How to Get Babies to Sleep Through the Night (& Why It’s Not So Bad for Dads)

We’ve all been there: It’s 2 a.m. You’re comfortably asleep. You’re dreaming about playing SS for your favorite baseball team and hitting a home run to win Game 7 (which leads to a big kiss from Saved By The Bell’s Kelly Kapowski who, in your dream, is not only your wife, but is also wearing a dress made only of bacon). Things are looking up as the commissioner hands you the World Series MVP trophy. Finally, a soft voice whispers in your ear: 

“Wake up. The baby is crying. It’s your turn to go rock her back to sleep.”

Goodbye bacon-dressed Kelly Kapowski. I will miss you.

Our youngest daughter, who clocks in at a lovely 10 months and is nursing, still feels the urge to catch a bite to eat around bar-closing time. She wakes up, cries out gently and waits not-so-patiently for my wife to go into her room and feed her. This often happens around 5 a.m. too¹. It’s a baby routine most parents experience. 

Now before some bozo reading this says “Why don’t you get up with her?” and I have to respond “Because I don’t have boobs!” and that same bozo says “Are you sure? I’ve seen you in a swimsuit,” I think it’s fair to note that I always get up with all our kids during non-feeding situations—to rock them back to sleep, to help them in the bathroom, to rescue their baby dolls who suicide jump off the bed. 

At some point, though, that routine starts to drag on the family and it’s time to help your baby sleep through the night. Mom’s not cut out for this challenge, mainly because for the past so many months she’s been like a drug dealer to your baby. If a Mom’s boob is within a 50-mile radius, her baby will sniff her out and scream, scream, scream until she’s nuzzled up against it. Most men, who also can sniff out a close boob, employ a similar tactic when inside the boob-radius. That’s why Dad is called in to save the day. It’s a hard job, but we’re built to break our beautiful babe from the late-night munchies. We’re tough and strong willed. We’re firm, yet fair. We’re also very, very handsome. 

This is my third time going through this process and, I have to admit, breaking your child from eating in the middle of the night feels eerily similar to studying for a college midterm. You experience a range of emotions that include panic, duress and fear. You plan for an all-nighter by chugging 11 gallons of coffee and a 12-pack of Mt. Dew. You cram in as much information as you can from the baby instructional books that you’ve been ignoring for months. You even try to bribe your way out of things: “Listen, I’ve been trying really hard ever since you were born and if effort mattered I’d get an A+ (unless your Mom is ruining the curve), but since it’s not a factor how about this: If you sleep all through the night I will not try to murder the first boy who asks for your phone number².” 

But no matter what you do, how much you prepare, you’ll find that the answer to this one-question midterm comes in the form of a poem (who knew?), and it goes something like this:

Hey, you’re not my Mom?
Cry.
Pat, pat, pat.
Sleep.
Repeat.
Hey, you’re not my Mom?
Cry.
Pat, pat, pat.
Sleep.
Repeat.
Hey, you’re not my Mom?
And so on. 

It may take one day, it may take 20 days. It may take stanza after stanza after stanza. Who knows; every kid is different. But the one thing I do know is that for one brief (albeit tiresome) cast of days, that baby has no one to depend on but you—and it’s an amazing feeling. It’s one of the few moments in your life where everything is cured by cuddling. And in 15 or so years, when she’s clamoring for your credit card and the keys to your car, you can think back to those nights--where her only demand was a cuddle—and smile. 

You’ll like it even better than winning the World Series MVP trophy.

¹ To those without kids I’m here to confirm that there is, in fact, a 5 a.m. I’ve seen it. And it’s not pretty.
² I will just cancel our phone number. (And maybe still poison him a little to let you know that I care.) 

*****
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Dad for President (of the House)

Courtesy of Adam Pace @ loft3pd.com

Today I am announcing my candidacy for President of our House. Over the past few years it's become abundantly apparent to me that there is technically no President of our house. This gave me pause: Without an appointed leader decided by the democratic process, how will the kids of Klems Manor know who to complain to about having to eat their broccoli? That's where a President of the House comes in—the President can tell them exactly who to complain to (Mom).

My wife has also decided to become a candidate because, chiefly, I'm making her. She's also scared of my potential rules, which include "Lingerie Mondays," "Lingerie Tuesdays," "Lingerie Wednesdays," "Bacon Thursdays" and "Lingerie Fridays."  On weekends, lingerie would be optional (must be married to the president to participate). 

