Tag Archives: Parenting

So Ordered

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with , , ,

Steve writes about The End with brutal, hilarious honesty. The judge made it official, and the anticlimactic end to two years of divorcing is a Fluffernutter.

The divorce courtroom as you picture it: Last minute accusations. Long-lost lovers come forth with shocking revelations. Doors fly open with grown men claiming to be the divorcee’s long-lost son. Lawyers fly at each others’ throats as soon-to-be ex-spouses are restrained by beefy bailiffs.

The divorce courtroom as it is: The DMV meets your principal’s office. With Georgian columns.

The actual, final act of getting a divorce was as painless as the process was painful. It’s an exchange of paperwork: a very bored-looking judge, thinking “I went to Columbia Law for this?” looking over the 30th complaint for divorce that day. (“Complaint,” indeed.) Finally, the judge broke his silence. It was so quick it startled me, as I was spacing out considering what to have for lunch. A peanut butter and Fluff, perhaps.

My heart raced, as I feared I’d get something–like my name– wrong. A few perfunctory questions later and the judge pronounced the divorce “so ordered into the record.”

Briefly I looked at my ex. What is the etiquette for this? What does one do? A hug? Surely not. When you marry, the officiant spells it out: now, you kiss. But in this moment, a small tip would have been appreciated. Even a “You may now ignore the bastard” would have helped. I don’t remember what I did. Possibly some looking and nodding? Something stupid like that. A knowing look, like giving her a poker cheat. What can I say? I panicked. Nothing you have learned as a civilized, well behaved, Miss Manners Man prepares you for the protocol involving what you do as you “walk down the aisle” in reverse.

But I did not flash back on years of marriage and heartache (although my friend Jenn Lane describes this brilliantly.) No. I didn’t well up, as I thought I might. No. I thought about my kids, but only in terms of hopes for their future. Nope. In this awkwardly brutal moment, the only thing going through my mind was…

Don’t sneeze.

I had to sneeze so badly. Spring allergies. And the courtroom was dusty. And I hadn’t taken an Allegra. But I didn’t want to sneeze in court in front of the judge. I have no idea why. I must have thought “If I sneeze, he will see I am clearly the unfit person in this and will award everything to her.” It was a big, big empty room and the sneeze would have echoed… possibly through today.

Two days earlier I found myself in the state-mandated divorced-parent class. This is a real thing. You have to attend divorcing parent class before you can get a divorce. The class was exactly as useful as you would imagine a state-mandated class on being a divorcing parent would be. The materials were from the ’80s. They used an overhead projector with transparencies. They showed “movies” on VHS with health-class quality acting (inexplicably hosted by Timothy Busfield in his leaner, 30-something years). The only excitement came when a mom brought up how much she hated that her ex-bastard let her kids eat peanut butter and Fluff sandwiches, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Wait.

She was defaming Fluff? Into the fray I jumped, defending this New England confection, this ambrosia, this perfect peanut butter pal. Perhaps Fluff ended her marriage, I fancied. Perhaps he made One Sandwich Too Many. Perhaps he used Raspberry Fluff, for which there is no excuse.

I had thought of Fluff in the courtroom, as I didn’t sneeze, or hug, or listen to a judge who wasn’t paying attention to me. That was my divorce court experience: empty calories. How’d that happen? Two years of drama led up to this moment. There should have been something. A musical number. A trumpet. A small firecracker, perhaps? No?

Just Fluff.

Don't knock it.

Don’t knock it.

Weekend With Zealots

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The Family Lee traveled south to witness the First Holy Communion of the most pious 8-year-old boy on the planet. Sweet Alex is a rare child who hugs without reservation or restraint, adorably recites all words to all prayers, and answers every “I love you” with “I love you… MORE!” Who hath wrought Pious Boy? Why, the Zealots, of course! My darling (Zealot) sister and her lovely husband (Uncle Kabobs) put on an impressive, Catholic show down there in Suwanee, GA. Pious Alex and his Saintly Sister, Kensley will yes ma’am you silly and can put all of the Commandments into the proper order. And on Saturday, the Family Lee, along with Teeny Twin Grandmas, Pop Pop, and Atheist Uncle Patrick filed into pews to resurrect our Catholic faith.

