Dave Weekly

Hurricane Sandy

2012-11-04T17:11:00.000-05:00

We are very fortunate. On Monday our city was hit by what may be the worst natural disaster it's ever seen, and our home was barely touched. A skylight above the building's stairwell was damaged, but I believe that was it. Our trees stayed up through the pounding wind, and, despite the many flickers, our power stayed on. Our neighborhood, for the most part, was spared. The tree to the right is the worst damage I've seen on the streets, though nearby Prospect Park was hit hard (some 300 trees gone). No subway service for several days and the lack of gasoline have made our lives a little inconvenient, but it's nothing compared to the grief many in our city are experiencing right now. So many have lost their homes or loved ones, and hundreds of thousands are braving the cold November nights without power.

As many in our neighborhood have been saying, we're living in a bubble right now. Outside of the minor hardships, life here is basically back to normal. We even had trick-or-treating on Wednesday as if nothing happened. Yet, in Breezy Point, Queens, a mere twenty-minute drive from here, there are people digging through the charred remains of 100+ homes that were incinerated. Some have lost everything and are trying to figure out just how to make it through the week. When those homes burned Monday night, we could smell the smoke. That's how close we are to the devastation, and yet, everything here is fine.

We have some friends who own a home in Breezy Point, but they say it wasn't involved in the fire. Some of our other friends have lost power, but, for the most part, they are all okay. Thank God. New York City is coming back, too. Subway lines are now starting to work again (in fact, today we took our first train since the storm), and lower Manhattan, which had been in the dark last week, is glowing again. Best of all, this community is coming together to help those in need. On Facebook, Twitter, and online discussion groups, people are asking how they can help. Some volunteer stations have been overwhelmed by donations. Those who have gas in their cars are driving to the troubled areas to deliver food, clothing, and other needed items, such as batteries and flashlights. Go to a supermarket, as I did yesterday, and you'll see people walking down the aisles, figuring out what to buy for those in need. I saw a mother instruct her sons to look for economical supplies so they can get the most out of the money they raised to help. There's no doubt that New York will recover from this, and that's because the people here care for each other. We love our neighbors.

The city has also been blessed with help from those outside our community. I figure some of my readers have been wanting to help, but might not know how. So here are a few links to websites with information on disaster relief:

http://www.heresparkslope.com/home/2012/11/2/a-round-up-of-local-ways-to-help-sandy-victims.html

https://www.nyc.gov/html/fund/html/donate/donate.shtml

http://www.redcross.org/

You can also text the word REDCROSS to 90999 to make a $10 donation. Some of the most sought-after items cost less than $10, so even a small donation will help tremendously. Together, we will recover. Thanks so much for your help.

Candy Addict

2012-10-26T20:23:00.000-04:00

Towards the end of our busy summer, my four-year-old son Kyle met up with one of his friends at the playground. Already too cool for Dad, Kyle immediately ran off once we arrived, leaving me alone with his one-year-old brother Adam and his friend's parents. After a brief exchange of pleasantries ("Nice weather, huh?" "What do you do for a living?" "How are your child's bowel movements?") the friend's mother said, "I'm so glad the summer's over. I can't imagine watching our kid all the time. My mind is turning to mush." I told her I agreed, as I wiped away some of the brain that has been oozing out of my ears for the past four years.

Yes, it's not easy watching over the little monsters, and with both of them home almost all summer, my mind was very much pureed by September. I often felt out-numbered, with each kid shooting me with a barrage of demands. Adam would want me to walk him around the apartment, while Kyle would want me to sit and play Legos with him. Kyle would ask questions over and over again, while a tired, hungry, or needy Adam would just scream over and over again. Adam would grab my legs and pull me in one direction, while a hyper Kyle would grab my arms and pull me in another direction. As soon as I'd figure out how to calm things down, something would happen - usually Kyle taking a toy from Adam, or tackling him - and it would all erupt again. So all day long I'd deal with two opposing forces, demanding my attention but taking me for granted, contradicting themselves and neither making much sense. Many times I'd find myself just begging them, for the love God, please stop and be quiet. It was like watching the presidential campaign.

Fortunately, there were some quiet moments, too, mostly while Adam napped. But that's when Kyle asked to play his new favorite game: the mental mush-maker known as Candy Land. For those of you unfamiliar with this beloved children's game, here's how you play it: You pick a card. You move. You pick a card. You move. You pick a card. You move. Over and over again. That's it. No skill needed whatsoever. I must have played Candy Land about a hundred million times over the summer, and yet today I am no better than I was when I first played as a young child decades ago. The cards reveal colored squares or candy images that direct you along a multi-colored road to the game-winning Candy Castle, leading you past the Ice Cream Slopes, the Gummy Hills, the Licorice Lagoon, the Chocolate Mountain, and Tooth Decay Volcano. The game pieces are shaped like gingerbread men, and come in four different colors. Kyle likes to switch up the colors each game, providing the only mental stimulation: trying to remember that you're the green piece this time, and not the red one you had in the last game. Often that's how I lose.

I've been trying to figure out the ultimate Candy Land strategy, but there seems to be none. Even counting cards doesn't work.  That action lets you know when you're going to get zinged by a "bad" card, but doesn't help you prevent it. Yes, there are "bad" cards to choose - say, if you're close to the end of the game and you draw a card with a picture of a cupcake, you have to move your piece all the way back to the cupcake square which is near the beginning of the game. Cupcakes are, as everybody knows, pure evil.  Tragically, you can't trade the card away, and you can't hold it to spring on your opponent later. If you identify the card early, you could try letting your four-year-old take two turns in a row (out of "kindness") and stick it to him that way. Sadly, though, these four-year-olds catch on quickly.  So I give up and just sit there with Kyle, putting my brain on auto-pilot, flipping cards, moving pieces, and listening to the constant nudge of "It's your turn, Daddy."

There's gotta be some way to make it more exciting. Jennifer thought of having a candy prize at the end, but then I feared that Kyle would find a way to win every one of the dozens of games we played daily, and then I'd be in trouble. So the prize idea is out. Maybe I'd have a greater appreciation for the game if I saw it played on a grander scale, with higher stakes and, if possible, bigger risks...

    "Yellow card, Mr. Bond," said the dealer. Without taking his eyes off the villain across the table, Dr. Necco, Bond slid his blue gingerbread man to the yellow square, just four spots from the game-ending Candy Castle. Bond did not need to look at the board. He's James Bond, after all, and he knows his Candy Land.
    The crowd surrounding the players watched intently. There was not a sound in the room, except for the crush of licorice between Dr. Necco's teeth. He nodded at the dealer, who drew a cupcake card. The audience gasped. Dr. Necco slid his red piece all the way back to the cupcake square near the start of the game.
    "Time to give up candy, Dr. Necco," said Bond. "I'd say your sugar high is about to crash."
     But just then one of Dr. Necco's thugs jumped up from behind and put a dagger under Bond's chin. Dr. Necco laughed.
     "You thought you had me beat, didn't you Mr. Bond?," he said. "Looks like you're about to get a cavity - in your neck. Sorry you won't be able to win. You see I am the true king of the Candy Castle!"
     Bond smirked, and then jerked his head back, knocking out the goon. He grabbed the dagger just as Dr. Necco rose from the table and reached for his gun. Bond flung the knife at Dr. Necco's hand, slicing it and causing him to drop the weapon. Some blood landed on the board and deck of cards.
    "Looks like you drew a red card," said Bond to Necco.
    "And you, Mr. Bond, have a purple card!" said the dealer. "You win!"
    "Sweet," said Bond.

Nope... the game still seems boring to me.

With Kyle back at school, we don't play Candy Land as often as we did during the summer. Strangely, I do miss the game a little bit. Maybe I just enjoy seeing Kyle get excited over it. I know I will miss these moments someday, even if I have trouble staying awake through them. Now that I do play the game less, I won't go as far as to say that my mind has recovered; I believe some of the damage might be permanent. Yet, after a month or so of a quieter apartment, with silence during Adam's naps, I can do simple things again, like think in complete sentences. It's a good start, and maybe I'll be able to keep it going... at least until Adam hits the terrible twos.

Yearning to Fly

2012-07-07T20:09:00.000-04:00

Sunday was Adam's first time flying on an actual airplane (he's done the "Super Adam" flight with Daddy many times - and has crashed only a few). That meant it was our first time flying as a family of four. We were heading to Tampa, Florida, to see Jennifer's grandmother and introduce her to her great-grandson. Naturally we were a bit anxious. There were bags to pack! We needed flight, hotel and car reservations! We needed books, toys, and a portable DVD player for the noisy flight! We also needed directions to the nearest liquor store for after the flight.

Yes, traveling with two young kids, ages four and one, is not an easy task by any means. Most times we drive, but driving to Florida didn't seem to make sense, considering Jennifer didn't have enough vacation time for the hours on the road and the necessary lobotomy to cure our headaches after the trip. So this Sunday morning, we put our diaper bag, 50-pound suitcase, carry-on suitcase, carry-on duffel bag, toy bag, snack bag and stroller into the car and took off for the airport. A few minutes later we returned home to pick up the kids. We arrived at the airport before 9:00, and were in the ticketing line a short time later for our 10:45 a.m. flight. We thought we had given ourselves enough time, but we were flying United Airlines out of Newark Liberty International Airport, whose motto is "Where do you think YOU'RE goin'? Ha! Not today, pal."

