Kerry and I were a little nervous to unleash Dominic on Riley. Dom is firmly entrenched in his “My Phase,” and while he’s starting to understand the concept of sharing, he still has some work to do before being released into the general population.

Just to be clear, we were nervous for Dominic, not Riley. Riley is six months older, two feet taller, and able to execute a technically-sound, UFC-style rear naked choke (good parenting, Dwayne). I put my money on Dom stealing a toy, being violently taken to the ground, and then tapping out within 37 seconds of Riley entering our front door. I could not have been more wrong.

At the Rainforest, Riley and Dom pointed out animals together and engaged in thoughtful dialogue like:

Riley: Dat monkey!

Dom: I see monkey too. See ‘im?

Riley: Yeah! Dat monkey!

Dom: See ‘im?

Repeat endless loop until forever

Back at our house Dom and Riley sat together and read through a pop-up book:

Dom: Dat elephant!

Riley: Yeah!

Dom: Dat giraffe!

Riley: Yeah!

And who would have thunk it? They also had a mutual appreciation for pizza and the movie Cars.

I was pretty sure that Dominic just made his first friend. However, my suspicions were confirmed after Riley got a time-out for some minor infraction or another. Here is the actual conversation I had with my son:

Dom: I wan go see Riley.

Me: Riley is in time-out, buddy. He’ll be out soon.

Dom (pointing towards Riley): I wan go dat way.

Me: I know buddy, but Riley is in time-out.

Dom ignores me, runs and grabs two plastic animals, then proceeds to sprint in between my legs

Me: Dom, come back here, Riley is in time-out.

Dom: (handing Riley a Hippopotamus): Daddy, I wan be in time-out too.

Two and a half year’s old, and my kid is already harboring a fugitive. I’m not looking forward to when Riley gets his driver’s license.

While my marriage may be a democracy, my relationship with my son is much closer to what I like to refer to as a “benign dictatorship.” As any good dictator knows, it’s important to suppress the will of the proletariat to prevent an uprising. In this, the first of my 37 part series, I will discuss three important ideological rules of any benign dictatorship:

Rule #1: Control the Supply of Goods and Services: A strong dictator will create demand for a particular good or service and then suppress the supply of said good or service to manipulate the behavior of the proletariat.

When my son first transitioned to a toddler bed, he quite literally got up 113 times before we finally got him to fall asleep. Fortunately, I am a shrewd dictator who studied economics and understands the power of creating unnecessary demand and then increasing the price by suppressing supply.

First, I went to the store and purchased a series of safe plastic toys, including a car, an airplane, and an elephant. Each night thereafter, these bedtime toys have been introduced to Dominic five to ten minutes before it’s time to get under the covers. He is allowed to play with them in bed while we read him poems and say his prayers. However, each time he gets out of bed for more than a three count, he loses a toy, thus suppressing the supply of bedtime toys and subsequently increasing the price of getting out of bed.

I suggest starting with five or six toys the first night to give yourself some additional leverage until your child learns the rules. It may sound a bit cruel, but remember that he gets to keep all of the cool new toys if he simply stays in bed.

Q: But what if he keeps taunting me by getting out of bed for two seconds at a time?

A: No problem. Parents can manipulate the space time continuum by counting faster when necessary to prove a point. Alternatively, you could just start at three on the second offense.

Q: What if you take away all of his toys, thus removing all incentive to stay in bed

A: If you do it right, it’ll never happen. Make sure the toys are interesting and never give in. If you take a toy and he remains out of bed, simply start a new three-count and move on to the next toy. Show no emotion, except a steel resolve.

If this method doesn’t work for you, you’re probably failing to follow the next law of all successful benign dictatorships:

Rule #2: Do Not Negotiate with Terrorists: A strong dictator will greet all acts of terrorism against the ruling party with swift and severe justice, resorting to a scorched earth policy if necessary.

My son is adorable, but he is not rational, and he completely lacks the ability to delay gratification. He will use any means necessary to get what he wants now. Negotiation with a toddler terrorist, even if occasionally “successful,” only diminishes a dictator’s power. If your toddler could think rationally, it would go something like this:

“I want to watch another Little Einsteins, but daddy just turned off the TV and said it’s time to eat dinner. I’m probably SOL when it comes to TV, but I’ll open this round of negotiations by whining and pretending I have no bones and see what counteroffer daddy puts on the table.”

Even if you successfully negotiate an end to the tantrum, you have just unknowingly reinforced the simple fact that the whining/jelly leg routine establishes a seat at the table. He now knows that while he might not get more TV, he can certainly squeeze something out of you.

