Mario: the Once and Future King

While social media might bring together families in the here and now, it takes a video game company like Nintendo to draw families together in the past. Don’t understand that? Yeah, me either but let me try and explain it to both of us.

I grew up on Nintendo. We had a Nintendo Entertainment System (NES) back in the late eighties and I played Super Mario Bros more or less 27 hours a day. Mario and me stomped on Koopas, beat up Bowser and saved the princess more times then I really want to get into now, mainly because it’s depressing how much of a loser I was (also: don’t mention to a Gen Xer that in a few years the NES will be 30 years old, unless you want to see that Gen Xer cry). And I wasn’t the only one if the amazing amount of Mario and Nintendo references in all modern media are to be believed. If you don’t believe me, go find a large sewer pipe sticking out of the ground and paint it green. Then sit back and see how many thirtysomethings have someone take a picture of them squatting down on it. When people start coming dressed in overalls, red hats and fake mustaches you can come to my house and apologize for not believing me in the first place.

Of course, Mario is still around and kids today can play with him not only as he saves Princess Peach but while he races go carts, plays a vast number of sports or goes head to head with other Nintendo characters and they beat the crap out of each other. And there are my kids playing with Mario and his brother Luigi, the patron saint of younger siblings all around the world. Of course, the games that the kids play today make the ones I played at their age look…well, crappy.

And thanks to Nintendo, I can show them EXACTLY how crappy. For those of you not in the know, Nintendo’s current gaming console, the Wii, offers you the chance to download old games from their past, including Super Mario Bros, the game that started it all. So now, kids that have fun with Mario moving all around a world filled with everything imaginable, with amazing colors and sounds, get to see what I had as a kid: a big bowl of suck.

Super Mario Bros is a side-scrolling platformer. You can only go forward and are stuck to one path through the level, which is timed. This is the anti-modern game, where you can go to almost any level you want, stay as long as you want and go where you want. The boys thought it was broken the first time they played it.

“Dad, something’s wrong! I can’t go back,” Big Bits told me the first time he played it.

“Yeah, that’s how it was back then,” I told him. He just stared at me for a moment.

“Na-uh,” he finally laughed. It took me a while to convince him otherwise. It also took me a while to convince him that the little, pixelated mess of a character was the same Mario he knew and loved from the nearly 3D animated games he played before.

“Na-uh. It doesn’t even sound like him.” I just shook my head.

“Games didn’t talk back then,” I told. He stared at me some more before coming back with a witty retort.

“Na-uh!”

Yes, son, I was born in the dark ages, count yourself amongst the lucky ones.

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.

Quiet can be a scary thing

Child rearing is filled with numerous moments of abject horror. From the moment when they handed me my first child and I couldn’t stop thinking I was going to drop him to major media reminding me daily that my children are about to be kidnapped by terrorists and made to do Un-American things in foreign lands, every moment is another second where I’m sure I or society at large is going to kill the kids. I’m a nervous wreck. And the kids aren’t helping.

As any stay-at-home parent with more than one child will tell you, a few seconds of peace and quiet is worth its weight in gold. But that same moment of quiet can be terrifying if it takes place when you are out of the room. My older two boys were at school and it was just Tiny Bits, our 18-month-old, and me hanging out. It’s nice to have some one-on-one time with the little guy; time where I can watch him grow, develop and even see his little mind working out how the world works. We had played the morning away, and it was time for a snack. Leaving him on the living room floor playing with his teddy bear, I ran to the kitchen to rustle up some chow.

I wasn’t worried about leaving him alone for a few minutes because he’s going through a “screaming phase,” one of the more “enjoyable” phases of development where children are learning vocal control — and therefore how to scream — quite happily, ALL THE TIME. Luckily this is something they grow out of pretty quickly (or they never do and grow up to be lead singers in heavy metal bands). In other words, I could hear him very well at the other end of our house. And that is why, as I was finishing chopping up his apple, I suddenly froze. I couldn’t hear the baby. The living room was quiet. A little too quiet.

