Monthly Archives: March 2011

The Lion Sleeps Tonight

Posted on March 20, 2011 by Family Man

By Gregory Keer

Dear Ari,

As you sleep in my arms, I’m amazed at how light you feel. I stare at your tiny body, so fragile that a gust of wind could hoist you into the air. I love this feeling of protecting you and dreaming of all I have in store for you.

You are my third son and I will use what I’ve learned so far to make your family experience worthy of your miraculous existence. I do have some phenomenal team members for this effort – your mommy, who cares for you like the sun nourishes the earth; your brother Benjamin, who already watches out for you like a gentle sentinel; and your brother Jacob, who refers to you as “my baby” and giggles with delight at your every sigh. That’s not to mention the doting grandparents who view you as a gift and the close friends who astonish us with their support.

I will nurture and teach you. But, as with your brothers, I intend to help you thrive in an often-difficult society. That’s why your mommy and I have named you Ari, which means “lion.” It’s our hope that you will grow strong and pounce on every opportunity to do well for yourself and others.

For now, I’m content just cradling you, basking in your warmth and listening to the little creature noises you make in place of the loud proclamations you will soon roar. Perhaps it’s because you are the last (though certainly not least) child your Mommy and I plan to have, I am intent on recording in my memory and on paper all the moments of your new life.

Of course, some of that recording got me in trouble during your mother’s labor. Minutes after Mommy woke me to announce, “I think my water broke,” I picked up my red composition book to write, “Finally, I get to rush to the hospital in the middle of the night – just like the movies.” You see, Benjamin (now 6) and Jacob (3) took their sweet time in leaving the womb. You were in such a hurry, you started the birth process almost two weeks before your due date.

Mommy laughed at my scribbling in the journal, but I couldn’t stop writing until Grandma showed up at 2:30am to babysit your brothers so we could leave. A split second after I parked at the medical center, Mommy speed-waddled toward the hospital, worried you might pop out before she got to a delivery room.

Things moved so fast that, by the time the nurse (at 3:50am) checked to see how you were progressing, you were halfway to coming out. Mommy got so excited that she declined the usual pain medication. Papa and Nana, looking tired but happy, came to provide moral support. I kept taking notes in the red journal if only to keep my nerves settled.

With a couple of hours to go before your introduction, Mommy and I talked over names. We had spent months imagining what you’d be like. Would you be a boy or a girl? Would you look like Mommy, Daddy, Benjamin, Jacob – the FedEx guy? Soon, we would find out and we wanted to have a name ready for you.

At 5:30am, Dr. Perlow declared that you were ready to emerge, so the nurse prepared special lights, tools, washing items, cold juice, a mirror – I noted everything, even though we’ll probably save this part for you until you’re older.

At 6am, Mommy started pushing. She worked hard, wanting to see you so badly. “This hurts,” she said in the biggest understatement of her life. I have little understanding of it, except for the nail marks in my hand.

She rested for a bit, calling for some oxygen, so I whipped out my journal to capture the moment in ink.

“You’re documenting everything?” Mommy asked, incredulously.

“You’d rather I take pictures?” I asked, smiling.

“Put down the [bleepin’] pen, Gregg!” she said.

“Yes, honey,” I responded with the words you will one day learn are vital to any romantic relationship.

It was good that I put down the pen because, a few minutes later, Mommy pushed like a linebacker and out your head popped! At the doctor’s OK, I moved in to help deliver the rest of you into the great outdoors.

“It’s a boy!” I shouted as I held you aloft.

I then was able to cut your umbilical cord and put you in your mother’s arms. She still had enough energy to radiate her love while she curled you to her face.

And here we are tonight. As I hold you close, you sleep so peacefully. I press my ear to your chest and hear your strength. I am listening to the first beats of a lion’s heart.

Welcome to the world, Ari.

Love,

Daddy

Posted in Babies, Columns by Family Man, Newborns | Leave a comment

Advanced Parental Age

Posted on March 20, 2011 by Family Man

By Gregory Keer

A year-and-half ago, I wrote a column called “To Three or Not to Three.” In it, I aired out the debate my wife and I had about having a third child. Wendy felt that she wouldn’t be complete without kid number three. I was pretty much done at two and feared, among other worries, that I’d be stretched too thin if we went from “man-to-man defense” to “zone.”

Well, my wife won out. I knew she would. She frequently (always) does. And she’s often (definitely not always) right. She’s the one to see the big picture, to recognize that the shorter-term pain is worth the lifelong gain. That’s how I came to see her vision of our family life.

It did take time, though, to rise to Wendy’s commitment level. Of course, the opportunity to have regular sex didn’t hurt the decision to at least attempt conceiving. But I gradually became interested in baby names and the possibility of adding a daughter to our litter or another son to form a true boys club. After months of trying (with a couple of false positives mixed in), my wife emerged from the bathroom with that little blue line shouting out a definitive result. I felt excitement swell my chest, not to mention pride that the old man still had it.

