 
Toddler Tales

An Older Dad Survives Raising Young Children in Modern America

Lee B. Mulder

Smashwords edition, copyright 2014

Toddler Tales

Mulder, Lee B.

Copyright © 2007-2014 Lee B. Mulder

OSC Publishers, Inc.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

# Toddler Tales

An Older Dad Survives Raising Young Children in Modern America

Lee B. Mulder

# Table of Contents

Introduction

A Lesson in Economics

A Night on the Town

The Stain Maven

Working at Home

Potty Training

Oh, To Find A Babysitter

One Way to Cope

The Little Sponge Brains

Children CAN Be Useful

The Perfect Negotiator

Obedience Training Your Child

The Drum

Two Hours of Bonding

The Candy Days

Babyproof

Diversionary Tactics at Work

Did I Hear That Right?

Once I Was An Adult

Mein Dipe

No Diet Works like the BRAT Diet

Charming, Just Charming

About Chewing Gum

Beyond the Why Game

Gimme That Educational Toy

Breaking Away

All We Are Saying is Give Peas a Chance

The Great Juice Dilemma

The Day the Fish Died

A Kitchen for Christmas

The Tooth Fairy

In the Night

About the Author

# Introduction

Raising children may be the most important task we have as human beings. But none of us is adequately prepared for the task. Kids don't come with manuals. Our own experience is incomplete. Grandma and grandpa probably don't live nearby enough to assist. And times have changed, with forces of influence working on young children today that didn't exist in our parents' time. This truth applies to all modern parents, but when people are in their forties and fifties raising kids under three years old, the scenario becomes more complicated.

I know.

I lived it.

In the wide repertoire of tests for a marriage, somewhere between wallpapering the bathroom and blatant infidelity, sits surviving a two year old. For older moms and dads, the test takes on the aura of a final exam where the entire rest of your life is at stake. I've thought about this quite a bit... why is it harder for older couples than younger couples? Probably because we've gotten into comfortable routines at home and at work and confident roles as life partners. Some people call it a rut and it drives them nuts and that's why they have children...

to add a little spice to the routine. For others, having children late is the "it's now or never" fulfillment of human responsibility.

Whatever the reason, life with small children is different for people in their forties and fifties than it is for people in their twenties, simply because the former have experienced far more life than the latter. For some of us, especially dual-career couples, this means we have more money to spend on our kids than we would have had as a young couple. Through living more life, we have many more goals and expectations that we project onto our children. We've had a chance to fail and want to protect our kids from re-making our mistakes. We've seen a great many things in our lives, people we like and don't like, behavior we like and don't like, places we like and don't like, and we believe we can choose the best of the best in order to mold our children accordingly.

Of course, this is folly.

Contrast this notion with young parents who have no such perspective or bankroll and simply let the child develop into his or her own self with mom and dad doing the best they can. Either way, the child ends up an independent adult. It's just that we more mature parents think we have more control than we actually do.

For most of us, children represent a seriously altered lifestyle. Before children, we've had success at work, nice vacations and indulgent hobbies. We've learned to operate in an adult world. We have acquired breakable things, furniture we like, cars without Cheerios and clothes that permanently stain with spit -up baby formula. Many an older mom faces a tough choice – continue working or stay home to raise the kids. Does she turn the kids over to others... nannies or martyrs running day care centers or does she put away the panty hose in favor of sweat clothes?

I know the hard choices. I lived them.

To cope, I turned to humor. When my son was two years old, I began writing columns about my child rearing experiences for the local newspaper. This was no advice column, as I was perhaps the least authoritative resource on the subject in town. It was, instead, a series of glimpses of what life is like for an older dad in the new age of child -rearing in suburban America. This book is a collection of those columns.

My hope is, if you are or were an older parent, you will see yourself somewhere in these pages and realize you are not alone.

Lee B. Mulder  
Chicago, IL

# A Lesson in Economics

Yesterday, my son wanted a Lifesaver. I heard the jingling in his jeans and thought it would be a good time to start teaching him the value of money. "You may have a Lifesaver," I said, "but it will cost you a penny."

He smiled at the thought of the game and dug his hand deep into the pocket. He gave me the penny and got the Lifesaver. Transaction complete. Lesson learned. Good job, dad. Smart dad. Wise, guiding, good-example dad.

After a few moments, well after the candy had been chewed to bits, William tugged on my sleeve. "Daddy, I want my penny." Now the real lesson begins, I thought. I said okay, but only if he gave me the Lifesaver back in its original condition.

His face grew thoughtful as he realized he could not do that, so he initiated Plan B and began to yell for the penny. I became steadfast. "No, son. A lesson is a lesson." Pretty soon, the scream turned into a whiny yowl, a sound guaranteed to attract mom.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Daddy won't give me my penny," the victim cried.

"It's a lesson in economics," I said. "The hard truth about paying for your pleasures and learning the meaning of money, the value of a dollar, the reality of life, the..."

She gave me that "oh, brother, he's only three, isn't this pushing the adult world on him a little early" look.

About that time, my neighbor Bob came in the back door. "Anybody home?" he said in his unflaggingly cheerful style.

"Mister Haskins, Mister Haskins," my son cried, running up to him. "My daddy won't give me back my penny."

Bob, the attorney, never one to pass an opportunity to build his clientele, bent down to hear the complainant out. "Did you give him the penny?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And what did you get in return?"

"A Lifesaver," my son said, showing the evidence stuck in his teeth.

"Sounds like a fair trade. So what's the problem?"

"I want my penny."

"And dad won't give it back?"

"Yeeaaaahhheaaahhahahah," he said launching into the loud wail.

"Well, let's sue him."

William quieted, listened, sniffled once. "What's stew?"

"That's where we take him to court to get the penny back." William listened intently with his little sponge brain. "We really don't have a very good case. After all, you did eat the Lifesaver, but we can sue anyway." I started to protest, but my son's counsel continued boldly forward with his advice. "We probably won't go to court because it'll cost your dad a lot more than a penny to go there and get the judge to tell him he can keep his penny, so he'll probably settle out of court."

"Can I have my penny?"

"Probably, if we do this right," the attorney whispered conspiratorially.

"Now wait just a minute," I said, "this is getting out of hand. It was just a lesson in economics."

"I want my penny NOW!!" said the plaintiff.

"I coulda made it REAL LIFE," I said, beginning to heat up, "Like ... take the kid's penny, give him the Lifesaver and then mug him for it. Or, how about this... once he agrees to the deal and I know he's a live buyer for one penny, I jack up the price for cost overruns and squeeze him for all the money he has in his pocket ... and I then give him half the Lifesaver. Or I coulda done the deal but bit off a piece of the Lifesaver for taxes. Now THERE's a lesson in economics." I found myself walking around the room in circles flailing my arms. "And if he gripes about getting shortchanged, I coulda thrown him out of the house for not paying back taxes and then he'd be homeless and on the dole." I was running out of scenarios.

"Or you could settle out of court," my neighbor said calmly.

I looked into my son's hopeful little face, seeing myself in some sort of a time warp mirror, and caved in. "Okay, okay, here's your penny."

But just as my son reached up to claim his property, a hand shot out and grabbed the coin. It was Bob. "Sorry. Legal fees." He put the penny in his pocket and walked out the door amid the new flow of shocked screams from my son. I mumbled something about welcome to the real world.

"Here, kid," I said. "Have a Lifesaver. It's on the house."

# A Night on the Town

I knew it was Friday night when I walked in the door, weary from work, and was greeted by, "I'm tired of cooking! I have nothing planned and if you want to eat here, your choices are the ends of the meatloaf we've warmed up twice already, peanut butter sandwiches with Ritz Bits or a one-egg Cheerios Omelet."

"Hi, Honey, I'm home," I said, briefcase still clutched in my hand. "Say, I've got a great idea. Why don't we pack up the kids and go out to eat tonight?"

"Great idea, Intuitive Husband," she said. "The kids are in the van. We have a table waiting at Wun Lung's." Once again, I'm amazed at the teamwork this family exhibits. I the great strategist and leader, am fulfilled putting forth the events that build a productive, exciting life. And beside me, working shoulder to shoulder, is this strong woman, the great implementer of dreams. "Well, don't just stand there," she prods. "Bring your wallet and let's get a move-on before the kids beat each other to death."

We've been going to Lung's since long before we had kids. After late nights at the office, we'd step off the train, walk stiffly in hungry silence to the cold car and, with one knowing glance between us, drive straight to the cheery Chinese eatery. The red and gold glyphs hanging from the ceiling spoke to us of peace, prosperity, tranquility. The trickling fountain in the pool full of koi soothed our stressed-out souls.

In those days, Mina (pronounced Mee-nah), the grandmotherly waitperson would see us coming and scurry with great ceremony to make a corner booth available.

She met us as a solitary couple, then with one of us pregnant. She had cooed the first baby, smiled the grandmotherly smile at our being pregnant again and then cooed at the second child as well. And now, ever more bent with advancing age, the white-haired Mina bustled with that twinkle in her eye to set a table for the little family that burst through the door.

"Mina, we'll need some tea and a Seven-Up with cherries on a sword and a double scotch for my husband," the expediting wife said while buckling the baby into her seat.

"Of course, madam," she said, catching my eye.

"I want a burger and fries and a coke," my son said.

"We're eating Chinese tonight, dear," his mother said patiently with the pipe-down! momlook. He wrinkled his face in pewy defiance.

"The usual?" I suggested, removing all lethal silverware from the baby's reach.

"Absolutely," my life partner said, settling into her chairat last.

Mina appeared with the drinks. She tactfully let me take two sips of the Scotch before she asked, "Ready to odor?"

"Yes, Mina," I replied in my best head-of-the-household demeanor, "We'll do half-orders tonight of the Kung-Fu Pork, the Taiwan Jimshu, Hao Nao Brown Kow and, my son's favorite, Shar-Pei Almondine. Bring plenty of plates and we'll share."

"Very good," she bowed, retreating to the kitchen.

My wife and I looked at each other for one brief moment. We touched hands. There was a fleeting of memory about how we used to be, but the bubble burst as my son played sword swallower, trying to cram four cherries down his throat at once. "Save one of those for your sister," his mother commanded gently. He wrinkled his face in protest and then, with a devilish grin, handed over the first cherry in line, the one that had been farthest down his throat. Mom dipped it in Seven-Up to fizz away the germs, sliced it in half and gave it to the one year -old. The baby slipped into a state of Nirvana at the Maraschino nectar about the time my son separated his chopsticks and was waving them around as he had been taught in his instructional Ninja Turtle video.

"How'd you like to go see the fish?" I suggested, looking for a calm distraction.

"Yeah! We can go fishing!" he replied, brandishing the chopsticks over his head.

"Sure, sure, you go fishing," I said, craving another micro moment with my wife. "I'm gonna talk to mom for a minute." The boy marched off to the little pond at the front of the restaurant. I'll let him go explore a bit, I thought to myself. The feeling of independence is good for him. He'll get tired of the futile chasing of splotchy gold fish soon enough and will be back in a moment, demanding his dinner. Mom had just administered the last half of cherry and was about to mouth "How was your day, dear?" when a loud victory shout came from the direction of the pond yelling, "I got one! I got one!" A second later, I saw my son running with the Olympic torch between the tables of the restaurant... no, not a torch, a chopstick with a four-inch-long fish skewered on it, held high over his head. Good Lord, he did get one. The restaurant was silent with the alarm; our mouths were open and eyes wide, just like the fish, in abject surprise. I bolted from my chair to intercept him, thinking I should paddle him for this stunt, but how could I be angry? He's so proud of himself.

"Come on, son," I said, spinning him around, "You can't murder the decor, hunt down the ambience, or eat gold fish.

You've gotta put him back." I helped him hold the stick upright as we marched back through the gauntlet of tables. When we got to the pond, I said, "Okay, put him back." He obeyed in his own way and flung that fish like a Chinese yo-yo, about six feet through the air. Once in the water, it swam tentatively. But it moved, which was a great relief. I apologized to Lung, expressed my deepest regrets and said that if the fish dies, I will be glad to replace it. He was gracious and assured me not to worry. I think he was laughing at me behind that oriental mask.

By the time we returned to the table, our food had arrived. Mom served and we all ate like the victims of famine. When we had nearly finished, I asked my son, "How did you catch that fish."

"Easy," he said, with unbridled pride. "I found some chewing gum under one of the tables. I put a little bit of it on the end of the stick and when the fish came to bite it, I jammed the stick down his throat and yanked him out of the water. Easy." Of course. Why didn't I think of that?

The meal ended as all Chinese meals do with fortune cookies. My fortune read "The day is long." Huh? My son's said, "Long time no see." Huh again. The baby ate her fortune after smearing it in the finger painted gravy on the high chair tray. My wife's said, "Play your cards right, honey and he'll probably bring you here again."

It was time to go home. Mina presented the bill and I paid it with great apologies and thanks for her patient service. There was no fish on the bill. She bowed graciously, a knowing half-smile on her lips. As we departed, I couldn't help but glance at the pond... no, nothing swimming belly-up yet. I held the door for the brood to exit; my wife was the last one through. She sidled close to me and said sweetly, "Thank you for feeding me."

"My pleasure," I replied, finally loosening my tie.

# The Stain Maven

My wife loves stains in clothes. She covets them. They turn her on. She seeks them out. She's disappointed if clothes don't have them. This is not the woman I married.

It wasn't long ago that she was a high-powered business woman commuting to the city, working long hours, doing deals, charming clients, ascending the golden ladder, making money and regular trips to the dry cleaners. But she's home now, fulfilling her maternal mission. Since the baby turned two, all that energy is focused like a laser beam on stains.

"What is it," she pries, having pulled a pair of my jeans from the hamper. "Blood? Wine? Catsup? If I know what it is, I can get it out."

"Ummm, I don't remember," I mutter.

"It's okay. It's okay," she says. Her eyes glaze. I can tell she's initiated a search of her mentally stored stain database. "I'll run some tests. I can get it out." She squints in deep thought, attempting to decide which of her lotions and potions will loosen the chemical grip of this mysterious blotch. She retreats to the lab. There, leaning intently over the washing machine, she peruses the neat rows of bottles, jugs and boxes that hold a precisely catalogued inventory of sprays, solutions, pre-washes, eradicators, exotic microbe colonies enough to clean up Prince William Sound, radioactive isotopes and eye of newt she has found to be successful at one time or another.

Some of the bottles one would recognize at any grocery store. Some look like they came from a Wild West snake oil drummer, others from Aunt Marge's root cellar. A thick, hard-bound, scientific log cross -references chemicals to stains by color, texture and odor. A red telephone on the wall is linked directly to the neighborhood Mom's Stain Network for emergencies.

"Okay," I say, "I'll go out for awhile to run some errands."

When I return, I realize she hasn't moved out of the room. Strange fumes waft through the house. It's nearly suppertime but no meal appears to be imminent. Where the kids have gone is anybody's guess. I creep cautiously down the stairs and peer into what used to be a simple laundry room. She is there, her new reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, examining a pair of toddler-sized jeans with a seriously self-satisfied smile on her face.

"Ahem," I say, unobtrusively obvious. She looks up, over the glasses.

"I got it!" she says. "Grass, blood and bubble gum all out in one wash. I KNEW I could do it! I'm REALLY getting good at this."

"Ummm, that's great, honey," I say cautiously. "Do we have any plans for, like, maybe, dinner?"

"Oh, yes, sure," she says. "Just one more stain. I think this is mashed fruit roll-up covered with bicycle chain grease... let me check the log." She runs down the list with her fingernail, the one with the chemical curl. She stifles that pesky new cough. I think to myself, "Maybe I should get her safety goggles for Christmas."

"....I won't be long," she sings.

I left her there, rounded up the kids from the neighborhood and took them to McDonalds for dinner. We did baths, books, prayers, hugs. I wandered off to bed with a book and a cup of tea.

"Honey," she called out of the silence from the bottom of the stairs. Momentarily startled, I slopped a tiny drip of tea onto my pajamas. "Are you in bed?"

"Yes, dear," I said, trying to brush away the stain.

"I'll be up in a minute."

"Okay," I said, running to the john to flush the tea. That done, I quickly jumped into bed and turned out the light knowing full well if she sees this stain, I'm up all night.