All of us, save my husband who was raised in the Taiwanese-Christian tradition of obey-your-self-sacrificing-parents, were baptized and catechized in the beat-my-breast-and-call-me-sinner style. It’s been a few years since I’ve been to a proper Catholic mass, but all of the prayers and responsorial phrases were as easy to finish as The Pledge of Allegiance. Their repetition through the entirety of my youth has kept them tucked away in brain junk drawers that hold childhood phone numbers and all of lyrics to Babe. (There might even be some Calculus under the piles of old boyfriend peccadillos, too.) But there I was, sit-stand-kneeling with the Faithful, and listening with my Episcopalian-prejudiced ears to the Message: if you are not Holy, you cannot be Happy.

Go ahead, try to get this song out of your head now.

Go ahead, try to get this song out of your head now.

Little girls in teeny wedding dresses and little boys suited up like miniature bankers were reminded that they would be wearing similar outfits when they returned to the altar for the grown up sacrament of marriage. And they were instructed to arrive as unsullied as they are now, at the tender age of eight. The priest generously offered another path: the convent and priesthood are also delightful options should these tiny treasures heed The Call. But I kept thinking that the Message of the Day was that Uncle Patrick, still single, and gleefully sullying up his life, certainly is not, cannot, be Happy.

It’s also possible that I got it all wrong. Maybe the Catholic Church doesn’t trouble itself with the sinning shenanigans of Atheist Uncle Patricks. Maybe the sermon was merely a wagging finger at the miserable wretches who would find happiness if only they’d jump on the Holy Train (neither helpful nor kind, in my opinion). In any case, I got the same queasy feeling similar sermons elicited in my youth. Even if I did my homework and emptied the dishwasher without provocation, I was still inherently bad. Catholics really take this original sin stuff to their self-flagellating hearts.

However, what I really admired about the whole, heavy-handed production was its refusal to be politically correct or to dilute its message for a modern audience. Telling 8-year-olds to remain pure and virginal to their wedding day, or (gasp) forever, may be naïve and old-fashioned (or weird)… but it’s not a bad message. And in a crazy, sexed-up world, Catholics have the parental easy button on this issue. Are they wrong? Any tipsy reprisal of first-times amongst trusted girlfriends would tilt the argument slightly to their favor. And though it won’t hold much weight in the back seat of the Jeep a decade from now, at least hearing an unwavering message during the formative years might prevent a few judgment slips, or at the very least, delay the inevitable, gleeful defilement of the family car.

I’ve got to hand it to Zealot Family. They’re no grocery store Catholics, picking and choosing which rules to follow, and which to ignore. They’re fulfilling obligations and sending up prayers and tithing and do-gooding more often than the Stockton Family makes trips to the package store. And when Pious Alex took the Sacrament, we were all a bit teary. Because Paige and Bob are raising him entirely within the Faith, it was a proud moment for him, one he took seriously with prayer hands and no fidgeting. We were honored to witness it, and possibly a little inspired to reclaim a bit of that innocence and purity the white robed guy was on and on about. And as I looked down the pew at the row of Sinning Stocktons in a collective countdown to cocktail hour, we were all beaming at this beatific boy. We might not be Holy. But are we happy? You bet.

Sweet faced pious boy, who loves everyone MORE...

Sweet faced pious boy, who loves everyone MORE…

The Basement

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with ,

Teddy is scared of the basement. I totally get this. I was always scared of the basement. It’s where spiders and monsters and murderers lurk. The basements of my youth were unfinished spaces. In one house, Dad put up a makeshift curtain divider to separate his workbench and tools and things-in-storage from the area we were allowed to rollerskate and jump on old mattresses, chalk foursquare courts onto the concrete floor and make forts with moving boxes. Occasionally one of us would be sent to retrieve an item from Beyond the Curtain: a space that wasn’t illuminated by the light switch, but instead required wild grasping in the dark until a grateful hand met with the pull cord of a naked bulb. That moment before contact with the blessed string was probably the height of scary for me as a kid. But now Teddy, my funny, imaginative little 8 year old, won’t go down to the basement alone because… well… maybe we should sweep it for bombs first.

I think we all feel like we just finished explaining Newtown to our children. And now, there’s another bad guy… and he’s still out there… and he knows how to make and hide bombs. (And if the good guys can’t find him, maybe he’s hiding in the basement.) Our church, our schools, and everyone on Facebook tell us to look for the helpers. Brodie and Teddy saw their dad suit up in scrubs, throw on a white coat, drive closer to bombs, and enter hospitals armed with guns (to keep the bad guys out, or keep them in?). They might be proud that Daddy is a “helper,” but more than usual, they want to know when he’s coming home.

