Double-Stroller Dads

I remember when my wife announced we were pregnant with our second child a couple of years ago, I couldn’t escape this overwhelming fear. No, I wasn’t afraid of raising another kid—I’d mastered all the dad-ly things with our first daughter, like changing diapers, playing peek-a-boo, ending arguments with a stern “Because I said so!” But no matter how much I tried to focus on all the positives, one great, big realization haunted me:

I was about to become a Double-Stroller Dad.

Maybe this would never concern you, but it certainly concerned me. The difference between Single-Stroller Dads and Double-Stroller Dads was monumental.

When you’re a Single-Stroller Dad, life is good. You’re cute. You’re hip. You’re fun. Women look at you like you’re Brad Pitt. Why? You’re the adorable guy pushing the adorable daughter up and down the center aisle of the mall, which causes an uncontrolled chemical reaction in every woman within a five-mile radius to put one hand on her chest, tilt her head, smile and say, “Awwwww…HOW PRECIOUS!” It’s one of only two reasons dads are willing to go to the mall. (The other is Chick-fil-A at the food court).

When you’re a Double-Stroller Dad, women look at you like you’re Steve Buscemi. They no longer dote on you. They run for the hills. They cry out to others: “Watch out for this clown!” and “Move out of his way!” and “I bet he’s covered in Play Doh and snot!” And, if you’re lucky, snot is the only bodily fluid you’re covered in.

When you’re a Single-Stroller Dad, you can zoom around corners like a racecar driver, impressing friends with an agility and maneuverability that rivals former NASCAR champions.

When you’re a Double-Stroller Dad, you’re just hoping to get through the doorway without having to use a crowbar.

When you’re a Single-Stroller Dad, you can lift it in and out of your car without breaking a sweat.

When you’re a Double-Stroller Dad, you have to build an intricate pulley system with ropes and levers, and then pray you can find at least seven available friends to help you hoist the behemoth into your trunk.

When you’re a Single-Stroller Dad, you have plenty of room in your garage for your bobblehead collection.

When you’re a Double-Stroller Dad, the only head bobbing in your garage is yours, wondering whatever happened to your bobblehead collection.

When you’re a Single-Stroller Dad, you can cruise the neighborhood as your baby sits quietly, enjoying the ride.

When you’re a Double-Stroller Dad, you can cruise the neighborhood as your baby sits quietly, enjoying the ride—while your independent toddler wants in the stroller, then out of the stroller, then in, then out, then in, then out, then in, then wants the baby out, then wants the baby back in, then wants back out and wants dad to squeeze his large frame in so the toddler can push. Worse yet, in all this time you’ve only traveled 11 feet from your house. I’ve tripped farther than that.

But you know what I learned once my second daughter arrived? Double-stroller dads have perks that Single-Stroller Dads don’t. Double-stroller dads get twice as many hugs, twice as many kisses, twice as many smiles. They enjoy twice the snuggle time. They get to read twice as many bedtime stories and hear twice as many sweet little voices say, “I love you daddy.”

Double-Stroller Dads may not be Brad Pitt at the mall, but at home they are Super-men.

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Roommates: Moving Kids into the Same Room

This past Valentine's Day weekend we moved my two daughters into a room together. We'd been planning it ever since my wife announced that, through some miracle of god, she'd found matching bedspreads—ones with purple stripes, white polka dots and just the right amount of "on-sale" to satisfy every member of this family.

For months I had been preparing both girls for the move. I'd done all the planning and legwork. Packed boxes overflowed with books and toys. Anna's new bed frame and mattress (purchased weeks in advance) sat quietly in our basement waiting to be united in matrimony by the fine services of my brothers-in-law. I even spent three days carefully hand-selecting a playlist of inspiring songs to rock out to during the move (like "Move This" and "Bust a Move" and "The Best of Hootie and the Blowfish").