When, at last, she slid between the sheets, she took my trembling hand and whispered lovingly, "Don't worry. I can get it out."

My God, now she can HEAR them too?

# Working at Home

I'm trying to concentrate. I really am. But every ten seconds, the voice of Barney the Dinosaur says something warm and reassuring from beneath my desk.

("I love you.") This is just one of those hazards of working at home.

They say that, very soon, over 50% of Americans will be working out of their homes. To me, that means that 50% of Americans will be either stark raving mad, they will be living alone, or they will be working like cloistered nuns in soundproof cells somewhere in the depths of the basement. ("Will you come play with me?").

The problem, of course, is that most of us do not have a separate wing on the estate from which to conduct business. Some of us have carved out the corner of a bedroom as "the office." Others have claimed the kitchen. Others a spare bedroom. Wherever it is, even behind the thick, double-locked door in the basement, the kids know about it. ("Let's go to the park") They'll bring their friends home and play screaming games within fifty feet of your phone. They'll play keep- away with your mail. They'll send the dog in to sniff out your very important and embarrassingly late proposal and then chew it to shreds.

Oh, you'll try to work around them. ("Why don't you get a real job?") Maybe you'll work real fast while they're at school, or preschool, or while mom does her aerobics. You'll make the important calls while silence reigns. But no matter how you time those calls, you won't get through. The caller will just buzz you back. And when he does... the very moment he does... it's as if your loudest child had purchased the ESP option from the phone company, s/he will burst in on you with "Daddy, daddy, daddy!" immediately after you've expressed your most professional "hello."

"... Unh, let me put you on hold for a second," you tell your very important caller, "my other phone's ringing." You tap the HOLD button ("The check's in the mail") and politely ask your child to vacate to another state, explaining in no uncertain terms: you're on the PHONE! You glare, but words and funny faces don't cut it these days. With slightly less tact, you say, "Get outa here now or your mom will tie you up and feed you nothing but Fletcher's Castoria for a week." They smirk at you, thinking you are kidding, and do not move. They are then surprised to find themselves involuntarily leaving the room assisted by the side of your foot swung in a very sympathetic, politically correct, non-abusive kick to the pants. "I'm back, George, thanks for waiting."

("I'm from the government and I'm here to help you. Hyuh, hyuh, huyh, hyuh") That little laugh of Barney's is driving me nuts. Where was I?

Oh, yes. It doesn't take long for your wife to find you when you're working at home, either. "Honey, I'm just going out for a few things," she says, strolling in with a small black box. "Can you listen for the baby? Here's the monitor." How can you say no? I can't help but wonder if she's taken her passport along with the checkbook as she skips out the door humming a tune. If she's not back in an hour, I'll check the flights to Brazil. ("Give me five bucks and I'll shut up") How do you turn this thing off? Barney, you're getting on my nerves. ("Hyuh, hyuh, huyh, hyuh").

Well, she did return, anxious to be back before the baby awoke. Not for my sake, you understand, as she had been shopping for birthday goodies and didn't want the little one to see. One of the items was this Barney doll. Just as she squeezed his adorable purple paw to show me how he could say "I love you," a wake-up cry came over the monitor. She stuffed the bag of toys under my desk. "Don't let her see this stuff," came the command. The moment she left the room, I heard:

("Where's my five bucks?")

No chance, pal. Cool it or I'll yank your batteries. ("I'll spit on you.")

Why don't you be a nice little stuffed dinosaur and snuggle up against the bumble ball? (""). There was no answer. But ever so faintly, I heard a little tap, tap, tap on my door. I know it is the baby. "Da-a-a-d-dy?" she says in her sweetest little voice. I have work to do, but can't help myself. I let her in and she crawled into my lap, reaching for the keyboard. Suddenly I realized that if Barney speaks, the surprise gifts will be found and I will be the one heading to Brazil to avoid the wrath of a wife whose husband messed up her child's birthday party. I deftly turn off the word processor, turn on the answering machine and scoop the child into my arms saying only "The office is closed for today, honey."

("Let's be friends")

"That was me, baby," I replied to eyes widened in bright recognition. "See? I used my Barney voice... Let's be free-ends, let's be free- ends. Hyuh, hyuh, hyuh, hyuh." She was fooled and I closed the door behind me.

Tomorrow, I think I'll telecommute from Starbuck's.

# Potty Training

If you've been to the grocery store on Saturday morning, you've seen The Dance. This is a phenomenon experienced by young children being introduced to the common ritual of civilization known as using the toilet.

It starts with the child walking in feigned oblivion down the aisle with his or her knees pressed together. This is not an easy thing to do and it often attracts mom's attention.

"Do you have to go potty?" mom whispers, stating the obvious, but seeking consensus without involving strangers.

"No," the child says emphatically, refusing to acknowledge that anything is out of the ordinary.

A few feet farther down the aisle, however, denial turns to pain and The Dance advances to the jumping stage, where the child bounces like a pogo stick between the canned fruit and the mixed nuts. Both hands go between the legs. The eyes cross. The lips seal. The body begins to overheat inside its winter coat and snow pants while the mind flashes neon alerts inside the tiny skull... "for God's sake, don't have an ACCIDENT!"

"Do you have to go now?" mom asks nonchalantly in her best Didn't-I-Ask-You-This-Question- Already momvoice. The sweating, grimacing, bouncing child at this point often, grudgingly agrees and both mother and child whisk to the nearest bathroom.

Moms, of course, well know the shortest route to the bathroom in every familiar store. If The Dance happens to occur while shopping in unfamiliar territory, moms learn to effectively beg sales clerks for use of the in-store john. You can often see them on their knees, speaking quickly and pointing to children caught in the rigors of The Dance. The intensity of the begging is directly proportional to the amount of juice junior drank since the last potty break and the amount of elapsed time between then and now. You sense the power in the hands of the clerk and watch them wrestle with the retailer's quandary... "Do I allow this person from the... how shall I say it... public... to taint the hygiene of my toilet seat? Or do I reach out to help a fellow human being in need?"

Scientific surveys have shown that if the clerks are moms, a wry, knowing, sisterly smirk comes over their faces and permission is granted. Likewise, if the clerks are males, permission is also granted, for males have no hygiene gene in their DNA and don't worry about toilet seats. With female non-moms, however, your chances are 80-20 against; the risk of rampant toilet-seat disease is simply too great.

There really isn't any need to worry, though, because always-ready moms carry a paper towels, cleansers, antibacterial spray, deodorant stick-ups, and several potent religious objects to thoroughly detoxify whatever toilet seat comes along.

Pediatricians tell us the average age for young children to become potty trained is 33 months. We, of course, convinced that our young man was advanced beyond the mere average child, bought a potty seat at age 18 months. He tore the box apart and played at making orange juice with the big cup inside. When we showed him what the seat was for, he actually used it on two occasions and was amazed that he could eject fluid from his body and survive.

In his conscious mind, of course, he wondered why we would ever want him to pee into a cup so that we could then empty it into the toilet. Wasn't it just a lot easier to change a diaper? Parents can be so dumb! This thought was obviously so logical to my son that he decided to take control of the situation and stopped using the potty seat. He didn't venture near it again until he was... 33 months old.

It was then that his friend Jordan came over to play one day and showed off his big-boy underwear. My son stared in awe as his friend, only two weeks older than he, proudly dropped his drawers to show off his Snoopy training pants. No diaper for Jordan, he was a big boy now. William decided immediately that he wanted to be a big boy too.

"Okay," mom said, finding the training pants she bought a year ago. "But you'll have to tell us when you need to go so you don't have an ACCIDENT."

With widened eyes, the young man's unformed mind could only imagine what it would be like to have an ACCIDENT. Would your insides spill out onto the floor where monsters could eat them up? Would your body empty and fall limp like a balloon running out of air? If you made a spot on the carpet, would mom rub your nose in it and then chain you out in the yard like she did to Rex the dog? Or worse?

"One other thing," mom said, completing the ground rules. "You'll need to let me know if you need to go tinkle or poo."

"Okay," he said, "Tinkle or poo. Tinkle or poo." And so he was off to play, feeling very grown up at walking around without a rattling diaper, and enjoying the feel of thick cotton pants where plastic used to be. From time to time, he'd drop his drawers just to see if he could do it himself.

Then he learned The Dance.

"Mommy, Mommy! Need to go potty," he would say, running into the room with knees squeezed together.

By the time he started to jump, mom would instantly abandon her laundry and say, "Okay, okay. Tinkle or poo."

"Tinkle or poo," he said back. "Yes, which?"

"Tinkle... I thinkle," he said.

Mom and William together would rush to the bathroom, drop the drawers and position him on the big toilet seat. He hung onto the seat with white-knuckled hands as though Titan rocket boosters were about to send him into orbit. He stared intently into the abyss between his legs and willed something to happen.

From time to time, the stream would shoot out between the seat and toilet bowl and wet the pants bunched down around his ankles. "No, no, Son," mom said. "You need to use one hand to point your tinkle- shooter down." And soon, he learned to hang onto the seat with one hand and aim with the other. The term "tinkle shooter" became a fixture of neighborhood jargon, and the little girls all wondered jealously why they didn't have anything to aim when they went to the bathroom.

Later, we'd teach William to stand on a stool and "make bubbles" in the potty like dad, but for now, we are happy he's not filling diapers all day long.

We do need to talk him into a diaper for overnight. It's just too soon to expect him to have the control to last eight to ten hours without an awesome ACCIDENT.

I walked into the house the other night and heard what sounded like story time coming out of the powder room. A quick peek around the corner revealed mom sitting on the floor with a lap full of books and indeed, reading to the young man sitting on the potty. He was bent double, hunched over, with elbows on the seat and his chin cradled in his hands. I crept away silently to not disturb the scene. Within minutes, William came screaming joyously out of the bathroom with his pants still down around his ankles. "Daddy, daddy, I went poo!!" To the accompaniment of the flushing toilet, I told my son just how proud I was of him.

First tinkle, now poo. Can full civilization be far away?

# Oh, To Find A Babysitter

There comes a time for every set of parents of a two year-old when they look at each other, each trying to focus on the other, trying to place just where it was they saw that person before. So familiar but so long ago. "Hey," it dawns suddenly. "It's You. We live together." Maybe, just maybe it's time to get away from the kids. The thought tickles them both until reality sets in... "We need a babysitter," they solemnly groan in unison.

The babysitting phenomenon in America will make you crazy two ways. First, how do you find a sitter that you're willing to let inside your house? And second, how do you know what really will happen when you walk out the door?

The first place to look for a sitter is in your neighborhood. Of course you trust the children of your friends. But by the time you've had this idea, everyone else has done the same and the three girls age 12 to 14 are booked for the next year and are auctioning off slots for the following year. I know of one family that was able to negotiate babysitter time only when the parents threw in the extra inducement of allowing her dad to join her on the job so that he could watch a basketball game on TV.

(However, when he arrived, the youngster of the house was involved with watching The Little Mermaid. Undaunted, dad and daughter worked a clever scam whereby Dad would divert little Dennis's attention while the daughter fast-forwarded the video. Whenever Dennis turned around, there was Ariel. But suddenly, the movie was over and it was bedtime. He trudged obediently up the stairs to the roar of a feisty basketball crowd)

Stunned that so many people you thought you knew so well really have planned ahead, the severity of the problem begins to sink in. You begin to widen your search radius. First you ask people at church, then friends of friends, then your hairdresser, then the checkout lady at the grocery story, then the bag boy. The network begins to hum and, eventually, the phone rings.

"Hi, I'm Stacy? I'm a friend of Mrs. Hubbub's at the Piggly Wiggly? Um, I'm like available for sitting?" You talk for awhile and get earnest assurances that she's not a felon, does not use drugs and has experience with children because she has five younger brothers and sisters, all still living. Yes, she lives five counties away, but that's okay, you'll pick her up at six.

Your sense of success is tarnished with the fear of the unknown, so when the big night comes, mom sends dad out at 5:30 with explicit instructions:

1. Meet her parents. Look for signs of disease or brutality.

2. Glance inside the house. Are there bugs or cobwebs?

3. Check out their yard. Any rusting car bodies? Beer cans?

4. Check out the street in front of the house. Any skid marks? Harley hogs? Any horny, slobbering, older BOYS hanging around?

Dad does as he is told and returns with both the babysitter and a signed trustworthiness certificate. Mom ignores dad's detailed report and begins a lighthearted interrogation under a bare bulb in the kitchen. She ultimately introduces Stacy to her responsibility for the evening, now well numbed by videobabble, and then leads her through the details of the task at hand.

"Plenty of soda in the fridge. Help yourself. He likes milk before bedtime, but he drinks it downstairs. Usually gets three books before lights out. The light in the fish tank stays on. The closet lights stay on. TV is there. Help yourself to a video. Here's the number where we'll be. I'll call you later. Here's the number of our neighbors if you have an emergency. Here's police, fire, furnace man, power rodder, electrician, roofer, chimney sweep, gardener and the village sniggler. Got it? Good luck. We shouldn't be later than midnight. Bye."

Now it's time to go out and have some fun. But this is the hard part because there's always a question tugging at your subconscious, "What's REALLY going on in our house while we're OUT HERE?"

For the paranoid and the neurotic, that is, the majority of normal parents, the process begins innocently enough. "Do you think Stacy is big enough to wrestle our little dumpling into his bed?"

"I'm sure it'll be fine, dear, she looks big enough to me."

"You think she'll remember to do everything he likes?...read him books? Have a snack? Not stay up too late?"

"I'm sure she'll remember, dear, she looks smart enough to me." This wise, calming assurance allows mom and dad to get into the theater.

"Do you think he's in bed yet?" the wife whispers to the husband.

"No, I'm sure he's set the house on fire and has rammed the fireplace poker through Stacy's budding chest. Now can we watch the movie?" The look he gets tells him we cannot now watch the movie. He hands her a quarter. "If you want to find out how things are going, call home."

"No, she'll think I'm a paranoid neurotic."

"So what, you are a paranoid neurotic."

"I'll give her a chance to get him into bed. Then I'll call."

"Okay. Watch the movie."

"Okay," she says, nibbling nervously at the popcorn cup. Fifteen minutes later, she leans over. "I can't stand it anymore. I'll be back."

And soon, she is back, breathless. "There's no answer." They stare at each other for a tense instant. Then, in unison, declare "We're outa here."

It's ten minutes to the house. As the car screeches to a halt in the driveway, there are no telltale signs of visitors. The street is eerily quiet. They enter the house making an appropriate amount of noise only to find Stacy sound asleep on her schoolbooks to the accompaniment of a prattling TV sitcom. Dad signals for a stealthy retreat. Back in the car, he offers to buy his best girl a piece of pie at the local Big Boy. She accepts.

In two hours, they return home renewed, having talked in adult words and laughed at their paranoia. Stacy gets her eight dollars an hour for sleeping and a long ride home.

At last, tucked into bed, dad says, "It sure was nice to get out for awhile."

Mom replies, "I like Stacy. Let's use her again."

# One Way to Cope

"People, we have a new member of our group," the leader said. He nodded to the man in the suit knitting his fingers nervously in his lap.

The lean, gaunt-faced fellow, maybe forty years old, stood up from his place in the circle and addressed the gathering with downcast eyes: "Hi, I'm Tom."

"Hi, Tom," the congregation replied. "I am a teleholic."

"Tell us about it, Tom," the unanimous voice said.

"It's the kids," he began. "I have a hard time dealing with my kids." He took a deep breath to steady himself. "I was OK. I remember when I was OK. I went to work in the morning like a normal guy, I came home at night, I played with my kids, helped put 'em to bed. When they'd squabble, my wife would calm them down. I hardly ever missed my weekly Dads' Support Group meeting. Life was OK.

"About six months ago, I picked up a rare strain of the flu. It was like the usual kind where you're really sick for about a day and then you're weak the next day, but after that, my strength just would not come back. It was like a bad case of mono..."

The younger members of the group looked at each with question marks on their faces. "Excuse me, Tom," the leader interjected, explaining to the others. "That's mononucleosis. Bad disease in the sixties and seventies. Sorry. Continue."