Speaking of old, the issue of age is one of the new wrinkles we’re dealing with in our third round of pregnancy. We didn’t start our family till our early 30s, which seemed young to us in this modern era of working parents. Now that we’re pushing 40, we’ve jumped to a different level. At our first important OB visit, there on the video monitor, just above the miraculous image of the tiny embryo was a label next to my wife’s name – Advanced Maternal Age.

As if our family expansion didn’t have enough issues, now this machine was categorizing my wife as elderly. Maybe that’s OK for medical students or insurance people, but it ain’t OK with me. Nobody tells me that my wife is an “old mom.” More importantly, what does that make me – “Death-Risk Paternal Age”?

We’re still reeling from the label and Wendy talks about how this baby’s making her more tired than the first two did. I just think it’s the weight of a life made more full by two kids, a mortgage, and a husband concerned that he’ll be the odd one out once the baby comes. But what keeps us positive is our two sons, who will soon gain another teammate with which to terrorize us when they get older.

When Benjamin (our 6-year-old) learned he would be a big brother for the second time, he was over-the-moon. I’m not sure if his glee was enhanced by thinking he would catch up to his friends who had multiple siblings, or if he was thinking about the justice involved in knowing Jacob (2-1/2 years old) would have to contend with his own younger sibling. Whatever the reason, Benjamin has since settled into an old pro attitude, so secure with his position as the first-born that he doesn’t talk to us much about the baby.

Instead, he talks to his friends. The other day, his buddy David asked him, “How did your mom get pregnant?”

Benjamin shrugged and said, “It just happens. You can’t control it.”

“How do you know she really is pregnant?” David went on.

“You start to feel it tickling and you get sick,” Benjamin reasoned.

Since he seems certain of how pregnancy works, we’re letting him feel like a know-it-all for a while. It’s Jacob who appears to be on less firm ground about being supplanted as the baby of the family. While he has played a little more with the doll and stroller he got last holiday season, he has also done a lot of climbing on Mommy’s stomach, looking for a cuddle and a way to discount the bump in her belly. When asked how he’ll feel once his sibling arrives, he said, with his nose scrunched up, “I want to fight the baby.”

We’re not worried that he’ll perform jujitsu on the infant, but we’re doing a lot to assure him that he’ll still have lots of time with us and that he’ll be able to teach the baby all he knows about favorite songs and somersaults.

While being a brother might be an involuntary mystery to Jacob, Wendy and I have chosen to be in the dark about at least one thing. After a couple of ultrasounds, including an astonishing (and a bit surreal) three-dimensional glimpse of our growing baby, we maintain our gender ignorance. As I said before, a girl would be nice and a boy would be wonderful too. But all we care about is a healthy child, especially now that we’re of Advanced Parental Age. Despite all this mystery, much is very clear to me. Whether boy or girl, this child will be loved and entertained by an amazing mother, two funny and caring brothers, and a dad who’s thrilled to have more content for his columns.

Posted in Columns by Family Man, Humor | Leave a comment

Camp Togetherness

Posted on March 20, 2011 by Family Man

By Gregory Keer

At the beginning of kindergarten, Benjamin decorated a giant folder for his weekly schoolwork. When he brought it home, we deciphered a stick figure on a mountaintop, wearing what looked like a deployed parachute. Was it a scene from a Spy Kids flick or a G.I. Joe I-Can-Read book?

“It’s a picture of Mommy jumping off the cliff at family camp,” Benjamin proudly explained.

Yes, Wendy and I burst out laughing. Yes, we explained that, when Mommy went paragliding (hang-gliding with a parachute), she was clipped to an instructor with lots of safety equipment. And, yes, we can’t wait to return to family camp.

Two years ago, we attended our first session at a mountain facility run by the university my wife and I attended. Going in, I was skeptical. I am not a camper. Even the word “rustic” makes my eyes itch and my dreams fill with marauding bears.

But I was pleasantly surprised. The accommodations were civilized mini-condos (though without air conditioning, phones, or TVs) and the meals were sophisticated. I also found the grounds breathtaking, the staff amazing (made up largely of college students), and the activities diverse enough to rival a luxury cruise.

Best of all was the socializing. Benjamin spent much of his day with his Teddy Bear group, creating art, swimming, and hiking with counselors who seemed like in-person versions of Disney’s Out of the Box show. Wendy and I had our challenges with one-year-old Jacob — who was either napping or crawling toward danger — but enjoyed meals and sports with grown-ups happy to leave busy schedules at home.

The only element missing was something most of the other people enjoyed — familiarity. The beauty of this idyllic camp is that families return, year after year, to have fun and grow together, creating memories around the consistent surroundings.

So, in the year of Mommy’s Great Role-Model Stunt, we returned to build a tradition. This time, we were joined by my childhood buddy, Eric, his wife Nancy, and their three kids, who loved the extra time with my sons.

Benjamin had the grandest experience of our bunch, loving every minute of his days in the Cubs group. He soaked up the sun and information ranging from Native American culture to tie-dye shirts. Often, he was the loudest singer, leading his friends in spontaneous camp medleys at the pool, the veins popping from his neck as he shouted, “We Are the Cubbies, the Mighty, Mighty Cubbies!” He learned a few questionable tricks, too, such as shooting slingshots at lizards and filching cubes from the ice machine to dump down people’s shirts.