“So this is probably the second worst day of my life?” Teddy wondered at dinner on Monday night. Because “that time the guy killed all of those kids was the worst.” This was followed by a discussion of how 9/11 would trump even these, but they weren’t born yet. Jesus. When I was 8, I’m sure I couldn’t name a single murderous event that didn’t involve a fictitious, deranged goalie, much less three acts of belief-shaking violence. Those things lurking Beyond the Curtain of my youth were unnamable, fantasy, and just on the cusp of exhilarating (if it weren’t for the more tangible and real threat of spiders). The fears of my children are spun from things on TV in the afternoon.

Later, there was this: “Should we have a moment of silence?” asked my 9 year old. Brodie, whether he knows it or not, looks for answers (or solace) in Prayer. Reluctant to sob in front of my little guys, I deflected that with “who wants ice cream?” I’m not ready for a Moment of Silence. Here’s the loneliest thought: there will be no answers to the why Why WHY of it all in even the most momentous of silences. And until they catch the bad guys, I’m still too distracted and scared to pray to anyone… but what many of us feel (regardless of your brand of spiritual cracker) is that we’re praying for each other.

Here in Boston, familiar sights are outlined with yellow tape and there’s nothing else but this on TV. Here in the Lee household, Daddy is a helper but there might be bombs in the basement. We’re all grasping for that cord in the dark, and finding… each other. Although we’re sad, there is great love amongst us. (See: countless acts of kindness, frantic Facebook queries and assurances, The Yankees, and Chicago.) We’re not defeated! But right now, here in Boston (here at the Lee’s), we have no explanations to alleviate the basement fears of an 8 year old boy. An 8 year old boy. An 8 year old boy.

We are all Bostonians right now.

We are all Bostonians right now.

Thinking of Martin… always thinking of Martin.

Busy

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Stevie is procrastinating. We do have plans to continue our recent religious debate, but my favorite atheist Jew has a TV program to script, children with activities, homes divided between zip codes, and well… a life. But me, I’m a relic from bygone days: I’m not busy. Today I accidentally locked myself out of the house, and sat for one hour in my bum-warming car enjoying the nothing-to-do-ness– the bald fact that I’m not vitally necessary. There will be no grave repercussions from missing my slow-cooker window. The children will not balk over untidied play spaces. Absolutely nothing hangs on my response to, attendance at, or opinion of anything; and truthfully, any busyness in my life is of my own making. But embracing my universal unimportance with contented calm came slowly.

I used to bristle when people asked me, “What do you do all day?” The never-ending childcare of small boys left me exhausted, oddly lonely, and waiting for a reasonable hour to pour a glass of wine. Anyone who asks a mom (or dad) on Daily Toddler DeathWatch to account for her time deserves the mother lode of snarky retorts. There were many times I squelched an urge to splash sauvignon blanc into the pretend-to-care face of the pant-suited bitch asking this infuriating question. But now, as my small people are bussed away for one third of every weekday, and my participation in the workforce a decade in the past, the question sounds valid. At a recent cocktail party, I was pressed to itemize my paycheck-less activities and realized, that over the years, two approaches to this question have evolved: Descriptive Torture and Boastful Sloth.

Because I used to be a medical sort of person and have science degrees and whatnot, I get, “Will you ever go back to work?” as often as Ben Stein hears, “Bueller?” Vaulted from the reproductive years, liberated from malignant cells, and unburdened by school age children for the greater part of the day, certainly I’ve considered doing something with myself now? Sure have. Lookie what blogging girl hath wrought today: The Unemployed Mommy Algorithm! All paths lead to responses that amuse me… or to cocktails. All good.

“WHAT DO YOU DO ALL DAY?”

ALGORITHM

I’ll admit Boastful Sloth is more fun than Descriptive Torture. Even if I’m embellishing the mundane to the point of absurdity, the daily doings of stay-at-home-moms have a sort of chloroform effect. But if pressed to defend my day to a mom who works outside of the home (and employs a small team to outsource the mind-numbing labor), it’s only fitting I should trap her into listening to what she’s missing. I’ll bore her with line item descriptions of everything that happened from Teddy’s ill-timed, bus-missing poo, through crockpot recipes and laundry totals, right up to fraction-dividing extra credit math sheets, soccer halftime snack choices, and the great bathing debate (does swimming count?).

Those traveling down another path with this insidious query might inspire my best Boastful Sloth. This approach is more charming after four drinks. I can make days of yoga, pedicures, fancy lunches, garden tours, volunteer do-gooding, and home makeover projects sound super important and delightfully time-consuming. Who has time for a job with a beeper? I’ve got bulbs to plant and a squash lesson at 3. Ooh, and there’s my bringing-home-bacon husband over there! Yes, that devilishly handsome man fetching me another Prosecco. Isn’t he dreamy?

