Trophy

"Jackson put gum up his nose." Lauren said as she entered the house.

She was returning home from, what was clear to me, a frustrating trip to the store with the three boys.  I have a sixth sense for these things. I can sense, well it is not really sense but more of just know, that anytime you try to take three boys to a store it will be frustrating. I also can tell the level of frustration based on how Lauren enters the house. When the first words out of her mouth are one of the kid's names or the phrase "You will not believe what THIS one did" it usually is not a good trip.

"Did you get it out?" I asked from my reclined spot on the couch. I lowered the volume of the football game that was on the TV. My Sunday afternoon plans were to lay on the couch, eat chips, drink a couple of beers and watch football.

"No. I was driving when he did it." She said. "He says it came out and he swallowed it."

Wyatt bounded into the room. "Dad, Jackson put gum up his nose."

 "I told him not to do it." Max said as he followed Wyatt.

"I heard. What kind on gum was it?" I asked hoping to get an answer from Lauren.

"Just gum, Dad." Wyatt answered.

"What difference does it make?" Lauren asked.

"Well, if it is a Chick-let type of gum, it would be small and could really get up there. But if it is a big piece of Bubble Yum, or something I should be able to see it."

I called Jackson over, leaned him backwards over my lap, and looked up his nose. I could see a very small white blob of snotty gum jammed way up into his right nostril. I was afraid that the gum might make its way through the nasal passage and to his throat, which could cause him to choke. It looked bad and I knew we needed to get it out.

The football game, the chips, the beer and the laying on the couch would have to wait.

The gum was lodged too far up for his fingers to be able to reach it. We made many failed attempts at trying get him to blow his nose. I tried snatch it a few times with a standard pair of tweezers but between fidgeting, screams and tears I could not get the gum out.

Our neighbor, Lisa, is a nurse (I like to think of her as Jackson's personal ER consultant) Lauren called Lisa to see if she had a larger/longer pair of tweezers. Lisa  did not have larger tweezers but she came down to take a look up Jackson's nose. She agreed that the gum needed to be extracted. Lisa called Amy, who is also a nurse, to see if she had larger tweezers. Amy did not have the tweezers but she was in the area and so she stopped by to look up Jackson's nose. Everyone agreed that Jackson would need to go to the ER to have the gum removed.

The football game was already half over. After looking up Jackson's nose so many times the chips and beer lost their appeal. Laying on the couch would have to wait.

Lisa agreed to take the older boys to her house so Lauren and I could take Jack to the ER.

We got into the car and started the 20 minute drive to the hospital. I was feeling kind of annoyed at the whole situation.  Gum up the nose is not a priority in a hospital. I knew, that even on a slow day we would be waiting for a really long time. I also knew that they would probably have to strap Jackson down, a scenario I did not want to witness, so they could get gum out.

I looked into the rear view mirror at Jackson who was feeling a bit frightened at the idea of going to the hospital. He looked worn out. Lauren was upset with the whole ordeal. I started talking to both Jackson and Lauren hoping to take every ones mind off of the ER visit, besides I needed to vent a bit.

"Jack, this is why you do not put gum in your nose. We now have to take you to the hospital. Hon, you should make sure we have our insurance card. They won't hurt you Jax, but it will be scary. Are you going to put gum up you nose again? Are you? I know you didn't mean to get the gum stuck but if you don't put it there in the first place, it will never get stuck. Do we have enough money in the checking account for the co-pay? I think the co-pay is a 100 bucks. Jackson, one small piece of gum is going to cost me at least a hundred dollars. Do you know how many trains a hundred dollars could buy? I can't believe a stupid piece of gum is going to cost us 100 bucks. That's a lot of trains. You know Jax, if you could get that gum out of your nose before we get to the hospital I would give you money to a buy a train. I won't give him a a hundred dollars but I would sure as hell buy him a train. We could go right to the toy store right now if that gum comes out."

"A Thomas train?" Jackson asked. He suddenly perked up.

"What ever train you want pal."

What happened in the back seat is kind of hard to describe. There was grunting, snorting, hocking, huffing, puffing, sniffing, slurping, blowing and all kinds of other noises. Lauren and I could not believe he was working so hard at getting the gum out.  I pulled the car over so Lauren could get in the back seat to help him. She held his unobstructed nostril as Jack blew. Within a minute or two a long piece of snot covered chewing gum was dangling from his nose. Lauren, with only a deft move a mother could pull off, used her nails to remove the rest of the gum.

We cheered. We clapped and congratulated Jackson. Yes, we cheered for a three-year-old's ability to blow gum out of his nose.

We went directly to the toy store and bought a Thomas train as trophy for his accomplishment.

Social Security

The Social Security Administration lists the name Jackson at #42, Wyatt  at # 84 and Maxwell (Maxwell was the first name even close to Maxfield)  at # 134 and just Max at # 148 of top boy names for the 2000's decade. The SSA lists the name Henry at #102.

Last weekend Lauren, Max, Wyatt, Jackson and myself went to a Camden River Sharks minor league baseball game with some friends of ours, including their 9 year old son Henry (who is also my Godson). The game was not sold out and our two families spread out over two rows of seats along the third base line.  As is typical for any type of event like this there is always some type of parenting in public (PIP) that involves the repetitive use of the children's names and at an above-normal volume.

"Max, let those people through."
"Max do you have to go to the bathroom?"
"Max, do you want a hot dog or a burger? Max? Max? Hot dog or Burger? Max are you listening?'
"Max, stop hitting your brother."
"Max do you have to go to the bathroom?"
"Max, sit down so the people behind you can see."
"Max do you need to use the bathroom now?"
"Max, stop... feet...the chair... front of you." You know because sometimes as a parent you just cannot form a proper sentence.
"Max, can you please keep an eye on your brother."
"Max, I am going to the bathroom, do you need to go?"