The crowds at ticketing and baggage drop-off were larger than those for a rock concert. United's employees, to their credit, moved us towards a shorter line because we have two young children, but even so we waited about 45 minutes before we could touch a computer screen and drop off our bags. The computers weren't working properly, either, and a fast-moving employee kept racing back and forth from one computer to another, helping customers through the problems. After that, we walked to security and waited another half-hour in line as security guards let people in wheelchairs in ahead of us. Don't get me wrong: I have no problem with that. But every person in a wheelchair seemed to have ten family members with him or her, and all of them were let through, too. So we waited and waited, and nobody helped rush us through the line, even though the boarding of our plane had begun. Then, during the security check, some of our stuff was pulled aside to be scanned, including Adam's bottle. Turns out our baby closely resembles one of the FBI's most wanted and the security guards wanted to be sure he wasn't a threat.

Then came the sprint. Because our gate was the farthest one away from security, we had to race around the winding hallways, trampling over those who were enjoying the moving sidewalks as if they're an amusement park ride. Kyle was amazing, reaching near-Olympic speeds. We darted past other gates, which I'm certain are not real but are just placeholders so that people like us don't get to sit and enjoy the airport (out of fear that we might be able to smell Newark). When we arrived at the end of the hall, technically in Pennsylvania, we realized that our gate was DOWNSTAIRS. Using my newfound adrenaline, I flung the suitcases down, then Jennifer, then the children, and then slid down the banister to our gate. It was 10:40, five minutes before departure. We had made it!

"Sorry - the gate's closed," said the woman at the podium. That's when I lost it.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE GATE'S CLOSED?!?" I shouted. Everyone looked at me. "IT CAN'T BE CLOSED! WE HAVE TO GET ON THAT FLIGHT!! WE HAVE TWO CHILDREN!!!!" The children were doing their best to not be seen... they were a little surprised by their dad's reaction.

"Sorry, we gave away your seats. You can talk with customer service," said the woman, who then gave a sinister laugh. I hollered again about the children, as if that would suddenly make them realize we had two kids and, out of sympathy or fear that they'd be stuck with all the screaming and crying, would let us on the plane. No such luck. The woman again directed me to United Airlines' customer service and, giving up, I darted there. It's a good thing I ran, too, because a line of about 200 people formed after I arrived. Apparently this sort of thing happens often with United Airlines. The two people at the customer service desk were outnumbered five-to-one by empty chairs. After waiting about 20 minutes, one United representative very kindly told me that the rest of the flights to Tampa that day were completely booked. I was devastated. But then, by some miracle, the rep discovered there was an early afternoon flight to Orlando with three empty seats. I took those, and an hour and a half later were were finally on a plane to Florida.

Adam cried and screamed through much of his first flight. Fortunately for us, this was a flight to Orlando, so many of the passengers were sympathetic parents. Nobody tried to kick us off the plane, which is a good thing, since they would have had to use the jaws of life to get me out of that seat. Relief settled in once we landed and began the hour-and-a-half trek to Tampa. As we started our journey, I was also relieved that our kids are ages four and one, and unaware that Orlando is the home of He Who Must Not Be Named. It is also home to Harry Potter and Voldemort, and I'm glad the kids don't know them, either. We arrived at Tampa at 8:30 p.m., about 12 hours after leaving our home. It might have been faster to drive down.

The trip was certainly worth the hassle, and we had a wonderful time with Jennifer's grandmother and at our hotel in Tampa. Kyle would have been happy just staying in the pool all day, and we came close to doing that. The return home was less eventful, too. We flew United back from friendly Tampa International Airport, whose motto is, "Did you miss your flight? Don't worry honey - I'll call the pilot and he'll come back to pick you up." Adam also slept through the flight. That was exactly what we needed. We certainly have more plans to travel this year, but none involve flying, especially not from Newark. I'm very grateful for that.

Zoobie Zoobie Zoobie

2012-06-09T13:00:00.001-04:00

I recently read a news article saying that Sesame Street songs were being used on detainees at Guantamo Bay, Cuba. I'm not kidding. Apparently blasting Ernie's ode to his rubber duckie is more effective at wearing down suspected terrorists than other established forms of torture, such as waterboarding or the waiting room at the DMV. Of course, news of musical torture is making some people furious. The music industry has demanded that the government stop weaponizing their jingles. Human rights groups are protesting, while parents of young children are saying, "Is that the best you've got? You should spend a week at our place."

Kyle loves Sesame Street. He watches it every day. More specifically, he watches the SAME EPISODE every day, thanks to the power of Netflix instant (and the dim-witted dad who introduced him to it). He does this for weeks at a time, then moves on to another episode and watches that one over and over again. I can't tell you how many times I've seen Elmo, Zoe, and Telly nearly fight to the death over who has the best pet. I've also watched, time and time again, the episode in which Natalie Portman convinces Big Bird that she can run Hooper's Store by singing a song about change and teaching a hyperactive neurotic elephant how to make an omelet. Then there's the episode Kyle's watching now, a retelling of "The Sword in the Stone" featuring Baby Bear, who has a voice that only a deaf mother can love. It's enough to drive a parent crazy sometimes. I suppose I could get out of this cycle and just force Kyle to watch the next episode, but I don't because I believe it's about Elmo going to the DMV.

(Above: Kyle doesn't just listen to music;
he's an accomplish musician himself)

Fortunately, I have not suffered through repetitive children's music like many parents have... not yet, at least. We just don't have it playing in our home. I don't know if I deliberately meant for this to happen. I do know I was traumatized years ago, when we visited my young niece and watched Barney and Friends. The episode featured one of her favorite songs at the time, "Fruit Salad Yummy Yummy." If you need to know what I'm talking about, go ahead and look it up on YouTube - there's no way I will subject you to that myself. I swore then that I would never have that song in my home. Yet I don't think I intended to keep all children's music away. I just never attempted to listen to it. As a stay-at-home dad, my own music has been a source of sanity, and the kids usually enjoy it. In fact, Kyle has adopted some of our songs as his favorites, and now he likes hearing those songs over and over again.

These days his two favorites are, in his words, "To-nah-nah-nah, We are Yun" and "Zoobie Zoobie Zoobie." The recording industry prefers to call the first song "We are Young," and it's by a group called Fun. It's a great song that came out this year, and I enjoy hearing it each day with Kyle, even if it makes a passing comment about the singer's friends "getting higher than the Empire State." Big deal - they could be on swings, right? The other song is "Zou Bisou Bisou," a French tune sung by Don Draper's new wife Megan on the season premiere of AMC's Mad Men. From what I understand, the song's lyrics are harmless; loosely translated, they're a cooking recipe for frog legs. The song doesn't exactly fit in my classic rock collection, but Jennifer and I are fans of the show and thought it would be funny to hear the song from time to time in shuffle mode. But then our almost-four-year-old started bouncing to it, and now he wants to hear it nearly every day. Even our almost-one-year-old, Adam, shakes his arms to the beat. Jennifer and I do get a kick out of watching them, though it's still a little strange when you consider how we first heard this song (click here). Kyle has not seen this clip, and I have no plans to show it to him. To him, Mad Men is about a bunch of guys in suits and fedoras who look at pictures of bears and honey, determining what emotions they bring about (and, yes, one picture makes them "mad"). This impression, of course, is from Sesame Street.

I doubt I will introduce children's music in our home. It's too much of a risk. Don't get me wrong - there's a lot of good children's music out there. I often enjoy hearing it now and then. But "now and then" never happens in a young child's home. If the kids ever fell in love with "Fruit Salad Yummy Yummy," we'd have to play it every day, sometimes several times a day. Now that would be torture.

Mayday! Mayday!

2012-05-01T21:15:00.000-04:00

To those of you who have been wondering why I haven't posted anything in a while, I offer this video, which was recorded tonight:

I hope to be back soon.

Potty Time! Excellent!

2012-03-03T23:05:00.001-05:00

I am not exactly a potty person. Some parents out there love to go into detail about their children's ability to use a toilet, as if it's as cute as their first smile, first word, or first spit-up. I like to spare my readers details, since they might be reading this during a time when it would be inappropriate for them to suddenly throw up. So today I will write about potty training without going into many of the details. Besides, if you need details to find out what's really going on, then this might be a good time to take a step back, look at your life, and ask yourself, "Am I a robot?"

(Above: Meet the enemy)

I hate potty training. It's disgusting, it's exhausting, and it can make a person miss having a desk job to go to during the weekend. In many ways, potty training is much like military training, except that the trainee is the one barking orders and the trainers are like the guy who signed up for the military but can't take it, and is begging and pleading with the trainee, telling him he'd do anything he wants just to end this misery. For months, my three-and-a-half-year-old son refused any attempt to get him to sit on a toilet. It's not something that's easily forceable, especially if you want to keep your clothes clean. Trust me, I know. But we had to do it, especially with Pre-K happening this fall, and diapers are frowned upon there. We were told by the experts that potty training is something that will happen once the kid's ready, and apparently our son was not yet ready. Or he was, but he was incredibly stubborn about it (I tend to think this was the case). So, over and over again, I try to get Kyle to go. "Do you want to use the bathroom?" "No." "Do you want to use the bathroom now?" "No." "How about now?" "No." "Do you not want to not use no bathroom right now?" "Err... Yes." The kid was on to me.

We weaned him off diapers by buying him Pull-Ups, but those are really just expensive diapers, and he used them as such. We then bought him special Thomas the Tank Engine underwear, which apparently is made with pure sandpaper fibers. He wore them for half a minute before wanting them off. We then bought him something more comfortable, which he liked wearing, but not enough to give up diapers.