I'd planned on five hours of heavy lifting, vacuuming, cleaning, unpacking and vacuuming again because someone "didn't do a good enough job the first time." I'd planned to lose my suit closet to the newly named "Girls' Closet" and let my homeless suits find temporary shelter in the basement. I'd planned to stay out of the way as my wife and her sister dressed the beds in their new polka-dotted attire. I'd even planned a 5-minute break so I could check #ClooneyWatch on Twitter. In fact, I'd planned so well we finished in half the time.

When the final pillowcase was added, the girls bounced off the walls with excitement. My wife, a proud Mom, looked on as her two kids who were about to embark on a journey of a lifetime—one my wife once shared with her sister and one I once shared with mine. And I, a proud Dad, stood in the corner … compulsively crying.

For months I had been preparing both girls for the move. Apparently what I didn't realize was that I hadn't prepared myself.

The night before I teared up when I swayed with Anna in our rocking chair for the last time, patting her back, softly singing "Tomorrow" in her ear, setting her in her crib and watching as she turned on her mobile with her butt (our ritual). I teared up when I walked into Ella's room to kiss her goodnight for the last time and stepped on a piece of painfully rigged play food (our ritual).

After we'd moved all the furniture I teared up as I took inventory of the room. I couldn't help but think back over the past four years. I remember when my parents bought us the crib that not only hugged our kids to sleep every night, but also became the room's centerpiece. Now, instead, two identical twin beds rest against the wall like misplaced Tetris pieces. I looked at the pictures my in-laws helped us hang. Now they sit on the floor, replaced by tall bookshelves and dressers with mirrors. I can recall the first night we let Ella sleep in the room (I panicked every second) and the first night we let Anna sleep in the room (I panicked every other second).

I'd like to tell you that my tears were big, manly tears, the kind that generally only appear on men's faces after our favorite sports teams win championships or we eat extremely hot wings or we get head-butted in the crotch. But they weren't. They were soft, gentle tears of memories that I'll hold dear forever.

As the clock struck 10 (well past their bedtime), I teared up again as I tucked my girls into their big twin beds, saying goodnight to them for the thousandth time—but for the first time all over again. I shut their door and slowly walked downstairs with  my heavy heart dragging behind. My wife gave me a giant hug and said, "It'll be OK," which is her polite way of calling me a wuss. And maybe I am. Who knows. For the past two years these every-night traditions enriched my life. And yet, in the blink of one Valentine's Day weekend, they were gone.

Just as I was about to tear up one last time, I could hear two little voices peeking through the monitor. They weren't crying. They weren't talking. They were singing. They were singing "Tomorrow" all on their own. They sang for nearly 15 minutes. For some reason this put me at ease and really did let me know that it'll all be OK. It'll all be OK.

And if it isn't, at least I can drown my sorrows in a little #ClooneyWatch.

Would love to hear any stories you might have about moving your kids in together or what worked for you when you were a kid and roomed with a sibling. Feel free to leave it in the comments section.

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Getting Ready for Work

Kids have three undeniably impressive skills: to get out every toy they own in just under 4.7 seconds, to use an entire bottle of syrup on one single pancake and to make everyone in the family late for work. I can live with the first two, but it's the last one that drives me crazy. Doesn't matter how early we get up. Doesn't even matter if I work from home. Somehow, we are always on the road 15 minutes later than we need to be (we should be out at 7:45). In the three-plus years I've been a Dad, we've left on time once—Once! It's so rare, even Snopes.com is starting to question it's validity.

To give you a better sense of what happens, here is a minute-by-minute recap of a typical morning in Klems Manor. If you see somewhere we can save time, by all means, let me know. But it'll be tough: You'll find the routine below is super efficient.

