I'm Enrolling In Daycare

I love my children so much that I've decided to enroll in their daycare so as to be with them every minute of the day.  Granted, I could simply keep them home from daycare and still have the quality time without the cost.  However, going to daycare would be so much more fun.  The benefits of this approach include new friends, new toys, and frequent educational activities. The alphabet never gets old and my readers know how much I love words.

My proposal will include a request for equal participation in snacks, naps, and outdoor play. I share well and I'm potty trained. I'll also need a desk with high-speed internet access and good cell phone reception so that I could maintain a work-from-daycare kinda job so as to pay my way through childcare. I would also blog about my experiences there.

I wonder if my kids would eventually ask me to leave.  They might tire of my constant need for their hugs and positive feedback. I might even be shunned by the entire daycare population. What if I was actually banished from the kids' table? This proposal needs work. In the meantime, I'll hang with my adult peers with whom I'll continue to work on language development, sharing with others, and overall good behavior. 

I Bark With Great Enthusiasm

I bark with great enthusiasm and I have a ferocious meow. My cow moo is of extremely high quality and done with great commitment. And my snake Ssssssss'es would make even my childhood speech therapist proud. That's because I'm a Dad.  

A Dad's 200% effort towards any parent-child activity can result in behavior outrageous enough to rival similar behavior demonstrated (as witnessed by third parties) during his own college drinking days.  In my case, I'm sure that there were some late night and early morning barks, meows, and hisses, but they were most likely without as much clarity and conviction.  I can at least verify that I once participated in a moo'ing contest so embarrassing that even the winners were left feeling defeated.

If Daddy Spectator were a real magazine, I would probably get 96 points and a tip that "my dog barks are best paired with tickle fingers".  This type of confidence can only be demonstrated by one type of individual.

I am Tickle Dog.  Like many parents, I have found the secret to making my children squeal with laughter at the simple uttering of a word. Or in my case, a dog bark. Tickle Dog crawls on his aging hands and knees, barking like he's never barked before.  When he finds a little kid, Tickle Dog initiates a tickling, barking, and kissing frenzy.  But, Tickle Dog is easy to escape from.  He doesn't want his victims to kick him in the jaw again. Tickle Dog has a short learning curve. Besides, he has another little kid to find once he's done with the last one.

Recently, there have been requests for Tickle Dog and I happily oblige.  In mid-tickle, I often get a request for Tickle Cat at which time I lash out on my victims with a flurry of mad meows, tickles, and kisses.  This activity is good until Tickle Dog or Tickle Cat, tired and sore, falls down on the ground and does his best Sleeping Dog or Sleeping Cat imitation.  

A few days ago, I was Tickle Dog followed by Tickle Cat.  I then received requests, spaced apart by a few minutes, for Tickle Cow and Tickle Snake.  After enough hissing to make my numb tongue (which is not a typo but rather how it would have sounded if I tried to say it at the time), my son yelled "now do Tickle Parent!"

Tickle Parent?  I was stumped.  Here I was, a Tickle Parent in the flesh and a darn good one, but I stopped dead in my slither.  I thought to myself, "How do I-... But, I'm already a-...What does a-...". Isn't a Tickle Dog, by definition, a Tickle Parent? I guess it's not if there really is a dog out there that tickles little kids.  What would their Tickle Parent look like? I digress.

For a moment, I considered how well tickles and kisses would combine with firm parental statements such as "You will have a timeout if you don't take your pancakes off of the wall" or "We share the 'Yay'".  However, I decided that these conflicting messages could potentially cause lifelong issues.  A strong psychological association between discipline, pancakes, tickling, and kissing could result in some really awkward circumstances later in life.

So, after a long pause, I debuted as Tickle Parent.  I did what comes as naturally to a parent as a meow comes to a cat and a moo to a cow.

I stood up and, with great enthusiasm, yelled "I Love You! I Love You!" and attacked with tickles and kisses. It was the proud role of Tickle Parent that kept me from collapsing into a Sleeping Parent position.  Instead, after a very long stretch of playing Tickle Parent, I was able to invoke Sleeping Kids.

