10 minutes then makes like the Swedish Chef.

I open the side door to the minivan to find the largest toy salad ever created, and I run away screaming “Avalanche!”

My wife even resorts to passing back tampons from her purse. Now those fascinate Johnny for quite some time.

We listen to a lot of music in the car. Which is great, until you want the kids to sleep. “Time for night-night,” I tell Belle.

“Can we listen to The Beatles?” Belle asks.

“Nope, it’s sleepy time,” I say.

“Johnny wants to hear The Beatles,” Belle says.

“John’s asleep,” I say, “plus he can’t talk.”

“Johnny wants to hear… Johnny Cash?” she tries.

She’s as bad as the "Land Shark" on Saturday Night Live, the Chevy Chase character who would try anything to get into your house—even claim to deliver a “Candy-gram…”

Belle’s an inquisitive girl to be sure. The other day, Grandma is in the kitchen and Belle asks, “Grandma, do you have privates?”

A few days later, at the library, Belle randomly pulls a book off the nonfiction shelves that says the Spanish equivalent of “Manual for Infant Emergencies.”

"I read this," she says, holding it up. The librarian chuckles. I think it's a wise selection, but unfortunately a couple weeks too late for her brother’s trip to the ER.

All this learning is going to her head, though, I think. Leaving the library, we pass a middle-aged man who says hello. “That was Frank Sinatra, Daddy,” she says definitively, raising her pointer finger into the air and nodding.

The middle-aged man didn't even have blue eyes. My son is exploring, too, in the form of climbing everything. The other day, in about five seconds, he scales Belle’s small chair, goes from there up to her drawing table, to an open kitchen drawer, and onto the kitchen counter with a big smile! Luckily, the sitter turns around to quickly scoop him up.

Turns out that, when my wife was a baby, she crawled onto the stove and kicked on a burner, lighting her diaper on fire and causing the adults to hose her down in the kitchen sink. Luckily, she was unharmed. My brother-in-law told that true story in Tennessee.

Gotta love family vacations.

2007-07-08T20:30:00.000-07:00

Making the Most of a Seizure

Last week my one-year-old son, John, had a seizure—you know, eyes rolled back, arms twitching—and went to the hospital in an ambulance. Thank God, he’s fine now.

It wasn’t anything to joke about—but the fact that he milked our sympathy for all it was worth was.

Johnny got away with everything. He chewed on cell phones. Grabbed medical cords. Even worked the hallways of the ER by the end of the night, winking and waving at all the nurses like he was Dr. McDreamy.

Why didn't I ever think of that when I was a kid?

The UW Badgers’ football coach wants to capitalize on Johnny's suave talents, too. Coach has recruited Johnny to toddle the opponents’ sidelines this year, yanking all the cords on the opposing coaches’ headsets.

I smell scholarship.

I discovered Johnny's seizure in an odd way. My two-year-old daughter, Belle, and I were roaming the shopping mall, searching for my wife and son. I came upon the center of the mall, noticed a toddler convulsing and thought, “That’s odd; there’s a convulsing baby wearing the same outfit as my son... wait a second!” Then I ran up to the crowd yelling, “that’s my baby!” Only after the crowd parted did I see my wife, who told me the ambulance was on the way.

Then I set the world record for Fastest Mental Rosary. (Sisters Bernadette and Mary Katherine would be so proud!)

Meanwhile, Belle’s having a typical meltdown. I pointed to her brother and said: “Johnny’s very sick, the ambulance is coming. We need you to be a big girl right now.”

Belle, of course, didn't get it and said, “But I want to look at the teddy bears!” and pointed at a mall vendor’s make-your-own-teddy-bear stand. A few minutes later she said, “Some day I’LL get to ride in the ambulance!”

This made me think of some odd comments made recently by author Daniel Gilbert while he was a guest on The Colbert Report on Comedy Central. He was promoting his new book about happiness.

“It turns out kids have a very small effect on happiness, and the effect tends to be negative,” Gilbert stated rather matter-of-factly. “That means that people who have children tend to be a little less happy than people without.” That comment was greeted by a raucous cheer from a drunk woman in row 4 of the TV audience who obviously had some delicious snacks waiting for Hänsel and Gretel.

But Stephen Colbert, the host/comedian interviewing Gilbert, didn’t let him off the hook.

“Are you confusing happiness with the feeling of the sublime?” Colbert asked Gilbert. (Colbert was actually being serious.) “Because children are a pain in the (rump), I’ll grant you that," Colbert said. "But the feeling that comes with children, I have found, is superior to happiness: That is, the sublime.”

This week, Belle and I experienced the sublime while flying her kite at the park. (Or as Belle would say, “the kite flewed away.”) I held the taut kite string while she held the slack, and we ran together. I’ll never forget the blissful look on her face, mouth open, giggling. It was a sunny day, one so bright you experience it like a dream while you’re living it. If that’s not happiness, I don’t know what is.

Besides, happiness in parenting is how you look at it. For instance, Belle recently volunteered to “clean” the bird poop off our deck furniture (read: smear) with her fingers. I haven't read Gilbert's book but, based on his comments, I suppose that scenario wouldn't fall under his definition of granting a parent happiness. Then again, Belle did dub herself “Princess Bird Poop,” and that definitely gave me ample joy.

2007-06-17T20:13:00.000-07:00

A Messy Father’s Day

I'm a parent of two kids under the age of two, and it’s tough work. Jon Stewart, host of TV’s “The Daily Show,” has two kids, and he says they are “kicking my (tuckus).”

He recently interviewed Angelina Jolie, and marveled at her plans to have as many as 13 kids someday.

Every dad has those days when you feel a lot older than your actual age. But how can you not love it when you wake up on Father’s Day and your two-year-old comes running up to you with delight saying: “Happy MOTHERRRR’S daaaay!!!!!”

Ah, well, let's face it, moms deserve most of the credit anyway.

Plus, after all those sleepless nights as a young parent, my wife let me sleep in for Father’s Day—until 9 a.m.! No really, trust me, that’s late. I say, “That’s the best present of all,” and she raises her brows, looks at the kids and says, “and the greatest sacrifice of all.”

I sneeze and my daughter Belle says, “God bless you. Can I see your boogers?”

Your Special Day

You know how, when it’s your special day—a birthday or anniversary—a loved one will want to do the little things for you that they know will make you happy?

Well, I’m a bit of a neat freak, so I’m thinking maybe on Father’s Day we can have a day when the house is actually clean. Instead, the kids insist on putting the pizza sauce in the proverbial centrifuge and hitting “mix”:

So the pizza sauce is on the floor and Belle asks, “What’s that nastiness?” She usually answers these “rhetorical” questions herself with statements like, “Oh, that’s blood, Daddy.”

I say, “I think that’s actually the pizza sauce your brother just threw on the floor.”

“No,” she corrects, “it’s blood.”

You know two-year-olds: They’re experts in many fields of science. Take Anatomy. Today Belle asks, “Mommy, did you know Daddy has privates?”

Or perhaps Internal Medicine. The other day, she says to me, “Daddy, did you know Mommy bumped her knee?”

“No,” I say, “what happened?”

“She got something called an 'owie,'" Belle says. "Mommy had a fit."

“A fit?”

“Yep,” she says, nodding. “Yep, a fit. Yep.”

Of course, nobody can be an expert in everything, not even my daughter or Rosie O’Donnell.

For example, Belle’s talking to my brother on the phone and can’t quite keep up with all his wardrobe changes.

“Hi Uncle Jay,” she says, picking up the phone, “What color shirt are you wearing?”

“Blue,” he says.

“OK, bye,” she says, handing the phone back to me. A minute later, she taps me on the shoulder and points to the phone. I hand it back to her.

“Uncle Jay, what color shirt are you wearing?”

“Still blue,” he says. And on it went for about five minutes.

So anyway, I had a great Father’s Day, even if the house is a mess. I'm very blessed to have such a wonderful family. Last weekend, I clean the house for hours and crash on the sofa, exhausted. I say to my wonderful family, “Clean refrigerator, clean floors, clean counters: Isn’t it glorious?”

“Nope,” Belle says, smearing something yellow on the floor. Well, it was fun while it lasted. If the saying is true that “A clean house is God’s house,” then God clearly has one hell of a nanny.

2007-05-30T10:10:00.000-07:00

‘You Know Better, Daddy’

The other day, I’m playing with my two-year-old daughter, Belle. She asks me to put her Barbie doll’s hair in a pony tail, so I do.

But then I try to spice things up by twisting it to the side. Belle frowns.

