Recently, I went on a shopping excursion with our 21-month old son, Ivan:
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With all the news lately about Benghazi, the AP Reporters, and the IRS, it seems like the only thing going on in Washington (at least according to Republicans) is scandal. Of course, the real scandal is the absolute determination of the GOP not to cooperate at all with the President, but that’s for another day.
However, news of these scandals reminds us — or it should — that none of us is without sin or beyond reproach. Even our 21-month old son, Ivan, who ran for President in 2012, has had a scandal or two. I’m sure he wouldn’t want me to reveal them in public, but my belief is that it’s best to get out ahead of the bad news cycle and address scandal or unsavory news on your own terms. With that said, here are some of Ivan’s scandals:
1. The String Cheese Incident (not to be confused by the band of the same name): involving the smearing of Polly-O string cheese on daddy’s laptop computer.
2. The Uni-Ball/Toilet Affair: when dad’s uniball pen was thrown into the unclean toilet
3. The Barnes & Noble Meltdown: We won’t go into detail, let’s just say neither Barnes nor Noble will soon forget Ivan.
4. Delta Poop: Who knew that getting on a plane would inspire movement of bowels?
5. The Tomato Soup Escapade: Tomato soup may be good for getting the smell of skunk out, but it’s not so good for keeping clothes clean.
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My wife and I have an 21-month old son named Ivan. He is very concerned that parents do right by their children (he is especially worried about my parenting skills). Ivan has decided to help out new parents by issuing a regular newsletter called:
#TeamIvan’s: News From The Crib (#103) – Cookies
My husband and I have a 21-month old son. What should we do about cookies? Contrary to popular belief, cookies should not be used as a suppository. Nor should you pile up 100 cookies in an athletic sock and beat your husband with it. Rather, I would suggest that you feed cookies to your son (assuming of course that they are wheat free, gluten free, non-GMO, no-refined sugar containing cookies made by vegans living on a commune utilizing machines that have not been touched by peanuts.
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As parents in NYC, my wife and I frequently, worry whether we can do a good job of parenting. It’s not like we can keep up with the Joneses. In NYC, the Joneses are billionaires. There’s no keeping up with them.
And, the Joneses (and the Smiths, and the Johnsons, and the Bloombergs, and the Trumps, etc, etc) set the prices with their billionaire lifestyles. For example, in the middle of the country, say in Kansas, the rent for a 1-bedroom apartment might be say, $600 or $700. In NYC, the rent on that same apartment in 11 million dollars a month (without utilities). Basic cable is 14 zillion. And, utilities are about 27 gazillion.
As you can imagine, it’s distressing.
As a result, frequently, we consider moving. But to where?
We finally figured that if we’re going to move, it should be to a place known to be kid and parent-friendly. Where’s that?
Well, it turns out there’s a small problem. It turns out the best place in the world to be a mother is Finland. By contrast, the best fathers in the world are the men of the Aka people who reside in Western Central African Republic and Northwest Congo.
Both sound like fun places to visit, but not where I want to live.
So, we’ll be staying put in NYC, where thank goodness, we still have goats 
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This Shabbat, we read the portion of the Torah called Bamidbar (Numbers 1:1-4:2). In this section, the Israelites conduct a census of themselves.
Why do they count? (Besides the fact that God told them to).
Counting matters because it’s taking stock of what’s present. And, more importantly, being counted signifies that one wishes to be included. Allowing oneself to be counted means stepping forward to assert not only one’s rights but also to accept one’s responsibilities.
I think of this, as we approach Mother’s Day, for, if nothing else, it is mom who day in and day out steps forward to say, here I am, to be counted, and to take on the full range of duties that she has signed up for.
So, here’s to moms everywhere for standing up and being counted.
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My wife and I have an 21-month old son named Ivan. He is very concerned that parents do right by their children (he is especially worried about my parenting skills). Ivan has decided to help out new parents by issuing a regular newsletter called:
#TeamIvan’s: News From The Crib (#102) – Purell
My husband and I have a 21-month old son. Is it important to have Purell in the house? More important than food (especially when Daddy is prone to sticking crayons up his nose)
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As we approach Mother’s Day, I’m getting ready. Our son, Ivan, is just 21-months old, so it’s fallen on my shoulders to make sure that he’s all ready and set to honor Mom on her day. In order to do that, I’ve been brushing up on Mother’s day protocol, so that I’m ready, and I provide it here as a service to those of you, like me, who need to be ready to go on Mother’s Day.
1. Mother’s Day is to honor Mothers.
2. Just because you had a Mother doesn’t mean you get special treatment on Mother’s Day by virtue of the transitive property of special treatment. The special treatment ends with mom.