Why do I want to be President of our House? Because I want to help build a better future for my children (and, also, my Twitter bio has become a little stale and could use some new accolades). In order to give our voters (my kids) a fair, unbiased and objective look at me as a candidate, I've created my first campaign commercial. It is meant to inform and state my positions on most hot button issues around our house. Forgive me for the low video quality—my wife and I have agreed not to accept any money from big business to finance our campaigns.

Good luck to my opponent. I wish her well. I also suggest she stocks up on lingerie. And bacon.

*****
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The Year of Amazing: Resolutions Update

Back in January I made a big stink (you know, the kind that's so relentless that it actually impresses your wife) about how 2012 was going to be an amazing year, and I set forth a list of challenging goals. We are nearly two months into the year of amazing, and I thought it'd be a good idea to update everyone on my progress (plus, calling myself out publicly adds a little pressure to get it done). 

So here is my Resolutions Update:

1. I am going to lose 20 pounds.
So far I've lost 5.5 LBS, which is a nice start considering Frito-Lay keeps discounting Doritos in every grocery store within a 75-mile radius of my house. It's a cruel game. Well played, Frito-Lay. Well played.

2. I am going to run a half marathon. 
I ran my first 5k a few weeks ago and my legs didn't fall off. I also learned that my stride falls in perfect rhythm with the Simple Plan classic, "You Suck at Love" (thank goodness my stride doesn't fall in line with this song). I have a 10k scheduled for this weekend. And it will all culminate on May 6, when I plan to be one of the most celebrated Cinderella stories at the big dance this year (The Flying Pig Marathon). To show their support, my girls even made me these armbands for me to wear when I run (see above). They made my heart melt. I will treasure them forever, and will always remember them as my resolution armbands.

3. I am going to take part in a flash mob. 
I'm still looking for more Dads to participate in this one. If I can't get enough Dads, I'm going to open it up to everyone because I'd rather do it than not do it. I promise this will be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. It will also be quite awesome. Click here to contact me if you're interested no matter who you are.

4. I am going to find a way so that all three of my kids can sit on my lap at the same time and get a photo with all three of them smiling at the same time AND with all our eyes open. 
I'm convinced this is impossible. 

5. I am going to read my kids The Little Prince. 
We are on Chapter 4. We'd be further along except that some people who visit frequently keep my children up past their bedtime. I don't want to call these people out publicly, so, to hide their true identities, I will give them silly aliases, like Nonni and Poppi.

6. I am going to beat Andy Uhl in Scrabble. 
I keep trying to challenge him, but he keeps running from me. Is it because he's exhausted from chasing after his two 21-month-old twin boys and nearly 4-year-old daughter every day? Unlikely. Is it because he's providing web coding for his wife's amazing mom blog? I doubt it. Is it because he's training for this upcoming softball season? Perhaps. Is it because he knows that I know that "Qi" is a word and will drop it on him like a hammer? Well, Andy Uhl, here's what you need to know.

7. I am going to get rid of my blue sleeping pants that sport a giant hole in the crotch (much to the chagrin of my wife, I'm sure). 
Mission accomplished. I can only hope that they are now safely in Sleeping Pants Heaven, where there are other long-forgotten sleeping pants to mingle with.

8. I am going to pitch a Life of Dad book to agents and put myself out there. 
The proposal is finished. One sample chapter written (with a few others started). Now comes the hard part. Wish me luck.

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Valentine's Day Stress in 6 Easy Steps

Valentine's Day used to be an easy, predictable process handled in 6 steps:

1. Forget it was Valentine's Day.
2. Panic because I didn't get my wife anything.
3. Offer to make it up to her by walking around the house shirtless for the evening.
4. Offer to never walk around the house shirtless for the evening ever again.
5. Clean the house as much as possible, doing little things she's been asking me to do for weeks¹ like replace the light bulb in the basement or replace the light bulb in the basement or, seriously, replace the light bulb in the basement.
6. Rub her feet and not complain while we watch "Tori & Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood."

Now that we have kids, Valentine's Day is a little less predictable, but still plays out in roughly 6 steps:

1. Pick out Valentine's Day cards for kids to sign and hand out to classmates, teachers, cousins, friends and Santa Claus (doesn't hurt to get in good with him early in the year).
2. Argue over who gets to use the cards with Tinkerbell on them and who has to use the ones with the "other fairies" on them.
3. Leave room to get a drink, come back and all cards are magically gone. Find out they have been "hidden" in a very secure and secretive place.
4. Find all Valentines shoved in mailbox.
5. Also find gas and electric bill in mailbox. Open it. Look at cost. Become depressed.
6. Wish it were like the olden days when I forgot about Valentine's Day.

