Dadblog

Had to try it

On Sunday afternoon, Andrew and I drove Uncle Bill home to West Philadelphia. It was a lovely day, and the scent of barbecue was everywhere, making Andrew salivate.

"What's that smell? It's delicious! Can we go?"

I had left Elizabeth to play with neighbor kids. Andrew had changed his mind about coming with me at the last second, but I told him he had to travel. (Leaving two kids is way, way outside the boundaries of acceptable behavior.) He was grumpy about that, so I offered a compromise. When we got home, I said, we'd make a picnic and take it to the park for dinner.

We came home and Andrew and I picked up playing with the neighbors. I thought the subject might be forgotten, but when Rachel came home Andrew informed her of my promise. She agreed it sounded nice, but what would we eat. "Fried chicken," I declared. Then I set out to find some.

I was back in 25 minutes with some supermarket fried chicken - bronze colored, breaded and sitting under a heat lamp for three hours, grapes, and tortilla chips. Elizabeth was also bronze colored, appeared breaded and hot. Alex came home from dress rehearsal for her play and flopped on the couch, asking to be reminded to go to bed early. Andrew and Elizabeth started picking at each other. If this picnic had been an airline flight, it would have been canceled due to engine maintenance, but we figured that getting out of the house would improve everyone's mood.

We put the exhausted youngest child in the big wagon and tugged it up the hill to the school playground. Rachel had to use an angry voice to break up the argument over who was going to get to pull the wagon up the hill, claiming that privilege for herself.

At the school, we sat around the circular picnic table and Rachel passed out plates and cups. I distributed chicken parts. The weather was a perfect 72 degrees and there were still hints of flowering trees perfuming the air. Another family on the playground looked over at us with admiration. "Whose idea?" the mother asked. Rachel and I pointed with our non-chicken-holding hands to our beaming son.

After a few minutes of pleasant eating, the kids put their food down and ran to the swings. Alex and Andrew were laughing and playing together, and I mentioned to Rachel that I never get tired of seeing that sight. I still reflexively fear that she's going to punk him. Elizabeth started calling for me to push her on the swings. I had already pushed her on the swings for about an hour earlier in the day during Andrew's t-ball game, so I didn't jump up when summoned.

I asked Rachel if she pushes Elizabeth on the swings every day after school. "Sometimes I do," she said. "Sometimes I don't, and sometimes I look up and some other parent is pushing her." The calling continued so I went over to do my fatherly duty.

After a few minutes of "Higher! Higher! Now Underdoggie!" I suggested that we play Red Light Green Light. I waved Rachel over to join us, but when she heard my plan she rolled her eyes. As in, you should know better.

For context, last weekend at the picnic, I was very impressed with the host dad who (without being asked by his wife) assembled all the kids and when they were tired of kickball and got them all playing party games. Specificly, he played a CD, had the kids dance, then freeze when he hit PAUSE. Anyone caught moving after the music stopped was out, and the last survivor got to operate the PAUSE button on the next round. Everyone between ages four and nine loved it. I was very impressed by this dad's initiative. He made me see that if you want kids to just go play, sometimes you need to provide matches and fuel. Metaphorically, of course.

Hence, my offer to play Red Light Green Light. The caller stands at one end of the playing area, and everyone else assembles about 15 feet away. The caller turns his back on the players, announces "Green Light" and the players start moving towards him. The caller, at a random moment, calls "Red Light" and spins on his heel. The players must freeze. If the caller sees them move, he sends them back to the starting line. Then he faces away from them and calls "Green light" again. This pattern continues until someone gets close enough to touch the caller.

Problem one: Everyone wants to be the caller, and some overly tired players are willing to climb jungle gyms and pout if they don't get their way.

Problem two: Some children, when finally elected callers, call "Red light" and then scrutinize all players for 120 seconds, disqualifying them for breathing and hair gently waving with the breeze.

Problem three: After six rounds of problem two, when nobody has been allowed to get more than three paces from the starting line, players revolt and leave the game, infuriating not only the caller but those children who realize they will never get the chance to be caller (see problem one).

On a less tired day, maybe with another family around to inspire good behavior, this would have worked. We left the playground wistful about the picnic we might have had. But the chicken was surprisingly tasty.

