An Ode to Parenting

Each morning’s got the same routine
Woken up by 5:15

A singing toddler one room over
A mix of Beyonce and Grover

I beg the Gods for sleep to take
Of course I lay there wide awake

I stumble blindly to the shower
Weigh myself, and looking dour

Shave, and shit, and brush my hair
At least, what hair is still up there

Suck in the gut, look in the mirror
Squint my eyes, get a bit nearer

New wrinkles forming, baggy eyes
This getting older I despise

And now it’s Peanut’s turn to dress
I pray it’s not the usual mess

It’s starts out sweet, just to be fair
A little kiss, downhill from there

It’s “no” to clothes, and diaper, too
A naked toddler just won’t do

We struggle to and struggle fro
She grabs her brush and won’t let go

I throw my hands up in defeat
So socks are on her hands, not feet

She spends her day at child care
I’m pretty sure no one will stare

We pile into my SUV
And start the day quite stressfully

I drop her off, she starts to cling
But this is just the usual thing

She fusses, I feel like a jerk
But I’ve got to head off to work

Nine hours chained up to a desk
To serve my boss’s last behest

While Peanut plays and paints by hand
And dunks her head into the sand

And naps, and eats, and has much fun
A toddler’s work is never done.

The cost, however, is such dreck
My boss should just write them a check

The clock chimes 5, I grab my keys
Will she be in a good mood please?

I saunter in, expect a “Hi”
She ignores me like i’m just some guy

I go to grab her pink backpack
She grabs my leg; demands a ‘nack

A snack, she wants, like cheerios
Crackers, peanuts, or ho ho’s

Ice pops, candy, donuts, cheese
Of course I give her none of these

Dinner beckons, I won’t coddle her
But you can’t reason with a toddler

She stomps her feet, she starts to scream
“But daddy, I want some ice cream!”

The tears are flowing now in sheets
They drip along her paint-stained cheeks

I take a breath, I tap my heel
I try to make a vain appeal

Sensing that won’t work one bit
I pick her up and run for it

She kicks and screams and makes a scene
If I ignore her, it’s not mean

I know she’s tired, and I’m an ass
I start the car, and hit the gas

On the road and traffic’s rough
And Peanut starts to huff and puff

Or sing or moan, she’s such a kidder
I turn up “All Things to Consider”

We listen in to Amy Eddings
Do a piece on local weddings

But Peanut’s not that kind of tyke
And NPR she doesn’t like

“Turn it off!” she starts to shriek
This car ride’s looking rather bleak

When we get home, I’m in a hurry
One hour left, so I must scurry

It’s a race I really dread
Dinner, bath, a book, and bed

At school her eating isn’t picky
At home it’s gotten a bit tricky

Veggies, fruit and cheese we’ve tried
It must be beige, or sweet or fried

If we have any hope she’ll dine
So cooking doesn’t take much time

Frozen fish, and tots, some cheese
A glass of milk, it’s been a breeze

Sit at the table, now I’m braced
I place the plate, she takes a taste

Then throws the chicken in the air
Rubbing ketchup in her hair

It mixes with the playground sand
To form a paste that can withstand

All forms of lotion, soap, or gel
Was parenting part of Dante’s hell?

She spills the milk upon the floor
Tossing black beans at the door

No time to worry, fret or glower
For now it’s time to take a shower

I soap her up, remove the grime
She wants to play but there’s no time

Out of the shower, quick quick quick
And then we have the hairbrush shtick

Whereby I try to comb her hair
She hates when I’ve got my hands there

She screams and shouts, “No daddy, please!”
Defeated, I sink to my knees

“Okay, all right, we’re done,” I say
We’ll read a book, let’s end this day

She grabs a book that’s one foot thick
I shake my head, “That book is sick,

And needs to rest. How ‘bout this one?”
It’s something penned by S. Boynton

About a pig, or horse or sheep
But I just hope she’ll fall asleep

I’m bleary eyed and need to rest
My patience is a bit hardpressed

I want to curse, yell “fuck” or “damn”
But that book’s already written, man!

