Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

"For it's hard, you will find, to be narrow of mind, if you're young at heart."-Frank Sinatra

To call this post my triumphant return to blogging would be assuming two things: 1) That I will once again write and post here consistently. 2) That this post is good enough to qualify as triumphant. I can't make any promises regarding #1. The mood just struck me, so I wrote this. As for #2, you dear reader will be the judge of that. So without further ado...

It's the end of an era. The turning of a page. A rite of passage. And whatever other cliche you wish to ascribe to what happened last week. We loaded Peanut's play kitchen into the swagger wagon and drove it to my brother-in-law's house in Vermont. What once stood at the center of Peanut's make-believe universe and a key part of our home for nearly a decade will now provide years of joy, laughter, and memories to our nephew and niece in a far-away place, only to be seen by us once or twice a year.

While I am all for de-cluttering and organizing - a place for everything and everything in its place, I like to say. (Actually, I never say that. That's a Ben Franklin quote if I'm not mistaken. And despite my above-average intelligence and moderate professional success, I am no Ben Franklin.) But I digress...

Christmas morning 2008: Peanut discovers Santa's surprise

Despite the utmost desire for order and harmony in our home, this was a melancholy moment for both me and My Director. We stood there in the driveway, staring longingly at the kitchen unceremoniously lying on its back after we placed it in the swagger wagon...in repose, if you will. We looked at each other and simultaneously gave the pouty face...lower lip outstretched...eyes wrinkled...a faux frown that wasn't so faux. This was the kitchen's final resting place in its original home. But our period of mourning didn't last too long. We held firm and stood strong. For our sake, and for the good of the empire. And to show Peanut we mean business.

You see, purging relics from the past does not come easy for her. In fact, she resists at every turn. It's always a fight. Let's face it: she's a hoarder. To describe her room as a disgrace would be an insult to actual disgraces like our country's current political climate, the final episode of The Sopranos, and the New York Jets. This child's bedroom is a monument to chaos. It needs an exorcism. Her room is so dysfunctional that I now require her to meet me in the hallway to kiss me goodnight, for entering puts me at risk of an immediate case of agita. And so help me if I step on another piece of Calico critter furniture, the entire God-forsaken neighborhood is going to end up on the curb.

A small glimpse of the agita-inducing chaos
from an otherwise lovely sunny morning 

I know what you're probably thinking: I am the parent, she is the child. It's my house and she's living in it. (I actually say these very things to Peanut all of the time.) Therefore, she should clean her room. Right? But you need to understand something: the force is strong in this one. And My Director, just as organized and OCD as I am if not more, is a willing enabler. She, the stronger one of the two of us, has succumbed to the madness. So I am outnumbered. I choose my battles, and I have opted out of this one. I avoid the madness.

Relinquishing her kitchen did not come easy. We planted the seed at least a year ago. We were planning a home renovation that would turn what was Peanut's playroom - the longtime home of her play kitchen - into a seating area just off of what is now our new actual kitchen. Before this process, we moved Peanut's toys to the basement and set her up down there. And she embraced this change. She's 10 now. And while she is still clinging to remnants of her childhood innocence like a real-life Andy from Toy Story, she had definitely long outgrown the kitchen.

We will wage the bedroom battle one day in the near future, the three of us converging in an inevitable war to decide who sits upon our proverbial Iron Throne. (I think I'm gonna win that one. Does that make me Khaleesi? Or Jon Snow? Does is make Peanut Cersei? Perish the thought.) For now, while we rummage through what remains of Peanut's playful preschool past, and decide what stays and what goes, sentimentality overtakes my need for household efficiency. That's because Peanut herself, in a moment of honesty bereft of any toy-hoarding, purge-preventing agenda, said something that caused me to tap the brakes on the de-cluttering.

She was talking to My Director about one of her good friends. This particular friend is, according to Peanut, "in a hurry to grow up." An astute observation from a 10-year old, if I do say so myself. I think at this age you get a lot of that: the fine line between kids who want to be preteens and those who want to cling to childhood for as long as they can.

"She hardly ever wants to play with toys," Peanut lamented.