“Daddy, pony tails are straight,” she says. “You know better.”

Apparently, the danger in teaching kids the proper way to live is that they may eventually hold you to the same standards.

For example, when I burp, Belle now says: “Excuse you, Daddy!”

She’s also fond of saying, “Daddy, I need some milk. You know better.”

Most parents try to teach kids not to listen to rock music at volumes audible by people in Sri Lanka. We're no different with Belle. Recently, I was listening to The Three Tenors.

Anyone who listens to classical music knows it’s hard to set a good volume because most of the time you can’t hear it--then suddenly it blasts you at quadruple forte.

So the Three Tenors are singing vociferously and Belle says, “Daddy, that’s too loud for the squirrels and the birds. You know better.”

Growing Up Fast
But while she’s learning fast, sometimes things get jarbled. Like the other day, I took her into the bathroom to wash her hands. Afterwards, she says, “What’s that, Daddy?”

“That’s a urinal,” I say. “That’s yucky—no touch.”

“I sit in urinal,” she declares, moving toward it.

A few days later, she’s drawing with her godfather, Jason Kotecki--a cartoonist, author and public speaker. They're creating these great drawings, but Belle's baby brother, Johnny, keeps grabbing them, causing them to crinkle.

“Johnny!” she says indignantly. “No frinkle the paper! No frinkle!”

At dinner, we’re eating spaghetti and Belle says, “Mommy, more sca-betti, please.”

“You mean ‘more spaghetti?’” I ask.

“No. More scabetti, Daddy,” she says, nodding assuredly. “Yep. Scabetti.”

She pronounces other big words rather clearly. The other day I got her to use commingle in a sentence, i.e., “The scabetti sauce commingles with Daddy’s clothes.”

"That’s what I get for wearing a white shirt," I say, frinkling my nose.

Then Belle says: "You know better, Daddy."

2007-05-13T19:21:00.000-07:00

For Love of Danger

My one-year-old son, Johnny, loves danger. All you have to do is crack the door to the stairs or garbage and he’ll hustle toward it like a tree frog.

So he’ll undoubtedly be attracted to the carnival when it comes to town; those rides are one rusty bolt away from certain catastrophic death.

I mean, have you ever seen a new, sleek carnie? They’re always riddled with shady chain-smoking characters who are way too old to be at a kiddy attraction. If they don’t kill you, the funnel cake will.

So my kids will be all over that. Although they thought they were going to enjoy the car wash at the local gas station. However, when the garage door closed, the lights went out and the mechanical beams that spray water and wax kicked into gear, both Johnny and Belle, my two-year-old daughter, burst into tears.

How could one daddy be so cruel?

Afterwards, Belle, still sniffling, said, “Daddy, I done cryyyyingggg... Waaaah!”

But she bounced back quickly. The next day she was up at the top of a slide that was seemingly 200 feet in the air. It was totally safe, but I still fretted. I kept thinking about what my mom used to tell me when I was a kid: “I have too much INVESTED in you!”

There was another parent there and I wondered if she thought I was like Michael Jackson, dangling his baby over the ledge. I felt like saying, “I didn’t name her Blanket--don’t look at me like that!” Then her kid went down the same slide as mine. Both kids slid down the slide gleefully and said, “Do that again!”

Belle doesn't need me to feel safe. The other day the babysitter came and Belle said joyfully, “Bye-bye mom. Bye-bye dad. Bye-bye!” So much for separation anxiety. Sure, she blew us kisses, but I half expected her holler “TOGA PARTYYYY!” as soon as we closed the door.

I guess all a parent can do in a situation like that is pray. Belle has recently started praying before bed—particularly for her friends like Allison, Andrew and Leah. Which is really sweet. However, she also prays for her grandma’s dog and her mom’s trophy, which her mommy won for being an excellent Mary Kay consultant.

The trophy sits in our kitchen and Belle loves it. In fact, it’s kind of her imaginary friend. “Hey Daddy, I ate all my grapes,” she says.

“That’s great, Belle,” I say. “Good job.”

“Can you tell Trophy I ate all my grapes?” Belle says.

“Hey trophy, Belle ate her grapes,” I say.

“Is Trophy excited?” Belle asks.

“Thrilled.” I say.

“Trophy wants to celebrate,” she says.

“I’ll get the togas,” I say.

2007-04-30T19:21:00.000-07:00

Fun with Mascots

What do you do at a charity event when you’re two years old and you have no idea what the phrase “help cancer patients” means? If you’re my daughter, Belle, you fixate on the mascots—like Bucky Badger of the University of Wisconsin.

Bucky joined us for the American Cancer Society’s Run/Walk event. Belle was a bit bipolar in her view of Bucky; she’d giggle and run up to him—then stop cold and run away screaming bloody murder. Apparently Bucky's "good from far, but far from good."

Maybe Bucky forgot to shower? I told Bucky that was OK; after all, it’s a run/walk. Who showers before a run/walk?

After 30 minutes, she finally gets the courage to declare, “I give Bucky a hug!” I really think she's going to do it this time. She's three feet of determination.

As she’s running up to Bucky, a sixth-grade boy hands the mascot a Frisbee and Bucky motions him to go long. The next few seconds went like this:

1) Bucky throws the Frisbee.
2) Boy turns like a dog after Frisbee.
3) Boy flattens Belle onto pavement. She’s fine, thanks to a cushy hood on her jacket. But for the rest of the event, she was either sobbing or mumbling something that sounded a bit like “restraining order for Bucky.”

Five Star Behavior
Belle is getting closer to being three and her behavior is improving. For example, she kisses her baby brother, Johnny. She says “please." Like, “Daddy, may I play with that knife, please?”

“Ah, no,” I say.

“But Daaaadddyyyyy…”

The other day she uses her trainer potty and my wife and I excitedly clap for her. I feel a tad manipulative doing this, like a tobacco marketer, but she’s not going to die by using a trainer potty. (Although the second-hand aroma often seems harmful...) Plus I’d hate for her to still be in Pampers at the prom.

So we’re clapping about Belle's use of the potty. Belle’s excited; she looks at her stuffed animal and says earnestly, “Daddy, can Kitty clap for me?”

“Yes, she’s clapping,” I say, starting to fix a sandwich.

“Daddy, can you pick Kitty up and clap her hands for me?” OK, so Belle’s still a diva. But at least she’s a polite diva. That’s progress. Hey, does Britney Spears say please when she asks her dog to clap for her?

So by those standards, Belle's polite. The other day, she toots and says, “What’s my noise?”

“Sounds like a toot,” I say.

“Yep, I tooted,” she admits. “Excuse me!”

See? Polite.

Then I turn on American Idol—or as Belle calls it, “Singing Boys and Singing Girls.” We watch a few contestants and she’s not impressed.

Then a hunky contestant named Blake performs.

“Daddy, who’s THAT singing boy?”

“That’s Blake,” I say nervously.

“Yeah, that’s Blake, Daddy," she says, entranced. "That’s BLAKE!” Maybe Pampers at the prom isn’t such a bad idea.

2007-04-15T19:48:00.000-07:00

Time to Soak Your Head

Ever feel like soaking your head? The nice thing about being two-and-a-half years old is you can actually soak yours any time, anywhere—and nobody holds it against you. Unless, of course, you’re my daughter Belle and you soak your hair in the toilet during a family reunion. "I was hot, Daddy."

(That's not Belle in the picture, but you get the drift.) After the dunk, she looked dazed and drenched. I don’t blame her; after all, when you’re two, how would you know that shredding toilet paper and tossing it into the basin like confetti would cause it to commingle with your hair during a self-induced swirlee?

“Commingle,” Belle repeats to me.

“That’s right: Commingle,” I say. I’m all about turning challenges into learning opportunities. Like, I could help her invest in this promising invention:

Don't laugh--think of all the potential: Weddings, funerals, Olympic opening ceremonies, overheated children!

I learned something over Easter, too: Never let a relative be the Easter Bunny for your kids unless they’re putting them to bed at their house. After eating chocolate bunnies and jelly beans, Belle ate snow. My brother asked, “On a scale of 'one' to 'head-in-toilet,' how bad do you consider eating snow?”

"Least it's not yellow," I said. The toilet was urine-free, too, during Belle's head dunk, so cleaning her hair was pretty easy. However, it was more difficult when, the next day, Belle decided to open the container of whipped cream and wear it as a rally cap.

It’s enough to make a parent stress out. Belle reads me like a book. “Daddy has a red sticker on his nose!” she says.

