MetroDad

It Takes a Village: Questions for Other Parents

How many times can a grown man watch "The Sound of Music" with his daughter before he completely loses his sanity?

What are the future ramifications if a young girl watches "The Sound of Music" 43,287 times between the ages of two and four? Will she want to move to Austria? Pursue a career in child services? Abandon a career in the nunnery?

Why do toddlers feel compelled to unravel an entire roll of toilet paper? Is the fun in watching it unroll or in watching your parents go completely bonkers?

Is baby perfume really necessary? Febreeze and scented baby wipes seem to work just fine for us.

If you are otherwise happy with your nanny, should it matter that her cellphone's ringtone is Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me?"

McDonalds Happy Meals: Ruthless case of aggressive fast-food marketing? Or greatest parenting tool ever?

If a little girl in the playground keeps pushing your adorable daughter to the ground, is it acceptable to give her an eating disorder? Or should I just confuse her by threatening to kick her in the nuts?

Is it wrong to feel completely smug and self-righteous when your kid is the only one not screaming and crying during the entire 5-hour plane ride?

Am I the only one who listens patiently to other people's boring parenting stories, waiting until they're done so I can tell my own boring parenting stories? 

By constantly telling kids to "use their words," are we raising the next generation of wussies?

Why would anyone let their pre-school son get a mohawk? Is life just not that interesting for him anymore? Is he rebelling? Against what? Vegetables?

Wait a second. High fructose corn syrup isn't just like corn? Uh-oh.

Why does everyone freak out about potty training? Do you have any adult friends who "just never quite got the hang of it?"

Anyone have any tips on how to get my toddler to take a bath? These nightly battles are driving me crazy. I'm thinking about throwing Happy Meals in the bathtub to entice her. It makes me feel like a lion tamer.

At what age do children learn to carry their own tissues and blow their own damn noses? I'm getting really sick of reaching into every single pair of my pants and pulling out a half-used snot-ridden emergency tissue.

Has anyone else gone into an important client meeting and taken out their laptop to do a PowerPoint presentation, only to find it covered with 50 Cinderella stickers?

Is it really possible for a human being to greatly enjoy a food but then one day decide never to eat it again? Or is that done solely to drive one's father insane?

What lasts longer? That fresh new baby smell or that fresh new car smell? I'm just wondering because my car still smells pretty good but my daughter's feet smell like vinegar.

Why do the worst tantrums always occur in the most public spaces with the most number of spectators?

The screaming and the whining. Does it EVER end?

Your answers to any of these questions are greatly appreciated. Feel free to add your own. Sometimes I think it really does take a village.

Bad Parenting & Child Abuse: Let's Make a Deal

Between our gubernatorial scandal, the crane collapse, the Sean Bell shooting, and the demise of Bear Stearns, there is a lot of bad news filling the local headlines here in New York.

However, for some reason, I find myself obsessed with the tragic story of young Nixzmary Brown, the 7-year-old Brooklyn girl who was systematically starved, abused, tortured, and beaten to death at the hands of her own parents. Every article I read about her has me in tears.

According to her own father's confession, both parents hit Nixzmary repeatedly with a belt, dunked her head in cold water, and used duct tape and bungee cords to tie her to a chair. A litter box was her toilet. The young girl was completely emaciated and, at her death, weighed 37 pounds (roughly the weight of a child half her age.)

The fact that a parent can inflict such pain on their own child is beyond my realm of understanding.

The scary thing is that one need only watch the local news anywhere in the world to hear these horrible tales of abuse. Nationwide, the trend has gotten so bad that there are websites solely devoted to documenting cases of child abuse.

I don't know about you guys but there seems to be a shocking rise in the incidence of child abuse on this planet and I think it augers for the end of the world.  

Look, to a certain extent, I understand man's inhumanity against their fellow man. I don't believe we'll ever see a world without war or conflict. At a purely macro level, human beings are violent creatures intent on seeking conflict with others.

At the individual level, I also get the fact that occasionally people are going to brush up against another individual and hey, their life must end. That doesn't make it acceptable but, at some level, I think we all understand that transaction. As Dennis Miller once said, we're all big boys and girls and we dig our own graves.

But when did we start taking it out on innocent children?

How about we all join in making a little pact with one another?

You've got to promise me that if you ever get to the point in your life where you are so puzzled, confused, and frightened that you feel that the only way out is to abuse or molest a little kid, well then, you have got to fucking kill yourself. You've got to bite the bullet and take one for the team.

Do we have a deal?

Because honestly I can't think of anything worse in the world. What compels a person to take out their anger on a mere child? And how can people do that to their own children?

I get the fact that raising a kid is damn hard work and can often be an exercise in futility. I've frequently thought that parenting is the greatest test of man's patience since Job.

There are times when I've spent an hour cooking my daughter her favorite dinner and she's tossed it onto the floor in a rage of fury. I've walked into her room to see that she's painted the walls with poop. We've gotten into more fights about bedtime than I thought were even possible. She seems to have her most extreme meltdowns at the most inopportune times imaginable. And don't even get me started on how many books of mine have been destroyed because the Peanut ripped out the pages, stuck them in her mouth, and said to me, "Look, Daddy! I'm chewing gum!"