My little girl is growing up. But she doesn't want to grow up so fast. Her kitchen is gone, but her childhood is still here. There's plenty of time for social media, makeup, and God knows whatever else lies ahead. For now, she's going to be the little girl she wants to be, until she's ready to move on.

And I'm fine with that.

She still has to clean her room.

One day.

Stay tuned...

Back in the day, my first post to go viral - as the kids say - was about holding onto Peanut's innocence for as long as possible. The trolls of the internet let me have it, if I remember correctly. You can read it HERE if you're so inclined. And judge for yourself.

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To Infinity and Beyond

"We're going in the attic now, folks. Keep your accessories with you at all times. Spare parts, batteries, anything you need for an orderly transition." -Buzz Lightyear, Toy Story 3

Like an old friend you haven't seen in ages, and then you hang out with them for a night and it's like you're back in high school/college/prison together with the old stories, laughter and hugs, Toy Story 3 recently reappeared into our lives. Albeit briefly. There was a time, before the princesses wielded their awesome power over Peanut, that she loved Jessie and Woody and the rest of the crew more than any other. So much so that Toy Story 3 played on a constant loop in our home. I not only knew it by heart, I quoted it habitually and applied the lessons to my real-life situations, even going so far as to wear a bracelet reading, "WWWD: What Would Woody Do?"

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: If a Tree Falls in the House

Some unexpected traffic on the bus ride home meant I would be a little later than normal. So I texted My Director with some basic instructions on how to get dinner started. This way, I could get a jump start on cooking as soon as I got home:

"Can you put some water on for brown rice and heat the oven to 350 please?"

I was planning to make pan-seared tilapia over brown rice with baked Brussels sprouts and bacon. Yum. Her response was quick, and unexpected:

"Our tree fell over. Have to deal with that right now."

I have to admit, I laughed a little when I read that. Have to deal with that right now? Ya think? A classic line from my straight man. When I got off the bus, a stunned Peanut met me at the corner. "Daddy, you're NOT going to believe this." She escorted me inside. My little girl was beside herself. But not because of this:

Yes. That's My Director working on the tree
while I snap pictures for the blog. Priorities.

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A Fair Share

"The inherent vice of capitalism is the unequal sharing of blessings; the inherent virtue of socialism is the equal sharing of miseries." -Winston Churchill

Sharing. Fairness. They are a cornerstone of parenting, childhood, and a current political debate. As parents, we begin to instill in our children the all-important concept of sharing at a very early age. And as soon as they can speak, children will soon declare that no matter what you decide, no matter how things are split up, it's not fair. That they are somehow being wronged. To me, that is essentially the cornerstone of the political argument over whether some people pay their "fair share" of taxes. If you ask me, the politicians who spew that talking point sound like whiney children too.

My feelings on this issue were solidified recently during a fun and innocent game we play with Peanut. The game is called "Elefun." Do you know it? A mini air blower that comes in the shape of an elephant shoots paper butterflies up its very long, plastic, collapsible trunk. The object is to catch as many butterflies in your little net as you can. Wholesome family fun jam-packed into two minutes or less. When the last butterfly has been caught, you turn off the elephant and count to see who has the most.

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When Wilbur Met Henry

“You have your way, I have my way. As for the right way, the correct way, and the only way, it does not exist." -Friedrich Nietzsche

Peanut's first lesson in what is a hot-button issue in this country (but shouldn't be) came as a result of another one of my ridiculous antics.

She was playing with some Lego stickers that were in the goody bag from the birthday party she had attended that day. As Peanut made little men and women on the page - bodies, heads, and hats - I began to line up her farm animal figures that were still on the floor from a play session earlier that morning. (I had also included Luna's lamb toy, "Lamba," for added comedic affect.) After all, Peanut needed a bigger audience:

Then, mostly because my efforts weren't getting nearly the attention they deserved (you can't interrupt Peanut during her creative process), I made the pig and goat kiss each other.

"Look, sweetie. They love each other."

Peanut grimaced. At first, I thought it was because a pig was kissing a goat. Then I realized that it could be because both of these animals are boys. (I knew she had named the pig "Wilbur," after the character in Charlotte's Web. And my years of zoological study brought me to the conclusion that the goat was also a boy because it had horns.)