Sunday fun

Rachel needed some hours without interruption to complete an assignment for the preschool, so I took the three rapscallions for the afternoon on Sunday by myself. At Alex's suggestion, we went to the zoo. Andrew was against this, for some reason. He wanted to go to the park. Specifically, he wanted his friend Albert, who lives near the park, to join us there. (Hidden just below the surface was a hope that Albert would then invite him in to play computer games.) Since the goal was to guarantee a few hours out of the house, and going to the park would mean we'd be back within 30 minutes, I had to veto Andrew's choice. And boy, was he miserable about it.

Some days Andrew can save the tears for big injuries, but on Sunday he was very quick to cry. (To be fair, I was also a little grumpy from staying up late the night before with Uncle Bill and his friends.) Alex stepped in, in her new mature mode, trying to make Andrew happy. When she complained to me that despite her efforts, Andrew's gloom wouldn't budge, I tried to explain that he was loving every minute of her sympathy and not going to do anything to lose it. Still, she persevered. She told him that he could sit with her in the back row of the minivan on the ride over. Elizabeth was much more tolerant of this switch than I expected her to be. We had a decent ride over to 34th and Girard, but I had to ask Andrew a few times to swallow his fussing.

At the zoo's front gates, Alex produced six quarters and three pennies, enough to treat both her siblings to a souvenir coin with a picture crushed onto it. Andrew and Elizabeth were extremely impressed, and I was very pleased with Alex's generosity. I don't know why I would have absolutely refused to do this for my children, considering the happiness that $1.53 bought them. Elizabeth showed off her kangaroo penny to the guard who scanned our membership card.

This past weekend was the Frog Olympics. Kids could compete in five events and have their scores recorded on a little numbered card. Each successfully completed event would reveal a secret letter. The first event, adjacent to the kangaroo enclosure, was a standing long jump. Alex and Elizabeth both hopped. Andrew, still holding on to his hurt feelings, declined to participate. When Alex saw that the secret letter for event #1 was F her eyes rolled. "A five-letter word, starting with F, that pertains to frogs," she said. "What could it be?"

Event #2 in the reptile house was a relay race with ping-pong balls and teaspoons. Alex preferred to watch the snakes, but Elizabeth was excited to participate.

Event #3 was in the education building. I've been visiting the zoo multiple times per year for almost a decade, and this was my first trip inside this building. Here the kids had to walk on big frog feet. We Sterns know something about walking on big feet! Even Andrew had to participate. Alex tried sharing her cynical remark about the first three revealed letters (the next two were R and O) with a boy her age, but he didn't seem to get it.

After bigfooting, we toured the big cat exhibit. Elizabeth rushed forward to sit alongside the lioness.

RIght after I snapped this photo, she got very still and put her thumb in her mouth, just like she does when she's cuddled up next to our own housecat. A mother nearby told me that her three-year-old is "crazy-crazy" about lions. I asked her if they come here regularly, thinking of that hippo fan we met in the park last weekend. When I asked Rachel if she ever wished one of her children needed regular pilgrimages to see a hippo, she admitted that the sense of purpose was compelling.

We continued past the jaguar - that's one big, muscular, ropy cat - and through the tigers. Our next objective was the treehouse, the indoor playground at the Philadelphia Zoo. Some parents dislike the treehouse because for all the hassle and expense of getting into the zoo, why spend your time in the place with no animals? But I don't care. If the kids are having fun, then why fuss about it? 

The fifth station of the Frog Olympics was inside the treehouse. (We never did see #4, so we still don't know for sure what FRO-S spells.) Here, the kids had to slide across the short field on a scooterboard and return in a sack, all symbolizing the metamorphosis from tadpole to frog. Elizabeth has done lots of scooterboard work in physical therapy.

Alex and Andrew also competed in this event three times just for the thrill of it.

By the third time, Andrew was freestyling his frog makeover.

After an hour in the treehouse, I'd had enough. We walked back to the car and went to go buy ice cream and pants. At Old Navy, Elizabeth surprised me by emphatically requesting blue jeans. I had thought she'd never wear anything other than dresses and tights, but she was clear about her ambition. She even picked out a pair and got the size right on her first try (although I think that was just luck.)