Medicine For Kids Living a Double Life

Like every medicine, Children's Benadryl Allergy medicine has it's warnings clearly labeled on the box.  I read it carefully this evening as I considered waking my daughter (age 2) to give it to her to treat alleged hives.  Two warnings seem to contradict themselves, and they are as follows:

• Marked drowsiness may occur.
• Excitability may occur.

I'm pretty certain that the above statements contradict themselves.  So which is it?  Is it an excited drowsy experience or a drowsy excited one?  Regardless, it's clearly going to be marked.

I will also add that the Children's Benadryl warnings suggests that "when using this product":

• Avoid alcoholic drinks.
• Be careful when driving a vehicle or operating machinery.

In case you are wondering, I decided not to wake my daughter to give her the medicine.  She had just arrived home from a long day at the monster truck rally where she was competing in the Under-6 category (booster seats and modified brake and gas pedals are standard), but lost because of her alcohol consumption.  People thought that she was on Children's Benadryl because of her marked drowsy excitability, when in fact she was simply a drunk toddler.

Waking Up In A Womb

Every morning, I wake up in a womb.  Or at least it sounds like it.

Like many parents, we experienced the typical long nights associated with babies as prescribed by the parenting handbooks.  However, our son took much longer to sleep more over time as prescribed by the infant handbooks.  He was quite fussy and was eventually diagnosed with silent reflux.  When he was first diagnosed with silent reflux, I thought this referred to the type of reflux the doctor was silent about the first dozen times we talked to him about it.  In the end, the silent refers to the absence vomiting which is typically not silent.

But, by the time he was diagnosed we were all in a pattern that seemed impossible to break. For awhile, we bounced his mattress with our hand while shushing.  The shush went something like this: "Shhhhh-sh-sh-sh-sh-Shhhhhh.  Shhhhh-sh-sh-sh-sh-Shhhhhh...."  This worked great except that the transition from shush to no shush had to be done with great skill perfected over many nights.  

After talking to other sleep-deprived parents and former sleep-deprived parents, we learned that white noise calms babies.  One friend (an Inner Humorist reader) suggested that a hair dryer might work.  In that moment, we got a hair dryer and proved this theory correct.  Unfortunately, we couldn't leave a hairdryer on all night.  So, naturally I went online to find a CD of hair dryer noise.  And I found one.  

When the CD arrived, we couldn't wait for the non-sleeping hours to come.  That evening, we put the CD in and it worked like a charm.  That is, it worked like a charm until it faded out.  Even on replay, the fade out and back in was enough to wake my son up.  The silence in those 10 seconds must have been horrible for him given the way he cried.  For a couple weeks, we would run into his room and try to skip the fade out ending so as to reduce the quiet time (if you can imagine that).  Eventually, we learned to let him "cry it out" and he eventually got over it.  The hairdryer CD has since been replaced with a humidifier with a loud fan.

But, the CD only helped for awhile and we needed a new strategy.  Therefore, we incorporated a sound machine (a gift from another Inner Humorist reader) and after seagulls, wind, and clanging buoys, we discovered that the sound of the womb was my son's favorite song.  He's now 3.5 years old and the womb is still an integral part of his nighttime ritual.  We continue to use monitors in their rooms, so the sound of the womb can be heard in our room also.

The sound of the womb puts me to sleep each night and wakes me up each morning.  Although I don't know what it's like to be in a womb, despite my nine months residency in one before I was evicted, I sometimes imagine that I'm waking up in one.  I think that if I could locate that old hairdryer CD, my experience will be complete.  Except that I won't cry all night.

Lowering a Toddler's Center-of-Misbehavity

I have been intending to write a post about the stages of a toddler meltdown, outlining the evolution of a real screamer (and by ‘screamer’, I’m not referring to the child). That story will most likely begin with some speculation on prehistoric Cromagnon tantrums and followed by commentary about genetics. It will also probably end with an anecdote involving me, two crying kids, a rainstorm, and a lost boot. Until then, I will briefly share another story that leads me to this post.

Children's clothes should have handles. Nice sturdy, comfortable ones.

