Shotgun Daddy

The Night Shift (Or, How My Children Realized that They Didn't Really Have to Sleep Through the Night)

About ten weeks ago, when our dear Kate was just a few ticks older than three months, she started sleeping through the night. We'd usually put her down around six thirty or seven, and then she'd wake up for a snack sometime around midnight before settling in for the rest of the night. So technically speaking she was only sleeping through half the night, but since we were never asleep before midnight, she was at least sleeping through our night.

After a few nights of this, she skipped the midnight feeding a couple of times, and we thought we home free. Could we really be so lucky? Was it really this easy?

Obviously not. As I said, this all happened about ten weeks ago, and I think she's slept through only two or three times since then. The worst news, though, is that Alison and Henry -- perhaps inspired by their younger sister -- have jumped on the bandwagon. Here's a rough account of one of our recent nights:

12:00 AM -- After composing yet another witty post for this site, I climb into my warm bed, looking forward to peaceful night of sleep.

12:30 AM -- Kate wakes me up. I can't really say that she's crying, because she doesn't really cry. It's more like the growling of a mountain lion, but not deep and scary like a mountain lion, so I suppose it's more accurate to say that she sounds like a baby mountain lion. I blink my eyes open and lie in bed for a few minutes hoping that the cougar down the hall will go back to sleep, even though I know that she won't. So I get up to make the bottle that I had refused to make before going to bed -- that just would've been admitting defeat.

12:33 AM -- As I'm walking down the hall with the fresh bottle, Henry calls to me. If Kate is a baby mountain lion, Henry is a squealing pig. I tell him that I'll come check on him as soon as I finish feeding his sister. "Okay, Daddy," he says.

12:35 AM -- "DADDY! DADDY!" It's Henry, and he's squealing at the top of his little piggy lungs. Sitting where I am, down the hall with Kate in my lap, I have no choice but to yell back that I'll be there soon. I can't imagine how it is that no one else is waking up...

12:40 AM -- Kate is back in her crib, slowly settling back to sleep, and I stop in to check on Henry. He's also asleep. Allah be praised.

12:41 AM -- I'm asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.

2:00 AM -- "DADDY! DADDY! DADDY!" Henry is awake. Hoping to settle him down before he wakes anyone else, I jump out of bed and into his room as quickly as I can. I start rubbing his back to calm him down, and something is terribly, terribly wrong. His pajamas are wet, and so are the sheets. Beautiful. I strip his bed and replace the sheets, then do the same with his pajamas and underwear, making a mental note to give him a bath in the morning. I kiss him goodnight, and I'm pretty sure that he's asleep before I can even leave the room. The next day I'd come across a rather interesting list of famous bedwetters: Marth Stewart, Brittney Spears, Weird Al Yankovic, Bill Gates, Dennis Rodman, Sally Struthers, and George W. Bush. Since they all overcame their problems, I don't worry about Henry.

2:15 AM -- I'm asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.

3:30 AM -- The baby mountain lion is on again, screaming for attention. I stumble into her room and give her the second half of her bottle. This appeases her, and goes back to sleep fairly quickly.

3:31 AM -- I'm asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.

4:45 AM -- It's Alison's turn. She kisses my cheek to wake me up and announces that she can't sleep. She explains something about monsters in her room and asks if she can climb into bed with us. Too tired to slay the monsters or even answer in audible English, I simply throw back the covers, letting her climb in.

4:46 AM -- I'm not sure if I was ever really awake, but I'm sleeping now.

6:00 AM -- My alarm clock goes off. Paraphrasing the genius of George Costanza, the thought of a nap later that day is the only thing that gets me out of bed.

* Up above I gave you a list of several famous bedwetters. I have no reason to believe that anyone on that list has ever wet the bed, but wasn't it fun thinking that they had?

We are not alone...

Without question, there is no aspect of parenthood -- at least in the early years -- that offers more humor (and desparation) than potty training and all that comes along with it. I've written about it more than a few times (here, here, here, and here) and spent hours upon hours hoping for the end of the storm.

Thankfully, I'm not alone. Over at one of my most frequent destinations, DaddyDaze, expert writer and videographer Dave is having some of the same issues. Check out his hilarious account of a recent trip to a public restroom. Good stuff there.

Number eleven on your scorecard, #1 in my heart

It's been quite a while since my post on Alison's first basket, so I should I probably give an update on the season's progress.

We've played three games so far, and the learning curve has been steep. Before our first game, I don't think any of the girls had any idea of what to expect. Up until that point their idea of basketball was probably shaped entirely by what we had done in practice -- lots of dribbling, passing, shooting, and running. They had all the pieces, but during that first game I was asking them to put the puzzle together without ever having seen the picture on the box.