Then there’s the subject of independence. Because the camp is secluded and full of families, the place feels as safe as a 1950s country farm. So, many of the kids scoot about the grounds without supervision.

Encouraged by his 6-year-old friends, Benjamin (then 5), decided to walk himself to his group about midway through the week. At mealtimes, he started  grabbing his own meals from the buffet and sitting with his friends’ families.

While we had often wished for moments of reprieve from parental responsibility, we were short of breath at the thought that our little boy didn’t need us as escorts, let alone companions. We wanted our baby back, though we were proud that his confidence was rising.

For his part, Jacob became the camp charmer. He’d run around this expansive lawn, where all the kids played, asking, “What’s your name?” Everywhere else Jacob went, his grinning, dirt-smudged face became famous. So, when he’d run off, and we’d panic, “Where’d he go now?” we had a team of friendly detectives that never failed us.

Wendy and I had a few opportunities for grown-up adventures, like flying on a zip line, playing inner-tube water polo, and jumping off that cliff. Still, the moments of true joy were the ones we all spent together. We sat on blankets under a starry sky, watching a movie on the lawn. We snuggled with the kids for a boat ride around the lake. And we competed in egg tossing and watermelon eating contests at the week’s finale.

We will return to family camp this summer. Maybe we’ll do this for the next 20 years, like some of the families we’ve met up there. I think much of the draw for the adults is the chance to finally be that proverbial fly on the wall. Occasionally, I wish I could spy on my kids at their classrooms or playdates, to see them unfettered by my influence. With family camp, I get to see my kids at all hours of the day — with no deadlines to distract me or homework for them to do — to witness how they socialize, laugh, run, and sing.

While I still find it bittersweet to watch my sons get more independent, I’m thankful for the gift that one week a year gives to me, of seeing them grow. One day, my sons will be old enough to decide about jumping from cliffs. With the benefit of years watching them mature, I think I’ll be ready to trust they can fly on their own.

Posted in Camp, Child Development | Leave a comment

One-Armed Coaching

Posted on March 20, 2011 by Family Man

By Gregory Keer

Game 8 of the Little Jammers basketball season is due to tip off in 20 minutes. Already exhausted after a full-court game of “catch the screaming toddler” at home, I herd my team of 4- to 6-year-old Bruins for warm-ups on the grass outside the gym. Because Jacob (age 2) wants to escape to the sandbox to eat a granular breakfast, I have to hold him while leading a series of jumping jacks, stretches, and defensive drills. My son Benjamin (5) clowns around, giddily clashing with my authority. Help is nowhere in sight, since my wife Wendy is at a conference and my talented co-coach Lee is moonlighting at Little League.

Inside, the claustrophobic gym is deafeningly loud. Players’ family members crowd the skimpy sidelines like fans at a U2 concert, camcorders at the ready. As the kids shoot lay-ups, my friend Ronnie takes Jacob off my hands and two dads, Rick and Brian, jump in to help direct our rag-tag team of hoopsters.

The whistle blows and we’re off. Our team is skilled for their age, but the other squad looks as if they’ve taken steroids. They shoot and rebound over our smaller guys, and I’m not helping much as I run up and down the court, shouting directions to my kids as if they’re NCAA champs. I get so involved in the coaching that I find myself in the free-throw lane, coaxing our center, Grant, to box out for a rebound. While Grant stares at me as if I’m speaking Greek, the referee has to ask me to go to my corner of the court, where Jacob runs to me for attention. Preoccupied by the game, I hurry him back to Ronnie.

Five minutes elapse and a fresh unit comes in. I set them up in their numbered positions (the court is marked off in boxes for each player’s area). Benjamin is in this group, which adds more pressure because, well, he’s my son. As the action kicks in, he keeps his hands up in perfect defensive stance   — while he’s playing offense. Benjamin watches a pass go right by him, but man, he looks great as a rebound bounces off his well-positioned hands and into the more aggressive arms of the opponent. Benjamin runs down, with NBA style and a world-class smile, but he just can’t hear me as I yell for him to “play the ball!” Perhaps it’s because Jacob is yelling, “Benjamin! Benjamin!” before scrambling into the middle of the fray, crying for me to hold him.

With Jacob on one arm, I continue coaching my gutty little Bruins, which doesn’t get much easier. At various stages of the game, David dribbles in circles around the court, ignoring the calls of teammates and parents, let alone me. Elizabeth seems frozen in one spot as the game rushes by. Charlie plays scared after I threaten to send him to the bench for shooting from half-court three times in a row. Olivia gets slammed in the face by an errant pass. And Nicky, trying to make sense of my directions, makes a textbook pass — to me.

When the game finally ends, I am proud of our team. They eventually adjusted to the larger opponents and played them about even. Best of all, no one cried because of my crazy coaching.

Still, as I walk out of the gym with my sons, I can’t resist asking Benjamin, “Why didn’t you shoot the ball, today?”

He says, “I don’t want to shoot the ball, Daddy. I’m not going to make it anyway.