It was the bottom of the third inning, I was leaning back to ask my friend in the row behind us a question when I heard the woman in the row in front of me say "Max, you really need to stop doing that."

I snapped my head around.  First I wanted to see what Max was doing that required a total stranger to correct him and second, to see who was the person that was correcting my kid. Max was sitting quietly eating his fruit snacks. I realized that the lady in front of me was talking to a 4 year old little boy sitting beside her also named Max. I chatted with the lady and her son for a minute or two and we chuckled at the name coincidence. I mean if the kids were named Mike, or Jim, or Jacob, or Matthew I would get it. But two Maxs so close together was weird and cool. I then felt sorry for the little boy, figuring he probably was freaked out thinking that the guy behind him kept asking him if he had to go to the bathroom.

I told my friend behind me that there were two Maxs. He and his wife laughed. They just had the same kind of conversation with people in the row behind them who also had a son Henry.

The next day my family was at a birthday party for one of Max's friends. The adults at the party consisted of a mix of parents of kids from different aspects of the birthday boy's life, like from swimming or school or neighbors. All of the parent's kind of knew each other or knew of one another but rarely interacted with each outside the common bonds of the birthday boy and his family.  It is these types of parties where people may or may not be introduced with an indicator of where they are from. A point of reference for each other  in the social situation. The point of reference that provides a bit of security during conversations, you don't feel like you are talking to strangers. This point of reference sometimes becomes a last name.  Like "Bill, this is Diane Fromthepool. Diane this is Bill FromLittleLeague." Or "Lauren this Alexa Christian'sMom. Alexa this Lauren Wyatt'sMom."

We all chatted in the kitchen as the kids ran around playing. I positioned my self in a perfect spot in the kitchen, near the food and drinks, with a view of  the TV (Phillies game) in the family room to my right, and to my left a view of the dining room table (kids eating).

To my right, with a view of the family room was Diane Fromthepool. To my left was Lauren, Amy Fromaroundthestreet, and Janine Afamilyfriend. The host and her husband fluttered in an out preparing food and what not. At some point I was introduced to Janine's 4 year old son Nicholas. I made a mental note that Diane's son was also named Nick or Nicholas. Nicholas is the 14th spot the SSA top names for the 2000's which makes it more common for there to be a couple of Nicks together at the same party.  We all made small talk trying to get to know one another with out embarrassing ourselves, or in my case embarrassing my wife.

Janine's Nick, somewhat shy and not familiar with most of the other kids, needed the security of his mom in the social setting and hung out in the kitchen for a while. He eventually discovered that there was a dog in the family room and he went in to pet and play with the dog. At some point Diane's Nick also went into the family room to play with the dog. There was a commotion, laughing followed by growling, followed by a small ruckus.

Diane, had the best view of the situation. Her eyes went wide. She tried to say something but sometimes as a parent you just cannot form a proper sentence and she hollered, "Nick! Come!"

To my right Janine's jaw dropped and her head snapped around towards Diane. I am sure first to see what her Nick was doing that required a total stranger to correct her kid and second to see who it was  that was correcting her kid. The kitchen fell silent. There was an awkward moment. Janine's face was full of shock and surprise. Diane turned toward the rest of us shaking her head in that way a parent does to silently communicate to other parent's What can you do? Diane saw the look on Janine's face and realized that Janine thought Diane was barking at her kid. Diane's face turned red as she tried to explain she was yelling at her Nick.

The two Nicks entered the kitchen. The older one with his head down knowing he was in trouble, the younger one seeking the security of his mom because some strange lady was yelling at him.

Parenting in Public is often entertaining.
I laughed for a good five minutes.

Heroes and Villains

"Look how cute you all look." the train conductor said. She flashed a big toothy grin. "You are all wearing matching orange shirts."

"Thanks." I smiled back at her. "We are heading downtown. The orange will make it easier to keep track of each other."

"Oh. Where you heading?"

"To the comic book convention." I replied.

Maxfield, Wyatt and I found some empty seats on the SEPTA train. I used the train ride to prep the kids on what to expect and what to do in case we get separated. I explained that a comic convention would be filled with lots of cool stuff, there would many distractions, but no matter what we all had to stick together. I wrote my cell phone number on a pieces of paper, placed the paper in their pockets and told them if they did get lost that they could get someone to call my phone.



Not an orange shirt to be seen.



As we stood in line at the convention center someone else commented on the matching orange shirts.

"It is so I can easily spot them in a crowd." I answered. "I chose orange because no one wears orange to a comic convention."

"How's that?" he said.

"People wear red and blue super hero shirts and black Goth-y things to these events. Aquaman is the only super hero that I can think of to wear orange. And no one wants to be Aquaman." I answered.

Max and Wyatt seemed to be enjoying themselves. We met Colleen Venable the author of Guinea PI (g) comics, who was very nice and personable. We discussed the orange shirts and how I picked the color so the kids could see me and I could see them. I joked how I dress them in bright green for Fourth of July Parades. We talked with the artist and writer of Lazerman comics. We visited many booths, like the Garrison Carida, a very cool  Star Wars themed charity organization.

We even stopped by to the see the Bat-mobile, which Wyatt recognized from the 1960's  TV show that airs on the cable channel the Hub.

