Big Daddy Paul

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.

This may come as a shock to you, but getting a child ready for school each day is almost impossible. Despite the fact that we follow the same routine every day, Malcolm always seems dismayed when I insist that we eat breakfast, brush teeth, put clothes on and actually get out the door.

I aint leaving without a fight. You got that coppers?!

Judging by his attempts to delay the inevitable march out the door, you might guess that I was preparing him to leave the house to be dropped off at the neighborhood coal mine instead of the place where he gets to do interesting projects and play with his best friends. I could possibly rationalize it as his expressing his preference to stay at home and play with me, but since I achieve a certain level of freedom after dropping him off at school, I stoutly resent his his efforts to thwart the daily routine.

I did some quick math and figured that we pay about $.19 a minute for his preschool. We are usually 5-10 minutes late every day, meaning we are losing $1-2 a day because he wants to giggle with joy at how annoyed I get that he won’t put on his underpants. That adds up quick, amounting to roughly a six pack of beer a week. Interestingly, I blame my need of a six pack of beer per week on the fact that I have to fight him every day to get ready to go to school. Double Whammy!

If you add that up for the whole year, his shenanigans end up costing two entire days of school. Two days! With that time, he could be learning how to read or do math problems. He could learn that the word for cheese in Spanish is “Queso” and not “flabiddy doodah.” He might even learn that punching daddy in the groin is not an acceptable way to indicate that he is ready to eat. Instead, he would rather debate the logistics of how many socks he can wear on each foot, or insist yuck mouth isn’t that bad of a fate for a boy who no longer wishes to brush his teeth. This bums me out to no end.

Of course, I try to command obedience through incentives for getting ready. Alternating the carrot and stick approach, I either threaten him for poor performance or offer rewards for meeting deadlines, depending on how much sleep I got the night before. Neither of these seem to work, and I fear Malcolm just likes to fuck with my head. He sees my agony when he runs off and hides when it is time to get ready. He smiles at my displeasure when he poo-poos my fashion selection for the day and then takes five minutes to select the perfect shirt. He squeals with delight while running down the driveway away from his car seat. I almost feel like one trip to the coal mine would do wonders for making him realize that he has a pretty good gig and he should appreciate it. That way, he could start paying off the $2 a day he is wasting.