Big Daddy Paul

I'm pretty bad ass at my school, but I can be badass anywhere...

Malcolm is graduating from his preschool today, and I am very excited. Well, since he isn’t going to kindergarten next year, he really isn’t graduating so much as just moving on to a different school next fall. His school is calling it a graduation, however, and I for one am jumping on the bandwagon. We have invited his grandparents to the event at the school and I am sufficiently motivated to mark the occasion that I am making ribs for the potluck following the ceremony. Mmm ribs. You know I am geeked up over something when I break out the pork.

Curious to see what he thinks about the milestone, I have been talking to him about what this means and asking him how it makes him feel. His response up ’til now has been nonchalance to the point where I am seriously irritated. I am not sure if he doesn’t get the fact that he is losing his primary source of education for the last two years (my function has now been limited to chauffeur, cook and batting practice pitcher), doesn’t want to think about it, or just honestly doesn’t give a fuck, but he will not show any sort of emotion over this rather large change to his schedule. “Hey Malcolm, after June 17, you’re not going to be going to your school anymore. Will you be sad?” His answer, “No.” I asked him what he would miss most about his preschool, and he said, “Nothing.” I even tried to point out that he wasn’t ever going to see most of his friends ever again (in a blatant attempt to go Barbara Walters on his ass and make him cry,) but he quickly pointed out that he’ll make new friends at his new school. WHY ARE YOU SUCH A ROBOT ABOUT THIS? Can’t you even show the slightest bit of emotion?! Damn your indifference!!!

Mind you, this is the kid that shows emotion every day over being told to stop watching Giants’ highlights and eat breakfast. He told me he hated my guts when I took a plastic golf ball away from him yesterday because he kept hitting it at the TV. He will absolutely melt down if I have the temerity to suggest that we race to see who can get their seat belt on first. I asked him to stay on his step stool while he brushed his teeth the other day, and he reacted with enough ferocity to suggest that I had just stepped on his nuts. Oh, but leaving your teachers and most of your friends behind to go to a brand new school where he doesn’t know anyone? Hardly a second thought.

Maybe I am getting worked up over nothing, as I would feel pretty bad if he was truly saddened by the fact that his time at this school was ending. I guess I just want him to realize that he should cherish the things in life that he likes, because they may not last forever. My only hope is that when he sees that I have made ribs tonight, he’ll finally realize that he is passing a significant milestone and react accordingly. Then again, he may just tell me that he hates me…

Often, when I run into a parenting dilemma that I cannot seem to handle, I do a complete 180. This actually happens quite a bit, as I have never had a job that changes so frequently and has as many roadblocks as this job does. Sometimes this works out well, like when I started handling Malcolm’s afternoon fussiness with more energy and attention rather than less. Other times, I realize I may have made a huge mistake. Once, when having a pretty bad week butting heads with Malcolm, I sold him to a band of gypsies. (It cost $1,500 in silver coins and a large cupful of fingernail clippings to get him back, but the damage was minimal.)

To address the onslaught of tantrums that has popped up recently, I started having tantrums myself. Today, when Malcolm withdrew to the corner to scream about the supreme unfairness of making him eat the homemade blueberry yogurt instead of the much cooler individual blueberry yogurt servings from the store, I  had a meltdown. To let him know that this isn’t how adults normally act, I loudly announced that the part of Malcolm in today’s performance would be played by Paul Schwartz. When Amy asked me to sit down and eat the yummy yogurt we made, I stomped my feet loudly, went to the corner and began shrieking, “NO! NO! NO!” When she asked me again, I got on the floor and pounded my fists on the ground and said, “I don’t want THAT yogurt!” Then, I turned over and kicked my feet in the air, like a turtle on its back. Wouldn’t you know it, by the end he was laughing. When he asked that I do it again, I gladly obliged, and after my second tantrum, he sat down and ate the yogurt, smiling the whole time.

I have done this several times, and it almost always worked. I know that child psychologists would probably frown on ridiculousness of it all, but I don’t really care. If they want to come hang out with Malcolm all day then I will gladly let them scorn me. Walk a mile in my shoes, you ivory tower pie in the sky university types!

Of course, when it hasn’t worked, the results were disastrous. Akin to throwing gasoline on a fire, Malcolm got even more upset at me and decided to try removing my eyeballs from their sockets with his fingers. I am finding that it works better on things that are rather trivial, like yogurt selection and toothbrushing techniques, but fails when more serious topics are at hand (i.e., explaining why we sold him to gypsies.) A well chronicled history of silliness also helps him realize that I am not, in fact, suggesting that throwing a tantrum will help him achieve any of his goals.

Plan B, bury him in sand up to his neck!