You’ll notice that I’m a little touchy about judge-y comments from other women. But, c’mon sisters, if we’re out of the house without the kids, let’s bond over the irritating idiosyncrasies of the smaller species. Let’s clink glasses, toasting a temporary reprieve from DeathWatch, diapers, wailing, and “Watch, mommy… watch THIS… watch me NOW!” And if you are gainfully employed, I want you to stop wearing pantsuits. I also want to know all about how working works, or doesn’t. It’s the (second) most important discussion in our lives at this moment, and peppering it with biased inquiries dishonors the conversation. (Please share the shitty, loaded questions thrown at you by drunk and/or annoying stay-at-homers!)

I know my activities aren’t essential, but that doesn’t mean I think they’re meaningless. And though my days aren’t demanding, I’ve got important stuff going on… like an international conversation about religion. And, well, also… maybe by summertime, an actual job-ish kind of thing. My cocktail chitchat may soon gain approval of The Busy People! And it’s kind of perfect in that I can work from home (no pantsuits) leaving plenty of time to draft algorithms. I’m going to need a new one.*

*algorithm, not pantsuit

The Escalator

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I have great sympathy for people who have toddlers. And when I’m out and about in the world, if I see one of these teeny, crumb-encrusted humans, I’ll smile and cluck and then thank my lucky stars I’m not pushing that Pseudomonas-slimed grocery cart fire truck. Anyone who has attempted it knows that shopping with these moody, unpredictable people extends the errand by four-and-a-half hours. I’ve written it before, and three sentences attest, that I prefer to avoid small children. I assert that miniature, pre-verbal people spend the entire day trying to die, and it is the unlucky responsibility of the attending adult to thwart their efforts. Luckily, we’re largely successful… and then after they’re asleep (and the adult has consumed four glasses of wine) it’s all cute and hilarious.

Yesterday I watched a mother of two little (suicidal) boys tempt the fates in a moment of desperation. Blinded by desire to get the hell out of the grocery store, she shouldered eight overflowing, reusable totes and let her sons brave the escalator without handholding. I’d give the four year old an 8.2 on his dismount. Mom managed to hold onto her bundles as she quickly pivoted to offer her tiny toddler encouragement: “Come on, honey… just step off!” which he translated as “sit down and back away from the finger-eating edge.” Riding behind this trio, I saw how this would unfold, so had already freed up a hand to rescue the snow-suited, supine child from a certain trip to the emergency room.

My reward for saving the fingertips of this adorable towheaded boy? Screams. Red-faced wailing. Of course, I thought, he’s scared and a weird lady just picked him up. But that really wasn’t it… because toddlers are insane. “He doesn’t like to be ‘helped,’” his mother explained (still holding her groceries). Utterly embarrassed, she enters Responsible Public Mom Mode wherein she’s trying to urge the irrational screamer to say, “thank you.” Now I’m trapped in her parenting moment. And as my frozens soften, we’re all stuck in the grocery store vestibule in a ridiculous toddler tango:

“Say thank you to the nice lady.”

“NO!”

“It’s OK, really, happy to help.”

“She was so nice to help you.”

“WAAAAAHHHH!”

“I have two boys… and at this age, they’re always trying to die. It’s exhausting.”

“SAY THANK YOU!”

“NO!”

“Um… he’s so cute… bye!”

My now 9-year-old was just like that kid. Bull-headed as Bill Maher on religion, he hated any sort of change, or moments without Mommy, or help (“I do it! Self!”). Brodie’s moods were controlled by a switch operated by the Devil. I rationalized it as a “phase,” but the ugly truth was that I was scared of my own child. And though I always adored, loved, and worshipped him, at the time, I didn’t really like him that much. Enter Zealot Sister. Paige observed the pattern I had cowered into (avoid, deflect, ignore, appease) and with big-sisterly authority, told me I was losing a war to a three-year-old, and ruining him in the process. Within a few days she had enacted strict punishments for parental defiance, more restricted access to Mommy as she forced him into small moments of independence, and a sticker system for “good days.” Wouldn’t it be a lovely story if that worked? Well, it did… but so did locking him in a cold garage with the threat of spiders. I’m not kidding. For some children, three minutes on the stairs isn’t going to cut it.

