Don’t make me count to three! No, really, don’t make me…

While I try to be open minded when raising our three young boys and not fall back on out dated parenting tricks just because my parents used it, I still find myself suddenly saying things to the kids that I have no idea where they came from (for intense, after telling Big Bits to go to his bed for being bad, he refused and so I told him “Fine, you go to double bed!” He did as I said and while he napped, I sat downstairs and wondered what the hell “double bed” was supposed to mean). Like counting to three when they are doing something they shouldn’t be. Why do I do that? Why does it effect them so?

It is amazing to see the boys when my hand goes up and I start counting off the numbers. The crying begins and what sounds like: “Holy God, the world is coming to an end, Dad is counting! Stop whatever you’re doing and run to the hills cause Dad is already at two! Kiss your ideas of having a future goodbye because you know what happens if he gets to three…!” starts to spill out of their mouths. At least I think that’s what they’re saying, it mostly sounds like screaming, crying and inarticulate babble to me but they might be using that frequency that only kids can hear (I like to think of the boys as more eloquent than that and if this lets me continue that belief, so be it). But I don’t have to get very far for the screaming to start and the begging to stop to commence; it’s all a bit over the top.

Especially Big Bits; he’s over acting is extreme. He’ll either be the William Shatner of his generation or just the worse Emo Kid off all time (and don’t tell me there won’t be Emo Kids in a few years. The Sixties had Doors fans, the Eighties had the Cure, the Nineties had Nine Inch Nails and girls who took Pearl Jam songs way too seriously; they aren’t always called Emo Kids but there’s always depressed kids obsessed with their own sadness). The falling on the floor, the tears…it is just a bit too much sometimes. “Dude, all I said was it’s Little Bits’ turn to pick a game to play. This isn’t ‘Sophie’s Choice’, now shut it.” I used to chant “Fake cry! Fake cry!” when he started a fit but this made it worse and I learned to shut up.

Speaking of Little Bits…man, he’s good. He might be the star of the “Sophie’s Choice” remake that I’m sure someone is planning right now. His tears fall as big summer rain drops; the kind that sound like hail when they hit your windshield (the rain, not his tears). He can turn on the water works instantly and, instantly, you want them to stop. Which, of course, he does since it’s all an act. Not that you can call him on it, at least in public. You want to look like a bad parent? Tell a child who’s heart is obviously breaking right there in the toy aisle to “Shut it” and you will get looks from other parents that could melt steel.

And Tiny Bits? He only fake cries when he wants something. He hasn’t really grasped that sometimes I want him to stop doing whatever it is he’s doing. He’ll just keep on breaking stuff until I take it from him. He doesn’t seem to mind, there are other things to break in easy reach. He’s only limited by his vast imagination.

But all this doesn’t answer the main question: Why does counting to three garner such crazy reactions from my two eldest? My wife and I have never sat them down and told them what would happen when we reach “3.” I’ve never gotten to “3” and immediately broken out the Taser. In fact, I’ve never gotten to “3”, although I’ve had some very long “1s” and “2s.” By the time I get to “2 and a half,” I usually have to stop and hold one of them to calm them down. They still stop what they were doing wrong, so I guess it works but…WTF?

I often wonder what would happen if I did get to the magical “3”. I don’t really know what I would do. I’ve even used that as a threat: “Go ahead and keep this up. Do you want to see what happens when I get to ‘3’? I’m not really sure what will happen but do you want to find out together?” They’ve never taken me up on the offer. Maybe one day…but I hope not, I don’t want to have my bluff called this early. I was hoping to make it at least to their teenage years before I lose total control.

I’m Just Glad It Impresses Somebody

Kids are little tape recorders; they hear something once and they can repeat it ad nauseam. Of course, it would be nice if they would remember the time you quoted David Hume or made a witty and articulate come back to a verbal slight but most of the time they only remember when you broke your foot and stood in the living room swearing for five minutes. And sometimes it isn’t what they say but when they say it that makes it rememberable.