My mind was awash with Wes Craven-fueled images as I ran around the couch to see exactly what he was doing. Had he turned the cat inside out? Had he suddenly figured out how to use the front door and was now out playing in traffic? Had he fallen into an interdimensional gate and now I would have to search the universe for him (that is exactly the kind of thing he would do)? No, he had discovered his toes. He was sitting on the floor, playing with toes. Apparently his toes can hear very well and don’t need to be screamed at. I, on the the other hand, am completely deaf since he looked up at me, saw the bowl of apple slices and happily screamed his head off.

This screaming phase had better stop soon or I’m going to start screaming soon myself.

Originally published on Stltoday.com

Wind experiments and a spray can of cheese, and thus a love of science begins

I’ve always been a scientist at heart. From a very early age I was fascinated with space and biology and just about anything I could get my hands on. Carl Sagan and Nikola Tesla were my Michael Jordan and Wayne Gretzky. My days were like the TV show “Mythbusters” only with less explosions. And after the last few weeks, I can see my boys are well on their way to follow in my footsteps.

The first time I saw this scientific inclination was just after the recent 40 days and nights of rain. The sun was out, the windows were down and the car filled with cut-grass-scented air. On the highway, wind buffeted us violently, but we were all so happy to see the sun again no one cared. My two oldest boys were in the very back of our station wagon, watching the world speed away from them. The air flowing into the car circulates wildly in the back, and the boys love it: their hair flies this way and that and they giggle as we travel. So much better than the bickering I hear when the windows are up and they’re bored.

An empty shopping bag was in the back of the car with them, and the wind caught it, showing us all exactly how wildly the air was flowing. It whipped around the boys, faster and faster until it wrapped itself around one of their seat belts. This caused them to erupt with laughter, grab the bag and send it flying. Again and again they got the bag into the air until the poor bag finally escaped their torture and jumped into the back seat, hiding down under my chair.

The collective sigh that signaled all the fun in the world was dead echoed through the car until Big Bits, our 6-year-old, grabbed some paper from his backpack and sent it into the air. It flew about too, not quite as crazily as the bag but it was still fun. Someone in Big Bit’s kindergarten class had recently taught him about paper airplanes, which of course he loved (what kid doesn’t?), but he still wasn’t 100 percent sure about how to fold paper into an airplane shape. That didn’t stop him from randomly folding paper and seeing if it flew any better. This met with varying degrees of success. Little Bits, who will enthusiastically tell you he’s 4 if you give him half a second, did his big brother one better and just wadded up the paper into a ball. This didn’t work at all.

But that didn’t stop him in the least. Everything in their reach was tossed into the air, from toy cars to their shoes. Little Bits held his teddy bear up in the air several times, each time dropping it to see if his little friend would fly around the car. I think the little bear’s arms and legs wiggling in the wind gave him hope he might just take flight. I knew the observation stage had ended and they were ready for more advanced tests when they found an empty chip bag, and it flew around nearly as well as the shopping bag. And they started preparing for future funding requests when Big Bits said, “Dad, can we stop for some chips? I’m really hungry.”

This wasn’t the only time their minds have shown signs of scientific curiosity. One day at the store I happened to see a can of spray cheese, that cheese-like “food” substance that comes in a can and is easily spread on crackers. I remembered liking it when I was a kid, so why not spread the joy to the next generation?

I took it home and let each of the kids have some on a cracker. Tiny Bits, our 18-month-old, took the first one and although none actually made it into his mouth, he did have fun with it (took me forever to get it out of his hair). Little Bits took one, barely licked it and politely put it back on the table. I don’t know if he’s the smartest one of us, but he might have the best taste.

To Big Bits, this was a revelation, a whole new world of flavor opened up before him. “I like slimy cheese!” he shouted several times. I had to cut him off before he made himself sick. It was time for bed anyway. As he was brushing his teeth, staring at his reflection in the mirror, he suddenly turned to me.

“Dad, slimy cheese causes freckles.” I stopped getting Tiny Bits dressed and just stared at him.

“What?!” The incredulous “What?!” is said a lot around our house.

“Well, I like slimy cheese and Little Bits doesn’t.”

“Yup,” I agreed.