So I asked her what the goat's name is, just to see if my ingenious hypothesis was correct.

"Henry," she answered.

I knew it. "Wilbur and Henry love each other," I said.

The happy couple

"But boys are supposed to kiss girls. Not other boys," she insisted. Uh, when did my sweet little Peanut become a homophobe?

"Sometimes boys and girls love each other," I explained.

"And they get married," Peanut interjected.

"Yes. Just like mommy and daddy. But boys can love other boys and get married. And girls can love other girls and get married."

Then I looked at My Director for reassurance. Not that I was correct, but that we were actually having this conversation all because I had made a pig and goat kiss. She gave me an affirmative nod.

We then gave Peanut examples of same sex couples we know, whose children she knows and plays with. She seemed satisfied with all of this and returned to her stickers.

And this concluded our first lesson in same sex relationships. The complexities of the politics can wait.

This instance reminds me of one of my all-time favorite posts, where I tackled the topic of gender. You can read it here.

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Armed and Dangerous

"I change by not changing at all." - Pearl Jam

There is no denying that I am an overgrown child. Immature, silly, and easily distracted. I hear but rarely listen. It happens so much My Director often makes me repeat what she just said. And heaven forbid if I forget something, even after I've repeated it for her. She won't tell me what it was. I say, her loss.

But I admit: I am a frustrating, unstoppable, often unbearable, large child. And sprinkle a little bit of moody on top just for good measure. Sometimes she learns this the hard way. And sometimes those lessons are painful.

Take the other night, for instance. Peanut loves our pre-bedtime play frenzies because I usually let her run wild to blow off the remainder of her steam. She climbs me like a jungle gym. We hurl stuffed animals at each other like fake grenades. Play hide-and-seek, where I refuse to come out until she's just about to find me after an exhaustive search and I scare the bejeebus out of her. I throw her on the bed and tickle her into submission until she pleads for mercy. But this night, a new weapon was introduced. And My Director got caught in the crossfire. Twice.

My Ridiculous Weapon

Introducing, the Shooter Dog, a "gun" that shoots hard foam balls from the dog's mouth when you squeeze its belly. For some reason, Santa (My Director) thought this would make a cute stocking stuffer. Even though someone (yours truly) still considered it a gun of sorts and we're not crazy about toy guns of any sort. (I support your Second Amendment rights. I just don't exercise mine. Go ahead and judge, but that's another blog post.)

Peanut finds this thing hysterical. And so do I. The problem is, I am incapable of giving anything less than 100% when using the Shooter Dog. Because I am a child. I am a boy and boys like to shoot things. Boys think it's funny when you say "Ow!"

So as Peanut and I wrestled on her bedroom floor and I managed to seize possession of the Shooter Dog, I had her in my crosshairs. Locked and loaded. Then the warnings My Director gave as we began playing flashed through my hazy memory. Something about not shoving the ball all the way in. Something else about not squeezing too hard. Something about those two things making the ball hurtle at warp speed toward your supposed loved ones, blistering them in an instant. But that just makes me want to do it more.

So I shoved that ball as far as it would go, and I squeezed as hard as I could. Taking My Director's warnings into consideration, I quickly shifted my aim away from Peanut. Now I'm targeting My Director's legs. She was sitting, crossed-legged on the chair in the bedroom, directing of course. But a sneak attack from Luna threw off my aim. I shot high and hit her glasses.

I'm dangerous

Then I started laughing. Hysterically. Gut-wrenching, belly-aching, wheezing, coughing, drooling, tear-stained laughter. My Director, forever my straight man, her glasses now askew from my unprovoked, surprise attack, was even holding back laughter herself. Peanut laughed too. Not a great moment in parenting history, mind you.

In hindsight, I should not have laughed, let alone laughed as hard as I did. But funny is funny and this was funny. Nor should I have done it again. That's right. Another full-force, ball-in-the-mouth, tummy-squeezing shot that hit My Director directly in her right cheek. Now she's pissed and storming off to our bedroom.

Now Peanut is stomping right behind her, slamming the door, telling me how naughty I am. And I am sorry... truly. Sorry that I didn't listen to her. Sorry that I hurt her. And sorry that Peanut witnessed it all.