The results were predictable. Picture five little deer stuck smack in the middle of the headlights and you've pretty much got it. Even the simplest things become complicated, things as simple as inbounding the ball. I'd give the ball to one of my girls, position her out of bounds, and ask her to pass the ball to one of her teammates. But which one? On our first possession of the game, all five girls walked up the court shoulder to shoulder, with the center girl dribbling the ball. One of the moms in the stands said to Leslie, "It's just like Westside Story!" Without the switchblades, I imagine.

We played boys teams in our second and third games (there aren't too many five-year-old girls whose parents push them into basketball this early), and no matter what you might've been taught during those women's lib days of the seventies, boys really are more aggressive than girls, and our girls didn't know what hit 'em.

Possession after possession, one of the mean boys (this is how my girls described them) would grab the ball out of our hands and race in the other direction before we could even react. (Brief sidebar: I have serious issues with this. To my way of thinking, it makes a lot more sense to instruct five-year-olds on basic fundamentals rather than teaching them to run and grab the ball. Defense starts from the ground up; it's unfortunate that these coaches aren't patient enough to realize that. But I digress...)

Anyway, we're getting close to the point of this post. There was a watershed moment midway through the second game. The ball was passed to Alison, and one of the mean boys rushed out to grab the ball and run away.

But Alison said no.

Instead of standing by and letting the mean boy take the ball -- take her ball -- Alison wrapped her long arms around the ball and ripped it away from the boy, making my heart swell with pride and earning the biggest cheer of the day from the sidelines.

Looking at my daughter in that moment, with her eyebrows angled in equal parts defiance and disgust as she held dearly to what was rightfully hers, I temporarily forgot my dual role of coach-slash-referee. "That's my GIRL!" I yelled as she stood her ground.

When she dove to the floor for a loose ball two possessions later, I suddenly realized why she was playing basketball, and it had nothing to do with me. In almost every context, Alison has been painfully shy. She is that girl who hangs onto your hip for the first hour of every birthday party she attends. She's the one who answers direct questions in a voice just a step above a whisper. And as she raced around the court, fearlessly battling boys for rebounds, I almost didn't recognize her.

In just a few short weeks she had gained the confidence to stand up for herself and fight for what was hers while working with four other teammates. Obviously, this was about more than just basketball. When Leslie and I swooped down on her after the game and told her how proud we were of her, her eyes danced. When other parents came over and complimented her on her aggressive play, we all stood a little taller.

Where else can you create an experience like this? Without sports, I'm not sure you can.

I've Got a Secret

The story begins on Sunday evening after a long weekend with far too many miles spent on far too many L.A. freeways. After we had finally reclaimed the house by putting all three children in bed, Leslie collapsed beside me on the couch and wearily announced that if I only got her one Christmas gift this year she wanted it to be a new pair of pajamas. I nodded wisely while silently repeating my new mantra: "New-pajamas-new-pajamas-new-pajamas..."

After thinking for a moment, she got greedy and said she'd need a pair of slippers as well.

"Slippersandpajamas, slippersandpajamas, slippersandpajamas..."

The truth is, I was a bit disappointed. I had noticed the sad state of her favorite pajamas, and I had already been thinking about taking a secret trip to the mall to pick her up a new pair. I would've been a hero... Now I'd just be the guy who remembered what his wife had requested. (On some rubrics, though, that's just as good as a hero.)

And so when Leslie left for the gym this evening, I immediately packed up the kids and took off for the Cerritos Mall. A trip like this (one parent, three children, public bathrooms, extreme evening fussiness) is usually somewhat of an adventure, but I'd be seriously tempting fate on this day. Why? My destination was Victoria's Secret.

If you ever feel like your life is getting a bit too predictable or mundane, I strongly recommend that you grab the kids and take them on a field trip to your local lingerie store. If your trip is anything like ours, you'll have nothing but fun.

First, we weren't even able to think about shopping until we had slogged through a long and drawn-out argument between Alison and Henry over which of the two of them would be pushing Kate's stroller. For some unknown reason the job of pushing the baby's stroller has taken on mythic status, rivalling Phaethon's desire to drive the sun across the sky. And just like Phaethon, both Alison and Henry refuse to take "no" for an answer.

So as they yelled and spit and cried in the parking lot while cars sped by only inches from their flailing arms, I had no choice but to (gasp!) push the stroller myself! Needless to say, this did NOT go over well. During the twenty-yard walk from the car to the mall entrance, Alison reminded me that Mama had promised her that SHE could push the stroller the next time. She then informed me (four times) that she planned on TELLING Mama that I hadn't let her. Imagine my fear.

All of this, however, was just an appetizer for what awaited within the friendly confines of Victoria's Secret. As soon as we entered the store, Alison and Henry lost interest in the stroller. What drew their attention? Smack in the middle of the doorway stood a mannequin dressed in some terribly skimpy black lingerie. They were both pulled to it like magnets.

