The Elf on The Shelf

When I was growing up, we didn't have a lot of things that kids have today. We didn't have iPads or iPods or TVs the size of Texas. We didn't have text messaging. We didn't have Twitter. We didn't have Stefon. We didn't even have the 100-plus flavors of Doritos that kids have today—we only had three: Nacho Cheese, Cool Ranch and Found Under the Couch.

We also didn't have The Elf on the Shelf.

If you haven't heard of The Elf on the Shelf, you are not alone: There are at least three other people in America who haven't and one of them is probably this guy. The Elf is supposed to help encourage your kids to be good during the Christmas season. Let me briefly explain how it works: Elf sits on shelf. After kids are in bed, Elf flies to the North Pole (presumably on Delta) and delivers behavioral reports to Santa. Elf flies back and sits in a different spot, unequivocally proving to your kids he left your house and visited Santa. 

There are only two other important notes to The Elf on the Shelf: 1. Your family is in charge of naming the Elf and 2. Kids are not, under any circumstances, allowed to touch the Elf. If they do, his "magic might go and he won't be able to fly to the North Pole, and thus Santa won't hear all he's seen or what he knows."

In other words, if you're a bad kid, you better touch that Elf. Several times. (Of course, if you're a bad kid, you probably touched it anyway.)

This is our first year to have The Elf on the Shelf. My wife's lovely Aunt Lisa bought our girls one assuming it would get her out of buying me a Nintendo Wii U.¹ After discussing the story of The Elf on the Shelf with our kids, we let him out of his box.

"What should we name him?" my wife asked the girls.

An assortment of names were offered up. Buddy. Skippy. Bob. Simon James Alexander Ragsdale the 4th. Little Tony. Fart (Thank you Ella). Twizzler. Jeff.

But throughout the naming process, my daughter Anna—who's generally a very opinionated 3-year-old—remained surprisingly silent. Her eyebrows were arched high above her overly opened eyes. She gripped tightly onto the arm of my wife. 

"Anna, what's wrong?" I asked.

"Does he really come to life at night?" She tripped over her words and shook with fear. The excitement of the Elf on the Shelf was gone and had been replaced by anxiety. It's as if we had opened something super scary, like a box labeled "Monster in the Closet" or a box labeled "Two and a Half Men, Season 7." 

Attempting to change the mood, I spoke up.

"Anna, what do you think we should name him?" I asked.

"Uh … um … Snowflake." 

"I like the name Snowflake." I had hoped this personal connection would help calm her worries. So I tried again. "What if we try Snowflake out for a night?" 

There was a pause. Then she shook her head "no" so hard that I wasn't convinced I'd ever be able to get her to stop. 

Ever the compassionate sister, my 5-year-old turned to Anna and said, "Don't worry, Anna. It's not really real. He's just plastic. See?" Then she poked him with her finger. "I bet he doesn't go to the North Pole and parents just move him around at night."²

"Don't touch it!" screamed Anna and she burst into tears.

My wife and I were suddenly caught between a rock and a stinky diaper. We could argue with our eldest daughter that the Elf was, in fact, real, but at a price: Anna would be scared further. Or we could admit that the Elf is just a toy, thus calming her fears, but completely defeating the purpose of the Elf and taking away all the fun. (This thought was super depressing because I had big plans for that Elf. BIG. PLANS. Like this.) 

My wife tried her best to calm Anna and I attempted to crack Ella's skepticism, but neither worked. All we did was upset both of them even more. So, as Dad of the house, I made an executive decision that would alter the course of the evening.

"Who wants marshmallows?" 

"MARSHMALLOWS!" cheered the girls. And with that, they all rushed into the kitchen, including my 18-month-old Mia who had no idea what a marshmallow was but, based on her response, definitely wanted a piece of that action. 

So, with a heavy heart, I packed Snowflake back in his box. I gave him the, "It's not you, it's me" speech but he would have none of it. He just gave me the silent treatment. He also gave me the finger for naming him Snowflake.  