Handles would provide parents with the first truly effective solution for comfortably and efficiently removing a mid-tantrum toddler or preschooler from a public place. At least this is what I considered during one of my least favorite activities of sudden-and-immediate child relocation. It's a rite of passage for all parents. Children will test limits and disobey instructions. The growing-up handbook indicates that this should be done with maximum drama and in the most public forum. I am finding more and more justification to take my young children to sporting events where they can scream and kick as much as they want. They could even puke, swear, and throw things at the officials. Nobody will notice.

The most recent edition of tantrum occurred at Barnes & Noble where the crowd usually seems to dissipate and employees begin to whisper upon our arrive. I'm surprised the manager hasn't slipped a bill for lost business into my pocket each time we go there.

As usual, my son (3.5 years), daughter (22 months), and I started at Starbucks to purchase a beverage that would wake-up Daddy. This is part of the preparation ritual and countdown to disaster. While walking towards the coffee shop, I was non-responsive while I prayed quietly that Pumpkin Loaf still be in season. When I neared the counter and noticed that Pumpkin Loaf had been removed from the menu. Unfortunately, my son has yet to grasp the concept of they don't have any right now and therefore you can't have any right now.

I ran interference with a Luna Bar, the whole nutrition bar for women (and toddlers). Shea had to have the same thing. Snack time in the cafe lasted about two minutes before the kids were ready to see books.

With coffee in hand, I led the kids to the children's book section where they promptly ran to the loudest books in the store. That's correct. Because they are kids and reading alone is too quiet, they are drawn to the items that will make the most noise for a normally peaceful activity. If you ever wanted to experience bleeding from the ears, try listening to the cacophony that is the simultaneous playing of Elmo flushing the toilet, The Backyardigans on a friendly pirate ship, the Alphabet Song in Spanish, and Dora the Explorer singing to a sick dinosaur.

After we had sufficiently annoyed some of the other parents by our noise, and hence satisfying the requirements of both childhood and parenthood, I announced that it was time to go. Both of my children followed, but my son was distracted by an alphabet book (this time in English) on the way out of the section. He picked up the book and started to bring it with him. When I told him that we weren’t buying the book, he started to get upset and repeat “But I want the alphabet book. But I want it.”

When I asked him to put the book back or give it to me, he held the book even more tightly. Yet, the game of opposites would not have worked here. I needed to be more firm. I gave him several chances before I took the book and placed it on the shelf, at which point we entered the next stage of tantrum. This phase is characterized by a cry that starts with eyes closed, neck arched backwards, and mouth wide open despite the silent cry. The yawn-gone-wrong then turns into a full-fledged crying fit.

On this particular day, I was not in the mood to negotiate the Great Toddler Pact of 2009. With one arm, I grabbed him by the waist and started carrying him to the main entrance. When I realized that my daughter was too embarrassed by the scene to follow, I had to pick her up with the other arm.

While making our way through the stacks of books, my son was pushing away from me and yelling “Put me down! I want the alphabet book!” Other customers saw us coming and graciously parted like the Red Sea. But, the most challenging part of this was the wriggling, screaming, kicking, crying child. It was quite awkward and difficult to carry both kids with a bag over my shoulder. Fortunately, I had finished my coffee or I would have had to risk leaving it behind again.

I also found myself repeating the same words, “We aren’t buying a book today.” I have found that fatherhood involves a lot of repeating oneself too. Many fathers before me have experienced this and jokes about pre-recordings and signs printed with common dad quotes are not new. However, I really wish that my mouth had a repeat button that required little or no energy from the brain after the first issuance of a dad ruling.

I finally got the kids in the car and drove home. I have since developed this concept of the Toddler Handles. As I mentioned, the grips would be sturdy and comfortable for those long journeys through the IKEA, CostCo, or Disney World. Carrying two children by handles would be much more comfortable for the arms and a shoulder bag would be trivial.  Lowering the center-of-misbehavity offers the upper body much more flexibility and the agility required to make a quick exit.

The kicking legs and swinging arms might still be an issue, so these handles should have Spiderman-like retractable netting that could blanket the child and their limbs before pulling them inwards and closer to the aforementioned center-of-misbehavity.

The handles would also be large enough to accommodate a small digital sound system. A series of push buttons would activate manufacturer-installed pre-recordings that would include:
“We are not buying that today,”
“If you don’t start cooperating, you’ll have a timeout,” and
“If you keep doing that, I’ll take away the kitchen knife.”