We tried incentives. Use the bathroom and you get M&M's. Use the bathroom and you get a lollipop. Use the bathroom and you get a sticker. Use the bathroom and you can drive the car around the block. Sadly, nothing worked. We also had a bag of wrapped children's books, gifts for Adam (don't tell him) that we didn't open because Adam would rather eat the gifts than open them. We told Kyle he could have one every time he used the bathroom, but he still didn't budge. Then, during a free weekend earlier this month, we decided to throw a potty party. One of Jennifer's coworkers did that for his child, and it worked, so we figured we'd give it a shot. We filled the bathroom with balloons, put a cup of lollipops by the sink, kept books nearby for reading, hired acrobats, and had an iPod set up to play Kyle's favorite music. Kyle loved the idea, up until he realized that it involved actually using the toilet. Then the screaming and shoving began. It soon became the WORST PARTY EVER, and, by the end of the night, we had to give up because of a digestion problem (again, I won't go into details here). Kyle wins, and parents lose again.

Our kid is stubborn, and once he makes up his mind that he doesn't want to do something, he will kick, scream, fight, fall to the ground and go limp. He wasn't going to face the toilet or sit on it, no matter how hard we tried to get him there. That's pretty much how that party went. I dunno... maybe we were doing it all wrong. We had no clue as to what would actually work. We just knew that our child is the ultimate flip-flopper: he will be completely against something one moment, and then, all of a sudden, he'll be for it and act as if he was for it all along. It's like he's a 3-year-old John Kerry or Mitt Romney. One night he hates sleeping with a pillow, the next night he loves it. One day he's not walking, the next day he's doing laps around our friend's apartment. One day he can't stand cucumber, the next day he's muching away on it. We just needed that moment to happen with the bathroom, and we were hoping it would happen before puberty.

(Above: Kyle gets lollipop fever)

Kyle was on vacation last week, and on Wednesday we decided to give the potty party another try. Kyle resisted at first, but then that evening, he surprised us by going a couple times. We don't know what changed his mind, but we weren't going to risk anything by asking him. He then said he'd like to try it again the next day. And that's what he did. He's been going every day since. Just like that, he was potty trained. We still rewarded him each time (just to make sure it kept going), which meant he had plenty of lollipops and M&M's, and a slew of new books for us to read to him. That didn't matter, since he had me read the same Curious George book to him each time he had to go. It's the one where the monkey gets into trouble but somehow manages to find a way out of it. Yeah, you know the one. After reading it each bathroom time for several days straight, I was starting to miss the diapers.

Fortunately, Kyle stopped asking me to read to him earlier this week. The lollipops quickly disappeared and we're now weaning him off the M&M's. Kyle's been a pro at using the bathroom, and he's already using it to his advantage: he's discovered it's a great delay tactic for brushing his teeth, getting ready for school, cleaning up, eating dinner, and taking a bath. The hour it used to take to get ready for bed now seems quick compared to the four hours it takes now. Ah, three-year-olds. But I'm not complaining. Not me. I'm a happy guy. Potty training is now over until the next kid tries it years from now, and I'm in no rush to start that.

Art School

2012-02-17T21:42:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I wonder how my kids view me. Now I know, thanks to Kyle's nursery school. This is what I look like to my three-year-old:

Those who know me well can see the resemblance. I think Kyle got my nose perfectly, though my hair seems a little off. But I suppose that's artistic license. This picture hung on the wall of my son's nursery school classroom, with a note underneath: "Kyle says, 'This is my Dad.'" As if anyone would have thought otherwise.

(Above: the artist and his contemporaries
pose for a class photo)

This masterpiece is one of many works of art that Kyle has created at that magical place called nursery school. Since his first class in mid-September, Kyle has brought home, among other things, a big Valentine's Day heart, a construction-paper Christmas stocking, a jack-o-lantern made from a paper plate, and a picture of dots that looks like his mother. They're very sweet, and I might be able to auction them off for a few bucks.

My favorite work of art is the one on his classroom door right now. It's a construction-paper cutout of a little child wearing winter clothes, including a hat, gloves and scarf. At least, I think it's a scarf; Kyle's guy is wearing his up the side of his face, over his right ear.

The artwork itself is nothing extraordinary when compared to previous drawings and paintings by Kyle and his classmates. No, what makes these images of bundled-up children stand out are the quotes next to them, given by the artists themselves. From what I understand, each kid was pulled aside and asked to tell the teacher what he or she plans to do this winter. Most of the artists shared many of the heart-warming images of childhood: building a snowman with mommy and daddy, going sledding with a brother or sister, or just running through the snow. This is what my boy said:

"I will build a snowman, and then eat the snowman." Hmph. Maybe my kid's hungry. Maybe he doesn't quite understand snowmen. Or maybe he's slightly cannibalistic. We'll probably get a better idea when he has to make an Easter bunny. Until then, I'll assume the quote is just him exploring his own imagination. He is an artist, after all.

Big Blues

2012-02-10T23:00:00.000-05:00

The sports gods are screwing with my attempt to brainwash my kids. I used to think that getting my kids to root for my teams would be easy, even though I am from Boston and we're living in Enemy Territory. I figured, as the kids grew up, I'd somehow convince them to ignore their own hometown teams, either by telling them they are instruments of the devil (the Yankees) or they don't really exist (the Mets). By age two, Kyle was already saying "Go Red Sox," adding that Big Papi was his favorite player. The kid also regularly wore a Red Sox hat and jacket, making him my own human shield against the barrage of New York insults. For the most part, it was working perfectly.

(Above: Adam and Kyle experience the agony of defeat
with their friend Julia)

But then there's football. Football was supposed to be easy. The animosity between New York and New England isn't quite as strong on the gridiron as it is on the baseball diamond. The Jets are obnoxious, for sure, but they don't stir up the kind of hatred reserved for the Yankees. I don't see myself banishing my kid from our home for being a Jets fan, though I might deny him dessert after dinner. As a Pats fan, I was more concerned about Peyton Manning and his Colts, anyway. Kyle has become a fan of the Patriots, too, and whenever I asked for his favorite player, he says, "Tom Brady!"

Then the sports gods smacked us with Super Bowl XLVI. New England versus New York. Rematch of Super Bowl XLII.

"Who's going to win on Sunday?" asked Kyle's nursery school teacher when I arrived to pick up my son last week.

"The Giants," said Kyle with a devilish grin. I gasped. Kyle's nursery school teacher laughed and laughed. She said they had been practicing it. It took her just an afternoon to undo three years of hard work.

I never really disliked the Giants. After all, the greatest coaches of the Patriots, Bill Parcells and Bill Belichick, were with the Giants first. The current head coach, Tom Coughlin, has Boston ties and quarterback Eli Manning just seems too goofy to be loathed. I like the fact that he's having more success than his attention-grabbing brother; I just wish it wasn't at the expense of my Patriots. Twice.

So now everyone outside our home has been celebrating, while our family is just carrying on. This year's loss didn't hurt as much as the 2008 loss, when a perfect season was on the line. Back then, though, I didn't think about my kids. Now - I can't believe this - I'm actually starting to feel a little guilt for carrying on with my plan. Is that right? This year I could avoid anything to do with the parades and celebration. But what if the Giants win again when Kyle is six? or eight? He'd be too aware of it then. If it's not against the Pats, I think I might go along with it. Maybe the Giants can still be #2 in our home to the #1 Pats. If the kids have to root for a New York baseball team, maybe they can root for the Mets. But is that the start down a slippery slope, with my kids building even more love for the New York teams? I'm hoping it's not. I will continue to brainwash as best I can, knowing now that the loyalty fight might be tougher in the days ahead. Hopefully the Pats will find a way back to the biggest game in sports, but against a team other than New York. I'm sick of rematches.

Good Enough for Me

2012-01-28T20:14:00.000-05:00

I am addicted to cookies. I used to enjoy them a lot as a kid, but now, as a stay-at-home dad, it's almost impossible for me to get through a day without them, especially since the second child was born. Coffee keeps me awake, but cookies keep me sane. Yes, I know it's not healthy. I've tried to wean myself off them from time to time, and I think I'm down to one pack a week. Sometimes I even opt for the gum, but spearmint is no match for peanut butter chocolate chip. No, cookies are my vice. It's a little after noon as I write this paragraph, and I've already had three. Kyle isn't even home from nursery school yet.

Jennifer has laughed at my addiction, and has mockingly called me a Cookie Monster from time to time. I admit that I am, but she's not innocent in all this. No, she's an enabler. Just look at the thing sitting on top of my refrigerator. Do you see that? That's a gift she gave me a couple Christmases ago. Yes, it is emblazoned with the Coca-Cola logo. Yes, it says, "Big King Size: Ice Cold." But don't be fooled: there's nothing cold in there. There's no Coca-Cola in that jar. That jar was given to me for one thing: cookies. Sweet, beautiful cookies. Mmmmmmm.

Where was I? Oh, yes, the cookie jar. I suppose it was a necessity. I was already deep within Nabiscoland by that Christmas, and Jennifer was probably tired of seeing an open package of Chips Ahoy! in the kitchen. At least the jar is neater. I like it because it's quieter than the crinkly packaging, especially now that I have to hide my addiction from my three-year-old, who enjoys the treat as much as I do. Often while he's sitting on the couch, watching TV, I sneak into the kitchen and slowly and carefully open the jar. I grab a couple and then close the jar, hoping he doesn't notice. Sometimes I accidentally clang the lid against one of the edges, and then my boy's finely-tuned cookie monitor dings, and I hear, "Can I have a cookie, Daddy?" It's very difficult to say "no" to that, especially since I can't really say anything at all with a cookie already in my mouth. Mmmmmmm.

