Big Daddy Paul

It is a fact. Kids get dirty. Oh, you can try to stop them from picking up goose poop and then jamming their tiny little fingers in their nose (and then eating the whole mess, something we call the “Canadian Boogie” in our house,) but the truth is, kids are going to explore the world. Sometimes that means getting dirty. The real question is, “How do you deal with it?”

A growing group of parents are dealing with it by sanitizing the shit out of their kids. Each contact with germ laden materials is immediately met with a visit by the hand sanitizer fairy with the hope that a cleaner child is somehow a healthier child. In this world, there is no five second rule and touching anything at the doctor’s office is a strict no-no. Forget about play dates with the snotty kid from school. Germs are the enemy of the people and must be eradicated by any means necessary.

Well, I am here to tell you today that this is all nonsense.

I need a name for this drink

Sure, it’s handy to have a high-alchohol gel on hand to take quick nips from when you desperately need some hair of the dog to combat last night’s festivities, but it’s just not worth it. A recent Slate Article interestingly found that what this 100 million dollar a year industry doesn’t want you to know: these hand sanitizers won’t stop you from getting sick. Worse yet, a recent study found that pervasive use of these products will actually make you sicker later in life. The theory goes: if you expose yourself to germs early on, your body learns how to deal with them. When you don’t, your body struggles with germs later in life (in the same way that people who take up golf later in life suck at it.) Consider early childhood germs the equivalent of locking your child in a closet with a box of cigars so that they will think smoking is a disgusting activity. The kicker is that, since sanitizers can’t kill all of the bacteria, the bacteria that survive become resistant to anti-bacterials and become something totally frightening called “super bugs.” There’s only one place in this world where “super bugs” should be allowed and that’s in a smash up derby.

In light of all this, we have made a conscious decision to expose Malcolm to as much filth as possible. In China, we smiled when he grabbed a lollipop from a local kid and licked it, and smiled even more when he dropped it on the ground (in Tianenmen Square, mind you) and then plopped it back it his mouth. If he starts licking the backs of seats on an airplane, we call it, “character building.”  We don’t have a five second rule. In fact, we slow cook meals on the hood of the car. If it’s true that “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” Malcolm will become a bodybuilder (until he dies of E.Coli exposure.)

Oh sure, we tell Malcolm to wash his hands after pooping in the middle of dinner, but we don’t sweat the small stuff. Germs are everywhere, and each disgusting lollipop he eats is one bug that won’t get him later in life. One day he’ll figure out on his own that there are places his tongue doesn’t belong, but only because it’s embarrassing and not unhealthy. So let your kids give eskimo kisses to the snotty kid and at school, and if one day your kid’s  sandwich accidentally falls into a homeless person’s shoe, let it slide. They’ll be better off for it. We don’t carry around a diaper bag anymore, but, even if we did, it wouldn’t have Purell in it. No need to, it’s in the flask!

I used to be on top of the ball. I had a stroller and a diaper bag, and the two contained everything a parent needs: wipes, snacks, extra underpants (for both of us!), tissues, toys and books. We were prepared for long waits in doctor offices, impromptu trips to the park, and if for some reason we ever got trapped in the car, we had enough supplies to last for a week. We were prepared for almost everything.

Now, I prepare for almost nothing. If we get stuck in the car, I’m going to have to eat Malcolm. I have no bag of treats and no toys. If Malcolm is thirsty when we out in the world, we have to find a drinking fountain. If either of us soils our undies, we either go commando or go home. (If any of you are thinking of making an action movie called, “Go Commando or Go Home,” you better act quickly. I’m gonna trademark that phrase!) He can play with anything he can get his hands on, but he won’t get his hands on any toys or books we have at home. These now stay at home.

I blame potty training for becoming a douchebag dad. When I no longer had to lug around extra diapers, the backpack, and all the bells and whistles that came with it, became expendable. It’s similar to bathing when Amy leaves town for the week. Why bother if it’s not really necessary? Sure Malcolm would enjoy having a snack every now and again, or have something to do at the park that doesn’t involve chasing squirrels with sticks, but at what cost? I wear the badge of a potty-trained son with honor.

Daddy, why are the other parents so much better than you?

The saddest part about all this is the toll I take on those around me. The other parents on play dates give their kids snacks, and then look at me reproachfully when I have nothing to offer Malcolm. While other kids are enjoying chocolate milk or apple juice, Malcolm and I are holding our noses while drinking from fountains in disgusting public restrooms. Other parents lug bags full of Star Wars guns and soccer balls, while I bring nothing but my charming personality and propensity to show off butt crack. They notice. It almost makes me want to be a better parent. Almost.

Finding a good play date match is a lot like dating. Granted, the play date rarely ends up in the bedroom and you don’t often offer your date assistance going to the bathroom, but the two rituals are more similar than they are different. Each have a multitude of potential pitfalls that you have to negotiate, making a good match a rare feat. When it works, though, life is sweet.