Sometimes I can't help myself. I play to win, and I play hard. Shouldn't My Director know that? Yes, she should. And she does. That's why she took the Shooter Dog away from me until I prove to her I can play with it responsibly.

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That's Not a Toy

"In spite of the six thousand manuals on child raising, it's still a dark continent and no one really knows anything. You just need a lot of love and luck. And, of course, courage." - Bill Cosby

There are times when your child says something so ridiculous, you can't help but laugh. But sometimes you laugh, and then you worry. You do a double take. You say, "Wait...What?"

And so the Peanut said something so outrageous, so outlandish, so out-of-the-blue bizarre, I was compelled to call my mother-in-law to offer an unsolicited explanation. Because, you know, me and my MIL are phone buddies. We chat all the time about sports, politics, knitting, our much-anticipated family trip to Disney. Not only did I feel the need to justify myself to her after what Peanut had said, I thought I may need an attorney.

Luna's cow will play the part of Peanut

Our story begins one night a few weeks ago. While we were all upstairs changing into our pajamas, Peanut grabbed a small plush toy drum that has attached drumsticks. She then proceeded to dangle it between her legs and say, "Look, daddy, it's my penis."

Wait... What?

For the record, My Director and I don't exactly flaunt our business in front of Peanut, but we don't hide it either. We laughed, then explained once again about penises and vaginas. But like a little honey badger, Peanut didn't care. She didn't give sh1t. Thus, for the remainder of the evening, she decided to endow herself with a toy drum penis.


What am I more worried about? That she thinks a penis is a toy, or that she thinks a toy is a penis? I have to admit... she gets bonus points for creativity.

The incident was never mentioned again. Until...

Fast forward to yesterday morning. My mother-in-law had stayed the night to spend some time with Peanut. Once a month or so (that's plenty) she picks up Peanut from school early, they spend the afternoon together, and she sleeps over.

Pink Wii controller penis

She was trying to wrangle her into her jacket to take her to school. That's when Peanut grabbed her pink Wii controller, struck a sultry pose on the arm of the couch, and proudly stated, "Look, (Grandma), it's my penis!"

Now, my mother-in-law is a bit conservative when it comes to such vocabulary. She is on record as being against our use of "penis" and "vagina," even though that's what those things are. (Don't get me started.)

"Sweetie," she said. "We don't talk about our private parts like that."

"It's ok. Me and daddy play this game all the time."

Wait... What?

As My Director is telling me this story, we're laughing of course. But after the hysteria died down I still needed some reassurance. 


"You did tell your mom there's no penis game, right?"

"No. I don't think I did."

"You didn't? Did she sound concerned? Or was she laughing?"

"Well, she didn't sound concerned but...you know how she is."

"Yeah. I do. Get her on the phone."

She dialed since I was still cleaning the pots from dinner. (Yes I cook AND clean. I'm a catch, ladies.) I squeezed the phone between my ear and shoulder as it rang more times than I had expected. Now I'm thinking... "Uh oh. Is she avoiding the call? Am I going to have to leave my explanation on their machine?"

Finally she picked up.

"Mom, it's me," I said trying to suppress laughter. "I just want to be clear." I couldn't do it. So with an audible smile I said, "There is no penis game."

How many guys have said that to their mother-in-law and meant it? Thankfully she didn't need much convincing and we all had another good laugh.

Now I have to worry about Peanut repeating the same thing at school and child services knocking on my door.

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The Animals in the Armoire

"A true friend never gets in your way unless you happen to be going down." ~Arnold Glasow

Recently they had a koala day at the Peanut's daycare. I was vey excited. You see, koalas are kind of my favorite animal. Why? Because growing up, my favorite stuffed animal was a koala bear. I named her, originally enough, "Koalie."

Koalie and I went everywhere together. To this day, family members will ask me about her. "How's Koalie?" "Do you still have her?"

They rest in my wife's belt basket

Yes, I still have her. She is retired. And spends her days in the armoire in our bedroom with Ellie, the stuffed elephant that was my wife's favorite stuffed animal growing up. They're not in love. Just roommates enjoying old age together.