Okay, so maybe that's a little pathetic. How did it get this bad? I look at the picture below and I say, how did it NOT get this bad?

Mmmmmmmm. Where was I? Oh, yes. Blaming the child. Kyle drove me to this. Back when I was a brand-new parent, with a brand-new baby, I suddenly found myself alone with brand-new dirty diapers, brand-new tantrums, and brand-new anxiety. Did you know that when a baby wants a bottle, and when you tell that baby you're getting that bottle ready, the baby doesn't sit and wait patiently? Did you know that sometimes a pacifier doesn't pacify? Did you know that a baby can cry when he's tired and cry when he doesn't want to nap - at the same time? Did you know that diapers sometimes don't do the one and only job they are supposed to do? Did you know that it often takes at least 45 minutes to get out the door with a baby if you are planning on going outside for about 45 minutes? I think at some point, as I was rushing around, trying to figure out what this constantly demanding child needed, I realized I needed some relief. Something for myself. Amazingly, the taste of a cookie did the trick. Well, not just one... more like five. Ah, who cared if there was still half a day 'til bedtime? I was happy, at least for a moment. Now there's no going back.

Sometimes I look at the Nutrition Facts and laugh at the serving size. Really? Do they actually believe a person would eat just one or two of these things? Maybe some people do, as a special treat in the middle of the day, on a little plate next to one of those miniature cups of espresso. But these people probably don't buy several packages of Chocolate Chunk at a time, or even go for the supermarket duplex cookies. They prefer the quality cookies. I usually don't have time for quality cookies. Even when I do, I wouldn't eat just one. Sometimes Jennifer has to stop me from eating a whole package of Pepperidge Farm in one sitting. Really, what are these "Nutrition Facts" people thinking?

Time does play a factor in my cookie-eating abilities, and so does my cookie-loving son's highly-sensitive ears. I must eat my cookies fast, quietly, and with nobody noticing. So I have learned how to eat them like a frog eats a fly. I grab a cookie and, using my tongue, zip the entire thing into my mouth. Now you see it; now you don't. It's one talent I have perfected as a stay-at-home dad, and I'm awfully proud of it. I have eaten hundreds of cookies without Kyle noticing, and now I'm sneaking them in as Adam screams for a bottle. Mixing formula is a whole lot better while slowly munching on some Oreos.

That's what being a stay-at-home dad has done to me. Cookies and coffee have kept me from turning prematurely gray during the toughest parts of the past three and a half years. Could be worse, I suppose. And while I often cower in a corner with my addiction, there are many other times when my kids make the job easy, and during those times it's fun to live it up... sharing a cookie together. Mmmmmmmm.

The Real World

2012-01-20T20:13:00.000-05:00

Believe it or not, there are some who say a person must have more than one child to be considered a REAL parent. Jennifer ran into one such person at work, months before Adam was born. Naturally she was offended, and a bar fight ensued. Once Jennifer came home (and recycled the broken beer bottles), she told me about the comment, and I was disgusted too. How arrogant or mentally unstable would you have to be to say such a thing?

Then Adam was born, and now we're seven months into our two-kid adventure. Sometime last week Jennifer brought up that comment again, after the two screaming kids went to bed and we began the hours-long process of cleaning up and imbibing. Once again, we both agreed that the person who made the comment was wrong, and I'm not just saying that because I don't want hate mail or death threats from my closest friends and some family members. You simply cannot be sprayed by a child at 3 a.m. and not be called a real parent. But these days it is easier to see why someone would make such a comment.

Here's a little snapshot of what happens most days: let's begin with my three-year-old son Kyle, who is suddenly STARVING, even though he had a snack not too long ago. He won't stop telling me about it. "I need a snack, Daddy! I need a snack, Daddy! I need a snack, Daddy! I need a snack, Daddy!" This usually happens right after nursery school, while I still have a jacket on and am trying to get a wailing (and also hungry) Adam out of his baby carrier. Since it is, indeed, snack time, I tell Kyle to hold on and I'll get him one soon. There's a pause for about a second... then, "I need a snack, Daddy!"

After I pull Adam out of his carrier, I put him down in his bouncy seat, and I go get Kyle a snack. Adam starts whining for a teether while Kyle complains that the bowl containing his Goldfish is not up to his high standards. While this is going on, I measure out some water for Adam's formula and start warming it up in a bowl of hot water. I get Adam a teether and then take my jacket off. Adam flings the teether to the floor, and Kyle realizes that Goldfish make him thirsty. "I need water, Daddy! I need waaatteerr!" he cries as if we just came back from a retreat in the desert instead of nursery school. Adam is tired and hungry and sick of being stuck in one place, so he whines some more as he tries to flip himself around in his bouncy seat, and each day he seems closer to succeeding. I grab him another toy.

"Daddy, let's play Christmas!" Kyle has developed a new game in which he and I sit down for a half-hour, pretending to give each other presents by opening two of his plastic boxes over and over again while feigning excitement and gratitude (he's practicing for the future, when gifts become less fun and more underwear-like). Christmas will last all year in our house. But tears are streaming down Adam's face, so I tell Kyle not right now. "But why, Daddy?" he whines, "I want to play Christmas." I start to mix Adam's formula, and Kyle forgets how to walk. He trips over his would-be Christmas toy (rejected by that cruel Scrooge Daddy), and falls to the ground. He starts to give that open-mouthed, wrinkled-faced, red-cheeked cry. So I stop what I'm doing to give him a hug and I check to make sure there's no blood and all joints are working properly. Adam stops whining for a second, but once he realizes that his brother is okay, he goes back to his demands. In very kind words I tell Kyle to suck it up and get over it and then I walk back to Adam's bottle and open container of formula. I stand there, confused. Before the cry, did I put one scoop or two scoops in?

As I shake the formula, I pause to tell Kyle to stop licking the dishwasher. I then put the nipple on the bottle and I stop Kyle again, this time before he makes a pretzel out of Adam's arms. "Gentle," I say, "he's still a baby." Kyle doesn't believe me. By now I probably should have put on the TV, but I plan to save that card for later, when I want to have my coffee without a kid jumping on me and scalding my hands. I pick Adam up and he's all smiles. Hooray! Daddy to the rescue with formula! I walk towards the chair to feed Adam, when Kyle blurts out, "I have a dirty diaper!"

I suppose I could just let Kyle sit in it, and sometimes I have told him to wait. But in the end it's easier to just get it over with than to smell it while I'm feeding the baby. So I put Adam back down, and he screams like he hates my guts and will move out once he can walk. But then, after I change Kyle diaper and deny a few more of his "Christmas" requests, I grab Adam and he's my best friend again. Feeding time is here!

So that's about twenty minutes with two kids. Fortunately, the entire day is not like that; thank God for nursery school. And once the TV is on, Kyle becomes too riveted by the plot (Will Oscar find true love? Will Cookie Monster ever recover from that cookie ponzi scheme? Who murdered Snuffy?) to take his eyes off the screen. Adam naps, too, and that gives me a little break. Yes, life with two kids is more intense than it was with one kid, but the jump from one kid to two is nowhere near the perilous leap from zero kids to one. And at least I don't have three kids. Maybe that's when a person becomes a "real" parent.

Of course, adjusting to this new life is taking quite a bit of time, and that's why you haven't heard from me much. I think I'm finally getting into some sort of rhythm, at least until Adam changes his sleeping habits. So maybe, just maybe, I'll be back next week. But I'm not making any promises, at least until the kids go to college.

House of the Early-Rising Son

2011-12-10T20:20:00.000-05:00

"DAAAAAA-DEEEEEE! The sun is up!"

Groan.

"LOOK! The sun is up!"

This is how my eldest son often wakes me these days. He proclaims that the sun has risen, not-too-subtly suggesting that we should all rise with it, as if the sun were lonely and needed company in the earliest hours of the day.

"DAAAAAA-DEEEEEEEEEEE!" repeats my son, in case I didn't hear him through our booming child monitor. Notice how he doesn't usually call for his mother. He respects her desire to sleep. And Adam's too. I think nothing brings my son greater joy than tormenting his father. "LOOK! The sun is up!"

I groan again and use all my will to not shout something profane. "Go back to bed," I respond, and he hears it because he's young and has super-sensitive hearing, which is piqued whenever he expects me to say something profane.

"But I'm not tired. The sun is up!"

I want to throw a pillow at him to get him to stop, but there's no effective way to do that from my bed. The pillow hits the wall.

"Go back to sleep, Kyle!"

To be honest, this isn't a bad wake-up call. It could be worse. It could be a scream. It could be vomit. It could be Kyle tipping over Adam's crib. A little proclamation that "the sun is up," is rather harmless and amusing at times. I probably would welcome it daily if it weren't so often completely inaccurate. The sun does not rise at 5:15 a.m.

"The sun is NOT up, Kyle! Go back to bed!"

Okay, maybe the sun is up at 5:15 a.m. somewhere. There are parts of Alaska where the sun rises early and then doesn't set for more than a month. But in New York City, in December, the sun does not appear before seven o'clock. That is, unless the Earth is about to crash into it. Then, and only then, I'd be okay with getting up.

"DAAAAAAAAAAA-DEEEEEEEEE!!! DAAAAAAAAAAA-DEEEEEEEEE!!! The sun is up!"

Don't be fooled: Kyle does not believe that the sun is up, either. Only once was he confused, and that was because of a full moon at 2 a.m. When he's up at 5, 5:15 or 5:30, it's because he can't sleep and is excited about going to nursery school, which begins at 8:30. Our clock alarm is set for 6 a.m., but many times that's too late for Kyle. If he's up, then naturally the sun must be up, and if he repeats it enough times, he'll convince us all to get up and get going. But I fight back, determined to stay in bed at least 'til six. Especially during the weekend.