We made our way through aisle after aisle looking at cool super hero stuff and collecting free comics, trading cards and other things. We saw the Mystery Machine from Scoobie Doo and the General Lee from Dukes of Hazzard.We stopped every so often so I could take pictures of the kids. We entered the area where celebrities were doing meet and greets and autographs.  Adam West, Burt Ward, Adam Baldwin, Jon Schneider, Billy Dee Williams and countless other B and C list stars from shows like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Firefly and Star Gate were in various sections with lines of fans snaking in and out of the booths. It was very, very crowded.

I stopped at an intersection of rows trying to look at the floor plan map. I wanted to get out of the crowds. I turned around.

"Max, Wyatt we are going to go this way." I said pointing to my right.

Only Wyatt replied.

It took me about 5 seconds to register that I was only looking at one orange shirt.

"Wyatt, where is Max?"

"I don't know." he said.

I looked down each of the four rows at the intersection. I did not see one orange shirt. I called out Max's name. My voice did not carry far. It was dampened by the huge crowds around us. My heart started racing. I looked in the booths of action figures near us. No orange shirt. Crap. I grabbed Wyatt's hand and I started to move up and down the aisles. No orange shirts anywhere.

Should I stay put, hoping he comes back to where we got separated? Do I go look for him? Do I scream his name louder? I grabbed my phone to make sure I could hear it ring over the noise of the crowd. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of an orange shirt. I pushed my way through the crowd. As I got closer I saw it was someone wearing a General Lee "01" shirt. Who the hell wears orange shirts to a comic convention? I ran back to the intersection. A few minutes passed and I tried to calm myself down by telling myself that Max was just at a vendor's booth looking at comics. But then as I looked around the creepiness factor hit me.

People were walking around looking like this...

or like this. Creepy right?

About 5 maybe 10 minutes went by (It felt like 30 minutes) when I decided to just go up and down the aisles. I pushed through the crowds yelling his name. Nobody stopped to help. People were annoyed I was yelling too close to their ears. I was flabbergasted. With all the super hero vibes going through the place you would think someone would have stopped to help the panic stricken screaming man in the orange shirt.

As I pushed down the second aisle I caught a glimpse of an orange shirt sitting in a booth about 30 feet away. I stood on my tip toes trying to look over the heads of the crowd in front of me. I felt Wyatt's hand slipping from mine. I held Wyatt closer as I nudged past a few more people to get a better look for the orange shirt. There, sitting on a high stool in the booth of the ECW and WWF wrestling diva Dawn Marie was Max. I caught my breath.

Max hugged me and I could tell he was scared. I could also tell he was mad at me for losing him. I had a lump in my throat.  Dawn Marie stroked his hair and tried to calm him. Dawn Marie explained that Max approached her and another woman volunteer and said that his dad was lost. Dawn suggested he sit in her booth while the volunteer went to the main office. Dawn told me that Max did the right thing and not talk to anyone until he saw the volunteer.

"BILL MEAKIM. PLEASE REPORT TO DAWN MARIE'S BOOTH." boomed over the loud speakers.

I stuttered a thank you to Dawn for taking care of Max. She noticed the orange shirts and mentioned them. I explained my idea of how I wanted the kids to stand out and how it apparently failed. I noticed Wyatt was staring at Dawn and her, uhm, muscles. She had, uhm, rather, uhh big muscles and she was showing them off.

"BILL MEAKIM PLEASE PICK UP YOUR SON AT DAWN MARIE'S BOOTH." echoed through the convention hall again.

Dawn offered to let us sit in her booth until Max and I calmed down a bit. I declined. Wyatt continued to stare.  People were lining up to get her autograph and I could tell Wyatt was on the verge of saying something about her outfit. I thanked Dawn again and made a lame joke about how she was a real super hero to me. We walked away a few feet to let the lines form at her table. I asked Max why he did not use the phone number I gave him. He said he could not find it. With Max and Wyatt safely at my side, I started laughing at the situation. I took a quick picture with the camera knowing that no one would believe me.

A muscular Dawn Marie on the left. 

As we left the convention I heard my name over the loud speaker another 3 times. I felt like such the bad guy.

Me as a villain. Wyatt took this picture.

Middle Finger

"Dad, can I ask you a question?" my seven-year-old son asked. He and his little brothers were helping me put away laundry.

"Sure Maxfield. What is it?" I responded not looking at him. I was mindlessly sorting pants by size using the air hockey table as a folding table, I had a system going and I was in a groove.

"Kevin, at school, not my cousin Kevin, showed me his middle finger and told me that it was a very bad thing to show just your middle finger to some one. He said you should never do this." Max held up his middle finger, his thumb crossed his other three fingers to hold them down*.

I don't know if my kids noticed that I stopped folding the laundry, my mindless system disrupted, or if they saw me look at the clock wondering if their mom would be home soon to field this question, but they sensed that they were on to something important.

"Like this, dad, like this." Max said trying to show me his middle finger.

"You shouldn't do that pal." I said.

"Why? Why is it bad? What does it mean? Kevin just told me it was really bad?"

"It is like saying something bad in sign language." I told him. I noticed Wyatt was struggling to point his middle finger. I sighed.

"But what does it mean?" Max asked. He was very curious and had a concerned look on his face.

"Just don't ever do it to someone. Okay?"

"Why?"

"Just don't."

"Can you tell me what it means?" Max asked.