When comparing the two, I have learned that one this is for certain: Valentine's Day induces a lot of stress. Stress about gifts, about cards, about hoping for forgiveness because you thought the card you got your significant other counted as a gift. I'm convinced the stress of Valentine's Day is 95% responsible for my receding hairline (the other 5% is credited to the Reds bullpen).

But I'm lucky and here's why:

I may not good at buying gifts and it's pretty clear that I'm a terrible foot rubber, but I am good at one thing: Being completely in love and devoted to my wife and family. My wife knows there's nothing I wouldn't do for her (except replacing the light bulb in the basement, perhaps) and she knows that I try hard every day, not just on Valentine's Day, to show her how much I care. Bringing her water at bedtime. Getting the kids washed up for dinner. Letting her stretch out on the couch comfortably while I set up shop on the floor. Not shaving so she can have a little extra time in the bathroom. Picking my nose less frequently. These are the things that you do for your Valentine, the things that really make life just a little better.

It's what I'll continue to do for the love of my life, and what I'll do for my little Valentines too. It's just what good husbands (and good dads²) do.

And, because I don't want my wife to walk away without anything special today, I will offer up this ultimate Valentine's Day gift to her that I know she'll appreciate.

I admit it: I like Tori & Dean.

¹ And by "weeks" I mean "much, much longer than weeks."

² They also threaten any boy living, dead or undead who attempts to give a Valentine's Day card to their little angel that says anything other than "Your friend, Aiden" or "I'm scared of your Dad, sincerely Pete."

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What's Better Than Having a Best Friend? Having One With the Same Name

Best Friend Ella (left) and our Ella (right)

When I was young, my best friend's name was Brian. We were known around popular circles as "The Brians." We were also a bit cautious of the popular circles, because they were typically in something cool-sounding like "detention" and we were typically in something slightly less cool-sounding like "Math Club." And trust me, Math Club wasn't quite the babe-magnet extracurricular that it is in schools today.

Brian and I did everything together—school projects, backyard whiffleball, riding the bench in soccer with all the other delightful kids who were also very talented at riding the bench in soccer. We dressed as Mario and Luigi for Halloween. We planned to be TV news co-anchors when we grew up, practicing in his parents' basement and recording ourselves with their 1988 video recorder that was roughly the size of Shaquille O'Neil. There are videos to prove this. I assume these videos will only come to light if I run for president or reveal that Brian had a humongous crush on Kelly Monk. So I won't do either.

I bring this up because my eldest daughter Ella has a bestie, and her name is also Ella. "The Ellas" were destined to be best friends since the day they met at our sitter's house. Both were months old. Both were immobile. Both were wearing onesies that said, "If you think I'm cute you should see my dad."

Their friendship has grown over time, like a beautiful garden or a senior trip beeramid.  What was once a relationship of sitting on the couch, using each other's heads as teething rings has blossomed into two kids who hold hands and skip all the way to their classroom door without noticing that I am stuck in the car, caught in the tangled web of the toddler car seat's 5-point seatbelt harness system.

Two dancing friends.

Best Friend Ella's Mom and I share carpooling duties, but (selfishly) I look forward to the days I drive. There isn't much that's more entertaining than listening to 4-year-old besties discuss the challenges of their times and the issues that are near and dear to their hearts.

Our Ella: "Did you see what shirt I'm wearing today?"
Best Friend Ella: "No I didn't. Does it have pink in it?"
Our Ella: "Yes. And so do my socks!"
Best Friend Ella: "So do mine! I'm freaking out about it!"
Our Ella: "I'm freaking out about it too!"

One afternoon, when we were sitting in the dinning room peeling Play D'oh from the underside of the table,¹ Ella asked me if she could write a note to her friend and if I could help her spell out some words.

Of course I'd help her spell anything so long as it wasn't a love letter to a boy, in which I'd alter the spelling of the word "love" from "L.O.V.E." to something a little less inviting such as "Y.O.U. T.O.U.C.H. M.Y. D.A.U.G.H.T.E.R. A.N.D. I. W.I.L.L. K.I.L.L Y.O.U." She's lucky I'm a writer and spelling is my strong suit.

"Daddy," she said. "Can you show me how to spell 'Dear Ella, Best Friends Forever, Love Ella.'"

BFFs

It was at that exact moment I realized that Play D'oh was also embedded in the carpet underneath the table.² But I ignored it and smiled anyway, happy that my daughter had a best friend whom she cared about so much that she wanted to put it in writing. She's lucky—and I'm lucky to watch their friendship grow from the front seat on my carpool days.