"Go back to bed Kyle!"

"I'm done sleeping, Daddy!"

And so we go back and forth with a shouting duel between two very stubborn people. As you can imagine, my wife absolutely loves this. She often talks about just giving in to the three-year-old, but doing so would require actually getting up, and she usually has no energy for that early in the morning because at night we tend to stay up much later than the parents of two kids should. So she groans an objection as I keep up the battle.

"No, Kyle, we have to rest a little longer!"

"LOOK, Daddy! The sun is UP!"

Of all the battles I pick with Kyle, this is one I win fairly regularly, but that's often because it just lasts until six o'clock. Once the alarm goes off, I stop the fight. Jennifer gets up, looks at me crossly, and then heads to the shower. I shuffle my way to the boys' room, and Kyle jumps out with a burst of energy. He does not admit defeat because he has no concept of time. The little guy runs to the couch to watch TV, and, after changing Adam, I slowly follow him there. As I stare blankly at the television, trying figure out why Jennifer and I didn't choose to raise plants instead of children, Kyle begins a new battle, asking repeatedly for breakfast. Our morning is now officially underway, and, despite claims to the contrary, the sun is still not up.

Painting the Town Brown

2011-11-02T20:50:00.000-04:00

For Halloween, most kids dress up as vampires, witches, superheroes or princesses. Some imitate characters of myth and fable, while others prefer to look like their favorite TV star. Monday night, our son Kyle was dressed like the UPS guy.

It's not easy to pick out a costume for a three-year-old, especially when he refuses to give us any suggestions. Kyle is just as picky with clothing as he is with food, and any attempt by parents to get him to try something else will be met with uncontrollable wrath. Yes, that means the extremely fashionable bacon suit, the perfect combination of style and cuisine, would be Kyle's ultimate punishment. Fortunately, we tend to deal with the food and clothing aversions separately, and as Jennifer and I searched for this year's costume, we went through the extensive list of no-no's. No bulky clothes. No super-tight clothes. Nothing too flashy. Nothing too frilly. Nothing too slimy. Nothing with spikes. No masks. No funny noses. No enormous ears. No slippers. No hats.

The last bit about hats is a big one. Kyle has one hat he likes to wear - a Brooklyn baseball cap - and he even throws that one to the ground often. Many of the costumes we liked required him to wear an identifiable hat. Initially we wanted Kyle to be a zookeeper, since his brother Adam was going as a lion (a hand-me-down gift from our good friends Matt & Amanda, whose son Evan was a lion last year). But every zookeeper costume we saw looked like a nondescript beige uniform without the hat. Then we came across the UPS costume. It was simple. Everyone would know who he was from the badge on his brown shirt. The hat was nice, but not required. Plus, Kyle nearly wets his diaper with excitement every time our UPS guy rings the buzzer, and he always demands I take him downstairs to get the package. We just couldn't resist giving him the costume.

"I want to be BATMAN," said the little guy several days ago. Tough luck, kid. That ain't gonna happen, especially with Halloween less than a week away. It would have been nice if Kyle told us that in September, or even two weeks ago. At first, I thought we'd have a crisis on our hands, but fortunately Kyle forgot about his suggestion a day or so later. Next year we won't be as lucky, I'm sure.

So, on Halloween, Kyle wore the UPS costume with little resistance, and Adam was a fiercely drooling lion. Kyle first went to a party at his nursery school, where he says many girls dressed up as butterflies. Butterflies? That seemed like an odd costume. We asked him if he was sure, and he said, yes, they were butterflies. It took us a while, but then we realized his likely mistake. The wings must have thrown him off. The girls probably were dressed like other winged characters, such as fairies, angels or Winged Nazgul. Not butterflies. That would have been silly. We didn't bother to correct Kyle, since it's often futile to correct a three-year-old on matters such as these. The girls were butterflies.

Then came the trick-or-treating. That was a lot of fun. I'm guessing a couple hundred kids (no kidding) roamed our block and the next, asking for treats and getting plenty. Kyle's pumpkin bucket was full in practically no time. Everyone recognized his costume, and many people asked him if he had a package for them. Of course he didn't, but Kyle didn't want the candy-givers to get upset and deny him sweets. So he said, "yeah," then grabbed the candy and ran off before the candy-givers could respond. Adam lurked behind, ready to scare them with his fierce lion gums should they try to go after his brother.

This was the best Halloween we've had in a long time, perhaps the best one since we've gone trick-or-treating ourselves (and we've had a lot of good ones since Kyle was born). I just love seeing it though Kyle's eyes. I can't wait 'til Adam can trick-or-treat with him. That will be a blast, and it will also bring in twice as much candy. As it is, I've been on a sugar high since mid-October, but I'm guessing it'll wind down by Veteran's Day. Someday I hope to keep it up 'til Thanksgiving. Oh yes, I love Halloween.

Closing Time

2011-10-20T20:18:00.000-04:00

There are certain places that are obviously unfit for an infant and three-year-old: a topless bar, a slaughterhouse, a place where Santa Claus decorations are melted for recycling. But what about an attorney's office on the day of a closing? It's hard to see any dangers there. Sure, it's not as exciting as a playground or a grilled cheese sandwich, but the office has pens and paper and chairs to play on, as long as the kids sign waivers absolving the attorneys of any responsibility should there be an accident. Plus, a closing should be exciting for kids, as it is the start of a new adventure into a brand new home with nice clean floors and walls for them to destroy. Why not bring our children? At least that's what we had to tell ourselves, after our many babysitting plans fell through.

(Above: Packed up and ready to move to a new home)

So, in late August, we smiled sheepishly as we walked into the attorney’s office, apologizing in advance for our kids, as Kyle ran off and almost whacked the bank representative with a swivel chair. That required another apology, and more paperwork. Jennifer and I took our spots at the long table, with our real estate attorney sitting between us. The sellers sat across from us with their lawyer, and there were other representatives there from the bank and the state. Nobody was upset that our children were with us, or at least they didn't show it.  Adam remained in his car seat, on the table next to Jennifer. Kyle was supposed to be near me, but he couldn't stay in one spot when there were so many cabinet doors to open. We had brought some books and crayons, but he was done with those and off to something else before we could sign the first document.

And, wow, there were a ton of papers to sign. For some reason, you can form a country with a single document, but you can't buy a home in that country without getting carpal tunnel syndrome. Page after page flew in front of us for a signature, as our lawyer briefly explained what each one meant. Much of it was over my head. This was our first time purchasing a home. I was used to signing a one-page lease that basically told us to pay the rent on time, keep the place clean, and don't throw animals out the window. Now I had to sign a mountain of paper, taking ownership to every little crack in the wall of our new condo, and giving the bank permission to remove our kidneys should we be delinquent with our payments.

At least, that's what I understand of what happened that day. I couldn't quite focus with Kyle running around, taking off his shoes, skipping out of sight into the hallway, and climbing the office blinds.  As I carefully watched Kyle and tried to steer him from harm, I just nodded, signed and initialed each page before me, hoping that somehow I wasn't doing anything I'd regret later. I also figured that my wife, who is an attorney, would be closely following and understanding everything that was going on.  If I had questions, I could just ask her later. But Jennifer was having a rough time with Adam, who that afternoon realized that being a quiet little baby is boring and screaming incites a funny reaction from Mommy. So she just signed away as she tried to quell our infant, hoping that I was listening to the proceedings. Once we were done and on the way home, we realized that neither of us had a clue as to what just happened, or why we agreed to let the sellers' Uncle Murray stay with us on weekends.

Now it's nearly two months later, and I think we survived the home-buying process. I still feel buying a home was the right thing to do. Our savings account had been dragging us down, and we were tired of living someplace we could actually afford. Besides, owning property is part of the American dream, and buying a home allowed us to take part in another joy of life: moving. This time we packed and unpacked with two children around, which should be illegal.  Everything went much more slowly, but with far more stress.  Blankets and toys had to be found - immediately! - even if you forgot what box you put them in.  Fortunately, some meltdowns were averted (thank you, DVD player) and now a majority of things are where they should be.  I'm getting to a point where I can stop unpacking and do other things, such as showering and writing. It feels good. Life is finally returning to normal, whatever "normal" may be.

Big Brother is Watching

2011-07-31T12:27:00.000-04:00

Note: July turned out to be more difficult than I had anticipated. I had hoped to write an original post for "Dave Weekly," but instead I am publishing a post I had written this month for my baby blog. My apologies to all those who also subscribe to that blog and are now forced to re-read the same bad jokes.

So far, Kyle seems to be liking his baby brother. Or rather, he seems to be obsessed with him. "Kyle wants to see baby Adam!" "Kyle wants to see baby Adam!" That's all I hear from him all day. When he sits down for a meal, he wants to be in a seat where he can view the little guy. When Kyle rides next to Adam in his stroller, he practically stands in it so that he can see Adam rolling along beside him. When Adam takes a nap, Kyle wants to watch. When Adam wants a feeding, Kyle... well, fortunately for Jennifer, Kyle's okay with Adam doing that alone.

And there's more. While most of us often wait years to relive our childhoods, Kyle's already wanting a return trip down memory lane. When we tried "tummy time" to terrify Adam...

... Kyle also had to join in.

We clapped when Kyle showed us how well he could roll over.