Christmas is intended to be a fun, happy holiday, and it didn't make sense to me to introduce this controversial character into our home when one daughter is scared of him, one doesn't believe in him and one would only care about him if she could eat him. He may have a future at Klems Manor, but not this year. This year he's headed back to the basement to live with our other unused Christmas decorations, dirty laundry and 1,500 rolls of toilet paper I've stockpiled from Sam's Club.³

It's back to simpler times at Klems Manor, where the colorful lights and a decorated tree are all we need to celebrate this fine Christmas season. Well, that and a Nintendo Wii U. (I'm looking at you Aunt Lisa).

¹ It doesn't.

² My 5-year-old Ella is cut from the same skeptical mold as her father. I bet in her free time she also disproves e-mail forwards.

³ I'm prepared for the Zombie Apocalypse. Are you?

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Happy Halloween 2012!

Just in case you were wondering, my girls kept with their long tradition of going out for Halloween as the least scariest kids in the country. My oldest daughter stuck with her Disney-princess theme and went as Rapunzel. My youngest daughter dressed as a Love Bug (which is one step shy of dressing like a rainbow). My middle daughter at least made an attempt when she chose to be Cookie Monster. But, as I told my wife, I don't quite remember Cookie Monster wearing a dress.

I hope everyone had a safe, happy Halloween this year and all parents remember that it's their God-given right to institute the Candy Tax on this year's intake.

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Are Your Swim Lessons This "Fun"?

A little known fact about me: I come from a long line of floaters.

My dad was a floater. My grandma was a floater. At the 1896 Olympics, my great-great-great-grandfather, Cornelius Klems, won a gold medal in competitive floating. (He also won gold in other long-forgotten sports, such as chariot racing and thumb wrestling, but neither carried the prestige that the competitive floating gold medal did.)

So when my wife suggested that we sign the girls up for swim lessons I thought, What a great idea! It's time to start them on their path to floating stardom!

What I didn't realize was that a typical night of swim lessons would go like this:

• Rush home from work to eat dinner before lessons start.
• Tell kids to eat dinner quickly so we can get to swim lessons on time.
• Watch as kids eat slower than they've ever eaten before in their lives.
• Try to change kids into their swimsuits while they are still eating their dinner.
• Get yelled at by wife for putting wrong swimsuits on kids—and for putting them on inside out.
• Say "We need to go!" for the 12th time.
• Ask wife if she wants to get in the pool with the girls.
• Wife laughs hysterically and tells you there's no way she's putting on a swimsuit. Says something about looking like "manatee."
• Nod in agreement. (BIG MISTAKE!)
• Wife throws swimsuit at you and says "Get ready."
• Put on swimsuit, look in mirror and confirm what you always suspected: You are a dead ringer for David Beckham.
• Say "We need to go!" for the 97th time.
• Get out to the car and race to swim lessons.
• Arrive at swim lessons and race to the pool.
• Ask kid if she needs to pee before getting in the pool. She says "No."
• Get in pool with kid. First thing she says to you upon entering the pool, "I need to pee."
• Get out of pool and take kid to the potty.
• Get back in pool and think to self, Woohoo! We finally made it. This should be fun!
• Spend the next 30 minutes getting splashed in the face and kicked in the sternum.
• (Know that somewhere, up in the stands, your wife is taking pleasure in this.)
• Help the swim teacher (who is awesome, by the way) sing London Bridge is Falling Down. Do an excellent job on the first verse. Fail miserably at singing the next 11.
• Pay close attention to the clock on the wall and countdown the minutes until class is over. Swear you will never come to swim lessons again!
• Then notice that your kid, the one that has beaten you up for the last 30 minutes, has laid her head on your shoulder ... and started to float!
• All is right in the world.
• Class ends. Hand kid to wife. Smile, like any proud dad would, and take in the moment as your wife wraps kid tightly in a towel. Know that all the chaos and kicks to the sternum were worth it.
• Wife tosses next kid onto you in the pool. Kid immediately says, "Dad, I have to pee."
• Repeat process ... brace sternum.

Sometimes the things we do for our kids are stressful, frustrating and (somewhat) destructive to our health. But the best parents do them anyway. Why? Some say it's because we are crazy. Others say it's because we are super crazy. But the truth is, we do it because we love our kids. We love teaching them important skills like how to swim and how to float and how to avoid accidentally calling their mother a manatee. Deep down, we love swim lessons. We love anything that not only teaches our kids something valuable but also makes them smile. That makes us smile, which allows us to feel like all our hard work is worth it. At least, that's how I feel.