For the nostalgic, pre-recorded classics might include:
"What? Do I look like I am made of money?,"
"I'll wash your mouth out with soap," and
"If you don't behave, I'll take you back to the Sears Surplus where you came from."

To appease the more PC types and psychologists in the family, you might hear:
"Connect with your inner emotions and release the poisonous naughty child inside of you,"
“Please don’t project your emotions onto me, young man,” or
"A little cognitive reframing would do you some good, mister"

Another button would play a child’s voice with statements such as “Excuse me, please” and “Thank you” that would be most helpful while exiting a store.

Needless to say, Toddler Handles would make millions. This new product, which will be advertised as the solution to getting a handle on the situation (“Get a grip!"), would also include a built-in IPod for when you simply need to tune in to tune out.

Pink-Subtracted

You probably know from a previous post, that cereal and other bready foods are an integral part of the kids' menu.  In fact if the kids will eat it, we buy it in bulk.  Or in the case of Yogurt Burst Cheerios, the by-products are generated in bulk in our kitchen.  

My son only likes to snack on the pink "yogurt" coated cheerios.  He picks through bowls of perfectly normal beige brown tan-like cheerios to find those hidden gems.  What remains in the bowl is what I call "Pink-subtracted Cheerios."  When he discovers and eats all of the pink Cheerios, he asks for more at which point we dump the Pink-subtracted Cheerios into a storage baggie.  The storage baggie of Pink-subtracteds are kept "just in case."  The picture above clearly demonstrates that "just in case" rarely happens, yet at times we have more than one of these bags available.  It did happen once that we needed these rejects because my wife and I talked about them so much that the kids wanted them.  Although I thought the sudden shift would balance our Cheerio inventory, demand dropped the next day and the demand for yogurt Cheerios was again bursting.

I laugh when I open the cabinet (surprisingly, not the fridge) to discover these forgotten picked-over Cheerios.  However, these aren't nearly as funny (or tasty) as the Meatball-subtracted  Hot Pockets.

I Heart Stickers

You know that a sticker control policy is needed when there are so many that I don't even notice them stuck to me.  I'm sure that I have gone to work or the store with various stickers (mostly from the alphabet) stuck to my pants, shoes, or ears.  This one was a nice surprise when I went to wash my hands before lunch.  It may have been there all morning.

An Amendment to the "No Throwing Indoors" Rule

I implemented a new house rule that I never could have predicted.  I was faced with a scenario in which I had to quickly create the following amendment to the "No Throwing Indoors" Rule.  

"A stinky diaper shall not be thrown at a man with both hands in his pockets."

This rule applies outdoors also and is directly aimed to prevent further incidents.  Due to the circumstances under which this was created, it applies directly to my wife who will be subjected to just punishment if said rule is violated.  Please note that the duration of a time-out is still calculated as one minute per years of age.

Extra-Strength Tylernol

An old nickname resurfaced today. "Extra-Strength Tylernol" was a handle given to me by a teammate on my high school volleyball team. I'm glad that it has taken on new meaning in my professional life.  When my coworkers are feeling pain, "Extra-Strength Tylernol" will help. Perhaps at home, I should introduce a new nickname with similar effect. "Dadvil."

Riding the Elevator in the Dark? Not Today

I'll be pretty busy in the next week or so as I prepare for a presentation at a national conference.  However, I still hope to find time to at least mention the humor I find in each day.  

I was late to work today because I had to take my son to the dentist.  Our family dentist is in a Boston suburb much closer than where we live.  By the time I took him there, drove him back to preschool, and drove in to Boston again, it was close to noon.  One of the end results of this late arrival was that I had to park on the 7th floor of the parking garage.  It's labeled 'P7'.  I have never gone higher than 'P7', but I'm pretty sure that the next floor is called "International Space Station Maintenance Platform."

Taking the stairs down is no problem for a somewhat out of shape dad like me.  However, when the day was over I decided to take the elevator to 'P7'.  When the elevator opened, there was a sign taped to the wall that said something to the effect of:

Elevator Lighting Problems

Please use the stairwell.  