This obsession is a bit unexpected. We were hoping Kyle would like Adam, or just get used to having him around. But instead, for the past month, Kyle's been completely focused on his younger brother. If Kyle weren't three years old and Adam's sibling, I'd call him a creepy stalker. Yet, it all seems mostly innocent (keep in mind I say "mostly"). Kyle's even nudging us to do more, often telling us to say "hi" to Adam, or ask "what's the matter, Adam?" when he's crying. Kyle also makes his own guesses as to what's causing Adam's cries, and he likes to share those with us. He'll tell us that Adam is hungry, has a dirty diaper, or is going tone-deaf by listening to his daddy's singing.

Sure, this sounds nice and helpful and all, but the truth is Kyle likes the crying. He smiles widely when he hears it. He laughs. So, naturally, he wants to hear it again. And that's where the innocence ends. Many times Kyle hovers around Adam just to get him worked up. If Adam is sleeping, Kyle will walk up to him and start shouting loudly and incoherently until his little brother wakes up crying. Kyle then will look up at me and say that Adam needs a diaper change.

A little sibling rivalry might be budding here. Kyle better be careful. I think Adam is quietly plotting revenge...

I can see it in his eyes.

Dave Monthly

2011-06-30T11:30:00.021-04:00

While I get used to having two kids, I don't think it's wise for me to keep up with two blogs. I'm not exactly the type of person who posts without editing or rewriting, so these things take a bit of time, and time is a little scarce these days. Because of that, I plan to take a break from Dave Weekly to focus more on my blog for family and friends.

I will continue to write on this blog, but only once a month in July, August and September. I'll go back to my weekly column in October, just in time for Kyle to begin nursery school. We'll have lots of fun then, especially with all the diseases our kid will be bringing home. Oh boy!

Have a great one, and be sure to come back here next month!

Spoiling Our Dinner

2011-06-26T22:33:00.000-04:00

There are certain things you don't do in the days leading up to a scheduled c-section. Using a slow cooker is one of them. In the evening of June 16th, I had to prematurely kill what would have been a delicious rump roast meal, with just two hours of cooking left to go. The smell of marinated meat, accompanied by peppers, onions and other savory ingredients, had already permeated the apartment. For much of the day, we welcomed the aroma, and became increasingly excited about our gourmet dinner. But as I stood there, with my hand clicking the knob to "off," the smells became a tease for a meal that wasn't meant to be, mocking us for even attempting to cook anything that requires hours when we were living minute-to-minute, waiting for a sign that the baby was to arrive. The meal had to end. Jennifer was having contractions.

I will never forgive Adam for killing my rump roast. His brother had the decency to arrive after the due date. The least Adam could do was wait 'til the c-section appointment, which was scheduled five days before he was due. Or maybe wait 'til taco night. But no, our son had to go ahead and launch contractions before our meal was finished. The nerve.

"Surprise!"

At first, we weren't even sure that Jennifer was going through actual labor, which made killing our meal all the more painful. After dropping Kyle off at our emergency sitter, we rushed to the hospital, grabbed a couple chairs outside the delivery room... and waited. And waited. And waited. Then a nurse gave us a room, put Jennifer on a bed, hooked her up to monitors, and made us wait some more. It was a very busy night at the maternity ward, exactly nine months after iTunes released Barry White's "Ultimate Love" Collection. A doctor introduced herself, asked why we were there, checked Jennifer's pulse and the baby's heartbeat, and then disappeared for hours. From time to time, nurses came in, again asking why we were there before checking Jennifer's pulse and the baby's heartbeat. They downplayed the contractions, saying they probably weren't signs of actual labor, and were likely triggered by dehydration or the aroma of a very, very good meal. Still, Jennifer was not to eat or drink anything, just in case we really were on the baby train. For long stretches we were left alone in the small room with no TV, shielded from others by a thin curtain. We had no music, just beeps from the monitors and Adam's heartbeat, which would fade in and out depending on where he positioned himself. I sat in a chair by Jennifer's bed, next to what appeared to be the only working bathroom in the entire ward, so we had more visitors than medics checking up on us. We waited some more as Jennifer's contractions intensified. Then the doctor we had met earlier walked back into our room. She introduced herself and asked us why we were there. It was a long night.

At about 1 a.m., nearly seven hours after we had checked in and long after our rump roast began to decay on our kitchen counter, the doctor and nurses finally determined that labor was indeed happening. Jennifer and I gave each other a high-five. It's Baby Time! The doctors said they'd be right back, and about an hour later they returned and prepped Jennifer for the operation. I went downstairs to the admitting office and signed about 400 papers to appease the hospital's lawyers. I also ate the snack I had packed in my emergency bag. Maternity doctors suggest that the husband should eat, since it's pointless to have two hungry parents, and they don't want the dads thinking about chicken wings when they receive their babies for the first time.

A doctor then guided me to the operating room, and I sat there by Jennifer's side, waiting for our little one to arrive. Adam joined our family at 2:58 a.m. on the 17th. The surgeons cleaned him up and then handed our beautiful little boy to me. I was overwhelmed with pride and joy, and I smiled widely as I talked to our son for the first time. He cried and nearly passed out as he smelled my rancid breath. That night I learned another thing about preparing for a child's birth: when putting together your hospital bag, don't pack a "barbecue and cheese" snack mix as your emergency food. I don't think Adam received a good first impression of his dad.

A little more than a week has passed. We're now at home, surviving life with two kids. It's going well so far, and our family and friends have been there to lend support and offer their congratulations. Life is great. My mom is here as well to help us along during the first couple of weeks. She's also doing much of the cooking. I think I will make a special request. Let's hope Adam doesn't ruin it again.

And Then There Were Two

2011-06-18T00:52:00.000-04:00

Little Adam has arrived.

"Pop" Quiz

2011-06-15T16:33:00.000-04:00

I've had this recurring dream: I'm back in high school or college, and I suddenly hear I have a major exam coming up within a few hours. The exam is based on a large book that I have not read, and I realize there's simply not enough time to read it. I am not ready at all for this exam, and flunking it could get me kicked out of school. I panic. Then I wake up. I'm a bit rattled, and it takes me a few moments to remember that I've been done with school for more than a decade now. The dream has been one of the more vivid and bothersome dreams I've had in a while. It's almost as bad as that one where I go to a U2 concert and Justin Bieber takes the stage.

I don't analyze dreams for a living, but it's not difficult to figure out the meaning behind this one. Sure, I could blame it on something I ate (which may explain why I'm usually in the classroom naked and carrying a ukulele), but I don't think it's a conicidence that I've had these dreams while I've been preparing for my second child. The due date is approaching very quickly, and I can't help but think to myself: am I ready?

(Above: "Ready or not, here I come!")

You bet I am. I'm not nervous because I've done this before. Been there, done that, ready to do it again. Yet, I'm slightly unnerved by the fact that I'm not nervous. Maybe there's something I prepared for last time that I didn't this time, and it'll spring upon me last-minute (like that exam). Each child is different, so how will this child surprise us? Will he sleep well? Will he have colic? Will he be into country music? I don't believe I'm ready for that. I think this might be the kind of stuff that haunts me in my sleep.

Or maybe I haven't fully prepared for all the familiar things. Things I remember not liking the first time around and was so glad to be done with. Middle-of-the night feedings. Spit-up. Changing-time explosions. Enfamil. Soon I will have to deal with all those things again. And then there's the waiting. I had forgotten about the waiting. Our little guy is full-term now, so he could pop at any time. He will be out within a week regardless. But will he come early? It happens often with the second child. Jennifer was two weeks earlier than her due date, and we've already crossed that line. So now we're in the stretch where we are on edge, awaiting any sign that the little guy might be ready to come out. According to the pregnancy books, I'm supposed to be a calming force during this time, but I still find myself jumping up, grabbing the bags and preparing to call our backup babysitter whenever Jennifer signals any discomfort, even if it's from indigestion. Yeah, I hate the waiting part. But even that doesn't make me nervous; I just want to get out fast enough so we don't get stuck delivering on a crowded FDR Drive.

As for having two kids, I'm really not sure what life will be like once that happens. I think more of our stuff will be broken. We might also need a better diaper pail and some earplugs. Again, for some odd reason I'm not worried about it. I feel prepared for two kids. We have Band-Aids, Neosporin and a fire extinguisher. We'll be fine.

Of course, this is what I say when I'm awake. I think my dreamland self is still terrified. Fortunately, my dreamland self won't be making an appearance in the first week after the birth, and after that he'll be here in just short spurts. By the time I get a full night's sleep again, I'll be too tired to even worry about anything.

So, it looks like the next time I post on this blog I will be a father of two. Honestly, I am very much looking forward to it. I think, in the long run, it will be lots of fun. If anything, I won't be starving for new things to write about. I just hope that, if we're surprised by anything in the coming week, I pass the test.

Stay tuned.

My Buddy and Me

2011-06-08T22:32:00.000-04:00

This week is bittersweet for me. It's the last week before Jennifer begins her maternity leave. While I am thrilled to soon have her here full-time, and to welcome into the world our second child, this is the last full week of just Kyle and me. By the time maternity leave ends, Kyle will be going to nursery school.

It's that whole old vs. new thing again. We've been dealing with it a lot this year, and we have even more to come (for example, our neighbor, Kyle's best friend right now, moves to Colorado next week, and Kyle's babysitter moves to Maine in August). It can be difficult at times. Yet, it's unavoidable. Change will happen, change must happen, change can be fun and the greatest thing that could ever happen to us. Though we are often excited about the future, there's still that little tug that says, "Yeah, but what you have now is coming to an end." I like what I have now. I like it a lot.