“And I have freckles and Little Bits doesn’t.” I couldn’t argue with him on this one, at least this close to bed time. I would have liked to sit him down and explain the truth but when our roommate told him she liked slimy cheese too (and, of course, she has freckles as well) that gave him all the proof he needed. Seeing was believing.

I’m going to keep encouraging their apparent love of science and maybe one of them will be the next Einstein or Hawking. Or, if we’re really lucky, the next generation of Mythbusters.

Originally published on Stltoday.com

Boys will fight over anything, even an imaginary ball

You never know when major life events will happen to you. One moment you are trying to wrangle the family into the car for an outing and the next moment you are standing there, dumbfounded, experiencing something you know you will remember forever. Just this weekend I had one of those moments.

It was a beautiful Saturday and after endless weeks of rain we were all champing at the bit to get out of the house. We spent the morning down at the local cafe, eating a hearty breakfast and wasting time with friends. The kids had spent time at the park, running and jumping and expending most of the calories they had eaten at breakfast. This always does one of two things to them: wears them out so all they want to do is lie on the couch and stare at the TV or winds them up to a pitched frenzy whose energy is only equaled by supernovas. There is no rhyme or reason to this, and trying to predict how they will react to “park time” is a fool’s errand. I knew my best bet was to throw them into the car for a quick trip across town. If they’re turning into zombies the car ride will put them to sleep, and if they’re running wild they could run around the mall or a big box store out in the county.

First, though, I’d have to clean out the car. My poor car is a largeish station wagon, but it’s filled with car seats and there isn’t much room in it other than the front passenger seat. It gets filled with diaper bags, jackets, empty chip bags and bottles of soda. This is not a big deal during the week when it’s just me, but my wife has no place to sit and it seems weird to have her follow us in her car when we go on family trips. So as I carried junk into the house, my wife stayed out on the sidewalk to let the kids play in the sun. Tiny Bits, our 18-month-old, found a stick and was going around blessing and/or whacking every plant he could get close to. Maybe he thinks he’s a wizard and the stick is a wand; who knows — he was happy and that’s all that matters. Our other two boys — 6-year-old Big Bits and 4-year-old Little Bits-decided the thousand and one toys we have in the house (and the several in the car) were unnecessary and were playing Invisible Football.

Invisible Football is a simple game: you take an invisible football and “throw” it to your brother, who “catches” it and then begins to run down the sidewalk, avoiding “tacklers” until they come to the “end zone” where they score a touchdown and “spike the ball.” It’s actually fun to watch and appears to be fun to play. Regardless, they were having fun and staying out of my way as I hauled miscellaneous debris into the house.

I was coming out of the front door for the last time when I heard screaming. I could see Little Bits standing a few doors down, crying. Big Bits was throwing a tantrum. Tiny Bits was happily whacking away at a hosta in our front yard. My wife was trying very hard not to laugh at something.

“What happened?” I asked as I came up to them.

“MOMMY IS SO MEAN!” Big Bits told me.

“Big Bits is … hogging the ball,” my wife tried to say through giggles. “I told him he had to share the ball and he threw a fit.”

“It’s not fair!” Big Bits told me. I was confused.

“Can’t they both have a ‘ball’?” I asked. My wife just shrugged.

“I tried and Little Bits said he wanted the one Big Bits has,” she told me. I just shook my head.

“OK, Big Bits, give Little Bits the ball. It’s only fair,” I told him. Big Bits wasn’t happy, but he seemed to see he had been out voted.

Then the most surreal thing I had ever seen took place.

“You aren’t my best friend anymore!” he said as he bent down, “picked” up the “ball” and “threw” it to his brother before stomping off into the car. Little Bits “watched” the “ball” go over his head and turned to run to where it “landed,” “picked” it up and brought it back to us, now happy enough to stop crying. My wife and I got all the kids into the car and stopped before getting in to look at one another.

“Did that just happen?” I asked.

“Yes, our sons just fought over an imaginary football,” she answered before we both broke out in laughter.

At least they have good imaginations. Now, to see if a good imagination helps them in life or just drives me insane.

Originally published on Stltoday.com

Why can’t I take just one shower without the kids barging in?