And if any of my three girls ever wins an Olympic gold medal, I can brag to everyone that it all started years ago at swim lessons. And I'm almost certain everyone's response will be:

"Oh my, has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like David Beckham!"

Don't I know it.

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Parent Pop Quiz: How To Survive Kiddie Quizzers

Some days I feel like my kids talk only in questions. It’s as if they’ve turned parenthood into one long high school English exam that I’m almost certain to fail. Of course I can answer the easy ones like “What day is it?” and “When do Pitchers and Catchers report to camp?” I can even handle a couple of toughies, like “Where do babies come from?” (The correct answer is: Fake a heart attack). But what I am never prepared for and eats me alive—and probably eats most other parents alive too—are the daily Kiddie Quizzers that my daughters throw my way.

A Kiddie Quizzer is when one or more of your kids approaches you somewhere where you are trapped, like in your car or when you are secretly reading your wife’s Entertainment Weekly in the bathroom, and starts asking questions at a rapid pace. The questions can last anywhere from 5 minutes to the length of an entire car ride to your in-laws’ house. These questions can be about anything and can be completely unrelated. There are no right or wrong answers; there are only answers that lead to more questions. For example:

Daughter: Are we going anywhere today?

Me: No.

Daughter: Why not?

Me: We need to clean the house.

Daughter: Why do we clean the house?

Me: Because it gets dirty. Can you give me a minute? I’m using the bathroom.

Daughter: Why does it get dirty?

Me: I don’t know. Your mom says it gets dirty and we need to clean it, so we do.

Daughter: Why does mom say that?

Me: Good question.

Daughter: Why is that a good question?

And so on.

As you can see, no matter how you answer, your child will counter with another question. This can be maddening, particularly on the drive home from work when you are already trying to pull off the Commuter-Multitasking Trifecta: Pay attention to the road, control the temperature of the car so everyone is “comfortable” and calculate the mathematical scenarios of yardage plus TDs that will lead your fantasy football team to victory. There just isn’t room for you to focus on a fourth thing. If there were, it wouldn’t be called the Commuter-Multitasking Trifecta. It’d be called the Commuter-Multitasking Trifecta Plus Another Thing.

I’ve tried many methods to defuse these Kiddie Quizzers, but none of them work. I attempt to ignore the question, but that only leads to my daughter repeating the question over and over again.

Daughter: Can I have a pony?

Me: (silence)

Daughter: Can I have a pony?

Me: (silence)

Daughter: Can I have a pony?

Daughter: Can I have a pony?

Daughter: Can I have a pony? (And put this on repeat until you answer her!)

I’ve also tried to respond to her question with my own question, but that doesn’t work either:

Daughter: Can I have a pony?

Me: Do you deserve a pony?

Daughter: Yes. Does that mean I can have a pony?

Me: Where do you think I can get a pony?

Daughter: At the pony store. Does that mean I can have a pony?

Etc.

I asked other parents how they deal with Kiddie Quizzers and their answers ranged from “I hide in the closet” to “I send them to grandma’s.” But even those tactics have major flaws (closets often smell like feet and grandma’s house often smells like old-people feet).

The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized that through all the madness it’s hard for me to get too upset. Kids are just curious by nature. Hell, I’m curious by nature, just ask my wife. I’m sure she’d point out that 90% of our conversations go something like this:

Me: Can we be romantic tonight?

Wife: No.

Me: Why not?

Wife: You smell like Nacho Cheese Doritos.

Me: Don’t you like Nacho Cheese Doritos?

Wife: Yes, with sandwiches.

Me: Can we be romantic if I make you a sandwich?

Wife: No.

Me: Why Not?

Wife: Because I’m not hungry … and you still smell like Nacho Cheese Doritos.

Me: Would you prefer Cool Ranch?

And so on.

So when you are faced with the onslaught of a Kiddie Quizzer, know that it’s not the end of the world. It’s also probably, in part, your fault for being so darn knowledgeable about everything (as all Dads are). Your goal here is survival, and the only way I’ve learned to survive Kiddie Quizzers is to just keep answering them (no matter how crazy they make you) and pray that, eventually, through your thoughtful answers and brilliant retorts, you’ll bore your kid to sleep.

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Why Celebrating "The Clinch" Wasn't Easy

There are important moments in your life that are unforgettable, like the time your child takes her first step or when your wife utters those three words that make you feel warm and fuzzy inside: “You were right.”¹

It’s also an unforgettable moment when your favorite sports team—the one you’ve been rooting for since before you took your first step—has the opportunity to win something big. You want to savor that moment because, unless you are a fan of the New York Yankees (27 Championships) or Green Bay Packers (13 Championships) or Union Institute & University Men’s E-Level Softball Team (3-0 start to the fall session!), these moments are few and far between.

On Saturday evening, my Cincinnati Reds had the opportunity to clinch baseball’s National League Central title. The game was sold out, so I planned to watch it at home with my family, like many households who have three kids under the age of 6 do. I had been talking up “The Clinch” for a weeks, as the magic number kept shrinking. I set up a card table in the living room so the whole family could watch The Clinch as we ate dinner. We never eat dinner in the living room like this, so it was a unique opportunity for my kids to drop food and spill drinks on the carpet. They took full advantage.

As the game drew to a close and the team was on the verge of winning, I became more glued to Stephen, my HDTV, than ever before. I had been imagining this moment for weeks: the final out is made, I cheer, my wife cheers, my daughters cheer, we all high-five and rock-bump and dance in celebration. We toast our drinks and promise to name all future pets “Mr. Redleg.” Then we watch the postgame celebration all night until the kids fall asleep on the couch. And, after putting them to bed, my wife would give me the “you are one fine piece of eye candy” look and we’d continue the celebration privately.

That moment sounded beautiful and unforgettable, just as I wanted. Then I woke up.

For the final three innings of the game, my youngest daughter, who is currently cutting teeth, screamed. And I mean SCREAMED. And no matter how much we cradled her or how many teething biscuits we gave her or how in-depth I explained the importance of The Clinch to her, she could not be soothed. I offered up one final solution, though my wife was not interested in “seeing how loud the volume on the TV could go.”

My middle daughter, whose favorite part of watching baseball on television is the airing of restaurant commercials that feature Rosie Red, sat to my right, impatiently awaiting The Clinch.

“Will we see The Clinch tonight?”
“I think so!”
“I can’t wait to see The Clinch. Do you think The Clinch will wear a Reds hat like Rosie?”
“Huh?”
“I bet The Clinch will be furry.”
“Sweetie, I don’t think …”
“I bet The Clinch’s favorite player is Joey Votto, just like me!”
“The Clinch isn’t a mascot, it’s …”
“It’s not like Rosie Red?
“No.”
Eruption of tears and waterworks.

I would have continued this conversation if it weren’t for my eldest daughter, who glared at me from across the table.

“Dad, you said if I ate all of my dinner I could have TWO Twizzlers.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I finished all of my dinner.”
“No you didn’t. There’s still half the meal on your plate.”
“I finished most of it.”
“Hun, can you wait just 30 seconds. The Reds are about to record the final out and …”
“But you SAID I could have two Twizzlers!”
“Please, can you just wait …”
“But you said …”
“If you say ‘Twizzlers’ one more time, you can’t have ANY Twizzlers!”
(pause)
Eruption of tears and waterworks.
“Mommy … (sniffle sniffle, heaving breathing) … Dad … said … I … Can’t … Have … ANY … Twizzlerrrrrrs … ”

At that exact moment, my brain exploded. My plans to celebrate The Clinch, much like all plans made by parents, imploded right before my eyes. The final out wasn’t welcomed with cheers and high fives. It was overshadowed by screams and throbbing headaches. I watched as the players on the field built their victory mountain, piling on each other one by one. I looked back at my three upset children, each one with very reasonable concerns, but terrible timing. I couldn’t help but feel like this celebratory moment had lost its shine. I felt cheated.

Then it happened.