She has worn them every day since.

wash your hands after reading this post

I've been spending Wednesday nights this fall rehearsing with the Chorale at our alma mater. Rachel's done it for two years, and this semester she sent me in her place. I joined reluctantly, going against a promise I'd made to myself as an 18-year-old never to be conducted again, but I was surprised by how much I enjoyed it.

In preparation for last weekend's concert, we had an additional practice on Thursday night from 7 to 10. I called Rachel at 10 to let her know that I was planning to meet with a student who's going to do an internship at my office. She didn't answer the phone - odd, I thought - so I left a message. Ten minutes later, I heard back that Elizabeth had done some violent vomiting in my absence, and could I please, please come home very, very quickly. I made the meeting with the student short, and headed home. The kids were asleep, and Rachel was agitated and skeeved by the amount of throw-up she'd had to clean up. Also, in the aftermath, some combination of bathroom space heater and vaccum cleaner tripped a circuit breaker, so Rachel had a naked, confused, sick kid wet from the bath, in the dark to deal with. Fortunately Alex was still awake and had been able to help somewhat with the drier of the necessary chores.

We were up again a few more times in the night to help Elizabeth with more sick episodes, each requiring another change of sheets, blankets and pillows. Even though the volume was way down, her aim was still terrible.

The next morning, Rachel kept Elizabeth home from school and I stayed home from work to help cover bases. We called my parents and told them they didn't have to come visit if they were scared. They thanked us for the courtesy but decided to come in spite of the dangerous plague.

On Saturday - after another Chorale dress rehearsal - Rachel and I went to my company's holiday party. We had booked a room at the hotel. My mom, dad and brother were going to keep the kids alive for the night. Sometime after dessert, I knew things were going wrong inside my GI tract. I woke up at 3:00 am to make a mad dash to the bathroom. I made a lot of trips there over the next six hours. Rachel got up, swam in the pool, lingered over breakfast, read the newspaper and brought me tea while I sweated in the bed. We checked out at 11:30 and drove home where the kids were happy to see us and my parents reported excellent behavior while we were gone. I fled upstairs to my bed, where I spent the rest of the day watching the Eagles lose. getting up only to run back to the toilet. I couldn't get warm, despite six blankets on top of me, and the one time I went downstairs to get a glass of ginger ale so exhausted me that I slept for three hours afterwards.

I didn't make it to sing at my concert. I got through four years of college without an explosive fecal humiliation in front of a large crowd and saw no reason to tarnish that record.

The next day, Monday, I woke up feeling pretty good. I went to work, didn't eat much, and survived having no coffee. That night, Alex woke us up at midnight to announce that she'd just thrown up. The dear child had tried to make it to the toilet but fell just a few feet short of her goal. Rachel ran a bath for her while I fetched a trash bag and a roll of paper towels. From the tub Alex watched me, on my hands and knees, try to mop up the vast lake of partially digested pasta and sauce. She apologized mournfully, and I told her, all kidding aside, cleaning up your kid's puke isn't so terrible. It's something that fathers just do. Also, it was good for my marriage that I got to take a turn at this job.

Even after I wiped every surface with disinfectant wipes, Rachel could still see bugs crawling everywhere, taunting her, reminding her that "you're next!!" She did finally succumb yesterday. I called to tell her that my train was late and she answered "ohhh, ohh I don' feel so good...." Andrew fell asleep in his clothes before 7 pm without even having eaten dinner. They stayed home from school today, and all seem to be approaching normal again after 24 hours. And our house smells like Lysol, a comforting smell under the circumstances.

delivery at odds with content

Every night before dinner, our family takes a moment to be thankful. The scripted version has us all at the table, food plated in front of us, and everybody has a drink and a napkin. Everyone - and this is crucial - has to be sitting down, butt in the chair. At this moment, Rachel or I invite a child to say grace. The agreed upon phrase is: "Thank you for this food, thank you for each other, let's eat." It's as religious or personal as the person hearing it wants it to be.

Most of the time, Lizzie wants to say it. She says, "Dankyoo dishis food, dankyoo dishee-sud-uh wets eat." Super cute.

