The Splash Mountain Double Meltdown

"How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!" -William Shakespeare


These things happen. Tantrums. Moods. Or as I'm about to describe, meltdowns. They're part of parenting. Sometimes you can anticipate them, even prepare for them like an approaching thunderstorm. Then there are times when no amount of preparation can prevent the debacle that follows.

So close. Yet so far away.

What makes this double meltdown story ironic is it took place in the so-called "happiest place on earth." That's right: Walt Disney World. More specifically, The Magic Kingdom. Splash Mountain to be exact.

It was day four of our whirlwind Disney adventure. After three days of non-stop, drag-your-child-to-every-possible-attraction family fun, I somehow woke up rejuvenated that morning. This would be our last day in the Magic Kingdom. And even though My Director is the one who planned most of the itinerary before and during the trip, I had decided to flex a little muscle. What can I say? I was feeling ambitious.

I seized the map of the park like a greedy pirate of the Caribbean and checked to see which "grown-up" rides Peanut was tall enough to go on. And there it was. My buried treasure: Splash Mountain, in all of its 40" minimum height requirement glory. Peanut just met the requirement. My mission was clear: ride this ride with Peanut at any and all costs because a) she's going to love it and b) I remember riding it with my parents and loving it.

Best to keep a grumpy Peanut in a bubble.

But a funny thing happened on the way to Frontier Land... we decided to spend the morning in Tomorrow Land because a certain large child (me) wanted to ride Space Mountain before the line got too long. And that plan backfired because when it was my time to conquer Splash Mountain with Peanut, she had already begun a downward spiral like she did every day in the early afternoon. You see, a Walt Disney World vacation is equal parts torture and amusement for a child. You keep her up until way past her bedtime and then you wake her up after she's had a lot less sleep than she's used to. You finally get her dressed and fed but she's still wearing her cranky pants while you push her in the stroller. She loves the monorail so that starts to snap her out of it. Then you get her to the park and she's as ready as she'll ever be. For the rides and the heat and the shows and the walking and the characters. Buzz Lightyear's Space Ranger Spin. A picture with Chip and Dale. The Monster's Inc. Laugh Floor. (highly recommended.)

It's all my fault. I kept telling My Director that I wanted a memory with Peanut, just me and her. That's where I was treading in dangerous waters. Expectations can come back to bite you where the briar patch hurts the most. Besides, I was rolling the dice sending us to Tomorrow Land first. And they came up snake eyes.

We finally arrived at the foot of Splash Mountain.  The wait was just a half an hour. I had timed it perfectly. There would be no other time to do this given what we had planned the rest of the trip. Peanut, having come down from the euphoria of Tomorrow Land and having just met Tinker Bell, had entered moodyville. To make matters worse, My Director wasn't feeling well either. And Peanut is an "I want mommy to go on too" kind of girl. Still, I persisted. My Director insisted. Peanut resisted. Had Peanut just waited in line with me, she would have worked herself out of her mood by the time we boarded our log.

Instead, she cried because My Director couldn't go with us. Then she refused to listen when I tried to explain how much fun we'd have and how she'd love it just like she loved the Log Flume at Great Adventure last summer. Nope. All I got was a stone-cold, furrowed-browed, thumb-in-the-mouth refusal.

Since I took so many pictures of grumpy Peanut,
My Director took a picture of me every time I was grumpy.
This is me hours after "Splash Mountain," still not over it.

Disappointed, it was now time for my meltdown. And I was in rare form. This is what I was looking forward to all day. For two days in fact. And she ruined my good time, my moment, my memory. And I basically said as much loud enough for her to hear me in her stroller. When My Director tried to be the voice of reason, I shouted her down. I actually said, "No. I want her to feel guilty. I want her to know that I can't go on a ride because of her selfishness." Incidentally, I am still accepting letters of recommendation for my father of the year application, if you're so inclined.

Not my proudest moment as a parent, to say the least.

The day after we returned home, I drove Peanut to school. Her friends were so happy to see her after she had been away for five days. Some of them came rushing up to us. Knowing we were in Disney World, they immediately bombarded us with questions. The first - and last - one I fielded was from a classmate who had recently been to Disney with his family. He looked me right in the eyes with a big smile and said, "Did you go on Splash Mountain?!"

Still a little bitter from the double meltdown that occurred less than 48 hours earlier, my heart immediately sank, my smile suddenly faded, my mood totally changed, "No," I said coldly. "We didn't get to that one."

I'm over it now. Mostly. And if Peanut remembers this incident, she doesn't talk about it. She remembers the good times. That's perfect. At least we have a reason to go back.

I have more proof of Peanut only remembering the positive from our trip. You can read about it here.