Better stick to my own story
My little tale of parental glory

Her book is done, her teeth are brushed
My reading was a little rushed

I may have skipped a couple lines
That board book was hardly the Times

I lay her gently on the bed
And kiss her lightly on the head

She smiles at me and dozes off
Thank god that I pulled that one off

It’s daddy’s time, it’s finally here
Break out the wine, it’s time to cheer

I’m starving, so I grab some pita
(It’s the only rhyme for margarita)

All is silent, calm and still
I finally have some time to chill

Until she wakes at half past three
Screaming, “Daddy, come get me!”

And our routine, it starts anew
Now does this look like fun to you?

Poopsie - the Devolution of a Nickname

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet."

Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)

That may have been true in the bard’s day, but today we place a great deal of stock in a person’s name.  Names convey meaning, the memory of a loved one who has passed, or the aspirations of hopeful new parents.  They can be tied to ones heritage or religion or family - or even taken from the names of beloved characters in books or even popular culture (Baby Snooki, anyone?).

And yes, names are even the fodder for childhood humor, the basis of evil limericks or hateful chants in the locker room showers (not that I know anything about that....).  There’s that old joke about two young parents-to-be paging through a baby name book, trying to identify names for their little one that don’t invoke playground humiliation.  Let’s listen in on just such a conversation...

Henpecked Husband (HH): “I think we should name the baby Patty.”

Underappreciated Wife (UW): “I knew a girl named Patty.  They called her Fatty Patty.  Fatty Patty two by four, can’t fit through the kitchen door.  Do you want that for your child?”

HH: “Of course not.  What about Mary?”

UW: “No way!  Mary, rhymes with hairy.  They’ll call her Hairy Mary.  And she’ll already have a unibrow thanks to your side of the family.  Isn’t that torture enough?”

HH: “So what about Lenore?”

UW: “Lenore?  Seriously?  Lenore!  You want them to call her a stinking whore?  What kind of father are you?

HH: “But I didn’t mean....”  

UW: “That’s it, I want a divorce!”

And thus another broken home is made.  You see, picking a name is a high stakes process with a host of awful, unintended consequences.

Apologies to any readers named Patty, Mary or Lenore and the years of torture you undoubtedly endured on the playground.  


Fortunately Peter and I didn’t have to get a divorce to choose a name for Peanut.  My family has a tradition of naming children after deceased relatives, so we agreed to name the baby using the initials of our grandmothers.  Since Peter is French, we also wanted to choose a name that would be easy to pronounce in both English and French, unlike my name which is regularly mangled by Peter’s family.  We didn’t know the gender of the baby that would be placed with us, so we decided to select a boy name and a girl name.  Sure, we had several heated conversations, but we finally settled on two names we liked, and when we were placed with a girl, the decision was made for us (Peter is still holding on to the boys name in the event that we can use it for our next child).

As for nicknames, we call Peanut shortened versions of her given name.  But the nickname that we use the most is “poopsie”.  I am pretty sure my brother had a doll named Poopsie when he was a kid (it is very enlightened parents that would give their firstborn son a doll to play with, in the 1970’s no less!), but I also remember hearing my sister-in-law refer to her kids as “poopsie face”.  The word is just so cute!  I’ve been using it ever since we brought Peanut home.  Sure, it causes people to stare, but so does the sight of two grown men with an African American baby.  Welcome to my life.

Of course, we haven’t stuck strictly with poopsie, and her nickname has slowly evolved (or should I say, devolved) into other words or phrases with the root word “poop”, including poopsie la la, diet poopsie, poopsicle, poops, pooperoni and pooper.  Now that her language skills are developing at a rather rapid pace, we really need to identify a new nickname.  Just today, as I picked her up after her nap, she announced, “I poop”, a fact I had actually discovered when I opened the door to her room and the smell hit me in the face.  So clearly she knows that poop is ALSO something that can be found in her diaper).  And yet, the moniker poop has a certain stickiness factor, and we just can’t get it off hands.

As far as horrible nicknames, there must be something worse than poop, right?  After all, it could be stinking whore.