This is bliss. (Actually, it's Drew)

Both dating and play dating involve a lengthy search for what really matters: compatibility. Sure, a nice rack or kids with awesome toys are nice. But if the kids don’t play well together or your date annoys you, things won’t last. The first time we got together with one of Malcolm’s play group friends at, the other kid just rolled around on the floor and tried tackling Malcolm. It wasn’t a play date, it was a wrestling practice. Similarly, the most beautiful woman I have ever dated had this really annoying habit of not returning my phone calls. It was like she didn’t even acknowledge our relationship, and that grew to be very irritating. At some point, you have just have to decide that it isn’t worth it any more and look for greener pastures.

Both rituals also involve finding an acceptable forum for the early encounters. I find that initial play dates at either kid’s house are extremely difficult, as the “home” child has a hard time dealing with the nervous energy and ends up not wanting to share. I try to do all first play dates on neutral ground, and things go much more smoothly. The first date location is also very important. Obviously, you can’t do a first date at your house, and if someone agrees to a first date at your place, they probably look or smell like a troll. Find a neutral site with the right balance of people, noise and alcohol. The wrong location can doom either relationship.

Both involve dealing with rejection. I dated a girl in high school who had a mustache. Not a slight one, either. She looked like Borat. So, imagine my surprise when she stopped making out with me, left, and never returned my calls. I couldn’t help but think, “YOU HAVE A MUSTACHE!!! I’M AS GOOD AS YOU’RE GONNA GET!” Similarly, Malcolm’s friend at school is cool, has a cool older brother, and has cool parents (one of whom is an artist). I tried many ways of getting the boys together, even offering at one point to just take the friend with Malcolm and I to the park, but alas, each advance was shot down. I eventually realized that they just weren’t that into me, and stopped asking. Sigh.

Lastly, both dating and play dating involve hanging out with a lot of losers. I once dated a woman who smelled like formaldehyde. A high school girlfriend looked like the boy from the movie “Mask” and used the word, “pudnucker.” I’m sure the woman I dated thought I was a pretty big loser when I revealed my political affiliation as “Anarcho-Marxist.” Similarly, I went to a play date at someone’s house and they had naked family pictures hanging in the living room. (That is one thing about hippies that I will never understand.) We had one kid over to our house and instead of drawing on the easel, he threw it across the room. I have lost track of the number of play dates that have ended prematurely because Malcolm or the other kid have hit/bit/kicked/slapped/poured battery acid the other. And yet, the search for that special someone must continue.

And continue it does, until you find that special someone. Malcolm has a lot of good playmates, but he just added one more. Note to current friends, don’t be jealous, I’ll get around to writing about you someday, just not today. Malcolm had his first play date last week with his friend from school, Josh. Of course, we followed the rules and went to a nearby park, where the boys ran around together, played imaginative games like tree house or fishing, and when they played Star Wars characters, they were both on the same side. They are smiling and happy together and, although they each melt down occasionally, they seem eager to continue with play dating relationship. Seeing such happiness really makes you feel good as a parent, especially when you recognize the river of shit you had to wade through to find the good play mate. I am sure that it will only last until the mom, who is cool and mustache free, tires of me and decides that we are no longer worth it. Until then, I can enjoy the ride.

There’s a scene in the movie Glengarry Glenross when Alec Baldwin’s character explains the secret to a good salesman, “A-B-C. A-Always, B-Be, C-Closing. Always be closing, always be closing.” I thought of that line the other day, when I handing out one of the many little life lessons I try to give Malcolm during the day. I realized that I probably over-parent, taking every opportunity imaginable to impart bits of insight. I know that he is not taking in everything I say, but hope that by throwing everything I can against the wall, some of it will stick.

I thought that you might want to experience what Malcolm has to go through in a typical day, so I put together some of my choicer nuggets. If you want to really simulate Malcolm’s experience, read the following quickly and in a loud voice.

Remember how much you practiced hitting the ball? It shows!

Maybe you wouldn’t have spilled that if you were sitting down in your seat.

Don’t taunt me, you might not win next time.

Great job putting on your socks! One of them matches your shirt.

Nobody likes a sore loser. Stop crying.

That’s why football is a dangerous sport.

Today's lesson: when taking pictures of your child, hide your beer!

I told you not to put so many rubber fish in your mouth.

Eating your boogers is gross. If you do that, no one will want to be your friend.

It’s not nice to tell strangers that they can’t come to your birthday party.

How did it make you feel when that boy hit you in the face with the shovel?

Seriously, take the fish out of your mouth.

Do you think it would have been a good idea to go to the bathroom before we left the house?

You don’t need to lie, I don’t care if you wore your rain boots at school, but I do care if you lie to me.

If you don’t eat all your veggies, you’re not going to grow up and be good at baseball like Pedro Sandoval.

If you don’t take those stupid fish out of your mouth, your going to the hospital, one way or the other!!!

And on, and on, and on. I am not sure why I do this, but I think it’s because I heard once you let behavior go by without counseling it becomes tacitly acceptable. The inverse is also true, if they don’t know what you like about them, they’ll resort to stuff they know you don’t like. I don’t know, maybe I just need to drink a big tall glass of Shut The Fuck Up. At least, that’s what they might tell me in Glengarry Glenross.