This hits me hard. The last thing I want is for my kid to feel he can’t at least try to do something. But I recognize that we’ve had this conversation before, about soccer, after he would play a whole game without a shot on goal. The reality is that Benjamin doesn’t have the motivation to dive for a ball when someone else wants it more. He doesn’t burn to score when he can make a teammate happy to get the shot. My son is a lover, not a fighter and, as a coach, this drives me nuts.

Despite my efforts to be a compassionate parent, once I step on the court, I want my kid to be the best competitor. But this is my problem. I need to help my 5-year-old son be the best athlete he wants to be. In this way, coaching is a concentrated lesson in parenting, an experiment in learning patience with my child’s progress and a reminder to find joy in small victories.

The victories do come. During the ensuing games, I manage to lessen my need to push my son (and other kids on the team) and enjoy the improvements he makes in his skills. After all, it’s the father-child bond that got me into coaching in the first place.

After the final game, I tell Benjamin, “I’m sad the season is over.”

“That’s OK,” he says. “You can still coach me at home.”

With these words, no amount of baskets or goals can make me happier.

Posted in Columns by Family Man, Sports | Leave a comment

Girl Crazy

Posted on March 20, 2011 by Family Man

By Gregory Keer

At age 7, I had no idea why I wanted Sherry Green’s attention, but I liked being next to her in the line for chocolate milk. We’d smile at each other while sharpening our pencils. We’d pick each other for the same kickball team.

One day, we actually had a conversation, in the middle of the playground at our elementary school. Shyly, I kicked the tar that filled the asphalt cracks as we talked about our favorite TV shows. Then, her friend Melanie showed up and Sherry started wailing on me with her little leather purse.

“Stop talking to me, Gregory Keer! Get away from me!”

In shock, I took a couple more whacks before I ran for my life. To this day, I do not know what happened. Sherry tried to approach me several times, but I wasn’t interested in more random abuse.

Twenty years later, I got over my confusion with women long enough to marry Wendy. I still have my moments of cluelessness around her, but it’s nothing compared to what’s in store for my sons.

Benjamin (now 6) and Jacob (2 1/2) have their own — though very different — issues with the opposite sex. Benjamin has a couple of girl friends, but, for the most part, he has bought into that “girls are aliens” theory.

The other night, we learned that he had spent time in the “uncooperative chair” and we asked him what he did to try the patience of his kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Renetzky.

“I was a little too wiggly,” Benjamin said with a smile and a wiggle.

“What do you mean, ‘wiggly’?” my wife asked.

“All the boys have a problem being wiggly,” Benjamin. “We just can’t help ourselves.”

“Do any of the girls spend time in the uncooperative chair?” my wife inquired like a maternal Diane Sawyer.

“Not really. The girls always talk, though. The boys are quiet when the teacher is talking. We’re just wiggly,” he explained.

Fascinated by my Benjamin’s budding interest in gender studies, I queried him about other things he might have noticed. “What do you guys like to play when you’re on the yard?”

“We dig tunnels in the sand and go on missions. Sometimes we play basketball,” he said.

“Do you ever play with the girls?” I wondered.

“Not really. They play with Barbies,” he said.

“Do you think any of the girls is pretty,” I asked.

My son shook his head like I was crazy, “Forget about it.”

Currently, Benjamin isn’t close to having a crush. But last year, one girl would sit at storytime with her arm around him — and his arm around her! — like they were cuddling on a couch. They even “married” each other in a pretend ceremony held in their pre-K classroom.

Later in the year, Benjamin had a playdate with a pair of adorable twins. Benjamin endured their competitive declarations of “I’m gonna marry Benjamin! No, I’m gonna marry Benjamin.” He got so fed up, he announced, “I’m already married!”

Of course, the marriage didn’t last and, during the summer at camp, Benjamin participated in another round of mock weddings by marrying himself (we have the certificate to prove it).

Now, my younger son is a different story. It appears that girls, especially older ones, love his devilish smile, which somehow outweighs his penchant for putting sand in their hair.

Earlier this year, Wendy and Jacob were at a playground where two preschool girls, Sydney and Emma, invited Jacob into the playhouse with him. Inside, they began bickering.

“He’s mine,” Sydney said, taking Jacob’s hand.

“No, I want him,” Emma said, pulling him to sit in the corner.

All the while, Jacob laughed like a mini-Austin Powers, obviously delighting in the attention.

Not that Jacob doesn’t reciprocate. Whenever we visit Sydney’s house, Jacob follows her around, saying “Sydneee” like a European womanizer. He’s also pretty attached to Emma, as he proved at a breakfast we had with her family the other week. All the kids sat at their own table, keeping their manners admirably until Jacob’s fondness for Emma got out of hand. The kid was draped all over her, hugging her face and nearly sitting in her plate of $2.99 French toast.

“If he gets any closer to my daughter, we’re going to have to discuss a prenup,” her father cracked.

So far, the only legal union in our household involves Wendy and I. She’s also the one woman who holds the key to my sons’ hearts. Clearly, they’ve made a wise choice. Despite my inability to read her meanings on certain occasions (all my fault, of course), I’m thrilled that this woman with the huge smile shares the secrets of her soul only with me.

In this month of Mother’s Day, I wish for my sons the kind of girl Daddy has. For my wife, I promise the eternal love of a husband who’s just happy you haven’t hit him with a handbag.