If you're wondering why Koalie is a girl, it's because she was married to my favorite Smurf, Jokey. They would ride around the house in my Tonka Jeep with their child, Curious George, in the backseat. Often they would steer off course and fly down the stairs, much to my mother's chagrin.

Koalie up close

As for how Koalie is doing? She's seen better days. She no longer has fur. In fact, the area under her nose is so worn it looks like a smile. But it's not. It's just a bare patch. Her eyes are scratched from countless spins in the washer and dryer, making her look like she has cataracts. Her arms and legs are literally hanging by threads.

Koalie is a relic from my childhood that I will treasure forever.
When I saw on the calendar that koala day was coming up, I asked the Peanut if she had to bring a koala into school. She said no. I asked her if she wanted to bring Koalie anyway. "No, daddy," she told me. "I don't want to bring her because she has holes and is ripping."

"I understand," I told her. I then warned her that her Lammie will probably get like that some day. "That's what happens to the toys we love and play with every day like Lammie and Koalie." She didn't want to hear it. "I dont want Lammie to get holes in her and rip," she said, on the verge of tears.

Peanut with Lammie: Summer 2011

I remember one of my sisters painting Koalie's pupils back on with nail polish after they washed off in the laundry the first time. I was devastated. So I totally understood the Peanut's anguish. We don't want to see the people - or things - we love grow old or get worn out.

Lammie is looking a little worse for the wear. Despite weekly washes, she's brown. She's no longer white, soft, and fluffy. She stinks a little too. And her fur is balding in some areas. Lammie and the peanut have been inseparable since she was about 10 months old:

Peanut with Lammie: 2007

I just hope she holds together long enough until the Peanut is ready to retire her to the armoire with the other spinsters. Peanut loves her so much she wanted to dress as Lamie for Halloween this year. So my wife and I joined her in dressing as our favorite childhood stuffed animals:

When you have a friend that special, you never want to let them go.

We nearly lost Lammie on a recent trip to Ikea. Not one of my finer parenting moments.

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Candy Land of the Lost

"That's life. That's what people say. You're riding high in April; shot down in May." -Frank Sinatra

Candy Land is a necesary rite of passage, and at the same time a form of torture. Quite simply, it is the bane of our parental existence.

Why, Hasbro? Why do you do this to us? Why do you move us painfully, slowly up that rainbow spiral board only four or five spaces at a time? (If we're lucky.) Then, like a punch in the stomach, allow one of our opponents to draw the card that lands them on Chocolate Mountain, leaving us way behind in Gummy Hills? Curse you, Hasbro.

To make matters worse, the competitor in us still wants to win, even though the only skill required to play this game is the ability to identify colors. That is when we realize our only shot is to actually root for our four year-old daughter to draw a card that sends her far enough backwards that gives us a chance at victory.

It's a double-edged sword. Because if your child is lucky enough to hit the lottery and draw that card to send her to the top, she'll be happy. But God forbid if it's you that hits the lottery. And heaven help you if your child is the one sent backwards.

So while we sit there silently hoping for a lucky card, eyes glazed from the mind-numbing boredom, you manage to close the gap. Only to get stuck in Licorice Swamp on your way back to respectability.

Subtly Un-Sweet 

This is the dance I found my green gingerbread piece doing with the Peanut's blue counterpart one rainy afternoon. But there was an anomaly. We were both closing in on Candy Castle, and the blackjack junkie in me realized neither of us had drawn one of the special cards. They were bound to come up. And sure enough, soon thereafter, I was sent packing to Ice Cream Falls. I made a big spectacle of myself.  A big, loud, "Oh, no... boohoohoo." Even fake crying.

Peanut came over to me, grabbed my face in her hands and kissed me on the cheek. She assured me it would be alright. "All you have to do is pick the colors and make your way back up," she said. As if it were that simple. Easy for her to say; she was about to win. One day she will understand the statistic improbability of my victory after that devastating turn of events.

When Peanut disavowed cupcakes

Three turns later, the Peanut was sent packing as well. All the way down to Cupcake Commons. Now she was beside herself. For real. She stormed off into her playroom.. I reminded her of the reassurance she had given me just two minutes before. Her answer: "I don't like cupcakes."

"You don't like cupcakes?!"

"No. I like cupcakes. I just don't want to play anymore."

