Well, I guess the way to wake up people around here is to question the status quo on parenting.

The results are in to yesterday’s poll question. To refresh your memory I asked, “How late is too late for a 2 or 3 year old toddler to be out?”

136 people have responded in the past 24 hours.

58% said 8:00 - 9:00 p.m.
27% said 7:00 - 8:00 p.m.
9% said “It’s never too late.”
6% said 6:00 - 7:00 p.m.

The comments I’ve received both here and at TheBlogfathers where I cross-posted this have been a combination of “I agree” and “There are extenuating circumstances”.

Of course there are extenuating circumstances. Many focused on the bedtime itself, explaining they needed to keep their kids up so they could spend time with them after work. I totally understand this as I get maybe 30 to 40 minutes of time with my kids before bedtime. My issue is with parents keeping their children out on the town at an hour that is generally pretty late for a small child.

But that’s me. That’s my circumstance. A set schedule, when parenting twins, is so important because one cranky child is bad enough. Two cranky toddlers makes one want to take an ice pick and jam into the ear canal to make the whining stop. We do all we can to make sure our children stay on schedule.

So that’s that. Perhaps I’ll try and steer clear of the judgmental parenting for the time being.

Whenever I go out to run errands or just go somewhere to relax, it is usually after the kids have been put to bed. In our household bedtime is 7:00 p.m.

Because it is the norm to have our very-ready-for-sleep kids go to bed at this hour, it amazes me how many people I see out toting their toddlers around town. Right now, as I type this, it is 9:40 p.m. on a Saturday night. A couple just walked into The Coffee Bean coffee shop, where I have staked out a spot, with their 2 year old son.

Is this more of a norm than I thought? Different strokes for different folks? Should I just mind my own business?

Yeah, I should just mind my own business.

For the past several weeks the lovely wife has been poring over our financial existence. Retirement funds, school loans, salaries, college funds, piggy banks, lottery tickets and anything else related to our financial future.

The goal? Well, apparently there will be a time when we’re too old to work and, according to my lovely wife, we need to be prepared for that day. While she liked my idea of raising genius, fabulously rich children that will take care of us in our senior days, she thought we can’t put all of our pennies in that basket. So, we have to spend our days talking about this type of fund and that type of fund and whether we want to eat filet mignon in our senior days or live off of cat food.

Personally, I think cat food could be quite tasty.

Seriously though, it’s really hard to decide today what kind of life you want to have 26 years from now. Will we want to travel? Hell yeah! Do we want to visit our grandkids after they have moved somewhere significantly far from where we live? You bet! Do we want to live in our current mansion or downsize to a condo that has a community center with a bingo night? It depends on whether they play for money or not.

There are so many variables and wants and only a finite amount of resources. I mean, I do work for a non-profit and while my retirement plan is probably the best you’ll see at a non-profit, it still isn’t going to allow me to jet set to Europe every year. I’d love for us to pay for our kids education entirely but, realistically, they’ll have to contribute something so they’ll need to be either awesome athletes or brainiacs to the nth degree.

So, I want to take this opportunity to thank my Honey for making sure we won’t be panhandling along the Pacific Ocean in our older years and remind Swee’Pea and TheMonk that I’ll do all that I can to ensure their success.

But if they become fabulously rich… This blog is documentation of how great a parent I’ve been.

I’m just sayin’…

We just had some friends stay for the weekend. We spent a good amount of time straightening up before they arrived so they would think that we are super parents with twins who don’t have a small collection of Hot Wheels, plastic fruit and stale Cheerios living under our coffee table. We wanted them to think our house is always this nice.

And speaking of nice, some people go to great lengths to keep their house smelling nice. There is an entire industry devoted to this single aspect of home living. There are candles, plug-ins, sprays, carpet powders and potpourri in just about any scent you can imagine. If you want your house to smell lemony fresh with a touch of oatmeal raisin cookies, it is possible to combine a few of the above products and - voilà - instant warmth.

But if you have TWO toddlers who are programmed to excrete a toxic-waste-like poop each and every night at about the same time Lindsay Lohan is puking from her last amaretto sour, AND it has been so hot where you live that the Air Conditioner has become permanently set to “Igloo” then you are apt to wake to a different aroma emanating from the air ducts into each and every room of the house. Waking up to Folgers, it’s not.

Every now and then I get a whiff of what is the unmistakable smell of my kids poop. (BTW, it it just me or can you also identify your kid’s poop smell in a crowded room of toddlers?) My fear is that we’ve become accustomed to this smell. Much like your best friends house in the third grade who’s parents were from India and when you walked into the musty house you thought… “Don’t they smell this funk?” Did our guests smell this too? If they did, they were polite about it and puked in the guest bathroom with the door closed.

So, if you’re in the neighborhood, you are welcome to stop by anytime. We are great hosts and will welcome you with open arms to our humble abode. However, it might be a good idea to take along some lemons or oatmeal raisin cookies (and please don’t check under the coffee table).

Where have I been you ask?

Well, no, actually no one asked.

I mean, Metrodad goes a week without posting and people apparently send out search dogs and hold candle-light vigils. But does anyone wonder where good old Matthew went? Nooooooo.

But I digress.

Anyway, if you were wondering where I’ve been this past week it would be a long story. A long story that involves barfing, body aches and deeply religious overtures to God, Buddha, Abba, Yahweh, Allah, George Burns and Morgan Freeman.