Sometimes Andrew wants to say grace (with better diction). Lizzie will not tolerate this. Half the time she just screams while he intones the 10-second phrase and the other half she says it over him, or right after. Having both kids say grace wouldn't be bad, but Andrew feels marginalized by this and gets grumpy. It doesn't take much of their fighting to get Alex to offer her opinion (it's unkind) on this situation and its utter banality. 

I'm still in favor of the family eating together. I know the statistics. I also know that Lizzie won't be three much longer. This should get easier with time.

It's Fall - get up that hill!

This morning was the start of school. The weather was perfect late summer warm. Everyone slept through the night. I gently brushed three rosy cheeks awake at 7:30 am. Clothes picked out the night before were waiting on the foot of every bed.

I don't often get to participate in the morning ritual, because in the past wake-ups were conducted at 8:00 am, after I'd left to catch my train to work. However, now that Rachel is working at the preschool, we decided to get the action started earlier to avoid last minute crises. With my help, the novelty of Dad + the first day of school, Andrew and Lizzie were dressed by 7:35, well ahead of schedule.

Rachel called later to tell me that Andrew quickly made himself at home in the first grade waiting zone. Alex didn't even pause to say goodbye before she ran up the steps into the school, away from her family. She was irked by Rachel's requirement that she walk Andrew up the hill every morning until futher notice. I suggested that we put Andrew on a skateboard and tie a rope around his middle and let Alex drag him up. I think that Andrew will soon align himself with Zeke, the 9-year-old across the street, and let Alex stay a few paces behind with Zeke's sister.

Tonight I will go home and hear reports. I'm not expecting to hear much. From 2004:

Alex has had very little to say about first grade. It seems to involve coloring and tracing. I keep waiting for the teacher to start segregating the classroom into little bantus of reading ability. Maybe she already did that and Alex hasn't told me. Whenever I ask her about school, she says "it was like usual." She said that on the first day. It's an annoying little joke. It reminds me of all the times I didn't tell my parents about school.

Lizzie starts school later this month. I can count on her to give me juicy details.

home again, lickedy-split

Rachel and the kids are back home again! I picked them up at the airport Sunday afternoon, and we all exchanged unselfconcious hugs and kisses outside Terminal E's security zone. I guess the podium there has seen its share of smooches over the years. Kind of like the duck pond at Haverford College. Sigh.

Lizzie had refused to empty her bladder before she left her grandparents' house, and this made things difficult when Rachel and the three kids had to navigate a very long looping line to get all their suitcases into the bomb sniffing machine, and Lizzie suddenly realized that she had to pee super bad.

As we pulled up to the house, Myrtle was ready to pounce on Alex. They had a joyous reunion. Andrew was glum that he doesn't have a ready-access friend next door like Alex does. He says it's not fair, and it sure isn't. I don't know what to do about it. Already at the top of a downward emotional slope, Andrew started to cry over a personalized guitar strap that Alex revealed she'd started for her brother's birthday, but abandoned when she ran out of time/forgot how to cross stitch. Andrew next realized that he couldn't even remember what Alex HAD given him to observe and honor his sixth birthday, and he suspected that maybe since he couldn't remember, that she hadn't given him anything at all! Tears flowed, but probably because he was tired and mixed up about leaving paradise.

Lizzie was cuter and more talkative than the picture of her that I'd fixed in my mind, but she also picked up a bit of a whine while she was away. As in, "I want a drink of waaaaa-tttt-errrrrr!" with a grating musical tone. When challenged on her delivery, she quickly revises it to "May I please have a drink of water?" I hope that this lesson can be fast tracked.

dinner, done

Andrew and Lizzie got dragged around a lot yesterday afternoon. First, they accompanied Alex to her dentist appointment. Next, they had to go to her piano lesson. In between, they all stopped at the bulk food store and the childrens book shop. They were picking up survival gear for the flight to Chicago later this month. Last weekend, Andrew had obtained a baseball-sized jawbreaker candy at Alex's Lemonade Stand and made a weeklong project of finishing it. His sisters were a little jealous, and so they all got fresh jawbreakers for the road, along with other treats.

After piano, after some improvised scheduling, the caravan picked me up at the Bryn Mawr train station so I could help Alex find her missing shoes at the theater where she's performing in The Wizard of Oz tomorrow night. The shoes were found in the dressing room, in a predictable location, in a bag helpfully labeled STERN. Alex is so sophisticated that sometimes Rachel and I forget that she's just a kid, until she has trouble finding her shoes in a bag with her name on it.