“Actually, that’s called a zit,” I tell her. “But thanks for pointing it out.”

She giggles. “Daddy has ZIP on his face!” She agrees with all the women I asked out in high school. When you’re a parent, you must flush your ego--or your kids will do it for you.

If you enjoyed this, please spread the love to your friends.

2007-04-03T19:51:00.000-07:00

A Two-Year-Old’s Mantra

Recently, my wife began her career as a Mary Kay consultant—while raising two small children. Here’s an actual photo of her in action:

Thing is, she's excellent at both. Maybe it's due to the daily affirmation she has by her computer. I tease her that this affirmation reminds me a bit of Stuart Smalley’s mantra from Saturday Night Live: “Because I’m good enough, I’m smart enough and, doggone it, people like me.”

Which obviously would lead anyone to think about what a two-year-old’s daily affirmation might look like. Maybe: “I’m cute enough, I’m manipulative enough and, doggone it, people cave for me!”

It’s true. How could I resist when my two-year-old daughter, Isabella, walks around the house singing songs by my favorite band, The Beatles? It's enough to make any parent proclaim: "Toblerone for everyone!"

Except that the other day Isabella sang the 60’s Beatles hit "She Loves You" like this: “I love ME yeah, yeah, yeah. I love me yeah, yeah, yeah!”

I guess it's not all bad. Experts do say “You can’t love others until you love yourself." She didn’t mean it to be egotistical—yet she did sound like football star Terrell Owens, who’s famous for saying, “I love me a piece of me!”

Speaking of football, sometimes I think the feds should provide free steroids just for parents.

After all, the job requires super-human strength and the agility to keep offspring from doing the cannonball into the toilet.

Because when you’re a parent, doggone it, mantras just don’t cut.

If you enjoyed this, please spread the joy.

2007-03-25T19:22:00.000-07:00

My Two-Year-Old’s a Capitalist

I recently started an incentive program for my daughter, Belle, who’s two. Basically, if she doesn’t push over her baby brother, Johnny, and stomp on his face, she gets an M&M. (Hey, we shoot for small victories during the “terrible twos.")

So I explain the ground rules and she says, “I’m all about that, Daddy. I’m a good girl.” Take that, Karl Marx!

Play-Dohn't
Before the incentive program, she asks: “Daddy, may I have Play-Doh?” You should know that giving Play-Doh to Belle before dinner is like giving Robert Downey, Jr. a bag of crack and sending him to LaGuardia Airport—bad things will happen.

I counter: “Will you stop playing and eat dinner when Mommy says it’s time?”

“No, Daddy,” she says. And Marx didn't think capitalists were honest!

Wax On, Wax Off
Before M&Ms were at play, Belle operated on the assumption it was easier to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission. We’re working on that, too, with a system that lands her in "timeout" if her poor behavior lasts to a count of “1, 2, 3.”

The key, psychologists tell us, is to remain calm no matter what she’s doing, because she’s misbehaving precisely to garner attention. Yeah, well, I'd like to see the psychologist remain calm when his daughter dips the clean rags in the dirty puddles in the driveway and proclaims, “Hey daddy, I helping wax the car!”

Waxing Poetic
Don’t get me wrong. This week, Belle and I flew her first kite and washed the car together for the first time. It isn’t always easy to slow down long enough to devote time to these types of activities but, when you do, it helps you to return to your own childhood. Plus you get to see that “I did it, Daddy!” look. I remember the expression on my dad’s face when I squirted him with the hose and when my kite finally sailed into the air. Now, I see it in reverse. It’s something a good friend of mine, author and cartoonist Jason Kotecki, calls “escaping adulthood” and freeing yourself from a disease he calls "Adultitis."

But just when your heart slows down a beat, your daughter tries to use your son as a squeegee.

So I count, “One… two…,” which triggers kids to ask the strangest things to change the subject. Belle asks: “Hey Daddy, what are those?”

“What are what?” I ask.

“Those,” she says, pointing to me.

“My chest?”

“No—those.”

“My nipples?”

“Yes!” she says, nodding. “Belle touch them…”

“No, thanks, Belle,” I say, “I’m good.”

Maybe we’ll stick to M&Ms.

2007-03-12T22:22:00.000-07:00

March Madness is Every Month for Parents

I love March Madness because it’s the one time of year when parents can feel normal. Crazy things happen all the time during the NCAA Basketball Tournament, like when Cinderella teams defeat the heavy favorites.

So when your two-year-old daughter does things like pull her pants halfway down her little butt and run up and down the hall giggling and yelling: “Say no to crack, Mommy! Say no to crack!” it’s all good. Because, hey, it’s March Madness.

And this year, my daughter Belle is ready to cheerlead. For example, she recently chanted: “Here we go pot-ty, here we go!” to encourage her mommy.

“Great teamwork, Belle!” I said. “Way to practice like you’ll play!”

Stop the Madness
Sometimes March Madness goes too far, though. Like when your team suddenly starts thinking: Why pass it to our 7-foot teammate for a dunk when we could chuck up three-point shots from half court?

Belle uses the same logic. Like: Why bother to use the sink when you can just “rinse” your toothbrush in the toilet?

Or: Why bother with food when you can eat books? The other day I asked Belle why there was a rip in the corner of a page in the same shape Cookie Monster would leave on a cookie.

“I turn the pages myself!” she said.

Last weekend, we were in the grocery store, and Belle saw a nice fellow with dreadlocks walk by who looked kinda like that singer from Counting Crows.

She decided: Why ask the man his name when I can just vociferously ask Daddy, “What’s HER name?” The man smiled as he reached for the frozen broccoli. Then Belle whispered in my ear: “Her name (is) Sheepy!”

At least Belle is spreading March Madness by providing quality “senior leadership” to her baby brother. “Hey Belle,” I said, “Your brother’s crazy. I think he’s learning from you.”

“Good,” she said.

Share YOUR Stories!
Got any funny anecdotes about being a kid, parent, grandparent, aunt, uncle, babysitter, teacher? Share the laughs in the Comments section below! Just click on "comments" or the pencil.

2007-02-27T09:55:00.000-08:00

Why My Son Wears an Effeminate Coat...

My poor eight-month-old son, Johnny, is stuck getting hand-me-downs from his two-year-old sister, Belle, for the rest of his life. “There are worse things,” you might say.

But you’d change your mind if you saw the effeminate pink coat he has been wearing lately. “It’s lavender!” my wife insists.

Uh-huh. And Mango from Saturday Night Live is straight.

Nothing against Mango, but I’d rather not dress my son in a pink beret and long gold gloves. So the other day I tried to buy Johnny a Packers coat and my wife tackled me, saying hysterical things like “he’ll grow out of it fast” and “winter’s almost over.” I said, "We live in Wisconsin. Winter’s never over."

So Johnny suffered the indignation of wearing his Mango coat to his aunt’s birthday party. Maybe that’s why he was incessantly jerking his head back and headbutting me while I held him. (They don’t tell you babies do that in Home Economics Class.)

Apples to Apples
We played this game at the birthday party called Apples to Apples.

It’s all about word association. For example, my niece matched fancy with underpants. My six-year-old nephew needed to match the word juicy, so he selected men. (I think he was thinking of orcs from Lord of the Rings gobbling men.)

Then my 10-year-old nephew matched the word innocent with Britney Spears. Apparently he’s never seen MTV.

Later, after birthday cake, I played a different game with the kids and “promised” the winners a prize—dragon medallions (a promise I was clearly hoping they’d forget). Not only did I stupidly promise them a prize, but I promised something that can’t be purchased at McDonald’s. What was I thinking?

“When do we get our medallions?” my nephew asked excitedly. “You promised!”

“It’s a surprise,” I said. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

“You could at least tell us when the surprise will be,” he said.

Later, they wanted to play Apples to Apples again. “Can you go pay a team of people to come play the game with us?” my nephew asked.

“But I have no money,” I said, pulling my pants pockets inside-out. I thought I was so clever.

“Then give them your pants,” my niece said.

“Thanks,” I said. “So you’re saying I should give away the pants off my legs so you can play cards for a half-hour?”

“Yes,” she said, as if it were e=mc2.

Belle decided someone needed to step up the recruitment efforts. “Hey Grandma, you can sit on your bottom and play caaaards.”

I sat down with baby John in my lap to play the game, both of us feeling manly now that his pink coat was safely hung on the wall.

“Hey Daddy,” Belle said. “I like your lipstick.”

“Thanks, Belle,” I said. “But Daddy doesn’t wear lipstick. You must be thinking of Mango.”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding and smiling.