Now that they’re older (and saner) I enjoy my kids much, much more. But now I’m faced with tween-ager insubordination that requires a different sort of parental beat-down that I haven’t practiced. There’s no more red-faced wailing to discourage, but tiny moments of sneaky rebellion where I think They Ought to Know Better. Teddy’s become a total asshole in the classroom… loudly complaining that the math is “ugh… sooooo easy.” Granted, if your kid is going to get in trouble at school, this is the Asian way to do it. (A Ma tells me Bernie used to correct his teachers all the time.) Wailing escalator boy reminded me that though I smugly sashay through stores unencumbered by sticky succubusses, I’ve got so much more work to do to make sure Brodie and Teddy don’t grow up to be insufferable. Wailing escalator boy reminded me it takes friends (and sometimes strangers) to encourage me to remain vigilant. Wailing escalator boy made me miss Zealot Sister.

Combing the internet I cannot find a single depiction of a little BOY riding safely…

**Elevator safety caveat: any plastic surgeon or hand surgeon or ER doc will tell you that the escalator eats baby fingers. Be careful out there.

Visitors… by Steve Safran

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A brief tour inside the mind of an every-other-weekend Dad.

VISTORS, by Steve Safran

When the kids come to visit… STOP. RIGHT. THERE. When my wife and I separated a year ago, I swore words like “visit” and “my apartment” would never be a part of our collective vocabulary. We don’t visit. These are my children… we see each other, we hang out, we eat and fight and laugh and watch YouTube videos. It’s not my apartment. It’s ours.

Bullshit.

What do you call people who show up at your place with suitcases, who get clean towels, take-out food, and temporary control of the remote? What do you call these people who pack up their suitcases after two days, leaving you to clean up the mess?

Visitors.

And what do they call the big place with their own bedroom, the dog, a backyard, the good computer, the video games… and Mom? That’s their house. My place is the apartment and Mom’s is home and the sensitive language police can’t change that. When I ask these young visitors to call the place they stay every other weekend their “home,” I’m really asking my kids to tell me that all of this is OK. And of all the things we’re asking of these exceptional kids, I can’t insist that they make me feel better about it.

I’ve done what I can to make the apartment feel like a home. There are video games, toys, and other trappings. When I was first looking for an apartment, I imagined a four-bedroom place for the four of us. Absurd. I scaled down, searching for a more reasonable, three-bedroom place. “Let the boys share a room!” I conceded. Ha. We’re in a two bedroom, where my daughter’s “room” is the living room, and a couch bed substitutes for her far more comfortable quarters at, well, home.

Then there’s the “Zoo Dad” conundrum. I don’t want to be a “Zoo Dad.” I don’t want the pressure of taking the kids to ticket-requiring weekend events with all the other Sad Dads. But I don’t want them to have nothing to do, either. If we were all together at “home,” a lazy weekend would be just fine. But a lazy weekend at my apartment feels like lethargic parenting. I only have 40 bi-monthly hours with them, so I should probably be filling those hours with something other than pizza? I don’t know; there’s no pamphlet for this crap. Do they watch Netflix and sleep late at Zoo Dad’s?

Sometimes, in the darker hours, I look to the kids for comfort. And sometimes, simply watching them is a relief. Kids this great mean I’ve done OK. Sure, they fight, do strange things, and have odd notions of proper public behavior (they are, after all, my kids). But we’ve done all right. And after untold hours spent comforting them, it is all too easy to look to these too-quickly growing bundles of my own DNA to assure me I’m not fucking them up. I will take unearned credit where I can.

Who will comfort the comforter? (And, for that matter, who will wash the comforter? That thing’s huge and does not fit into an apartment-sized washing machine.) Making sure the home feels like “home” and that Everything Will Be Fine is my job. Putting my kids in that role is scary, and unfair, and weird. Part of being a grownup is artful pretending, and unfortunately, I suck at it. I’m a heart-on-my-sleeve guy. And my own children come and they leave because they are Visitors. Cousin G put it into perspective: “They were going to leave eventually. With you, they just left sooner.”

The child shrink has told me not to indulge myself by showing my pain. Well… screw that. You might as well ask someone passing a kidney stone to sing “When You’re Happy And You Know It.” My youngest son has learned as good a lesson as any: grownups cry, too. Especially mushy, fluffy, squishy grownups whose idea of “being a man” is more Alan Alda than Alec Baldwin. So, yeah, I tear up.

Especially when my visitors go back home.