To Be or Not To Be A Stay at Home Dad

That is the question...or the question of the moment.  The age old “should I stay or should I go” debacle.

I honestly never thought that being a stay at home dad was in the cards for me.  I derive an enormous amount of pleasure from my work (pleasure, and a TON of aggravation, agitation, and occasional annoyance), and I am pleased with all of my professional accomplishments.  Sure I toyed with the idea of quitting my job and staying at home with the baby briefly before Peanut was born, but I hadn’t seriously considered being a stay at home parent...until today.  

Just about six months ago, Peter and I began the process to adopt a second child.  While one child in day care is expensive, the bill for two children in day care makes my head spin and my eyes bug out like a Looney Tunes character (seriously).  My employer might as well make out my paycheck directly to the day care center, because that is where most of it will be going.  On top of that, I pay a babysitter to pick up Peanut from school twice a week and watch her when I have evening meetings, which really adds up (when I was a babysitter, I made $8 an hour.  Babysitters today charge almost twice that...maybe we should let babysitters solve the debt crisis instead of the politicians).  So we both have been saying that when the new baby comes, we will need to find a new center that is less expensive.

Then last night, over an incredible anniversary dinner at Nobu (try the Omakase - you’ll love it), Peter and I began talking more about day care, and the new baby, and the topic of my becoming a stay at home parent.  And for the first time, it sort of made sense.  In the last few months, I really have started feeling that I am missing out on Peanut’s young life.  During the week I only get to see her for an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening (and in the evening she is so tired from school and I am in such a rush to feed her/bathe her/play with her, that neither of us ends up having that much fun), and less than that on days I work late.  And then I think...if I can’t spend time with my kid, why did I have one in the first place?

But am I really ready to call it quits and take on the responsibility of being a stay at home dad.  Am I really ready to face my fear?

Because when it comes right down to it, the whole idea makes me terrified.

I’m terrified of leaving the workforce.  At a time when so many people are out of work (9.1% unemployment rate as of this morning), how can I walk away from a good, full time job?  And how will it feel to leave, after having spent the last seventeen or so years working myself up to an executive level position?

I’m terrified this will derail my career.  I happened to hear a story on NPR this morning about the jobs market as I made my way through the morning commute.  While it was about the challenges people are having finding jobs, they noted that the longer someone is out of work, the harder it is to get a job.  Skills become rusty.  The professional world changes.  If I leave the professional world for the next five years, what will my job prospects be when I come back?

I’m terrified about losing my independence, those 8-9 hours a day among adults.  Beyond the pride I take in my work, I enjoy mentoring other staff, and collaborating on projects with my peers.  I like adult conversations, and I am worried my available topics of conversation will be narrowed down to sippy cups and poopy diapers.

I’m terrified I will miss the power that comes with being an executive - of having an assistant and a staff of professionals that report to me.  I will miss a job that allows me to learn and to flex my creativity.  Being a stay at home dad is going to feel more like a daily marathon, I imagine.  Less meetings, more messes.  Less to do lists, more tantrums.

And I’m terrified because I am not sure I can do it.  It is a huge job - am I really up for the task?

But is all this fear worth missing out on my child’s life?  I love Peanut more than anything.  And I know I will love my next child.  Parenting is all about sacrifices, right...so shouldn’t I be willing to look past my fear and make this sacrifice for my child?  For the first time I feel something akin to what some mom’s might feel like, for even though we no longer live in the sixties, there is still a certain expectation that raising kids is the woman’s job.  There are plenty of women who choose their career, and there are many who gladly choose to stay at home - and I am certain there are other, like me, wondering what the right choice is - do I choose my kid...or do I choose my career (and is there any way to do both)?  Unlike moms, the expectation is that, as a man, work will always come first.  But I’m just not sure that is the right answer for us.

In a way, I’m lucky that this is even an option.  And Peter is fully in support of whatever I choose.  While the decision isn’t imminent, I know it is something I will wrestle with in the months ahead.  Let’s just hope I make a decision before Peanut heads to college.