2007-02-13T20:35:00.000-08:00

Call Her Leonard Belle-stein...

I’m all for being a good host, but have you ever had a guest so demanding you feel like you’ve become her personal waiter? I have, and my kids don't tip. My two-year-old, Belle, makes constant requests, conducting her parents like she's Leonard Bernstein.

She has started to grab random objects on the kitchen table or counter without warning. Like Bernstein clutching air, Belle recently walked up to me and clutched my, ahem--baton. "Ah! Belle! Don't touch people there!"

"Sorry, Daddy."

Sometimes she asks for stuff when I’m clearly indisposed. “Daddy, you need get me Tigger.” Meanwhile, I’m sitting on the toilet. Or tying my shoes.

The Up-sell
The other day, Belle asked, “May I please have goldfish crackers?” On my way to get them, she declared: “Daddy’s getting me goldfishies… and more milk! And chocolate and scissors and TOILET PAPER!”

She's always trying to up-sell. I plan to use that tactic the next time I buy a car. As the salesman is going to ask his manager, I’ll declare loudly to the entire salesroom: “He’s getting me the blue Shelby Mustang at cost… the convertible with no interest and Brett Favre, Jesus and Bono to ride in it!”

Belle even talks herself into things. She’s learning to walk down stairs like a homo sapien. She holds my hand and takes one step at a time.

“Belle not fall and go boom,” she said. “Belle doing fine. Belle not die.” (I don’t know why she refers to herself in the third person. She’s like my uncle: “Uncle Tom could sure use another beer!” he’d say when I was a kid.)

But the positive self-talk is good for her esteem. “I good dancer,” she said, shaking her little butt to her mom’s new favorite song--“SexyBack” by Justin Timberlake (with totally appropriate lyrics for kids like "getcha sexy on!"). So Belle was shakin' it, big smile on her face, and she said: “I tooted!”

2007-02-08T19:49:00.000-08:00

Hey Daddy, I Have Whiskers…

Ever wonder about things people do on instinct versus learned behaviors? I have.

I’m guilty of instilling learned behaviors in my daughter. For example, it’s taboo in our society for women to have facial hair. So I had to correct my two-year-old daughter, Belle, when she recently started reporting, “Hey Daddy, I have whiskers.”

Not whiskers like a lion, mind you. “Whiskers like Daddy!” she said.

“You don’t have whiskers,” I told her.

“I don’t?”

“No, I have whiskers because I’m a big guy,” I told her.

“Big guy,” she repeated.

“You’re a big girl,” I said.

“Big girl,” she repeated.

“Yeah, and big girls don’t have whiskers… generally.”

“Ohhhoooohhhh,” she said. That’s another learned behavior. My wife says “Ohhhoooohhh” all the time—raising her voice at the tail end. It’s a phrase that often comes in handy for Belle.

Like the time I bought her dried apricot snacks.

“Daddy, may I have some ap-cots, please?”

“Fraid not, Belle.”

“Why, Daddy?”

“Because I can’t open the hermetically sealed plastic bag inside the box and now my teeth hurt.”

“Ohhhoooooohhhh.”

She has even turned it around to point out how Daddy is mentally challenged. “Daddy, I’d like some hermphhohhhmmm.”

“Some what?”

“Some hermmphhpphmmm.” Then she walked over to the ham and cheese on the counter, pointed and said, “ohhoooooohhh, the ham and cheese, Daddy, ohhooohhh.”

Some things are definitely instinctual. Like fear—and pawning it off on someone else to make it appear you’re not scared. Belle recently started pawning hers off on her baby brother, Johnny.

"Johnny is scared of monsters in the basement sometimes," Belle said, finger in her mouth, eyes to the side, other arm swinging.

"He is?" I said.

"Yeaaaaah," she said, nodding matter-of-factly as if her mute brother had just told her.

"Do YOU get scared of monsters in the basement, Belle?"

2007-01-26T20:47:00.000-08:00

A Great Idea, for 10 Seconds...

Ever jump into something you knew probably wasn’t a good idea—then regret it 10 seconds later? My two-year-old daughter, Belle, does all the time. She loves the snow--for about 10 seconds. Then she decides Mommy and Daddy were right and she should have left her mittens on after all. "Cold! Done! Go inside, Daddy?” Never mind that we spent 30 minutes getting her into her snowsuit with a shoe horn and one of those old butter churners.

That’s how most kids are, though. Sometimes they like to draw or play with you. But mostly, they aren’t that interested in doing things, they just want you to stop what you’re doing—especially if what you’re doing is productive or fun—and watch them do… nothing. For 10 seconds. Then they’ll rope you into watching them do something really close to nothing. “Hey, watch me chew on this block!” If the kid’s parents are watching, you swallow hard and say, “Oh, that’s greaaat!”

The Pathetic Theorem
Belle missed her nap the other day and we proceeded to take her to a restaurant that evening with a big group. Bad idea. We should have heeded the warning from that famous mathematician. You know, the one that came up with what I call the Pathetic Theorem:

1 missed nap + 1 restaurant = 2 migraines (1 per parent)

And little kids haven't a clue what's going on; they're the least self-aware beings on Earth. For example, at the restaurant, Belle wanted her food immediately after ordering. When it didn't magically appear, she made like Scarface and cleared everything on the table within her reach with both arms.

I asked, "Belle, why are you so upset?"

"I not upset -- RAAAAH!"

Here's another example. Every weekday I come home from work and change into more comfortable clothes. Belle comes running in and declares, “Daddy’s changing—he’s poopy!” So the other day I was ready for it. I hung up my sport coat I said to Belle, “Thanks for the play-by-play commentary, Pat Summerall.”

“But I assure you, Belle, I don’t have any skid marks in my underwear.”

Belle ran out down the hall exclaiming, “Hey Mommy, Daddy has no skid maaaaarks!”

Better Barter Bureau
Sometimes kids’ perception is better than you might think, though. For example, we’re working with Belle on bartering. If she sees her baby brother, Johnny, playing with a toy and wants it, she needs to ask for it and trade a toy of equal or greater value.

You’d think she wouldn’t understand “equal or greater value” at age two, right? But she understands it all too well. Yesterday, Johnny was holding the keys to our car. Belle took them and said, “I want the keys, Johnny. Here, you take Daddy’s dirty sock!” And yes, she literally said "dirty sock."

Fair trade. Louisiana Purchase fair.

I thought Johnny would regret the trade 10 seconds later, but turns out that socks are much easier to chew. Even if he had protested the Car Keys Purchase, it wouldn’t have mattered because, after 10 seconds, Belle had dropped the keys and ran down the hall yelling, “The phone’s ringing. Pat Summerall's calling meeeeee!”

2007-01-15T12:10:00.000-08:00

5 Things You May Know About
Little Kids

By Christopher Hollenback

This week, my friend Kim wrote a fun blog called 5 Things You May Not Know About Me. She challenged me to follow suit with a blog about five things. So here are five things you may know about little kids.

Number One: Little kids have strange phone etiquette.
Belle picked up my cell phone and pretended to call her cousin, Emma. "Hello, Emma? This is Belle. Are you wearing dress-up clothes? Great. Bye."

Hey, she cuts to the chase and doesn't eat up your "anytime minutes."

My friend called and said to Belle, "How was your baby brother's baptism, Belle?" and Belle said, "It was BUURRRRP--good." Then an awkward pause. "I burped."

Number Two: Little kids are a lot like clothes dryers.
They both have a talent for making socks disappear. It's as if David Copperfield came to your living room, raised one of his cheesy eyebrows and made them vanish.

Ever notice it's always just one sock that disappears? I don't know how my kids do it. It's like I'm some deadbeat parent of kids who go on a shooting spree, as if I'm going to go in their room some day, pull out a shirt and, to my horror, 36 non-matching socks will fall out of a sleeve. "Oh my gosh!" I'll say. And everyone will ask me, "Don't you pay attention to what your children are doing?" And I'll be like, "I was was watching football and they assured me they were folding laundry..."

Number Three: Two-year-olds love to stare at the crotches of stuffed animals for hours to determine whether they're "poopy." Is this normal? They don't tell you about this in Parent School. Yesterday, Belle held up the legs of a stuffed animal -- Bucky Badger -- and asked me, "Daddy, is Bucky poopy?"

"Looks clean to me," I said.

She kept staring for a few seconds, holding one of Bucky's feet up in the air with the serious look of a surgeon.