Posted in Columns by Family Man, Love and Courtship, Sex Ed | Leave a comment

Taming the Hulk Within

Posted on March 20, 2011 by Family Man

By Gregory Keer

On this particular weekday morning, it’s my turn to take Benjamin to kindergarten. I awake upset because I hit the snooze button one too many times. As I stumble toward the bathroom, my wife Wendy half-consciously warns, “He’ll get upset if you’re late.” She falls back asleep.

In the shower, I go from spousal pressure to water pressure as Herbal Essence floods my eyeball. Then my son startles me to ask, “Can I watch The Sav-Ums?” I compose myself to answer, “Go turn it on.” He whimpers, “I’m too tired to do it alone.” I get out and escort Benjamin to the den for his favorite show on The Learning Channel.

In my wet feet, I strain a groin as I dash to the boys’ bedroom to collect Benjamin’s outfit, taking pains to not wake Jacob. I dump off the attire and pull on my own get-up with 10 minutes to spare.

Out in the den, I urge Benjamin to dress. He doesn’t hear me. He doesn’t hear anything when the tube’s flickering. Maintaining my blood pressure, I push the clothes into his lap and he absently puts them on. “I’ll get you some cereal-in-a-baggie,” I say to the child too busy laughing at the claymation heroes.

I enter the kitchen where my cats whine frantically for food when I hear Jacob calling from the crib. As soon as I reach him, Jacob’s face screws up as if he’s seeing his worst enemy. “I – want – MOMMY!” he wails. With my toddler screaming, I place him with his brother. As I turn my back, Jacob scrambles for the master bedroom. Valiantly trying to prevent his breach of Wendy’s fortress of extra sleep, I scoop him up — too late.

“What are you doing to him?” she says, scowling at me like I’m her worst enemy. Fortunately, the nasty words in my head stay there as I look to Benjamin, “We have to go.”

“But the show’s almost over!” he moans. My voice wavers: “Let’s go, now.”

I beeline for the door, my son running after me as he tries not to cry. I hoist him up with one arm, my other grasping a bag of textbooks, and step outside. “Damn, it’s cold outside,” I grouse. “You need a sweatshirt.”

“No I don’t,” he retorts. “Yes you do, “ I fire back as I hurry to his dresser to find summer shorts where the longsleeves should be. I grab a red fleece thing and put it on Benjamin. It doesn’t fit.

“I can’t wear this,” he says. “Tough,” I growl as I sprint to the minivan. Benjamin’s sobs escalate and—as I put him in his seat—he throws off the sweatshirt…I go stark raving “Hulk.”

“Aaarrrggghhh!” I boom. “Why do I bother trying to keep you from freezing your arms off? We’re both going to be late! Now, get – in — the car!”

Benjamin climbs in quietly. As I drive off, I rant at my son as if he were an adult, explaining all the ways he could have prevented our tardiness. He just sheds tears the Crocodile Hunter would yearn to wrestle.

I finally cool enough to shut my mouth. My head spins like a clothes dryer as I ponder my miscalculations in the last 45 minutes, imagine my students picking on me for the hypocrisy of preaching punctuality, and glance at the fragile kid in the back seat.

At the school, I kiss my son a hundred times, saying, “I’m sorry I got so mad. Daddy makes mistakes sometimes.”

Benjamin hugs my neck, “I’m sorry too.”

As I later drive to my own school, I catch a look in the rear-view mirror at the unhealthy green tinge in my cheeks—I am my own worst enemy. Must make New Year’s resolution to not get so mad.

In approaching this resolution, I require three things: more patience, more laughter, and less perfection. Stressed out by work and family responsibilities, I carry pressure that reaches epic proportions around those times my kids repeatedly ask why they can’t have Scooby fruit chewies before dinner. I need to take a deep breath before boiling over, and realize that I’m standing in front of adorable, dependent creatures, not competitors or enemies.

I also need to laugh. When I recognize the absurdities inherent to parenting, I stay loose. As I’ve done on occasion, I should catch myself in mid-tirade and crack a joke or make a funny face to show them that I’m still a safe guy. When I holler, it intimidates more than teaches.

Lastly, I have to accept imperfection. I’m gonna yell, pound a table, even throw french fries once in a while. But if I admit my mistake to my kids and get back on track, they will see that anger is normal and controllable.

Later on that day of my morning explosion, I picked up Benjamin at school. I looked for signs of trepidation in him, but the first thing he said was, “See, Daddy, it was a warm day. I really didn’t need my sweatshirt.” Hulk laugh. Hulk hug son. Hulk plan a New Year of not being so angry.

Posted in Anger Management, Columns by Family Man | Leave a comment

Piloting the Father Ship

Posted on March 20, 2011 by Family Man

By Gregory Keer

My friend Bruce is a guy’s guy. He works as a structural engineer, designing such manly things as football stadiums. He’s got a rugged British accent, which obviously helped snag his lovely wife Kathleen. And his sons, with the masculine monikers of Jack and Ben, share his interest in sports cars (though they play with the Matchbox variety).