Our Timeline
6:55am Alarm goes off. Keep smacking it with hand, but it won't turn off. In fact, it keeps getting louder. Finally wife says, "Get up and stop smacking me!"
7:00am Head to bathroom and start peeing.
7:11am Finish peeing. Go into youngest daughter's bedroom to wake her. Find her balled up in one corner of the crib, but find her blanket balled up in the opposite corner. Think to self, Wonder what they were fighting about?
7:15am Toss unwilling-to-wake-up toddler over shoulder and carry her to my bed. Start zerberting until child is somewhat aware that it's time to play with Mom's makeup. 
7:16am Switch off wife's nonsensical television selection of "The Today Show." Replace with "Saved by the Bell" on TBS.
7:17am Go into eldest daughter's room. Feel sorry for the baby doll who is hanging onto the side of the bed for dear life. Feel sorrier for daughter who is, for some reason, sleeping face down on her own dirty socks. Begin round two of zerberting.
7:20am Get both kids in shower.
7:29am Get both kids out of shower.
7:30am Get yelled out by wife for wrapping them in hand towels.
7:31am Hand kids off to wife.
7:32am Spend next 28 seconds showering.
7:33am Kids are back—fully awake, fully dressed and fully uncooperative. Attempt to brush their teeth. Get toothbrush and toothpaste to touch at least 40% of each kid's smile. Consider it a victory.
7:35am Simultaneously brush my teeth, put on deodorant, shave and act as a human jungle gym.
7:37am Get dressed. Look in mirror. Contemplate: Is this what I wore yesterday? Sniff under arm. Smells OK. Decide to "just go with it."
7:38am Take kids downstairs for breakfast (which wife has started).
7:39am Listen to kids argue over who gets to use the princess placemat. Can't figure out what the difference is between this particular princess placemat and the five other princess placemats we own, but, measured by the volume of the argument, it must be epic. Suddenly find myself also wanting to use that particular princess placemat.
7:40am Eat bowl of Cheerios while daughters eat their bowls of Cheerios.
7:41am Clean up bowl of Cheerios older daughter has spilled because she had to "mix them up" before she ate them.
7:42am Clean up bowl of Cheerios the other daughter has spilled on the floor because, after seeing her older sister do it, felt she also needed to "mix them up" before she ate them.
7:44am Give my not-spilled bowl of Cheerios to daughters to split. Eat Pop Tart.
7:45am Realize the last time you bought Pop Tarts you didn't have any children.
7:46am Rush to bathroom. Curse Pop Tart.
7:50am Wash hands. Start getting daughters in coats.
7:51am Wife comes downstairs, wonders why girls are wearing each other coats and not the right ones. Blame daughter closest to you.
7:52am Promise to deposit an extra $5 her college fund to alleviate guilt.
7:54am Load kids in car. Crank the Aaron Neville CD. Pull out of driveway.
7:55am Pull back into driveway. Let wife in car and apologize for forgetting her the first time. Swear this is the last time it'll happen. Blame other daughter.
7:56am Promise to deposit an extra $5 in other daughter's college fund.
7:57am Pull out of driveway again. Replace Aaron Neville with Dora CD. Start singing, "Come on, vamanos … "
7:58am Wave goodbye to the house and head to sitter's house. For several minutes, complain to wife that we're running late. Also complain to kids that we are running late. Then quietly acknowledge to self that, one day, I am really, really going to miss this.
8:00am Get stuck in (expletive) traffic.

What slows you down in the morning? What tricks have you learned to get the morning moving faster? What's your favorite Aaron Neville song? If you have any tips, I'd love to hear them.

Also, I am legally bound by my wife to point out that she gets up at 6:30 and she is not a slacker, as this post may unintentionally indicate. She thinks I should buy her something nice. Should I?

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Why is Scaring Dad So Funny to Kids?

There are only four things in this world that scare me: snakes, my wife, people named Larry and a common household toy known as a Jack-In-The-Box. For the most part, I do a good job avoiding these things—except for my wife, who seems to be hanging around my house all the time. The main reason I'm afraid of her is because she's always next to me when I sleep—and shouldn't we constantly be a little bit afraid of someone who can poke us in the eyes when we sleep?