If you must use it, do so with caution.

I wasn't exactly sure what "do so with caution" meant with regards to a lighting problem.  If I were to take the elevator with such a issue, what possibly could I do that was cautious?  Step lightly onto the elevator so as to ride unnoticed, pray to the elevator gods that I may see the light for 7 P's, or be prepared to change a light bulb on the way up?

I considered what could happen on my ride.  The lights might go out?  I suddenly had a vision of the lights going out and the elevator getting stuck.  I got out of the elevator and decided to walk up the stairs.  I need to do this more often, for these days it's the most exercise I get.   P7 is actually 14 sets of stairs (okay, so I make it worse than it really is).  It crossed my mind that I chose a potential heart attack over riding the elevator in the dark.

On P7 and with my heart now racing, I decided that were my daughter (22 months old) with me I definitely would have taken the elevator.  If the lights were to go out, I believe that she would still find the emergency call button faster than I could say "No touching the big red button." And this time, unlike the last, I wouldn't even have to respond to a mystery voice asking "Can I help you?" with a "Sorry, that was my toddler calling to say hi."

Belushi and Akroyd's Kids Would Be Proud

My son (age 3 and 6/12ths) is obsessed with letters, which some of my readers might recall from a previous story.  So, I wasn't surprised when I picked him up the other night and he was cheerily singing the letter 'w'.

"w w w!"

"w w w!"

"w w w!"

He sang this over and over again, three w's in rapid succession until we pulled in the driveway when I asked, "why do you like w so much today?"

He smiled and responded, "pbskids."  

There was a brief pause and then he smiled again and said, "dot org!"

It then occurred to me that he's been watching too much television lately.  At least the "tell your parents about this" advertising is working well.  

When we unloaded the car and got settled in the house, he was still singing his new song.   But, he was now singing the blues. Literally.

With harmonica in hand, the song went like this:

"w w w"

(harmonica riff)

"pbskids"

(harmonica riff)

"dot"

(harmonica riff)

(harmonica riff)

"org..."

(harmonica riff)

(harmonica riff)

(harmonica riff)

He then spiraled out of control into the livingroom while playing the harmonica wildly.

Singing the blues for public television.  Even kids are sensitive to the impact of the economic downturn on non-profits.

Things That Go Oink in the Night

We have a couple LED flashlight key chains whose sole purposes are to keep the kids entertained on occasion.  For example, when the 300+ toys in their playroom aren't enough, a $1 key chain can do the trick.  One is a pig and another is a frog.  They each emit a twice repeated animal sound and shine a bright blue LED light.  The pig's light is emitted through it's nostrils and the frog's through it's mouth.

We keep our pigchain and frogchain in a kitchen drawer where we also keep silverware. We  sometimes place our children's toys near sharp objects.  This works for us because the toys divert their attention away from the hazardous utensils.  I'll admit that it doesn't always work; the strategy is flawed.

A couple weeks ago, the button on the pigchain got stuck which resulted in a continuous oink. The robotic "oink oinks" were repeated at a rate of one per second.

Oink oink

Oink oink

Oink oink

As any father and loving husband would, I tried for an unreasonable amount of time to un-stick the button.  My efforts were to no avail.  Therefore, I did the next best thing.  I simply placed the pork next to a fork and closed the drawer.  

By now, the kids had already forgotten about the pig.  But, my wife and I were haunted by the quiet and muffled sound of the pig in the kitchen drawer.

Oink oink

Oink oink

Oink oink

"Are you just going to leave it in there?" asked my wife.

"He'll stop oinking eventually," I replied morbidly.

Later that evening as we cleaned up the kitchen, we could still hear him whenever we approached the silverware drawer.  As I headed towards the stairs for the night, I was greeted as I am every night by my son's talking number puzzle.  It seems that toys are talking to me constantly and without reason.  This particular puzzle usually speaks when the lights go on or off.  On this particular night, lights out prompted a "Nine" which I remember vividly for it was also the time on the clock.  The talking puzzle tends to get personal with a loud "Zero" when I'm feeling overly critical of myself.