Speaking of which, Bruce just purchased an Infiniti with tons of horsepower and nimble handling—perfect for this seeming kinsman of James Bond. “How ‘bout a spin,” he asked before taking me on a high-speed test drive. I admit the ride was a rush and the aerodynamic body belonged on a pinup calendar.

Despite the heavy-metal appeal of this mighty machine, my thoughts were on acquiring a different sort of vehicle—a minivan. When I confessed this to Bruce, he nobly hid his disappointment in me, saying, “Minivans are very…practical.” What he really meant to say was, “You wuss! You might as well just turn your gonads in at the dealership!”

For this sacrilege, I have probably lost my membership in the boy’s club.  As if my crying at romantic comedies, passion for fruit-flavored cocktails, and partiality for the color purple were not enough, my lust for a minivan is an unforgivable sin against the brotherhood of middle-aged men.

After all, what kind of man yearns for an automobile traditionally driven by soccer moms? What sort of guy pines to pull up at fine restaurants in a glorified delivery truck? What manner of male swoons over ample storage capacity and 15 cupholders?

To make matters worse, my wife, Wendy, expressed concern about my testosterone levels when I first admitted my obsession. “I don’t even want to drive it, and I’m a girl!” she stated. She further reasoned that she “wasn’t ready to give in to the whole suburbia image.” She was afraid of becoming the very stereotype she scorned in her pre-motherhood days.

But I was undeterred. I felt like the little boy who liked to play with dolls in that ‘70s show, Free to Be You and Me. Social status be damned, I wanted my minivan. For me, the car symbolized my willing acceptance of fatherhood. And my kids, the true judges of proper travel at this point in my life, thrilled at the prospect of a seven-passenger marvel. Every time we passed one of the countless minivans in our community, Benjamin would offer his take, “I like that one Daddy. It looks big enough for us” or “That color isn’t right. Let’s get blue.” With all this support, I began to dream of being the captain of something fairly unique—a Father Ship.

As sci-fi movies have taught us, the “Mother Ship” is the lead space cruiser of most alien species. It’s what E.T. returned to, finding comfort in its womb and its promise of returning home. While I don’t exactly desire a womb (I’m not that evolved!), I do like the idea of blending the “Mother Ship” concept with that of Captain Kirk, the macho leader of Star Trek’s U.S.S. Enterprise. Thus, I imagined myself the captain of a Father Ship that would lead my children on adventures in kindergarten, tee-ball, and the all-important road trips.

Still, Wendy needed something more convincing than science fiction. So I took her to the dealer to convince her that my minivan of choice was not only practical but masculine, when painted midnight blue. She test drove the car and found herself surprised at the handling and quickness. She also appreciated the passenger and storage space, the price of the soon-to-be discontinued model, and—the coup de grace—remote-controlled sliding side doors. Upon seeing the fold-down third row seats, I whispered the final reminder that my gonads need not be turned in: “Honey, we have plenty of space back here if we want to work on that third child.”

My current children are enthralled. From his carseat, Jacob kicks his legs all he wants without banging on the seat in front of him and luxuriates in his personal air-conditioning vent. Benjamin chooses the “way back” where he feels like the big boy, especially when he has buddies sitting back there with him. He’s also a master at demonstrating the features of the minivan, particularly the accident sensors in the side doors: “This part is so cool. You won’t even smash your fingers,” he tells friends, young and old.

This ultimate family cruiser intrigues many of my friends, from the sports-car dads to the SUV moms. I’m pleased to have won their acceptance, but I did this for the good of my “crew.” I have my Doctor (Wendy, who is prone to say, “Damn it, Gregg, I’m a Ph.D., not a miracle worker!”), my Spock (at five, Benjamin is more logical than I), and my Scotty (at two, Jacob is often as unintelligible but good-hearted as that famous engineer). With them, I explore the frontier of parenthood in a Father Ship and boldly go where few men have gone before! Wendy just has to make sure she’s not in the van when I’m wearing the gold and black jumpsuit.

Posted in Cars, Columns by Family Man | Leave a comment

Fear and Parenting

Posted on March 20, 2011 by Family Man

By Gregory Keer

In my pre-fatherhood days, Saturday night meant excitement. There were the pre-marriage nights of cluelessly searching for women, followed by the post-wedding evenings of double features and an apartment all to ourselves.

But now, Saturday thrills have a new description: rushed family meals, bone-rattling screams, and calls to the paramedics.

Let’s rewind that last part and explain. It’s a recent Saturday night at the house of our friends Julie and David. Everyone gets along famously. The moms complain about the dads. The dads watch football. The kids tear the house apart, pitting the girls against the boys with the littlest ones on the sidelines, crying to be included. The parents try to pretend that this is fun, smiling through clenched teeth and yearning to go to bed by 8:30—three hours before the once requisite Saturday Night Live.

Around 8:30, we attempt to wind down. I get Benjamin through a “flash” bath, then work on my overtired toddler. At 14 months, Jacob likes to stand in a slippery tub and fling toys with reckless abandon. He wriggles from my reach five times, laughing mockingly like a swashbuckler in an Erroll Flynn film. But I finally grapple-hook him, braving waves of bawling, and wash his pudgy physique in the available watermelon-scented body wash.