I gave her my best pep talk. "We don't quit," I told her. "When things don't go our way, we find a way to make it better."

I took this time out to go to the bathroom. I said when I came out, I wanted her back at the game ready to play again.

She was. She told me she had picked her next card. Magically, it was the popsicle card that brought her right back up near the top of the board. Had she cheated? The thought immediately crossed my mind. Could she possibly be that cunning? And dishonest? My angel? Or were we just due for a run of special candy cards?

I will honestly never know the truth. I didn't even bring it up. But here's why I had my suspicions: Because during a game of Candy Land with my mom, I did something similar when I was the Peanut's age. Maybe a little older. So it's in her blood. Wanting to win at all costs. Being a bad loser.

To this day, I feel guilty about it. The memory of my mom's genuine (albeit over the top) reaction is etched in my brain. Did she know and just play along? Perhaps if the Peanut did in fact cheat, she feels the same way now that I did then. And will still feel the same way 30 years from now.

I will say this about Candy Land: It does teach us that life isn't fair. That no matter how hard you try, and despite your best effort, you could still be sent to the back of the line even if you didn't do anything wrong. Sometimes there isn't an explanation that will make you feel better. That's life.

Do cheaters win? Sure they do. But if they're worth a damn, they feel really crappy about it. The important thing is when your turn comes up again, you start that slow climb back up that mountain.

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Cuddly as a Hedgehog

"Excuse me. I'm trying to stay in character." -Mr. Pricklepants from Toy Story 3

One night, the Peanut came into our bedroom as I was changing into my pajamas. She was holding her plush Mr. Pricklepants doll. A doll she had asked for while shopping with my wife because "daddy loves him."

She held Mr. Pricklepants and offered him to me. "Daddy, do you want to sleep with Mr. Pricklepants?" (Hearing her say Pwicklepants is pure magic.)

Did I want to sleep with him? I had just met him.

"Do you want to daddy?" She asked again as she handed me the stuffed doll. "Because you love him?"

You see, Mr. Pricklepants has become a mainstay in our house... part of the narrative... because of me.

If you are not aware, he is the plush hedgehog character in Toy Story 3. He speaks with a British accent yet is dressed in German lederhosen. I find him to be hilarious on many levels. His voice, his clothes, his name, his demeanor. I want another sequel just so I can see more Pricklepants.

We are introduced to him in a scene where Woody the Cowboy joins a new set of toys in a strange new room and is trying to figure out where he is. Mr. Pricklepants keeps interrupting him, telling him to "Shhhh" because he is a thesbian who, as I reference in the quote above, "is trying to stay in character:"

Mr Pricklepants is a complex, passionate, loveable animal. Just like my daughter. Just like her dad.

But the Peanut now says "Shhh" a lot. At times, it's so naughty it makes my blood boil. And when I call her on it, she blames Mr. Pricklepants. That's because I mimick him. A lot. 

Sometimes we teach our children bad habits. Sometimes it's too funny to resist. Sometimes it comes back to bite us in the a$$.

It's my fault. In our non-stop viewing of Toy Story 3 for the months after we bought her the DVD, I would repeatedly quote him. And quote him to her, when she was legitimately trying to ask me something.

Yes, I am at times a horrible influence. But her comedic timing will be so precise she'll be ready for the stage at Second City by the time she's twenty.

And what does she say to me when I correct her constant shhh-ing at inappropriate times? "I was only kidding, daddy. I was being Mr. Pricklepants."

That's maddening. Because now I want to hug her for being funny. Even though she was not being funny. She was being bad. Then I want to hug her for being resourceful and thinking of that excuse. For blaming me. Like the old anti-drugs campaign, "I learned it from watching you, dad."

But sometimes she uses her powers for good...

So I shared my pillow with Mr. Pricklepants that one night. It was nice. Maybe I didn't teach her such a bad habit after all.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Scary Crazy

We have a problem. A serious problem. A Halloween problem. In our house, we treat Halloween almost as seriously as we treat Christmas. No, you're not reading this wrong. Your calendar is correct. It's still September... and I'm talking about Halloween already. It's because we have a problem.