"Well... I was too weak to go to work. I was alert enough that the kids thought I was OK. They thought having Dad around all the time was the greatest thing that had ever happened, but my being home threw my wife's delicate schedule out of whack. The kids started to scream and fight and yell and play us against each other.

"It drove me crazy. I had to get away, but I was too weak to go out. They were hanging on me. They would burst through the bedroom door just as I was dozing. They had bright and smiling faces and were greeted with scowls and shouts. I had to escape. I was the problem. But I couldn't move. I thought about booze and drugs. No, they'd probably kill me and I didn't want to escape that far. There was only one way out: Television.

"It started innocently enough. My son was at pre-school. My wife and the baby would be out on errands. I took my blanket and pillows to the family room couch to watch a little TV. The problem was the TV was never off from that moment on.

"The sofa became my home, the TV my world. The children would scream or yell or try to get my attention, but I heard only Dan Rather or Jerry Springer or Columbo. I saw only dancing, flashing bits of color coming from a square tube. My son would beg to watch his Winnie-The-Pooh video and I would snarl at him until he skulked away. Food appeared and empty plates disappeared. Time no longer had anything to do with the position of the sun in the sky; it was now measured by Good Morning America, the news, the soaps, the news, a movie and the news.

"Bills went unpaid, the lawn was not mowed. I was unshaven. I smelled." Various people around the circle started to weep. Others nodded in sympathy. "I would sleep in spurts and wake to color bars on channels that had become bored with their own programming. They had sent everyone home, leaving me... alone.

"After two weeks, the flu was gone, but I wouldn't move from my nest. I couldn't abandon my friends Oprah or Regis or Emeril... they were there every day for me. I HAD to be there for them." There was a pause while the man, now perspiring, caught his breath.

"How did this affect your family, Tom," the leader asked softly in the silent room.

"They... well, they... ran their lives around me. I have vague recollections of bustling activity as mom bundled the kids off to school. There are other images with them bursting into the house, laughing. I was there, but I was furniture. They were getting along just fine without TV... better than before... and I resented it, but my inert eyes remained glued to the screen... its warm glow, smiling people and dancing images were my life source, my power. How else could I hear of storm damage or mass starvation or a drive-by shooting from the lips of a beautiful, smiling woman talking only to me?"

"How did you get here, Tom?" the leader probed. "Well, like I said, this went on for months. I lost my job. I looked like hell. Finally, one day, I awoke from my stupor to find not my friend the Dancing Image, but something pasted over it... a drawing... a crude crayon picture that I dimly recognized as my son's work. Muffled light from the television struggled behind it, but no amount of punching buttons on the remote control would make it go away. I was forced to move out of the nest to go to the TV to pull it off. But when I got close, I saw what it was: my son's portrait of me: a crude TV on one side and an angry snarl of dark colors on the other. My wife found me there, sitting on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably with the portrait in my lap. She and the kids checked me in to the Television Addiction Clinic the next day. And here I am."

He sat down amid hearty applause and blowing noses from the assembled group.

"Tom, that was a moving story. Thank you for sharing it with us tonight," the leader said. Let me ask you one more question. "How successful have you been in keeping yourself clean since that initial therapy?"

"Well, as a recovering teleholic, I will never be cured. It will be a battle every day of my life. Television is everywhere. Even walking by an electronics store on the busy street, I feel twinges that it needs me, that I could just sit down right there and be a part of its life... but then I think of that picture my son drew. It is now taped permanently over the screen of our TV at home. I snipped the plug off the TV so I won't be tempted to peek. I handle it day to day. Day to day.

"But I have to tell you, I dearly miss my friends Katie and Charles and Jay and David and..." His eyes started to glaze over. His body went limp.

The leader, recognizing the crisis said, "It's help time, everyone." The group rose as one and hurried to Tom. They touched him with loving hands, stroking his brow, patting his shoulder and back, a hug to the middle, a squeeze on the knee. "Come on back, Tom, it's okay, it's okay," they murmured.

"... and Murphy and Leonardo and Conan and Arnie and Bart and Hawkeye...."

# The Little Sponge Brains

Early one Saturday morning, Bob Haskins was busy urging three year-old Jeremy through his morning ritual. Mom had bolted at daylight because Saturdays were her day and she didn't want to miss a moment. Which left good old Bob wrestling with Huggies Pull-Ups, miniature jeans and a GI-Joe T-shirt. He had sold his young son on the idea of playing in the park and they were both anxious to get out into the sunny day.

At the back door, Jeremy sat calmly in his dad's lap as the all-powerful grownup struggled to put tiny gym shoes on no longer tiny feet. He grunted and pushed them and wiggled and jammed them, but they would not go on. Then Jeremy asked in his sweet little-boy voice, "Having trouble with my damn shoes, Daddy?"

"I sure am, Pal," he replied, thinking, "Oh, Mary Ann. What have you been saying to this kid?"

This was The Moment for Bob. Most parents have it when they are clobbered with the realization that, long before children can speak, they listen, they understand and they absorb. Suddenly, the parents panic, trying to remember every awful, nasty thing that has occurred in the presence of the offspring in the last two or three years... all those impressions and images and words written in bright, fluorescent letters on this clean slate of a brain and stored for strategic re -use, like time bombs, set to go off at some embarrassing moment in the future.

Dan and Gloria had their Moment when they took young Brian with them to see friends they had not visited since before their son was born. The young man was freshly awake from his nap in the car and, as always, was in a bad mood as he slowly transitioned into his awake state. The parents would have waited in the car with little Mr. Cheerful for fifteen minutes or so, but their hosts noticed the car in their driveway and came rushing out to greet their old friends. When they invited everyone into the house, Brian was reluctant to go. No, reluctant was too mile a term. What do you call kicking, screaming, frothing at the nose and frantic body gyrations?

At last, persuaded with the permission to wear his fireman's hat and carry his Ninja Turtle sword, the young boy accompanied his parents into the strange house. The tantrum resumed in the front hall, culminating with his yelling, at the top of his powerful lungs, "Get me out of the is G--D--- House!" whereupon all the adults hushed in wide-eyed surprise. Dan and Gloria stared at each other with mutual blame until Dan said, "Come on, Brian, let's go for a walk" and took his young son far away from the childless friends.

After a bomb like that, you begin to wonder what else is stored in that child's mind? You almost expect to hear: "Forceps! Forceps! I've got the little bugger now!" at the dinner table. You become very leery about having the boss over to dinner for fear your sponge will meet him for the first time and say, "Daddy, is this the lame-brain you work for?" You sweat when your mother-in-law drops by for fear you'll hear: "Gramma, why does my daddy call you a nosy pain in the butt?"

Let's face it. It's bound to happen. You just don't know when. Bob made a mental note to remind Mary Ann she was dealing with a walking, talking recording device. Then he tried to figure out how he could ever again speak to his wife in confidence, in adult dialect, without listening ears. Perhaps having conversations only when there is at least one floor between them and The Sponge. Or talking on telephone extensions within the house. Or speaking in code.

"Okay, boy, let's put on your TAN shoes and go down to the park and chase some squirrels."

"Yeah, Dad, let's go down a few chasers."

# Children CAN Be Useful

I have thought of children in many ways, but only recently have I come to realize that they can be valuable tools for getting your way in life.

Take, for example, last weekend, when I had an appointment to order fixtures from my local lighting store. All the clerks were somewhat busy when I arrived with my young son, just up from his nap, batteries fully charged.

"We'll be with you in a minute," the clerk said.

"Don't worry. Take your time," I said. Brendan and I toured the store, somewhat in awe of the hundreds of bright bulbs, but very careful to not touch the merchandise. Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. Brendan kept looking at all the tags hanging from the ceiling. In the lighting store, there are hundreds of fixtures on the ceiling, large, fancy crystal chandeliers, delicate, fluted Victorian reproductions, and beveled brass creations... each one with a pull tag attached to an on-off switch by a length of 50-pound test fishing line.

Imagine the wonder to a grabby young boy to be put within arm's reach of a sea of dangling tags. Of course, he began to clutch and pull, and as he did, the lamps began to flash on and off, and gently bump into each other in a crescendo of glass against glass.

Suddenly, the clerk was at my side. "I'll be more than happy to help you now," she said, watching the chandeliers sway.

"Oh, no hurry," I replied. "Take your time." Another light blinked on, another fixture spun off balance.

"No, please. I insist!! What can I do for you?... maybe he would be more comfortable on the floor," she said.

"Oh, okay," I said. "I'm here to pick up an order." We were out of the store in five minutes, our business completed. I hugged Brendan and whispered "Attaboy" as we left.

It's quite obvious that I am not the only one using his children as a strategic weapon in life.

Back before you could do things on-line, my friend Karen went to her local American Airlines ticket office to cash in some frequent flyer mileage for tickets to Hawaii. She not only wanted her tickets, but a rental car and a deal on the hotel room. The rules clearly stated that airfare would be covered by frequent flyer points, but they didn't exactly mention hotels or rental cars.

The rules hadn't counted on Althea, an 18 month-old with a doll face, but hands like Michael Jordan.

Karen stepped up to the counter and sat Althea on it as she opened her conversation with the clerk. She stated in one sentence what she wanted and, for a brief moment, the clerk started to explain that it would simply not be possible to grant all those things for the points being awarded. But in that time...

and this really should be rerun in slow motion as it all occurred in about five seconds, Althea tipped over a pencil holder and, as the clerk bent to catch the pencils, Althea wadded up the paperwork on the desk, grabbed the clerk's neckerchief when she bent to minimize that damage, and then, as the airline employee, a fortyish blonde, and the child stared each other down, Althea drooled into the dot matrix printer.

Karen quickly stepped in to loosen the death grip her child had on the clerk with a quick "sorry." She began to put the squirming Althea back on the counter when she was interrupted with...

"...That's okay. I think we can get you everything you need. You entertain cutie pie... on the floor... I'll take care of the details." She riffled the keyboard with lightning speed and Karen walked out with her travel package. Althea took a nap.

But my favorite place to watch the adolescent arsenal is at the grocery store on Saturday mornings. In our town, it seems the only day to do grocery shopping is Saturday and, for some reason, the entire town shows up before noon. It is possible to get at merchandise on the shelves, but the checkout lines are impossibly long queues of people pushing carts loaded with enough supplies to get through the next war.

Here's the ploy, using a mom with one cart and two kids, 'way back in line. The two accomplices should be under four years old. The first sits in the cart screaming bloody murder and grabbing for every other cart within reach... approximately a ten foot radius. The partner, meanwhile, repeatedly pushes the cart onto the ankles of the lady immediately ahead in line.

Within about five minutes, that person yields to the silent pleas of her neighbors and the shooting pains in her legs to let the rancorous children play through and skip ahead in line.

"Oh, you needn't do that," the mother protests. "We'll wait our turn."

"No, that's all right," the victim insists. "Please go ahead."

You get the idea that if one more exchange of dialog were to occur, it would sound like:

"No, really, you go ahead, you were here first and you have certainly been waiting longer than we have."

"For Chrissake, go ahead of me. My ankles can't take it anymore. If your little brat hits me one more time, I'll feed it to the scanner!"

But instead, everyone is very civil and the exchange never takes place. You see, though, that our shrewd mom has just shaved ten minutes off her line time. Even as she mentally stencils one more enemy on the side of her shopping cart, the team begins to work in tandem again on the next victim, who falls much faster this time now that she's onto the remedy. Thus, our savvy shopper gets through the line in no time, somewhat disappointed that she hasn't beaten her own world's record of 12.2 minutes in a line of ten people or more. Well, there's always next week.

See what I mean? Parents often gripe about how difficult it is to raise small children, and how they alter your lifestyle. I'm here to say that children were meant to be used and personally, I've never seen anything better than a well-trained attack child for getting fast service.

# The Perfect Negotiator

The room is dim, lit like a pool hall with a string of bare-bulb lamps hanging over the length of the table. On one side of the table sits management, clean-scrubbed and refined in pinstriped suits, though the suit jackets have long since been doffed with the sleeves of French-cuffed shirts rolled up. Ties are askew and collars are open for, across the table, through the haze of cigar and cigarette smoke, sits Labor, a phalanx of bulldogs, large men, uncomfortable in ties and shirts, but determined to get what they want. It's contract time, that tri-annual festival of American business that pits owner against worker in a duel of wits and charm to arrive at a conclusion where nobody really gets what they want.

My son should be in that room because, even at four years of age, he is the perfect negotiator.

"I want a cookie," he says.

"You can't have a cookie because it's too close to dinner time," Dad says.

"But I WANT a cookie," he says.

"I said no."

"I want it, I want it, I want it," he yowls, incessantly, ever louder. His face reddens. Tears spurt from his eyes. The nose starts to run. My protests, shouts and threats are lost in the sharp echoes of his fury. I cave in again.

"All RIGHT! Just one." That's all it takes. A little switch trips somewhere and the yowling stops, the water flow to the eyes and nose is shut off, and with the exception of a sniffle or two, he is my bright little angel boy once again.

Then it is dinnertime. Seated in front of a well-balanced, colorful meal of ridiculously miniscule portions, his opening comment is, "I don't want any dinner."

"Fine," I say, "Then leave the table. And no snack tonight."

"But I want a snack. How about if I eat one bite of meat and one bite of apple."

"How about if you clean the plate," I reply.

"But how 'bout this deal... I eat one bite of..."

"No," I interrupt. "There's one deal on the table. It is your dinner. Stop offering terms and eat your food." He feigns submission and eats two bites.

"How about..." he starts.

"NO!" is the reply. He chews sullenly. When, at last, my plate is clean, I've complimented the chef and, as they say in Provence, l'expérience gastronomique est fini, my young heathen son is chasing peas around the plate and showing everyone the chewed food in his mouth.

"Young man!" I command. "Eat your food!"

"Then will I be done?"

"Yes."

"Then do I get a bedtime snack?"

"We'll see. It depends. Stop talking and keep eating. It's nearly midnight." He eats 75% of his food and, when he asks yet again for the all-pervasive snack, is told he may have 75% of his snack."

"It's a deal!" he shouts, slapping the table with the flat of his hand to seal the pact.

Sometimes he allows the negotiations to be less one-sided. Take bedtime for example:

"Son, it's time to go to bed."

"Want a little bit of milk," he says.

"If I give you milk, will you go to bed?" He ignores the Boolean logic.

"Mommy sit rocking chair five minutes?"

"If I give you milk and mommy for five minutes will you go to bed?" He ignores it again.

"Turn on Raffi."

"William, if I give you milk and mommy and Raffi, will you go to bed?"

"Go mommy-daddy's bed." Ugh! Now I'm getting hot.

"WILLIAM! If I give you milk and mommy and Raffi and our bed and the deed to the house and a large insurance policy on my life and a new car and a million dollars in the bank, WILL YOU GO TO BED?" He nods his reluctant, conciliatory assent.

And when at last he is asleep, in my bed with my wife, filled with liquid and reassurances from his mother and his favorite folk singer, I feel my job is done but that I have set dangerous precedents. My opponent now knows how far he can push.

"Is it a DEAL?" the swarthy man with the once-broken nose asks the people on the other side of the table. He receives only contemplative silence in return. "I said, IS IT A DEAL?" They nod grudgingly, secure with the thought that at least the union didn't ask for Raffi before bedtime. Management will safely tuck that one away in the file for the next round of negotiations with perhaps a younger, less tenacious union lawyer.

# Obedience Training Your Child

I read all the books on how to raise a toddler and became convinced the best one around was by Barbara Wodehouse. Wodehouse has a stellar, worldwide reputation for obedience training of ... dogs. Dogs, kids, whatever. Her simple advice for instilling proper behavior is: be clear in your commands, reward them when they obey, be firm when they disobey and show them you love them.

I was sure she was onto something... for kids, not just dogs... and vowed to put my son through obedience training.

"Sit. Stay," I command at the dinner table to the young lad who thinks it's great fun to wriggle out of the booster chair and hide under the table during dinner. On hearing the command, he is in momentary shock and actually does sit and stay for a few seconds. Then he slips out of his chair and hides under the table.

Referring to Wodehouse, she says, "If the puppy disobeys, you must issue a stern reminder that you are master. A swift rap on the rump with a rolled-up newspaper works for me." It didn't work so well for me. Meal times are tough.