Every day, as a parent, I go through some type of debate in my head between telling the truth, protecting the innocence, keeping it real, keeping their youth, knowing is half the battle (GI JOE),  ignorance is bliss etc. etc. I do believe that sometimes the best answers are "Because I said so." But at this time I felt some type of explanation would take some mystery out of the equation and maybe give Max some understanding as to why he should not give the finger. I did not want to talk about the sexual nature of flipping the bird, that would be whole other conversation, but I didn't want him to think it was okay to do. He is too young to be labeled a bad kid for something innocent. I searched my brain for something that I could use to explain the nature of the gesture but also impress upon them why it was bad. A long time ago I read an article about giving someone the finger and it's history. The only part I could recall was the story (which is a false story) about some king cutting the fingers off of his enemy's archers.

I took a deep breath and told them a story.

"A long time ago there was a very evil king. This king was the most evil person alive at that time.  He sent his army from village to village taking property and stealing to expand his kingdom. He would make the villagers work for him in the farms and not pay them. Some of the villagers tried to fight back. The villagers used bow and arrows and swords. The kings army was too strong. When they won the battle the king's army cut off the middle fingers of all the men so they could not fight any more. They cut off the middle finger so the villagers could not pull back a bow or hold their swords. After a while none of villagers in all of the land had middle fingers. The kings army would ride into town and the king's soldiers would hold up their middle fingers to show they were loyal to king and also to make fun of the people without fingers. Over the years, showing someone your middle finger has now become a meaning that you wish that person to be hurt. You wish them harm. It is not nice to wish other people harm. It means you support the evil king."

The room was quiet. Max looked at his middle fingers. Wyatt was still playing the story in his mind.

"So that is why I never want you to show your middle finger to someone." I said.

"What if it is an accident?" Max asked. "What if I use it to point at something. I am not trying to be mean."

"I use my middle finger all of the time to point. Just never point it at someone in the way which you think is bad. Okay?" I said. "Don't do it as a mean gesture."

"Okay." Max said.

I looked at Wyatt.

"Okay." Wyatt said.

We went back to folding laundry.

"Dad, why didn't they just cut off the whole hand?" Max asked.

"Uhhh....so they could still work the fields and do their jobs for the king?"

"Dad, why couldn't they shoot arrows using their other fingers?"

"It's tricky." I said. I grabbed a clothes hanger pretending it was a bow and tried to demonstrate. "Without their middle fingers their aim was off and the strength was off."

"Dad, did they cut off the middle finger on just one hand or both?"

"Both."

"Dad, does a finger grow back if it gets cut off?"

"No. Once it is gone it is gone."

"If a person has their finger cut off and has a baby, will the baby be missing their fingers?"

"No."

"What if both the mom and the dad had their fingers cut off, would the baby still have fingers?"

"Yes."

There was another 30 or so questions that followed (I can't remember them all) as well as a quick discussion about Luke Skywalker's hand being cut off and how it was replaced. Max and Wyatt discussed why pirates could fight with hooks instead of hands and how they would make a hook to replace their middle finger. I listened to them talk and went about putting clothes away. I walked into Jackson's room.

"I would hook you." Wyatt said to Max.

"I would hook you." Max returned.

"No. Hook you." Wyatt said.

"Hook. You." Max said.

And so that is what the middle finger now means. Hook You.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

* For scientific purposes I am conducting a survey. There are two ways to give someone the finger.
1- Middle finger up- thumb holding the other fingers down.
2-Middle finger up- Thumb out to the side.

Say someone cuts you off in traffic and you have to flip them off, do you use #1 or # 2?

Old Yeller

A few months ago I discovered that I was yelling at my kids more and more. I am sure the increase in the volume of my voice as well as the increase in the times I found myself raising the volume of my voice is due to many many circumstances. The first and foremost circumstance would be the fact that I have three boys. I believe there was a medical study done which related the presence of a Y chromosome decreases the capability to hear ones parents by about 75%. Combine that with being pent up in the house most of the winter, short attentions spans, stress, home projects, and the kids inability to stop hitting each other I found myself yelling a lot.

 I don't like yelling. I think the more a kid gets yelled at, the more they tune it out. The yelling becomes part of the background noise and is even less effective. This than causes the yell-er to yell more and even louder which , well, you know becomes a bad cycle. Anyway, I found myself yelling more and I decided that I would try my best to not yell at the kids. I decided I would give it up for lent. I even told the kids I was giving up yelling for lent. I knew that if they knew I was trying, I would hold myself up to a somewhat higher standard. Just by thinking about not yelling would make me talk to the boys in a different and hopefully better manner. I was giving myself 40-46 days to break my yelling cycle and hopefully figure out a better way to discipline and deal with my parenting frustrations.


Let me just say that this is one of the hardest Lenten sacrifices I have made. Instead of yelling or barking at the kids I have found myself gritting my teeth and issuing whispered gravely voice reprimands. There is a seen in A League of Their Own where Tom Hanks does his best to hold in his screaming at one of the players for missing the cutoff man. I feel like that. All the time. Does this mean I yelled at my kids all the time? No. It just means that I think my kids know I am working on NOT yelling and they are taking advantage of me.

I hope my little experiment pays off and even after Easter I continue to work on not yelling.


Parenting in public is hard work. Not yelling is even harder. I never realized how much yelling is an impulse reaction. Over the past 5 weeks I am sure that I must look like a deranged twitching conniption ready lunatic when I have tried to discipline kids or get their attention.

If you know me and you see me and the kids at the grocery store or the ball field or wherever and I look like a muttering stuttering spastic whispering through gritted teeth please do not think I am a crazy person. Please just know that I have three boys and one of them is in trouble.