How into Halloween are we? We host the annual party. It used to be a drunken kegger complete with vodka gummy worms and costume contests that lasted well into the early morning. Now, it's a kidsapalooza complete with backyard games and a pinata that ends in time for dinner.

This weekend, my wife asked me to bring all of the Halloween boxes down from the attic so she could "take inventory." Yes, inventory. I stacked them in the corner of our bedroom:

You can't see 'em all but there are nine crates total

This year, we decided to be ahead of the game. Planning early because all of our October weekends are filled with other commitments. We already made the trek to Target. Speaking of being ahead of the game, I even bought two sets of Christmas lights while we were there. I can't help myself. Like I said, we have a problem.

That's not nearly as bad as my wife, who bought a bounce house. Yeah... a freakin' bounce house. Called it an "investment:"

We Bought a House

And we complain we have no money. There's not enough therapy to deal with this problem.

Peanut's into it too... rummaging into the crates to find her Halloween toys, including the vampire Mr. Potato Head. But she didn't want him in her room at night because he's "scary:"

Still smiling for a guy sleeping in the hallway

Luna's excited to have her Halloween toys back too:

My what big fangs you have.

I wonder if the Peanut will be as into Halloween as we are when she grows up. Something tells me she will:

Reminder: it's still September.

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DKL in Legos (from Daddy's in Charge?)

And now for something completely different - and awesome - on DKL. A guest post. But not just any guest post. It's the first guest post on DKL that is not by my wife. This is from my friend John at Daddy's in Charge?


John and I used to work together in television news way before my wife was my wife and definitely way before we had the Peanut. It was obviously way before he was a stay-at-home dad. John is a photographer. As a producer, his job is crucial to my show's success because it's obviously tough to make compelling TV without pictures (video). 


He's one of the best at what he does but after his wife earned a big new job, he decided to stay at home. Soon after, he started a blog. One of the coolest things he does is movies starring himself and his family as Legos. He was cool enough to do one about me (I'm wearing a tie!) and the Peanut (she has a fairy wand!) for right here on DKL:

Stay at Home Dad... Starring Legos

Lego John visits DKL

I am just your average Stay-at-Home Lego with two awesome little boys. They are equal parts cool and crazy. I am not going to sit here and tell you that being a stay-at-home parent is easy. There are certainly things that drive you nuts. First and foremost, my house is full of minifigures just like me - firefighters, police officers, construction workers, Indiana Jones, guys from Star Wars. You name it, there is a Lego minifigure somewhere in my house.

Sometimes you just have to get away. I recently went to Legoland where I met Darth Vader. It was the coolest thing I have ever done in my life... until now. When Justin asked me to make a guest appearance on his blog I jumped at the chance. I mean how cool is that? A Lego guy that's in demand. I'll have to get my agent involved. Anyway, when Justin told me that being a stay-at-home parent was easy, little did he know how his day would go:



Normally I would be the star of these movies. But after all, this is his blog... and a fine one at that. I couldn't in my right mind completely hijack it, so if you wish to see more of ME in action, like how I found a snake in my yard, or when I debated whether to take my kids camping, come on over to Daddy's in Charge?

John's obviously a talented a photographer and editor. The videos and pictures he posts on his blog are great. But he's a hell of a writer too. He's also fun to chat with on Facebook or Twitter because like I've said before... he's slowly losing his mind... and he's desperate for adult conversation.

If you missed my post on John's blog about my two days as a stay-at-home dad that had me begging to go back to work, you can read it here.

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Keeping Your Promise

"If you want children to keep their feet on the ground, put some responsibility on their shoulders." ~Abigail Van Buren

We definitely need a plan. As in, on weekends when we don't have anything planned, my wife and I need a plan. Because then we wake up in the morning, stare blankly at each other, and find ourselves allowing the Peanut to watch an hour and a half of Strawberry Shortcake cartoons.

Not good.

Or, what happened this past Saturday morning happens. My wife will decide, out of the blue, that we need to do something. Something we've been putting off. And that we need to do it immediately. Right. Now.

So she decided to drop a bomb on the Peanut and tell her we're going to go through the playroom, and get rid of some toys. Three piles: garbage, donate, baby (as in, still-yet-to-be-conceived second child).

