Big Daddy Paul

8 am: I buy season passes online. A couple of friends told me that they are totally digging Six Flags in Vallejo with their kids. I am anxious about what I am going to do with Malcolm over the summer, so I figure this would give us an easy out during the week. The only theme park we have taken Malcolm to is Disneyland, so the bar is high. Still, Malcolm is not very adventurous, and as long as they have a train, we should be in the clear.

11 am: Rode the train. In spite of the fact that it has a “Thomas The Train” theme, it has all the production values of a trailer park porno. Looking around, that seems to be the norm. The rides don’t have all the bells and whistles that Disneyland has, and the difference is notable. Malcolm doesn’t seem to care that much, even though the ride lasts a pretty pathetic 60 seconds.

11:30 am: Just saw a second toddler stumbling around with a 32 ounce soda and wearing a leash. I understand the comparisons between having children and dogs and all, but I draw the line at the leash. I can’t help but to chuckle, though, at the thought that if you didn’t fill your kid’s gullet with soda all day, you probably wouldn’t need the leash. Just saying.

12 pm: So, the first time it happened, I thought it was just a overly affectionate high school kid, but now I see it is official corporate policy. All of the park employees here give you high fives when getting on and off the rides. This does make the lines a little slower, but I kinda like the personalized touch. I’ll tell you what, though, I sure wouldn’t wanna work here. Having to touch all those sticky, snotty, dirty hands a million times would get seriously gross.

2 pm: We brought our lunches and headed back to the parking lot to eat them. We did this because A) I am cheap and don’t want to pay $8 for a meal for each of us, and B) I try to avoid feeding Malcolm crap if I can avoid it. Don’t get me wrong, I would enjoy nothing more than dining on chicken fingers and funnel cakes all afternoon, but we are at an amusement park. Amusement parks are one of the few places in the world exciting enough to hold a child’s interest all day. Feeding crappy foods and sugar to a kid will only make things worse. I want a sugar crash about as much as I want to wear a tank top, although there are plenty of each around here.  I’ll save the funnel cakes for a rainy day at the library.

2:30 pm: On the way back into the park, we are slapped in the face a second time. There is a go kart track by the front gate and they look ridiculously fun. All of us were totally excited on the way in the park, until we got there and found out that they charge extra for the go karts. What the fuck is wrong with Six Flags? Why would you charge to get into the park and then charge more for one of the rides? Malcolm had a total tantrum when we told him we weren’t going to pay the extra $25 for all of us to ride the go karts. Inside, I was having one too. If we have a meltdown every time we enter the park, we are not going to be coming here any more.

2:45 pm. We got Malcolm to ride a roller coaster! He is normally quite a wuss when it comes to thrill rides, but he smiled after he got off. Usually he cries and needs mommy to hug him for ten minutes. High Five!

3:30 pm: I bought some sunglasses here earlier in the day. It was ridiculously bright and I didn’t want to squint all day. Then, I rode a ride called Medusa, which, with all its banks and turns, gave me the sensation of being born, complete with me crying loudly at the end.  I was smart enough to take the glasses off my head before getting on the ride, but not smart enough to put them somewhere other than loosely attached to my shirt. That was the shortest period of time I have ever owned an article of clothing. Squinting aint so bad, anyways.

4 pm: I saw a woman in skimpy jean shorts with an eagle tattoo on her thigh. Really? I’m all for tramp stamps above the rear end or a cute butterfly near the foot, but an eagle on the thigh? I can’t imagine why she thought that was a good idea, but I bet crystal meth was involved.

5 pm: They have a parade here! Actually that was too nicely put. Here, their “parade” is a couple of high school kids and their friends in costumes being pulled in a flatbed trailer by a golf cart. The costumed characters waved wildly to passers by, who largely ignored them. The streets aren’t even roped off, allowing us to walk right through the parade. No one even cared. At Disneyland, little girls camped out on both sides of the street and screamed at Ariel and the other princesses’ names during a loud and festive parade. Here, the lousy the six flags mascot (think an old, white Erkel) led a motley crew on a journey that had all the energy of a group of hungover conventioneers on the way to an early morning session on actuarial accounting. Nobody screamed at them, except to get them out of the way to take a picture. Seriously, this is their mascot:

Their motto may as well be Six Flags, creeping you out since 1912. All in all though, it was a pretty fun day. We had some fun on some rides, but mostly just enjoyed a nice family day together, doing something that we normally don’t do. We won’t come here all that often, but there are worse things to do on a weekend than hang out as a family and make fun of kids on leashes and meth heads with bad tattoos. High five.

I am mortally afraid of creepy guys in vans. Sure there are probably some van owners that are not pedophiles, but until I actually meet one I am just going to make the blanket generalization that vans are places where dreams go to die. You never hear of a kidnapping story that begins, “Harland lured the child into his Hyundai Sonata with the promise of candy bars.” Nope, the crime report invariably details a van, usually with tin foil covering the windows and ice cream truck music playing on the radio.

I am pretty sure I could resist a predator trying to lure me into the back of his mobile dungeon with promises of nachos and snowcones, but I am a father and I worry about Malcolm. Incidentally, I go round and round over whether a pedophile would be into Malcolm, as he is probably way too chatty to be a good hostage. I have this scene in my head where the predator is trying to make his move, but Malcolm won’t shut up long enough for the bad guy to get anywhere: “Don’t you know, Edgar Renteria hit a grand slam? 99 minus 99 is zero. I love my mommies little nose. Pablo Sandoval has a big belly. I went to Oopa and Nanas house and Seal was there with her baby. I like Seal. I like Pig and Dog, too. Grammy and Grampa live in Reno. I played basketball with my daddy and Oklahoma beat Texas 63 to 59.” And so on, and so on, and so on, resulting in the predator promptly dropping Malcolm back off at the house. Pedophilia is such a tricky issue precisely because it forces you to choose whether you want your kid to be cute and charming or kidnapped and assaulted.