But see, that's where the true test of parenting begins.

When you can stand on the brink of chaos, teeter on the verge of insanity, want to throw yourself off a building and still look at your kid and say, "God damn, I'd do anything in the world for that little munchkin"...then you're ready to be a parent.

Almost.

Run out and get yourself a copy of "Finding Nemo." Watch it 50 times. Pour some milk on your favorite shirt. Now deprive yourself of sleep for about a year.

Ok, now maybe you're ready.

Fresh Tracks

When I was seven, I told my mother that I wanted to learn how to ski.

Like most immigrants new to the country, my mother had never gone skiing before in her entire life and, at the age of 33, didn't feel compelled to start learning anytime soon. However, she was adamant in her desire to expose me and my brother to everything this country had to offer.

After doing some research, my mom found these discount group tours that would take us to the mountain and provide ski lessons. I remember how she'd wake up before sunrise in order to pack breakfast, lunch and snacks. Then, the three of us would get into this giant bus with a bunch of strangers and drive for several hours to the mountain. While I was in ski school, she would sit inside the lodge all day with a book and my little brother by her side.

Those early bus trips fostered my deep-seated love for skiing. Since then, I've been fortunate enough to ski at more than 50 different mountains in four different countries. I love it.

For a city boy like me, there are very few things in life more enjoyable than waking up early, putting on my ipod, and skiing by myself in the great outdoors. I love the peace and quiet. I love the solitude. I love the thrill of challenging yourself to overcome your fears. And besides, what's more fun than writing your name in pee on top of a secluded mountain?

Ever since the Peanut was born, I've been waiting to get her up on skis.

In fact, ever since she could speak, I've been working on getting her excited about skiing. If she asked me whether skiing was fun, I'd always reply, "Well, do you like chocolate cake? Ice cream? Penguins at the zoo? Staying up past your bedtime? Skiing is just like all that stuff...but even better!"

So, after waiting all season to find the right weekend, I finally decided that I was going to take Peanut skiing for the first time this past Sunday. Although at 3.5 years of age, she's still a little too young, I wanted her to get in a couple of days skiing this season so she could start getting really excited about it.

Fast forward to Sunday morning.

The night before, BossLady and I had gone to a friend's dinner party for his 35th birthday. It was an intimate gathering with a few close friends. However, my buddy counts among his close friends Sting, P.Diddy, Josh Hartnett, Dean Winters, and several other recognizable names. The dinner was totally bizarre and I think I ended up drinking half a bottle of vodka. I vaguely remember an extremely drunken conversation with P.Diddy, where I ended up giving him a man-hug and saying, "keep doing what you're doing, man."  I'm lucky his bodyguard didn't beat the crap out of me for being such an idiot. Oh well.

Needless to say, I woke up early Sunday morning with a massive hangover. The last thing I wanted to do was get in the car, drive two hours, and give the Peanut ski lessons. All I wanted to do was die a slow death or eat bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwiches all day in front of the television.

But then suddenly I got the image in my head of my mother waking up before dawn so that her oldest son could learn how to ski. She didn't even like skiing and was doing everything possible to allow me to learn.

How could I not do the same for my own daughter? Selfish bastard!

I popped out of bed, swallowed about 10 Advils, and then jumped in the car with the Peanut. Three hours later, she was up on skis for the first time in her life. She was so tiny compared to all the other kids. And although there was one occasion where she had a mini-meltdown, she eventually started having a great time and was soon tearing down the mountain yelling "Yippee!"

She loved riding on the "magic carpet."

And hitting her friend C on the head while wearing helmets.

When we got home, she was so excited about having gone skiing that she wouldn't shut up about it. First, she talked BossLady's ear off over dinner. Then, she demanded on calling my brother and my parents to tell them that she "went skiing for the first time by her big-girl self." She even wanted to call all her teachers and friends at home to tell them about it.

Honestly, I don't know who was more excited: me or her. It was so amazingly cool to see my daughter having so much fun skiing for the first time. I felt like I'd been waiting for this moment forever and it only served to remind me about how many things I want her to experience during the course of her lifetime.

As the old bumper sticker says, "Life is short. Carpe Skiem."

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What activity are you dying to do with your kid? Now or when they get older? And for parents of older kids, did you always find your children receptive to sharing some of your interests? Or were they like, "Pshaw, old man. Camping is for losers."

 

Apropos of Nothing: 3 Thoughts on Fatherhood

SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

I am a man well suited for the modern era.

I'm excellent at cocktail party conversation. I have a wicked backhand. And I can make my own sushi.

However, because of those traits, I thank God every day that I wasn't born a caveman. Living in a society where premiums were placed on brute strength and hunting skills would have been difficult for me. Unless I did something drastic like invent fire, I imagine my days as a caveman would have been extremely short-lived.

As the old joke goes...the lion may be the undisputed king of the jungle, but airdrop him into Antarctica, and he's just a penguin's bitch.

Why am I bringing this all up?

Because my daughter is a million times tougher than me. Seriously, she's like from the old country or something.