I am sure this approach will one day fail regularly and we’ll have to come up with something new, but until then, I say screw the child psychologists, get down on that floor and melt down with the best of them!

I used to think that tantrums were predictable. You put together a forecast, identifying variables such as last night’s sleep, today’s activities, sugar intake and the level of attention I’ve given to Malcolm to gauge whether a storm’s a-brewing. Like the TV meteorologist, I wasn’t correct 100% of the time, but it’s not like I said it was going to be sunny, and then it monsooned. I used to believe I could tell when the tantrums were likely to happen and when I was safe.

Now, I can’t. We had a great day on thursday: I picked up Malcolm from school, we played the board game Life. We played basketball outside, and I even let him win. We acted goofy in the house. Then before dinner, it hit. I told Malcolm he needed to help clean up the board game before dinner and he flew into a fit of rage. He yelled, screamed, attempted to hit me, kick me and even tried spitting on me. (I found the spitting part kind of comical though, as he doesn’t yet know the fine art of spitting and ended up making exaggerated “F” sounds to the point where gobs of foamy spit dribbled out of his mouth and down his chin.) I haven’t been mistreated so badly since I told Amy that the Gilmore Girls was cancelled. It was bleak.

After spending time in the penalty box (currently his room while we finish renovations of the underground dungeon we’ll be using in the future) he came back out and was chipper as can be. He said he was sorry, and was quite caring and affectionate. Hurricane Malcolm had hit with jaw dropping intensity, but now had subsided, leaving sunny skies. What the fuck just happened? First I can’t tell that he is about to have a tantrum, and now I can’t even tell that he just had one. Why does parenting always make you scratch your head?

Mood swings? Me? No way!!

I am now confused and wander around the house like a crazy cat lady, mumbling to myself and wondering what new unforeseen danger lurks behind each corner. I know the beast lurks just below the surface, waiting to make itself known at a moment’s notice. I’ll tell you what though, knowing that a hurricane lies just of the coast sure makes you appreciate the sunny skies you got now.

On Gilligan’s Island, the castaways used coconuts for money. International Drug dealers use $100 bills. If you want to buy a new girlfriend in prison, you pay with cigarettes. Four-year-olds have no money, so they must get creative. I studied Malcolm and his friends to find the currency they use in their various transactions. Here is what I found:

Affection: Affections are thrown about liberally in Malcolm’s world. They are given as tips, as in “Daddy, I love you” after you buy ice cream. They are also sanctions imposed upon unwanted behavior, i.e., “If you don’t let me watch a show, I am not going to love you anymore.”  When things get especially hairy on the playground, one child may tell another, “I hate you.” This is the childhood equivalent of stiffing the waitress at a diner. In real terms, affection costs around a dollar.

Friendship Status: Far more important than mere affection, friendship status is used as a twenty dollar bill. It settles large debts and wagers. It is a deposit on bowling shoe rental. If you invite Malcolm over to your house for a play date, you will often be told that you are going to be his friend forever. If you cross, him, though, like I did this morning by telling him he was in trouble for spitting in mommies’ face, you are informed that you are no longer his friend. Bowling shoe deposit: gone. Twenty dollar bills are pretty easily replaced, though, so don’t worry if you have been unfriended. You’ll be buddies again soon.

Treats: Treats are big. Usually Malcolm has a bag of something going, like halloween candy, or easter candy, or a goodie bag from a friend’s birthday. He uses treats in a variety of ways. He’ll use the bag of treats to demonstrate his good behavior at school, as in, “Daddy, I didn’t get in trouble at school. Can I have a treat?” He will also use it as a used car, trading it in for something really special. “Daddy, instead of having a treat can I watch Mulan?” He knows that treats are not every day pleasures, much like the look of a $100 bill (a rare sight in my wallet.)

Birthday parties: Jackpot. Birthday parties are the equivalent of a bar of gold. Reserved only for meaningful occasions, good or bad, invitations to birthday parties are used to convey a profound connection to the matter at hand. Child A whacks Child B over the head with a shovel. Child C tackles Child A and sits on his head. For this heroic act of bravery, Child B will often invite Child C to his/her birthday. Birthday parties are valuable enough to trade on the open market, as I usually get an update on where things stand when picking up Malcolm from preschool.

Daddy, I see here that Emma's birthday's at an all-time low. She must have peed herself again!!!

The kids run up to me to tell me that Malcolm is invited to Adil’s birthday, but Gael is not invited to Malcolm’s birthday. Nobody likes the weird kid, Evan, so his stock sags in the corner by itself. I tell you, the NASDAQ isn’t as hard to follow as the birthday party market, especially since the invitations change drastically depending on how grumpy your child is.

So, that’s how markets move in our world. What do your kids use?