The next morning, the search for a spoon to stir my coffee also reminded me of our dying pigchain.  He was still oinking, but much quieter now and most likely feeling defeated.  I was sad, but needed coffee and moved on.

Since then, the pig has been quietly laying in the drawer.  That is, until yesterday when my son rediscovered him.  And to our amazement, his little fingers brought the pig back to life!  In reality, the "little pig that could" had a bit more oink left after all.  The kids were pleased for another 10 minutes until the oink was gone once more.  Back in the drawer, the pig was forgotten again.

This morning, I pressed the pig's button one last time to discover that the pig had lost his oink forever. 

RIP Pigchain.

We'll miss you.

At least until the coffee is done brewing.

Got a Spare Shadow?

The local YMCA has a gymnastics class for toddlers called "Me and My Shadow."  This morning while at the YMCA to register my son for the class, I resisted the urge to suggest that as adults we should set a good example and rename the class "My Shadow and I."  Instead I asked a more practical question. 

"Should my son bring his own shadow or will the teacher provide one?"  

Air Mommy

Yesterday, my kids were behaving so well at the grocery store that my wife and I decided to give them each a balloon.  While paying for the ingredients for our Potato Leek Soup, my wife made a joke about double-bagging the Leeks just in case....well you know.  Although she couldn't evoke a laugh out of the cashier, who probably thought they were mutant scallions, my Inner Humorist was pleased. 

While looking around to see if the joke was overheard, my son accidentally let go of his balloon.  Just as I turned, I noticed my wife leaping high into the air with arms outstretched in an attempt to catch it.  This quick-thinking mommy got major air.  I suspect that she put one foot on the bottom rack of the grocery cart and got more traction on the candy rack on her way up.  Or did she? 

Unfortunately, the balloon had different plans and floated to the rafters.  As my wife consoled our son, the cashier ordered another balloon (less helium this time).  All in a day's fun.

List from a List

My wife and I make the kids' lunch each night for the next day. Typically, we start by making a list that outlines the meals. The list is divided by "Morning", "Lunch", and "Afternoon." From there, the menu unfolds.

Tonight, after my wife made most of the lunch without me, I was handed a smaller list on a separate paper that read:
Hummus
Pancakes with Jam
Macaroni and Cheese

I was now working with a list from a list. Apparently, I need simplification so as to minimize the number of questions. So, before she left the room I asked:

"Hummus for each of them? Separate containers? How much? The new stuff with the chopped garlic on top or the smooth kind?"

"How much jam? Strawberry or Rasberry? How many pancakes? As mini sandwiches or free agents? In baggies or tupperware?"

"Kraft or Annie's? Macaroni, Pokemon, or Bunnies?"

Toddler Coordinator

This morning, my family and I had an appointment to tour a local daycare facility. We are actively searching for an alternative childcare center for my daughter. As an alternative to the home-based family daycare where she currently attends, we decided to examine a larger center with the full support of "Corporate" and a wide range of germs to choose from on a daily basis.

I was quite impressed by the ample parking. This is certainly only one of many benefits to being located at an industrial park in a building that was most likely a lead paint plant at one time. The other advantage is that teachers could take them for a stroll through the BJ's parking lot or past the plastic recycling center. Look kids! That's where your bottles will go if you misbehave.

We went inside and were greeted by "the administration." We were greeted by several administrative assistants before the most experienced, 24 year old Jenny, introduced herself as the "Toddler Coordinator." She toured us through a few toddler rooms where the teachers were disheveled and the kids looked miserable. As we asked how the teachers handled sick children, we watched as toddler after toddler had their noses wiped. There was one room where the kids noses were running like fountains, but only because the teacher was cleaning up the leaky faucet on her own face.

Our guide discussed how they use a variety of methods to creatively develop the children's interpersonal and language skills. She explained how they use stuffed animals to represent different emotions so that the children would have another way to articulate how they are feeling. As she started to explain how Sid the Snake represented Sad, she got frustrated when she couldn't find the fluffy critter to demonstrate her point. When I suggested that perhaps Sid was Sad because he was Stolen, she got more frustrated. Sensing her anxiety and hoping to evoke a smile instead, I suggested that she look for Fred the Frustrated Fox. She didn't laugh but instead ushered us out of the room.