In three short years, Kyle has transformed from a crying/eating/pooping machine into my buddy. We joke together, we can talk about our day, we build train tracks, we wrestle from time to time, and we occasionally debate religion and politics. Kyle has really matured. Many times it's fun doing things with him, and whenever that happens, the time flies and I almost feel as if we're just a couple friends hanging out. At those times, I just love being a dad.

Naturally, in this final week of just him and me, Kyle has chosen to throw me a curve ball. He has not napped since last Wednesday. If this is the start of something permanent, then June 1, 2011, will be a day of infamy in our household. When Kyle refuses to nap, his behavior goes sour. He whines often, fights with me, and starts testing the limits of what he can do. He throws things. He rips things. He roots for the Yankees. He even starts hitting me, and, as he gets closer to age three (Monday's his birthday), that sort of thing actually hurts. I also lose my sanity break and my writing time, which makes me all the more irritable as the day winds down. I have trouble getting things done, and sometimes it's hard to even think. Even though Kyle and I have had our fun moments, it's been a rough last week. Maybe that's a good thing, since it's making me less nostalgic and even more excited to have Jennifer here next week. It's much easier to have a second person to help with a kid refusing to nap.

But then it's on to a new routine, and, in two weeks, a larger family. A new home is around the corner, too (more on that next month - stay tuned!). Then there's nursery school this fall. I wonder how Kyle will react to all this change. His mommy is going to be home full-time for a while as new people and places will enter his life. What we have right now, this time when it's just the two of us, is coming to an end. Sure, we'll have many more moments together, but it won't be as regular as it is now. So far, Kyle has done well with adapting. There's a good chance this change will affect me more than it will affect him. In many ways, I hope that's the case.

I am looking forward to change. I can't wait to meet my new son. I'm excited that Jennifer will be home for several months. It's going to be a ton of adjustment, and those first weeks with a newborn will be very tiring, but I know I will experience some of the greatest moments of my life during the next few months. For now, though, I think I'll savor the last couple days I have alone with just my buddy.

Wasn't Born Yesterday

2011-06-01T23:15:00.000-04:00

I really had my doubts about this past weekend. With Jennifer just weeks away from giving birth, I was starting to think that taking an eight-hour road trip was probably not the best idea, especially if I had no intention of delivering the baby myself. But our close friends Chad and Nicole were getting married on Saturday in Wheeling, West Virginia (home of Gumby's Cigarette & Beer World), and we didn't want to miss it. We decided it was worth taking the chance, even if it meant sitting in nearly two hours of traffic... just to get to the Holland Tunnel.

(Above: Kyle finds a good spot in the hotel
for the bassinet... just in case)

So began Operation Do Not Give Birth. Our mission was to get to West Virginia and back with only one child in the back seat. For a while, I considered preparing for the possibility that our baby could be born during our crazy trip, and I intended to put together a list of the hospitals along the way, just in case we needed to rush to one. A friend of mine also suggested printing out information about delivery so that I'd be all set should I have to deliver the baby myself at a rest stop. I didn't like the thought of delivering our child myself, or delivering him at a rest stop, or even worse: delivering him at a rest stop in New Jersey. The thought of that was so appalling that we became determined to not have this baby this weekend. We decided that we'd skip on all the prep and just avoid the three major things that, according to rumor, may induce labor: dancing, stress and potholes.

BA-BOOM!  BA-BOOM! BA-BOOM! Okay, so we couldn't avoid the potholes. Apparently New Jersey and Pennsylvania get their roads paved by the same people who do New York's streets. Great stretches of highway looked as if workers had dug trenches there and then filled them up when they realized that the fighting was happening overseas. There were bumps every few feet, stretching across the entire lane, making them almost impossible to miss. Our little guy shifted around, but still didn't feel the time was right. Phew!

BA-BOOM!  BA-BOOM! BA-BOOM! We couldn't avoid the severe weather, either, and that caused a bit of stress. It was just before 10 p.m. Friday night, as we were on the road near Harrisburg, when the beautiful lightning display we had been seeing turned into Armageddon. A waterfall burst from the sky, pounding our car and everything surrounding us. Within seconds we were practically floating on water.  I think I saw a submarine pass by us on the interstate, but it was very hard to see anything at all. We took the next available exit, and as we contemplated staying at the local hotel/trucker hook-up spot, the rain suddenly turned into a pleasant mist. We went back on the highway and continued for another hour or so, and the stress had no impact on the baby-to-be. Phew!

BA-BOOM!  BA-BOOM! BA-BOOM! Then came the live wedding band. That was perhaps the most dangerous part. We made it to Wheeling without incident, only to play with fire after the nuptials. While I spent most of the reception chasing after Kyle (who chose to turn the reception into a triathlon practice), Jennifer took a quick spin on the dance floor. By taking a spin, I don't mean she did anything wild and crazy, like break dancing. While that would have been fun to watch, it probably wouldn't have been good for the baby or our mission. No, Jennifer just stood there, swaying her arms and moving slightly. Her plan worked perfectly, and, by the time we returned to the hotel, there were no signs of labor. Phew!

The drive home went smoothly, except for the aforementioned potholes. We held our breath through New Jersey, partly because of our desire not to have a baby there, and partly because of the air pollution. Once we hit New York City, we celebrated. Mission accomplished! Our kid's going to be a New Yorker after all. We got home - just the three of us - and had an uneventful evening. So, no baby yet. He will arrive this month, but hopefully, when that time comes, we'll be in a hospital with Jennifer's doctor right there.

Fliers on the Storm

2011-05-24T23:25:00.000-04:00

The weather here in the Northeast is so hard to predict. From day to day, you can never be sure what it'll bring. Just spin the roulette wheel, and carry an umbrella and sunblock. What will it be? Rain? Snow? Hail? In-laws?

We had an in-law shower Wednesday night. Jennifer's dad (also named Dave) and his wife Ruth were taking a trip from North Carolina to the Czech paradise known as Prague, with a stop at New York's own paradise, JFK airport. The plane to Prague left without a problem. Unfortunately, it departed BEFORE my in-laws arrived at JFK. A storm had caused them to make an additional stop in Baltimore. By the time my in-laws landed in New York, their flight was gone, the nearby hotels were booked, and airport's public address system was playing a Barry Manilow marathon. My in-laws needed to get out of there fast. They gave us a call to see if they could stay here. We told them we had a bed for them, but that would mean putting Kyle out in the rain. Fortunately for the little guy, they were willing to use our sleeper sofa. They arrived after midnight, and we started getting ready for bed by around 1:30 a.m.

The next morning our son was up at 6 a.m., about an hour earlier than normal. He must of sensed that we had gone to bed late. It's long been his goal to make us as tired as absolutely possible. That way we break easily, and Kyle gets to see more "Thomas the Train" on TV. This time around, Kyle received an even better treat: Grandpa and Ruthie. Once he learned they were here, he started bouncing off the walls, which made it all the more difficult to keep him quiet so that our travel-weary guests could sleep. Eventually our son was let loose, and he was soon spoiled with far more attention than Jennifer and I could give him, as it was way too early to do anything but walk slowly and drool.

Kyle showed Grandpa and Ruthie his new toy box. He showed them his toys. He buried Grandpa in books. He sang songs. He talked about the numbers on the buildings outside. He had them read him stories. He played catch. He colored with crayons. He ran around in circles. He did everything he could to squeeze a week's worth of activities into the few hours he had with Grandpa and Ruthie. They seemed to love every minute of it, and so did the little guy. I drank lots of coffee.

It was a busy day, but being a sudden host wasn't bad at all, even though I was so tired I had trouble remembering a) where the best lunch spot is and b) to wear pants to this lunch spot. In the end, I had a few extra coffee cups to wash, but Dave and Ruth were gracious guests. Besides, Dave's been through this sort of thing before. You may remember that he ended up spending a few extra days here because of a surprise blizzard at Christmastime. I'm starting to think he may be cursed. Sure, he and Ruth made it to Europe without incident on Thursday, but now there's a volcano in Iceland spewing ash all over the place and disrupting some air travel on the continent... just in time for their return trip. Hopefully it won't be an issue for them. No matter what, next time my in-laws fly, even if it's to Boise, I'll make sure we have clean sheets ready.

Down Under

2011-05-17T23:01:00.000-04:00

We are now deep into May, and it has come to my attention that we have a second child arriving sometime next month. Turns out Jennifer's expanding torso is not due to the mounds of candy we received at Easter. There's someone moving in there - I've seen a leg or arm or knee try to poke through. I suppose it's about time we prepare for his arrival, especially if he's like some of my relatives who always arrive early to an occasion.

This past weekend we took a few major steps to make our home ready for the little guy. Jennifer sorted through some of Kyle's infant clothes that somehow survived his amazing ability to stain. Meanwhile, I tinkered with the old crib, making it suitable for a baby once again by raising its mattress. I didn't realize I would also be creating a fort.

Once the complex operation was finished, we let Kyle back into the room. He looked at the crib with a huge smile. "Under the crib" he said, and he immediately grabbed a book and slid under it. He then spent much of the evening there. When the crib was low enough for Kyle to sleep in it, he barely had enough space to have fun beneath it. The best he could do was to lay flat and slide himself under without raising his head any more than an inch off the ground. Though the space was limited, Kyle still had fun doing this. We approved because it was easier to have him slide around than to dust under there. Now, with the mattress moved higher, Kyle can actually sit beneath it, and suddenly he has a new favorite spot.