Perhaps if we put his food in a dish on the floor, then we wouldn't have to worry about his wriggling out of the chair. We could get a nice one with his name on it, and maybe put a straw in the matching water dish

When we get out in the yard, I throw a stick. "Fetch, Harvey," I command. He goes for it, but does not bring it back. Instead, he throws it too. "No, no, Harvey, you bring it here.

He picks up the stick, brings it to me. "Good boy," I say and I pull a piece of chocolate chip cookie out of my pocket. He eats it, looking for more. "Now fetch," I say, throwing the stick across the yard. He giggles at the game and runs to get the stick. He brings it back. "Good boy," I say, and hand over another piece of cookie. This is great, I murmur. He gets it.

On the third throw, he dawdles. "Come, Harvey." He looks at me, then my pocket, and meanders back with the stick. "Good boy. That's all for today. Go play." According to the book, once set free, he's supposed to go bounding off into the woods to chase chipmunks, but instead, he turns to me briefly and throws the stick. "Fesh," he says and then attacks my pocket looking for cookie bits.

"No, no, no. Bad boy. No more numnums today. Go play." He shrugs and wanders off to find a truck and play in the dirt.

Wodehouse says two of the most important things to teach a puppy are to heel and to stop on command. You don't necessarily need a training collar to achieve these levels of obedience in your dog, but they do get the idea a bit faster. A training collar is a metal necklace with blunt points bent in towards the neck. The collar is a little smaller around than the trainee's neck and is held together with a slip chain, which has a ring on it for attachment to the leash. Thus, every time the leash is yanked, the collar tightens and points dig into the neck. That way, if the wearer is lagging behind when he is supposed to be trotting smartly at his master's side, one yank on the chain with the reminder to "Heel!" brings him obediently into place. Sounds ideal for children.

But, as I'm standing in the pet store, I wonder how wise it is to put my son on a collar and leash. The clerk asks, "How large a dog do you have?" I say, "Oh, it's not for my dog, it's for my son." She stares at me wide-eyed for a moment, then says, "Weeelll, you might have a little trouble getting this collar over his head." And then I understand the real reason people don't use these things on their kids. Unlike dogs, children's heads are much bigger around than their necks and you just can't get a slip chain collar to fit right... if it's big enough to go over the head, it will be too big to be effective on the neck. So, I decided, if I was going to train my child with a leash and collar, I would just have to settle for one of the standard, buckle-on devices with no training barbs on it. Like Wodehouse says, it'll take the trainee a little longer to get the idea, but it will come. I will have to be patient.

Children on leashes and collars should be kept in one's own yard during daylight hours because there are lots of wierdo fanatics who think such treatment is abusive. But they just don't know how useful it is.

Take, for example, teaching your child to come when you call. There is no better or faster way than to have the child on a long leash and command, "Come (child's name)!" and gently pull on the leash until he starts to walk toward you. When he arrives, give him a big hug, say "Good boy," a bit of cookie, and try it again. In less than a week, you can try it without the leash with a high probability of success. Now I ask you, is that abusive? Maybe teaching the child to heel is abusive... it's probably against a child's nature to walk smartly alongside his parent and sit down whenever the walking stops...

I never did try that.

Another useful part of obedience training involves the command "Stop." To practice this exercise, take your child out walking (at night, remember) with his collar and leash. When you come to a corner and he starts to walk across the street without looking, you yell, "Stop!" and yank back on the leash. When he's brought up short and his eyes start to bulge, you coo,

"Good boy." Don't forget the positive reward every time. Eventually, he will remember to stop and look before crossing streets. Once off leash, if you see your child about to bolt wildly onto some thoroughfare, you will be amazed at how a well- timed command to "Stop!" will cause them to freeze in their tracks. Remember, the safety of your child is of paramount importance.

One of the most difficult exercises for dogs, and certainly for children, is the long sit. This is where you command your child to sit in one place for ten minutes. They are required to ignore any distractions and stay put until you tell them to "Go play." This exercise is most successful when other children are involved and they all are required to do the "long sit." You can often entice other children into the training by making a game of it, such as calling it a picnic. It's a little devious, but these are devious times; once ingrained in their little brains, this skill comes in very handy for "time-outs", or long movies or leaving them on the sidewalk outside the grocery store while you shop.

I must say that I've had nominal success with this method. The skin on my son's neck is much tougher now so the collar doesn't chafe. I did break down and buy him a collar with his name on it. He loves to go for walks. I know this because he brings his leash to me and then sits by the back door whimpering until we go out.

I have noticed some side effects of obedience training that will probably work themselves out with time. When we go to the park, he loves to catch Frisbees in his teeth. He often has to jump very high to do this, but he is developing strong hind quarters and excellent eye-mouth coordination and it is quite impressive. He's good at it. But we do go through a lot of Frisbees as his teeth tear them to shreds.

He has developed a preference for other dogs over other children in the neighborhood, probably because the other children aren't nearly as well behaved. As a highly social animal, he makes friends easily by offering to share his bite-size Milk Bones with them. He can tell one dog from another by smell, a skill I certainly never intended him to learn and one that's pretty disgusting to see in practice, but one which I'm sure will become valuable later in life in sizing up people, especially a mate.

After a hard day roaming the neighborhood, he comes obediently home and jumps into the tub. He tells me about all the rabbits he chased, the holes he dug, and the tricks his pals played on the mail man. Once snug in his jammies, he crawls around his bed in a circle three times before settling under the covers for his favorite storybook: 101 Dalmations. And when I finally come in for my goodnight hug, he licks me affectionately on the ear.

Good ol' Barbara Wodehouse. I just couldn't be a good dad without her.

# The Drum

It was a Labor Day box from Grandma. How sweet. But how weird. Who gives gifts for Labor Day except Grandma and maybe the United Auto Workers? Whenever the plain brown carton comes to our house by UPS from Ohio, we let it sit in the foyer for a couple of days. I'm not sure why, there are always wonderful surprises inside. Little did we know that THIS box would change our lives forever.

Now there is a rhythm to our house. It goes boom baba boom baba boom all around the upstairs and sometimes it comes downstairs too. It is a little boy with a tomtom given to him by loving neighbors after a cheap vacation out west. It is my little boy and I love him dearly, but if he doesn't stop with the boom baba boom baba boom pretty soon, I'm gonna accidentally drive over the tomtom with the car.

When you're contemplating the great life decision of children, somehow you never factor in the drum. What an innocent little thing, the drum. The little drummer boy plays his ratta-tat-tat at Christmas. The high school marching band strolls by to the cadence of the showy, melodious boooom of the big bass drum. And, when put into the hands of a Sandy Nelson, it is both a feat of human endurance and torrid music that stirs the soul. But put a tinny little snare drum into the hands of two year-old and you're buying a ticket to the nuthouse.

A drum is what non-custodial ex-spouses send their shared children home with at Christmas. It's an instrument that requires a premium for lessons because they must be taken outside of the house and the instructor must listen to it. A drum in the hands of a child is the smart bomb of toys, a guaranteed direct hit on the adult psyche. Psychologists will tell you that a drum is also a way for the child, particularly a boy, to get in touch with himself... the primitive expression of a beating heart, shared with others in some kind of primal rite. Psychologists with small children of their own will also tell you that it's a device for intentionally driving parents beyond the extreme outer limits of parental patience.

And so it was, that when the box from Ohio was opened, out came... a new, tinny little snare drum.

"Mother!" my wife screamed at Grandma, "How could you DO this to us? Can't you hear it in the background? It's bang, bang, bang all day."

"I know, dear," Grandma said calmly, "but every little boy should have a drum."

"I told you we already had a drum in the house and. I've tried to accidentally drive over it twice, but Billy rescues it at the last minute. He could have used this one at YOUR house! You should have warned me it was coming! It's driving me crazy!"

"Well, you used to have a drum," she said, practicing her newly acquired, grandmotherly demeanor, and then administered the coup de grace: "and I didn't mind."

"I don't believe you!" the daughter shouted. "You're just trying to get back at me! What did I ever do to you that makes you want to... (hand over the mouth piece) BILLY! Will you stop banging that drum! (back to mom) Mom, I've got to go. I can't promise this little present of yours will make it until Christmas. Bye."

Grandpa walked into the kitchen in Ohio just as Grandma was hanging up the phone. "How are things in Chicago," he asked.

"Just fine," she replied. "They got the box and little Billy is having fun."

"That's nice."

"Yes," she said, with a knowing smile and a devious little twinkle in her eye. "It is."

# Two Hours of Bonding

"Don't worry, Honey," my friend Bill told his wife Nancy, "I know you need your night out with the moms. I'll take the boys for a couple of hours. We'll have some fun."

You need to know that Bill is a senior executive with a large retail group in Texas. His work is his life. He has buyers all over the country asking him for advice. He gets to tell marketing people and manufacturers and suppliers and store managers what to do. And everybody listens. Yet, it is this corporate executive, this marvelous manager of men, who is about to take his sons, two and four years old, respectively, people who rarely listen to what he says, out for a night on the town. Inwardly, he is terrified.

"I've got it all figured out," he explained to his wife as she hurried by him for the door. "We'll go out for some pizza and then we'll go over to the pool. That'll wear 'em out. Right, honey?" he shouted as the car streaked out of the garage. Right, he said to himself.

True to his word, he strapped his fine blonde sons into the car with an encouraging "Let's go, men, just you and me."

"Right, Pop," the four year old said.

They went to the local Pizza Joe's and checked into a cozy high-backed booth. The boys were seated across from each other of course because if they sat together, they'd be wrestling like Popeye and Bluto under the table in less than a minute. This way, Dad was at least able to order before the war began.

"...and, oh, waitress," the executive said, "I need you to bring a basket of rolls and some milk for the kids while we're waiting... a small glass of milk." She nodded her understanding, like "You didn't have to tell me that, Buster." Meanwhile, after cadging Dad's Cross pen and pencil set from the pocket where they normally live, the kids were drawing quietly and dutifully on their placemats, only occasionally trying to kick each other in the knee. Aren't we doing well, Bill thought to himself.

Then the waitress arrived with two HUGE glasses of milk, 16 ounces each if they were a shot, filled absolutely to the brim. Oh man, Bill mumbled, now we got trouble. And sure enough, mere minutes passed before the boys were engaged in a finger-pointing battle. You may have seen this in action in some roadside or campus bar... it's usually two burly males jabbing their index fingers at each other yelling "You.You.You." The kids were having a great time, but getting a little loud, so Officer Dad commanded: "Hey! Pipe down!" This surprised the younger of the offspring which threw off the aim of his latest jab, causing a forceful finger to hit the tub of milk and send it sailing across the table and onto... Dad. Head, shoulders, chest and pants. A complete douse job.

A sudden hush filled the room until Dad barked to his wide-eyed sons: "You: To that corner. You: To the other corner. Don't move." Out of shock and fear, they did as they were told while Dad dripped onto the table. The waitress and a busboy arrived with large terry towels to mop up both messes, the one on the table and the one seated there. The restaurant began to murmur. "It's okay folks," Bill said, playing the room. "We do this every Wednesday night." There were polite chuckles and soon the room returned to normal. The pizza arrived and everybody felt better, except that the milk had begun to dry to a nice crust on Bill's scalp and the gold Cross pen oozed milk when retracted. "At least I'll get to rinse off in the pool," he said to himself as they left the restaurant.

"Omigod, no," he grumbled as he turned into the parking lot of the community rec center where the pool office was dark. "It's closed. No shower. What'll I do? Think fast. I know! MINIATURE GOLF!" The car hardly stopped as it swung in a wide arc out of the lot. Into the night, with the plaintive cries of "Daaaaaaad, we wanna go swimmin!" ringing in his ears, he sped to the nearest putt-putt palace.

It took an hour to play one round of golf on that hot summer night in Texas. But it seemed like eons, for every time the kids dawdled over a bug on a light bulb or knocked their balls into the water holes so they could fish with the putters, or whanged the ball out of the lane and into the cup two fairways over, the game got longer. The longer it went, the more our pal Bill dried out and began to sour. "Come on, boys, let's get through these holes," he was heard urging his team on number 15. "People are beginning to wonder what died in this park."

And when at last they arrived home, mom was waiting. Old Bill's hair was stiff and flaking, his shirt and pants smelled like week-old butter. The kids were jabbering a mile a minute, wired way beyond tiredness. She watched him curiously, holding her nose and trying real hard not to laugh as he played the nonchalant. "What were you doing out there, bonding?" she said, tears filling her eyes. In response, he said only, "We bonded. For two hours, we bonded. We're all men now." He paused. "And how was your evening?"

"Fine," she blurted, doubled over in loud, tearful peals of laughter.

# The Candy Days

Shafts of weak November sunshine paint eerie morning streaks on the clump of teachers waiting nervously inside the doorway at the preschool. No one speaks, though the biting of fingernails and darting eyes warn of impending danger.

"There it is! Listen! I hear it," one whispers

"I hear it too," another says. "They're coming. Is the detox plan in place?"

In the distance, a high-pitched whine like the sound of a million swarming bees or a dull buzz saw tearing through hardwood, grows louder. In moments, it becomes a jumble of variegated young voices yammering all at once. The teachers press themselves against the hallway walls as the onslaught becomes imminent. One young intern begins to whimper, but nobody notices because the din turns deafening when the hordes descend.

No, it's not the legions of Hannibal pouring out of the Alps. Nor is it the Charge of the Light Brigade, Custer's Last Stand, the Boxer Rebellion or Pearl Harbor. It is, believe it or not, 25 children simply arriving at pre-school on the day after Halloween.

This is one of two days teachers dread more than any other during the school year. The other is the day after Valentine's Day. They're called The Candy Days. The reason is, of course, that, on those days, it seems the entire American population of people under the age of ten has overdosed on complex hydrocarbons used as the ingredient in a major food group for children: sugar.

There is a story of the mother who arrived in her kitchen the morning after Halloween night only to find candy wrappers all over the floor and her normally docile young son twitching, well into the smiling throes of a magnificent sugar high. She touched him and he jumped nearly to the ceiling. There was nothing else to do but catch him mid-leap in a large burlap bag and cart him off to school. Mom reasoned: he can decompress there, under the guidance of professionals.

The curb at the pre-school is chaos. Wild animals disguised as children in backpacks are jumping in and out of vans, shrilly hollering thick-tongued nonsense. Moms are coaxing them out. Teachers are coaxing them into the building, but it is like herding cats. With time and a gentle persuasion usually reserved only for mid-seizure epileptics, the students end up inside the building in their proper classrooms.

The teachers clap their hands to get attention. "Children, children," they shout over the din. "It's time to get to work." But the wild-eyed beasties aren't listening. They are whirling like tops, chattering like a roomful of moneys in heat. They fidget. They babble. Some drool. One veteran teacher asks her assistant: "Darla, would you kindly peel Kareem off the wall? We're going to do some jumping jacks."

For the next half hour, the children are encouraged to jump and shout, run in place, do ultra-fast jumping jacks and challenge each other with sit-up contests. They work hard, bouncing and flailing their arms until legs get wobbly and the arms don't raise quite as high until finally, they collapse into tiny heaps on the rug. Then they take a milk break. They eat cheese and crackers and grapes. At the end of an hour, the shrieking harpies have disappeared and normal toddlers have returned to earth.

The intern, still in disbelief at the stark contrast between the Jekyll and Hyde personalities asks the teacher, "Why do parents let their kids get this way?" The teacher replies, "It's a deeply ingrained social tradition where moms and dads want their children to get everything they themselves did not get and exercise freedoms they may lose someday. Moreover, many subconsciously feel this is good training for children when, later in life, they are confronted with decisions about different types of treats such as cigarettes, drugs or alcohol. The theory we hear is, kids will remember the frightening experience of being out of control with something as benign as sugar, and reason that they would be even more out of control with something more powerful. Get it"

"Huh?"

"They're too chicken to say no."

"Got it."

# Babyproof

The petite, sixtyish woman beamed into the telephone: "Marge, great news. My daughter's coming to visit and she's bringing the grandchildren."

"Oh, Helen, that is good news. I know you've been wanting to show them off for a long time."

"Yes, I have. But my daughter asked me a question and I didn't really have an answer. Of course, I told her there was no problem. She asked if the house was babyproofed. It's been so long since I've had small children around, I'm not exactly sure what she meant. Do you?"