All together, on the town, on the last day of school, we decided to go out for Vietnamese food. We parked in the municipal lot and walked into the restaurant. It's a fancy enough palce that it doesn't have booster seats because it doesn't expect that kind of clientele. We were easily the loudest, most underdressed party in the room. Rachel thinks that some of the older folks at nearby tables were looking at us with dismay. I only saw smiles for my beautiful children. I may be fantasizing.

Rachel walked with Alex to the bathroom and left me to order food. I heard cries for NOODLES, louder than strictly necessary. Andrew saw a photo of a yellow milkshake on the back page of the menu and wanted juice. I said "maybe later." Rachel and Alex returned, and Alex and Lizzie disassembled all the carefully folded napkin tents in an effort to learn their architectural secret. Rachel and I kept moving the water glasses out of knockdown zones.

The waiter took our order. Andrew started to grumble about a basketball candy he'd bought. It was being held in reserve for the trip, but he wanted to sample it. Lizzie was getting more and more visibly tired. Alex took the book that Rachel produced for Lizzie and started to read it. Rachel objected, and Alex protested that Lizzie had given her permission. Rachel produced crayons from her pocketbook.

Sensing Lizzie's imminent implosion, I took her outside to check out the neighborhood. We were gone for fifteen minutes, at which time the spring rolls arrived at the table. Andrew tasted the daikon radish and made a face inappropriate for a restaurant that demanded correction. Lizzie ate a little bit, then moved to Rachel's lap.

We waited another fifteen minutes for entrees. Lizzie stayed put on her mother's lap and looked paler by the second.

At this point, I began to reconsider the wisdom of going out to dinner the night after Lizzie had thrown up twice. This isn't foreshadowing - she didn't barf - but the prospect of a showstopper event was looming over both her parents. 

As the food arrived, Andrew asked again about the juice. Considering the time lag between ordering and receiving, I told him it wasn't available. He started to snort, snarl and curl his lip. Rachel told him that she was willing to take him to the car and wait out the rest of dinner if he couldn't behave. He rolled his eyes. We let that pass. Lizzie took a few bites that Rachel offered and closed her eyes. Alex used utensils most of the time. There was one noodle-dangling incident (head tipped back, arm held high) that got her parents chippy.

We ate everything as quickly as we could. Both parents were in a hurry to escape without a major event. Andrew grumbled just softly enough that we wouldn't have to hear him if we chose not to. We pick our battles, you see.

We are just not ready to go out to fancy dinners yet.

Lots of fighting

Rachel and I ask Lizzie what color bowl she wants to eat from - blue or green. There are also yellow, red and orange, but she's not interested in those colors so we don't ask. It's blue or green, and Lizzie gets first choice.

Lizzie picks blue. We know this in advance.

Andrew claims the green bowl. As soon as the bowl is served to him, Lizzie realizes her mistake and screams for green. Again, it's predictable.

Sometimes, thinking that logic might influence matters, we remind Lizzie that she could have had any color and she wanted blue, so we gave it to her. It's what she wanted. This step is optional, because it doesn't matter anyway.

Andrew will sometimes allow Lizzie to usurp his choice. He really doesn't care what bowl he eats from. Most of the time, though, he gets fed up with the tyranny of the three year old sister and stands his ground. He is going to keep the green bowl, dammit, and Lizzie had just better learn to adapt. Some people will consider this reasonable. After all, Lizzie's tactics are completely unfair, and not suited for life in the larger world outside our house. She needs to learn, etc., etc. However, she is still just three and it's the end of a long day for all of us and she's completely exhausted. We just want to eat in peace.

The longer Lizzie screams, the harder it makes her return to equilibrium. She needs a long hug to stop crying, and once she's on a lap at the dinner table, it's hard to expell her and even harder to eat over her.