Unlike her coddled father who requires a steady supply of sinus medication and cashmere blankets to make it through a winter, my daughter is a freaking beast of a human being. She's never cold. She runs faster than Marion Jones on steroids. And I've seen her bounce straight up after taking hits that would crumple a professional rugby player.

And in her 3.5 years on this planet, she has NEVER been sick!

Until now.

Sure, she's had the occasional fever. And a few times, we've had to keep her out of daycare. However, everything she's ever had, she's recovered from within a day or two.

However, ever since Saturday night, the poor Peanut has been sicker than hell. She's had a terrible fever. She's been diagnosed with strep. She's completely lost her voice. And until yesterday, she couldn't even keep any food down in her system.

If it were me, I'd be crying for my mommy and e-mailing all my friends to visit me on my deathbed.

My daughter isn't complaining a bit. She just sits there and toughs it out. Sometimes, it's almost scary how tough she is.

I look at her and I now know what it means when they say certain traits skip a generation. My father is a tough motherfucker. He was physically abused by his parents in Korea until he ran away from home as a teenager. He survived for years as a street urchin, sleeping outside in the snow without a jacket or even a blanket. Later, he got shanghaied into the U.S. Army and even bullets couldn't slow the man down. The Army was so amazed by his toughness, they gave him a Bronze Star.

I used to look at myself and be amazed at the fact that such toughness could leave the gene pool in the span of a single generation. But now, looking at my daughter, I see it never really left in the first place.

Oh well...tennis, anyone?

IT'S THE ABRIDGED VERSION, DAMMIT!

Over the course of the Peanut's lifetime, she has often favored one parent over the other. In the past, BossLady and I used to joke about it. Whoever was most favored at the time could frequently be seen running around the apartment naked, yelling "I'm number one! I'm number one!"

However, with great power comes great responsibility.

The person with Most Favored Parent status is adamantly required to put the Peanut to bed every night. No substitutions are allowed and no one else is permitted into the bedroom. These rules are strictly enforced by the Peanut.

For the past 6 months, I have been Numero Uno. At first, I was completely excited and honored. I hadn't been #1 in almost a year. It almost felt like I'd won an Academy Award. Every night, Peanut and I would go to her room at precisely 8:00 pm. I'd read her books for half an hour. We'd talk about what we were going to do on the weekend. And then I'd lie down on the floor next to her until she completely fell asleep. By the time I'd left her room, it could sometimes be as late as 9:30 or 10:00. Ridiculous, right?

Now, I don't read her books anymore. Or stay in her room. I've got the whole bedtime routine down to under a minute.

What's my secret?

Abbreviated stories and Starburst candy. My daughter will do anything for a Starburst. Natch, make that 1/4 of a Starburst.

Now, at 8:00 pm, we go into her room. I turn off all the lights and I say, "Once upon a time, there was a girl named Cinderella who lost her shoe and became a princess. The end. Go to bed."

Then, like a lion feeder at the zoo, I toss a few pieces of Starburst on her bed and run out of the room.

I know I should feel guilty about this but, shit, American Idol comes on at 8.

FLATTERY WILL GET YOU EVERYWHERE!

What the hell happened to manners in this country?

I know I've riffed on this a million times before (and maybe living in New York makes it worse) but there are times when I find myself gripped by an overwhelming desire to smack our entire country upside its collective head.

You can't get out of the subway in the morning these days without some idiot trying to spawn upstream into the train while everyone else is trying to get off.

Don't even bother sneezing in an elevator anymore. Instead of having people proffer a kind, "Bless you!," you're more likely to hear them utter, "Better not get me sick, asshole!"

And to the lady in my office building the other day?  When I hold the door open for you, the correct reply is "thank you," not "I got it myself."

I always swore that if I was only going to teach my daughter one thing, it would be manners. I don't care if she never learns how to read a single book. She's going to be the best-mannered functional illiterate in the whole damn country.

So far, everything is going according to plan. For a 3.5-year-old, the Peanut is unfailingly polite. I couldn't be happier.

Lately, she's learned the concept of "the compliment."

For those of you with toddlers, it's a fascinating phase. In the adult world, flattery is a lost art. Compliments have become valueless currency that no longer bear any meaning. However, for little kids, compliments are not only a way of being polite but also a manner in which to express their love or admiration.

And because we see kids as being wholly honest and forthcoming, we always take their compliments to heart. We then praise them for being so nice. However, this creates a cycle in which the child seeks praise so she doles out compliments constantly. It can be cute but it can also be annoying.

The other day, Peanut was in full-compliment mode. Those are nice jeans, mommy! Hey daddy, I really like your sweater. This is the best spaghetti ever. You're such a good daddy. I really like your boots.

Blah, blah, blah.

I really started tuning her out when she began complimenting the dog.

However, right before bedtime, she came up to me and said, "Daddy, you have really great hair."

Needless to say, homegirl got two Starbursts that night.

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You guys have sent in some great banners. Keep them coming. I'll post my favorites by the end of next week and we'll decide on a winner. Thanks.

Sick toddlers are like schizophrenics (but not as cute!)