When our eldest boy, Big Bits, was three he had a major crush on our good friend. She is grandma aged, and since both my wife and I have mothers that live many hours away, she became his Nana. Everything she said was like words from God Him(and/or Her)self. One phrase that caught on was “Big and Strong,” as in “eat this so you can grow up Big and Strong” or “Walking around the block will make us Big and Strong.” Soon every other word out of his mouth was “Big and Stong this” or “Big and Stong that.” He usually punctuated saying this with putting his arms up and flexing his biceps. He’s always been a funny kid; “ha-ha” funny not “that boy ain’t right” funny.

Big Bits has always been a Daddy’s Boy and has been my shadow since the time he could walk. I’ve gotten used to this and so when he followed me into the bathroom at a restaurant I didn’t think twice about it. There was an older man washing his hands when we entered but otherwise we were alone. We slipped into a stall (I didn’t need the stall but using the urinal leaves him free to wander off and see what the other men in the bathroom might be up to) and I got down to business.

I should also mention that it took nearly three years for Big Bits to talk but once he got going it was nearly impossible to shut him up. It’s like he has no filter between his eyes and his mouth: he sees it and he has to state it, usually with a running commentary. “Look, a tree. It’s tall. Oh, look, a bird. It’s flying. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy…look, a rock. It’s…a rock” While I was happy that he was finally speaking, I sometimes wondered if there was a way to shut him up.

So there I was, “peeing” for lack of a better term, and Big Bits stood next to me, strangely silent. Finally, as I was getting ready to pack up and go he nearly shouts, “Daddy, you have a Big and Strong penis!” I couldn’t help but guffaw but not as much as the old man washing his hands. I smiled down at Big Bits, patted him on the head and headed out to the sink. There the old man was trying to recover from his laughing fit, which had developed into a coughing jag. I waited for him to calm down and move so I could wash up.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said once he had recovered.

I shrugged before I answered. “That’s OK, I’m just glad it impresses somebody.” We left him still laughing/coughing and red in the face after we washed our hands. I just hope it only looked like he was having heart attack. If not, at least his family will now know he died happy.

I have become Jesus

Kids make their parents feel special. It’s an evolutionary trait that, along with cuteness, allows them to make it past their second birthday. They have no point of reference; you are the smartest/greatest person in their world, therefore the smartest/greatest thing in the world. They can make you feel like Einstein, Brad Pitt and Albert Pujols all in one afternoon. But lately, my boys have been making me feel like Jesus.

Like most kids, my boys tend to hurt themselves a lot. Not cutting themselves, jumping off the roof or voting Republican—just the normal things kids do to damage their bodies. We’ve seen our fair share of scrapped knees, bruises and knocks to the head in our house. Luckily, no one has been permanently damaged but it doesn’t sound like it. The amount of screaming that goes into simply falling down while running through the living room is epic and the speed at which that crying can stop once they feel “healed” can snap your neck. It is these “boo-boos” that has made me feel like the Messiah.

It started with our eldest, Big Bits. He was just getting to perfect the whole walking thing and when he would fall down, he would come screaming up to me and show me his “wound” and I would have to kiss it to get the yelling and carrying on to calm down. This seemed to happen nearly hourly. But, to be honest, it got old; I’m nearly six and a half feet tall and when he would stub his toe he expected me to bend down and kiss his foot. Yeah, that ain’t happening, kid. Plus we had our second child, Little Bits, when Big Bits was two years old and then I didn’t have the time or patience to put up with this malarkey so I took to kissing my fingers and then touching his wounds. This worked, both for him and me.

So Little Bits grew up seeing that if you fell down, Daddy kissed his own fingers and touched your owie and the world was a better place. He’s a second child and therefore learned to roll with the punches; he’s definitely the most chilled out of our kids. But when we had our third, Tiny Bits, I didn’t have the time for even that. Three kids of my own—and by that time I was babysitting our Godchild, Borrowed Bits—running through the house, all of them falling down all the time, I was happy to have time to breathe, let along play “kissy-kissy” with “boo-boos” left and right. Something had to change.

And something did: I became the Lord Christ.