"Oh yeah, he's poopy," she diagnosed, nodding to herself definitively. "I'll change him." And I'm thinking, "OK, little Ms. Crazy Pants."

Number Four: 'AWEsome' is the new, well, 'awesome.'
I'm always telling Belle not to kneel or stand on furniture, but she insists, and the other day she kneeled on a plastic kid's chair, tipped it over and planted her face in the carpet.

It was like a car accident, I didn't want to look yet I couldn't help but peek to see if a head was rolling down the street. Belle popped right up and said, "That was AWEsome!" And I was like, "That was AWEsome!"

My wife frowned.

Then Belle covered for us: "Mommy's AWEsome!"

Number Five: Little girls can be just as fickle as college women. For example, Belle and I were in the store and she noticed Dave Matthews, a rock star, performing on a 50-inch flat screen TV. She was entranced.

"I LOVE Dave!" Belle said like a roadie. "Watch more, Daddy?" For the next three days we watched excerpts of his DVD at home, and she said, "I LOVE Dave Matthews, I want him to sign my diaper!"

OK, she didn't say that, but the next day she looked at me, tilted one shoulder up to her ear, pulled her eyebrows up in a fearful look and said, "Dave Matthews scary!" True story. Dave was yesterday's news. I hope she's not like that with her future boyfriends, for their sake. She'll be like, "I LOVE Craig," one day, then the next day, "Craig's scary!" Unless, of course, it's true that Craig's scary. Then I'll have to ask David Copperfield to make Craig disappear.

2007-01-09T04:58:00.000-08:00

Honey, I Patronized the Kids

The other day, my two-year-old daughter, Belle, commandeers her mommy’s underwear, pulls them up over her jumpsuit and runs down the hall declaring, “I’m wearing Mommy’s underwears!” They're so baggy on Belle that they look like granny panties.

Belle’s full of surprises. That is, unless she’s trying to catch you off guard. “Daddy, I’m coming to surprise youuuuu… SURPRISE!” Then she’ll stand there three more seconds and repeat, “Surprise!”

She’s not the best at Hide and Seek, either. She hides in the same closet every time. But I play along. I’m her dad. “Where could Belle be?” I say. “Under the bed?”

Then I’ll hear her little voice: “Nooo…”

“Is Belle behind the door?”

“Noooo…” I wait a couple seconds and the closet door springs open. “SURPRISE!”

“Whoa,” I say, “you totally tricked me!” Belle thinks it’s hysterical.

She’s better at telling jokes, though. True story: She told her first knock-knock joke the other day. Out of the blue, she says, “Knock-knock.”

My wife and I look at each other—genuinely surprised, shrug and say, “Who’s there?”

“Achew,” Belle says.

“Achew who?”

“Achoo-choo train!”

OK, she’s no Bill Cosby. But have you heard other two-year-olds tell jokes? Usually, they’re like, “Knock-knock.”

Who’s there.

“Pizza!”

Pizza who?

“I want some pizza!”

Uh, that’s not funny.

“Ha-ha!,” the kid says, rolling on the floor. I know, I know, you’re supposed to humor the kid. But I’d never do that. Gives them a false sense of reality.

People say that Cosby’s comedy is in his facial expressions. Belle’s got that same natural talent. For example, Grandma gave her a book about bats having a picnic at the beach. Like most children’s books, the bats are doing human activities. Why? Who knows. And, of course, the bats look much, much cuter than real bats. It’s like how every male comedian on a sitcom has a wife who’s way cuter than she should be. Yet, despite the cute bats, Belle is still scared of her book. I try to tell her the bats aren’t scary.

She tilts her head with a half-smile and says convincingly, “The bats aren’t scary… they’re fun!”

“Alright, that’s the spirit,” I say and open the book. Then, the smile leaves her face.

“They’re… fun,” she repeats, much less enthused, swallowing hard.

I turn the page, she sees a bat playing volleyball, and she makes a face like Bill Cosby after Fat Albert stepped on his toe.

(Note to self: Don’t let Belle be your poker partner in Vegas.)

I guess the moral is two-year-olds are like a box of chocolates; you never know what you’re going to get. Unless you’re playing Hide and Seek.

Copyright Christopher Hollenback, 2007, all rights reserved.

2006-12-30T06:23:00.000-08:00

‘Daddy, I’m Going to Hawaii…’

For Christmas my two-year-old daughter, Belle, got a Barbie suitcase, complete with a handle, wheels and a princess outfit.

She was psyched. She toted it around the house declaring, “Daddy, I’m going to Hawaaaaiiiiiii.” Then she blew the sweetest kiss.

“Aloha, Belle,” I said. “Bring back some macadamia nuts for us.”

“OK,” she said. Then, as if the logistics of the trip finally dawned on her, Belle paused and said: “Daddy, I need a pack ‘n play for Hawaaaaiiii.”

“Daddy can’t afford Hawaii, Sweet Peanut,” I told Belle. “But I’ve got a great song about Christmas in Hawaii for you!” I put on Bing Crosby’s classic CD, White Christmas.

Bing crooned, “Mele Kalikimaka is Hawaii's way to say Merry Christmas to youuuuu.” Belle was not impressed. Somehow, to her, 1940s music + Wisconsin weather didn’t = Hawaii.

But her travel plans never would have left the ground anyway because she got the flu three days before Christmas. We thought Belle was better on Christmas Eve and drove to Grandma’s house—but then the sun beat down on her and she threw up again in her car seat, triggering our baby John to start crying. My wife and I looked at each other and said, “Merry Christmas!” It reminded me of that Nat King Cole favorite, “Barf chunks roasting in the open sun… Johnny screaming out his lungs…”

We made some great Christmas memories—we laughed, sang carols and ate with family. Belle even gave me a great present--her first official use of her trainer potty! Woo-hoo!

And we saw some old friends, Katie and Rick. Belle was so shy during their visit that she barely said hello to Rick. But, of course, after they left, she was like, “Katie and Rick visited! I LOVE Rick! I LOVE him.” That’s girls for you. In high school, I’d try to talk to some girl—usually in Band Class because I’m a nerd—and she’d be like, “I’m not talking to you because I’m out of your league.” And then five years later at a reunion everyone’s like, “Oh yeah, she totally wanted to date you.”

Poor Belle was too sick to open Christmas presents with everyone else. She felt better by the end of Christmas Day, but by the next day Grandma and I got her stomach flu, and her Uncle Jay got it the following day—on his birthday. I bet he was thinking: “Belle, you shouldn’t have gotten me the flu—you overspent again!”

Hawaii sounds pretty good right about now. May you have a happy new year, filled with tropical sunshine and macadamia nuts.

2006-12-19T18:37:00.000-08:00

Deck the Halls with Balled-up Burp Cloths

Last Saturday was a rough day: My baby, Johnny, barfed on me 10 times—then I accidentally put a frozen cube of breast milk in my Mountain Dew. (How was I supposed to know my wife had poured Johnny’s milk into the ice cube tray for convenient thawing later?)

But I’m adjusting. I’ve started labeling the ice cube trays, and I’m wearing a utility belt like Batman that holds a burp cloth, a pacifier, a bottle of Fantastic and a rag. This makes my two-year-old daughter, Belle, quite jealous.

“I want to wear utility belt!” she exclaims. Never mind that there’s a “Mr. Yuck” sticker on the bottle of Fantastic.

Despite my best efforts to teach her Mr. Yuck means “yucky” and “poison,” Belle thinks he means “Binaca!” and “delicious!” She’s at that stage where she wants what everyone else has—you know, the stage that typically lasts until you’re 100 years old. So I figure I might as well have fun with it.

I’m like, “Belle, would you like to sit in the blue high chair or the white high chair?”

“Blue!” she says.

“OK,” I say, “then I’ll put Johnny in the white high chair.”

“I sit in white high chair!” she exclaims, posing like George Washington crossing the Delaware.

It’s good to know Belle has my back, though. For instance, I was recently upset by a discriminatory statement made by a religious leader, so I started “thinking” out loud. I feel I do some of my best thinking out loud. However, my wife feels I do some of my best “swearing” out loud.

“Not in front of the kids,” she says. “They might repeat it.” Fair enough, but they don't repeat a word. A few minutes later, my wife drops something on the floor—then does some rather intense thinking out loud. I say sarcastically, "Honey, not in front of the kids!”

Belle walks by and says, “Yes, Mommy!” Now there's a girl who's getting an extra-big present from Daddy this year. I guess the moral is that victory is sweet, even when served over frozen breast-milk cubes.

Copyright Christopher Hollenback, 2006, all rights reserved.