I’ve never been someone who needed to be around lots of other people to feel comfortable. I’ve always enjoyed my alone time. Even if I was just lying on the couch reading a book while my wife was out with her friends on a girl’s night out, it was great to have the house to myself to just be myself. I knew having kids would change my life, but I had no idea how much my privacy would go out the window with the arrival of children. I assumed certain acts between mommy and daddy would have to be hidden from prying eyes, but sneaking around to get some kissy time with my spouse is just the beginning. There are a lot more basic needs that get interrupted by my offspring.

Just once I’d like to take a shower all by myself.

It’s not that I’m a prude but sometimes I just want to be alone in the bathroom. But kids just barge right in, like they own the place, regardless of what I’m doing in there. And our bathroom is small; it’s not like they can go play in the other wing of the bathroom while I shower. When they were really tiny I could wait until they were asleep and put them in their bouncy seat, put the seat in the bathroom and do a quick shower before they woke up. Then they started walking, that went out the window.

In the winter time it’s the worst: When the door flies open, all the carefully created steam making the bathroom into a comfortable womb goes rushing out of the room, and I freeze into a Popsicle in a second. Then the little head comes peeking around the shower curtain and looks up at me.

“Whatcha doing, Daddy?” I look down at him, covered in soap and shampoo, before answering.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Taking a shower.”

“Yup, that’s what I’m doing. Can I help you?”

“Nope…” Then they exit just as quickly, leaving the door standing wide open. I swear, if I hadn’t been in the hospital room for their births, I would bet everything they had been born in a barn.

Our 18-month-old, Tiny Bits, is the worst. His brothers love bath time. Tiny Bits thinks bath time should be outlawed by the United Nations. When I’m taking a bath, he barges in — this must be genetic; my family must have barged into bathrooms all throughout history — and pulls the shower curtain back. Then the screaming in terror begins, much like when he is in the tub.

I know what some of you are saying: “Why don’t you just lock the bathroom door?” That only works if your definition of a relaxing shower includes three little fists banging on the door, crying because obviously Daddy is dying in the shower and they need to save me. I should feel loved, and I do, but I’d like wait until I’m dried off and dressed before I return that love.

Originally published on stltoday.com

Spring creates crazy kids; here’s help controlling them

Children are heavily affected by spring. As the days become longer and the weather warmer, the barely constrained craziness that had been building up all winter in their little bodies explodes out, and smart parents know to be on their guard to control their little hellions or face the consequences.

Kids’ physical energy is parents’ biggest challenge. During the long winter months, when the nights are long and the days are cold, no one has much energy. Even kids don’t want to go out in freezing weather. Well, after the first snow that is – they’re biting at the bit to get out the door once the the first big snow fall of the year hits but after a few hours of freezing, they’re through. The next day, playing a snowboarding video game in a warm living room looks like a lot more fun. Heavy comfort food and thick blankets make everyone lazy and happy to lie about and do nothing.

With parents, energy we didn’t use in winter turns to fat and we have to work very hard to release it. With kids, they store it somewhere magical, and they can tap a nearly endless supply at a moment’s notice. And when is that moment? The first warmish day of the year. And the worse thing? While they can tap the energy instantly, they can’t stop the flow once it’s pouring through them. This would be livable if the weather got warm and stayed warm but, of course, this is St. Louis so we get a warm day followed by a week of miserable weather. Those weeks of bad weather can test your parenting patience, but you can do a few things to help you through the dark times and have everyone make it alive and sane until the sun once again basks us in all its glory.

Exorcise the Ya-Ya Demons: The Ya-Ya Demons will dig their evil claws into your beautiful, prefect child and turn him or her into a crazed beast from the dark recesses of your worse nightmares. One moment your kid is hanging out, being fairly normal and the next they are jumping off the couch a dozen times in a row while scream-singing songs they don’t know the lyrics to. Oh, the fun. In a situation like this, your only choice is to get the energy out of the kid ASAP. If it isn’t horribly cold or raining, take them outside, get them to walk around the block with you, say hello to your neighbors and help them with their numbers by counting how many houses on each street are for sale. If it is horrible out, get to the Science Center, the City Museum or even your local mall if it has a indoor play area; any place where kids are encouraged to run and jump up and down will work. Work them into a frenzy, tucker them out and, if you’re lucky, they’ll be passed out in the car seat before you get halfway home. This, of course, makes utilization of every halfway nice day a must. If it’s sunny out, get your kid out of the house. Walk to a park and make them play, kick a soccer ball around the back yard, anything to get them to move. Because if you let them sit, the energy they aren’t using will be stored up and will bubble out of them sooner or later, regardless if the weather is nice or not.