"We-e-e-e-l-l-l," she sang, "And how old are the children?"

"One and three"

"I see. Well, as I recall, babyproofing is not the same as mothproofing or waterproofing; you don't spray for it. It's more like bulletproofing... preventing the children from doing any damage to your furnishings or to themselves. You know, sharp corners and all that. Listen, I know someone who knows about these things. Her name is Myra. Why don't I have her give you call?"

"I would appreciate that, I really would. Thank you so much."

"I'm happy to help."

Two days later, a shiny pink panel truck pulled into the drive of the big, ivy-clad Colonial on Maple Street. On the side, tastefully painted was a sign: Myra Dorfman, Babyproofing Services & Crane Rental.

A heavyset, youngish woman in a tan skirt and denim blouse emerged. She walked up the brick walk to the front door with clip board in hand and rang the bell. "Mrs. Doohickey, I'm Myra the babyproofer. You called?"

"Why, yes. Thank you for coming so quickly." Helen told the serious-looking Myra the situation, the ages of the children, the amount of time they were expected to be in the house and outlined as best she could the type of household they live in presently. "I really don't remember having to go through this with my daughter when she was small," she concluded.

"Well, you probably didn't go through this," the contractor said, sliding into her authoritative mode. "It has been proven that in the last 30 years, with improved diet and modern health care, small children are much smarter at an earlier age than children of an earlier era. They are also faster and louder. Also, due to the influence of television, they are far more apt to use destruction as a tool for building self-esteem. Cookie Monster has taught generations of children to speak badly and eat like pigs. Oscar the Grouch has been a role model for rude behavior. After watching hundreds of fist fights on TV, kids think they can punch each other in the face and not get hurt. Did you know that a child today is expected to witness over 18,000 murders on TV before age 12? Throw in Saturday morning cartoons and some Ninja Turtle videos and, well, let me simply say... you have a reason to be concerned."

"I see," the grandmother said, wrinkling her brow.

"You have a lovely home here," Myra said with a professional eye. "You'll want to move those antiques into a room with a locked door, or store them outside of the house Or I can bolt them to the floor for you. I can tape padding to the sharp corners of that table there. You'll want to screw sheets of

Lexan plastic over the lower sashes of those windows so that flying objects don't break any of the panes... it's bulletproof, you know. And, you'll want to remove everything from most of the drawers and cabinets of your kitchen, for the children's protection... unless you want me to install kid-guards. Is this carpet Scotchguarded? No? How about those drapes? And those white couches over there? They wouldn't look so good with grape juice stains. I can do that if you want. I also have a roll of clear plastic runway material I can tack down in the big traffic areas.

"All those little statues... whaddaya call 'em, nookiesookie? Pack 'em away in a box. That grand piano? Lock down the lid and cover the keys... or build a barrier around it with boxes of stuff you took out of the kitchen. I'd board up that fireplace if I were you. And don't forget to install dead bolts on the outside doors about five feet up. That way the kids can't run away and terrorize the neighborhood, know what I mean? I have pre -cut plastic sheets to cover the carpet around the toilets. You'll appreciate that, especially with the boy. And speaking of boys in the bathroom, you may want to coat the walls in the john with an industrial sealer. Maybe that's a good idea with all the walls, about six feet up to keep handprints and ketchup stains under control; it won't show on the wallpaper, I promise. I got a compressor in the truck that'll get the job done in about an hour. You should schedule me in for a post-visit cleanup too.

"Welp, that's it," Myra concluded. "All I can see for now. Want me to work up an estimate?"

"Don't you think this is all a bit extreme?" Helen said in disbelief.

"Well, it's your stuff, ma'am. I've been in this business five years now. I've seen what the little rug rats can do. They're really fast. It ain't a pretty sight."

Helen thought a minute. "I think you are right about the Netsuke. And about locking away some of this spindly old furniture. As for the rest, I know my daughter. She will be terrified that her children will leave one mark on this house. She will hover around them and watch them like a hawk and will remind and scold. She'll be nervous as a cat and will probably drive them into permanent paranoia. And I will say, "Oh, dear, let the children explore. It's all right." Really, now, if something gets nicked, so what? They will have left their mark on this house that's become too much like a museum, and I'll have little reminders that my grandchildren who live so far away wanted to come to visit... I'll show them those dings when they are grown and we will laugh about it. Maybe they'll tell their grandchildren about the nicks on the furniture they have inherited when I'm gone.

"And we'll sure have a good laugh over making this house 'babyproof.' I want my grandchildren to see it just the way it is. Thank you for coming. I hope I haven't wasted your time."

Myra nodded knowingly. "You sure you don't want a couple of kid-guards on the cabinets in the kitchen? At least you'll keep 'em out of the garbage and the toxic cleansers."

"Oh, all right," she said, delighted at the thought. "Go ahead. Then I can call my daughter and tell her that my house is now, indeed, babyproof. I'm ready. Bring on those mean old children."

# Diversionary Tactics at Work

As any mother can tell you, two year-olds have eight arms. Perfectly docile one moment, they can trash a room the next. But try to restrain them by force and their survival instinct takes over, a game which mere adults have little chance of winning.

There's a rumor that on every child's gene map, you can see an infinitesimal section on chromosome #19 that is the repository of the accumulated defensive intelligence of mankind... from the days of running from dinosaurs, outfoxing the predatory carnivores, Moors evading the Crusaders, Romans evading the Huns, slaves evading their masters, et al. Inside this tiny gene are the basics... not elaborate, mind you, but the basic strategic thinking of Machiavelli, Augustus Caesar and Clausewitz. Maybe Schwarzkopf is in there too. It waits, dormant for the first year, but switches to "on" at a child's second birthday.

The first time you notice it is during the diaper change. Where once the placid little cherub would lie quietly or even coo as you remove the two pounds of urine-soaked wadding strapped to his body, now it's a game that begins with squeezing the legs together to prevent the diaper from being removed. While mom works unsuccessfully to pry the legs apart, a foot suddenly shoots out and kicks the container of wipes off the table. She stoops to pick them up and a rattle becomes airborne the other way. She ignores that, but by now the pants have been flung off the table by another foot and, just as she thinks she'll gain control by grabbing both ankles with one hand, the offspring executes a deft half twist and scrambles halfway off the table. Finally, after a brief chase, mom pins baby to the floor with a knee on his chest and finishes the diaper change.

The concept of diversionary tactics gels quickly. Watch what happens when the toddler sees dinner. You may have served juice with the meal, but cutie-pie wants milk. "Anything to get this kid to eat," you say and head off for the milk. Big mistake. While you're gone, the peas are dispatched to distant corners of the kitchen. You see what's happening, but before you can say, "No, no," the spaghetti ends up in the hair. That sends you to the sink for a rag. There you go again. The child is in complete control now; food is going everywhere except into the mouth and you are running madly around trying to regain the dignity of your kitchen.

In grocery stores, how do kids know when they get to the cereal department and you refuse to put their favorite sugar-saturated crispies in the basket that simply by dropping the jar of olives overboard, you will stop the cart and, while you are distracted and being embarrassed by the mess, will swiftly swoop one or more boxes of crispies in the basket... where they belonged in the first place, dummy.

Playing with other children, toddlers can be possessive, have you noticed? As much as they would like to control every toy in the room, they are smart enough to know that some are worth sacrificing. Therefore, when Billy comes over to play, he will be steered to a low-status, sacrificial toy, whereupon its rightful owner will throw a fit and initiate a sensational tug of war to get it back, but at the last minute, will give up, whimpering at the loss. Billy sticks to that toy like glue for the rest of the afternoon, savoring the victory, while your little dumpling lovingly flits from one thing to another knowing each is now safe from the intruder's interest.

And then there is bath time. "Babooz," the child cries, wanting to climb into the bath laced with Mr. Bubble. Off come the clothes and in he goes. He pitches a small toy out of the tub and, while you're chasing it, a pitcher of water hits the floor. While you're using two hands to wash two square inches of his little bottom, he's using two hands to create a wave pool. If you try to drain the tub to hint that bath time is over, he will close the drain with his toes, thereby forcing your attention on the drain; that allows him two or more hands to pour water over YOUR head for a final rinse. Or to grab the quart bottle of concentrated baby shampoo and squeeze it all in the tub while you're occupied. He lives through this by sprouting a wide grin and saying, "babooz."

But my favorite time is bedtime. This is when Junior skillfully plays mom and dad against each other so that long after he's asleep, he won't be disturbed by their conversation because they won't be talking to each other anymore.

I'm sure every household has a nightie-night routine. At our house, Dad changes the child out of daytime diaper and play clothes and into the nighttime diaper and jammies. There is some playtime. When it's time to go up to (God forbid) The Bedroom, mom takes him there with a bottle of milk to read books, say prayers, turn out the light and gently drift with him into the land of nod. Sometimes it works that way. Recently, however, if mommy initiates the routine, Junior cries in loud blubbering sobs for Daddy. Daddy, the omniscient 24 hour a day repairman, shows up to fix the situation but finds himself powerless, and thus, worthless. Mommy can't do anything either and is thus furious that Daddy responded at all. Meanwhile, the baby watches carefully and, at precisely the right moment, makes a dirty diaper. "Poo," he cries. No further explanation is required. In his best judgment, Dad departs, leaving the situation to mom. But baby decides to resist (remember the half-twist changing table escape move?) and becomes 30 pounds of writhing gristle, far too much for a 100-pound mom to handle. "Dammit, I need help," comes the desperate cry from the nursery. Dad reappears, bringing with him the one thing mom needs at the moment, more body weight. While mom pins the child to the floor with her knees, Dad manages to change the diaper of the now squalling, overtired baby. It's easier to change the engine on a Chevy.

After willingly providing such a necessary service, Dad is rewarded with cries of "Mom-mom-mom- mom." Finally feeling totally worthless except as the heavy in a slasher movie, Dad decides once again to leave the final phase of bedtime to mom.

But in the last second before Dad disappears out the door, Junior says in his sweetest little boy voice, "D-a-a-a-d-d-y." You look around to receive a blown kiss. "Bye bye," he says, waving, snuggled cozily into mom's lap, safe and warm.

Ignoring your wife's Madonna smirk, all you can say is, "G'night, kid."

# Did I Hear That Right?

What has become of the family dinner? That time in the twilight of the day when the elements join together to make an atom, when the delegates convene to make peace, when species mix and lambs lie down with sheep.

Huh? What're we talking here, Ozzie and Harriet? Wally and The Beave? Not our house.

First comes the call to dinner. A boy's face fresh from the sand lot pops in the door with "What're we having?"

"Chicken"

"Oh, Maaaaaaaan! I'm not eating. No way." A few rounds of light sparring later, I am able to sit with him at the dinner table and watch him squirm in his seat, picking at his toes with freshly-washed hands. His sister is wandering around the house, being herded by drover mom ever closer to the kitchen.

In the distance, I hear, "Dear, put down the gun and let's go to dinner." The words have no effect, as I am telling my son, "Boy, take your knife and fork out of your eyes and eat your dinner." The shepherdess enters the room, shuffling one lone stray before her. Our eyes meet with a shared smirk of disbelief: Did I hear you right? But we say nothing.

By the time mom gets to the table, the boy has cleaned his plate except for two lonely string beans. His sister is standing on her head on the chair. Dad has courteously let his food chill in order to eat with his wife. They attempt to hold hands over the Parkay in order to express a moment of grace and actually do find a moment of silence. Dad says, "Dear God, this is not funny anymore. Please help me find a military pre-school so I can get to know the cook of the house as I once did. Amen."

No sooner has mom lifted her fork than the two year-old says, "Mommy feed me, mommy feed me."

"No, dear," the strong mother says, "Mom is going to feed herself before she faints."

"Wa-a--a-a-a-a-h," the waif wails, swatting her spoon to the floor.

"Oh, alright," mom relents, trying to shovel in three bites while the child climbs onto her lap.

"Bye," my son says, "I'm going outside to play." But before his second foot hits the floor, I state firmly, "Wait. You're not finished. Eat your beans."

"Maaaaaan, I already ate a bean."

"Eat another one... in fact, eat both." A scowl creeps onto his face and stayed while he jammed the beans into his mouth and then held his nose while washing them down with milk. Still swallowing, he held out his hands with an impudent shrug as if to say, "So, Bozo? Am I done now? You want Hercules to clean any more stables? Huh? Huh?"

I smile sweetly at him and say, "have a nice time with your friends." He is off in a sprint. His sister wants to go too, but she is mid-bite, sitting in her mother's lap. Scrambling to chase her big brother, she makes one teaspoonful of rice airborne, a clever diversion which allows her to escape unchallenged. She reaches the back door in time to see him jump into the middle of a street soccer game, and howls because she can't play too.

Mom is unphased. Even as rice kernels lodge in her hair, she begins to eat her own meal in relative silence, relishing every morsel. As the last forkful is consumed, our eyes lock. It has been an exceptionally long day.

Over the mild din I suggest, "Tomorrow night, let's have wine."

"Good idea," she replies. "That will only happen if our children eat out of dishes on the floor."

"Hey," I said, "If that works, we'll get them dishes with their names on the sides. And maybe we can teach them to drink out of the toilet.

"Sounds good to me," said the shepherdess.

# Once I Was An Adult

Big Chuck sat limply on a stool in the locker room staring at his socks. We had just finished an hour of racquetball at which he had beaten me seriously three games to none.

"What's the matter, Pal," I said. "You look like a whipped puppy. I'm the one that lost, remember?"

"Yeah, it's not you," he replied. "It's the kids. They're driving me nuts. Three years ago, I was on top of the world. Nice house, nice car, happy wife, a social life, no worries. I used to be an adult, you know? Now I got a two year old and it's all changed."

"I thought you were coping pretty well. We all know kids are a pain. What set you off?"

"It was the dumbest thing. When I pulled the car into the lot here at the club, I stopped a little fast and what should come rolling out from under the passenger seat but Derek's Tommy Tippy Cup. I realized then that this child and his paraphernalia have invaded every part of my formerly adult life. I use that car for BUSINESS! What if some customer had been aboard when that little red cup wobbled out from under the seat?"

I just stared in sympathy.

"Ah, it's not just the cup," he sighed. "It's walking into the house at night and stepping on sticks from the yard. It's getting up in the middle of the night and stubbing your toe on a fire truck. It's wanting to take a nice soaking bath and finding the tub layered with rubber ducks, fireboats and a toy teapot." He was really getting morose. "I miss a clean garage. We used to have plenty of room for two cars and the lawnmower. Now Derek has ELEVEN vehicles in there, not to mention an entire arsenal of nerf weapons, baseballs, tennis balls, large rubber balls and a soccer ball. I'm tired of the house smelling like diaper pail in the morning. It's wanting to have a quiet glass of wine with the wife before dinner and a) not being able to pry her away from the child clutching her leg, b) not being able to get a word in edgewise without a background of whining and yammering and c) having the wine knock you out anyway because you're so exhausted and not used to drinking the stuff anymore. Besides, it's no secret we could use the money Angie used to bring in when she was workin'."

"Ah, you've got to ignore all that stuff," I consoled. "It's temporary. Only a couple of years of your life." He looked up from his shoes for a moment, and then drooped again. No sale.

"Yeah, but I miss my old life. I can't get used to safety latches on all the cabinet doors. Kitchen drawers are full of his toys and coloring books. All the kitchen stuff that used to be in the drawers is in his play pen. Dinosaurs in the pantry. The blankie in the freezer. Fog scribbles on the windows. Fresh dents in the woodwork. A mystery stain on the new sofa. I tell you, it's drivin' me nuts."

"Well, it could be worse," I comforted. "You could be homeless. You could have a kid with a disease."

"I don't CARE!" he shouted. "My friends are all going to basketball games, football games, the opera, the theater, the Sybaris. I'm trying to find a scalper who'll sell me tickets to The Bozo Show."

"Okay, then, what if Angie decided she wanted a dog? Hey, how about another kid?" My large friend paled at the thought. "Besides, WHO bought Derek ELEVEN vehicles?" He acknowledged his guilt with a grudging nod. "Who found that black and chrome BMX trike and bought fluorescent streamers for the handle bars?" He looked up at me sheepishly then, a little embarrassed, and smiled at the thought. "Who gave the kid a full-size tournament grade blue and white soccer ball when he was born? The ball was bigger than the baby." He smiled again and pointed to himself.