Post From The Future

Poop and Boogies 3.0

What's for Breakfast --2/10/2056


I had to drop my rocket jet pack off at the dealer this morning. I have been having problems with the throttle. The other day on my way to work at the hologram theater I nearly lost power and dropped about 100 feet. At first, I thought it may be the bypass line, but the seventh Fetzer valve was sticking so I thought the dealer should take a look. Sure I could have taken the Green Transporter Line to work, but ever since I was nominated for a HAG award and a HolOscar I get recognized. Besides, the dealer is right down the street from the home where my dad is placed, so I decided to pay him a visit.

I stopped at the front desk and spoke with the RN. I asked if I could speak with someone who had a little more authority and knowledge about my dad. Robot Nurses do a great job and all but sometimes dealing with a real person is better. The RN tapped a few times on her I-Stamp and a few minutes later I was talking to Colette, dad's primary human caregiver.

"Wyatt, It is so nice to see you. William, I mean your dad, is doing great. You are just in time for breakfast. Would you like to stay and help me feed your dad?"

"Sure." I said. The whole reason for stopping in was to spend time with him.

"William, I mean your dad, is pretty hungry this morning. He refused to eat his dinner last night."

"Really? What were you having?" I asked.

"Spaghetti." She said. "He used to eat it all the time. Last night he refused. He said the sauce was too spicy. It is the same sauce we use every other time we make pasta which he never had a problem with. It is the same sauce we use for the Pizza we make, which he eats with no problem. I don't know, last night he was just being stubborn."

"What did you do?" I asked.

"I told him he would not get any snacks or anything else to eat until breakfast."

We walked down the hallway towards his room when a memory crept out of the corner of my mind. I could see myself sitting at our table in Hatboro. I was 4 years old. Maybe 5. I refused to eat my spaghetti. My mom was so frustrated. I remember her saying something like, "What, so now you don't like spaghetti? I am running out of things to feed you Wyatt. I will not let you be a kid who only eats chicken nuggets and fries." I remember dad getting angry. "Nothing else to eat tonight! Do you understand?" I got up from the table. "You will be having Spaghetti for breakfast tomorrow. Do you understand?" I nodded. I think I heard dad say something to mom about "going all Mommy Dearest with breakfast".

As we got closer to dad's room Colette asked me something but I was not paying attention. I was lost in the memory of the next morning of me screaming as my dad was taking the plastic wrap off my plate of spaghetti from the night before. I still can't stand the smell of microwaved cold spaghetti. I remember dad holding his ground and telling me I had to eat the pasta before I would get anything else like fruit or yogurt. I also recall that as soon as I started crying he had to go to work and left mom to do the dirty work.

"Wyatt? Wyatt?" Colette's voice pulled me back to the present.

"I'm sorry." I said as I shook off the memory.

"That's okay. I know sometimes visiting can be difficult. I asked what would you like to feed your father this morning? We have pancakes, waffles, oatmeal or cold cereal." She said.

I thought a moment.

"Do you have any spaghetti left over from last night?" I asked.

Colette was hesitant. "Uh, yes." she said.

"Then that's what he will have." I said.

I really, really enjoyed my breakfast with my dad that morning.


Posted By Wyatt- at 2/10/2056 at 9:17 AM



This post was inspired by my brother the LawnWhisperer. When I told him about feeding Wyatt spaghetti for breakfast he said that when I am old and I need my kids to take care of me they will remember those moments.

People Watching

When I go to the Kid's Castle Playground I can't help but people watch. My kids play, acting out various superhero shows they have seen on TV, as I watch and eavesdrop on the Real Housewives of Doylestown. I love to people watch. People fascinate me.

The lady in the light blue Nike sweatshirt talks shit about her husband to the dark haired woman in Spongebob printed scrubs. Nike's voice drops to a whisper and a moment later Spongebob cackles with laughter as she puts on her over sized sunglasses. Nike picks up her phone and starts texting.

One woman is dressed way too nice for the playground. Actually way too nice for the weather even. Her kids keep calling to her but she puts a finger up in a silent sign that says "give me a minute". She has her Blue tooth in her ear and she is closing deals as her kids want her attention. Her jewelled sunglasses are more expensive than my entire wardrobe.

I watch a dad try to pick up a large chested attractive dark haired woman. He uses the "single father" phrase way too easily. This is probably his one day in the middle of the week. His sunglasses keep sliding down his nose revealing a uni-brow. He tosses his cell phone back and forth between his hands as if he is nervous.

I get distracted by the woman in the powder blue shorts, running on the path. The sun glistens off her nose, her sweat soaked hair sticks to her forehead, a white wire dropping from each ear. Her sunglasses reflect the trees behind me. She catches me staring and smiles. I smile back.

Two teenagers kiss on the bench in the corner. Their legs and arms intertwined in a weird way trying to touch every part of the other person's body with out it being an inappropriate public display of affection for the playground. The girl's sunglasses sit on top of her head. She is keeping her eye on two smaller children playing in the sand. A tinny beat of music emanates from the iPod ear buds resting on the boys shoulders.

The boy in the Iron Man t-shirt skinned his knee. The little girl in the tie dye tank top want her dad to watch her. Kids yell "tag" and "you're it". Children run in an out of the three story structure buzzing with giggles and cries. The tinny buzz from the iPod gets louder. Cell phones ring and buzz in vibration. Buzz, buzz, buzz.

All the adults, in their over sized, round, Paris Hilton-esque, sunglasses, go from Real Housewives to looking like insects, bees really, hovering outside of their hive. All the electronic gadgets are their antenna sending and receiving signals.

I am no longer watching people.

Invisible

Maxfield held his hand out the window of the car as I drove him to school. The wind was catching his open palm, his fingers surfed slightly on the air. There was a slight drizzle of rain. I asked his if his hand was getting all wet.