Recently, though, my house became a little less safe. For Christmas, my in-laws (who clearly have a secret plot in the works to murder me) gave my daughters some books, some clothes and one giant, scary Jack-In-The-Box. Seriously, he's enormous and frightening. On a scale of one to 10, with 10 being the scariest, he's a hundred billion. Plus two.

I did my best to hide him. One morning before work, I marched him to the basement, put him in a Rubbermaid container and stacked several other extremely heavy Rubbermaid containers on top of it. When I got home from work, there he was, sitting on our living room coffee table as if our trip to the basement had never happened.

I almost pooped myself.

After realizing he couldn't be contained, I opted for Plan B: I could just avoid him. We could lead our separate lives. I could eat breakfast, go to work, come home, play with the kids and then go to bed. He, in turn, could spend all day scaring the other toys in the toy chest and, at night, take a yoga class. A perfect harmony of co-existence. Problem solved.

"Mom, what's this?" asked my 3-year-old daughter as she pulled him out of the toy chest.

"That's a Jack-In-The-Box. Did you know your Dad is scared of them?"

And so it began. From that moment forward, my life was never the same. Everywhere I turned, there were my daughters with that Jack-In-The-Box. They could focus on nothing else. They chased me around the house with the kind of tiny kid laughter that's also commonly known in most parenting circles as "Trouble Making." No matter where I was, they'd find me. In the kitchen? They'd spring out of the pantry and wave him in my face. In the car? They'd pull it out of the diaper bag and yell BOO! In the bathroom? I couldn't even read Entertainment Weekly in peace without hearing that high-anxiety, dastardly tune creep up on me. Do-da-do-da-do-dee-da-do. Da-do-da-do-da-doooo-do. Da-do-da-do-da-do-dee-da-do. POP! goes the weasel. The door swings open. Jack comes jumping in. Tiny little laughter ensues.

It was on to Plan C: Distraction. Hey kids, want to watch a little Dora the Explorer? Look, I have a big bag of lollipops with your names on them? I know Mom says not to draw on the walls with crayons, but I don't see why we couldn't give it a try today. 

It was working! Slowly, they began to lose focus, as their voices trailed off in a not-so-uniform rendition of "I'm the Map, I'm the Map, I'm the Map, I'm the Map, I'm the MAP!" This lasted until I tucked them in at bedtime, rescuing me from hours of torture.

I headed in to my bedroom, relieved and proud all at the same time—relieved because I wouldn't have to deal with that Jack-In-The-Box again until tomorrow (at the earliest) and proud because my girls finally showed signs of becoming a team. Until that Jack-In-The-Box showed up, Ella (3) and Anna (nearly 2) played, but not really together. Ella wants to do puzzles and board games; Anna wants to stack things and knock them over. Thanks to one frightening clown, the pendulum had shifted and the two found a common interest: scaring Dad. As the memory of their tiny, united laughter trailed off in my ready-for-bed head, I was happy to know that my girls we no longer just sisters—they were becoming friends. It's a friendship that I hope grows as they grow. And if it means they need to scare me to get there, so be it.

"HOLY SWEET MOTHER OF GOD WHAT IS THAT!?!"

It was the Jack-In-The-Box, hanging out under the covers on my side of the bed. My wife walked into our bedroom, howling with not-so-tiny laughter.

"Gottcha! I see you found our little friend. Oh, by the way, did I tell you that the other day I found that Jack-In-The-Box in a Rubbermaid container downstairs while I was looking for my maternity clothes? Scared me so much I almost pooped myself."

You and me both.


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Snow Days: How to Guarantee Fun in 12 Simple Steps

I almost never play hooky from work. I learned early on that it's important to set a good example for my children, so I only fake being sick when it's absolutely necessary that I stay home: sick kid, sick wife, March Madness, Opening Day, Jersey Shore marathon, stuck on level 7-4 of Angry Birds, left shoes upstairs and am just not in the mood to get them.