"Come on, you mope, let's finish this discussion at Goober's. Maybe we can catch the last half of the game on the big-screen TV... I'll bet we don't see ANY two year-olds there.

"Great idea!" he said, brightening immediately.

I dug into my gym bag for the car keys and stopped suddenly. Turning to Big Chuck, I said, "Before we go, you might need these." Somewhere from beneath the sneakers and the socks, I pulled out a handful of cheerios. "Here. I find these in my bag all the time. They get in the shoes and the fingers of the racquetball glove, but I eat 'em anyway. It's a gift from my kid who doesn't want me to go hungry when I'm not at home. You can think of it as a post-workout snack."

"I hear yuh," he said, slapping me on the back with that hammy hand of his. "Let's go be adults for an hour." And we walked out into the clear, bracing night, renewed in our maturity, munching on Cheerios.

# Mein Dipe

Two years ago, when the large cloth diaper my son was carrying around as his security blanket began to wear out on the edges, we called the diaper service and ordered ten used diapers for backup. If, we reasoned, he is going to be attached to these things, we should have plenty around. Because, if the one he loves wears out, he will be heartbroken, his life will be scarred forever, and he won't let us forget it.

The new diapers arrived and were immediately laundered three times to make them as soft as the original. They were already about the same size as the original. The final test was to put one of them on William's pillow and cover it with the bed spread. At bedtime, because William always asks "Where is my special dipe?" we could tell him with great authority that it is on his pillow. He ran to his bed, pulled down the covers, grabbed the diaper, sniffed it and in an instant, threw it over his shoulder and shouted, "Where is my SPECIAL dipe?"

From that day on, we have watched the one true diaper shrink thread by thread and grow thin as a gossamer veil. Every tear makes it more ratty. When it broke into two pieces, we had to keep track of both of them or he could not go to sleep at night. Then it was three pieces. Now it is little bits that fall off here and there and elicit mournful wails of "Mommy fix it, mommy sew it back. Pleeeeeeeease!" But they are too small to repair and discretely end up in the trash.

The day is coming with the special dipe will simply shrink to dust... but if it is gradual enough, if we can buy time,

if we can let him grow up just a little bit more... maybe 'til kindergarten... it'll be close... just maybe he'll outgrow it.

It all started the day he came home from the hospital. We had contracted for a diaper service to drop off a bundle of thick cotton pre-folded diapers each week, and carry off the baby's output. The service had come a long way since the days of plastic pants and, because we are people concerned with the environment and the waste stream, we thought we would give it a try. The initial batch was bundle of 96. Some of them ended upon the baby, but many were used on the shoulder as burp cloths.

We gave up on the diaper service after about six months, but kept the stack of diapers, so William grew up nuzzling his face into the shoulder of mom or dad, cushioned by a thick, cotton diaper that smelled fresh with a unique scent that mingled mom, dad, the sitter and the dipe itself. We hardly noticed when he began carrying them around, but we would find them all over the house, under cushions, stuffed under the covers and wedged between the mattress and the headboard of his crib. There were so many then that we didn't worry about running out of them.

Two of the first words out of his mouth were "Mein Dipe." My son speaks German? A dipe went everywhere... in the car seat, in my back pocket on the bicycle (so he could get to it from his bike seat), and in the stroller. Dipes traveled with us all over the country as we visited family in California, Florida and Missouri. Dipes ended up in the garage as polishing cloths for the car.

Eventually, they became fewer and fewer. One was lost at the grocery store. Another fell out of my pocket on a bike ride. Others just disappeared. Thus, an edict went through the land that no dipes would leave the house. Yet, they still disappeared. Eventually we were down to three. Then two. Then one. Then the one began to fall apart.

Modern childhood folklore is full of legends about blankies that get dragged around until the child goes to college, a raggedy rabbit with whiskers long gone lives a life of comfort in a doll bed, a pillow enters retirement worn out and stained after long years of service as a constant companion. Maybe it's an instinct left over from pre-historic mankind when the young clung to their moms as the ultimate security. Chimpanzees still cling to their mothers. A puppy needs his nesting cloth. The parakeet snuggles up to its bell at night. It must be a trait of being alive to seek safe companionship somewhere among the survival of the fittest.

So now we wait. Will the dipe last until William doesn't need a security blanket anymore? Will we be successful substituting other things like stuffed animals, real animals, or books, cars or cash in its place? We can only try and will simply have to... wait it out.

In the meantime, at bedtime, William still gathers the bits of the diaper that are left, and lovingly lays them flat on his pillow so that, as he is listening to mom read stories, the warm, soft, wonderful smelling dipe brings back memories of being cradled safely in the arms of mom and dad and gently rocked to sleep.

# No Diet Works like the BRAT Diet

"Ahem. Doctor, I hate to call you with this so early in the morning," the young mother said. "But little Ferdinand has had diarrhea for three days and nothing I do seems to change it. Do you have any suggestions?"

"This is not an inconvenience, but let me ask you a few questions. Does the child have a fever?"

"No."

"What color is the child's stewel?"

"Kind of mauvy taupey tangerine."

"Has the child been French-kissing the dog?"

"No. We don't have a dog."

"Then," the doctor said, "I can find there is no external condition causing the problem. It must be the child's diet."

"But I give him all the pizza he wants," the astonished mother said.

"Yes, well, I want you to put little Ferdie on the BRAT diet for a week. That's B-R-A-T, which stands for Bananas, Rice, Apples and Toast. Feed him nothing but those four foods and the diarrhea will clear up in less than a week."

"Oh, Doctor, are you sure?"

"It works every time. Give me a call in four days if there's no change."

The relieved mother replaced the phone in its cradle and quickly grabbed a pencil to write down the doctor's diet. "Let's see," she murmured. "This shouldn't be too hard to remember B-R-A-T, that's Ferdie for sure. Bran flakes, Rice And Toast. That's it... or was it Raisins and Tea... no, the A, there was something he said that began with A.. what was it? Artichokes? Applesauce? Avocado? Shoot, let's start from the beginning. Bacon, Rutabaga and Artificial Turf. This is ridiculous. I'll just wait awhile. It'll come to me."

The next day the young mother called her neighbor. "Hey, Marge, have you ever heart of a BART diet to take care of the poops?"

"No. What's the BART diet?"

"It's four foods that are supposed to stop up little Ferdie so he doesn't have such runny poops. I thought if you'da heard of it, you could let me know what the four foods are. It's something like Broccoli, Asparagus, Ragu and Treacle."

"Sounds like the BARF diet to me," Marge chuckled. "Make that last one Fries and you'll have it."

"You know, Marge, Ferdie's never gonna eat any of this stuff. What'm I gonna do?"

"Knock off the pizza?"

Three days later, the young mother checked in with the pediatrician. "Doctor, I want you to know that the diet you suggested seems to have worked. Ferdie's diapers are thankfully full of rabbit pellets now. Must have been the spiced apple rings."

"Apple rings?"

"Yeah, I kinda forgot what the diet was all about so I started cleaning out the fridge, putting stuff in front of Ferdie to see what he'd eat. I found a half-gone jar of spiced apple rings, you know, the red ones that make your teeth pink? I also found some banana chips left over from Halloween. Now who do you suppose gave bags of banana chips to kids on Halloween? Ferdie loved 'em. My neighbor Marge is into weird food so she sent over some rice cakes. When those ran out, we tried cinnamon toast. Oh, yeah, we knocked off the pizza for the week. That was Marge's idea too."

"Sounds like a wise move," the physician offered, stuck for anything else to say.

"So now my friend Zelda has the same problem with her little Ziggy and I'm trying to remember the name of that diet. It's something like T -Y-K-E for Tomatoes, Yams, Keesh and Eggplant, right? Or was it C-H-E-R-I-B for Carrots, Herbs, Eggs, Root beer, Ice cream and Beets? Or was it..."

"Wait, wait," the doctor said. "It's B-R -A-T for Bananas, Rice, Apples and Toast. Write it down. Tell Zelda."

"Of course. I knew it all along. Thanks, Doc. You've been a big help."

# Charming, Just Charming

Skillfully ducking a fork that has come flying through the air, mom gives the grinning young man across the table The Mom Look and says through clenched teeth: "DON'T you EVER do that again."

It is breakfast time. Ralphie is supposed to be eating, but instead delights in launching guided missiles at mom. Mom is disgusted and horrified at his behavior as usual, but today, for the first time, wonders exactly why. She chastises herself for being too critical. After all, he is just two. He doesn't know any better. He's learning. Then suddenly a vision hits her and a chill runs down her spine: what if he doesn't ever learn how to behave at the table?

She can see it clearly now.

Ralphie is twenty-two years-old. Somehow, he has grown into a healthy adult intelligent enough to graduate from college. He is probably employed, but at the moment, he's standing at the doorway of an apartment building where he has been invited for dinner by his new girl friend, Marsha.

Earlier in the week, at the bike-a-thon, she was impressed with his robust good looks, his winning smile, his ability to be interested and conversant about nearly anything. "Now this is someone I could get close to," she thought then. "Someone I want to get to know very much better, at my place, over candle light and Chardonnay." She invited him to dinner on Saturday. He accepted graciously.

Marsha put on her best bleached denim miniskirt and a gauzy, scoop-necked blouse that clung just enough to be interesting. She swept her hair back to show off her gold earrings and brushed just a tint of color onto her cheeks. Something New Age oozed from the stereo and the aroma of simmering spaghetti sauce filled the air. "Not bad," she told the mirror. "This boy doesn't stand a chance."

Ralphie, who called himself RJ with the girls, had sensed he was in for a pleasant evening and decided to dress up: pleated khaki wash pants, a Polo shirt and Topsiders with no socks.

When Marsha opened the door, he was outwardly cool, but stunned at how beautiful she was, radiant in a dimmed room and surrounded by flickering candle light.

"Hi, RJ, this is my place. Do you like it?" she gushed. "I sure do," he said, stepping into the room and, losing no time, added, "Can I pour the wine?"

"Of course," she said demurely, pleased that she did indeed have a chilled bottle ready. She placed a mental checkmark next to "bold, take-charge attitude."

They held the glasses high between them and stared into each other's eyes as Ralphie poured. They sipped. And then Ralphie began to blow bubbles in his glass. Her eyes widened suddenly mid-sip. He noticed and stopped, a little embarrassed, yielding a sheepish half-grin that made her think "Oh, he's so VULnerable."

They sat on the sofa then, talking and laughing, occasionally touching hands as if by accident. When they were half way through the bottle of wine, Marsha said, "I think dinner's ready. Why don't you make yourself comfortable at the table."

Ralphie was intoxicated not with the wine, but the heady aroma of fresh-baked bread, Ragu, eucalyptus candles and

Shalimar... that blouse... those legs. He was seated for maybe 30 seconds in reverie, and then he was bored. He picked up his spoon and began fishing for ice in the water glass. He put one piece in his mouth and then spat it onto the butter plate. He spun the cube around the little plate for awhile and had just started to splash the spoon in the puddle he'd made when Marsha came into the room with two steaming plates. She sang, "Soup's on." Ralphie quickly palmed the spoon and took a sudden interest in the Lou Reed poster over the radiator.

As she sat across from him, they looked into each other's eyes with oblique thanks for the pleasures that were sure to come. And then Ralphie began to eat.

He loved spaghetti. From the first day he saw his father eat it, he had made a game out of sucking in each piece as fast as he could to see if he could get it all in one breath. Now, he stuck one end in his mouth, sucked at the slithering strand, and flipped spaghetti sauce onto his Polo shirt. The second strand flipped sauce across the table onto Marsha's blouse and also hit him in the nose; he laughed with his mouth full. The third strand did it. "RJ! Use a fork!" Marsha commanded. He did the grin again. She felt badly that she'd lost her temper, but he did obey.

The other neat thing Ralphie liked about spaghetti was the way it could hang in long, gooey strands when held with a fork. If you tipped your head way back and opened your mouth, you could position a whole forkful of dangling, dripping pasta right overhead and lower it in. And this is what Ralphie did. Marsha sat staring, stunned, her mouth frozen open. "That's disGUSTing," she said, slugging down another mouthful of wine. "You need a bib." He then threw the fork over his shoulder, picked up a blob of spaghetti with his fingers, and replayed the dangling pasta trick. Marsha was frozen in shock.

"Not disgusting," he said, chewing, "Meal Play. Here. I'll show you." He wiped his hands on his shirt and moved over to Marsha's side of the table. She bravely stood her ground, not knowing whether to run, scream or cry. "Put your head back," he said.

"You're crazy," she replied, resisting only slightly. "Come on, just try it," he coaxed with that grin. He held her head in the palm of one hand as she leaned back and took a small glob of spaghetti, dripping with red sauce, in the fingers of his free hand, and held it high over her mouth. He lowered it in slowly, sensuously, letting her tongue reach for the next strand, wanting it. He teased it in and out. She snapped off a bite here and there until she was chewing wildly. He tried another handful, larger this time, with more sauce dripping in streaks down her neck and into the warm dark recesses beneath her blouse. He watched the lips move, the tongue, the teeth, and when she had devoured the last bit, he followed the pasta into her mouth with his tongue in a powerful, slippery, meat sauce kiss.

From his booster chair, Ralphie bopped the edge of his dinner bowl with a fist and sent it into a perfect double gainer before it hit the floor. "Honest to God, Ralphie," Mom said. "I'm gonna do my best to teach you proper table manners, but if I fail, well, you've always got that smile."

# About Chewing Gum

"Jason will be three in a few weeks and I suppose I have to give him chewing gum," said his mom.

"Why?" asked another.

"Because I've been telling him for a year that he can't have gum 'til he's three and he won't forget it because all the older kids keep shoving pieces in his pocket," she said, more than a little irritated. "And every time I take him to the store, there by the door on the way out is one of those insidious little gumball machines where, for only a quarter, you can help the Kiwanis help the community and rot your kid's teeth all at the same time. He's been nagging me for weeks, so I'm on the hook. He must think this is some plateau in his life. Like, once he gets gum, he'll be a man."

"Well," said the mom of the four year-old, "You can't get gum out of anything. It is immune to every chemical compound known to man."

"But a friend of mine said Lestoil works."

"Oh, a friend of mine said paint thinner works," said the Voice of Experience, shaking its head. "Let me tell you. Scissors works."

Modern chewing gum is the result of years of costly innovation and experimentation by some of the most brilliant food chemists on the planet. It is a product with absolutely no fat, cholesterol or food value. The flavors are pungent, and quite wonderful as the car fills with Plantation Punch or Bazooka. But when the flavor beads dissolve, the gum soon tastes like shower curtain. A few high tech formulations are designed so that gum won't stick to your face after blowing a big bubble, and, when left in a blob, is easy to peel off of most surfaces. This is good news for the people who clean the undersides of tables in restaurants. However, in order to achieve this marvel of modern chemistry, the ingredients list on the package must necessarily very nearly match the ingredients list of Glad Bags.

What we're saying here is, modern chewing gum is basically vinyl. But there are lots of varieties. There's the bubble gum sandwiched between trading cards with the photos of millionaires in baseball and football uniforms. Kids throw the gum away and keep the cards, but it's okay because the gum and the cards taste the same and the cards might be valuable some day.

Gum is the kind of thing kids like to share, meaning that when one child anywhere has a piece of gum, every child within a 50-mile radius wants some. Many children believe in sharing and it particularly warms the hearts of moms and dads when they see one youngster cheerfully fish a wad of gum out of his or her mouth and pass it to their young lad who gleefully fingers it for awhile with hands that have just patted the rabid dog down the block, and then pops it into his own mouth. I suppose they could have Spot chew on it for awhile to further enhance the gum's social value.

Oh, there's bubble gum and snuggle gum and plain old sugarless gum, but whatever kind of gum is in play, it invariably falls out of the child's mouth. When it does, it bonds chemically and metaphysically with its polyester pals in carpet, clothes, sidewalks, dining room table tops, Aunt Martha's antique chaise lounge, car seats and, of course, the draperies.

"Honey, I know it was an accident, but mommy can't come to help you clean the toilet seat right now, I'm trying to get this gob of gum out of the carpet," mom said in her most outwardly calm voice. She grabs the portable phone from her belt and calls Mrs. Been There.

The phone rings and the caller's voice is panting, it speaks quickly. "Of course you were right. It's only been a week since his birthday and I'm going nuts trying to get the gum out."

"Did you try scissors," Mrs. Smug said from the other end of the line.

"Had to on the dog. Nothing like a black Lab with a bald spot on his haunch. Carpet's something else. I tried paint thinner...."

"Me too."

"Then carpet cleaner."

"Me too."

"Then some upholstery cleaner I found in the the trunk of the car. And then some stuff called Gunk that takes battery acid stains off the garage floor. I tried lacquer thinner, green soap, yellow soap, dish soap, Krazy Glue de-bonder, Liquid Wrench, Spot-not, ink eradicator, straight prayers and prayers with curses. Nothing worked. Maybe dynamite. Heloise says put the wad in the freezer or, if the thing the gum is sticking to is too big like, say, a sofa, put ice on it til it's hard and then scrape it off with a spoon, spray pre-wash on the back of the cloth and then launder. Nah. Can't get the carpet in the freezer. But then I found it. Clorox 2 with Cascade, like we talked about before, but with just a hint of lemon juice and hydrogen peroxide. The gum comes out along with the color, but it smells good when it's through reacting."

Distant shrieking comes over the line. "Omigod, I left him in the john... just a minute." Mere moments pass when the breathless one returns. "Gotta go. He's smearing gum on the toilet seat. Bye."

The So Sad Death of Miss Piggy The Piñata

It was a party, a blowout, a magnificent event in the early chronicles of this child's life. Why, then, did she dissolve in tears and why did I feel like the Grim Toy Reaper? It is, of course, because I could not foresee how the party's major entertainment could be misconstrued by the three year-old mind.

How can you go wrong with a pig party in Texas? We're a beef place and so we feel free to take pokes at all other edible animals from sheep to ducks to pigs. But my sweet little girl is in love with pigs. Everyone she loves is called "Piggy." And how we ever turned a little girl with blonde ringlets and big blue eyes into a pig for Halloween, I still can't fathom, but that's what she wanted to be.

So when it came time for her birthday, we made up a pig party.

I should point out that in this part of Texas (that part north of the Rio Grande and south of Oklahoma), we have a certain Mexican influence. At virtually every kid's party, there is a piñata, that papier maché effigy that hangs from the ceiling and gets beaten by kids with a stick until it yields candy. It made sense, at least it did to mom at the time, to have a pig piñata. And not just any pig, but Miss Piggy, the television star.

We should have seen problems coming when little Blondita found the piñata in a closet about a week before the party. It was love at first sight. She wanted it in her room. Then in her bed. She carried it all around the house. She had major conversations with it, shared tea with it and introduced it to all her other toys. They bonded. Of course, Miss Piggy was invited to the birthday party. What party could possibly be complete without the presence of a major new friend?

I think you can see this coming.

We did the games. We did the cake. We did the presents. Then it was time for the piñata. My daughter watched, mystified, as I hung Miss Piggy from the rafter. Curiosity turned to horror as the first blindfolded child swung at the precious porker with a baseball bat. The second swing hit home, sending a cardboard ham hock across the room. Not only did Blondita not want to take a turn, she desperately wanted to stop everyone else from playing as well. But one does not interrupt a process involving determined children with baseball bats in Texas. So the next kid took a swing and missed. The third kid whacked it right in the baby back ribs with a loud "thwock" and the toy yielded its treasure at the expense of Miss Piggy's major corpus. Most of the children scrambled madly for the candy and gum, but Curly had just witnessed the merciless bludgeoning apart of her newest friend and was traumatized out of her party mood.

There was no feeling like this one, where so much thought and care had been put into making an event that should have been a joyful childhood memory, and have it turn into an indelible child's nightmare. Both her mom and I felt seriously stupid at our lack of foresight and we were still beating each other up in the finest tradition of side-comment sniping when, a few days later, Blondita said, "You know that pig that got whammoed at my party?" We nodded at the recollection. "Well, Mrs. Grinstead says she was a bad pig anyway and she deserved to get whacked." Mrs. Grinstead is a frequent doll tea party guest.

"Oh, how so?" Dad managed to ask.

"She always hogged the conversation whenever we were together. Mrs. G. called her a real ham. She always made that snarking sound when she laughed. She smoked and was always picking on the other dolls for their lack of taste. We all thought it was pretty morbid when she said, 'I'll be gone someday and all you'll have left is my squeal.' So I guess it was a good idea to give her the center of attention at my party. It just goes to show, some toys were meant to be broken. Thanks for the party, Dad."

"Thank your mother, Pumpkin."

# Beyond the Why Game

Surely, at some point along your parenting path, you have encountered The "Why" Game. This is where your young offspring discovers the joy of being able to annoy you and make you feel guilty and stupid all at the same time. It goes something like this:

"Mommy, why is the sky blue?"

"That's the color of outer space as seen through the air we breathe."

"Why?"

"Because outer space isn't really black, it's an elegant tone of deep navy blue."

"Why?"

"Gosh, I guess you'd have to ask the Interior Designer of the Universe that question."

"Why?"

"Because I can't begin to know why space is blue instead of orange or purple or brown."

"Why?"

"Because it wasn't my decision, that's why."

And so on. It is annoying because the game has no end. It makes you feel guilty because you really do want an educated child, you feel it is your role, yet here you are in conflict, feeling annoyed at having to deal with what appears to be curiosity but which you recognize is just another attention-getting device designed to annoy you. It makes you feel stupid because eventually, no matter how well educated you are, your answers will lead to questions you cannot answer, at which time you assume you are a total failure as an information resource for your little sponge.

But all things evolve. After three years of pre-school, endless hours in front of Professor Television, exposure to stacks of books, the "why" game has actually turned to curiosity for some children. This is good news and bad news for parents. The good news is the game isn't as annoying because it tends to be information-based instead of irritation-based, and therefore does not end in screaming. The bad news is, answers require more information and you can look even more stupid if you don't have it. Here's a typical dialog:

"Mommy, how did that baby get into your tummy?"

"Well, mommy and daddy had a meeting and we decided to put it there."

"Could Daddy put the baby into his tummy?"

"No, dear, only moms are equipped to do that job."

"Well, how does the baby eat inside of there?"

"The baby has a tube from my body to his and he gets all his air, food and water through that tube while he's inside. It's called an umbilical cord."

"Does the baby need its biblical cord when it come out?"

"No, the baby eats and drinks and breathes just like you and me when it comes out."

"What happens to the biblical cord?"

"It dries up and falls off. When your cord fell off it left you a belly button."

"No way."

"Yes, way."

"Well, mommy? How come the sky is blue?"

Most parents can handle this level of dialog. But be prepared. It isn't long before the conversation delves into the photosynthesis of the turning leaves, the geopolitical maneuverings of world despots, anything in Scientific American, whale or bug anatomy, and the quantum physics of skateboard or bicycle dynamics. If you are expert at making complex science sound simple, then you are exempted from the "why" game. Congratulations. For the rest of us, here are some conversation stoppers that hopefully will extricate you from the "house of why" before the boiling point is reached:

Return a question with a question that cannot be answered by yes or no. When you get your answer, respond with "why?" For example:

"Mommy, why is the sky blue?"

"I'm not sure. Why do you think it's blue."

"Because it's supposed to be that way."

"Right."

Divert attention. For example: "Mommy, why is the sky blue?"

"Oh, look, dear. There's a pigeon squatting on our car."

Set up someone else for the "Why" game. For example: "Mommy, why is the sky blue?"

"That's the color of outer space as seen through the air we breathe."

"Why?"

"Gee, honey, you'll have to ask your father about that."

"Why?"

"Because he has ALL the answers. Oooh, look at that pigeon."

# Gimme That Educational Toy

Don't you love the realism dolls? In the seventies we had Baby Wet 'n Care which, after its caregiver poured special fluid into its little tulip mouth, dots on the baby's bottom turned red. The pretend mommy could then remove its soggy diaper and swab its plastic buns with the antidote to turn them fleshy pink again. Trouble was, too much fluid turned the rash dots too red and pink liquid would ooze through the diaper and drip onto the floor, something akin to, well, a hemorrhage. We did this when my daughter was three. She had nightmares for a week and never touched another doll for the rest of her life.

But now we have Rude Rudy, a good ole boy doll that passes air, noisily, from one end of his plastic body to the other, depending on where you poke him.

My question is, why do we diddle around with adding such subtle and frivolous bits of realism to our dolls? Why are toy makers so timid? Why can't we lay all of life's major crises right out there for every toddler to see and deal with? Dolls like these:

Baby Sick 'n Die

Hey, kids, get the thrill of actually losing a loved one. Squeeze baby's hand and feel the forehead heat up. Watch as real beads of sweat trickle down her cheeks. Then prepare to be amazed as the little heartbeat stops, the doll turns from pink to blue and the eyes freeze open. You can close the eyelids to make her look peaceful while at rest. Place her hands on her chest with realistically interlocking fingers. Then you and your friends will have tons of fun arranging the funeral. Coffin, hearse and headstone sold separately. Comes with software you can use to generate a legal death certificate. Send it to the Social Security Administration for benefits; they'll probably send you a check. When the funeral is over, you can do it all over again by flipping the reset switch in the baby's armpit. Suddenly, she comes back to life, giggling and cooing just like before, that is, until you squeeze the hand again and the fever cycle returns. It is programmable to show symptoms of three diseases. Batteries not included.

Baby Leprosy

Here's a doll that will keep your child fascinated for days. Take her out of the box and she looks like any other baby doll. But wait. Give her a bath and her skin begins to fester. In less than a day, she looks horrible. Within 24 hours, her nose falls off. Then her limbs shrivel and detach. Her hair falls out. Tip her over and she cries, "Mercy. Mercy." Available accessories include banishment caves, ragged clothing and spare limbs. Warning to parents: once the degradation process begins, it cannot be reversed. In fact, you might want to put it in quarantine for a long time.

Captain Contagious

Here's a doll your little one will want to take to school or the grocery store. Squeeze this adorable baby and watch people's faces as it retches up a loud, hacking cough and then sneezes, emitting a colored spray in which ever direction its little breath is aimed. You can always tell who will get the disease by whoever's clothes show color. The beautiful bisque-faced baby is dressed in a velvet sailor's suit and cap. Nobody will ever suspect he's contagious.

STD Barbie

If you thought Barbie and her friends were just symbols of stuck-up, spoiled teenagers, here's a Barbie that is one of the most educational toys of the season. STD Barbie is very popular in doll-land because she loves to party, mostly with Ken and his friends, and usually all together. Barbie's fun is not all a bed of roses, however, as she suddenly doesn't feel so well. You can program her to show signs of any of 14 sexually transmitted diseases from syphilis to Chlamydia or crabs, herpes, gonorrhea or even AIDS. What a lesson your little girl will learn as she watches STD Barbie writhe in pain and then lapse into a coma. Antidotes for diseases, hospital outfits and resuscitation equipment sold separately. Set includes $10.00 rebate coupon for Safe Sex Barbie.

Well, it'll be a rough choice next Christmas. Which realism doll shall I buy for my little girl? Gosh, maybe just a cuddly old bear.

# Breaking Away

The bike is too big. His legs are too small. But he's watching over my shoulder as I fit the crescent wrench snugly around the nut that holds the training wheels in place.

It is too soon. He is too young. I am not ready for this. But he has worn the rubber thin on the outrigger wheels and he has asserted his readiness for this rite of passage. "Dad, I'm ready. I know I am." We've been here before. I remember the panic -stricken face and the crashes. But maybe he's right this time.

There. Amputation complete. The boy is somewhat in awe that the machine no longer stands on its own. It requires attention. Guidance. Now it needs him. He hesitates and I can see a twinge of danger forming an infinitesimal crack in the four year-old's resolve.

"Are you sure you're ready for this, bud?" I ask the boy who, even in his helmet, is not yet as high as my belt.

"Yep," he replies.

He mounts the mighty bull. He's moving into his dorm at University. He's going off to war. He's driving away in the family car for the first time. He's mowing the lawn for his first customer. He's getting on the bus to camp for two weeks away from home.

He begins to pedal and I run alongside. The handlebars wobble. His balance is off. If only he can get stabilized for a minute and feel the control. There, he's got it... oops, caught him. Try it again. And again. Up and down the street we move, dad murmuring encouragement through gasps for breath, clinging to the back of the seat, the young jet fighter pilot unsure at the controls. Finally he yells, "Dad, I got it. Let go."

I know this will end badly. I can hear his mom yelling inside my head, "It's too soon. Save it for later. He's not big enough. My baby will be broken." Maybe so. But pain is good. How else is the kid going to learn? I give the seat one shove, hoping the momentum will help keep him upright for awhile. And he goes, pedaling as fast as he can, determined to master this thing. Five yards, ten yards, twenty. He's staying up and doing great. But now he should turn. It's the end of the street. "Turn!" I yell. "I can't" comes the reply weakly. I bolt for where I'm sure the scene of the accident will be and, through sheer force of will, catch him upright as he jumps the curb, having actually made nearly half a turn. Face flushed, panting, his eyes wide, my son said, "I did it. I did it. I want to do it again. Can I do it again?"

"Sure," I said, beaming at the thrill of the close call. "Just let me catch my breath. And let's work on the turns a bit." A half dozen U-turns later, he was back on the launch pad. "Dad running?" Check. "Kid pedaling like a sewing machine?" Check. "Dad pushing off?" Check. Liftoff. The little figure with the pumping legs recedes into the distance. He's off to the prom. Off to football. Off to school. Off to Helsinki to accept the Nobel Peace Prize. He nears the end of the street. He slows. Wobbles. Turns. Wobbles some more. Turns some more. Makes it around and races back, yelling, "I did it! I did it! I did it!" As he nears me, I reach for the bike, as he really hasn't mastered brakes yet. "Yes, son, you did it." Fine grades. Advanced degrees. Loving wife. Grandkids. And an excellent choice of nursing homes for your mother and me. "I'm proud of you, son. Should we put those training wheels back on now?"

"No way," he said, looking somewhat larger on the bike than he did 30 minutes ago. "I want to ride some more."

"Okay, young man. Whatever you say."

# All We Are Saying is Give Peas a Chance

Why should my kid like vegetables? I hated vegetables. Yet, just as our parents predicted, we have become the Ogres of Good Eating. How many Brussels sprouts have been poached to perfection only to find themselves rolling into the disposal? How many lumps of spinach have been camouflaged behind potato barriers only to join the parade of rejected veggies heading to the water treatment plant? That's a great image, isn't it? ... a nightly parade of vegetables joining with one another, tributary by tributary as they make their way to the local treatment plant, robust in their vitamin supremacy, congratulating themselves at having achieved this fate instead of the alternative which, by the way, would get them to the same place only about 12 hours later. Yet, it is all too common to hear this dialog at dinner:

"Please eat your carrots."

"Yes, Mommy." Ten minutes pass. "Can I be done?"

"You haven't eaten your carrots."

"How 'bout if I eat one?"

"Four."

"Two."

"Three."

"Deal. What's for dessert?"

How, we reason, can children grow up tall and clear-skinned, brilliant and polite if they don't eat their vegetables? It is worth every sacrifice and personal indignity to force children to do what's good for them because we don't want to feel guilty when they are teenagers and they aren't tall, they have pimples so bad you're afraid to hug them; they get D's in gym and they treat you like a foreign object. The last thing you want is to be one of those people who screams at your spouse: "I told you s/he should have eaten those vegetables!" to which you're sure your better half will reply with a deeply heartfelt and completely understanding, "Unh-huh."

So, for those moms and dads who are weary of the battle of the greens, we offer these helpful suggestions:

1. The next time you serve peas, place one pea on the plate. Eating this is an achievable goal which could lead, sometime in the next decade, to your putting two peas on the plate and having them consumed.

2. Hide spinach in the potatoes. In fact, blend it in and cover the whole mass in cheese. It has been scientifically proven that the sight of cheese disarms the anti-vegetable reaction in a child's brain.