Get their mind moving: Anyone who remembers school will testify to the tiring effects of studying and using their minds a great deal. This is another way to get your kid tired on those days when you can’t get them out of the house. The trick is to get them involved in something intellectual before the Ya-Ya Demons attack. This doesn’t have to be discussing 19th century German philosophy or ranking the highlights of the Fillmore administration; it can be as simple as a board game or coloring. The idea is to get them concentrating on an activity and get them to focus their boundless energy there before it builds up and attacks you with screaming, running around like crazy people and missung song lyrics.

These are two ideas to help you with your crazy kids. Just remember it isn’t their fault they can’t control themselves, it’s just this time of year. So, you’ll get to do this all again next year. There, doesn’t that make you feel better?

Originally published on stltoday.com

Want to stop a child in his tracks? Use the Dad Voice

In the Great Parent/Child War, fathers are given very few weapons (Moms have all kinds of weapons and go into battle ready for anything … at least they seem to). We are thrown into battle with our bundles of joy with little or no knowledge, few real skills and an overpowering fear our every move will result in permanent damage to the child. We think we know what we’re doing but no matter how many little siblings we had or kids we’ve babysat, we are still naked and alone against the great forces of babyhood. Luckily for us dads out there, the weapon we do have is a powerful one; one kids all over the world are powerless against: the Dad Voice.

The Dad Voice is something only fathers have. Mothers don’t have it and even nonfather men can’t seem to get the right inflection to pull off the Dad Voice, a perfect combination of righteous rage and incredulity that tells children immediately they have been caught doing something they shouldn’t be. It doesn’t have to be a shout — it works better when it is said in a voice that is just a little louder than your normal speaking voice — but it can make a kid change his behavior faster than screaming at him all day long could ever do.

I can still remember the first time I used the voice. Big Bits, our now 6-year-old, was just 18 months or so and we were sitting on the couch after cleaning the living room. I left for the kitchen to get a celebratory snack and when I came back a moment later he had climbed off the couch and was digging into his box of wooden blocks, throwing them over his shoulder one at a time and making a giant mess. I stopped at the couch and couldn’t believe my eyes: there was my Little Buddy wrecking our just cleaned room. “What are you doing?!” I said in a voice that made me jump a little and made my poor child spring up, turn around and start crying, wooden block still in hand. I felt so bad I picked him up and we snuggled on the couch for a bit before we went back to work cleaning up his mess.

This voice works on all kids, not just your own. Our middle child goes to a cooperative preschool where I’m the teacher helper once a month. Mostly this involves herding the kids around the preschool and providing the snack for the day. I also help police the children during gym and one day I spied a child going to every kid in the class and pushing them down. Without thinking about it, I invoked the Dad Voice, and he stopped in mid push and spun his head around so fast I thought he might have whiplash. We locked eyes from across the gym and, without another word,  he knew exactly what he had done wrong and stopped. He also gave me a wide berth for the rest of the day.

And the “kids” don’t have to be young either. Or even see you. A friend and I went to the movies this winter to see the latest sci-fi/action epic (quick review: meh). As the theater filled, several teenagers took seats in the very front and started talking loudly. I didn’t care as the only thing on the screen was commercials but as the film started they only got louder. Out came my Dad Voice, a bit louder than I would use with my own boys, but these kids were older and needed more “intense” help to correct their behavior. One “SHUT UP!” was all it took to get the kids to settle down and enjoy the film like they were real human beings. My friend congratulated me on my Dad Voice, and the people next to us even shook my hand after the movie was over. To be fair, the people who shook my hand were  —  how do I put this gently? — “weirdos” but it was nice to see others appreciated my Dad Voice as well.

The Dad Voice: Don’t leave home without it. And it’s best to have it at home as well.

Originally published on stltoday.com