After checking out his new digs, the little guy "read" aloud some of the great works of literature, including Thomas the Train: Little Engines Can Do BIG Things by Charles Dickens. "Read" is in quotes because he's just flipping pages and saying, "bigga bigga bigga big-KA." I guess that's what I sound like when I read him a story just before bedtime. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right? Once he was done reading, Kyle played with some of his toys and then installed lighting and a refrigerator. I hear he's already having mail forwarded to his new place, and he is contemplating buying a hot tub for it. He's going to be very disappointed once his brother learns how to sit up and I have to move the mattress back down.

This unexpected development makes me wonder what will happen when we do other things to prepare for the baby. When I install the infant car seat, will Kyle use it as a snack holder? Will he use baby bottles as binoculars? Will he use the bouncy seat to fling himself above the fridge to reach the cookie jar? These are all things I suppose I should now consider. With June arriving fast, I guess we'll get these answers soon enough.

All Work and No Playground

2011-05-10T23:10:00.000-04:00

It has been absolutely beautiful outside. The sun has been shining, there's a pleasant breeze, and the city isn't quite hot enough to start smelling like garbage. It's rare to say this in New York, but few would disagree: the weather has been perfect.

Ever since becoming a parent, this has been "prison break" time. No longer are we cornered in our apartment, waiting for the snow/sleet/hail/locusts to subside. Once spring arrives, we can go outside and do some much-needed time-killing. And whenever I start thinking, "what on earth am I going to do with this hyper-crazy child?" there's always a fail-safe option: the playground!

My son loves the playground. He loves the swings. He loves the bouncy bridge. He loves the slide. He loves the dead leaves and worms lying around. He loves just running around and being carefree. I love watching him have fun without draining my own energy. It would be better, however, if the playground had a mini-bar. Despite its imperfections, I had been a huge fan of my son's favorite playground, especially since it's just a couple blocks from my home. It would be no problem to take Kyle there quickly whenever I needed to eat up a half-hour or so of time.

Not anymore. Kyle is no longer welcome there:

Nor is any other kid, in fact. As part of Mike Bloomberg's "Kids Have It Too Easy These Days" initiative, the local playground has been shut down and boxed in by a chain link fence topped with barbed wire. Angry, hungry rottweilers patrol the grounds to prevent any toddlers from wandering in, and the city plans to build a moat once it raises enough money from laying off thousands of teachers. With the children kept out, workers can demolish the playground and build a casino there.

(Above: Some of the city's renovations,
including the new "slide that goes nowhere")

Okay, that's not entirely the truth. The city is actually renovating the playground, which would be great if I still thought we'd be living here when it's finally complete. The way these public works things go, both my kids could be college graduates by time this is done, and that would mean they'd look funny going down the children's slide. So, basically, we lost our playground.

Let me clarify that: we've lost our very close playground. We live in a neighborhood that has more playgrounds than bagel shops, which is quite impressive considering this is New York. Two other playgrounds are just ten-minute walks away, so they're not incredibly far. But I can't just "pop" over there if Kyle wakes from his nap early and starts playing "fling the cookbooks." Yes, I am grateful to still have several playgrounds around, as my suburbanite friends don't have such luxuries within walking distance. Then again, my suburbanite friends have yards.

Oh well, I suppose I could deal with it. We'll adjust. This has been a big year of change anyway. Some things, like the new car, have already happened. Other things, such as the big baby arrival next month, loom ahead of us. In the grand scheme of things, I suppose losing a playground isn't a big deal, even if I'll miss it. So what if I lose my go-to time-killer spot? There are others around, and I could always resort to putting him in front of the TV a little longer. And so what if Kyle loses his first playground? Things change. Besides, he probably was spoiled having it close-by anyway. Kyle really should work for his fun. Kids have it too easy these days.

Never Forget

2011-05-04T21:26:00.000-04:00

I have to be very careful. Kyle might remember what happens today. The little guy is about a month and a half away from his third birthday, which means the memory factory is gearing up. Chances are there will be an experience from now that will remain in his head for the rest of his life, the earliest memory that he might one day write about in school. I sure hope it's not one of me smelling my armpits or tootin' in the kitchen. I thought about that on Saturday morning, when we watched the royal wedding I had recorded the day before. As Kyle pointed out the silly hats worn by the silly Brits, I suddenly realized that I was about his age when Charles and Diana were married... and I vaguely remember when that happened.

Now, Kyle might not remember William and Kate or even those hats. He might not remember our recent trip to North Carolina, or the moment he first saw his new toy box. Yet something is bound to stick, right? Maybe his first memory will be like mine, seeing one of his grandparents holding his baby brother. Maybe he will remember something from a holiday, like Christmas or his birthday. Or maybe his first memory will be that time when Daddy had food poisoning and made all those outrageous noises in the bathroom. I wouldn't be surprised. Kyle thought my illness was hilarious.

For the first couple of years, during my crash-course in parenting, I had taken some solace in the fact that Kyle wouldn't remember a thing. Sure, I have documented some of my foibles, but the little guy probably won't read about them until years from now, and that's only if he discovers my website, which by then will no longer be devoted to stories about him, and will instead focus on 19th century Scandinavian shoe horns. So, if Kyle doesn't read or remember much about these years, he will continue to view me as the brilliant dad who has always known how to do everything right. But, again, now I have to be careful... or else Kyle will realize that I am actually "winging it."

So there are many things that could end up being Kyle's first memory. It could even happen any day now. Chances are, though, it won't have anything to do with the incredible news that broke this past weekend. I doubt Kyle will remember the death of Osama bin Laden, since he had gone to bed hours before the TV networks first announced it. I almost missed it myself. We were getting ready for bed when I flipped on ESPN's SportsCenter and learned of the news through its crawl. I quickly turned it to ABC and sat there in disbelief. I, like many Americans, had started to believe that this day would never come. And, yet, it did.

Osama bin Laden changed our lives, our country, and our world through terror. He was an evil man who nearly escaped justice. But now he can do no more harm. Osama bin Laden will be just a name in the history book Kyle reads at school. Kyle won't hear any new threats from him. He won't see any new video of him. Of course he will learn a lot about 9/11, but now he will also be told that a group of brave Navy SEALs found the man behind that horrific day and made sure he couldn't take any more lives. 9/11 is still vivid in my mind, and I know I will never forget Osama bin Laden and all that he did. But Kyle won't remember him at all, and I am extremely grateful for that.

Candy Land

2011-04-26T23:19:00.000-04:00

I've been on a three-day-long sugar high, and it's fantastic. Well, up until the point when I feel sick, but I tend to cure that with magic jelly beans. Yes, this is a very sweet time for a stay-at-home dad like myself, with candy within arms' reach from any spot in our apartment (we might have overdone it this Easter). I tend to eat a ton of it as a relief whenever Kyle goes bezerk, and he's been hyper a lot these past few days. The funny thing is, he really hasn't eaten a whole lot of candy, especially when you compare it to all that I've had. That's as far as I know. Maybe he has a secret stash somewhere, or maybe he's just breathing it in through the air. Is there such a thing as second-hand sweets? The Surgeon General probably should look into that.

Wow, has it been great. Jelly beans before lunch. M&M's after lunch. Peeps at snacktime. Dinner with a salad and a Cadbury egg. A chocolate bunny before bedtime. Some people say having a child allows you to relive your youth. Usually that means through your child, but I find it better at times to just do the same thing your child is doing, especially when it comes to candy. If Kyle's going to have a basket of candy, I should have one, too. If Kyle is going to be hyper, I should be hyper, too. Kyle doesn't eat as much candy as I do because he doesn't have to: give him a few M&M's and he's running around in circles, burning holes in our rugs. Too bad Easter came after last week's Boston Marathon. I bet Kyle could have won it with just a couple of chocolate bunny ears.

Besides the obvious candy perk, this Easter Sunday was a lot of fun. This year I felt like Kyle was starting to get the Easter tradition. Not the whole resurrection from the dead/salvation bit, but the part about the crazy bunny that dumps goodies in our home. The night before, we had him leave a carrot for the Easter Bunny (which was the ritual in my family), and he seemed to enjoy doing that. The next morning, he slowly walked into the room, with his eyes at the spot where he had placed the carrot. There was a basket! With candy! And cookies! His eyes widened, and he gave a big, open-mouth smile. This was almost as exciting as discovering that the chapters in one of my Kurt Vonnegut books are marked with big numbers. My son appreciates the simple pleasures in life.

I love being a dad at times like these. You can actually feel your child's joy. It was so much fun watching Kyle's face light up as he dug through his goodies, discovering M&M's and Oreo cookies. I loved watching him try a Starburst jelly bean and not like it because it's too tart (more jelly beans for Daddy, then - a main cause of my sugar high). The Easter Bunny also left a couple of gifts - two Berenstain Bears books - and I enjoyed seeing him unwrap those. Two years ago, Kyle didn't seem to understand what was going on. Last year he was possessed by "terrible two" demons, so we didn't have much fun. This year, he was completely into it, and he made me feel like a kid again. So, yes, I did relive my youth through him on Sunday. I know doing that sort of thing won't always be fun (especially when Kyle's in middle school), but I'll take a moment like this one a million times over. Especially if that means there will be more candy.

Our new Berenstain Bears books are titled "New Baby" and "Too Much Junk Food." The Easter Bunny thought they might help the little guy during the next eight weeks. The latter book is a joke (the Easter Bunny doesn't believe there's such a thing as too much junk food), but it's probably a good thing that Kyle's been having me read it over and over. The way the candy's been flowing into my mouth, I need something to remind myself to take it easy. I'm just glad I don't have to see the dentist until August.