The Peanut has been sick as a dog for a week. How do I know this? Many reasons but mainly because while sleeping in our bed the other night, she lifted her head, threw up on my face, and whispered, "I think I'm sick, Daddy."

By the way, I'm no scientist but I'm pretty sure that toddler vomit is composed of asparagus pee, gorganzola cheese, dirty socks, and week-old Indian food. I've gone through 3 bottles of Kiehl's Pineapple Papaya facial scrub and I STILL can't get the vomit smell out of my skin. WTF?

Anyway, being that we live in such an egalitarian household, BossLady and I have been taking turns staying home with the Peanut.

Now, let me ask you something---did any of YOUR fathers stay home with you when you were sick?  I'm not sure whether it's cultural or generational but my father NEVER stayed home with me when I was sick. I don't think he even would have known what to do with me. He probably would have made me do homework while he practiced putting in the living room.

Peanut and I had a fun time together while she was home sick. However, during the course of the day, I've come to learn a lot about sick toddlers. Want to know the most important thing I learned?

They're fucking crazy!

One moment, we'd be cuddling up together on the couch under a blanket and watching "Happy Feet" for the 8 millionth time. Two minutes later, she's screaming her head off at me.

I tried to transcribe the snippets of conversation that came out of her mouth today. Here's a brief compendium:

"Daddy, I love being cozy with you. You're number one."

"I DON'T WANT A SWEATER, WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO PUT ONE ON ME, I WANT A JACKET, NO, NOT THAT JACKET, THE OTHER JACKET, WHY ARE YOU TORTURING ME? ARE YOU BLIND? DEAF? STUPID? GO AWAY! I HATE YOU! WAAAHH!!!"

"This soup is yummy, daddy! Thank you so much for making it for me. I love you soooo much."

"I HAVE TO PEE RIGHT NOW, NO, I CAN'T WAIT ONE SECOND, FORGET YOU, I'M PEEING AS WE SPEAK, IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT, I WANT MY MOMMY, I HATE YOU DADDY, I'M GOING TO PEE ON YOU AND WHILE I'M PEEING, I'M GOING TO SCREAM AS LOUD AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE! WAAAHH!"

"I like staying home with you. Can we do it again tomorrow? Maybe mommy can stay home with us? Want some of my ice cream, daddy?"

Seriously, sick toddlers are like Sybil, John Nash, and Syd Barrett all rolled up in one.

Personally, I think Peanut is just pissed because I kicked her little three-year-old ass in Scrabble. She's really cute but she's got the vocabulary and spelling skills of a chipmunk. Shit, half the tiles she threw down weren't even facing upwards. Does she think I was born yesterday? There are only two blanks in the entire game and she's throwing three of them down in a single turn? Nice try, kiddo.

She really got pissed when I started doing my touchdown dance and sang my version of Queen's "We are the Champions!" Little did she know that I'm the Scrabble Master!

Before I had a kid, I swore I'd never tank and lose games to him or her on purpose.  I hate seeing parents prop their kids up with false self-esteem. These days, it seems kids get praised just for putting their sneakers on the right feet. Shit, my dad never let me beat him in anything and he never showered me with false praise. And look how well I turned out!

Just kidding.

Was I too cruel? Do you let your kids win in games?

In other news...

(1) Whenever I'm sick, I crave some old-school Korean ox tail soup. I made a huge batch for the Peanut the other day and she loved it. While eating the meat, she asked me what it was and I stupidly replied "a cow's butt." Needless to say, there are probably no funnier words in the English language to a 3-year-old than "cow's butt." I'm a freaking idiot.

(2) When my friend Leah Peah interviewed me and asked me to confess a secret, I joked that when it’s late at night, I pour myself a drink and watch re-runs of “Extreme Makeover” so I can cry myself to sleep. Well on Sunday night, I found myself watching the show. It focused on a single father raising 5 sons by himself in the 'hood. None of the kids had beds. Food and money were tight. The father had suffered two heart attacks. And despite all the hardship, the dad still managed to found a community group focused on helping other single dads. There was so much love in the house and the episode was so touching that I found myself bawling elephant tears into my scotch. Man, fatherhood has really made me soft.

(3) RIP Norman Mailer.  I was fortunate enough to have met you several times over the years. You were always so gracious that it always threw me for a loop. I guess I expected your reputation as a tough guy to precede you. But you were a bear of a man, a hell of a writer, and one of my all-time literary favorites. There will never be another writer like you. You'll truly be missed. Screw the haters!

There Can Be Only One!

As I've mentioned here before, during the first year of the Peanut's life, I was The Man! 

To my lovely little daughter, I was the living embodiment of Christmas, Elmo, and an all-you-can-eat ice cream buffet.

When she woke up in the morning, she demanded that I be the one who got her out of the crib, changed her diaper, and dressed her.  When she hurt her knee at the playground, it was me that she always came running to.  When she was hungry, only I was allowed to prepare her dinner and feed her.  And every moment of every day, all she ever wanted to do was hang out with me.

But back then, it was easy to win her affections.  I was the funny guy who would stuff baby carrots up his nose just to keep her entertained.  I was the one who would make yarmulkes and beards out of the bubbles in her bathtub.  And I was the one who would run around the apartment with my boxers on my head just to hear her giggle. 