"Look, Daddy!" said Alison as she pointed at AND THEN GENTLY STROKED the front of the panties.
"Very nice, Alison... Hey, I think I see the pajamas back there..."
"DADDY!!!!" It was Henry, and he was incredibly interested in the mannequin. The front of the panties were nice, but when he got around to the back he had quite a surprize. You guessed it -- g-string.

"Oh, Daddy!" Henry's grubby little hand was wrapped around the mannequin's g-string and he was gently pulling. As he pulled, the mannequin started to tilt ever so slighltly, and when her right leg began to lift up in the air and slowly wave back and forth, there was a short moment when time froze and she suddenly bore a striking resemblance to Uma Thurman when she was dancing with John Travolta in Jack Rabbit Slim's twist contest in Pulp Fiction.

Thankfully I was able to disengage Henry before he stumbled into an early puberty, but there was another problem waiting at the next display table. Amidst stacks of panties, thongs, and even more g-strings, there was a small stuffed animal, a black bear with a three-word slogan spelled out in rhine stones across its chest:

SEXY
LITTLE
BEAR

Now it was Alison's turn.

"Daddy, what does this say?"
"Uhhhh, it says 'Little Bear.'"
"No, Daddy, what does THIS word say?" She was pointing at the word "SEXY." Alison is in the early stages of reading, which means that she knows the sounds of all the letters and has begun to build a library of sight words that she delights in pointing out.

Last I checked, "sexy" was not on her list, but there she was anyway, pointing out her newest site word.

"Daddy, this is the word I'm talking abouut. What does this say?"
"Hey, I think I see the pajamas back there..." Crisis averted.

Knowing that I had a limited amount of time before Henry would realize that he could actually undress the mannequins, I quickly chose a set of pajamas and matching slippers, and we headed for the cash register.

We had flirted with disaster the entire time, but when we got home and gave Leslie her surprize, all was almost forgotten. She loved both the pajamas and the slippers. As for the rest of us, Alison was starting to read a little too well, and Henry was showing signs of a mild but forgivable fetish, but at least my Christmas shopping was done.

Quote of the Week #3

"I don't want any naked boys hugging me!"

Alison uncorked this gem the other night as were getting ready for bathtime. Henry's clothes were already off, and he was apparently feeling a little frisky, so he decided to start passing out hugs. Poor defenseless Kate had no choice in the matter as Henry smothered her in her baby seat, but Alison drew the line with authority.

My response to her statement? Please hold that thought for the next twenty years.

Sweatin' to the Oldies

It happened today for the first time. The whole family was packed into the Oddy on the way to Alison's basketball practice, and I started punching the stereo pre-sets looking for something interesting to listen to. I skipped past lots of commercials before finally settling on our local adult contemporary station, Star 98.7 -- isn't there a Star in every town?

Anyway, as is usually the case, Star let me down quickly. It only took a while before an unacceptable song popped up (I now know that it was Kelly Clarkson singing "Since U Been Gone"), and I reflexively clicked over to another station. And then it happened.

From deep in the back seat I heard a tiny voice calling to me over the music. It was Alison.

"Daddy, can you put that song back on?"

I looked dubiously into the rearview mirror and asked, "Did you like that song?"

"Yes, Daddy. Can you put it back on?"

Though I thought about citing the internationally agreed upon tenet that states that the driver ALWAYS gets to choose the station, I gave in instantly. It was the first of what will likely be twenty years of disputes over what music to play in the car, and I found myself conflicted. On the one hand, my daughter was expressing her musical preference, which was obviously a good thing, but on the other hand she had chosen Kelly Clarkson, which was, well, Kelly Clarkson.

I've always made a conscious effort to expose our kids to what I feel to be good quality music. The Wiggles, for instance, have never been played in our car. Instead they've gotten massive doses of people like the Shins and Jack Johnson whenever we're driving, in addition to steady helpings from the local jazz station and Indie 103.1, the coolest station in town.

But apparently it's done no good. Alison and I were supposed to be two peas in an iPod, but somewhere my plans went awry. Our dear Alison seems ready to dance down the path of least resistance, the one with trail markers bearing names like "Barry Manilow" and "Debbie Gibson" and "Britney Spears." Is it too late for her?

Perhaps not. Maybe there's still time for her to be the coolest kid in her class, the one who admits she still likes Green Day but recently is a bit more into Death Cab for Cutie. The one who knows that Latin rock means Maná, not Ricky Martin.

The one who lets her dad choose the station in the car.

Not likely. But would it really be such a bad thing? Aren't parents supposed to shake their heads ruefully at the music they here coming from behind their children's bedroom doors? And aren't children supposed to be embarrassed by the oldies playing on their parents' car radios? Maybe it'll be no different for us.

I guess I just didn't think it would be happening at age five.