3. Flowers are a great gift for mom. Flowers that you stole are less good, unless you stole them from someone rich.
4. You are not absolutely required to take mom out to eat on her day; however, you are definitely not allowed to let her cook for you.
5. On Mother’s Day, dads somehow become invisible except to people carrying bills or invoices.
6. On Mother’s Day — every Grandma should be treated like Maggie Smith’s character of the Dowager Countess on Downton Abbey. That is to say, you should heed her words, or she will definitely see to it that you are put in your place (though she will do so with a smile and without even lifting a finger)
7. On Mother’s Day every grandfather will turn to every father and say, “Just seeing you work overtime and sweat like a pig, fills my heart with joy.”
8. When signing a Mother’s Day card, you must say “Love.” Even if your mother drives you batshit crazy, you must write “love” on your card. If you can’t do that, you deserve to be driven batshit crazy.
9. Taking out the garbage is not a Mother’s Day gift, but it’s a nice pre-gift.
10. In the worst case scenario, if you can’t think of what to get mom for Mother’s Day, just think “What Would Oprah Do?”
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Becoming a dad is a huge life transition. One day, I was the precocious kid, and next day it seemed like when people were talking about my potential, they were talking about it in the past tense. One day people were telling me that I could do anything I want and the next day, I was at an interview with a guy who said that people my age need to accept the new reality. One day I was in diapers and people couldn’t take their eyes off of me, and the next, I was 45 years old, and able to walk through a crowd without anyone even noticing. One day I was the star of the show, and next thing I knew, I was an extra in a movie about my own life. One day I was Batman, and the next I was Alfred the Butler.
And I don’t know exactly when this happened. But one day, not long after my son was born, I woke up, and I realized that even as short as I am, I’m too big/grown-up to be cute.
And, I’m really okay with that. . . . Except when I’m not. Except when I look at my son, smiling and innocent, and think “God, I wish my biggest frustration in life was running out of bubbles. I wish everything I did made people smile and clap. I wish that we could do Freaky Friday, and I could be you, but with my brain so I could do my life over, only better, and without all the stupid mistakes.”
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I’ve run 9 marathons. I biked from Seattle to Portland in less than 24 hours. I’ve pulled all-nighters to cram for exams. And, I once worked for 50 hours straight without sleeping during my summer job as a caterer.
But, I’ve never before been as tired as I am every day of my life as a father. In fact, every time I think I can’t ever feel more exhausted, a new day arrives, and I wind up setting a new personal record in the tired department.
I used to wonder why it was that middle-aged people look worn out and beaten down, and now I know. It’s not because they’re out of shape. Some of them are, true, but some, like me, are not. We work out regularly. But, that doesn’t help. It doesn’t matter, because caring for a toddler is a never-ending task. Children don’t understand “wait a sec” or “give me 5 minutes” or “mommy/daddy needs to take a break.” When you add in the fact that my day starts at 6:30 am and ends at 2:00 am when I finally force myself to stop writing and looking at video and turn off my computer, it’s no wonder that I’m completely wrung out.
I feel every one of my years. My gray hairs have been multiplying, almost the way you see gray hairs multiply on the President’s head from the day he takes office. And, parts of me are breaking down with regularity. Just this year, I’ve had back spasms, plantar fasciitis, pink eye, and a sinus cold that won’t go away.
When we embarked upon this parenting voyage, I was warned by friends with kids. They said, I’d be tired all the time. I didn’t believe them. And, actually, they weren’t quite telling the truth. I’m only tired when I’m awake. When I’m asleep, I’m fine.
Only problem is I never get to sleep. Parents never get to sleep. We don’t get naps, and we definitely don’t get to sleep in. And, no one told me that last part. No one said, I’d never again enjoy the deliciousness of 12 hours of continuous sleep. They just said, that I’d be “tired.”
“Tired” was a euphemism. It was candy-coating the situation. Being a parent means being so tired you start forgetting stuff, like what you just said, or where you put the tv remote even though it’s in your hand. Tired means not brushing your teeth some nights because you don’t think you have the strength to lift your arm up to your mouth.
“Tired” means getting to the point where you’d gladly give up you life’s dreams and ambitions if it meant you could spend the rest of your days lying in a hammock on a beach with a cool breeze and a palm tree providing just enough shade so that you could spend 12 hours a day sleeping.
The “tired” I feel now has given me a whole new appreciation for my parents and every parent who has ever come before me.
That’s “tired” and that’s how I feel.
Still, I wouldn’t give up being a parent for anything. It’s awesome, even if I feel like I’m living on a planet with extra gravity and that if you gave me a caffeine IV drip it still wouldn’t be enough.
I just hope that one day, our son, Ivan, can recognize that his dear old dad wasn’t always a tired-out old clown.
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