Big Daddy Paul

When Malcolm was younger he was mean. He was mean like an wild west gunslinger, drunk on whiskey and ready to fight at the drop of a hat. Ever the old cat whose balls won’t quit aching, he often took swipes at me for no good reason, as if to say, “I am the boss here, don’t you forget it.” Ike Turner didn’t have shit on Malcolm. And then, slowly but surely, the angry fog began to lift, and I could hang out with him without worrying that he would slap me in the face or bite me in the love handles. I have been enjoying these post-apocalyptic days with Malcolm for a while now.

Yesterday, however, was a trip down memory lane. I picked him up from summer camp relatively early so that we could go to the park for some baseball before watching the Giants-Phillies game on TV. I knew he was looking forward to it, because he left a game of freeze dance at camp to come with me, and one does not willingly leave a game of freeze dance without good reason. Once at the park, I began to sniff that something terrible was amiss when Malcolm broke out into a tantrum after a play in which he tagged me out. The reason? “Daddy you made me out of breath.” “Oh Jeez,” I thought to myself, “this is going to get ugly.”

Sure enough, after another tantrum in response to my calling a pitch that almost hit me a ball and not a strike, I said we were leaving. He erupted. After calling me every name in the book, he threw a ball at me. When that failed to sway me, he hucked the bat at me, hitting me in the spine. I would have throttled the little turd, except the little girls at a nearby lemonade stand were now paying close attention to us and I was feeling a little too much like an episode of Cops. Instead, I quietly ushered Malcolm into his carseat and began driving home. As we turned the corner, Malkie chucked a water bottle at my head, hitting the target and dousing the car with a fresh coat of H2O.

I wish I could print the things I yelled at Malcolm after this, but Amy’s family members who read the blog might object. It was not pretty. Now Malcolm can’t play with his baseball gear for a while, and can’t let my guard down while he is anywhere near my groin. I only hope that this was some sort of short term blip, and not the beginning of his transformation into this guy:

One of the best aspects of parenting is creating little traditions that you enjoy every with your kids. Most of the time, these traditions are quite enjoyable for us, with the notable exception of the mighty redwood tree that we burn to the ground every year on arbor day (not sure how that one got started, but I sure wish we could quit it!)

One of the traditions that I actually like is attending the Alameda County fair, which Malcolm and I went to last week. We had gone to the fair the previous two years and really enjoyed ourselves. If you want to read about it, click here or here (but don’t click here!) You’ll notice that Amy has never gone with us to the fair, owing mainly to her fear of carnies and desire to avoid somehow getting caught between me and the giant corndog shack. I can’t say I really blame her.

Not even these cute little racing pigs could stop Malcolm's vicious downward spiral.

For some reason, this year was different. Malcolm had a tantrum over my failure to buy him a stupid, crappy inflatable airplane at the souvenir stand. Malcolm wandered off, twice (the last time being for a sufficiently long period of time that I was afraid he had already become a carnies’ new pet.) Malcolm lost his Giants hat. Malcolm also lost some ride tickets, which was difficult considering he had them in his hands while standing in line, but somehow ceased to have them anymore when he got to the front of the line.  I found the experience totally and utterly exasperating.

At the end, I knew it just wasn’t his day, and no manner of pleading, threatening and bribing was going to change that. I felt bad for his friends, who had to endure several hours of noticeably poor behavior and my corresponding lecturing. No kid is perfect, but you always feel a little troubled when your kid is a complete shitbird while other kids are around. I think we’ll probably go again next year, as I try to never miss situations where rival food vendors try to vie for your business by deep fat frying weird and wonderful foods. I just won’t look forward to it as much as I have previously.

My first theory of parenting was that all children are evil and must be broken as quickly as possible. This was based on my empirical study of one child in which I noticed that every decision he made was designed to either a) do the thing that I just told him not to do, or b) say something that he knows will make me angry. At one point I was sure that if he found a fork lying on the floor of the kitchen, he would immediately grab it and stick it in my leg. I lived in a perpetual state of fear and I was actually incredulous about a child’s decision-making; I wondered why it was that my child was so wicked. Surely, I have a mischievous side to me, but certainly it wasn’t so bad that my child would end up as the spawn of Satan, would it?

Then I realized the thing that has allowed me to love my son again. He isn’t evil. He is testing me. Kids know right from wrong, they just want to see how we are going to respond. Like a velociraptor running into the electric fence to see if it has any weaknesses, Malcolm tests my

I'm from Jurassic Park!

mettle by misbehaving. Most of the time when his acts up he looks right at me, as if to tell me with his eyes, “Look what I’m about to do!” That sets up a game of chicken, with both he and I wondering whether the other will blink first. (This isn’t one of those harmless games of gay chicken you play in college either, where you end up making out with a buddy of yours just to prove how not-gay you are.)

This game of chicken is serious. Parents who give in first are doomed to micromanage their kid’s lives and the result is a kid who turns out like George W Bush. I don’t want to be the high strung parent who is always haranguing their kid. Most of the time, I dispassionately dispense the penalty for whatever transgression has been committed, and then tell him about the bad decision he has made. When he looks at me when grabbing that proverbial fork, I either look away or shrug meekly like, “Who needs a puncture-free leg, anyways?” In short, I let him totally make out with me. It has helped me to relax, and know that he is testing limits and not plotting how it is he is going to destroy the world. At least, that’s my hope anyways…

Every child does bizarre things that make parents furrow their brow and wonder what could possibly be going through their child’s mind. Some of those quirks can easily be categorized as deviant behavior and treated accordingly. For instance, at a play date today, Malcolm picked up a plastic microphone out of the gutter, licked it, then threw it at the play date’s mom, hitting her in the face. This wasn’t charming, and it actually made me question Malcolm’s mental health.

What's not to like about me?!

There are things that he does that I find endearing though. Here’s a sampling:

When he takes the foil lid of the yogurt for breakfast each morning, he licks the lid. He has the same look on his face as he does when he’s eating a lollipop.

He calls my computer a “pooter” and asks to use it, as in, “Can I play Sesame Street on your pooter?”

He declares his preference for people based on who would win in a foot race. “I like Nana better than Oopa. Why? She’s faster.”

When we have macaroni and cheese that are made of little pasta shells, he puts them on the ends of his fingers and calls them “finger-hats.”

When he plays sports, he knows that the teams need to be from different geographical areas. He doesn’t really understand geopolitical boundaries quite yet, so he will often have match-ups between bizarre rivals, like Cal vs. Canada or Jordan Rd. (our street) vs. South America.

Ok, this one is a bit more involved. Malcolm is prone to acting out when he is really tired. Like all kids, when he is behind on sleep, he does weird shit (like licking gutter microphones and throwing them in the face of play date’s moms.) When he starts acting in this bizarre fashion, I usually remind him that he his acting out and then ask him if there is something he wants to say to me. His response, no matter what the time of day or what the circumstance, is, “Can I have a mint?” I usually can’t contain my smile and I have to hide my face.

Anyone else’s kids do funny stuff?