The rooms and hallways were a mess. The classrooms and offices were cluttered. One room served dual purposes as a staff office and a children's reading room. The most organized part of that particular room was the inside of the vending machine stocked with snacks for staff members. But the desks around it were full of unorganized papers and office supplies. As long as the Skittles and Cheetos are lined up for perfect viewing and selection, who needs to find this week's preschool curriculum? Where's that list of kids that are allergic to peanuts? It's here somewhere....Oh never mind. Do you have a quarter I can borrow for that Snickers bar in Row H3?

When we looked at the ghost town that was the outdoor playground, I noticed a variety of toys half buried in wood chips and soon to be forgotten for the winter. In several months, children will look outside to see what Spring has sprung and be disappointed to find Fisher Price toys emerging from the melting snow. Parents all over town will be explaining why their yards don't grow toys. Perhaps this is where many of those same parents will invoke their right to also explain that money doesn't grow on trees.

We left quite disappointed and wondered if we will ever be satisfied with the childcare options. At the particular center that we chose to visit today, we were able to confirm that "Corporate" doesn't (we hope) really know what's going on at Germ Fest 2008. We will need to keep looking. In the meantime, I have updated my resume to reflect my part-time responsibilities as "Toddler Coordinator" and "Fred the Frustrated Fox" which are apparently synonyms.

Purple Cat Stickers

During my lunch break today, I walked across the street to the MIT bookstore. Any place with MIT students and the books they read should approximate the center of the intellectual universe. Today's experience casted doubt on this assumption.

With a specific item in mind, I wandered the aisles on the ground floor before my search led me to the basement level. When I couldn't find it there either, I approached the cashier, a disheveled college-aged male staring at his hands until he noticed me.

"Do you sell stickers? For kids?" I asked.

The young man laughed and promptly produced a sheet of stickers from behind the counter. The sheet had purple cats on it. "They're free. It's a promotion."

I wasn't sure how to respond appropriately. "Are you advertising that you have a large surplus of purple cats for sale?"

"Nope. Just a large surplus of purple cat stickers. We're trying to get rid of them."

"So, you are promoting them by giving them away?"

"Yep. Pretty creative marketing strategy, huh?"

I was losing patience.

"I'm looking for letter stickers."

"Do you mean stamps?"

"No, not that kind of letter. The alphabet. They're a reward for potty training."

He stared at me blankly without saying anything.

"For my son," I explained, attempting to refocus him. "He's potty training and it's an incentive that works for him."

Illustrating size with exaggerated hand gestures, he asked "Do you want small letter stickers? Or large ones?"

"I want purple cat sized ones."

"I'm sorry, but we don't sell letter stickers."

"Then why did you ask me what size?"

"I dunno. Just curious."

I rode the elevator back up to the ground floor. As I neared the exit, I discovered a gift section that I didn't notice earlier. I quickly found refrigerator magnets with the alphabet. They stick. They have letters on them. Sold.

I paid for the magnets at the nearest register. I was happy to have an interaction with a different customer service representative. By choice, we barely spoke and I was on my way in a few moments.

When I got home this evening, my wife asked me about the sticker hunt.

"No luck with the alphabet stickers. Only magnets," I declared as I tossed the bag onto the kitchen island.

She peeked inside and smiled.

"You bought purple cat stickers?"

Realizing that the cashier must have tossed them into the bag with the receipt, I could do nothing but tell the truth.

"It was a promotion."

PoCO

My wife wants to start a movement in Framingham. And it's not the kind of movement the town desperately needs to reduce the number of Brazilian nail salons in the downtown area. Instead, she wants to promote a "Positive Costume Only" (PoCO) Halloween in which only happy and friendly costumes are worn by the children of the town. The acronym is by no means intended to minimize the magnitude of this initiative's potential impact.

This interest of hers was prompted by the frightened response by our children as they walked by the Halloween store at the mall. She hurried the kids past the zombies and goblins at the same pace I typically rush past the occasional Spencer's gift store. Or past the frequent "Can I ask you a question?" from beauty product kiosk vendors to whom I always respond with finality, "You just did."