But after her first year, I dropped in the standings.  BossLady was #1, the nanny was #2, and I was a distant third.  When we switched the Peanut to daycare, I thought I'd move up to the #2 spot but I was quickly displaced by one of the Peanut's teachers.  Damn!

Now, although I have a vicious competitive streak, I would never try and compete with the BossLady for my daughter's affections.  As l've said before, if parenthood has taught me anything, it's that everything I do is for the benefit of my daughter.  So, once again, I realized that I needed to change my perspective and alter my way of thinking.  I couldn't allow my competitive spirit to manifest itself. To paraphrase Mikhail Baryshnikov, "I do not try to parent better than anyone else. I only try to parent better than myself."

So, if the Peanut loved BossLady more than she did me, so be it.  C'est la vie.  I wasn't going to try and compete for her affections and I was just going to have to learn to accept that, in her own little way, the Peanut loved me too. Mature, eh?

Well, internet, I'm proud to say today that...I'M NUMBER ONE!  WOO HOO!  THAT'S RIGHT, AMIGOS!  NUMERO UNO!  WHO ROCKS THE PARTY?  I ROCK THE PARTY! NUMBER TWO IN YOUR PROGRAM, NUMBER ONE IN YOUR HEART!  I'M THE MOTHERFLIPPPING RHYMENOCEROUS!  HEY!  HO!

Ok, so I admit it...

A part of me had a hard time dealing with the fact that the Peanut loved BossLady more than me.  It wasn't that my little girl didn't shower me with affection.  It's just that whenever the BossLady showed up, the Peanut would go bonkers!  I felt like one of those stay-at-home-moms who deals with unruly toddlers all day, only to see them turn into little angels when daddy walked in the door from work. 

Heck, after all, I'm the one who prepares all of the Peanut's meals.  I'm the one who takes her to the playground every day, brings her on bike rides around the city, drives her out to Coney Island for the amusement rides, and takes her to the water park all the time.  Why shouldn't I be #1?

Anyway, I know my time as #1 is probably short-lived but I thought it would be fun for the Peanut and I to celebrate my newfound status over a few ghetto dogs this afternoon. 

Jacket and tie optional.

Meanwhile, I just caught the end of a funny commercial promoting some new sitcom.  In it, the father leans over to his son and says, "You know how they say parents love all their kids the same?  Well, you're in third place.  Better step it up!"

For some reason, I thought that line was hilarious. Do any of you pull that stuff with your kids?  And do you find yourself competing with you spouse over your kids' affections?  Consciously or sub-consciously?  And what about you childless folks?  Surely, you have a favorite niece or nephew, right? 

An inquiring mind wants to know...

The Parentionary

Once you have a child, it's inevitable that you will be drawn into many long and boring parenting conversations with both friends and complete strangers. 

However, after awhile, you'll begin to realize that parents rarely ever say what they actually mean.  Many of them use these weird passive-aggressive phrases to obscure their true thoughts. 

In the interest of science and my ongoing anthropological study of parenting, I've compiled some common parenting phrases and their hidden subtext.  I hope this proves to be especially useful for any of you newbies out there who haven't spent much time around other parents!

Parenting Phrase = True Meaning

What an adorable little newborn baby! = Holy shit, your kid is ugly!

I don't remember what life was like before the baby. = I used to have no life.

That's so great your child loves Chicken McNuggets. = Why don't you just feed your kid out of the dumpster?

Maybe we'll do a playdate next weekend? = Dude, can you please watch my kid next Saturday so I can get some free time to myself?  I'm begging you!

We're so tired by the end of the day. = We haven't had sex in ages!

She has your ears. = Man, that kid looks NOTHING like you.  Are you sure you're really the father?  I think you seriously need to consider taking a paternity test.

We're not sure when we're having another one.  = We're not sure we even WANT another kid.  The one we have right now is totally kicking our asses!  How the hell do people have more than one kid?

Wow, it looks like they're really hitting it off. = Crap, our kids seem to really like each other. Does this mean that you and I will have to spend time together?  I sure hope not.   

He sure does have a lot of energy! = Your kid is a hyperactive monster! He must drive you completely insane. I pity you.

Your outfit looks so comfortable. = Grungy sweatpants, a food-stained t-shirt, ponytail in a baseball cap?  You look like shit, woman!  Have you completely given up on personal hygiene already?

It must be so great having a nanny to help out. = How come you have a nanny when you don't even work?

It's nice that he has such a good appetite. = Your kid is a gluttonous slob who eats like a trucker.  Never in my entire life have I ever seen anyone inhale a pizza so quickly.  No wonder he looks like a sumo wrestler!

We missed the pitter patter of little feet. = The damn vasectomy didn't work!

Parenting was so much different when I was your age. = We didn't complain like you do. Stop whining. I worked 2 jobs, had 4 kids, and never had anyone to help me out. EVER!

That's such a cute age. = I remember when my kids used to like me.  Wait until they get older and hate your guts.

Looks like you could fit a whole soccer team in that car! = Since you have a minivan, can you drive my kids to the soccer game next week?