3. Do not serve veggies with the main course. Hold them for dessert. Treat them as a privilege, a reward, a special treat and tell the kiddies can't have vegetables unless they eat all their spaghetti and ice cream.

4. Put kohlrabi in a vase in the middle of the table and then dare anyone to eat it. Whoever volunteers gets a substantial prize like a trip to Vegas. If you want to make this contest interesting, offer to make it a double-dare where you will take the first bite. Then go to Vegas.

5. Buck the old unwritten law, "Don't play with your food." Instead encourage your children to build things with their vegetables on the condition that they can destroy the structure, the cartoon charter or the design only with their fork and only by eating the evidence. Keep a camera handy; you'll want to post the bean faces, spinach rockets and sauerkraut montages on the fridge door.

6. Serve a well-balance meal where only the vegetables are cooked. This tends to put the meal into perspective and stimulate meaningful dialog, like "Mo-o-o-m, when are we really gonna EAT?"

7. Make each child read "No Carrots for Harry" ten times.

8. Promise to substitute vitamin pills for vegetables in return for good grades.

9. Turn the kids loose on the neighborhood to forage for themselves at mealtime. This is especially practical if you live near restaurants with big dumpsters in the back. If your kids are good foragers, you will save a lot on groceries. If they are not good foragers, you might see a fresh attitude at mealtime.

10. Offer a reward to the child who can "take a pea" the most times during dinner. They'll respond to the crude humor and just may choose to compete.

My all-time favorite method which hasn't worked out yet but is fun to do is get out the old guitar, put on those old patched bell-bottom jeans, scrub off the makeup and sing a couple of verses of "All we are saying is Give Peas a Chance." Because one way or another, the kids have got to eat those veggies.

# The Great Juice Dilemma

"Daddy," my young daughter asked out of the blue during breakfast. "Why is orange juice called orange juice? It looks kind of yellow to me."

This is one of those cosmic questions where there really isn't any good answer so, reluctantly we fall back on the truth. "Well, honey, I guess it's because the juice comes from an orange."

"Okay, but the juice is yellow."

"Yes, I see," I replied thoughtfully. "Then maybe we should call the fruit a Yellow. Fresh Florida Yellow Juice just doesn't have the same ring to it, do you think?"

"No, I guess not," the little girl said. "But it's too hard. There should be a rule about whether the juice is named after its color or the name of the fruit it came from. Who decides these things anyway?"

I shrugged an agreeable, "I don't know," kissed the quizzical face goodbye and bolted for the morning train.

Who does decide these things, I pondered on the way to work. Grape juice is purple, but we name it after the fruit it came from. White grape juice is technically light yellow and white grapes are a kind of pinky, translucent, greenish opaque. Are the people who grow these things too lazy to call them "opaques?"

What is that sitting next to my morning donut but a nice steaming cup of brown juice? Oh, we could call it coffee thinking of the brown bean that yields the distilled fluid, but then coffee color is really more like café au lait which is brown juice with just a bit of white juice in it.

Now here's a dilemma. Milk is named after neither its source nor its color. How now, brown milk doesn't sit well. Milky white is familiar, but now we're complicating things with just another type of white juice. After a delightful lunch, I am pone to ask, "Waiter, may I have a cup of brown juice with just a bit of white juice in it?"

"Certainly," he replies. "Will there be anything else, Sir?"

"Yes," I say because the brown juice is so strong. "I need a glass of clear juice with ice."

"Very good, Sir."

There are any number of liquids that could appear on my table as clear juice. White vinegar for my salad is actually clear sour apple juice. But what of the clear juice that comes frozen in cubes, keeping other clear liquids cold? We don't call that clear juice anymore because it is a different form. We could call it earth juice or snow juice or river juice or lake juice or straight-out-of-the-pipe juice. But technically, it's not a juice at all. Maybe it would be a juice if it was squeezed from something, like the melt from mittens sitting on the radiator after an afternoon's work making snowmen. Mitten juice. Yum. This is confusing.

Lime juice is greenish, lemon juice s yellowish, tomato juice is tomato-reddish. Papaya juice is, well, papaya colored. Apple juice resembles specimens sent to the lab. That settles it. From hereafter, I decree that all juices shall be named after their source, no matter what. If for no other reason than to make it easier for my kid to fathom why it's okay for her orange juice to be yellow.

"Excuse me, Sir," the waiter said. "Would you like some more coffee?"

"Yes," I said. "Decaf. And with just a bit of cow if you please."

# The Day the Fish Died

Pets are certainly cute. Educational. Companionable. Interesting. They add to the cultural depth of the family unit. That is, until they die.

"Oh, Mavis," the frantic friend sobbed over the phone. "What'm I gonna do? Ariel's goldfish, Finlandia, died this morning and I've got until 3:30 this afternoon to think of something. If that girl gets home from school and finds Finny floating belly-up, she'll have a pre-teen PMS hissy-fit. She loves that fish."

"Take it easy, Brenda, it's only a fish."

"ONLY A FISH!" she blurted. "We've nurtured that little copper-bodied creature for three years. I changed its water. I balanced its pH. We bought it snails for company. Ferns for color. A little treasure chest for variety. Ariel bought it Christmas gifts. Surely you've seen the cute little ceramic skeleton lying on the filter."

"But Brenda, it's still only a fish."

"There you go again! It was always there. It went on vacation when we went on vacation. My baby fed it Cheerios. When the fins started to rot we bought it medicine. It was like a member of the family... my husband's side... but still, like one of our children. What're we gonna do?"

Brenda, listen to me," the friend counseled. "Get a grip. Maybe there's a lesson here. Death is part of life. All good things come to an end. The fish lives on in our memories forever. You know what I mean. Find a fancy little box. Wrap the corpse in tin foil. Have a solemn ceremony in the back yard and bury the little bugger with dignity. You'll see. After a brief time of mourning, the memory will fade and the lessons will live on."

"Hey, hey," the voice said, clearly not having been affected by any of the previous conversation. "Maybe I can go to the pet shop and replace the thing. Finlandia Junior. Whaddaya say?"

"Brenda, I don't think..."

"Oh, hey, gotta go. The milkman's here for his butter money if you know what I mean. Bye."

The next day, precisely at 8:45 a.m., the telephone rang at Brenda's house. It was Mavis. "So what HAPPENED?" she said without so much as a hi, howarya. "Have I reached hissy-fit heaven?"

"Nah, you won't believe it," the mom said jovially. "Ariel got home precisely at 3:32 looking for cookies and milk. I sat down with her over snacks at the breakfast table and told her as calmly as I could, and I did not cry, that something terrible had happened. She stopped chewing and got that worried wrinkle between her eyebrows that boldly stated tell me more. I'm sorry dear, I said, Finlandia died.

"She was quietly chewing. There were no tears. No tantrums. She turned to stare out the window for a few seconds but then turned back, saying these words solemnly to me:

'Mom, that's okay. I know how much you liked that fish. But I need a science project. Can we boil it so I can take the skeleton to school? Please? Can I do it today? I get extra credit if I turn it in this week. Can I see the body? Please?'"

"Brenda, no!"

"Mavis, YES. I'm off the hook! Finlandia will live as an instructional aid for all eternity."

"So what if the dog dies?"

"I guess I'll have to get a bigger pot."

# A Kitchen for Christmas

It was strictly against my better judgment to buy my son a toy kitchen. After all, I reasoned, must we work so hard to tear down the stereotype boy and girl things? What will be next? Teaching little girls to wrestle? Giving little boys makeup kits? No, I said emphatically, not my son.

But I hadn't figured on Grandma.

The big box showed up just before Christmas, a few days before Grandma herself appeared. I was asked to hide the thing in the garage so that Junior wouldn't see it before the big day. Did I fight? Did I protest? Did I make my feelings known? What am I, crazy? I'm only the son -in-law and husband, and I dare not rustle the fragile veil that is the spirit of the season. I bit my tongue, swallowed my pride, kept my mouth shut except for a few scotches on the rocks and waited for Christmas Eve.

It is the custom in our family to spend the night before Christmas traditionally, that is, singing a few songs, reading The Poem and then bolting the children to their beds. Then, my older daughter and I turn the family room into a makeshift machine shop for the express purpose of assembling toys. Fortunately, this year, we were joined by Grandpa who is a mechanical engineer.

While I muscled the Enormous Box in from the garage, the two other generations laid out the power tools, vise grips, files, pry-bars, glue guns, socket sets, safety goggles, torches, compressors and clamps. Grandpa suggested we could probably use a lift to work on the underside of the device, but since there wasn't a hydraulic cylinder built into the family room floor, we made two stacks of wrapped presents which would hold the project off the ground and allow access to the undercarriage.

We unpacked the Enormous Box, took inventory of all parts, reviewed the blueprints in all views with contractor instructions and formulated a plan of attack. Then the three of us, each with tools in both hands, went to work. It was the anticipated look on my son's face, the look of wonder and joy and the potential wrath of Grandma and her daughter if we didn't complete the job that drove the dad, the daughter and the consulting engineer to press on with the construction. "Sure could use a sky crane," Grandpa muttered.

Only a few hours later, early Christmas morning, after minor design modifications, two trips to the drill press and with a wisp of smoke lingering from the blowtorch, we stepped back to admire our work. The kitchen was complete.

It was a handsome affair, complete with toy dish sprayer, hooks for towels, a fold- down utility shelf, phone, a (non-working) oven and a fridge. The $9.95 accessory pack included a plastic cheeseburger with plastic pickle and plastic lettuce, some plastic scrambled eggs, plastic sausage and a molded lump of plastic French fries. We were ready for the presentation at dawn.

At the first thump of bare feet on the stairway, we all struggled into bathrobes to see the look on the boy's face when he opened the family room door. His reaction was, well, okay. The big yellow kitchen was the first thing he saw and he ran over to it. He opened all the doors and drawers, dumped the accessory pack and then turned from it to attack his other presents. What more could we expect on this, the mother of all mornings?

Was it worth it? Well, after just one bowl of tennis ball soup made from scratch and seasoned to perfection with a certain savoir faire by a young chef in a new kitchen, you know it was. He hangs his pots after he's through and only keeps enough toys in the refrigerator to last through the week. He keeps Raggedy Ann in the oven, chalk in the toaster and Weebles in the disposal. He offers tea and toast to his friends. They offer to do the dishes. And I smile because, after all, who says the kitchen is a woman's domain? MY son can out-cook any female toddler any day of the week.

# The Tooth Fairy

One night at bedtime, right after the third Curious George book, my little girl asked out of the blue, "Dad, how does the tooth fairy get into my room?"

What an odd question. Not where does the tooth fairy come from or where does she get the money she leaves behind, but how does she get into the room.

The tooth fairy is a delicate subject. It's one of those, "Well, I really don't want to tell my child lies, but I do want to perpetuate the myth because it's kind of cute" parenting dilemmas. At the same time, we don't want to paint the tooth fairy as some kind of glorified ghost who should be booked for breaking-and-entering, so I said, "Well, dear, I guess it's magic."

"What kind of magic?" she said innocently.

"The same kind of magic Santa uses to get down millions of chimneys on Christmas Eve."

"But she has wings."

"Yes, I suppose tooth fairies do have wings."

"Can she fly?"

Are the answers to these questions provided in the part of dad school I slept through? Surely there are responses with cosmic correctness. But now I am stuck in a conversation progression with no idea where it will lead. "If she has wings, she probably can fly... unless, of course this fairy person is something like an auk or an ostrich."

"Does she fly into the room?"

"No, dear, as I recall from Pinocchio, she kind of shimmers in on starlight waving magical dust all around and speaking in sweet, loving tones to you through your dreams."

"THAT was the tooth fairy?" she asks, her brows knitted into a quizzical line of doubt.

"Close enough. They all belong to the same union, you know. Cinderella's fairy godmother, Dorothy's good witch of the east, the Easter Bunny, Mrs. Santa Claus... they share magic tricks and vital information on good boys and girls."

"So where does the tooth fairy get the money to leave behind when she steals my teeth," the little one says, getting more to the point.

I think mightily for a few minutes. "Well, clearly, if she's picking up teeth and leaving money, she must do something with the teeth, something that gets her more money than she leaves because surely there are operating expenses with all the travel... let's see, what could that be? I know. In fairyland, they plant the teeth to grow more fairies. The fairy tooth broker buys the teeth for a pittance and sells them to a fairy tooth grower who sells the sprouted sprites back to the broker who re-sells them at substantial markup to fairy godmothers who raise them and train them and put them to work in space polishing stars. No?

"Well, maybe she sells the teeth to the Chinese who grind them up as an aphrodisiac."

"What's an African Deejak?"

"Nothing for you to worry about. Isn't it time to turn out the light?"

"Well, Dad, if the tooth fairy takes them away, how come the teeth end up in mom's little box?"

"What little box?"

"Mom showed me a bunch of baby teeth she has in a little box."

"Gosh, honey, you've got me there."

"Want to know what I think?"

"I'm all ears."

"I think mom buys the teeth from the tooth fairy and that's how she gets the money to leave for the children."

Now that's worth a high five and a Hail Mary, but I calmly say in my authoritative Dad way, "Well, dear daughter, I believe you've solved the mystery. Now can I tuck you in for the night?"

"Sure," she said, giving me a large hug and smiling, very proud of herself. "But dad?"

"Yes."

"How fast can a tooth fairy fly?"

"I'll clock one the next time I see her," I said. "Good night, dear."

"Night, dad."

# In the Night

Suddenly, you are awake, the room lit only by the distant glow of a streetlight and the digital alarm that says 2:32. From down the hall, you hear the reason you are awake calling "Mommy" in a faint voice. Surely it wasn't the volume of the cry that awakened you; it was the call of the child, the genetic alarm, the karmic connection between mother and infant son that works better than any electronic child monitor. It is the helpless child's call button where you knew instantly you were needed.

You peek into the room to see him moving restlessly in his bed, driven by unknown dreams, but through the various grunts and cries, he utters that word again. "Mommy." It is only a dream, you realize and there is no emergency, no sickness, no practical reason for alarm. If you were dad, you would pad back to the cocoon of your own still-warm bed knowing you had done your duty and there was no more to do.

But you are not dad and you choose instead to savor this moment. You pick up the child tangled in his quilt and go to the old padded rocker where the two of you spent so many hours in his early months of life. His head still fits neatly into the hollow of your shoulder, his body is still small enough to cradle in your arms. You softly sing that song you have sung so many times on so many other nights in this chair as you rock silently. His body is totally relaxed now, his breathing rhythmically calm. If you close your eyes, you can resurrect that odd mixture of soap and mother's milk and infant skin, the smell of him as a baby, and it makes you smile.

And though his dreams have long gone, yours have just begun. The silence of the night and the sighs of a sleeping child make a magic elixir that leads a mother's imagination down the corridor of infinite doors opening to the future. How, you marvel, can this small being grow up to be a fireman, a doctor, a ball player, a husband or father? What decisions will he have to make and how will he make them? How many bones will he break? How many hearts will he break? How many crises will he overcome? How many waking hours will include both laughter and tears? It is, you think, the greatest novel ever written, where each day is a new chapter, the reader in suspense all along the way with surprise twists and a never ending supply of new characters, and the book never really ends.

Even in the dark, your eyes can make out the stuffed animals on shelves, the books in stacks and on the floor, the toys and important treasures stashed here and there. You realize suddenly how temporary it all is, that you don't own your children; you merely borrow them. They are with you for a fraction of their life, but in that time, you get to teach them, guide them and give them the tools they'll use with their own children.

But the big picture is too big right now. At this moment, it is enough to be rocking this young boy in the dark while humming the lullaby you learned as a child. "If I just do this," you say, "tomorrow will take care of itself."

###

# About the Author

Lee B. Mulder is a writer, author and speaker. Over a career of 40 years, he has been a newspaper journalist, magazine writer, freelance writer, advertising and publicity copywriter, marketing consultant and newspaper columnist for both consumer and trade industry publications. He has three children and two grandchildren and lives near a strong WiFi connection.

# Other Works By This Author

Please visit your favorite ebook retailer to discover other books by Lee B. Mulder

They Call Me Mzee: One Man's Safari in to Brightest Africa

The Missionary: A Novel