The No. 1 reason to play hooky from work, though, is to enjoy a Snow Day. They don't happen often, so it's important to make the most of it when they do. Here is a 12-Step Program designed to make sure you have a great Snow Day with your kids. 

Step 1: Do Snow Dance Rituals
You can't have a Snow Day without enough snow to convince the school superintendent that she needs a day off to go skiing with her friends. In order to get it, you and the kids must complete as many Bring-Us-Some-Snow Rituals as you can, which include: shaking all snow globes in the house after dinner, flushing ice cubes down the toilet; putting white crayons in the freezer, wearing your pajamas inside out, sleeping upside down in your bed and feeding Dad copious amounts of bacon for dinner. (The last one is most pivotal). 

Step 2: Spend 45 Minutes Putting on Snow Suits and Boots
It will inevitably take you and the kids just under an hour to dress yourselves in snow attire that 1) Mom deems acceptable and 2) allows you just enough leg and arm range to barely move. If it takes you fewer than 15 minutes to get back up after falling down in the snow, you aren't wearing enough layers.

Step 3: Spend 45 Minutes Getting off Snow Suits and Boots Because We Forgot to Pee First and Now Someone Has to Go
Always, always, always remember to use the restroom before getting your snow clothes on. And no, you can't just let your kids pee in their pants. Trust me, there's a good reason for it, and that reason is called Mom's Rage.

Step 4: Repeat Step 2

Step 5: Get Snowman Kit.
Unless you smoke out of a corncob pipe and Mom has two lumps of coal (no, that is not a euphemism for her chest, you pervert), then you'll need a Snowman Kit. A good Snowman Kit will come equipped with two eyes, a nose, a mouth, three or more buttons, a scarf and a very swanky hat. A great Snowman Kit will come with Vermouth.

Step 6: Start a Snowball Fight
Mom's rules: You are only allowed to throw snowballs at those bigger than you, and at no time is it acceptable to throw a snowball at Mom. Dad's rules: Every man, woman, child and snowman for himself.

Step 7: Build a Fort
Of course, as Dad you were smart enough to build your fort before the snowball fight. Chalk this up as a valuable life lesson you are teaching your kids, like "Don't Eat Yellow Snow" and "Avoid Grown Men Wearing Fanny Packs."

Step 8: Make Snow Angels
This is not only an aesthetically pleasing way to decorate your yard, it's also an excellent cover up for when you fall and can't get up (due to the layering issue mentioned in Step 2).

Step 9: Convince Dad it's Time to Go In
Good luck with that.

Step 10: Spend 45 Minutes Getting Snow Suits and Boots Off
It's preferable to undress by the door to avoid tracking snow throughout the house. It is not preferable to stand there naked, waiting for your wife to dress all of you. Also not preferable: Bringing snowballs into the house; wiping your thawing, snotty nose on the couch; making a butt-print in the steamy glass of the storm door; rooting for the Yankees.

Step 11: Drink Hot Chocolate
This is the most critical step of the 12-Step Program. No Snow Day is complete without cuddling up on the couch (or a comfortable spot on the floor), throwing a blanket over everyone's frostbitten legs and sipping some marshmallow-filled cups of hot chocolate. It's the perfect end cap to the day. But you're not quite finished yet ...

Step 12: Flush Ice Cubes Down the Toilet
You can never have too many snow days.


ORDER NOW (GREAT GIFT FOR DADS):
Oh Boy, You're Having a Girl
(A Dad's Survival Guide to Raising Daughters)

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Barnes & Noble

Adams Media

IndieBound

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What Kids Teach Parents About Discipline

Our Founding Fathers granted parents certain inalienable rights, such as life, liberty and the right to discipline our children. This is why, of course, they were called the Founding Fathers and not the Founding Single Dudes. Had it been the Founding Single Dudes, inalienable rights would likely have consisted of partying, porn and Dutch Ovens (also commonly known as "fart chambers.")

