"Captain Dominic Dropping Anchor"

I’ve decided to skip my recent run of hilarious letters to corporate America and return to my roots: potty humor.  This is a dad blog after all.

Dom’s 3rd birthday is rapidly approaching and up until this week, he was still having trouble understanding why anyone in their right mind would inconvenience themselves by using a toilet.

Now don’t get me wrong, he’s a smart kid. He has a clear understanding of potty physics and mastered the fine motor skills necessary to remove his underwear months ago (which he showed the neighborhood with an impromptu demonstration in our front yard).  I think his problem was a simple lack of motivation.

That’s where Pirate Potty comes in.  I know it’s hard to believe, but I had no idea that something as kick-ass as piracy could be applied to potty training.  It was perfect. My brother gave Dom an enormous pirate ship for his second birthday that, to this day, remains one of his favorite toys, so he already had a frame of reference. Additionally, he was born an exceptionally talented pillager.  With the help of this book, Dom took to the potty like a pirate to scurvy.

As you can see from the picture, the book comes with a paper pirate hat that Captain Dominic only gets to wear when he’s dropping anchor.  Each time he successfully uses the toilet, he gets a Jolly Roger sticker for his potty chart.

While not having to smell his pirate booty was gift enough, as an additional bonus, I get to hear him say things like “Arrrr Matey, I need to pee pee” and “Arrr I’m making a poopy, you dirty land lubbers!”

Since instituting Pirate Potty Time, I haven’t had to swab Captain Dominic’s poop deck once. We’ve even taken him out in public in big-kid underwear, and he rewarded us by shouting “Arrrr I need to plunder the potty” right in the middle of the Panera lunch rush. I have never been more proud of him.

Because 1/5 of my fan base is my wife, I would have a mutiny on my hands if I didn’t at least acknowledge that she’s been an extremely supportive first mate to Captain Dominic throughout his voyage into potty independence.

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.

He’ll bring it over, hold it up in the air until I pick him up and start reading it to him. He absolutely loves it and so do I. To see him so excited about books makes me very happy and love spending time reading with him. I just wish he was into more variety.

You see, the kid is infatuated with “Brown bear, Brown bear what do you see?” Which may possibly be the most obnoxious book in existence. I honestly can’t stand it. Now I might be able to get through a reading or two of this book, but my son is resilient and ceases his requests with no fewer than 10 consecutive readings.  Reading that book 10 times in a row is shear punishment.

So I’ve come up with a solution to this little problem that both my son and I are quite fond of. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the Youtubes:

We recently signed Collin up for Gymboree classes, but every time I go I’m faced with this scenario:

Other Parent: Oh, you’re son is so cute!  Look at those curls!

Me: Well, thank you.

(I look over at their kid. Egh!  Definitely not cute.)

Me: These mats are pretty soft huh?

“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. . .

As you know, I lost my youngest son Jack almost 4 months ago to a rare genetic heart arrythmia, and yesterday my wife and I found out that our older son Sam also carries the same arrythmia. For Sam, his condition can never be corrected, but an ICD can come as close as possible to guaranteeing he will not succumb to the same fate that his baby brother did. I’m sad for Sam, for myself, for my wife. It’s not a fair hand to have been dealt.

Throughout this ordeal, I’ve come to realize a lot of the things I once worried about in life, just don’t matter. Even in raising a little boy, so many of the things I secretly may have worried about, no longer matter. As fathers, we tend to raise our little boys to be all things male, and our little girls to be all things female. We correct our sons if they tell us they like pink…blue is a better color. Little girls shouldn’t play with trucks, they should play with dolls. Well, I’m here to tell you as a father, none of it matters. Let your kids be kids, and let them choose what they want to do in life, what they like, who they play with, what they play with. Society too often dictates what’s appropriate, what we should like, or what we should stand up for. Sam’s had so much of his future stolen from him. Choices he should be able to have, he’ll never get to make.

In a short period of time, Sam will have to endure invasive surgery, something no 3 year old should ever have to deal with. An ICD will be implanted behind his stomach mucle, his breast bone will be opened up as it would for someone who’s having open heart surgery, and two leads will be attached (with screws) to his heart. If his heart ever needs to be shocked, it will feel like “a horse kicked him in the chest”. True words from a patient, not something I’ve made up. Yes, it is graphic and awful, and horribly unfair. From that point on, there will be no sports, no gym class, no goofing around like a normal boy should. Scars, multiple surgeries, broken leads and a lifetime of worrying about his heart are what now consume my thoughts.

As a father who mourns over the fact that my sons have lost so much and had no say in the matter, I would hope that all of you fathers out there to embrace your children’s lives, and do your best to let them live their own lives and make their own choices. Be a part of whatever they choose, because when it comes down to it, life is too fucking short for someone to have other people making choices in life for them.

Sam has been on beta blockers in anticipation of this outcome, and now we will move forward in discussing his condition with his cardiologist, and scheduling surgery to implant an ICD in Sam’s stomach. I’m terrified of putting my 3 year old son into surgery, but I can’t take losing another child, and I believe an ICD would have saved Jack’s life.  For Sam, this means that he likely will never be able to play sports, wrestle with his friends, goof around, or just do the dumb things that boys do. As his father, this breaks my heart, he doesn’t deserve this.

Please keep Sam in your prayers.

I had one of those times this past weekend.

We were in beautiful Lima, Ohio visiting my in-laws.  For whatever reason, we don’t have a monitor there so we put our son’s pack-n-play in the same bedroom that we sleep in so we could hear him if he awakes. 

Oh, and did I mention my obnoxious dog sleeps in the room with all of us as well?

Our dog felt the need to get up at 4 in the morning this last Friday and paw at our closed door.  My wife let her out, but the commotion of it all woke up our son.

Foolishly, we thought that simply returning his pacifier to his mouth would resolve the situation. 

No go.

So then we tried laying him in bed with us to see if he would fall asleep again.

Not happening.

He was officially awake and looking for something to do.

My wife and I were both tired as hell and very interested in completing our sleep.  We played the game of trying to sleep and each keep one hand on him, but that lasted only a few minutes before he was exploring every inch of our bed. That’s when the frustration began to mount. 

That’s also when my son began to mount me.

I was so annoyed.

He climbed up on my stomach and started jumping up and down, laughing the whole time.  He was having a blast and I was pissed. 

But then it happened.

He pulled his pacifier out of his mouth and clear as day said, “Hey Dad Dad” with a huge smile on his face.

My wife and I immediately burst into laughter, knowing full well that although he can’t talk, he somehow managed to say the perfect thing to dissipate any anger or frustration we had about his early morning antics.