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.

Loud Sneezers and Migraines

There is one irrefutable fact about my family. We are all loud sneezers. No lie, when my dad sneezes in the car, the windows rattle and your eardrums bleed a little. I’m no better, and neither are my brothers. One day we might give someone that we’re walking up behind a heart attack. Paul says he’s not a loud sneezer but he’s in denial.

You never know what traits your kids will pick up. Max has allergies, the loud sneezing thing and is a bit of a worrier like me. Yesterday, I found out that he picked up another trait from me. Maxwell was sent home yesterday with a migraine headache! The nurse said he complained of a headache, was sensitive to the fluorescent lights in her office and then got nauseated and threw up. When he got home, he curled up in the fetal position in his bedroom, covered his head with a pillow and fell asleep.

I feel awful that in the spin of the genetic wheel Max got such a bum deal. Paul doesn’t have allergies, doesn’t get migraines and never worries about anything until he “sees blood.” I hope this thing was an anomaly and not the beginning of my son having to deal with recurring migraines. I once got a migraine when I was 7 months pregnant with the twins that felt like someone drove a railroad spike down the center of my head and then took an electrical wire and electrocuted the spike.

I just hope that Paul’s genes are just dormant and waiting until after Max’s 9th birthday to kick in. I’m OK with the loud sneezing but the migraines have to go.

Smoke My Body

My husband says some outrageous things to the kids, many of which have been documented in this blog. It’s not that he’s going for shock value, he shoots from the hip and hopes for the best and many times, he truly believes that his candor and colorful vocabulary are actually preparing them for the real world. This latest instance, was not, I think, one of those times.

We were getting ready for bed and Natalie was looking at pictures on my phone. She found a picture of my grandfather, Benito, who passed away when I was in junior high. Natalie has always had a bizarre fascination with death so telling her about Tatay Benito opened up a flood of questions. As we talked about death, dying, heaven, hell and if it hurts when someone dies, Paul looked up from playing Sodoku on his IPod Touch and said, “Hey kids, when I die, I want you to cremate me, then divide the ashes between you. When you do something big, like win the Superbowl or somethin’, I want you to sprinkle some of my ashes in the end zone. Whatever you have left, I want you to smoke. It’s what the Indians used to do.”

Even the kids knew that Paul had just gone to crazy town. Max looked at me, to Paul, back to me again and nervously smiled. Natalie grinned and started to giggle, preparing the next round of questions on how exactly to smoke his ashes. Aidan looked up and said, “What’s smoke?” Paulina asked for more apple juice.

I don’t know how the kids will remember this conversation, or if it will ever come up again. I asked Paul about it later. “You weren’t serious, were you?” “Yes, I am,” he replied, “And if you’re still alive, I want you to smoke me too.”

Max is now a Bulldog

I’m not shy about the fact that I’m a big time football fan. I mean, I don’t face paint, wear football jersey’s everyday or have a big blow-up football guy in front of my house during football season (I said I was a fan, not a wing-nut!). That said, I have done the following: organized my travel to accommodate for kick-off times, cried a little (pathetic, I know) when my team (The Chargers!) has lost an important playoff game and bought NFL network premium cable service to be able to watch them on Sundays (I live in Giants country where they never play AFC West teams).

So, it’s not a surprise that my oldest son is a football fan too (and loves the Chargers, much to the chagrin of his Giants/Vikings loving father). He’s wanted to sign-up for football for the past couple of years but I was hesitant because football takes on a whole new meaning when it’s your son playing. Any mother who watched Joe Theisman’s leg snap on live television (as I did) after being sacked by the other L.T. (who, by the way, lost all street cred when he went on Dancing with the Stars) has a whole new perspective on the game of football.

As always, Paul thinks I’m being over-protective. He played football all his life and is over-the-moon that Max is so enthusiastic to play. I’ve suggested Max play tennis, basketball and golf which was met with the reaction of eye-rolling and comments of, “Any sport that allows a kid to wear a sweater during competition is out of the question!” I was on the losing end of this argument from the word go.

So, he’s officially signed up as a Rumson-Fair Haven Bulldog and he starts practice in July. Paul started to explain the equipment that we would have to buy, including a protective cup to which Max said, “I didn’t know you had to wear gas masks to play football.”