The school wasn't really a good fit for her. = She got kicked out.

Your daughter looks like a little China doll. = Your daughter is Asian.

I love your daughter's curly locks. = Your daughter is Black.

Your daughter has such a beautiful skintone. = Your daughter is Latino.

She's so exotic looking. = Your daughter is mixed-race.

Did I miss anything or leave any out?  Feel free to add your own. 

The Eight Types of Playground Parents

BossLady and I love taking the Peanut to different playgrounds all over New York City.  Not only do we like the fact that the physical diversity of them is so interesting but we also enjoy exposing the Peanut to different neighborhoods around the city.  Over the past two years, we've taken her to playgrounds from Chinatown to Harlem. 

But no matter where we go to in this city, we tend to find the same types of playground parents everywhere!

With that in mind, MetroDad presents "The Eight Types of Playground Parents," a detailed anthropological study of homos parentus.  Enjoy...

THE HOVERER
Species: Worrius Protectus
Signature Behavior: Standing within 12 inches of their child at all times!
Distinctive Markings: First aid kit fanny pack, anti-bacterial wipes, furrowed brow
Natural Enemies: Unsupervised children
Mating Call: "Wait for mommy! Don't climb that!"

The hoverer is usually a woman, most often the mother of an only child whom she protects like the last surviving member of the Hapsburg family.

She's the one who is constantly worried that her child might fall down at any given moment and it's her responsibility to make sure that NEVER happens!  When the kid is climbing the jungle gym, she puts her hand on his behind.  When he's going down the slide, she's always right there to catch him at the bottom.  If he's on the swing, someone must be standing both in front of him AND behind him at all times.

Hoverers are sometimes known as "helicoptor parents."  They are so named because, like a helicopter, they hover closely overhead, rarely out of reach whether their children need them or not.  Although the umbilical cord may have been cut at birth, the Hoverer believes that her children could not possibly survive without her.

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THE EXECUTIVE DAD
Species: Blackberryus Irritatus
Signature Behavior: Text-messaging the office
Distinctive Markings: Blackberry, Bluetooth headset, Hermes tie
Natural Enemies: Hippies, SAHDs, and anyone not in the corporate rat race
Mating Call: "Hold on a sec, kiddo. Daddy's on a very important conference call."

You can always spot Executive Dad out of a crowd.  He's the one who looks most out of his element and speaks to his children the same way he speaks to secretaries, first-year analysts, paralegals, or interns. Playground sightings of Executive Dad are extremely rare.  Usually, he defers playground duties to the nanny.

Don't ask Executive Dad to change a diaper.  He's never done that his entire life.  He tends to know very little about his children.  In fact, when pressed, Executive Dad might admit that children were actually his wife's idea.  He would have been happy just driving a new Porsche or lowering his golf handicap!

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CRAZY PTA MOM
Species: Insanus Multitaskus
Signature Behavior: Regulating every single minute of her child's free time
Distinctive Markings: Google calendar on Treo, Violin, Tae Kwan Do outfit
Natural Enemies: Slacker moms
Mating Call: "If we're going to make it to Suzuki on time, we have to leave RIGHT NOW!"

On the surface, PTA mom looks very normal.  Sensibly dressed, practical, and completely genial.  However, upon closer inspection, you'll notice that PTA mom bears a strong resemblance to a strung-out crystal meth addict.  She is a blur of non-stop action!

When she's not lobbying parents in the playground to help with the latest bake sale fundraiser, she's organizing tupperware parties, running triathlons, and volunteering at the local hospital.  Her child's schedule is similarly regulated.  No child of hers is going to lollygag the day away in a sandbox! 

In the playground, PTA mom can often be heard instructing her children how to play properly.  However, this usually doesn't last long because it's often time to head out for the next activity.  Some biologists believe that natural PTA moms do not really exist and that the phenomenon is due to a narcotic addiction to Ritalin!

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HIPSTER DAD
Species: Nealus Pollackus
Signature Behavior: Reading Spin magazine while sitting in the swing set
Distinctive Markings: "Dead Kennedys" t-shirt, rocker shades, Seven jeans, Vans
Natural Enemies: The Wiggles, Elmo, Yuppie scum
Mating Call: "Let's blow this sappy joint, kiddo, and go home to spin some vinyl."

Every playground has a hipster dad.  Generally a man clinging to the last vestiges of his youth, he can often be seen wearing the same clothing as his children.  That's cool though because he's tight with his kids.  They don't "play" together per se.  They "hang."

Hipster Dad tends to be relatively self-consumed.  Whereas he believes that he is simply not allowing the presence of children in his life to alter his previously childless lifestyle, he generally fails to realize that he has himself become a cliche.  However, despite his failings, Hipster Dads are generally excellent parents who spend much time interacting with their children.

Hipster Dads are rarely seen in playgrounds.  However, they can often be found accompanying their children to used-record stores, alternative concerts, or Fellini film festivals.

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SOHO MOM
Species: Shabbius Chicus
Signature Behavior: Pretending to play in the sandbox
Distinctive Markings: Balenciaga hobo bag, Prada shades, shag haircut, Range Rover
Natural Enemies: Dirty children, uncooperative nannies, Mom jeans
Mating Call: "Mommy's going to Pilates now, honey, but Rosita will play with you."

Soho Mom is a sub-species of mother rarely seen outside of lower Manhattan.  She is recognizable by her meticulously-crafted ensembles that seem to display a casual insoucence but also belie her enormous wealth.  Sure, she's wearing jeans, a t-shirt and some low-tops. However, that outfit cost more than your monthly mortage payment!

Soho Mom rebels against the wealthy society women of previous generations.  However, in reality, she is extremely similar.  In fact, cultural anthropologists believe the development of Soho mom is a testament to Darwin's theories of evolution.  Years ago, Soho mom might have worn white gloves and a pillbox hat. Now, she rocks boho-chic with the best of them!

At the playground, you'll rarely see Soho Mom playing with her children. Usually she can be seen giving instructions to her nanny while flipping through the latest issue of Vogue.  Soho Mom considers her children to be the ultimate accessory so you'll often see them dressed in similar styles.   

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THE "PETER PAN" DAD
Species: Dadus Immaturus
Signature Behavior: Being chased by every kid in the playground, hogging slide
Distinctive Markings: Cargo pants, food-stained t-shirt, baseball cap on backwards
Natural Enemies: Grown-ups
Mating Call: "Who wants to play tag?"

Peter Pan Dad loves playing with children because it allows him to unleash his inner child. His general immaturity makes him the ideal playmate.  In fact, like many children, he often throws a tantrum when told that it's time to leave the playground and go home.  Frequently, Peter Pan Dad's wife feels like she's raising a family of children by herself!

At the playground, Peter Pan Dad is easy to spot.  He's the Pied Piper, leading all the kids through a wide array of activities.  He's like an enthusiastic camp counselor on steroids!  The good thing about Peter Pan Dad is that he usually tires easily.  His unbridled impetuosity is usually no match for his prolonged age.  After several hours in the playground, Peter Pan Dad can usually be found passed out on a park bench.

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THE BOOKWORM MOM
Species: Spectator Literatus
Signature Behavior: Reading Emily Dickinson on a bench while her child goes unattended
Distinctive Markings: Horn-rimmed glasses, wool shawl, PBS tote bag
Natural Enemies: Ernest Hemingway, Norman Mailer, Christopher Hitchens
Mating Call: "I'm sorry, honey. Did you say something?"

Bookworm Mom's natural environment is the Upper West Side of Manhattan or any liberal arts college town.  You can recognize her because her head is always buried in a book or the latest issue of the The New Yorker.  Sometimes, she will have hummus stains on her sensible cardigan sweater.  She may or may not have ink marks on her mouth from chewing on pens. 

Usually employed as an editor or academic, Bookworm Mom enjoys bringing her child to the playground.  While young Atticus plays with other members of his peer group, Bookworm Mom likes to sit underneath a tree, pondering the latest literary review from Joyce Carol Oates or reading that fascinating essay in the New York Review of Books comparing Spinoza to Gottfried Leibniz.  Sometimes, she gets so lost in her thoughts that she forgets to feed Atticus or change his diaper. 

However, despite her absentmindedness, she's usually a very responsible parent.  Compared to most playground parents, she's hermetically harmless.  In fact, you might not even notice she's there.

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THE COACH DAD
Species: Homo Testosteronus
Signature Behavior: Threatening to beat up little kids
Distinctive Markings: Muscle tee, gym shorts, porn moustache
Natural Enemies: Civility, restraint, New Age parents
Mating Call: "I'll kick your ass!"

Coach Dad is like the Bobby Knight of parenting.  He's a bully, a lout, and a borderline psychotic.  Somewhere in his past, he was most likely a failed athlete or a wimp.  But make no mistake about it. Things are going to be different with his kid.

You'll often see Coach Dad berating his children at the playground for not throwing the ball far enough or for being afraid of going down the slide.  See, Coach Dad hates weakness of any kind.  No kid of his will be a spineless wimp!  Of course, this usually drives Coach Dad to insane extremes.  Frequently, he'll threaten young children who cut in front of his own progeny when going down the slide.  Other times, he'll even threaten their parents!

In his later years, Coach Dad can usually be found on the local news for beating up a Little League ref who had the audacity to call that third strike on his child.  Years of anger management classes usually do very little to temper Coach Dad.  Heart attacks, aneurysms, and road rage are the usual causes of death for Coach Dad. 

Personally, I'm reluctant to admit it but, aside from Coach Dad, I'm probably a cross between all of these types of parents.  Anyway, did I leave out any playground stereotypes here?  Are these types of parents only indigenous to Manhattan? What about where you live?  And what playground parent stereotype are YOU?

An Open Letter to All Toddlers

Dear Toddlers:

We love you kids.  Really.  Most of the time you're absolutely adorable.  That little thing you do when you wrap both your arms around our necks, kiss us on the cheek, and say, "I love you, daddy"?  Kills us every time.  We can't get enough of that! 

We also love that you're speaking coherently now.  Life is so much easier now that you can verbalize the fact that wearing green socks makes you go completely insane.  Sorry about that.  Really, we had no idea.  Our bad.      