So, with all this mulling about inside my head, I decided to take action. I told him in no uncertain terms that he should never get into a stranger’s van. (Hyundai Sonatas were totally cool, though.) I told him that people would try to get him to come into their van, and might even try to give him treats. When he perked up at the idea of getting some treats, I told him that no treat was worth getting into the van and that he might never get to come home if he did. This seemed to bum him out a little, and I think I got my point across.

To test the effectiveness of my little speech, I began role playing, talking to him in the calm whisper-like voice of Bob Ross, the white, afroed artist on PBS who must have been invited to every NAMBLA convention ever held. Malcolm passed the early tests, refusing to get in my van even though I offered him lollipops, ice cream and SF Giants merchandise. Those he was ready for. He seemed a little unsure, though, when I offered him a chance to play with Yoda and told him that his parents would never let him see the real Yoda. Luckily, he eventually decided against it, making me quite glad that we had the little chat. I am sure that we are going to have more of these little chats, and to prepare Malcolm, I will have to think of new scenarios that bad guys will use to lure Malcolm into the van. Any suggestions?

This is not an exhaustive study of men and women who have kids. It is not intended to generalize about all parents; many men and many women act differently than portrayed here. This is merely my recollection of two recent conversations. One is a group of moms talking while watching our kids at swim class during the week. (From the sounds of things, they are all either part time or full time stay at home moms.) The other is a conversation between dads at my stay at home dad’s group.

Mom 1:

Two kids is DEFINITELY enough for us. I would love to get my tubes tied, especially since it is so painful for me to ovulate. It would be so much easier, though, for my husband to get snipped. I mean, it is REALLY painful when I ovulate. I should have just gotten my tubes tied after my second (baby) was born.

Dad 1:

We’re going camping this weekend. Should we drink beers or margaritas?

Mom 2:

My husband’s mom just died. I’m kinda jealous because he got to spend a whole week back east with his brother wrapping up the estate. That would be sooo nice, just being able to sleep in and getting a break. I’m sorta mad because I am missing my college friend’s wedding because I can’t leave the kids with Jim for the weekend. I really need a break, a week alone would be so nice.

I don't what they are talking about, but you aint missing much...

Dad 2:

I was at the park once with Urbansky when his kid ate goose poop. I mean, I sat there and watched the kid pick up a huge tube of the stuff and plopped it straight in his mouth.

Did you do anything to stop it?

I told Urbansky about it, but I don’t think he was paying attention. The kid did it three times.

Mom 3 (mind you this it the fourth week of class, most of these people didn’t know each other a month ago):

Neither one of our kids was planned. We used to use condoms, but after the first one was born, we decided they were too unreliable. So, I started using an IUD. I bled too much using it though, so I just went on the pill. We had our second one even though we only had sex once in a two month stretch.

Dad 3 (to another dad who has been at the same play dates for three months):

Hey good to see you dude.

Well, I saw that this place was on Keller Ave, so we had to come.

What’s so special about Keller Ave?

My daughter’s name is  Keller.

Oh, right.

Each stage of your child’s life affects you as a parent differently. It doesn’t seem that way when you start down this path. When you decide to have children, it seems as though you are signing up for a static experience, like, “I am sitting down to eat this bowl of macaroni and cheese.” In reality, you are signing up for a variety of experiences, each with its own challenges and rewards. Sure one bite may be mac ‘n cheese, but the next bite may be meat loaf, and the bite after that may involve the words cod, liver and oil. You never really know what the next bite has in store.

Does it get any better than this?

This is because, obviously, as kids grow up they change. They change and they interact with you differently. Sometimes this is good, as in when their digestive systems calm down and they stop throwing up on you. Sometimes this is bad, as in when they stop calling you, “Daddy” and insist that your name is “Fuckface” or even worse, “Paul.”

We are totally enamored with stage of development Malcolm is at right now. I must admit, though, that the last two words of that sentence scare the crap out of me. What if this is the pinnacle of parenting? What if this iteration of our kid is the most pleasing iteration we will ever get? The possibility that we will spend the rest of our lives with a child that we like less than this is almost flabbergasting. (Yes, that’s right, almost flabbergasting. It takes a lot for me to actually get flabbergasted. Flabbergasted, what a weird word.)

My dilemma is partially due to the fact that I am really digging Malcolm right now and partially because I am completely mortified of each stage of development that Malcolm hasn’t reached. Sure, we are now able to really enjoy things like sports, games and tickle fights, but at some point this will change (unless you’re Eric Massa!) Will he stop wanting to be seen with me in public? Will he stop playing baseball in real life and just want to play video games? When do the smoking and drinking start? I don’t know the answers to these questions, and the unknown is cause for concern. So, I worry that this it. This is the time I will always look back on as “the glory days.” Sigh.

My ace in the hole is that I am no longer as hung up on Malcolm’s blemishes as I once was (what hunchback?). Sure he has issues (a grandma at a local park just asked him why he was so mean spirited,) but I conveniently ignore them and focus on the good (we played an entire game of basketball out in the driveway: He won 100-96, doing the math himself all game long.) Isn’t that what all parents do? Rose colored glasses do a great job of blinding you to red flags.

It does get better. Those are March Madness Brackets!

Maybe that’s just it. Maybe I always think things are getting better because I have just gotten better at deluding myself. To tell you the truth, I don’t even mind doing it this way, provided I can always be happy about where Malcolm is in life. I guess it’s my form of Prozac. I can only hope that the day he walks through the door with cigarette in his mouth and says,”Hey Fuckface, where’s my new video game?” and I can turn to Amy and say, “Hear that? He stopped calling me Paul!”