Rachel told me yesterday that the local ABC home likes to send students to eat dinner with nearby families. I said we could consider it next year. 

don't make gagging noises about other people's dinner

This past Saturday, Rachel and I woke up to a blissfully quiet house. Alex and Andrew had slept over at their friends' house the night before, and Lizzie was cheerfully playing the role of contented only child. We read the newspaper, drank coffee and lingered over breakfast together. Just before we left the house to get the kids and launch our day, we also picked up Myrtle, who was going to have to tour the outlet malls with her mom and aunt if we didn't rescue her.

Our destination was the high school pool, where Andrew has swimming lessons. (Alex swims after school, so we let her disenroll for this session.) Andrew had been dreading the arrival of Saturday for the entire week, as he was scared of his teacher and concerned that he was in over his head after accepting the promotion to level 4. He kept repeating "I WISH I didn't have to go. I'm NOT going," in a dirge-like chant for the drive to the pool. Alex and Myrtle tried to pick up his spirits with encouraging anecdotes about their own triumphs over level 4. When we got there, though, with ten seconds to spare, Andrew announced that he was not getting out of the car for anything or anyone.

Rachel somehow found the magic words to whisper in his ear and he raced her to the door of the pool entrance. I kept the three girls outside, and half an hour later when Andrew emerged, he was triumphant. The teacher had been kind, he had excelled, and all the fear and loathing of earlier that morning was forgotten. Rachel helped him dress behind a towel modesty screen and the girls insisted that they weren't peeking. Lately there has been a lot of concern in our house about who has seen whose bottom.

We drove straight downtown to deliver Andrew, Lizzie and Rachel to Sound All Around at the Academy of Music five minutes before the start of the 11:15 concert. I took Alex and Myrtle to explore the Italian Market in South Philly. We parked in a nearby municipal lot and started walking through the stalls.

Originally I had planned to just go with Alex, and maybe even do a little grocery shopping, but with lots of exteremely ripe produce to consider, I gave up trying to do any more than keep the two girls in my custody from bumping any strangers as they held hands and danced side by side along the sidewalk. They were both weirded out by the meat shops, particularly the Peking Duck and roast suckling pig. They started reinforcing each others' reactions. The live crabs scuttling around the bucket also freaked them out.

One of my strong memories of the market from my first visit years ago was a three foot long goliath rabbit carcass hanging in the butcher shop window. I made a mental note to detour around that store with the girls.

Interestingly, we've been eating a LOT less meat this year, but for reasons related more to health and sustainable agriculture than sentimentality. We used to joke that Alex had no problem with what was referred to in "Charlotte's Web" as "the hard facts of farm life." As a five year old, she was perfectly happy with her position on the top of the food chain. On Saturday, though, she was revulsed by the intimate glimpse of where meat comes from.

Was it nascent vegetarianism, or trying to show something to Myrtle? I'm sure it's the latter. One of the things that stresses Alex is when she tries to either be like her friends, or get them to be more like her. Adults, with the security and self-awareness that maturity hopefully brings, can usually accept their friends' odd behavior without needing to either copy or condemn it.

bedtime mishegas

On Wednesday nights, Rachel goes to rehearsal and I do bedtime by myself. I usually start Andrew and Lizzie on the path to bath by 7:00 pm, but last night the three kids were playing a vigorous game of Hide and Seek, and I was not willing to bust up kids playing nicely without bickering. Lizzie loves H&S. As the seeker, she's better about covering her eyes without peeking now than she used to be, but it's best to run out of the room when she starts counting. She counts "1-2-3-4-5-seben-ay-nigh-10! Here me come!"

At 7:20, though, mindful of my evaporating night, I called the game on account of darkness and started leading the little guys upstairs. I reminded Alex to get started on her homework. Lizzie drooped and told me "I tired. I'm ready for bed!" Andrew slumped, reminded that his mom was out of the house, which always makes him sad. Luckily, I had a full, pink bottle of Mr. Bubble with which to lure them to the tub.

Andrew pulled his clothing off in a flash and hopped in the tub while Lizzie was still finishing up on the toilet. She saw him in the deepest, fluffiest reserve of bubbles and started screaming, "I go in front! I GO IN FRONT!!" When Liz gets tired, like any three-year-old, her tolerance for any setback vanishes. Staying calm, I pursuaded her that while it was currently Andrew's turn, that it would be over in a few moments. Lizzie raged, but then got in the tub - couldn't resist the bubbles - and settled into the copilot's seat. Andrew offered her the front a minute later.