2006-12-11T09:29:00.000-08:00

A Two-Year-Old Walks into an Office Holiday Party…

Nothing says “Merry Christmas” like taking your two-year-old daughter and six-month old son to your holiday office party—without your spouse. My wife claims she was “working.” I’ve never successfully avoided her holiday parties. All I can say is: When it comes to planning, the woman’s got mad skills.

The kids were pretty well behaved at the office party (neither one photocopied their buttocks). But it did get interesting when coworkers held baby Johnny. The party had a cabana theme this year, and all the guests wore leis. Johnny decided they were the perfect chew toy, and slobbered all over a coworker, who looked down at one point to find a puddle of drool on her chest the size of Lake Winnebago.

Belle decided a blue Crayola marker makes perfect lipstick applique and also doubles as a delicious sucker. Brash as she appeared, Belle was shy whenever coworkers introduced themselves. “My, what a pretty dress you have on, Belle,” they’d say. “And such dainty lipstick.”

My employer hired a Balloon Lady to entertain the kids at the holiday party.

Shrewd move. She knew exactly what to say—and how to say it—to entrance the kids. Things like, “Would you like chocolate to melt in your mouth while I affix a 10-story balloon hat to your silly head?” If she wanted a second career as a pied piper, camp recruiter, tobacco marketer or kidnapper, she’d have all the requisite skills. All the parents loved Balloon Lady.

Luckily, Belle and I made it through the whole office party without putting a foot in our mouths to get me fired. Although Belle did put Johnny’s foot in her mouth several times.

The office party was just the beginning of an eventful weekend. We arrived at church during the opening hymn, which triggers the ushers into action. They always feel compelled to seat you in the Front Row—where nobody wants to sit because everyone is staring at the back of your head. (If only you could get front-row U2 tickets this way.)

I looked to the end of the Front Row and there was a sign that said “Reserved,” as if they knew we were coming. Call it corporal punishment for the religiously tardy. In the Front Row (rhymes with Death Row), you have to be on your best behavior because the people presiding over the ceremony are three yards away. Belle quickly recognized that being in the Front Row swung all the leverage and momentum her way. You see, when she pitches a fit at home, Mommy and Daddy put her in Timeout and ignore her yelps, spasms and gesticulations.

But at church—in the Front Row, Belle’s singing “I Got da Power!”

Whenever she didn’t get what she wanted (like when she tried pirouetting on the pew with her milk cup), she’d scream and go limp like a protester who’s getting gassed and carried out of the street by riot police.

Except my wife and I had no shields or gas. We didn’t even have incense!

At least they don’t have photocopy machines or blue markers in the Front Row. And you can’t really get fired from church. I guess the moral is all churches should have Balloon Ladies.

2006-12-06T16:42:00.000-08:00

Christmas is Coming, My Son is Getting Fat

My two-year-old daughter, Belle, has been skinny her whole life. (It's a long time to her.) I can never get her to eat, and can never get her six-month-old brother, Johnny, to stop eating. We started feeding him solid foods this week and he ate three bowls of rice cereal and a smashed banana—in one sitting. That’s more rice cereal and smashed banana than I usually eat in one sitting.

Belle did a touchdown celebration yesterday after she managed to grab the keys to our rental car and activate the car alarm. When my wife tried to chase her, she high-stepped away, put the keys through her legs and spiked them on the carpet. My wife and I thought about assessing a 15-yard penalty, but we were too busy rewinding the tape to watch the artful celebration again.

We opened a few Christmas presents from friends early this year. Belle insisted on not just un-wrapping the gift—but also RE-wrapping the entire gift after discovering what was inside. In fact, she completely lost track of the actual present. We should have written her Santa List as: “Wrapped boxes with nothing inside but a roll of tape.” Then she’d REALLY have known that she was a good girl this year.

I thought I was a good boy this year, but apparently not, because I had to go to the Post Office to mail a cart full of gifts. Yes, I rolled them in on one of those little fold-up dollies you’d normally bring to the airport on business trips, with boxes constantly falling off. First, I waited in the obligatory Christmas Post Office Line, wondering if I had mistakenly gotten in line for the latest Xbox or the Beatles Reunion Tour. Then half the boxes weren’t taped right, according to Mail Lady. I think she thought I was trying to create the world's largest tape ball, not mailing a gift. (I don't know how in the world my brother-in-law will ever open it.) Then I forgot to write a zip code on one of the boxes. Mail Lady wasn't amused. We got to the last package, postmarked for my brother in Seattle.

Mail Lady saw the address, took a quick inhale and then let out a long “oooooh” that sounded a lot like a fog horn. “Seattle, huh?” she said.

“Yeah, that’s right,” I said.

“That’s going to take awhile… we’re really slow this time of year.”

“No kidding.”

“That’s right.”

“OK, but it’s December 1,” I said. “It’s not like it’s going to the Bermuda Triangle.”

“Ooooooooh,” she said. “That would REALLY be a long one. But Seattle? I’d send it PRIORITY for sure,” she said. She then stared blankly at me, blinking as if her advice were going to save the President from assassination.

“OK,” I said, swallowing.

“That will be $2,354, please,” Mail Lady said. Since when did my postal bill become bigger than my holiday gift budget? Oh yeah—since my siblings, in-laws and my wife and I started having our respective kids. I guess the moral is, kids may love John Madden NFL Football 2006 for Game Cube, but gift certificates for McDonald’s are much cheaper to ship. Especially if all they’re going to do is re-wrap the box.

2006-11-29T05:43:00.000-08:00

Game of Ultimate Power

So my sister’s kids – who range in age from five to 10 -- ask me to play this game where they’re super heroes and I’m an evil monster trying to destroy the universe and reap Ultimate Power. I love to oblige, although once I ended up in the ER after playing this game on a family vacation, wrenching my neck and succumbing to a migraine. Those hurt. The Ultimate Power game has also landed me in the chiropractor’s office.

Earlier in the week, my two-year-old daughter, Belle, gets a letter from her cousin, Sophie, my sister’s eight-year-old daughter, that says: “Dear Isabella, I hope you’re growing well. When is your dad going to come and try to ‘kill’ us? Love, Sophie.” I’m like, “Hmm, I hope the FBI didn’t read that letter and get the wrong idea!”

So we’re playing Ultimate Power with a new rule: No Climbing or Grabbing the Evil Being and Sending Him to Certain Emergency Medical Care. I’m chasing my 10-year-old nephew, Lucas, who currently has the super power to make inanimate objects come to life and destroy me. I’m playing the role of the Velocior—a combination of a velociraptor and an evil warrior.

So I’m chasing Lucas--my arms are mimicking the Velocior’s jaws, and my wedding ring falls off into the bushes. (The ring gets loose in the winter because skin contracts in the cold.)

I convince the kids to help me search for the ring by promising that the kid who finds it will have certain Ultimate Power. Then my niece, Sophie, says, “We need a metal detector. I’ll go ask Dad.”

I could just hear what she would probably say inside: “Dad, do you have a metal detector?”

“Huh?”

“A metal detector. Uncle Chris lost his ring playing the Velocior.”

“Ah-huh. We don’t have a metal detector, but you can try using the flashlights.”

So Sophie comes out with flashlights, but it's still daylight. The search starts out as an exciting adventure for the kids, like something out of the movie Goonies.

Then after two minutes, Lucas says, “I don’t want to spend my whole day searching for some old ring.”

Luckily for me and my marriage, I found the ring a few minutes later. “My precious,” I say.

In the end, Lucas uses his super powers to bring a large tree to life, which of course "grabs" me (the Velocior) while his siblings pummel the Evil Being—me—to death and reap Ultimate Power.

I guess the moral is, the struggle for Ultimate Power is kinda fun when you don’t end up in the ER.

2006-11-24T12:03:00.000-08:00

A Very Special Two-Year-Old Thanksgiving

We had a very memorable Thanksgiving.

At one point Grandma’s talking to my daughter, Belle, on the (pretend) cell phone. Belle’s like, “Um, hello? Um, yes. Um, goodbye.” So she “hangs up” on Grandma and then Grandma asks her, “OK, where are you going to put your phone?” Belle looks around and Grandma says, “You don’t have any pockets.”

So Belle lifts up her dress and inserts the phone into her tights.

Thanksgiving week got off to a great start for me because:

A) I only had to work two days after a busy week, during which a building literally blew up 30 minutes before a news conference I was organizing; and

B) Belle and I watched college basketball together for the first time.