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That Thing You Do

"My momma told me don't lose you. Because the best luck I had was you." -Michael Franti


There's a reason I call her My Director. Quite simply, she does it all. She works full time. A big-time boss at a big-time job, managing a big staff and dealing with issues every day that most people might never have to deal with in their entire lives. Her job is stressful to say the least. For the past five months, the stress of her job has affected her health.

Then she comes home and becomes Peanut's primary caregiver because our daughter is a momma's girl. She does the bath or shower. She does the toweling off, the hair brushing, and the nail clipping. She knows when the homework is due and what the assignment is. (Actually, after she read that last line she said to me, "I actually think there's homework tomorrow." You can't get anything by her.)

She planned our entire five-day whirlwind trip to Disney World, with some crucial but minimal contributions from me. (More on that when I finally start blogging about Disney... soon.)

In a nutshell, she does it all. And she doesn't complain about any of it. Ever. She just keeps going with a smile on her face.

Until yesterday morning...

Usually, My Director doesn't call me at work in the morning because that's my busy time. When she does, it's normally just to say hello. Sometimes she has a directive to issue. But this day, she needed to vent. She had just dropped Peanut off at daycare. Turns out, Peanut was not a good girl that morning.

Seriously? How can she not be psyched
about these cupcakes?!

After we had put Peanut to bed the night before, My Director had spent about an hour making Mickey Mouse cupcakes for her to celebrate her birthday at day care the next day. Peanut asked if some of them could be Minnie cupcakes. We explained we did not have the capability to make Minnie cupcakes. We seemed to be clear.

The next morning, however, instead of being excited to see the cupcakes; instead of thanking her mom for pushing herself to make them and not doing what her body was begging her to do (pass out on the couch while watching American Idol on the DVR); instead of being happy that her birthday celebration is continuing nearly a week after we celebrated in Disney, Peanut threw an apoplectic fit. A fit so bad that I could hear the hurt in My Director's voice through the phone. It pains me just to think about it. She couldn't understand that Peanut could be so ungrateful, so selfish.

To be fair, we did drag an exhausted Peanut though Disney for five days, sometimes literally kicking and screaming. Add daylight saving on top of that and her body clock is totally out of whack. However, we are sensing more and more that we may be on a collision course with the only-child syndrome we became aware of earlier this year. Like I've said before, it ain't pretty.

Parenting ain't pretty either. A lot of the time at least. It's an often thankless job. And this is a prime example. Peanut didn't thank My Director for those awesome cupcakes. She chose to go off the reservation and became completely spazztastic. Now My Director and I have issued a joint directive to Peanut. After a few bad days she's been put on notice. No more excuses. No more exceptions. She acts up, she gets a toy taken away. One strike and you're out. I'm prepared to pile them up. And she doesn't get any back until she shows she can act nicely.

We'll see how that works.

In the meantime, this is a grateful husband telling his amazing wife that he notices. What she does every day is nothing short of spectacular. It's exhausting and I know it and there is no way for me to be thankful enough except to hug her and just say it. For being her. For being present. For always being on, especially when I'm off. You, my dear, are our rock. Our stabilizing force. And you're not gonna let some ridiculous fit of pre-school rage get the best of you.

If you want to know why I started calling her "My Director,"  you can read about it here.

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The Devil Inside

"I need an old priest and a young priest." - Dr. Evil from "Austin Powers in The Spy Who Shagged Me"

I have bestowed upon my child a new nickname. It's not a flattering nickname. And it is by no means a nickname that I say in front of her.

Penelope mid-tantrum. With cauldron

"Penelzebub." As in "Penelope + Beelzebub."

You may now be asking, "How can you possibly combine the sweet name you gave to your precious little girl with a name for the prince of demons? It's simple. Because Penelope can turn into the devil at the drop of a hat.

Or, put in simpler terms, at the uttering of the word "no."

First of all, you're right. Our daughter is precious. She's courteous, has good manners and is generally well-behaved. She listens pretty well, is a decent eater, and even goes to the bathroom on her own. Heck, even when she asks for candy or a cookie, she rarely eats the whole thing.

But there are times when I swear she has been possessed by some sort of pint-sized monster. And it happens in an instant. Take the other night, for example. Bedtime.

Bedtime is always a precarious time of day. It can go either way, really. It could make you laugh. It could make her cry. You just never know.

This particular evening seemed to be going rather swimmingly. Fun was had. Teeth were brushed. Books were read. And then... a flash of lightning... and my perfect little princess was gone.

Photos of Penelzebub are rare. This one is from Easter 2010

In her place, was Penelzebub.

She threw herself on the floor, screaming, crying, incapable of listening to anything, let alone reason. She was beyond talking to. She was beyond comprehension. She was just... beyond. Possessed, I tell you. What the hell just happened?