R&R is neither Restful nor Relaxing. Discuss.

It all started innocently enough last Friday afternoon. We were having our house fumigated for termites, so it seemed like a perfect time to head out for a quick weekend getaway. We packed up all our food and stashed in our neighbors' garage, packed up the kids and stashed them in the Oddy, and we were off to San Luis Obispo for three days and two nights of rest and relaxation. It all seemed so perfect...

Brimming with optimism and excitement as we backed out of the driveway, we put on our sunglasses and talked about how much fun we'd have. Leslie even suggested a December trip to New Mexico. "How far would that be?" she asked. The sky was the limit. Or at least the sky above Albuquerque.

And so how did the weekend turnout? Here's a look, by the numbers.

1
The number of CDs we listened to during the drive. Remember back in the old days when road tripping meant grabbing an armload of CDs on your way out the door and cranking them nonstop as if they were fuel for your soul? No longer. We let the kids watch Shrek 2 and Charlotte's Web. Not quite as cool as the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but at least it keeps them quiet.

10
The average MPH during the first hour of our trip. Not sure if you've heard, but LA traffic kinda sucks.

25
The number of miles into the 200-mile trip when we first heard that timeless question: "Are we there yet?" Please explain the logic of this question. If you're driving in the middle of the freeway, how can you possibly be there yet? From now on I think I'll answer this question like this: "Why, yes, Alison. We are there. I took a day off work; we packed up half of our belongings; we forced you and your brother to sit on the toilet even though you both swore that you didn't have to go the bathroom; we notified both sets of neighbors of our plans; we stopped the mail, the paper, and the milk delivery; and we paid fifty bucks to fill up the tank just so we could come to this exact place: the third lane of the 405 freeway, about a mile and a half north of the Washington exit. Isn't this beautiful?" But perhaps my sarcasm wouldn't be appreciated.

4
The number of tantrums during our pitstop dinner at the Red Robin in Santa Barbara. Baby Kate was the only one who behaved. The rest of us were feeling a bit fussy. I had been looking forward to the meal, but since I had to inhale my burger through a straw in order to finish before Henry's head exploded, it left a bit to be desired.

1
The number of people in the restaurant who changed seats because of our party. This was a guy who was sitting in the booth with his back to Henry and me. A few minutes after he sat down he got up and switched over to the other side. Leslie wondered if maybe we should apologize, but I find things like that more amusing than anything else. If he was bothered that Hurricane Henry blew a few raindrops onto his softball game, he should try living in the eye of the storm for a while.

2
The number of beds in our two room suite. Leslie and Alison in the bedroom, Henry and I in the front room, Kate in a portable crib. As crazy as Henry is when he's awake, he sleeps like a stone. Which brings us to...

20
My total hours of sleep for our two nights in San Luis Obispo. Seriously. My plan was to put out the lights, wait until Henry fell asleep, and then catch up on some reading, but I was never able to stay awake. I slept ten hours each night -- well, not ten consecutive hours. Kate woke up a couple times each night, and Henry wet the bed for the first time in about three months, but it was still the most sleep I've gotten in a long, long time.

3
On a scale of one to ten, where my dear wife would rank me on a coolness scale. SLO is a typical college town, and the downtown area was crawling with students on Saturday evening. We chose a pizza place for dinner, and for much of our meal it looked like a casting call for MTV's "The Real World." These people were young, beautiful, and -- above all else -- tragically hip. At point, though, it was if someone changed the channel on us. A table in front of us opened up and three incredibly dorky girls sat down. One had braces and a goofy pony tail on the side of her head, another hadn't combed her hair in a week and wore a sweatshirt that said "GYNAMSTICS" across the chest. Leslie (part of the in crowd in high school and beyond) took a moment to sharpen her knives, then turned to me and said, "Are you feeling a little more at home now?" Ouch.

755
The approximate number of times Henry said the word "no" during our trip. Actually, the word he says is "NONONONONONONO!!!" I'm not sure how it started, but whenever Henry's upset about something or not getting his way, all he'll say is "NO! NO! NO!" Pain in the ass.

2
The number of times during Sunday's lunch that Alison and Henry spilled their drinks. At this point the "vacation" was getting quite old, and tantrums, objections, and outright refusals were the order of the day. These spills seemed emblematic of the entire weekend. And of course, Alison's spill landed in Leslie's lap, and Henry's landed on my leg. A few minutes later Kate decided to join the fun and spit up on my shirt.

0
The number of times that Henry took a crap during the weekend. We had forgotten his toilet seat and he was too freaked out to perform on a normal toilet, even with me holding him. So no crap. You try enjoying a weekend with a bombshell like that hanging over your head.

And finally...

0
The number of words I received in response when I asked Leslie on the way home, "So how's that trip to New Mexico look right about now?"