As you could imagine, this did not go over well. The Peanut needs to be warned. Prepared. We can't just hit her with the unexpected. Even if it's a good thing like watching a new movie or going out to breakfast. She needs at least 24 hours notice, and she'd like it in writing whenever possible.

Crying started almost instantaneously, and continued throughout the process. And because the Peanut resisted my wife's every move, somehow I was getting in trouble. "I could really use your help in here, daddy."

To which I would have liked to have answered, "Listen lady, you're the one who shattered the peace of our otherwise uneventful weekend morning by deciding to discard part of our daughter's childhood and disassemble a corner of her world. Now that she's mad at you, you're mad at me?"

But I just said, "ok." And went into the playroom. I pick my battles. And I agreed that, like a forgotten library book, this exercise was long overdue.

The Peanut fought for every toy. "But I love that toy," she'd say. She protested when my wife called something junk. "No it's nooooot," she'd whine.

She cried. Over. Every. Single. Little. Toy. We didn't even get to the big stuff. It's hard to rationally argue with a 4 year-old who insists the Happy Meal toys that my mother-in-law bought her two years ago were "her favorite."

And the ones she didn't love, or that weren't her favorite, were conveniently, "Giada's." As in, her Lammie's. "That's Giada's toy. She plays with it all of the time." Cunning.

My daughter has the makings of a shrewd negotiator. Perhaps an attorney. Possibly a criminal mastermind.

This is what she's giving up...

...and what she still has

Finally, I volunteered my only useful bit of parenting to this whole charade. I reminded my daughter about her New Year's resolution. The one that inspired her teachers, other parents, and many of the readers of this blog. The one that filled our hearts with pride and our eyes with tears. The one where she said she wants to share her toys with kids who don't have them. I wrote it about here.

Her response? "I don't want to give my toys away anymore."

Now it's up to us to make her keep her promise.

How soon we forget.

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The Promise

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

Sometimes your child will say something that will quite simply floor you. Leave you speechless. It comes totally out of left field. Unprovoked. There are times when these things are funny enough to make you burst out with laughter. There are times when they say something that might cause you to worry, or at least make you wonder if you ought to worry.

But this time, the Peanut said something that gave us goose bumps, warmed our hearts, made us beam with pride... all at the same time.

Upon her return to school after the Christmas break, her teachers asked the class about New Year's resolutions. They do this often, almost every Monday. They ask the kids something and then post their responses on the bulletin board for us to see. The topics range from what they did over the weekend to what they enjoyed most about a recent field trip.

What the Peanut told her teachers made even them stop and comment. They pulled my wife aside during drop-off to tell her. They even directed me to the bulletin board when I arrived to pick her up later that day so I could see it for myself.

And even though I already knew what it was, since my wife had called me from the car after drop-off, it made me beam all over again.

Ready?

The Peanut said her resolution for 2011 was, "To share my toys if kids don't have toys."

The Peanut aims to make 2011 the year of giving

What 3 year-old says that? What child her age wants to share anything? To be perfectly honest, the Peanut has a terrible case of only-child syndrome, especially when it comes to sharing. She's all 'me, myself, and I.' So this had us very proud.

Where, you might wonder, did she possibly get this idea? Well, right before Christmas she and my wife entered school for a routine drop-off, when the Peanut noticed the boxes in the lobby meant for toy donations were gone. She remarked, "Oh, we forgot to bring in a toy, Mommy."

And she was right.

In the hustle and hysteria of the holidays, we kept forgetting to pick up a toy to donate. And our daughter noticed. My wife called me, devastated. "We're bad parents," she said. "We're setting a bad example." It was a week before Christmas. Most toy drives were over. But I managed to find a local business two towns away that was still collecting for Toys For Tots.

We bought a toy that Saturday and brought it there. The Peanut put it in the box herself. We told her how important it is to give to those who are less fortunate. We felt like adequate parents again. We hoped the message stuck.

We didn't hear anything more about it for two weeks... until we heard what she had said her New Year's resolution is.

So here's to being more generous, more selfless, more giving in 2011. My daughter taught me how important that is.

**UPDATE** A few months later, we took Peanut up on her offer. And she sang an entirely different tune. Click here to read "Keeping Your Promise."

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