I know it's not a luxury every father gets, so I treasure it like I treasure my memories of filming the news with Brian. And I hope that The Ellas treasure these memories as they grow up, no matter where their lives lead them. I also hope that my other daughters³ are lucky enough to experience the type of friendship that causes them to want to put it in writing.

I really, really hope so.

Wait a minute. I was the one who had a crush on Kelly Monk. Back then, when I told Brian, I was probably freaking out about it.

¹ Which no one takes responsibility for, so I can only assume that the table is sweating Play D'oh.  
² Which, according to my wife, is a castrate-able offense.
³ Who suspiciously have Play D'oh under their fingernails.

The Curious Case of the Missing Keys (CSI: Klems Edition)

I never lose anything, other than loads of money in annual fantasy sports leagues, so when the girls and I were packing up to bring a picnic-style lunch to my wife's office and I couldn't find my keys, I reacted like this.

Let me explain: The day before, I noticed each one of my kids uncharacteristically picking up and playing with my keys. I had to pull out the old deep Dad voice and scold each one:

"Ella, you know better than to play with my keys!"

"Anna, didn’t you just hear me yell at Ella for playing with my keys?!"

"Mia, don't even think about playing with my keys. And quit biting my shoe."

And just like that, my keys were lost.

After I realized that yelling was not helping the cause (mainly because the girls were ignoring me while pretending to be unicorns), I decided to take a more pragmatic approach: If the girls lost my keys, they were going to help me find them. And they weren't going to charge their typical rate of 7 marshmallows per hour. This was pro bono work, after all, finding my keys is for the good of the public—otherwise my wife would have to drive everywhere, which would be awful considering she suffers from a terrible case of listening to New Kids On The Block CDs at an unbearable volume (anything above "no volume").

So we got out our sleuthing equipment—magnifying glasses, flashlights, David Caruso sunglasses—and formed the first ever CSI: Klems team. Our mission: To search every nook, cranny and drawer of bibs until we rescued my keys. It was a tall task, but I felt my not-so-tall team was up for the challenge.

After careful examination of the crime scene, where my wallet and smartphone slept peacefully and unharmed, CSI: Klems determined that this must be an inside job. Detective Anna's theory that maybe the keys just "got up and walked off" was ruled out, due to lack of evidence and the fact that I only buy keys that are lazy and unwilling to walk anywhere. This attempt to throw us off the case made her a prime suspect.

Detective Ella surveyed the dining room, opening her 48-piece puzzle to see if the keys ended up in the box. She also put the puzzle together "in case it revealed clues as to where the keys were." Unfortunately the only information revealed was that the 48-piece puzzle was now a 47-piece puzzle, which meant CSI: Klems' second assignment was to find puzzle piece No. 48. But her lack of enthusiasm to get to the bottom of the Curious Case of the Missing Keys lead me to believe she didn't want us to find out what happened, making her a prime suspect No. 2.

Detective Mia just sat on the floor, looking suspicious. I would later realize this was due to a Code Red. She was immediately cleared of all charges.

We searched everywhere—the couch, the chairs, the beds, the drawers, the cabinet where we keep the Doritos, the cabinet where we keep the back-up bag of Doritos, the hidden compartment on the high chair where the girls like to hide things, the bathroom, the treasure chests, the bookshelves, the Lalaloopsy dolls, the Code Red diaper. We searched until our searchers were searched out. Then we napped.

My wife finally arrived home from work and asked if we had found the keys. We shook our heads no, admitted defeat and handed in our badges. She took a peek at where the keys were last seen and then, without grabbing any sleuthing tools, walked into the other room. Seconds later I heard a jingle.

"Found them."

This had to be a joke. We searched for 8 hours with no luck, not even a clue, and she just waltzes through the door and, in the second place she looks, finds my keys?

"Where were they???"

"They were sitting here in this clothes basket by the steps."

"How did you know they were there?"

"Well I didn't know. You said that you had them on the computer stand and I remembered that this basket of clean clothes—which YOU forgot to bring upstairs last night—was sitting there all day yesterday. I moved it this morning to get it out of the walkway. Based on these factors, I deduced that your keys likely had fallen into the basket."

Case closed.

Sometimes what seems like a catastrophe can not only turn into a fun game, but can also bring you closer together as a family. It can also prove precisely whom the real captain of your CSI: team is. And there's no doubt the leader of CSI: Klems is the one most of the team calls Mom.

Unfortunately that means this is our theme song: