The 4th Emergency

There have only been a handful of times since I met Paul that he has called me with an emergency. He has famously said that it would take “blood squirting from his body” or “one of his appendages hanging off” to deem something a true emergency. There was the time he thought he was having a heart attack (on Valentine’s day when I was 9-months pregnant with Natalie), the time he cut his eyeball with a razor knife and the time he had all the kids home sick (including the twins who were 8 months old at the time) and he thought Maxwell had chicken pox. Then, there was yesterday.

As I was checking email, I suddenly realized that I had three missed phone calls and an unread text message. As my heart rate raced, I opened the text and read, “The toilet lid just dropped on Aidan’s pecker. Call me as soon as you can!” A conversation about smashed genitals is not an easy one to have in any commuter situation. When Paul picked up the phone, I don’t know who was more freaked out, him or Aidan. It was as if he was having sympathy pain and could not even bare to talk about it. “Do you need me to come home?” I asked, “How is Aidan?” He handed the phone to Aidan. “How are you buddy? “ I asked. “My ding dong hurts!” I could hear Paul cringing in the background.

Thankfully our pediatrician said everything was OK after running a handful of tests. There was bruising but no permanent damage (I could almost hear Paul’s ginormous sigh of relief all the way from NYC). A couple of doses of children’s Tylenol and a lukewarm bath was recommended and Aidan spent the rest of day in bed watching videos. When I got home, I asked how Aidan liked his bath. Paul said he only gave him a quick shower. When I asked why, Paul got dead quiet and continued to do the dishes. Even in this emergency situation, the less Paul had to look at the bruisingon his male part the better. I guess it’s a male thing.

Ruining my sons life

Somehow I’ve missed the memo about two important things that have nearly ruined my sons life. The first one is that boys in fourth grade change for gym class. The second is that every single boy in Max’s gym class, with the exception of my son, wears boxers. “They all laughed at me because I was wearing tightie-whities!” he explained. Since Max is hardly ever prone to hyperbole, I listened intently, letting him know that I took this humiliation seriously.

In my defense, he wasn’t technically wearing tightie-whities. I’ll admit they were regular boys briefs but they were gray and really not so very tight. The entire episode delighted Paul to no end. When it was time for dinner, Max brought up the subject again and begged that we buy him some boxers immediately. As I was babbling out another apology about how I had no idea that all little boys wear boxers Paul looked up and said, “It’s no big deal Max. If they laugh at you again just say, Hey! I’m hung like a horse and I need the extra support.” As Max contemplated his father’s suggestion and I nearly spit out my Edamame, I wondered how other moms with 9 year-old boys learned about the boxer trend.

I didn’t have to look far to find out. When I got to the office, I brought up the episode to a couple of my female co-workers. As I neared the end of my story, our male colleague in the next office yelled out, “My sons both wear boxer briefs!” I immediately entered his office to learn more and he said that his boys decided that they wanted to wear what their dad wore. So, in a way, this is all Paul’s fault. From now on, he’s going to have to be the purchaser of all boys undergarments to save me from ruining my sons lives.

Born with aggression?

During Max’s first regular season football game, the opposing team’s running back turned the corner and made a break for his end zone. Max crossed the field, along with a pack of his team mates, and looked as though they had the angle on him to save the touch down. My heart raced as I watched Max get there first and hoped he would get low and tackle him. A few feet short of the runner, he slowed down and I watched as his two team mates took the runner down. Paul looked at me, shook his head and said, “You know, this is your fault.”

As the oldest of four kids, Max has spent his entire life hearing me tell him to be gentle. It’s true that he has never been encouraged to be aggressive in any way and my nagging has obviously influenced the way he plays football. After the game, I asked him why he slowed down. He told me he wanted to give the tackling opportunity to his team mates. Paul looked at me, gripped the steering wheel and said, “Next time, he’ll probably pat him in the ass as he runs into the end zone.”

Later that night, I sat down with Max and asked him if he liked playing defense. “Yeah, mom, I’m just learning to be a beast.” He seemed nervous, like he knew that the conversation in the car caused some tension between me and his father. “Did dad talk to you about the game?” “Yes, mom. He told me I need to be more aggressive.”

After watching him practice and play for a month, I wonder if children can actually learn to be aggressive or if it’s something you’re either born with or not.

Awkward Pauses

I recently had dinner with two male business colleagues who marveled at the fact that I was a stat-spewing football fan and loved The Star Wars trilogy (the original, mind you, not the ones featuring Jar Jar Binks). You would have thought I told them that I was the secret love child of Sid and Nancy by the way they went on and on about it. They told me my husband is the luckiest man in the world.

“What does your husband do?” asked one of them. “He stays at home with the kids,” I replied. The awkward pause seemed to go on for hours in which time one of them decided to hit the chips and salsa and the other one tentatively asked, “How’s that going (read: how did you get him to remove his testicles)?” “Great, I said, he’s really enjoying the opportunity to be there for them.”

Encounters like this occur pretty frequently when I tell men that my husband is a stay-at-home dad. Men act like they’ve just found out that Paul is a Minotaur, followed by an awkward pause and then the inevitable change of subject. For some, it’s like the idea itself is too strange to even contemplate even though the numbers of stay-at-home dads is increasing exponentially.

As Paul’s tenure as primary care giver reaches its third anniversary, it leaves me wondering how our arrangement will be viewed in ten years or even twenty. Will he be part of a growing fraternity of men that will see the lasting impact of the dual benefits of hands-on parenting? Will the pendulum swing resulting in more women wanting to stay home? Who knows? As long as I can continue to come home to safe and happy kids, I will continue to endure these awkward pauses happily.

Hook 'em Horns!

So, some people have accused me of being a crazed Chargers fan. Having spent time in Austin this week, I say you don’t know for super fans until you visit Longhorn country. It’s as if the city has a little bit of burnt orange splashed all over it. Football in Texas is not a spectator sport, it’s a religion and unless you are the converted, don’t even begin to have a conversation with a Longhorns fan about college football.

Having experienced the fanaticism, it got me thinking about whole populations of a city, state or county being rabidly engaged and invested in a football team. I’ve spoken to some who think that sports fans have just lost their marbles, worshiping blindly at the altar of what at the end of the day is a game. I freely admit that there are weekends during the NFL season where I will spend an entire day, in my pajamas no less, watching back-to-back-to-back games. Does it make me feel like a slovenly pig sometimes? Yes. Do I still plan to do it come late August during pre-season football, hell yes!

I’m certain to morph into the next level of scary fan. Maxwell begins football practice next week. He picked up his equipment yesterday, we’re getting him cleats this weekend and I’ve already bought purple paint to get the kids faces game-day ready come September. OK, so that last bit is a lie but I did contemplate it for a moment.

Send 3 year-olds to Find Osama Bin Laden

I am certain that if could somehow convince my 3-year old twins that Osama Bin Laden is hiding in a cave somewhere with a lifetime supply of Sour Patch Kids, I could drop them into Afghanistan and they would find him. There is something about the persistence and tenacity of children at this age that is fascinating (if not a little scary).

Aidan recently found an old Power Rangers DVD that my mom bought at a garage sale. He asked his brother to play it and he was hooked, watching it over and over and over again. However, now that it’s summer and he has to compete for DVD time, his brother and sisters are tired of watching the same 6 episodes and refuse to play it. So, when we were at Suncoast this weekend and he found a new Power Rangers DVD in the bargain bin, he begged me to buy it for him. I acquiesced and from the time I paid the man at the register until the moment we got home, he kept repeating, “I wanna watch my Power Rangers DVD!”

By the time we had dinner and got settled in for the night, it was too late to play the 10-episode DVD. Aidan had a meltdown, screaming as if I was branding him with a hot iron. Paul promised him we could watch it in the morning. He finally calmed down and went to sleep holding the DVD. Paul and I stayed up that night and watched HBO, joking about how obsessed he was with Power Rangers. At 5:30 the next morning, we heard the pitter patter of little feet and when I opened my eyes, Aidan was waving the DVD in front of my face, “I wanna watch my Power Rangers DVD!” I just hope he applies this level of persistence to other areas of his life.

Sleep in your own freakin' beds

Years ago, Paul and I made the rookie parenting mistake of allowing the first of our four children sleep in the bed with us. We’ve been paying for it ever since. I think there’s been only one night in the last nine years where we have had the bed to ourselves. Paul gripes incessantly about it, “You freakin’ kids need to start sleeping in your own beds,” he’ll say to the twins as they cozy in between us at 8 o’clock, completely disregarding his protests. Somewhere around 9PM, Paul deposits them into their own beds and says a little prayer that they’ll stay there through the night.

While his prayers are rarely answered, one night last week, I woke up at 6AM and Paul and I were alone in our bed. “Is that clock right? Did they really sleep through the night in their own beds?” I asked him. “Yeah, he said. “It’s about freakin’ time!” A minute later, we heard the pitter patter of little feet and Aidan, hearing us talk, climbed into bed.

Now that the twins are less toddler and more full-fledged kid, I realize that my days of cuddling with them are numbered. The night that Aidan and Paulina slept in their own beds, while I’ll never admit this to Paul, was actually a little sad for me. Don’t get me wrong, I do not enjoy them drooling on me, kicking me in the face or demanding juice at 4AM. I do cherish waking up and seeing their little faces next to me. Though he’d never cop to it, I think Paul enjoys it too. The morning that Aidan crashed our bed at 6AM, I saw a little smile spread across his face as Aidan wedged his little body between us.