"No. The wind is drying it real fast." he said smiling. "I can feel the rain drops and then they dry. This must be what it feels like when you turn invisible. Like if you could disappear."

I smiled into the rear view mirror marveling at his imagination.


A little bit ago Miss Zoot had an interesting post about procrastinating. Part of the post said (and she was quoting something/someone else):

"One of the characteristics of a person who does too much is procrastination. Often, our busyness is a subtle form of procrastination that keeps us away from what we really need to be doing."

I try to stay busy. When I am at home with the kids I am always trying to stay busy with laundry, dishes, or small projects. I tell them I can't play space ship because I need to weed the garden. I can't play super heroes because I need to clean the grill. I am not able to be a pirate on the swing set because I need to rake up the sticks.

The kids always ask and I am often too busy. Do all the chores need to get done? Yes. Do they need to get completed at that moment, right then? No. But I am being practical. I am being responsible. No imagination is needed to mow the lawn.

So the quote from Miss Zoot's blog has been pinging around the inside of my head a for a couple of weeks now. I keep asking myself "Am I doing too much? What am I avoiding that I really should be doing?"

It is only a matter of time before the kids stop asking me to play, before I disapear from their fantasy worlds. I realize I need to be the astronaut, the hero or the pirate more often.

I think about what Max said in the car, I really need to re-learn what it feels like to turn invisible before I disappear altogether.

Magic

“How does the door to the Giant open by itself daddy?” Maxfield asked.

“Magic, Max, magic.” I replied.

That was two years ago.

Now anytime we enter a store that has automatic doors Max will pause, thrust his arms forward as if he is casting a spell or shooting invisible beams of energy at the door. His arms break the plane of the motion sensor and the doors open. He knows the doors are not really magic but he loves pretending that he is controlling them with his mind. Sometimes I let him stand there for a few minutes and let him “open” the door for other people. An old couple will approach and Max will jump in front of them, point his arms at the door, the door opens and Max will step aside and let the couple pass.

Wyatt on the other hand thinks all automatic mechanical things are magic. A couple of weeks ago we went out to eat at a restaurant that was built two, maybe three, years ago. While we were waiting for our food Wyatt decided he needed to use the bathroom. It was one of the nicest restaurant bathrooms I have ever been in. Wyatt felt the same. The toilet was automatic and flushed when he got up. The sinks were motion sensor activated and “magically” turned on when he placed his hands under the faucet. The soap and paper towel dispensers were the same.

We returned to the table and Wyatt was so excited that while trying to tell Max he also announced to the whole restaurant that the bathroom was magic. Of course, all of the sudden Max has to go use the restroom and Wyatt needed to come along to show him how everything worked. We spent a good portion of our time in the restroom playing with the equipment (hey now).

Last week I took the boys to the community theater to help with a set-strike. Wyatt needed to use the restroom. Wyatt now expects all public restrooms to be magic. This theater was built in the 1920’s. The bathroom was probably last upgraded in the late 50’s. The only magic in these unisex bathrooms is the fact that they could be haunted. The lock is an old eye-hook and the lights are in a constant flicker. Wyatt hopped off the toilet hoping it would flush on its own. He was disappointed. He waved his hand under the soap dispenser but nothing happened. He had to manually turn on the faucet. He was saddened that he had to grab the C-fold paper towels from the dull silver box fastened to the wall.

He looked around the room and then asked me “Dad, can I have a coin?”

“Why do you need a coin?”

Wyatt pointed to the 25 cent symbol on the tampon dispenser on the wall and said “That one needs money for the magic.”

The Condom Theory

When we lived in Florida I met this guy , Mark G who became one of my only two friends in the Sunshine State. I have not had any type of communication with him since I have moved back to PA three years ago, but he is one of those people who I will never forget. Mark G gave me some of the best parenting advice I have ever received.

Mark G and his son Ethan met Maxfield and I at a playground. Max, who was only two and half at the time, wanted to climb up these weird metal spiral steps or something. I kept pulling Max off the steps and directing him to a more safer area of play. Max, who inherited his stubbornness from not his father's side of the family, kept coming back to the spiral metal steps. Max was insistent that he climb the steps.

Mark, sensing my frustration said to me "Bill, you would be better off teaching him how to climb that safely and teach him how to get back down, than trying to stop him from doing it all. He eventually is going to find a way to climb it. You may as well teach him to be safe. "

It took me a couple of minutes to take in what he said. I then taught Max how to climb the spiral ladder step thing. I felt better.

The other day I took Max and Wyatt to the theater to do a set strike. My friend Josh had his little boy there and three boys played well together. At one point my kids were jumping from the stage, climbing back up and then jumping again. Josh's kid wanted to do the same thing, but since he is slightly younger than my boys and Josh is more of an attentive father, Josh stopped him from jumping. His son insisted he would jump and I watched struggle.

I don't like to give parenting advice, but I felt Mark G's advice to me would serve Josh well. I told him that his son is going to find a way to do it and that it would be better if Josh taught him how to jump in a safe way.

Josh took in what I said.

I tried to make it more clear for him. "Think of it like the condom theory. They are going to do it. They are going to find a way to do it. We just need to make sure they do it safely."

Normal

Sometimes raising three boys is a loud, chaotic, frantic and repetitive bundle of stress. They fight, argue, jump, bounce, hit, stumble, fight, and throw things all day long; and this is when they are just playing and being nice. They do all this playing in a very loud way. My wife and I try to teach them to use their "inside" voices but I think, that they think, when we say "inside", it means use the voice you would use if you were inside a stadium.