VISITOR

Snow Day

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I can almost feel the children becoming stupider. Shouldn’t we be taking advantage of this time to teach them about electron orbitals and demanding they complete abandoned Lego projects? Grateful for electricity, shouldn’t I be stirring risotto or organizing the messy stack of papers that ought to be at the accountant already? Nope. We’re not even shoveling our own driveway. I’m pouring another glass of wine and re-reading Game of Thrones. The boys are glued to Pixar films when they’re not Minecrafting, or eating Blizzard-sanctioned junk because snowstorm panic makes even the Whole Foodiest moms buy Pringles and Lucky Charms. (I know I’m not alone here, because I got the last box of “whole grain” leprechaun cereal.) All three boys suited up early this morning to stomp around in our 20 plus inches and dive into four footer drifts, but even that became too taxing for the Lazy Lees. We’re pathetic. If we had snowshoes, we’d probably use them as snack trays.

Even that one paragraph took forever to write (and required a refill… Grgich Hills… cheers… clink). After only 24 hours of law-enforced house arrest, the Lees have slid even deeper into sloth. Honestly, we’re not that far from that vice on the sunniest of days. Darling friend April calls it The Lee Family Inertia Problem. Of course, the Family Anderson likely spent the day getting all sorts of fresh air, helping their adorable children shovel pathways for elders, and braving the roads as soon as the governor lifted the ban. Not us. We’re even happy there’s no mail to fetch… the porch is all snowy… one might get a chill.

Today, we did the bare minimum as snow-trapped Bostonians. We took pictures like this:

Snow obscured patio furniture...

Snow obscured patio furniture…

And this…

Obligatory snow-up-to-the-deck railing pic

Obligatory snow-up-to-here pic

Honestly, I love every Holy Crap! Look at the Snow! pictures. I’ve been on Facebook all day to see how deep it got on your deck. Sadly, The Lees fall short in New England Blizzard documentation by failing to provide an adorable-dog-overwhelmed-by-weather picture. But I love yours. If we had a small dog, I’d totally throw it off the porch. With snow this deep, they land like cats. And it’s wicked cute.

Another refill for Mom, and little boys are cuddling with Bernie, watching absolutely dreadful TV. Not a single one of them could summon more than a handful of prime numbers right now. But, what’s this… the Peanuts Valentine’s special? Little Teddy is on his knees begging for another hour of television. “Please, Mommy, if you let me stay up… I’ll give you… extra snuggles!” And if you’ve met this kid, you know no one is strong enough to resist Teddy snuggles. I caved. Blizzard of ’13 has our brains and waistlines softening, but we’re grateful for an excuse (even a government decree!) to hold down the couch and share a family giggle over the hilarity of Snoopy and the romantic notion of a little red headed girl. And it’s cuter than a puppy in a snowdrift.

Teddy in snow... nearly as cute as a something-doodle in a drift.

Teddy in snow… nearly as cute as a something-doodle requiring rescue.

The Accidental New Yorker

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Steve Safran takes a break from whoring-his-talents-for-television to explore the heart breaking impossibility of perfect parenting. We can only hope that the bystander trauma of our (mid)-life dramas will make them more compassionate and resilient for having endured ours.

The Accidental New Yorker, by Steve Safran

It’s getting harder and harder for me to tie in my writing to Britt’s Boob Blog. If I am to be a columnist here, you may have to settle for the mundane details of my life without my stretching past credulity any metaphor to Britt’s. (“I had a sandwich today. Britt couldn’t have sandwiches during chemotherapy because they made her throw up. Mine was ham.”) Recently, however, I’ve landed on a legitimate theme for a site that often includes ways we unintentionally traumatize the children:

Change, uncertainty, absence, loss: the inevitable and difficult aspects of life we’d like to shield from the kids until they can afford their own therapist.

A month ago, I was your standard issue, work-from-the-home-office, nap-often kind of guy. I have six years of bedside coffee rings and navel-gazing Facebook status updates that prove my tenure of freelance-ability. But now I’m a New Yorker four days a week, producing a TV show, and suffering the whiplash of mid-life career reinvention. I don’t even have a place to live. I stuff boxers into a backpack, crash on couches and in cheap hotels, ride the rails, and eat meals out of bags.

At 45, I’m a 19-year-old with a Eurail pass.

This is plainly absurd. Yet it is a fine example of “Mixed Blessings Come to Those Who Wait and Wait and Give Up.” It’s great to have work. It’s fun to be back in TV. I’ve been out of the game since 2006 when I was last a news man. Now I’m firmly in entertainment, producing a reality show for Discovery. I’m at once at home in the environs and homeless in the city I’ve cursed all these years as a proper Bostonian. I have, by accident, become One Half New Yorker.