Early in the parenting process, I found out why our Founding Fathers granted us the right to discipline our kids. It's because kids touch everything. And by "everything" I mean "things they shouldn't." And by "things they shouldn't" I mean "everything that's ÜBER EXPENSIVE and HIGHLY BREAKABLE … and the toilet."

Not long after Ella began to walk, she decided it was well within her right to put her hands everywhere. She touched the television, the DVR, the computer, the shelf of DVDs (and every individual DVD she could get out of its case), the button that turns on and off the dishwasher, and, I'm not sure how she did it, but once she touched the remote in a way that left us without TV volume for three days.

They were the longest three days of my life.

For months my wife and I followed her around the house, stopping her grubby little hands from poking at our stuff, waving our fingers and telling her over and over again, "No, no, we don't touch that" and "No, no, you can't pick that up." The term "no, no" became so commonplace in our house, that for a short period of time Ella thought it was her name. How was your day, Nono? Did you enjoy Dora, Nono?

Then, one day out of the blue, I saw her standing there, facing the television, waving her finger saying, "No, no." "No, no." A breakthrough! It was as adorable as it was promising. She finally understood that she wasn't supposed to touch the TV. Then she sneezed all over it. Then she touched it.

This memory popped back in my head the other night, when Ella (now 3 years old) and I (now older than I'd like to admit) were putting together a giant floor puzzle. She'd suddenly grown up so fast. Her long hair was a departure from the hairless head that used to sneeze on our TV. Her meticulous placement of puzzle pieces on the floor instead of in her mouth reminded me that she's not the little girl with whom I waved my finger. She's mature. She's adult-like. She's a Timeout girl now. I was proud and a little sad all at once.

As we nearly finished the puzzle, one spot sat empty—and yet there were no more pieces in the box. "Where did it go?" I asked Ella. She shrugged and recommended we form a search party. We raided the house like a swat team raiding a drug bust, finding nothing unusual but dust and a few rogue Cheerios that had found refuge under our couch. After exhausting all options, I noticed a round edge sticking out from under the left leg of Sylvia, Ella's Cabbage Patch Kid.

"I think Sylvia has been hiding it from us!" I said.

Immediately Ella got a serious look on her face. She stormed over to her doll and picked her up. "We don't hide puzzle pieces from others, Sylvia," she said. "You're going in Timeout." With a firm grip, she marched Sylvia through Klems Manor to the southeast corner of our dining room—the one Ella has grown familiar with from her own Timeout experiences. She stood her up and pointed her face into the corner. Mimicking my "serious voice," she repeated to Sylvia over and over that's it's not OK to hide things when others are looking for them, just like I'd done to her on other occasions. After several minutes, she finally let Sylvia out and, with a softer voice, she said:

"Come here Sylvia. I hope you've learned that you don't hide things when others need them. You shouldn't have taken the puzzle piece from us. Do you promise never to do it again? (Long pause.) OK, good. Now give me a kiss and tell me you're sorry."

I was dumbfounded. Her punishment and lecture were spot-on the ones I'd handed her for jumping on the couch and knocking over her sister and putting our icepack in the toilet (Note: If you're at our house, don't use our icepack). It really hit home when she brought Sylvia out to the living room and made her apologize to me too. Then Ella set her back on the floor and completed the puzzle.

That day I learned that our kids not only pay close attention to our words, but also our actions. Every time Ella's down and I smile at her, I know she passes that smile along to someone else who may need it more. Every time I give her a hug, she shares that hug with others and brightens their day. And every time I discipline her, she shares that discipline with an unsuspecting Cabbage Patch Kid whose only fault was sitting too close the puzzle when we opened the box.

I'm not sure what discipline methods our Founding Fathers had in mind, but I know they would probably approve of the judicial system at Klems Manor. And as I watched Sylvia sit there, quietly minding her own business, I saw Anna (now 21 months old) march up to her, wave a finger in her face and carry her back into Timeout corner.

"No, no, Sylvia. No, no."

Apparently there's a new Nono in town.

Poor Sylvia.


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