Lizzie's hair was smelling a little stale, kind of like a bus seat, but there was no way I was going to talk her into the hair wash in her fragile emotional state. I valued peace over hygiene.

After the third scream of conflict, I reached in and unplugged the tub. Both kids hopped out and I presented them with towels and pajamas. Lizzie likes to pretend that she's her baby cousin and curl up very still in my lap while I dry her. (The real Baby Margaret prefers walking around to snuggling, but Lizzie hasn't altered her narrative to match reality. This really bothers Alex and Andrew.) Andrew sometimes watches and gets a little jealous, so he'll hop in my lap too. He's all knees and elbows.

Pajamas on, we brushed teeth and moved to the bedroom for reading time. I sat on the glider with Lizzie on my lap and a blanket over the both of us. Andrew was going to look at some easy readers while I read to Lizzie, but he perched on the edge of his bed following Lizzie's stories. I was relieved that Lizzie wasn't fussing about this. Rachel and I are on tenterhooks a lot of the time, waiting for a tired preschooler's next raging storm.

Downstairs I heard Alex noodling on the piano, then building Thomas train track layouts on the living room floor. I wondered if she was really done with her homework already. Actually, she was "stuck" because she couldn't find any lined paper. She would make some, but she didn't know where to find a ruler. And since I was busy, she figured she would play. We discussed this later.

Lizzie sat peaceably through Andrew's two books. I thought things were going pretty well. I turned out the light, put Lizzie in her bed and was about to curl up next to her when Andrew lamented that I ALWAYS lie with Lizzie first. Could I lie down with HIM tonight first?

This stopped me. It's true, I do always lie with Lizzie first. Rachel lies down next to Andrew at the same time when we're doing bedtime together. This is just how it's always been. Was Andrew feeling less loved? I said okay, I would lie down with him first tonight.

That unleashed Lizzie's unholy howls. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! Wie down wit ME FIRST!!! NOT ANDWOOOO!"

"Okay, it's okay, lie down with her first," Andrew retreated, "if she's going to cry about it."

This was a quandry. On the one hand, nobody wants to cave in to terroristic crying. On the other hand, smart dads don't change the rules of bedtime when routine-craving children are very tired. I decided to play it as Andrew's generosity to be complimented, rather than capitulating to Lizzie's assualt. She thanked him with some prompting from me.

After two minutes, I got up and lay down next to the dude, and two minutes later I was out of the room, promising to tell Mommy to come upstairs when she returned home. I went downstairs to face dirty dishes and piss-poor excuses for unstarted homework. After thirty minutes, I heard an argument leaking down the stairs. I was surprised, since I'd expected both kids to pass out in minutes. I dried my hands and went to lay down the law.

Lizzie was lying in Andrew's bed, perpendicular to the normal alignment, with her feet in Andrew's face. He was pressed up against the guardrail, making unhappy noises. He'd invited her in for a sleepover, but was regretting it now. (He could have forseen this outcome. It's not unprecedented.) I popped Lizzie and her pillow into her bed while she screamed, cried and thrashed in protest. I tried to speak with her, but she had left the rational world behind and couldn't be reached. I left the room for a few minutes. The Philadelphia Inquirer was lying on my bed across the hall, so I read a few articles and returned to try again.

Lizzie allowed herself to be mollified when I laid down next to her a second time. I was out again in two minutes, and Andrew was already asleep. It was a few minutes to 9:00 pm. Nothing to brag to Rachel about when she returned.

Downstairs, I refused to let Alex engage me in conversation until her homework was done. On Wednesdays she has to construct sentences using spelling words. She takes pride in coming up with clever ones, but if she doesn't feel inspired it can take her an hour to write ten of them, and that's with a parent haranguing her to stop margin-doodling already. I sent her up to bed at 9:30. She knows the specific tasks that she must accomplish on her own - brushing hair and teeth, putting dirty clothes in the hamper and turning off the light. I bade her goodnight and said I'd come up to check on her. I started reading and forgot to go up and check on her. Alex also started reading and "forgot" that she was supposed to turn off the light. She bounded downstairs when Rachel came home at 10:00 pm. Another absence of paternal bragging.