My Three Sons

Posted on March 20, 2011 by Family Man

By Gregory Keer

After my third son popped out, my wife smiled through her pain and said, “I’m surrounded by penises!”

Indeed, baby Ari joins what is now four-fifths of a boys basketball team, including Jacob (3 years old), Benjamin (6), and me. While we are more than the parts that make us guys, Wendy endures the actions and comments that shout out the differences between her and us.

 A couple of years ago, Benjamin made a colorful drawing, then startled family members by asking, “Do you want to see a picture of my penis?” Judging by his innocent face, we chalked it off as natural pride and chose not to draw more attention to it by laughing — in front of him.

A few weeks ago, Jacob sang an unfamiliar lyric to a previously squeaky-clean song, “If you’re happy and you know it, hold your peee-nis.” Because Jacob has a less naive personality, we suggested saving the anatomical references for the bathroom. Hearing this, both our sons went to the bathroom and promptly shouted the word “penis about a hundred times.

All of this only strengthens the reality that Wendy is outnumbered. In the weeks following Ari’s arrival, Wendy has bemoaned what the future holds: years of kids forgetting to put the toilet seat up and peeing all over the floor (mostly due to morning grogginess), a lifetime of male competitiveness (including rough-housing that will result in various injuries), and scores of violence-oriented toys (whether they start that way or are transformed into such).

A little girl would have shored up my wife’s side of the gender battle. Wendy would have someone to shop with, play dress-up with, and roll her eyes at the boys with. Yet, as outmanned as Wendy is, she also revels in being the mother hen among the roosters. She knows that she’ll always have us to look out for her and do the stereotypical male things, such as lifting heavy objects and taking out the trash.

Wendy also sees that, for all our testosterone tendencies, her boys have a sensitive side. I take some credit for this because of my habit of crying during romantic movies, willingness to let my wife do the home fix-it jobs, and penchant for interior design. With my warmth-expressive qualities and Wendy’s own insistence on teaching communication and feelings, we help our sons go beyond traditional male boundaries.

For instance, Jacob, who is the most rough-and-tumble of the bunch, has an obsession with hair. He strokes the long tresses of every woman he can, be they babysitters or Mommy. While this may get him into trouble one day (I can just picture him coming on to a girl in a college bar, asking, “Let me touch your hair,” before the girl’s boyfriend shows up), it highlights his inclination to show affection, something less usual for the male half of our species. Jacob even strokes Ari’s wispy hair to comfort him and, when I’m tired, pets my head while singing me a lullaby.

Jacob also has an interest in understanding what a woman goes through. He recently asked Wendy, “I want milk in my boobies, too.” Now that’s empathy.

Equally fascinated with the breastfeeding experience, I jealousy look on…No, wait, what I meant to say is that the other day, Benjamin watched Ari snuggled close to Wendy and said to the baby, “You have a great mommy.”

Benjamin frequently goes beyond verbal nurturing as he enjoys holding Ari in the rocking chair and using baby talk with him. At just six, Benjamin even knows how to change positions — from cradling to upright against the shoulder — to ease Ari’s fussiness.

As a father, I recognize how much I do incorrectly, some of which is typically male. I sometimes sit on my butt to watch a ballgame while my wife cooks and I often disappear from nighttime kid meltdowns to my porcelain throne. My boys will probably learn some of these traits from me and will certainly pick up more from their friends. But I also pride myself in helping to teach them to bridge the gender gap, to be in touch with their feelings, to connect with the wonder of babies, to listen to what girls think and respond to them the way they want to be responded to.

In this way, I hope my sons will grow to understand women more and know how much better life is when they look for ways to share rather than isolate. It may be that, by the time my boys become fathers, they will bear the babies and breastfeed the infants themselves. Bad Arnold Schwarzenegger movies notwithstanding (remember Junior?), I feel confident that my three sons will make the women in their lives as happy as they now make their mommy.

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

Breathing Lessons

Posted on March 20, 2011 by Family Man

By Gregory Keer

Early one week in January, I commented to my wife that little Ari — then only eight weeks old — was faring well during the cold and flu season. On the very next Saturday, he got a stuffed-up nose. The next day, he slept a lot and his breathing seemed slightly ragged. Still, being experienced parents, we thought he’d be fine with basic care.

On Monday, Ari became increasingly upset, so Wendy took him to our pediatrician. Dr. Esmond said Ari might have RSV and that hospitalization was an option. RSV is respiratory syncytial virus, which usually causes cold-like symptoms. Most children get it by age two, but it can affect a baby’s lungs more seriously.

With the first two boys, Benjamin (6) and Jacob (3), we had avoided hospital visits entirely. Although Benjamin contracted RSV when he was one-year-old, he was cured by a few home treatments.  We knew we were lucky but we were also deluded to believe we’d done everything well enough to keep our sons from grave illness.

So we took the option to treat Ari at home. We had to administer albuterol to clear his airways, but he stayed calm and it went well. He slept peacefully that night.

The next morning, Ari was worse. He labored to breath and his wails were muffled. I was at work when Wendy called to tell me that his temperature had risen too high. I felt guilty for not having taken him to the medical center more readily.

When I met Wendy at the hospital, she looked ashen and Ari appeared exhausted. A nurse, who seemed a bit nervous (she’d only been on the job a few months), had me hold Ari down as she ran a tube into his nostrils to deep-suction out the phlegm. Wendy could barely watch from a few feet away as Ari screamed.

More poking and prodding ensued as nurses attempted to draw blood for testing. Ari howled as I helped comfort him, but my stomach sank while witnessing the nurses dig needles in his veins before concluding that he was too dehydrated to give blood. They managed to insert an IV port into his hand, though he fought mightily before they got it in.

I finally went home to grab clothes for my boys who were to sleep over at Nana and Papa’s house. I ate dinner with them, trying to soothe their concerns but swallowed hard when Benjamin asked, “Is Ari going to die?”

“No,” I said. “But he’s going to need time to get better.”

“I miss Mommy,” Jacob moaned.

I kissed them goodnight and went back to see Wendy and Ari at the new hospital room, which we shared with a frazzled single mom whose baby also had RSV. Wendy cried, worn down by concerns for an infant she could no longer protect in her womb. I’d never seen her so worked over and I hope I never see it again. I, on the other hand, felt numb and tried  to figure out how to help her, our big boys, my students who were to have a final exam the next day, and little Ari.

I left late and slept for two hours alone in my house. It was eerie with my wife and three children away. I felt like a shell without them.

The next day, I gave my final exam and went to relieve Wendy, who had had a night of worry and beeping medical monitors. For the hours I then spent holding and feeding Ari, I felt strangely at peace. I was so connected to my son as I gave him the only things he needed from me – time and love.

Wendy returned to take the night watch. My mom brought the boys home and I went through the bedtime rituals as normally as possible, then let the kids sleep in the big bed with me.

In the morning, I took the boys to school and went home to tie up loose ends. Then, Wendy called to say Ari’s lungs had cleared enough for him to leave the hospital.

Wendy and Ari got back late that morning, but it wasn’t until the afternoon, when I brought home the older kids, that I felt I could really breathe again. Ari did need medicine at home for several days, though his smiles returned, bigger than ever.

Looking back, I realize that what we went through cannot compare to what other parents endure with children who have more serious illnesses. Those parents have courage I can hardly fathom.

Indeed, parenthood has plenty of twists and turns to make us all feel out of control. It’s enough to force us to hold our breath for fear of what might happen next. Yet, we manage to settle down, however cautiously, breathing in the fullness our children bring to our lives.

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

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

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