“Packers!” she says, looking at the basketball players but thinking it was pro football. “Nope, that’s basketball,” I say, “Marquette versus Duke. Marquette’s the good guys.” Nothing against Duke, my sister and brother-and-law went there, but half my family went Marquette, and most of them either lived or currently live in Milwaukee. I don’t expect Marquette will win, since Duke is the perennial powerhouse in NCAA hoops, but Marquette waxes them by 11 to win a tournament. Their point guard, Dominic James, does a reverse dunk on a breakaway. I show the dunk to Belle.

“Yea!” she claps, clearly impressed. “Hims dunk ‘gain? Hims dunk ‘gain?” My wife says it’s natural for two-year-olds to use the wrong pronouns, but my theory is she’s trying to speak Spanglish. She says things like “I bring mis doll to the store!” Mis is actually a proper Spanish pronoun. So we watch hims dunk about a dozen times, much to the glee of Belle and me. Belle’s mommy would never ask to watch a dunk a dozen times!

Thanksgiving morning, we’re changing Belle’s diaper and getting her ready for the big day. “No put poo in hair?” she asks. My wife and I giggle and say, “Yes, that’s right. Don’t put poo in your hair.”

“No put poo in mouth?” she asks.

“No, definitely not in your mouth,” we say.

Fortunately, I was able to wipe that memory away before sitting down to an amazingly delicious Thanksgiving buffet. It included pumpkin and apple pie, of course, and a Greek dessert which I can’t pronounce.

“Galaktoboureko,” my brother-in-law says, it’s a traditional Greek dessert. He’s from Cyprus and speaks fluent Greek and English.

“Yes, I’ll have some Galactic Burrito, please!” I say. It was quite buttery--delicious.

So let’s see: Reverse dunks, an upset victory, no poo in mouth, turkey, apple pie, good health and Galactic Burritos? What more could a guy want on Thanksgiving?

Happy holidays!

2006-11-20T09:50:00.000-08:00

Ring Around the Inappropriate Lyrics

Recently I was reading to my two-year-old daughter, Belle, a book called Time for Bed by Mem Fox. Each page is like a short, two-line nursery rhyme. Belle knows it well enough that she fills in the last word of each rhyme. Usually she's clutch, nailing her part like Derek Jeter batting in the bottom of the ninth inning with two Yankee runners on base.

But yesterday I read, "It's time to sleep, little bird, little bird, so close your eyes not another--"

"Toot!" Belle says with glee.

Of course, the correct answer would be "word." The lyrics in Time for Bed are totally appropriate, as long as your child doesn't get too creative. But have you ever noticed that's not the case with some of the Mother Goose traditional rhymes?

My dad used to tuck me into bed and read these delightful ditties to me.

Take "Ring Around the Rosie," which Belle has started to sing. You know, the one that ends, "Ashes, ashes, we all fall down." Some have speculated that it grew out of the Black Plague, that "ring around the rosie" refers to the mark of the plague and "ashes, ashes, we all fall down" refers to all the kids croaking. This is disputed by historians but, my point is, if you have to ASK if it's about the Black Plague, can that be a good thing?

Take Peter Peter Pumpkin eater:
"Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater
Had a wife and couldn't keep her
So he put her in a pumpkin shell
And there he kept her, very well."

Very well? So we're telling kids, "If you're such a great catch that your girlfriend breaks up with you, the solution is to stalk her, carve out a large vegetable and force her to sit there while you eat pumpkin seeds with lots of salt?" That's not good.

Then there's the old woman who lived in a shoe. Apparently she had so many children she didn't know what to do, gave them broth for dinner, spanked them all soundly and put them to bed. She probably also kept them in large vegetables the next day, poor little darlings.

Some of you might be thinking, "Chill out dude, they're just nursery rhymes." I actually agree. I had no clue what the nursery rhymes really meant when my dad read them to me. As Eminem fans often say, "I just liked the beat." I just cared that Dad read them to me, and mixed in some tickling under my chinny-chin-chin.

So while I won't be singing "Rock-a-Bye-Baby" to my unsuspecting infant, I will read my daughter "Three Blind Mice," regailing her of the ultimate tale of revenge -- the carver's wife getting her comeupance from the three little creatures. That'll teach her not to use rat poison.

I guess the moral is, the most important thing is to read and sing to children and, secondarily, to make sure you play Eminem's inspirational "Lose Yourself," which is about seizing the moment, rather than his less desirable "Big Weenie."

2006-11-14T20:36:00.000-08:00

A Master’s in Two-Year-Old Guerilla Marketing

My daughter, Belle, has been putting on a clinic the last few weeks on marketing. Two-year-old guerilla marketing, that is. Jay Conrad Levinson coined the term “guerilla marketing” in 1982 and defined it as subliminal promotional messaging on a very low budget. The messages are designed so the target audience doesn’t realize it’s receiving them.

In the case of two-year-old guerilla marketing, the target audience is almost exclusively Mom and Dad, and whoever seems to be the happier or weaker parent at that moment gets the first pitch. Dad’s football team just won? Fruit juice for everyone! Mom just watched a sad movie? Sure, Belle can sleep with Mommy! If one of the parents owes you for accidentally banging your head on the door frame, that’s a sure bet, too. Other potential audiences are grandparents, aunts and uncles.

Belle has really picked up on this. For example, her grandma asked her if she’d like a certain toy. Belle said, “YES!” because that’s her answer to everything. Grandma said, “OK, maybe Santa will bring that to you.” Belle thought for a second and said, “Aunt Fanns?” which is what she calls my sister. Apparently, Belle isn’t going to wait around for some mythical man to bring her the loot—she’s hitching her sleigh to a relative with financing.

The Three Pillars of TYOGM
According to Belle, there are Three Pillars to two-year-old guerilla marketing tactics.

The first is, “Nod Your Head any Time You Ask for Something, and Ask the Same Question Again While You’re Waiting for The Nod to Take Effect.” For example, Belle has been known to throw out slogans like, “Drink Daddy’s double-cappuccino before bed? Drink Daddy’s double-cappuccino before bed?” She’ll nod repeatedly with a look of utter conviction. Is this tactic low budget? Check. Is it undercover? Maybe not, but it’s certainly underhanded: Check. Do Mom and Dad realize they’re getting subliminal messages? Hmm… you mean that’s why she was up all night? Check.

The second pillar of two-year-old guerilla marketing is, “Use a Jingle.” The major beer, fast food, soft drink and shoe companies have perfected this tactic, right? They’re not bad, but Belle puts paltry campaigns like McDonald’s “I’m Lovin’ It” to shame. First, she learns lyrics to cute songs that melt her father’s heart. Songs like, “I Have the Love of Jesus In My Heart” from VeggieTales. When I hear her sing that, it’s as if my wallet is a cash dispenser and she has my debit card and PIN number. She has also learned to ask, “Listen to Johnny Cash?” Daddy loves Johnny Cash, and Belle cashes in—the refrigerator and pantry become her personal open bar and buffet. Daddy also magically turns into the bear from Chuck-E-Cheese, willing to sing and dance any song she pleases ad nauseam, dispensing pizza between songs.

The third and final pillar is, “Demand Immediacy.” Nobody knows how to close a deal like a two-year-old. The other day, Belle asked for a toy that has four little animals that stick up like joysticks. When she pulls them, they make noises or play songs. Thankfully, there is an “off” button. We were in the car the other day and Belle asked her mom to hand it to her. “Mommy, pweease?” she said, tilting her head to the side and grinning. My wife handed it to her and said, “That’s a nice way to ask, Belle. Now what do you say to Mommy?”

“Turn it on!” Belle said. Now that’s closing a deal. I think Mr. Levinson would be impressed. I guess the moral is, you have to get up pretty early—and drink a double-cappuccino—to outfox a two-year-old with subliminal messaging (head nod, head nod).

2006-11-10T18:38:00.000-08:00

How the Miracle Blanket Saved Our Marriage (Twice)

Babies are clinically proven to cause stress. Sure, they're cute and usually smell good, but they also have tar-like poo and stay awake 23 hours & 55 minutes a day. When our two kids were babies, my wife and I were at each other's throats like Bart and Homer Simpson.

Then we discovered the unifying force of a colic baby crying through the night. My wife and I would walk to the bathroom at night like monsters from Michael Jackson's "Thriller" video, with hairdos to match.

Then a woman suggested a simple product made of about two feet of fabric that would change our lives forever: The Miracle Blanket. Basically, it wraps up your kid like a burrito. Or Hannibal Lector.