His crying escalates as I lay him in a bedroom to dress him. With the instincts of a mother pterodactyl sensing her fledgling’s imminent demise at the claws of a velociraptor, my wife rushes into the room to ask, “What are you doing to him?”

“He’s tired!” I retort, my voice rising above the now powerful wailing. In Alias fashion, she bends down to help me defuse the timebomb by taking one side of the diaper while I tape the other. Jacob kicks and flails his arms, shrieking in what sounds like pain mixed with too much snot.

Our host, David, comes over to ask Jacob, “What’s the matter, little man?” My son changes octaves and shades of purple. I try to distract Jacob by kissing his chubby legs to make him laugh. The screaming gets hoarse. His complexion goes vermilion—Jacob passes out.

Surreality sets in. I stare dumbly at my small child, not fathoming what just happened. My wife shouts, “Is he breathing?” In a daze, I pull Jacob’s limp body to me. He slumps unconscious in my arms. I am numb.

But Wendy springs to action, running from the room, shouting, “I’m calling 911.” I stand up with Jacob, gently shaking and patting him. I want him awake. My heart thumps and my head feels like it will pop from the strain of not freaking out. “Jacob. Jacob. Jacob-Jacob-Jacob,” I sternly say as if scolding him for the lapse in his “good behavior.” His eyes flutter and roll back in his head. This is some kind of fit, right? What do people do in these situations?

I bounce him in my arms and…he…awakens. Jacob cries, a little more softly now, as I walk jelly-legged from the room, relieved, saved.

In our friends’ living room, Wendy is finishing the report to 911. Her reddened eyes brighten at the sight of her groggy but alert child. “Oh, my baby,” she says as she kisses him. I won’t let him go, fearing something else might happen if I do. Benjamin comes over and rubs his little brother’s back saying, “You’re OK, now, Jacob.” And we all hug each other.

Jacob thinks this group embrace is funny and starts giggling. Actually, he laughs through most of the next hour, during which two sets of paramedics and phone calls to two different pediatricians (including my calming father). The final diagnosis is that Jacob passed out as the result of a massive tantrum. Given his temperament, we’re told it may even happen again! 

Our son finally drifts off into a peaceful slumber (still in my arms) and we thank our amazingly supportive friends for hosting this “very special episode” of ER.

At home, we decide to let our boys bunk with us. We want to watch over them, feel them breathing. We’d been rattled, unprepared for the fright we had. Though this was only a blip on the parenting nightmare scale, we’ve come away with a respect for what Saturday night excitement now means. It means that the mysteries of childcare never cease. It symbolizes that parenthood is full of surprises, both joyous and terrifying. It signifies that we no longer can take a weekend break from responsibility. And, as we lie there with our two kids, we are quietly excited to have them here with us, safe and sound.

Posted in Columns by Family Man, Parenting Stress | Leave a comment

Loving Mud and Monkey Bars

Posted on March 20, 2011 by Family Man

By Gregory Keer

A simple day at the park with my one-year-old quickly becomes a harrowing experience. Prepared with a blanket oasis of snacks and enough portable toys to entertain a preschool, I sit down with Jacob to watch his brother play T-Ball. A moment later this junior Tasmanian devil speed-crawls on a series of mad escapes around the park, mouthing pinecones, plunging into mud, and barreling onto the playing field amidst fly balls and high-kicking cleats. Each time, I catch him while he cackles giddily, showing off for the other parents as if to say, “My daddy lets me flirt with disaster. Feel free to call Child Protective Services!”

Every day, I attempt to salvage a shred of my parenting dignity in the face of a child who continues to climb bookshelves, procure sharp objects I never knew we owned, and dive under gallons of bubbly tub water looking for the latest thrill. Is Jacob heading for a life as a career contestant on Fear Factor? God, I hope not. But it certainly suggests something essential to both kids and parents—the need to try, to experiment, to seek answers to the unknown.

Like most children under two, Jacob is wired to fearlessly explore his world. Now that he’s conquered the floor, he’s inquisitive about life above the 6-inch mark. He recently took his first steps and it was amazing to watch him take two steps, fall, and get back up, then take three more steps, crash, and hurt himself (like war-zone journalists we let him struggle to capture the events on camera). It was all a wondrous example of his innate motivation to succeed.

My oldest son is not quite so fearless. As Benjamin has learned about the world around him, he’s developed concerns about a massive octopus from The Little Mermaid and strangers who pat him on the head. But he’s still hellbent to investigate his environment.

A couple of months ago, Benjamin enviously watched two friends swing on the monkey bars with ease. He tried a few times and collapsed in a heap of tears and frustration, “I can’t do it. I don’t want to do it anymore.” I didn’t say anything, but his hands were getting raw and, were I in his shoes, I would’ve given it all up for a root-beer float. But he went back at it until his little arms looked like they were gonna fall off. It took him days at school, the park, and our backyard before he finally succeeded. The look on his face was unadulterated joy and pride, “I’m Spider-Man!” he exclaimed.