Seeing your imaginations at work these days has been a blast.  It's unbelievably cute watching you use the remote control as a telephone.  We wish you'd stop hiding it though.  Putting it in the refrigerator was a good idea.  We never would have looked there. 

And who knew you toddlers were so damn funny?  We LOVE that "everything is a hat" routine that you do.  When you wrapped daddy's jeans around your head, you looked like the cutest little suicide bomber this side of Tehran!  And that comedy bit about pretending to eat the dog food is the funniest thing since Eddie Murphy's "Raw."  Really, almost everything you do these days totally cracks us up. 

But, listen up, my little 3-foot friends. 

You're not going to be toddlers forever.  Pretty soon, that "being cute" thing is going to start wearing a little thin.  You're going to need to back it up with some serious substance.  After all, the world is filled with formerly cute kids who couldn't quite cut it at the next level.   If you want all this continued love and affection, you're going to need to raise your game. 

Here's some advice.

1. Enough with the whining.  Nobody likes a whiner.  Trust us on this one (if you don't believe us, ask Michael Moore!)  Seriously, you've really got to cut that out.  It's driving us fucking nuts.  Every time you whine (especially in public,) you make us want to leave you on the side of the road.  Besides, if you lazy toddlers ever took the time to run a cost/benefit analysis, you'd notice that the whining thing almost never pays off.  Service with a smile always works better.  Remember that, kiddos.

2. Make a decision and run with it.  This waffling has got to stop.  You toddlers change your minds faster than Rudy Guiliani changes his politics.  Do you want the freaking apple or don't you?  Do you want to go in the stroller or not?  Do you like looking at the pigeons or do they scare the crap out of you?  You're starting to remind us of that schizo ex-girlfriend from college.  Never a good sign.

3. Knock off the diva routine.  You toddlers have a bit of prima donna in you, n'est-ce pas?  I know you're part of the "ME Generation" but many of you behave like some spoiled actor who starts actually believing all the crap his publicists are telling him!  So knock off the Sean Preston Federline act, kiddos.  We're not rock stars.  We're just regular, working parents. No breakfast at noon.  No ice cream for lunch.  And no 24-hour room service.  Ok?   

4. It's NOT yours.  You seem to have adopted a mantra of "If I can see it, it's mine. If you have it, it's mine. If I think about it, it's mine."  Let me tell you something, kiddos.  You know when all of us leave in the morning, only to return home 8 hours later?  We're at work earning a living.  And while we're firm believers in the "mi casa es su casa" philosophy and don't really mind sharing our things with you, you need to ease up a little, ok?  That Blackberry?  Mine.  Those car keys?  Mine.  The cell phone, the sunglasses, the ipod?  Mine, mine, mine.  Please keep your peanut-butter-and-jelly fingers off them. 

5. Show some gratitude.  There is no clean underwear fairy.  There is no magic pop tart machine.  And vomit doesn't just clean itself up.  We have no problem doing all these things for you.  Just don't take them for granted.  After we've spent the past 4 hours blowing bubbles, drawing Elmo, pushing you on the swing, and wiping the dog poop off your shoes, sometimes we just need to hear a little "thank you" from you so that we don't feel like indentured servants. 

Thanks, toddlers.  Feel free to take all of this advice with a grain of salt.  We really do have your best interests at heart.  Besides, in 15 years, you're going to be begging us to buy you a car and you'll totally be sucking up to us. 

Our advice?  Start now!

Love,
Your parents

P.S. Where the heck did you put my Blackberry? 

Metropolitan Diary

Setting: A restaurant in downtown Manhattan.

Dramatis Personae: Twelve parents, all with children under the age of 3. 

As the delirium of a rare child-free evening is coupled with copious amounts of beer and sake, one of the aforementioned diners subconsciously begins humming the song "Elmo's World" underneath his breath.  Soon, the entire table is loudly singing along like a bunch of inebriated Christmas carolers.  Shortly thereafter, the group is raucously singing the theme song to "Wonder Pets."  John Mayer and Jessica Simpson are sitting nearby and abruptly leave, apparently disgusted by the lack of hipness being displayed at the adjoining table. 

We’re not too big
And we’re not too strong
But when we work together
We’ve got the right stuff

What's gonna work?
Teamwork!

For our next gathering, we plan on singing the theme song to "Bear in the Big Blue House" and "Dora the Explorer."  If things get really crazy, we might even do the dance-floor version of "Head, Shoulders, Knees & Toes (Knees & Toes!)

Hipster parents, indeed!

On a side note...remember when you were younger and you couldn't get that stupid song out of your head?  Maybe it was Hansen's "MmmBop" or "Macarena?"  Hell, I remember one time where I almost started hitting my head with a fucking hammer because I couldn't get "I'm a barbie girl, in a barbie woooorrrrllld!" out of my head.  Anyway, is it me or are those annoying songs that fill your head now all mostly kid's songs? 

Because right now, the only music in my head is that duet by Bert & Ernie, "What's the Name of That Song?"  All day long, I'm singing, "La di da di da, La di da di da." 

Send help!