Instead, use your three-count again. If you get to three, he gets a timeout—every time. As always, be consistent and don’t show any emotion, no matter how frustrated you may be. Don’t say a word that isn’t a number between one and three. If you’re at a store, timeout can be the car. Get creative. If you’re under a time constraint, restricting the supply of a favorite set of toys can serve as a stand-in for the timeout. As I said above, I’ve found that you must create demand for more than one toy so he always has something to lose.

Rule #3: Remember the “Benign” in Benign Dictatorship: When the proletariat follows the rules of the benign dictator, he should be rewarded with additional foodstuffs and freedom. Even when revolting, the proletariat should be treated with respect.

Always be fair. Always be consistent, and always follow through on promises. Good behavior should be rewarded, whether it’s with a gift or simple praise. When things aren’t going so smoothly, always remember that you’re the adult. You should have more control over your emotions than your toddler.

Note: minus the hilarious metaphor, the methods to curb “stop behavior” described above are slight variations on those described in the book, 1-2-3 Magic. The book also gives some good advice for promoting “start behaviors.”

So for everybody I work with who reads this blog (read: the people who have the power to fire me), I’d like to apologize up front for the rather vulgar punch-line of this, my first post of 2010. I ask for mercy only on the basis that this is a true story and simply too funny and embarrassing not to share with perfect strangers on the interwebs.

Before Christmas, Steve’s wife wrote about how their son, Sam, was telling everyone who would listen that he wanted a “big Woody” for Christmas. Obviously he meant a Woody doll from the movie Toy Story, but c’mon, that’s some funny stuff. (Sorry Steve, I meant to say “a Woody Action Figure.”) Kerry and I had an equally embarrassing experience on our last trip to Home Depot.

We were desperately trying to find a couple of light bulbs that would fit into our ancient bathroom light fixture, while simultaneously preventing Dominic from picking up anything too dangerous. He was inexplicably all-consumed by a rather banal calk display in the center of the aisle (see post’s title). The following is the actual transcript of the conversation that followed:

Dom (holding up two tubes of calk): “Daddy what this?”

Me (absentmindedly): “That’s calk, Buddy”

Dom runs up to a benign-looking older gentleman looking at flood lights

Dom (now shouting excitedly): “I have two calks!”

Older gentleman laughs uncontrollably, coughs violently, and gasps for breath. Kerry’s face turns beet red.

Me (shaking my head): Indeed you do, Buddy, indeed you do.

Dom didn’t get to go trick-or-treating yesterday. He had a pretty high fever and the buzzkill doctor said to keep him inside. We did as we were told. Does that make us good parents or bad parents?

Either way, Kerry and I were really sad for our little guy. We had spent the majority of the week teaching him to say “trick or treat” and his hotdog costume was about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen (and yes, I repeatedly made him say “weiner”). Poor little guy. While he couldn’t go outside, we did let him trick or treat from room to room with Mommy and Daddy, and let me tell you, he got some killer candy. Just for clarification, I mean “killer” as in “name brand sugar-fix” and not “killer” as in “check the tootsie rolls for HIV needles.”

He wasn’t doing much better this morning, and when Dom isn’t feeling well, Dom gets whatever he wants from his pushover parents. Today, “whatever he wants” was watching Disney’s Cars on repeat. I now officially know the numbers of Lightning McQueen, Chick Hicks, and The King (95, 86, 43, respectively, in case you were wondering).

I hate it when Dom is miserable. Even though I’d take his illness away if it was possible, I will admit that I do enjoy it when he just wants to lay on me and watch movies all day. It’s hard to slow him down long enough for a good squeeze when his energy bar is at full capacity. Unfortunately, he won’t be nearly as compassionate in three days when he feels fantastic and I’m showing the first symptoms of whatever nasty little virus he gave me by coughing in my mouth seven times.

“You” 

Dom has a fun new game where he randomly shouts out animal names and then humiliates me by making me act them out for his own twisted amusement. (Just for the record, what the hell sound does a giraffe make? It’s keeping me up at night.) Anyway, I try to entice Dominic into acting out his favorite animals instead, because it’s infinitely cuter than a grown-ass man scratching his armpits and making monkey noises. Here is the actual transcript from a conversation I had with my son, proving that the intricacies of the English language are difficult to master:

Dom (pointing at me): Daddy why-in!