It was Tiny Bits fault. He has been walking for several months but doesn’t have what you would call world class balance. Falling was a way of life for him. And although he falls down on all of his body, it is always his head that he grabs after getting up and says, “Owwwww…” He has gotten to the point where he doesn’t even cry; he just put his hand on the side of his head and comes to find me. The time when he made me divine I was working hard to get the dishes done before we had to go pick up Big Bits from school so that I could start on dinner as soon as we got back. I still had to empty and refill the dishwasher, make sure Little Bits, Borrowed Bits and Tiny Bits were dressed and shoed and I was running late. I was in a rush.

I heard Tiny Bits running from the living room to the kitchen (no matter how many times I try to convince him that running really is too advanced for him he won’t listen). His footfalls are my soundtrack lately. “Thump…thump…thump…bang!” I waited for the required three seconds and then came his call, “Owww…” I rolled my eyes and kept filling the dishwasher and soon enough he came into the kitchen, holding his head. “Owwww…”I saw him out of the corner of my eye and without thinking just held out my hand and grazed the top of his head as I dropped a plate into the dishwasher and went to grab another. I realized I hadn’t kissed my hand first (a capital offense to our older boys) and I went to correct my error but he was no where to be seen. I went to the hall and saw him running back into the living room, all filled with giggles and 18 month old happiness.

I looked down at my hand, almost for the first time. I had healed with a barely a touch. I didn’t need the medicine/magic of a Daddy Kiss. I didn’t need a bandage or major medical insurance. I could heal the sick with my touch. I was one with God/The Universe/Flying Spaghetti Monster (fill in your deity/non-deity of choice)!

I had to rethink my god-like status a few moments later when I realized that Tiny Bits and Borrowed Bits had both dropped major stinkies and we were really running late now. I grabbed babies, diapers and wipes and got down to work. Something tells me a god could have finished this job faster and better than I did. I guess an almost god’s work is never done.

A Proud Family of St. Louis

For many, summer is here and each weekend is precious. There are only a few weekends in the summer months and numerous events, fairs, happenings, parades and fests vying for your time, but there is one that is a must see for all families. A fun, exciting and even educational weekend (and the kind of educational event that kids will never see coming. They’re having fun and then BAM!, they’re more educated. Awesome). Yes, mark your calendar for June 26 and take the whole family down to Tower Grove Park for the St Louis PrideFest parade and party.

If you’ve never heard of St. Louis PrideFest, you’re missing out on one of the social events of the year. This is a event that my wife and I have been going to for more than a dozen years. Back before kids, we would go to the parade for adult reasons: shaking hands with the mayor, police chief, fire chief and any elected officials that are proud of St. Louis; celebrating our St. Louisan pride with float after wonderfully decorated float; and educating ourselves with the many information booths set up in the park after the parade. Who knew there were so many great things to learn about our amazing city?

Now we have kids, and it’s better than ever. The kids love the parade: the big groups of motorcycles, the fire trucks and police cars, the floats full of happy people throwing candy and beads to everyone lining up and down Grand Boulevard. There are marching bands, talented performers and lots of fun dance music. Sure, there are lots of shirtless men on the floats but no more than you would see at an afternoon Cardinals game or a day at Six Flags.

And post parade, we head into the park and the fun continues. Besides the numerous informational booths, there is great food, classic cars, and people selling all kinds of goods. And live music! Real live music up on the big stage and BandTogether, a local concert band, not only marches in the parade but plays under the trees afterward. There are few things our kids love more than live music, and PrideFest delivers. From famous classic rockers to entertaining local groups, we can spend hours there and never get bored of the music.

But the best part of the day is the people. Families of all colors and sizes take over the park. The diversity is amazing. It seems that families come from all over the area come to meet up with old friends and make new ones. There isn’t a time or place you can’t see or hear kids running and giggling. And the dogs! Seemingly everyone brings a dog with them to PrideFest. If you are a dog fan, you could spend many hours just picking out the rare breeds filling the park.

So make sure to mark your calendar on June 26 for the St. Louis Gay PrideFest in Tower Grove Park. The parade starts at noon but you will want to stay for a long time after. For the food, the music but mostly for the diverse group of St. Louisians there to enjoy the day. It is an event that can make everyone — gay or straight or somewhere in between — proud to live in St. Louis.

Originally published on Stltoday.com