Our baby suddenly started sleeping. We were like Dr. Frankenstein: "It's asleeeeeeep! It's asleeeeep!" It saved us a good two weeks in the Mendota Mental Health Institute. If I could find the genius engineer who invented that blanket, why, I'd give him or her a rousing rendition of the "Thriller" dance--a gift that Genius Engineer would surely never forget!

Speaking of looney, the other night our two-year-old daughter was about to jump off a chair and my wife said, "Belle, stop! Are you crazy?"

Belle replied with glee: "YES!" You see, my daughter is going through that phase when she says yes to everything. Is a ball round? "YES!" Is Tom Cruise stable? "YES!" Is Larry King really a gigantic robotic bobble head? "YES!"

She's also a parrot. For example, the other day I held up a toy polar bear. "What kind of bear is this?" I asked her. Belle replied with complete confidence: "It's a whatkinda bear!," as if whatkinda was the latin form of polar. Silly Daddy, don't you know anything?

The other day, friends came over to our house and Belle immediately reported, "Daddy poops!" My lovely wife is to blame for this embarrassment. Belle had started to cry whenever she had a stinky diaper, so my wife thought it'd be a brilliant idea to tell Belle, 'It's OK, everybody poops."

My wife has a master's in elementary education. Ha, I thought, some use of higher learning; that will never work. Well, it worked famously. My wife rattled off names of serial poopers, beginning with Belle's best buddies. "Andrew poops," my wife explained. "Allison poops. Leah poops. Holly poops." Belle stopped crying, started giggling, and basically ate up the whole concept like a frat boy watching "Girls Gone Wild." My wife's grand finale was when she asked Belle, "Does Daddy poop?"

Belle replied, "YES!" of course, because that's her answer to everything. "Daddy poops!" she exclaimed, as if it were an epiphany. "Daddy poooooops! Woo-hoooooooo!"

Yes Belle, what a relief. I guess the moral is, kids can be difficult sometimes. But are all the pooey-tar diapers worth it when you help them through a tough phase? "YES!"

2006-11-04T14:18:00.000-08:00

My Daughter Has 'Big Girl Envy'

My two-year-old daughter Belle idolizes her big cousin Sophie, who's eight.

She morphs into Sophie's shadow whenever they get together, mimicking her like Marcel Marceau.

Belle has pictures of Sophie everywhere in our house, and loves to look at them. It's gotten to the point where we point to a picture and ask Belle, "Who's that?"

She'll say, "SOPH-ie!" Then we'll point to her other cousin, Lucas, and say, "Who's that?"

Belle will say, "Not Sophie." Then we'll point to Belle in the picture and say, "Who's that?"

Belle says, "Not Sophie."

Belle and I were at the library the other day and we saw two older girls playing in the kids area. "BIG GIRLS!" Belle exclaimed gleefully. One of them had the same name as Belle. "Hey Belle, that big girl has the same name as you," I said. The big girl smiled at Belle during my informal quasi-introduction. "Her name is Isabella," I said. "What's your name?"

"Fun!" Belle replied. Maybe she thought I was asking for her middle name.

She loves playing with her big girl cousins' Disney dolls, too. Her favorite is the one she calls "Sleeping Booty." Belle is enthralled when her Aunt Jessie comes to town with her sweet-smelling hair products, makeup and chic purses. That's when Belle gets to wear lip gloss and walk around in oversized heels--what could be more fun than that?

Belle also looks up to Aunt Jessie's fiance', David, who for some reason she calls "Max." I say, "No-no, Belle, his name is David."

"Hi MAX!" she deadpans.

I guess the moral is, we all need someone to look up to, especially when your daddy can't afford Prada.

Up Next: How the Miracle Blanket Saved My Marriage

Sincerely,
Chris

Copyright Christopher Hollenback, 2006, all rights reserved.

2006-11-02T21:09:00.000-08:00

My Car Seat? The Back of a Pinto

I despise car seats. I use them for my kids, but I need a shoe horn to get my baby boy Johnny into the straps. He loathes them, too—when strapped in, he screams like a dying eagle shot in the wing.

There were no car seats when I was little. My parents drove on Easy Street. They'd throw me in the back seat and relax while I played with my toys. They even got to listen to Neil Diamond (“Sweeeeet Car-o-mine…”). Never mind that I was sitting in the back of a Pinto—you know, the old Ford model that exploded when hit from behind because the fuel tank was exposed.

Johnny’s car seat had straps threaded awfully short in the back of the seat so, every time we got Johnny in or out, a strap fell out of one side. It was like when you have a hooded sweatshirt and the string gets so far to one side that you can’t get to the other side of the string. When you try to re-thread it, you end up looking like a cat trying to grab a tether ball.

So I wasn’t surprised when we got a letter that read:

“Car Seat Recall: Harness Bracket. Dear beloved sucke-errrr—CUSTOMER, we regret to inform you that the harness adjustment bracket on your car seat has been recalled. Your son will soon be ejected from your vehicle like Evil Knievel.”

OK, I made up that last sentence. What it should have said was:

“Car Seat Recall: The Whole Thing’s a Hunk of Junk.”

It’s interesting that the brochure to sell Hunk of Junk is on glossy paper in full color; the recall notice is photocopied—crooked—in black and white. I felt so… used. It was like when your high school sweetheart makes this big red valentine with doily trim to declare love for you—then later sends you a one-line FAX to dump you that reads:

“Dear sucke-errr—SWEETHEART, you’re dumped.”

How did they fix the problem with our harness bracket? They sent two pieces of cheap plastic. Nothing says “It’s safe now!” like something that probably fell off an old toy playset. I guess the moral is, if you’re going to take away a kid’s elbow room and force his parents to listen to nursery rhymes, the least you could do is salvage some metal from an old Tonka Truck to fix their kid’s car seat.

Thanks for reading—please tell a friend!

Next up: My Daughter Has 'Big Girl Envy'

Sincerely,
Chris

2006-10-31T19:20:00.000-08:00

Breast Feeding: A Trick or Treat?

My wife and I took our kids trick-or-treating with some friends for Halloween. It has become a tradition that we stop at the governor's mansion, which isn't far from our house. The governor and his wife actually hand out candy like political favors, which is pretty cool for the kids.

The governor happens to be a democrat, but we're equal opportunity trick-or-treaters. I checked with Belle, and she says republican chocolate and democrat chocolate taste the same. I've never had libertarian chocolate, but I've heard many libertarians put funny stuff in their brownies to give them an extra kick. Wait a second--maybe that explains my tummy ache after trick-or-treating back in 1983!

Anyway, Belle was dressed as Pebbles this year, complete with the triangular dress and the bone in her pigtail. Her baby brother Johnny was Dino--you know, Fred Flintstone's dog. We got Belle dressed and asked, "Who are you dressed as?" And Belle replied, "JESUS!" I said, "Maybe next year, sweetheart."

So we're walking up the driveway to the governor's mansion, and we pass other kids walking out. A four-foot tall Captain Jack Sparrow says, "Go back, it's totally not worth it. They take a long time and all you get is crackers." Apparently Captain Jack is a libertarian.

After we finished trick-or-treating, we handed out candy at our house. Most of the kids are sweet and cute. But there's a new phenomenon I like to call "transplant trick-or-treaters." These are the kids that gather all the treats in their neighborhood, then get their parents to drive them to another neighborhood to get more. It seems a bit much to me, but I don't have a big problem with it. Except for the girl who got out of her parents' car in front of our house and the first thing she said was: "Mommy, where are we?" I tried shouting, "The governor's mansion!," but my wife covered my mouth as I was trying to get it out.

The award for Most Memorable Monster of Halloween 2006 goes to a boy who rings our bell and says, "Trick or treat." I give him a healthy handful of candy, a potpourri of sugar. He says, "Thank you." I say, "You're welcome, Happy Halloween." He stands there for 10 seconds staring at me. I'm not wearing a costume, yet his eyes are big as saucers. I'm like, "What?" Still staring, the boy says, "Nothing," and hastily closes his bag and takes off. I turn around and there's my wife, breastfeeding our son in the kitchen, in full view of the door. (She thought the high chair was giving her cover.) Now, I don't think the little goblin could see anything inappropriate, but clearly he got a little more of a treat than expected. Poor kid will probably never see "milk chocolate" the same again.

I guess the moral is, no matter how we lean on the political spectrum, we can all put our differences aside for a night of glucose-glazed bliss, whether it's at the gov's, my house or some random neighborhood where your parents dropped you off.

If you enjoyed this, please tell a friend.