Me: Daddy was just the monkey, you be the lion

Dom: me why-in

Me: Yeah buddy, you be the lion. What’s a lion say?

Dom: no, me why-in!

Me: Wait, do you want me to be the lion?

Dom: O-kaaaay!

Me (doing an Oscar caliber lion impression): Roooooar!

Dom (while clapping his hands with delight at my genius): you sick-in. Cyuck-cyuck-cyuck

Me (flapping my arms like an ass-hat): I’m a chicken. Cluck cluck cluck cluck

Dom: no, you sick-in. Cyuck-cyuck-cyuck-cyuck

Me: yeah, I’m a chicken.

Dom (getting frustrated): no you sick-in! Cyuck-Cyuck-Cyuck

Me (the light bulb flips on in my brain and I run to get a photo album. I point to a picture of Dominic): Hey buddy, who is this?

Dom: You.

I think I finally figured out where Abbott and Costello got their inspiration. . .

Both hands where I can see them, mister

Well, I guess someone has to post after Steve, and it’s my turn. Since there is no appropriate way to follow up Jack’s first birthday, I have decided to write about the absolute least appropriate thing I can muster. If you haven’t watched Jack’s video, please do, and save my trite, failed attempt at humor for another day. Seriously.

Without further ado:

My son is infatuated with his junk. Oh, it was cute at first. Kerry and I had a ball deciding what to name it. We gave “ween” and “peen” trial runs, but Dom always seemed very partial to “dingle.” Whatever the latest moniker may be, he quite simply can’t get enough of it.

Last night he asked to use the potty, but then refused to squeeze out a single solitary drop. I’m fairly certain he just wanted to get his diaper off, and I unwittingly granted him an all-access, back stage pass to his funk zone. And wow, does the boy have no shame. He just giggled and laughed and smiled and jammed away. If I’m being honest, the eye-contact was a little creepy.

After we put him to bed, Kerry came into the living room and asked if I thought it was unusual. She then realized that we had been apart for literally 30 seconds and I was already laying on the couch with my hand down my pants.

Sensing that for the first time my physiology gave me some unique insight into the mind of our two-year old, I explained to her that this is the beginning of a long journey, a quest if you will, and that all men must travel this road alone. I assured her that it’s completely normal, and that the best advice is to do absolutely nothing about it, unless of course, he starts exploring his “special purpose” in public.

Since Mark has already firmly established Yahoo! Answers as the absolute authority on everything ever, check this out if you’re still not convinced. Whatever you do, please promise to never label self-exploration as “bad” or reprimand your little boy for exploring his own body (it is his, after all).

I thought Friday was the night. Conditions were perfect. Dom picked his Elmo Potty Time Video to watch before bed, Kerry watched him chug two cups of water before I got home from work, and I was feeling lucky. Conditions were perfect.

Right as Elmo’s dad was having a little pee-pee party for Elmo, Kerry unveiled Dom’s potty in all its glory, to which he cheered and yelled “potty, potty, peeeeee, poopoo.” I removed his diaper and prepared to pounce like a jaguar at the first sign of tinkle. Tonight was the night. Conditions were perfect.

Here’s a quick summary of the rest of Dom’s evening:   

“No-pants, No problem” dance party during the “Potty Time Song”

Taint rubbing every square inch of the area rug

New acquaintance with genitals

A single solitary drop of urine in the potty

My son is an aspiring little economist. At the age of two, he already understands the Law of Supply and Demand. Let me give you an example.

Dom recognizes that he provides a very specialized service to his Mommy and Daddy: eating his broccoli. In fact, there are no other competitors in the market. Only Dominic can eat Dominic’s broccoli, and it’s clearly apparent to him that Mommy and Daddy have an almost limitless demand for his services (point Q_d on the above graph).

Dom on the other-hand, hates eating his broccoli, making the supply of this valuable service extremely scarce (point Q_s). Without sitting in on even a single economics class, Dominic understands that he has a corner on the Dominic broccoli eating market, and that he can charge virtually whatever he wants because of his monopoly. Because of the excess demand (Q_d - Q_s), the Price (P) of eating his broccoli moves well past equilibrium to the point on the demand curve that corresponds to Q_s.

So what’s Dominic’s currency of choice, you ask? The fact that he almost choked himself on a quarter yesterday proves that he doesn’t understand the value of American currency. However, he is quickly becoming a scholar of the barter system. Here’s how the invisible hand of capitalism shook out during tonight’s dinner:

Me: “Dominic, eat your broccoli.”

Dom: “cookie?!?”