We told her we were doing 'group hug' in her room, not in ours. Perish the thought. What sane, rational person would not throw a fit upon hearing this horrible news? Group hug is the point in the evening where the four of us - dog included - collectively embrace right before Penelope lays down her sweet head. (I hold the dog with one hand and hug with the other, in case you were wondering).

She wanted to do it in our room because we had just read her a book on our bed. But we were all headed to her room... so my wife said, "Let's just do it in your room tonight."

In an instant, we have been transported to one of the nine circles of "Penelzebub."



Penelope is still perfecting this trick from "The Exorcist"



Then, as she lay there on the carpet... more hysteria. I made the mistake of turning off the hallway light. That ratcheted up the screaming and flailing even more. Why? Because Penelope wanted to turn off the hallway light herself. Had my wife not corraled her like a boated marlin,  I honestly think that my daughter would have started levitating.

But why? Why do our children do this to us? Why do they flip out - literally - at the flip of a switch? Over nothing at all?

I don't have the answer... but in cases like this, I could really use some divine intervention.

Follow me on Facebook. Click here and like the Daddy Knows Less page. 

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The Hard Part

"The trouble with learning to parent on the job is that your child is the teacher." - Robert Brault

On a normal Wednesday evening, I'll cook a nice dinner for my family. But one particular Wednesday, I had to stay in the city later than normal. So we ordered pizza. As I stood there in the pizza parlor awaiting my pie to come out of the oven, I witnessed an all-too-familiar scene unfold. There was a little blond-haired boy, throwing what can only be described as a tantrum of epic proportions. A tantrum to end all tantrums. The tantrum that defines the word.

I'm not exaggerating here. Trust me. It was so massive and historic, I had to call my mother while it was happening and tell her about it. I had to replay the events to my wife once I had finally arrived home with dinner.

This kid was a year or two older than my daughter. He was kneeling, laying, sprawling himself on the dusty, dingy, dirty pizza parlor floor. His mother, to her credit, kept her composure through the whole thing. She kept her voice even-keeled. Her demeanor was calm. She even ackowledged the humor in the situation.

Why, you ask, was this little boy freaking out inside Mr. Dino's Pizzeria? He wanted a bag of potato chips. And apparently, the answer was no.

The potato chip display is located right by the entrance to the restrooms. So he was causing quite a commotion for all interested parties during the very busy dinner rush at a popular local eatery. I do recall an elderly man who was in quite a rush, and had to wait for the boy's mother to drag him out of the way. "You're blocking the bathroom," she informed him. "No I'm not," he protested.

I was not able to witness the resolution to this tantrum. My pizza was finally ready, so my attention was diverted. During the whole scene I stood there with my arms folded and a slight smile on my face. I must admit I took some joy in watching. The kid, after all, was funny. And the mother, impressive. It comforted me to see someone else go through it, and handle it well. It comforted me to see him stand his ground, and irrationally refuse to budge, like my daughter does.

This story reminds me of what is the one simple, inarguable truth about parenthood. The one thing on which all parents can agree.

It's a given, really: Parenthood is hard.

Even on the good days. Even on the days where there are no tantrums (rare), no tears (rarer), no trials or tribulations (the rarest). It's hard. Even the happy days are hard.
I've worked the overnight shift, the late shift,  the morning shift. I've dug pools. I've waited tables. I've produced an Emmy-winning newscast. It's true. But being a dad is the hardest job I've had, the hardest job I'll ever have. It's 24/7, always on call. Anything can happen, nothing is impossible.

And you never really know if you're doing it well. Because you could be making all the right decisions and your child could still be sprawled out on the floor of a pizza parlor freaking out over a bag of potato chips.

But it's the best job I've ever had and I wouldn't give it up for anything.

Even when the hours are filled with laughter and love and hugs, and they flow swimmingly, effortlessly into one another. When the day almost seems to pass by too quickly. Your child wakes up cheerful and ready to go. In return, you can't wait to start the day. Breakfast is so uneventful that fruit is even consumed without resistance. Playtime is memorable. Jokes are made and taken well. They're so funny they're even repeated until you're tired of them. The snacks are healthy. The nap is welcomed. Undivided attention is paid to all books. You couldn't script a better day.

Those days are gratifying, but still physically exhausting.

You sit on the couch and look at your spouse at the end of days like those and wonder out loud what determined her mood. How did she decide to be so wonderful and cooperative? How can you repeat it?

Hell, if you could, you'd patent it, bottle it, and mass market it.

The great days amuse you and yet confuse you.

Then there are the round-peg-in-a-square-hole days, where you know from the moment you wake up things aren't going to be easy. These are the days when you remember the time before you had a child, and wished you could just sleep in. When the word "no" seems to be the only one being spoken. She's whining. You're worrying. How are you going to get through this unscathed, without someone getting emotionally scarred? Because she only wants to eat what you don't have. She refuses to play nicely. She won't let you brush her hair, change her clothes. She won't even let you comfort her.