But he wasn’t finished. A day later, his friend Isabel flew across the rungs like a Cirque de Soliel pro. Benjamin stomped in a rage prompted by a tinge of gender competition, “It’s not fair! She can’t go that fast! She’s a girl! Why can’t I do that?” But in the next few weeks, he got so good on the bars that now other kids look to him as the model “monkey.”

Benjamin and Jacob’s relentlessness to explore extends to a number of pursuits, especially the verbal. Jacob sits in his carseat for hours practicing his consonants. Benjamin scrawls his name across every conceivable writing surface in search of the perfect “B” and a forward-facing “N.” But their behavior is not rare—at least for children.

Somewhere along the line, grown-ups replace experimentation with cautiousness. For most of my adult life, I slipped into a pattern of backing off challenges. I’d allowed myself to say, so what if I can’t shoot a three-pointer or get past the first few pages of my novel?

Through my children’s example, I’m starting to loosen up. They seem to revel in just trying things out. Why can’t I? I’ve never been handy, but now, I attempt to fix fences and assemble Rescue Hero Command Centers. It takes me hours and sometimes Benjamin laughs, “Jake Justice doesn’t go in the helicopter, you diaper head!” But in getting in touch with my childlike explorer side, I’m not only having fun, I may even be showing my kids that the effort — in and of itself — never stops being rewarding.

In contemplating the many New Year’s resolutions we might endeavor to fulfill, let’s follow one that perhaps covers them all. Let’s revel in the practice of being good parents and allowing our kids to be good livers. Let’s allow our children’s natural instinct to help us enjoy the beauty of a simple imperative — try.

Posted in Child Development, Columns by Family Man | Leave a comment

Oy, Baby!

Posted on March 20, 2011 by Family Man

By Gregory Keer

It’s 11:30pm, a minute after I’ve mercifully fallen asleep, and my wife says, “It’s your turn.” I go to visit my gently crying baby, put a pacifier in his mouth, watch him quiet, and sneak out of the room before he needs anything more involved.

It’s after 1am and my wife — who has taken the last three baby calls — smacks my backside with a force I thought only reserved for children at 19th-century boarding schools, “It’s your turn!” I hear Jacob wailing and scramble awkwardly from the bed before my wife draws blood. Going to him, I try the pacifier and he spits it out like warm beer. I rub his head’s soft spot, but that makes him cry harder. I pick him up and pat him as he screams and pulls my chest hair with the force of a gorilla. He wants to be walked…around the house…for half an hour…in the middle of the night. He finally collapses asleep. I gingerly lay him in the crib and run like hell to my room, stepping in cat throw-up along the way, and bark at my wife, “And you think you want a third!”

It’s just before 6am and I blearily see my wife is not getting up, despite Jacob’s escalating moaning. “It’s my turn,” I say. I go to the crib and find him grumbling, snot running from his nose. “Why won’t you let me sleep, you little monster?” I croak.

Then, those big brown eyes flutter open and he — grins. I sigh, tension releasing. “Good morning, Jacob,” I say as if I am one of the Seven Dwarves and Snow White has finally awakened.

Having a second baby is nothing and everything I imagined. It is indeed more than twice the work and three times the frustration. You see, I thought I had already graduated from Baby College. But like those nightmares we all have of repeating high school because we were late for a test, I am reliving the curriculum.

I am returning to the sleepless nights, the poops that penetrate steel barriers, the inconsistent bottle feedings. I am Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.

Now add something Mr. Murray didn’t have to deal with — a preschooler. Everything’s more complicated when you’re trying to care for a baby while the bigger kid still needs proper attention.

But all that being said, this experience is more like Snow White than Groundhog Day. Jacob’s smile is as big and constant as his mom’s. He’s delightfully ticklish, especially after a bath, and he is patient as a saint around his rambunctious brother.

And while I feel guilty (I just can’t get through a column without a guilt confession) that I give Jacob less attention than I did Benjamin when he was an infant, I try to focus on the positives and let him trigger my lost skills as the caregiver of a baby.

Sometimes, those triggers take a little longer to fire. Like the fact that it took me two months to realize that you need to change a diaper more than once or twice a day. Why do they make Huggies so darn absorbent if they can’t make the long haul? I still haven’t got the sense to wear a cloth over my shirt after Jacob eats. I regularly show up for work with “milk badges.” And I will never figure out why my child needs to shriek like a cast member from Halloween while we’re driving. All those books say driving is supposed to calm a baby.

Then there’s the return of some of my favorite baby pastimes. As with my first-born, I like to sing the theme from Bonanza and watch Jacob kick and splash like a maniac. I love how he studies the backs of his hands as he discovers that these amazing tools belong to him. I even adore the way he forcefully pulls the remaining hair from my head as he perches on my neck, drunk with the power of sitting “on top of the world.”

But one of my most precious times with him is on the too infrequent mornings I take him into the playroom before anyone else wakes up. There, I clear a space from the superhero and Hot Wheel minefield my eldest creates the day before, and place my little one on a fresh blanket. He coos at me and soon rolls onto his tummy. He looks up, waiting for a reaction. I applaud. He giggles proudly…But not nearly as proudly as his daddy.

Posted in Babies, Columns by Family Man | Leave a comment