Over dinner the other night, she explained that kids should not wear scary costumes. I asked her for an example of a more positive yet interesting costume. She promptly responded, "A Rubik's Cube." I now felt obligated to explain that one of the reasons that masks were historically worn at Halloween festivals was to scare away evil spirits. This was typically done at Harvest time, or in modern days, before eating candy harvested from strangers in costumes.

I explained that the Rubik's cube wasn't scary enough. But, then I hesitated. I realized that when I was of trick-or-treating age, I would have been terrified of a Rubik's cube. Especially, if the puzzle were to surprise ambush me in a cul-de-sac, screaming "Solve Me! Solve Me!" I definitely would have run home.

Therefore, I have successfully defeated the PoCO Halloween with at least one example of how a seemingly positive costume is always a disguise for something more evil and sometimes unexplainable. With a renewed excitement for the holiday, I will be making new costumes for my kids. Watch out residents of Framingham, because this year on All Hallow's Eve, you will meet Ms. Calculus and Mr. Driver That Always Blocks Intersections.

Kicks

I just learned from my son that the singular version of the cereal Kix is a kick, as in "can I have a kick in my mouth daddy?"

Sharing the "Yay"

All parents know that teaching a child to share is an essential part of parenthood. It's in the job description, listed right between organizing fun playdates and establishing a laundry process designed to rival any major hotel chain. Sharing is a skill that is properly honed on the playground, at the daycare, and at home.

Sharing with others is a skill that children will apply throughout their lifetime.

Fortunately, most of us mature with age and compromise does not always result in a tantrum. Although sharing can at times still be difficult, we learn to control our emotions. But, let's imagine for a moment that we don't develop self-control. That last donut in the lunchroom could result in a midlife meldown by hungry colleagues. The good seats at a work seminar could be the cause of a major crying fit by managers and employees alike.

My home is not immune to the challenges in teaching kids to share with each other. Naturally, my son had a difficult time adjusting to the arrival of his baby sister. But, the easiest way for him to manage this was to simply ignore her. This lasted only several weeks until he most likely realized that we didn't get her at the library with the Bob the Builder DVDs nor would she be returned in the dropbox. Sharing then became much more difficult, as sibling rivalry should. Naturally, toys are one of the first objects that children must learn to share.

My wife and I have learned to apply Standard Operating Procedures to our family's sharing protocol. When a toddler scuffle erupts over a toy, we calmly explain that the toys are to be shared and they are expected to take turns with the toy that is most coveted in that particular moment. This interaction occurs often, because typically my daughter wants anything that my son possesses at any given time. Therefore, the following conversation can be heard often in our house.

Cian: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH. No baby Shea!"

Me: "What happened?"

Cian: "I want the Compeetateeter. Baby Shea has daddy's phone," clinging to a toy computer and pointing at my previously lost cell phone.

Me: "We share our toys. Shea, play with my phone for another minute. Cian, you have another minute with the computer before you give it to your sister."

Cian and Shea in unison: "Ok."

This works almost always. However, recently the concept of sharing has reached a new level. A few months ago, Shea started to dance to music with her brother. Cian felt that dancing was not to be shared and promptly said so. "My dancing, Shea!" Although we briefly discuss how the dancing is to be shared, Shea (not surprisingly) becomes less interested in her dance partner and finds a new activity. She still dances with her brother, but only when he's in the mood to share.

Last weekend, we entered completely new territory with regards to sharing protocol. As a family, we have a ritual of saying "Yay!" when we are driving and pull into the driveway upon returning home. On this particular occasion after the celebratory cheer, Cian firmly stated:

"No, Baby Shea. My Yay!"

My wife and I looked at each other, uncertain of how things could have evolved this far. My daughter copies and my son copyrights. The conversation could have gone like this:

Me: "What happened?"

Cian: "I want the Yay. Baby Shea has Hooray," clinging to the Yay and pointing at my previously lost Hooray.

Me: "We share our cheers. Shea, play with my Hooray for another minute. Cian, you have another minute with the Yay before you give it to your sister."

Cian and Shea in unison: "Ok."

Cian: "Yay!"
Shea:"Hooray!"
Me: "Sweet."

But, instead we had a brief discussion about it before we all shared the "Yay."

Hooray!