"It's going to be ok, sweetheart," you try to reassure her. "No it's not," she protests. "Don't say that to me!" When her world is crumbling and the tears are falling, and you try to wipe them off, she acually gets more angry. She then proceeds to lick her index finger in anger, and aggressively and dramatically replace the tear with a fake one by wiping her finger under her eye. She's actually spitting tears. "I just want to make you feel better, honey." Then she hits you with this heartbreaker: "No one can make me feel better." Ouch.

You're left constantly wondering if you're doing the right thing. Was I too hard on her? Was I not hard enough on her? Should I make a big deal out of this? Am I making too big a deal out of this? Who's really the irrational one in this relationship? Me or her?
Then there are the things beyond your control that even the most relaxed parents worry about. The things that aren't even issues but what if they become issues? The health issues. The money issues. The social issues. The school issues.

What about the things you can control? The sleep thing. The eating healthy thing. The patience thing. The setting a good example thing. Am I following up on these enough? Am I following up too much?

It's hard not to worry. And I'm not even a worrier.
You can't help but think about dozens if not hundreds of things that will never happen. But maybe, you just never know, something might happen.
And that's what makes it so hard. You just want her to be ok. But then you peek in her room after she falls asleep and see her laying there in her little bed with her pink sheets and her Lammie, with her thumb in her mouth and a little drool on her pillowcase with the puppies and kitty-cats on it... and you realize... she's fine. What the hell is my problem? You go downstairs, pour youself a glass of wine, and realize you're fine too. For now.

But it's still hard. That's all I'm saying.

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The Age of Precarious

"And I will warn you now that not their blood but your suspicion might build evil in them. They will be what you expect of them." -John Steinbeck

The terrible twos have one hell of a public relations machine. That's all you really hear about. Even before you have children. Well, we're living through the terrible twos. It's a daily grind with its ups and downs. But overall, not so terrible. 

Until...

We are being told of a another, lesser-known, seldom mentioned phenomenon approaching. I'd never heard of it before. It's called the "trying threes."

The name itself is pretty lame. You can see why the "terrible twos" get all of the publicity: great name, great anticipation involved (albeit nervous anticipation), great drama. 

The "trying threes." Sounds made up, right? I thought so too.

Now I know... the terrible twos are apparently just a warm up.

At a moment's notice, she can go from happy, smiling, singing, to throwing herself on the floor and screaming and crying because she doesn't want to take off her jacket. As a result, the priest is now on speed dial.

But I'm renaming the "trying threes." This, my friends, is the dawning of the "age of precarious." God only knows which age - if ever - it will end.

At times like this it's best to call an audible. Like in football, when you know the play you called isn't going to work against the defensive formation. That split-second decision can win or lose the game.

There we were one October Saturday, like so many other families, picking pumpkins at a local farm. Everyone wants that magical, adorable, memorable snapshot. The child holding the pumpkin. The child walking amongst the pumpkins. The child frolicking amidst the pumpkins.

We got none of that at first.

Our daughter could not have been less enthused. She could not have been less cooperative.

You could almost sense that she understood perfectly well that this was going to be a walking activity. Yet, she insisted on being carried... and only by my wife. My wife, who is starting to complain loudly and not all too indiscreetly that her "back is hurting" because our daughter is "getting heavy" and that she "can't carry you around as much anymore."

She was whining, crying, complaining. My daughter was, not my wife. 

So we put her down in the pumpkins, let her cry, and we huddled up to decide how we should proceed. Do we stick to our parenting plan, and make this excursion miserable for all of us, or do we want to have fun with our daughter in the pumpkin patch?

We called an audible.

We made her stop crying first. And in exchange for her peaceful compliance, we picked her up. Rather, my wife picked her up. She was fine after that, and so were we. The remainder of the expedition was enjoyable. Laughter ensued. Smiles surfaced. Memories - happy ones - were captured.

There is no rule book, no playbook. There are just reams of blank paper awaiting the chapters of her life.

You never know what defense she is going to throw at you. The schemes, the blitzes, the coverages. She's a mad scientist. You just have to be prepared to change your strategy when your plan isn't working. Line up in the shotgun. Run a reverse. Fake a punt. Sticking to your guns and digging in your heels is just plain stubborn and childish. It's a recipe for disaster. You will lose. Your child will lose. The people around you will lose. Misery will ensue.

So expect the best, but prepare for the worst. And if she gives you her worst, change the play. Make chicken salad out of it. For your sanity. For hers. For everyone else around you. What other choice to you have?

It's a new age. The age of precarious. Time to be flexible enough to come up with a new approach in the blink of an eye. 

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