The balanced family.

I love my family. It has a nice arrangement that seems to really work.

My wife is the organized, consistent, loving one. She can really understand where a child is coming from, unless they interrupt her while she is on her Disney boards. Then she seems to connect with Fagin rather well.

This really meshes with the gaps I have. Not the ones in my head or my jeans which so recently could be worn in public, but in my approach to parenting.

I have the crazy notion that someday these imps will grow up to be, well, grownups. And I imagine what they would be like if they at 30 behave as they do today. And since I don't want them to be film actresses, singers, or politicians I try to fix that discrepancy.

Today was clean up day at our house. I like the idea of a sabbath, one day a week where you respite and recreate from a busy week. In order to feel like that is earned I push the lazy lot of us to clean the house on Saturday.

Last week the kids learned how to sort the laundry. This is harder than it sounds, especially with clothes that border white and not, like patterned shirts or old underwear. It also helps that my wife and I contradict each other on how to do the job.

This week it was vacuuming. I know it sounds like an old fashioned approach, circa 1600, except that they have a vacuum and aren't sweeping a dirt floor. It is useful though because someday they will need to clean for themselves. I'm just helping the 5 year old ahead in life.

It seems contrary to some people to encourage a child to be independent. After all, you only have a few precious years to enjoy their youth. The trick for them must be enjoying short people who are rude, sloppy, ignorant and selfish.

Since I don't want to change to enjoy my kids more, I encourage them to. It enables them to live a full, complete life without the need for basement rooms. It also allows them to take care of themselves when they want/need to.

The other morning our precocious 7 year old woke up early and proceeded to the kitchen. In my sleep induced stupor a vaguely remember hearing the words "appetizer", "sweet potatoes" and "olives".

Sure enough, the little wonder had made a breakfast fit for the second trimester. I'm glad to know that she can make healthy, if not freakishly odd, food choices for herself.

I think I'll wait before I have them help plan a meal.

It's better if you don't mean to.

It's ironic to me how the greatest moments seem to happen by accident.

In the case of Stanislav Petrov it just so happened that a calm, level headed individual was manning the early warning room in the USSR when a computer reported that WWIII had started. Apparently he was so underwhelmed with his performance that he didn't even tell his later wife that he had saved the world.

2 summers ago we were staying at my older sister's farm. My younger sister and her son were in the tent trailer between the 5th wheel we were in and our older sister's house.

I was already in bed, my sisters had decided to stay up a bit longer and visit in the house. As I settled in the darkness my wife said "Do you here someone crying?" Sure enough my sister's son was upset, and Mommy wasn't right there.

Being a good uncle I made sure my loins were girt and then dashed to the house. I figured I would be little comfort to the little guy as he didn't know me that well yet. I saved time going through the two side doors and ran to the front window, where I could clearly see them still visiting in the living room.

Then they both screamed. And jumped. And screamed again.

In my haste I had run to the picture window and gestured to my sister, intending her to take that as "come out and check on your child." What my sisters saw was the disembodied torso of someone motioning at them out of the blackness of the lonely prairie night.

My poor brother in law had it the worst. He got to watch his wife and sister in law spontaneously switch into fits of hysteria, but when he turned I'd already moved away from the window. The family repute sure took a hit then.

So my best scaring of my sisters was completely innocent. Really.

The other day I wanted to re-program my joysticks. It was Sunday afternoon and the kids were supposedly resting in their beds. They were quiet, which really is all I can ever hope for.

I strode into the bedroom to fetch said simulated flying apparatuses. I keep them in the nightstand beside the bed in case I have a nightmare where I need to land an aircraft.

The bed is about 3 feet from the far wall, lined up so I have to walk around the foot of the bed to get to the table on the far side. I stepped through the array of stuffed animals and clothes which cover my house like leaves in the fall.

As I turned the corner of the bed I noticed the most lifelike, life sized doll I had ever seen. It was lying beside the bed, pushed up against the box that the bed sits on. Surrounding it were other stuffed animals and less realistic dolls.

As I tried to grasp how such a toy could have been brought into the house, and why it was left there, it's eyes opened and it said "Hi Daddy."

And I screamed. And jumped. And then screamed again.

My younger daughter had decided to hide there. The child who finds it impossible to sit still at the dinner table, or at a movie, or in the car, could lie still and silent for 20 minutes on my bedroom floor.

I don't think her intention was to shorten my lifespan, but she soon wore the grin of someone who had been given the present they had longed for but was incapable of describing.

In a karma sort of way I had it coming. Still I doubt my younger daughter will let this go. My OCD has now increased as I find it necessary to check around corners for creepy children lying down waiting for me. I think a mirror to see around corners will be added to the nightstand now.

I hope she thinks I'm pretty at least.

The olfactory value of a rose by any other name depends on marketing. For some curious reason synonyms leave different impressions on us. For example: describing breakfast as "bacon and eggs" is more palatable than "pig calves and chicken zygotes".

And so to sound less draconian I describe punishing my children as discipline. In truth I recognize the significant difference between the two activities. Punishment is dealing pain in return for a transgression. Discipline is nagging your kids until they ignore you.

We are in the cycle of returning our children to normal bed times. This serves two purposes:
-> They are healthier when they have enough sleep.
-> We can stand them when they aren't tired.

The trick is getting them to STAY in bed and not read, play, or kick the walls in order to have the warden visit. I like to try to reason with them on this. Reasoning with an overtired 5 year old can be described as trying to win the jackpot betting on race that has just finished. You know the outcome, you predict it, but you can not cash in on it.

As a result I have to implement artificial consequences, as the natural ones of falling asleep in their cereal and driving their mother batty are not working. Being ever logical I let them pick their doom.

Me: "Honey, what do you need to fall asleep?"
Her: "My music and my Sunny."
Me: "Ok, then if you keep coming downstairs I will take it that they aren't working for you. I will first turn off your music. If that doesn't help you sleep I will take Sunny for a while."

Traditionally this level of warning works well, meaning I turn off the music and take the toy once before they realize I'm serious. The other night the child came down (after multiple tucking in and warnings) and said:

"I came down to see Mommy again. I already turned off my music."

I was honestly pretty proud of her. She understood the results and took them in her own hands.

Then not even 10 minutes later I hear a cacophony from her sister's room which sounds just like the younger one causing a grave disturbance in the force. Upon investigation the little miscreant runs to her bed and dives under the covers.

Me: "I'm sorry honey, but you made your choice. Where is Sunny?"
Her: "I don't have her."

It took a minute of interrogation to derive the location of the toy. It was hidden. Under the bed. Wrapped in a bag.

It is not a good sign that she thinks that she can outwit me this easily. Her opinion of her Fathers cranial capabilities is humbling. I hope she thinks I'm pretty at least.

So now my routine of "Reason, Warning then Discipline" I need to append "Establish credibility". Anyone want to be a reference for me?

Calvin-Bowl

I swear I used to be rational. I used to have a reason for my actions, a plan to accomplish my intents. Then I had kids.

One of the most significant changes in your life after having children is meal times.

In the beginning it is fairly minor of a change. The kid either downs a bottle or distracts the husband while they eat.

Once the small person moves to mush you now have to wait to eat while giving them their supper. This involves putting 1/8 tsp amounts of mush into the mouth of someone who is enjoying the tactile excitement in discovering their tongue.

This continues until you can slap a cup of 'Cheerios' on the little table and they begin to feed themselves. And the cat.

My kids are now old enough to manage well on their own. They have the dexterity to both feed themselves and avoid stabbing mishaps with the others at the table. It is because of this that I expect the unreasonable.

I expect them to eat their meals.

The younger one gets tired of the table fairly easily. She is bored of sitting there by the time my wife sits for dinner. Every meal I repeat the mantra "Be quiet and eat. Stop moving and eat."

It might seem cruel to disallow discussion over the dinner table but what comes out of her mouth isn't discussion, it's like hooking up a voice synthesizer to a wireshark feed.

So as she staves off the boredom from a half hour of consuming life giving food I invent new rules for table manners in a way that would make 'Calvinball' appear rather linear.

The rules for our meal times include:
-> No toys at the table.
-> Wear clothes when eating.
-> No kicking.
-> No punching.
-> No yelling.
-> No rubbing food on the table.
-> No stabbing the plate.
-> Eat with your mouth closed.
-> Not too much ranch sauce on your potatoes.
-> No talking if you're the slowest eater at the table.
-> No having a second drink of milk.

This week's addition: No interpretive dance at the table.

You can thank the younger one for that. She had been forbidden from speaking but figured that full body sign language was still allowed.

The older one isn't so much an inspiration to create rules as she is an influence to pursue a child psychology degree.

One of her favourite foods is ribs. This is neat, as ribs taste good. Last night she saved her ribs for last, eating all other food on her plate. Then she picked up a rib, looked at it as Hamlet would a skull, and began to speak to it in soothing tones.

"Mmmmm, dead pig grease."

My wife and I responded with a worried look at each other. The child continued uninterrupted as her sister had exceeded her talk to food ratio for the meal already.

"This must have been a skinny pig. Skinny little pig. They must have hit parts off with a crowbar."

I must say that is the first time I have ever heard the word crowbar used in a conversation with one's dinner. My wife and I were now choking on our mouthfuls so she endured:

"I think the pig died from bone loss."

So that may explain the irrational regulations that are held to our board. It also explains several of my nightmares since.

√y

I like to find the root cause of events and actions. It is a curious combination of two bad habits: Control issues and superiority complex. It really helps in parenting.

It requires answering a lot of "why" questions. This is important because you want to have an answer for something BEFORE the kid asks "why not Daddy?" This is critical as "because I said so" translates to "try it to find out" in kid language.

One behavior I wish to exorcise from my "perfect" (sic) children is tattling. I have succeeded so far with the older one.

The reason WHY tattling is bad is because it:
1. Bothers the parents.
2. Is intended to get someone else in trouble.

With the older one I was able to communicate this effectively. I pointed out that tattling was a way of trying to hurt her sister by proxy, namely the parent. And I don't like to be reminded that I have the mentality of a 6 year old so I refuse to be the 8 year old's lackey.

She understood this reasonably quickly (by the 10th reminder) and has since ceased. Her sister on the other hand doesn't get it.

When a child doesn't understand sometimes it helps to exaggerate to the logical extreme. This is how we come up with the "jumping off the bridge if your friends do it" logic. It is also how we sound stupid in public.

The first time I tried to reason with the 5 year old I tried to clarify by saying:
"Honey, tattling is trying to get bad things to happen to your sister. Do you want me to hurt your sister for you?"

Her immediate response of "Yes" was a moment of candid honesty that was rewarded with a time out for hate crimes.

Tonight I tried again, but with a different, albeit humorous tactic. She was attempting to be entertained with a gladiatorial confrontation by informing us of the misdoings of her sibling. As she related this I replied, my voice dripping with sarcasm:

"Since you're going to interrupt us with the news, I'm going to buy a commercial. I'll pay you a dollar to say 'Daddy is the greatest ever, tonight at 9' with each news break"

She turned her bright blue eyes to me, put her little chubby hands around my neck, hopped into my lap, leaned her cherubic face close to mine and said "Daddy, I love you."

Me: "Awww, I love you too darli...."
Her: "Now give me a dollar."

Lovely, now I have to explain why trading love for money is wrong too.

Almost 6 year old spin

Humans are separate from other animals in multiple ways. We hide our shame with clothing. We are aware of our own existence. We blog (most of us only once).

It is truly fascinating that as a species we communicate to understand each other. It's way beyond "Stand still while I run away from that predator" or "lets go pick nuts" or even "hey, want to find parasites on me"? No, we as the higher creature attempt to fathom the intent of others around us.

In fact we are so adept at communication that we now have occupations that try to limit that, namely politicians, lawyers and MAN file editors.

In mutating the primal offspring into productive, functional members of society one must teach their children not only how to speak, but communicate. This is harder than it sounds, as we rarely realize that we aren't asking for what we want. Need examples?

"The garbage smells bad." == "Please take the garbage out to the curb you slob of a husband."
"You look good tonight dear." == "Please give hubbie 'special time' tonight."
"Are you going out again?" == "Please stay in, I'm jealous that you have a social life."
"Thanks for making dinner dear." == "Please give hubbie 'special time' tonight."
"May I have a word?" == "Shut up, you are wrong and about to find out how wrong you are."

I know I've done SOMETHING right as today my wife explained an incident between her and our younger daughter.

My diminutive descendant brought this piece of paper to my wife.



"Mommy, does this look like a sandcastle to you?"

My wife was about to diplomatically say no, which in parenting goes like "Kind-of dear, is that green part the ocean?" Before she could the not quite 6 year old said

"It doesn't. That's why I need to play my computer game."

She had recently borrowed an "Arthur Sandcastle" computer game from the Library. And she has been obsessive about playing it. To the degree of imitating a bi-polar Baboon if asked to take a break to eat, rest, or so help us use the washroom.

What impresses me the most is her creative way of presenting the issue. I simply hope in 10 years she doesn't ask for more practice time in the car the same way.

"Daddy, does that look like parallel parking to you?"

Trust em as far as they can run (in the number of seconds that matches their age.)

Parenting is difficult. It is the only relationship that I know of that demands the balance of respect and interrogative suspicion.

Some people might take exception to my lack of confidence in under-trained humans. In my mind children are innocent only to the extent that the havoc they wreak is a combination of poor co-ordination and ignorance as opposed to malice.

This leaves me imagining the mischief my daughters could get up to when it isn't visibly apparent. This is how I keep the "eyes in the back of my head" myth going. I just 'happen' to show up to catch them because I have complex daddy algorithms running at all times.

(Click the chart to see it clearer, then go buy glasses)



And every once in a while you need to rewrite the whole thing because kids, being human, do something bat crazy that messes up the whole systematic approach. Like the algorithm for "things you step on in the dark".

So the other night we were discussing an upcoming sleepover with my older daughter and one of her friends. We moved on from the subject and a few minutes later she said:

"At least I don't come down in the middle of the night and play with matches."

?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

Was this the random, hypothetical musings of of an 8 year old or was she tattling on someone by process of elimination?

Being the sensible father that I am I envisioned the 5 year old having late night pyromaniac binges. I pressed the soon-to-be-confessor for details on who in fact DID play with matches in the middle of the night. I dreaded phoning one of her friend's parents with that piece of information.

It turns out she was confusing a story she had read with some creative imagination of her own.

All the same I've added "were the children practicing for arson" to my morning checklist.

------------------

In an unrelated note Happy Birthday to the girlfriend who I was lucky enough to engage, fortunate enough to marry and who had the fortitude to endure 10 years of marriage to me. I love you, and although you are aging I'll take that over the alternative.

Dumping the conversation.

It is really hard to fit in sometimes. I have had the paralyzing social quandary invoked from accepting the invitation of a friend to a reception or awards symposium. You find yourself the only one in the room with nothing in common to anyone else. And those tend to be cash bar nights too.

Given a bit of warning to these events you can do your homework and avoid wandering on the outside of conversations like a free radical that has no purpose. By the way, that is entirely different than a rebel without a cause.

If it is an awards dinner, Wikipedia the organization and the history. If it is a wedding reception, do a bit of genealogy. Don't worry about finding bad news on either, just remember not to blaspheme the family clan in the receiving line.

But if you end up in a group that has young parents there is always a magic focus point that makes for laughs and a few tears. For people who don't have kids yet here is a gimmie: Bowel movements.

This is a great subject of interest. Learn all you can about size, stages, shapes, smells and textures. A few cute anecdotes can go a long way here. Don't use them as the starter though. Walking up to a group of people and saying "speaking of full shorts..." is going to cost you a lot at that cash bar.

Every young parent ends up talking about poopie so often that they forget their circumstances. More than once I've been at work discussing over the phone the mushier points of one of my offspring's offings. Normally, this has been with my wife, but amazingly not exclusively.

What that you say, you don't have a good turd tale to slide to a skidding stop in your next conversation? Have no fear, you can just say "I know a guy who..." and use this.

This week my younger daughter strode into the living room. My wife and I were enjoying each others company by reading separate books (for those who haven't been married long enough that is what we call 'boredplay'). The little urchin announced

Child: "Guess what!"
My wife: "What dear?"
Me: "You've achieved cold fusion using a dustbuster, a wet hankie and Richard Simmon's video 'Sweatin to the Oldies'?"
(they both roll their eyes at me each time, so fun that game)
Child: "My poop looks like something!"
My wife: "Poop?"
Me: "Solid toots? No, Abraham Lincoln with a bad hair day?"
Child: "A mushroom. Come and see!"

Seriously neither of us did. Make it bad parenting that we demand our children flush their posteriourly created art without so much as a viewing.

So now you can fit in with people who have little kids. You can even practice by dumping your best stories here now.

Occupo pardus!

There used to be a concept called "quality time" with your kids. It was popular in the early 90's. I remember this because my Dad often invited me for it in my early teens.

I remember it well because for Dad it seemed "quality time" meant barking my knuckles doing some menial work that was too depressing for him to do alone. Like dig a hole in the backyard looking for the sewer exit from the house. This was to discover his estimate to be wrong by 30 feet only after I had dug a 10 foot hole in the yard.

As a father myself I try to have what would be termed "Positive Memorable Situations" at least once a month with my two young daughters. I think it's important that they develop a strong connection with their father. It's also so my wife doesn't warp them too much.

The main trouble is you can't usually plan or predict these teachable, impressionable moments. You just have to roll with the moment. Perhaps if some Dad successfully plans time with his kids he can let me know the secret. I'm sure it has to do with using the calendar and writing.

So today, my wife and I and my younger daughter arrived home together. The older child was at an activity for the day, a perfect opportunity for 'bonding'.

My wife did something odd as she was removing her wallet and keys from her person. She began to do what could be best described as a personal cancer check of the lower organs, but while fully clothed. She must have caught my "what the mercy are you doing" look as she said:

"There is a hole in these pants. Right here." Gesturing to the location she sought to verify the said wardrobe defect from both sides.

In an instant of cosmic alignment my younger daughter and I both mimicked my wife, only with looks of consternation to match some trying to taste test which motor oil is synthetic.

And that was the magic moment where we connected as father and daughter. We simultaneously pulled our underwear up to our belly buttons and poking fingers at our own midsections. It was classless but fun.

I'm sure that I managed to accomplish the triple task of connecting with my daughter, loosing a little of her remaining respect for me as an authority figure, and ensuring my wife will treat me with the same intellectual fortitude that I displayed in that moment. I'll remember it as the time in the porch that my younger daughter and I gave ourselves front wedgies.

Maybe I can coin a new term for Parent/Child bonding: Occupo pardus!

At least I'd have died laughing.

Driving with children in the car requires more attention than usually given. Obviously the 1/4 sized human tied to the back seat makes most people be more careful when piloting a 1/4 ton of metal in the tantric confusion we call traffic.

You have to tie them in by law, but of course the physics of a 60 pound object ricocheting inside the vehicle after a sudden stop is another good reason. It's kind of funny that not everyone does that with dogs. Should someone have a fender bender, that unlucky individual now has 100 pounds of barking meat careening about the cabin.

This past week we went out for laser tag for my birthday. I'm in my thirties and when asked what I wanted to do for my birthday I said "shoot you all". Laser tag was the only legal choice.

Returning from that I made a short side trip to pick up the NEW microwave for our house. I'm ashamed to say how exciting that was. In addition it goes nice with my new pepper grinder, barbecue brush and tongs and mushroom brush.

The children were pinned to their seats by the requisite straps and were cordially discussing the recent game of pointing fake guns at their family and shooting.

I suggested that they were easy targets because they were so easy to pick out, were slow and noisy. I also mused that the fact they shot their teammates so often was that their mother and I might look similar in the flurry of pretend space battle.

They disagreed though. The younger child argued that we were quite different because, in her own words:

"No Dad, I can tell you apart. Mom is heavier."

Silence from the front seat. I discovered that should I lose the capability to breathe while driving I CAN keep the car on the road. My wife was speechless either due to her suppressed giggling or tears.

My older daughter feeling the binding needs to be specific and correct her sister piped up. Her exact words were:

"No, Mom is WIDER than Dad."

She added the emphasis to ensure that her sister was not confused, and put it in a condescending tone and pace that had the word last two seconds.

At this point I am now driving 20 km/h below the speed limit in an attempt to not drive off the road. The contained laughter poured out as water from my eyes. My wife was now looking like she'd lost something on the floor.

Thankfully we arrived at our destination safely. Once we could breathe I think we mentioned that they should be more polite when addressing people's size and mass.

Our next car will be a limo. That way I can put the privacy screen up when that happens again.

Seeing is better than hearing.

It has been said that children learn more from what they see than what they are told. I would believe that, because my kids don't react to me SAYING 'go to bed' or 'stop hitting her' or 'good heavens no that's flammable'. They like to wait until I do get up and physically assist them.

I used to think it was smart that my cat would do that. She would obstinately stare at me from the table as I bellowed for her to get her litter stained feet off the dinner table, and only move once I pulled my sorry butt reluctantly out of my chair.

Now when my kids do that it's just annoying. I know they don't have hearing troubles because occasionally I whisper 'chocolate to eat' and they come running from across the house. They rarely outrun their mother though...

As part of teaching them by 'seeing' I let them watch me play video games. This works because I'm selfish and can hide it behind their incapability at the games without any practice.

Today my younger one pulled up a chair behind me while I was 'flying' in a flight simulator. I made a game of it and said she could be my passenger. She put on a cute little pretend seatbelt, helped pick the airplane (a Bell Ranger helicopter) and the airport (Toronto city centre).

Me: "Ok honey, where do you want to go? The Eaton's centre? The training office I was at the other week? The Skydome?"
Her: "No, just crash into a building. How about that one?"
Me: "That's the CN tower, it's the tallest free standing structure in the world"
Her: "Oh. Crash into it."
Me: "You were born in 2003 weren't you."

I'm just happy she was so scared of the real plane this year that she didn't say anything. Sometimes the crippling fear of children can be advantageous.

I just hope I don't get pulled over by the police with her along. I don't want to think of what she'd suggest to the officer, but I imagine it would involve beatings and cavity searches. She would learn a lot from seeing that day...

Ken 2.0 and Ken 2.0a

I really hope to be a successful parent.

This isn't a cry for help from someone who skipped those classes in grade 5. Trust me, I know how it works. I would draw you a word picture but that would make you jealous.

My measure of parenting success is that my children surpass me in ways that are good. Despite this noble pursuit, my wife does discourage me from introducing my children as "Ken 2.0 and 2.0a". Something about them being scared or scarred.

Some things are going well. They read better than I did at their age. They are both better than me at drawing. They are considerate and polite enough to dupe everyone else but their parents. So far so good.

May I mention that my children so easily exceeding me in all areas is no poor reflection on my parents. I was just a terrible child, able to dupe only my dear Grandmother, who for some reason attributed all my wrongdoing to my sisters and parents. I don't think any words can describe how beautiful it is to be rotten and have a sibling blamed for your rottenness.

Part of helping these beta versions actually reach their release date (when they are eighteen) is some simple "what is good for you" sessions. And by sessions I mean telling them what they must do.

There are some things, like roads, large areas of open water and train tracks, where you do try to put some fear and respect into the innocent dears. They just have no concept of what one tonne of metal moving at over 1.16 meters per second in a 0.83 meter per second speed limit does to an otherwise healthy waterbag with limbs.

There are other important, although less dramatic lessons that they pick up. Like don't eat rocks, don't throw rocks, don't throw your food. And not smoking.

The other day I came home to see chalk drawings on my driveway. Among the typical replicas of crime scene outlines (in hot pink) there was this dire warning:

"Beware"
"Dangerous"
"No Smoking!"
"Or Else"

This was followed by the usual smokebusters symbol and two stick figures who were holding cigarettes. Their eyes had been replaced with X's to symbolize their sudden demise to the side effects of taking a puff in my driveway.

It was a bit macabre and zealous, not to mention quite threatening. I don't know who told my older daughter that smoking was unhealthy, but I want to interview them on their techniques. And then write a book on that and profit from it.

You have been warned: don't smoke around Ken 2.0

Fair=(x(A/B))+1

Siblings. It is hard to describe what effect they have on your life. I never had a moment of my life where I was my parent's only child, although I have had a few moments were I think I was disowned. Like the day I forgot Mom's coffee at home.

Being a brother or a sister means you have to share. No matter what bunk your parents tell you about "loving everyone equally" you know it's not true. See if they REALLY loved you they would have let YOU sit in the front seat after your older sister left for university, and not let the youngest get perma-shotgun.

Not...bitter..

Most of sibling life is a vain attempt of achieving the unnatural state of discord also known as "fair". Fair is loosely defined by this equation:

Fair=(x(A/B))+1

x is the item in question, be it Smarties or minutes with a toy. A is the age difference in years from the next sibling. B is the birth order ranking. Then once you have the amount calculated, fair is only complete when you have one more than the next person.

Since my children were, and still are not twins I was able to observe this effect on my older daughter. And the result was what can be best described as giving her a little human pet that she thinks she needs to house train.

One item of chagrin is the seating arrangement at the supper table. The coveted position is beside my wife. They cry about who sits there. They push. They deviously switch food and table settings to get their way.

I'm in no way scarred by this. I just suggest they flank my wife and leave me to have all the elbow room on my side of the table.

My older daughter has observed that her little sister gets the privilege of being inadvertently elbowed by my wife while kicking me in the legs more often. When she bemoaned this my suggestion was to stop the noise she was making and come up with a solution.

Her idea was great. She would chart how often each child sat beside their mother. The advent of this dinventory resulted in this exchange:

Older child: Ok, so you sat down beside Mom tonight. I'll write that down on my list.
Younger child: Then I'll erase the list.
Older child: Then I'll write it in permanent marker.
Younger child: Then I'll throw it out.

It was like a transcript of "World's worst hostage negotiators".

Suffice to say that now I have an idea of their futures. The older one will likely be an engineer or perhaps an accountant. The younger one will be either a politician or a CEO for a large organization.

Little trains of thought

I don't know why it's called a train of thought. A train is linear, it is serialized, and not by adding iron, riboflavin and hocked by freakish leprechauns with their shriveled marshmallows. That probably explains why his eyes are so disproportionately big. Shudder.

Typically following someone else's process of ideas is akin to a comic of Billy from Family Circus wandering around the neighborhood. Except that imagine that Billy's blind and dizzy. And drunk.

I had that surreal experience this past weekend with my older daughter. We were watching a lot of Mythbusters. Why? Because they BLOW THINGS UP!

Since she was so influenced by the show she will not be getting a chemistry set any time soon. As a child I was SO peeved that my set didn't include the Anarchists cookbook. I can't expect any more purely studious response from her now that one of her favourite shows includes heavy use of C4.

So in between sessions she watched an episode of world's funniest animals. I thought nothing of it because I need something to look down my nose at. So my wife watched the show with her while I went and read a cookbook.

Returning half an hour later I walked into a room bubbling with excitement like a Sodium Bicarbonate and Acetic Acid cocktail. My daughter had a PLAN, and if you know her, this happens at least twice a day. Usually it involves markers, water, paper, and an attempt to wallpaper one of the few nicely painted surfaces in my house.

This one involved taking photos of the cat with poop on her bum.

My intellectual response was something like: ?????!!!!!?????

She explained that you could submit photos and videos of funny animal moments to the show. Then she explained that it was funny when the cat had a turd stuck to her little hairy butt.

My wife gently explained that this may not be the funny that the show's producers wanted to see, although I could imagine a headline of 'Scat Cat' working quite well. Then the rest of the picture filled in with this statement from the child:

Her: But it's always funny when she is like that on your bed.

Yep. It was like looking at a magic eye poster and realizing the picture is of a family member's washroom, in use. Not something you ever want to think about.

So I'll have to agree with my wife, the bed needs new sheets.

Who's your daddy?

Parenthood is an odd occupation. It's surprising how few people remain their normal sane selves after they have children.

With mothers it's somewhat understandable. Having a three month hangover followed by your hips partially dislocating and then pushing a bowling ball out ANY orifice will have permanent psychological effects.

For fathers watching that happen leaves it's own marks, like the permanent imprint of her fingernails in your forearm while you listen to her frighten the anesthesiologist with her impression of 'Dr. Claw having a fit of Tourettes'.

One way I've noticed I'm 'different' in a 'special' way after having kids is wanting them to know who I am. This goes deeper than 'who's your daddy', although reminding them that I happen to be better than them in everything is nice too. Just because they are small doesn't mean they don't want to school me in any contest, like the 'My little pony' board game.

I think we want our children to really know us partly for validation and partly for legacy. I hope that I have more to offer my children than 50% of their chromosomal odds and the opportunity to observe how not to do things first hand. I want my company to be a positive influence on their life, that I can be a hero, and not just a vaudevillian clown.

I want them to understand me, to know what motivates my decisions. Surprisingly I also want them to respect me, which is pretty much mutually exclusive. You don't realize how boneheaded a lot of your choices are until you try to explain them to a 5 year old.

Her: Why can't I have the pudding, Mommy said I could.
Me: Because I don't like talking to your mother about parenting.
Her: Why?
Me: Because I feel stupid when I do.

Her: Daddy, why did you say you were going to do the dishes, and then didn't.
Me: Honey, Daddy is tired.
Her: Why?
Me: Sitting at my desk all day sucked the life out of me. And I wanted to make your mother stop whining about you two. Promising things to people has that affect.

And I realize that now that my older daughter has me figured. Recently she looked fondly at me and said:

Her: Daddy, do you know what we should do for your birthday dinner?
Me: [thought bubble]Go stay at your grandparents for half an hour while Mommy and I have 'fancy time'? [/thought bubble] No honey, what?
Her: We should serve you only meat. And Beer.

For eight years old she's surprisingly clever. Still I reminded her she had forgotten dessert. Children are unbearable if they think they are right.

I think she has my eyes.

As a parent I am always eager to find out if my kids are really like me. It's a weird game to play in a marriage, as you both compare what aspects of the child's behaviour and mood are like you, or more tellingly, like your spouse's parents.

It's really a continuation of the one-downmanship/one-upmanship you get when you marry someone. In merging two families together you tend to compare (sometimes unwillingly) the benefits and fallbacks of lineage.

For me it results in my family comparing how hard it was to have me around instead of my wife for those first 23 years. Hard stuff to hear from one's siblings. Or parents.

Now we do that with our kids. Here are some interactions:
Me: Her laugh sounds like mine.
My wife: No, yours sounds like a donkey having a siezure.

My wife: I think she has my eyes.
Me: Is that your excuse for not being able to find anything?

Me: She is so not a morning person. That is just like you.
My wife: I was a morning person before I was married. Maybe it's you.

When you DO find some positive trait that your child emulates it is pure joy. Going to Walt Disney World we were to discover which child had my fortitude for thrill rides, and which thought that an elevator was extreme test of will.

It turns out the older one takes after me. We stopped worrying about her when she rode Thunder Mountain the second time and described it as "boring". She and I even rode the teacups, the vomit inducing centrifuge that poses as an amusement ride.

I went easy on her until she practically yelled "faster!". By the end we were both incapable of standing upright or locating what side of our face our nose was on. And she started to cry because we didn't have time to ride them again that night.

My younger daughter takes after my wife that way. She is the only person I know of who thought the Monorail was too intense for her little capacity. Just so you know I'm still talking about the younger daughter.

It took two days to convince her to ride Pirates of the Caribbean. She was positive it was a death drop ride. Of course once she rode it she was thought that it was safe, and even fun. Getting her to ride anything was a mix of bribery, blackmail, threats and coercion. It was like living out scenes from Law and Order.

Maybe someday she will come to love all that simulates death by violent means, but until then I'll have to keep a cache of toys and chocolate if there is any family ride we want to do. Like a major airline or moving sidewalk.

Stuff you ask yourself

Parenting is a role infused with questions. You will question if you are doing a good job. You will question your sanity. And you will question how the children managed to paint yogurt on the underside of the table.

Thankfully the empirical indicators of the answers abound. Catching the children squeezing small yogurt cups until they pop would be one. Finding yourself repeatedly muttering to yourself "If you THINK that I'm going to let THAT happen you have got another thing coming!" would be another.

But it is a special treat to discover that your attempts at parenting are better than Mowgli's option of being raised by wolves.

As as side effect, or benefit, the children inexplicably become like you. I guess we should see it coming, given that we do react akin to our parents, right down to the emphasis of the words repeatedly muttered to ourselves.

My older daughter is turning 8 next week. For her birthday she chose a theme based on a Disney movie.

She want's a Pirates of the Caribbean party.

Now yes that IS tremendously cool, at least for her 30ish year old dad. Her school friends didn't understand, but if my little girl would rather exemplify Captain Jack Sparrow over Hannah Montanna I am all for it.

It results from letting her watch the original movie before going to Walt Disney World. I wanted her to know something about the ride before going. And I wanted her to like more movies that I do.

We as good parents are doing our part in preparing for her party. My wife has researched party games, cake options and sent out pirate themed invitations. I'm growing a beard to look more 'piratey'.

Then this week I get a call from my wife. I was at work, and the kids were at breakfast.

Me: "IT support, we're smart so you don't have to be."
Her: "Hello"
Me: "Hi honey, what can I do for you."
Her: "Talk to your older daughter. She is convinced that since pirates didn't brush their hair she shouldn't either."

I had to convince the child that her time to be a pirate was the day of her party, not the two weeks leading up to it, and that all hygiene, including bathing, would be required. Then this morning she said "I need to eat my vitamin C because pirates didn't get fruits or vegetables."

Dang, the kid is staving off scurvy. I'm beginning to question if this is going too far.

Why I believe in Drive-Thru

Recently I was able to enjoy a two week vacation with my family. This isn't a conflicted statement, I actually liked having my wife and kids in close proximity. The success to this is staying up later than the rest of them to have a few minutes of quiet each day.

The first day of the trip was a 6 hour drive. Driving with an almost 8 year old, a 5.5 year old, and a (I swear she still looks) twenty-ish year old person is more dangerous than it sounds.

Mainly it's the kids. They don't realize that piloting a near ton vehicle with 3.85 Joules of energy on snow covered roads is tricky enough. So you have the older one attempt to whistle the theme to the "Pirates of the Caribbean" using her repertoire of a single shrill key.

Meanwhile younger one decide that 'Purell' hand sanitizer should be used to clean the interior of the car. I thought someone had stuffed a cantelope and cucumber into the air intake of the car.

Four hours into the trip we pulled over at a fast food restaurant for lunch. It just opened and we were the first customers. I can only hope my mistake was caused in part due to exhaustion and part due to stress.

I like to have the children order their own meals. This gives them the practice of demanding older people do their bidding, because I'll be darned if I let them rehearse on me.

As all had ordered I implored my older daughter "Please tell the lady what you want for lunch." My child did so and ran off to join the rest of the family while I paid. As soon as I had received my credit card back the counter attendant moved away and my heart gained density fourfold.

I realized that I was suddenly very unsure of the gender of the person who took our order. It was either tremendously effeminate male or a woman who was mannish in appearance, slightly endowed and did not feel the need for support.

When you make a mistake like that in public you can't very well yell "I'm sorry, I meant tell the nice MAN your order." That is a shortcut to having your order special made for you.

So I had a cripplingly awkward time waiting for the food to arrive at the counter. I shuffled away as soon as it did, avoiding all eye contact with the person. Despite a longing to know if I was in the wrong or not I felt it best to do the brave thing and go to the car and sleep until the family came out when they were done.

From now on it's drive-thru on road trips. Sure it will reek of hand cleanser, and I'll be pulling french fries from the seat cushions for the next quarter, but it beats facing that hideous embarrassment ever again.

Making my kids into who they are.

I am a father of two wonderful children.

I repeat that sentence to myself a lot. It speaks to my loose grip on reality that I need affirmations like that.

Almost 8 years into being responsible, at least in a legal sense, I still find it amazing that the half-sized humans living at my house are in fact 50% or more me. On the rare occasion that I do realize this fact I well up with a fierce, protective emotion towards them. I suppose that's the feeling Mom's have most of the time.

There is wisdom in correctly identifying your role in the relationship to your child. There are some obviously wrong ones, like pet, owner or puppet-master. Then there is the subtly wrong one, friend.

The short reason for this is respect. A child needs boundaries, structure, rewards, discipline and protection. Being their buddy can seem cool and progressive but in the end it makes it hard to get them to take the garbage out.

Now that my children have developed personalities beyond 'sleepy food to poop transmogrifiers' I am seeing the affect my DNA, and chillingly, my personality is having on them.

This week my older daughter had to stay home from school because she was sick. So she curled up on the couch and watched three of her favourite movies back to back.

That isn't strange for a child. What is strange is that she picked the original Star Wars Trilogy. I had a sick day just like that 9 years ago. I'm just praying she doesn't find out about the Star Wars conventions.

The second edition of my spawn has taken a great affection for a computer game. That isn't odd. But it's not Webkinz or Care Bears.

She has a creepy skill and passion for 'One Must Fall 2097'. This is a 'Mortal Combat' knockoff from 15 years ago. The 5 year old bounces on the couch, mashing the controller with her little fist, and when she wins pumps her hand in the air saying 'I Win, you're dead!'

It's like a mashup of a Mormon commercial meeting Chucky from "Child's play".

This is where the value of keeping the parental role can really pay off. After losing a game I can say 'Go to bed' and then proceed to play until I max my robot out so I don't lose the next battle.

Coming soon to you: The smells of home, while you're away!

There is a long running debate on whether children are more affected by nature or nurture. Usually the arguments posed by either camp are wonderful examples of pop psychology mashing it up with statistics dropouts.

Inadvertently as a parent I have had a fairly long experiment. I don't nurture too well, I don't want the kids thinking they have a firm foothold on the premises. Besides, when I hear nurture I think 'breastfeeding' and my kids are too old for that now. And I'm a bit hairy.

On a recent business trip I was talking with my older daughter on the phone. It is a good chance to practice remote interrogation techniques. I swear my kids have some non-disclosure agreement on their learning at school.

After a good 3 minutes of shaking her down to get that she made a snowman at recess, my almost 8 year old says 'Sorry Daddy.'

The hair on the back of my neck rose. My beloved laptop was at home. Images of pouring apple juice from the keyboard danced through my head. I hesitantly asked for what she was apologizing.

Her: 'I just farted.'
Me: 'That's ok honey, I don't think I can smell it from here.'

Undeterred the child continued: 'I could fart into the phone.'

I paused to consider which to take more offense to. Her persistence, her idea that this was appropriate, or her knowledge of how telephones work.

Me: ???? 'Nooooo. Don't do that. People put their mouths near the phone.'
Her: 'No, I'll do it by the earpiece'

She was really pushing for this.

Me: 'No honey. Don't put on your butt what people put to their faces.'

It's the best I could come up with. What is really terrifying to me is how often she has done this and NOT apologized. Her little mind must have been racing on why Daddy wasn't reeling from her noxious gasses.

I imagine there is some macabre market for that sort of 'smells of home while you're away'. Perhaps this is why video phones never took off, maybe this is a more normal occurrence than I want to think about.

So if you ask me if this was a natural thing to do, or if by some freak act of parenting we gave her this idea, I'll point my finger at my wife (and hope she doesn't pull it). After all, she is the nurturing one.