This week’s schedule:  Sunday: Natick, Monday: New York, Wednesday morning: Natick (son’s birthday), Wednesday night: New York, Friday: Natick

At the time of this writing, it’s Thursday. Don’t tell anyone, but I just woke up in an empty NYC office, when I swear I’d dosed off watching Boston local news.

Did I mention I’m 45?

As taxing as this is on the middle-aged body, I’m more worried about what this is doing to the kids. They have a Dad who is unavailable during the week and is exhausted on the weekends. They’re doing OK.  I know they’re OK. (I’m telling myself they’re OK… feel free to chime in and agree.) But it’s not fair. I told my son I had to go where the money is. He said, through tears, “I’d rather you were here and didn’t get the money.”

Me too, kid.

In the last year, these awesome little people have endured their parents’ separation, ongoing divorce, and now their dad is… gone. Here’s where writing for Britt’s Boob Blog becomes no stretch at all. If a child’s greatest fear is his parent’s divorce or death, then Britt and I are doing a bang up job scaring the crap out of them. It’s difficult enough just being a kid, without us getting diseased, and divorcing, and hobo-ing across three states to provide a steady income. Of course, Britt is better and her boys are relieved. But kids’ fears exist in the moment, and between us we have five kids who have had more than their share of scary moments. But we’re OK. (We’re telling ourselves we’re OK… feel free to chime in and agree.)

Shuttling Stevie between Boston and NY. His car will never be the Quiet one.

Shuttling Stevie between Boston and NY. His car isn’t likely to be the Quiet one.

Gross

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with , ,

Two posts? Blame it on the HVAC guy. He’s taking forever. I submit that most bloggers are simply waiting for repairmen to arrive.

Being a parent is occasionally quite disgusting. This morning’s bus stop backpack pummeling death match between my usually-not-that-annoying children resulted in a bonk to Brodie’s nose. Two minutes until bus arrival, and my son looks like a tiny trauma patient (while the little one shirked into the shrubs submitting a steady stream of  “sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry…”). With no Puffs to be found in any of our pockets or zippered compartments, I let my darling son blow his bloody, runny nose into my sweatshirt. Repeatedly. Until the flow stopped and the bus arrived. As a parent, at some point, you’re going to find yourself wearing blood and boogers. (And you might even forget, and chat up the neighbors wearing your defiled athletic-wear.) Being a parent involves Gross Things.

I’m certain many of you have your own tales of ick, especially with flu season not quite wrapping up in these parts. Teddy’s stomach bug coincided with an awesome sushi feast last weekend. “Hey, there’s my clam!” the little patient exclaimed, after he spewed everywhere except the designated HazMat area I had prepared. Although small people often feel instantly fabulous after a good purge, this excrement identification game had Mommy dry heaving her own expletives at the chum-stained carpet. Blech.

I have no idea why the toilet is an elusive target, or why all of our iThings are covered in a greasy film, or why Brodie’s hockey bag smells like that. But I do know that despite lots and lots and lots of wonderful things about little boys, they’re kind of revolting. Last night Brodie showed all of the signs of imminent hurling, and I consoled him commode-side as he suddenly switched gears and unleashed the evil humors from the other end. Luckily this was one of the times when his aim was good, but little boys with sore bellies want Mommy’s company. So we’re privy to these charming moments in the privy. An honor, I’m sure.

Last year, when I was on immunologic lockdown, Teddy got sick. The projectile kind of sick that involved all 147 of his stuffed animals. Bernie insisted that I keep my distance as he and A-Ma did the midnight sheet swap, jammie change, and mountains of laundry. This was, actually, a bit of a perk regarding chemotherapy, although at the time I would have happily de-chunked the blankets if it meant I wasn’t bald. A year later, I can care for my bloodied, oozing, vomiting boys… and even three inches of hair is plenty to collect a delightful souvenir of such proximal parenting. Yuck. But it’s a good thing to know that my little boys are no longer scared to blow their noses and vomit clams all over me. That’s a beautiful kind of gross.

My apologies if this whole thing has you groping for Purell. But there is actually great love in these nauseating moments. What’s the most repellent thing you’ve done in the name of Parenting?

Don't leave home without it.

Little boys should be issued with a lifetime supply of this stuff.