As a parent I am always "on". Constantly in a state of being ready to react to the sound of something breaking or the cries and tears of pain or sadness. Basically it is self induced stress.
My wife and I do our best to keep each other in check. We try to offer each other breaks, time away from the house, from the chaos, from the noise, for own peace and sanity.

Lauren might go to a craft store or JoAnn's fabrics for a hour or so to get away for a bit after a long day of having her patience tried. I may venture off to a book store, to sip some coffee and browse the shelves at a leisurely pace when I am feeling my nerves start to fray.

We go to a places for a little down time to feel normal, because, sometimes, when you have said "Don't do that. You are going to get hurt" for the seventy fifth time in a day, normal is what you need. Normal adult conversation and interactions without interruption is a welcomed necessity. Walking through a parking lot into a store at a normal pace, not herding children or pushing some type of wheeled containment device, from time to time is essential to not going crazy. We try to find peace. And quiet.

I recently discovered a new place to go and find peace. Not quiet, but peace and a chance to feel perfectly normal. I go to the Burger King by myself and I sit close to the play area. I sip my coffee and I listen to the noise. The sounds of kids screaming, laughing, yelling and carrying on. I eavesdrop on the parents chatting or talking to their kids. I hear, over and over again, the same things being said to each kid multiple times; "Come over here and eat", "No you cannot take your socks off", "don't hit your brother" and "Don't do that. You are going to get hurt." I hear the tantrums, the screaming the crying and the parent's muffled disciplinary threats said through gritted teeth.

I sit and listen to the parents struggle with their children.

I find peace in the fact that other children are just as loud as my children. I find peace in the fact that other parents are saying the same thing to their kids as I do to mine. I take it all in. I realize and reflect on the fact that I am normal, my kids are normal and that we are blessed.

Then I smile and laugh to myself as I find joy in the fact that I can just sit there and not have to react to anything. None of the kids in the play area are mine.

Blind Spot

When I take the kids out to public places, like the mall or supermarket, I try to appear to be all cool calm and collected. On the surface I try to give the appearance like I have everything under control, that I am giving the kids their space, letting them be kids (without them overstepping their bounds) giving them safe distance to discover the world around them. In my head, under the surface, I am working like mad trying to keep everything and everyone in check, targeting dangers, potential awkward or bad situations and awkward or bad people and steering the kids away. Sometimes, no, most times, under the surface, I stress myself out.

Recently, Wyatt has discovered a way, some strange ability really, to always find my blind spot. If we are on the front yard playing Wyatt finds a way to play behind a bush or trashcan. If we are at the playground he discovers something neat to play with under the sliding board where I can not see him. Wyatt's blind spot ability has manifested itself where he disappears in plain sight. We will be walking through a store and in my peripheral vision I have both kids in sight when all of the sudden Wyatt disappears. It is always at that exact moment when he vanishes, where my stress, under the surface, comes popping up to the top. I have mini panic attacks.

"Where's Wyatt?" I snap in desperation and panic, my heart racing thinking that someone may have snatched him up.

"I right here dad." Wyatt responds from a foot behind me, not hiding, just standing in the exact spot I cannot see him. He is always just a step out of my line of vision.

The other day I took Max and Wyatt to the community theater to help with a set build. They played out in the seats as I worked on stage. I kept my eyes and ears open as I built wall flats and whatnot. I must have asked a dozen times, "where is Wyatt?" Only to have a friend say "he is right there" as they pointed to a spot in the darkened audience, where I swear he wasn't there only a second ago.

I was reading Klutz Encyclopedia of Immaturity the other day and I discovered there is a test to find your eye's blind spot. Here is an online version.* I realized that Wyatt must have discovered a way to always be standing in my eye's blind spot. I already feel bad that he is going to suffer from Middle Child Syndrome but now he is learning to disappear on his own.


*How many people just got a face smudge on their computer screens from trying the blind spot test?

Believe

I took Maxfield and Wyatt with me to the art center so I could attend a theater group meeting. Both kids were, for the most part, well behaved. They enjoyed the time running around the stage and seating area while I participated in discussions about budgets and marketing.

One of the galleries across the hall was hosting some type of event which piqued Wyatt's curiosity.

"Daaaad?" Wyatt whispered. "Can I go over there?"

"Noooo." I whispered back mimicking his tone and cadence.

"Whyyyyy?" he whispered louder.

"Becauuuuse." I said.

"Buuut I waannt tooo."

I could tell Wyatt may put up a loud argument in the middle of the meeting so I lied to him.

"They are having a class in there teaching kids how to eat broccoli. Are you sure you want to go?" I asked him.

He changed his mind pretty quick. I smiled, three-year-olds will believe the possibility of anything.

Two minutes later I could see the mental light bulb go off in his head. Eyes wide and smirk on his face, he ran over to me.

"Daaad?" he said in a whisper.

"Whaaat?" I mimicked back.

"Do they have a pizza eating class here?"

I laughed out loud. Three-year-olds will believe the possibility of anything.

Trouble

“Dad?” I called tentatively from the other side of the living room.

“Yes.” He replied from the corner of the couch, behind the newspaper he was reading.

“Uhmm. I need to, uhh, ask you something.”

With a quick flip of his wrist, my dad folded one corner of the paper towards himself revealing his face to me. The other half of the paper, closest to the lamp on the end table, still up in the air caused a shadow to fall on his face. I couldn't tell if he was annoyed or concerned.

“I uhh. I need you to. What I am trying.” I muttered trying to find the right way to ask.