Me: “Okay kid, you’re cute, I’ll play along. Eat your broccoli and I’ll give you a cookie.”

Dom: tears a piece of broccoli in half and take a small bite.

Me: “that wasn’t enough; eat some more if you want a cookie.”

Dom: whine whine whine (did I mention that he also understands negative reinforcement?)

Me (lying): “I’ll sit here all day, kiddo.”

Dom: eats the other half of a half of piece of broccoli, picks up his plate and hands it to me, adding “on don” (“all done” in Dom speak) for good measure.

Me: totally recognizing that my bluff was called, I get up sheepishly and grab a mini vanilla wafer.

For the record, I did save some face by making him say “please” before surrendering the cookie. I know, I know. You think Dom won, but you’re wrong. Capitalism won.

Sam and Jack

Over the course of time that I write here, you’ll get to know a lot about me and a lot about my boys. Those are my boys, Sam, 3, and Jack (in the stripes) is 6 months old in this picture. It’s my favorite picture of the two of them together, playing in a laundry basket, or as Sam thinks of it, his boat.

There are some things you can tell about a person, even at the youngest of ages, and what I know about Jack is that he loved life. I always envisioned him as the life of the party, the guy everyone loved to be around, who never took himself too seriously. I’ve always said that I knew Jack loved life by his appetite (he ate anything you gave him), his laughter (it was infectious), and his gas. All babies have gas, but Jack could rip ‘em with the best of us.

A big appetite, a hearty laugh, and some bad gas. That’s someone who knew how to live. Jack was that guy.

My little buddy passed away suddenly 41 days ago, leaving the rest of us to mourn his loss and wonder, “Why?”. I know I’ll never get that answer, but when I look at Jack in that picture, I can hear him talking to me, telling his dad that it’s ok to cry, but that everything will be ok. Maybe someday, if I feel like sharing it with the world, I’ll post the video we played at Jack’s wake. It will make you laugh, it will make you cry, it will allow you to know Jack.

Until then, this is all you get… (double click the image below)

I love and miss you buddy.

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]]> http://www.notoriousdad.com/jack/feed/ 1 http://www.notoriousdad.com/10-reasons-why-my-son-has-a-better-life-than-i-do/ http://www.notoriousdad.com/10-reasons-why-my-son-has-a-better-life-than-i-do/#comments Wed, 13 May 2009 02:57:52 +0000 Mark http://notoriousdad.com/2009/05/10-reasons-why-my-son-has-a-better-life-than-i-do/
They say that “Youth is wasted on the young”, boy are they right.  I was thinking about it today and I realized my kid has it pretty good for a six month old.  Maybe too good.  A lot better than I’ve got it, that’s for sure.

10 Reasons Why My Son Has a Better Life Than I Do

1. People congratulate him when he poops. – Every time the kid poops, it’s like he did something special.  He’s not doing that on purpose, it just happens.  When I poop it is generally followed by negative comments from people.

2. Women are always touching his junk. – Seems like everywhere we go someone is rummaging through the kid’s “junk drawer”.  At home, relatives, the doctors, everywhere. I usually have to brush up against unsuspecting people at the grocery store for that kind of stimulation.

3. He gets to eat 7 times a day. – The best part is people worry if he doesn’t eat everything at each meal.  I’d settle for eating 5 times a day.  Ok, I already do.

4. My wife giggles when he has gas. – He’s a “little stinker” when he has gas.  When I do it, I have to turn on the fan before I head out to the living room to sleep on the couch.

5. He’s handfed. – There is a reason all of those kings and world leaders are always shown being hand fed grapes and whatnot.  It damn luxurious.

6. 24 hour day. He’s asleep 13 hours of it. – Being up for two hours at a time has to be tiring.

7. People think his fat rolls are cute. – When I go to the beach, I never get “Awww, look at how cute all of his rolls are!  Oh, he’s got chubby breasts, that’s adorable.”

8. Freedom to relieve himself anywhere. – Imagine for a moment how nice that would be.  You’re sitting in a boring meeting at work, watching some goof page through his 2000 Power Point slides and you decide now is the time to take a crap.  Absolutely wonderful.  Push that baby out.

9. He gets more hair every day. – I’m beginning to think that he’s adding the hair I’m losing.

10. He can pee in the tub without fear. – For some unknown reason, baby pee is this ultra clean liquid that people have no problem getting all over themselves, but once you reach the age of 29 your urine is toxic and can cause irreversible damage to the health and well being of others using the shower after you.