“Hey, the Reds clinched! Woohoo!” said my wife, and she extended her arm and waved to me in a high-five fashion.² I lifted my hand. We smacked them together. My wife was genuinely excited for The Clinch, but I think she also could tell that, after the drubbing I was taking, I needed a lift. And that’s what amazing wives do: They high five you when you need it most.

The Clinch will forever be unforgettable to me—not for the teething screams or the Twizzler complaints or the crushing realization that The Clinch isn’t huggable—but for how my wife saved the day with one simple high five. It’s a testament to how important she is to me and to our family. She is amazing.

I am one lucky piece of eye candy. (Go Reds!)


¹ If this happens more than once, write a letter to Guinness. You may be the world record holder.
² This is noteworthy because my wife never high fives, not even on the rare occasion that they accidentally allow her to double up on Bed, Bath and Beyond coupons. 


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The (First) First Day of School

The first day of school is a time of change, of new beginnings, of new morning routines that cause family members to rush out the door forgetting something quasi-important, like a bookbag or pants. This causes both you and your wife to place blame:

Wife: “I would have helped our child remember her bookbag if you would have helped make her breakfast or pack her lunch!”

You: “I would have remembered my pants if my legs weren’t so darn sexy!”

And so on.

As you get in the car and start to drive, you finally pause for a moment and take in the fact that it’s your child’s first day of school. And for the lucky few of us who have young children, it’s our child’s first first day of school. It’s the first time you get to hold her hand as you walk to the classroom. It’s the first time that bookbag--which is three times the size of her body--bounces up and down as she excitedly leaves you behind at the door. It’s the first time you let her go. It’s also the first time in your life that you ever shed a tear, because as men we’ve never, ever cried before in our lives. (Unless you are a Cubs fan, then you probably cry all the time.)

This wasn’t the first time I’d been through a first first day of school with a child, but it was the first time I’d been through a first first day of school with my middle daughter, Anna (though she did look adorable when she tried on her sister's bookbag two years ago). Like most three year olds on the morning of, she glowed with a healthy mix of excitement, joy and nervousness. She slid on her outfit--the one she had hand-picked--ate her breakfast and was ready to go faster than any woman has ever gotten ready to go in the history of time. (I kid. Kind of.) Her enthusiasm was admirable and something I shared. I had dreamed about her learning new songs, reading new books, spelling words and understanding sign language, all things my eldest daughter had learned in her time there. I asked Anna what she had dreamed about. She replied “Snack time.”

We pulled up to the school and her eyes lit up, as if we were staring at a big building made of cotton candy. Her best friend, who was also about to experience her first first day of school, came running up to us and laid a big hug on my daughter. Their excitement was overwhelming.

“We’re going to school!” she yelled.
“I know!” my daughter yelled.
“Do you like my bookbag?” she yelled.
“Do you like my bookbag? my daughter yelled.
“Did anyone notice that I got my haircut?” I yelled.

Apparently the excitement is reserved strictly for those under 3. Which is a shame, because it really was an awesome haircut.

The teacher finally opened the door and waved us all in. My wife, who had shown up moments before, took Anna’s hand and said “Are you ready?” Anna shook her head yes. I shook my head no.

You see, sending your child off to school will happen a lot over your lifetime, but sending him or her off for the first time is a one-time thing. It’s a moment you’ll never get back, so you have to soak it up as much as you can. You need to remember how amazed she was to see her name on her preschool locker. You can’t forget how she wandered around the classroom in amazement, playing with all the toy phones and dry erase boards she could get her hands on. You need to smile when she excitedly points out that there’s a tiny toilet and sink in the bathroom that are “just her size.” These things matter. Take it all in, because this is the moment you begin to set her free. And once that process starts, there’s no stopping it--no matter how you try. (And trust me, I try all the time.)

I know I can’t keep Anna small forever (or any of my daughters, for that matter), but I can keep these memories and hold them close to my heart forever. And when she’s grown and heading off to college, I can recall her first day and tell her about it, walking her through each moment step by step. I’ll start to tear up. Maybe she will too. I’ll look her deep in her eyes and say, “Anna, I love you so much and am so proud of you.”

She will look deep in my eyes and say, “Dad, if you ever try to drop me off at school without wearing pants I will disown you.”

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