“Spit it out Mumbles.” He called me mumbles whenever I, well, mumbled my words.

“IneedyoutocometoschoolnextweekandmeetwithMr.DeLorenzotheassistantprincipalsoIcangetoutofasuspension.” I blurted.

My dad lowered the other half of the paper and asked for an explanation. I was his 6th kid. It wasn't the first time he was asked to stop by for a conference and it certainly wasn’t going to be the last. I explained the situation and my dad rolled his eyes. I could not tell if he was rolling them at me or rolling them about the whys and the whos.

The following week I was called out of one of my early classes and told to go the assistant principal’s office. As I passed the giant school mascot statue in the main hall I could see my father through the plate glass window that separated the offices from the hallways. I was overcome with a sense of dread. Up until that point I had never, ever, been in trouble in school. I was a good student. I don’t mean that I was getting As and Bs, I mean that I was a good kid. Most teachers liked me. I participated in extracurricular activities. I was on the student government. I was a good kid.

I followed my dad down to Mr. De Lorenzo’s office. Mr. De Lorenzo was on the phone. He waived us in and gestured for us to sit down in the chairs across from his desk. A few minutes later he hung up the phone.

“Thanks for coming in today.” Mr. De Lorenzo said smiling like a cat that ate a canary. “Did your son tell you why I asked you to come in?”

“Yes.” My dad replied. He then went on to repeat the story I had told him. “Apparently my son was working on planning the sophomore class trip, a ski trip to Jack Frost Mountain. He and the other officers collected money from all the students that were interested, made arrangements for the buses, planned the whole trip. You, Mr. De Lorenzo, as the class council supervisor, were supposed to send a deposit check to the ski resort in order to book the place. You never mailed the check. Two weeks before the trip the ski resort called and canceled because they were overbooked. My son was frustrated and apparently made a disrespectful remark about you, which you overheard.”

“Actually, your son, called me an idiot.” The assistant principal clarified.

“I know what he said.” My dad responded. “What is the punishment for a student calling a teacher or yourself a name like that?”

“Well, according to the disciplinary code, they would receive one day of an In-School Suspension.” Mr. De Lorenzo said with a smug look on his face.

“Then that should be the punishment Bill gets.” My dad stood, turned towards the door.

“I didn't call you an idiot.” I argued before my dad could leave. “I told another member of the class council that I thought you were an idiot for not mailing the check. You just happened to over hear me say it. I was not being disrespectful directly towards you. I was just giving my opinion.”

“Bill.” My dad interrupted. “You heard the man. In-School Suspension for one day is the punishment. Do I need to sign something Mr. De Lorenzo?”

“No, but you don’t have anything to say about what your son did? What he said?”

“No.” my dad answered.

“But the reason I asked you to come down here was because I don’t have to give him the suspension, I can reduce the punishment to just a detention. I just wanted to ask you your opinion on the matter.” Mr. De Lorenzo sat back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head. He leaned way back in the chair as if he wanted to watch my dad ask him for forgiveness and a lesser punishment for me.

“If what Bill said requires an In-School Suspension, then suspend him.”

Mr. De Lorenzo sat up in his chair. “So you agree that what Bill said was wrong?”

"You asked that I come down here so you could hand-out his punishment. I am missing doing my job so you can do yours." My dad looked at me he then looked at the assistant principal. “My son is entitled to his opinion. If voicing his opinion gets him trouble, so be it. He has to learn.”

Mr. De Lorenzo’s face went red. “But you don’t’ think he was wrong?”

“I just told you he will serve the suspension." My dad said and locked eyes with Mr. De Lorenzo. "You have here a boy who is on the class council trying to do right by his class and school. He doesn't have to do that. He also participates in student council, football, and other extra curricular activities. He got frustrated with you because you were supposed to do your job and you didn't. You want to suspend him, and possibly chase him away from giving back to the school because of ego. Your ego. I am not defending Bill right now just because he is my son, I would defend any kid in his position. But because he is my son he will serve the suspension. I will not admit that Bill was wrong for voicing his opinion in this situation."

“And why is that?” Mr. De Lorenzo asked.

My dad smiled at me. “Because I happen to agree with his opinion.” and my dad walked out of the office.

Three days later I served my In-School Suspension. I smiled the entire time.

Exposure

I have a question that has been bothering me for a while now and I have never been able to figure out how to ask the question without it sounding totally perverted and messed up. It is a serious question and one that I think other parents may ask and one that I think could be answered by the people of the Internet.

At what age is it inappropriate for a boy to be naked in front of his peers? Especially if his peers are little girls? (See what I mean about the question?)

And at what age is it inappropriate for a girl to see a penis? (See, again, I can't ask the question without it being weird.)

I have three boys and sometimes during play dates with their female friends or cousins one of my boys ends up in a state of undress. Whether it is Max who walks around the house with his pants around his ankles because he had trouble pulling them up after using the bathroom. Or Wyatt, who, if he had his way would be naked all of the time. And of course Jackson needs to get his diaper changed from time to time.

When their girl play dates were young, two or three years old, it never bothered me that my boys were all willy-nilly (pun totally intended) with their nakedness. I guess because the girl's mom's never seemed to care. But now that Max's friends are older, I guess I am feeling somewhat, hell I don't know, more uncomfortable.

I still have no problem changing Jackson's diaper, any where or any time. I understand Wyatt's need to spill stuff on his clothes, on purpose, just so he can run around naked. I get that Max, some times, has problems with his pants. I guess lately I have become more aware of the audience.


So I am asking the Internet, at what age is it uncomfortable for exposure? Being the Exposure-er or the Exposure-ee?