In Defense of Minecraft

Posted by Britt in Uncategorized and tagged with ,

On Fridays after school, my little boys run into the house, hurl backpacks into corners, shrug out of a dozen layers, and race each other to the computers. They’re not wasting one second of mommy-sanctioned Minecraft time. As the children are entertained (abducted) by a virtual world, I curse this insidious addiction, and mollify my kids-who-won’t-require-parenting-‘til-bedtime guilt by repeating the mantra of all parents of the Minecraft-obsessed: as far as gaming goes… this one isn’t so bad. And if you fall for that, it really does free up cocktail hour quite nicely.

For those of you who don’t know the value of a diamond pick axe, this is my (complete mis-)understanding of Minecraft: a sort of virtual Lego world with the goal of building large structures, teleporting, avoiding zombie-like creatures, slaughtering animals for food, and digging digging digging for materials in a never-ending game with Frogger-era graphics. But there are plenty of smart people at MIT who say this about it: “Notch (the Swedish programmer and Minecraft creator) hasn’t just built a game. He’s tricked 40 million people into learning to use a computer-aided design program.” So when tiny Teddy explains to my 39-year-old brother how to set up a multi-player server, and outlines the code to play the game, I should feel like he’s actually learned something about computers?

You can be the judge. I found this gem in one of the many emails from Teddy to his now Minecraft-obsessed uncle:

So keep 1 gold and you will be fine.  Later try to find redstone and you can make toilets!  Hahahahahaha!  Well I am a kid so i find it pretty funny that you can die by a toilet.

But then again, he also drafted this email to Uncle Patrick, prefaced with lots of actual Minecraft images that I cannot figure out how to cut and paste:

With lapis block you can make hot tubs and you can dye sheep from the beginning.  Here is how to make sheers so you can instead sheer sheep.  You should also make a farm.  I will show you how to make fence and fence gate.  Wheat attracts sheep and cows.  If you ever find a village you can get carrots to control pigs.  Those are the basics for making a farm.  Bye!

Do all second graders know how to insert graphics into the text of an email? I’m torn between odd pride in my computer savvy son and absolute horror of the sheer amount of mommy-sanctioned screen time that enabled the development of these skills. I guess it’s not a bad thing that my kids know how to forge glass from sand, recognize that bonemeal is nutritive to saplings, or have facility with the verb “to smelt.” But like all things in life, self-control is necessary as too much of anything is probably going to make the kid… weird. Or worse: my parenting… suspect.

The Lee Family rule is no screen time during the school week: no TV, no computers, no iThings of any sort, but Bernie and I allow open access on weekends. And though Teddy is smart enough to follow and write Minecraft code, he does not excel at moderation. If we didn’t force Teddy into fresh air and team sports and Church and mealtimes, he’d sit there from Friday afternoon until bedtime on Sunday, happily right-clicking away to the Netherworld, and cliff diving atop flying pigs (this really is an odd game). So we do these periodic dissections of our boys from their keyboards and encourage them to interact in a world without exploding zombies, even though it would be far, far easier to leave them undisturbed in front of their monitors.

Recently, I found a whole slew of sites serving as soundboards for parents who are similarly concerned. That was a mistake, as “parental concern” inevitably takes the high and mighty turn toward “parental judgment.” Although Moms Against Minecraft Addiction (MAMA) is the attempt of a thoughtful mother to engage other parents in a broader discussion of the influence of screen time on our kiddos, her page often incites broad generalizations about parenting and even ban-worthy filth. Why are we all so quick to judge other parents and their (nerdy) children? Even though she launched MAMA, this mom doesn’t actually believe Minecraft (or any video game) can undermine a family dynamic. In her words (to parents with a strong abhorrence for all things that beep):

Every child is different, every household is different… and your child isn’t going to grow up to be a something awful merely because they spent an hour on the computer every day. Or two hours. Or three hours. Or all day Saturday. We ALL have different values. I, for example, couldn’t care less about sports. But I worship math.

I like her already. Letting your small child happily immerse in a virtual world isn’t evil, but needs to be limited if your kid (like mine) consistently chooses Minecraft over the park with the zipline or licking the beaters or changing out of his jammies. But let’s be honest: an entire weekend forcing the entire family into Monopoly tournaments, arts and crafts, outdoorsy things, and self-betterment pursuits sounds exhausting. Also, I do want my boys to be computer-literate in an ever more electronic world. And at this age, that might just mean letting them decipher the keystrokes necessary to build an exploding toilet. This may be an over-long defense of my guilt-riddled parental laziness. Or maybe kids and parents alike need a little Minecraft time… especially at cocktail hour.

Cheers, friends.

This is a Creeper. I know this because I'm an awesome, engaged parent.

This is a Creeper. I know this because I’m an awesome, engaged parent.