It would involve a lovely romantic tale of a married couple puking together (Thank George Burns for two and a half bathrooms) hours after their son spread bodily fluids throughout our house.

It would involve can’t-miss work meetings while aches permeated every sense and only made possible by ingesting large amounts of pain killer and swigging Imodium AD (After Death?) from the bottle.

It would involve weekend trips to the after-hours pediatrician to have ear infections diagnosed on not one but both Swee’Pea and TheMonk.

It would not involve one solid meal for four straight days.

It would involve two parents bargaining with each other and with employers to take time off to care for two sick kids but not for each other.

But as with any great story it would also feature great dramatic turns where just as it seems evil and darkness would prevail, light and the pink stuff (in the guise of Pepto and Omoxyciliin) snuffed out all evil.

The end of the story would show a calm lake with early morning sunlight breaking through the clouds to reveal a day of normalcy. A day when Mommy and Daddy went to work. A day where Swee’Pea and Monk went to daycare. A day where schedules became the norm rather than the exception.

It would have been a great story. But I’m too tired to tell it. I’m going to bed now.

No candle-light vigils, please.

Now I know that I’ve written before about how I’m not looking forward to this potty training thing. However, something just happened that makes me even more sure that this potty training thing is a bit overrated.

This morning I had morning duty with the kids while Mommy got some much-deserved rest. At some point I became aware that I was going to have to use the facility - or as we now say in our household, “Go caca” (which is the spanish word for Poo Poo for those of you that aren’t bilingual).

Two things bothered me about this revelation. One, I wouldn’t be able to set up office in the restroom with this week’s Sports Illustrated or the Sunday Target Ads. The second, was that I didn’t want to call attention to me having to use the facility by enclosing the twins in our “kid safe” zone. Instead, I let them watch Sign Language videos while I quietly snuck into the downstairs bathroom to do some quick business, leaving the door slightly ajar.

No sooner had I settled down when TheMonk appeared. Normally, he’s not allowed to go into the downstairs restroom because it’s where we have the cat food and water - something that is far more interesting to little toddlers than it should be. Taking advantage of my compromised position, he sauntered in with a mischevious half-smile that seemed to say, “Try getting me out of here with your pants around your ankles, Daddy.”

As I hurried the act, TheMonk pointed out all the things in the bathroom. “Kitty Food…” “Kitty Water…” and if there was any doubt to what Daddy was doing, “Daddy, Ca Ca!”

This announcement piqued the interest of another little one in the house and Swee’Pea arrived to see the spectacle. Suddenly, I felt very exposed. I also realized that the only thing left for me to do was wipe. Now, if it was meant for humans to watch each other wipe, God wouldn’t have invented doors. But there I was, about to wipe, with four little eyes intently watching.

I stood up quickly to do the deed and took care of business as quickly as possible. While doing this, TheMonk pointed to the bowl and yelled, once again, “Daddy Ca Ca!”

I am finally done and I pull up my pants with my audience following my every move. I decide to ensure they see all aspects of using the toilet by announcing that I’m going to wash my hands. This isn’t nearly as exciting as watching Daddy poop so the crowd disperses in much the same way after police have cleaned up a crime scene - they both move along.

I finish washing my hands and reflect on this experience. I know that all the potty training books advocate having the kids watch a parent to see what this “using the potty” thing is all about. It’s something I’m not looking forward to. Then I remember… There’s another parent in this household.

Let’s all go watch Mommy! Yay!

To my son and daughter,

This week, my little ones, a very angry man took the lives of 32 innocent young men and women at a university in Virginia. I wish that I could explain why or how something like this could happen but when things like this happen, it’s difficult to pinpoint a reason. Even saying it’s “God’s plan” seems hollow.

What I do know is that as I read about the unfulfilled promise of so many, all I could think about was you. It is times like this that push home the stark reality that I will not always be around to protect you from all the bad, angry people of this world. As hard as I pray and as tightly as I hold on, I know deep down that I cannot be there for you all of the time.

As I read about this tragedy I think of the parents of these victims and how they must feel. How they must feel knowing they will never feel the embrace of their only son or the beautiful smile of their youngest daughter. I cannot imagine the despair and anguish these parents are feeling but I do know that were something to happen to you, life as I know it would end.

As you grow and become more aware of your surroundings my hope is that I can prepare you on how to deal with the bad, angry people you may encounter in your life. I hope to teach you to turn the other cheek when accosted. I hope to teach you that being alive tomorrow is more important than being arrogant today. I hope to teach you to pick your friends wisely.

But none of those lessons would have saved these 32 beautiful people whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I want you to know something now - and you will learn more about this as you get older, I’m sure. But I feel very strongly that guns are not the answer to a safer society. While I am a proud, patriotic American who understands why our forefathers insisted on the right to bear arms in our constitution, I feel that this “right” has turned very, very wrong.

It is because of the right to bear arms that I worry about you, Monk, being shot and killed by a gang member because you happened to be wearing the wrong color in the wrong neighborhood as happens three or four times a year near where I work. It is because of our right to bear arms that I worry, Swee’Pea, that you could be assaulted in ways no Daddy wants to imagine happening to his daughter.

The old adage is that guns don’t kill people - people kill people. This is a gross simplization of a very complex problem that has been growing for generations. All I know is that this week 32 innocent people died because a crazy person was able to buy a gun in the same way I order flowers for your mother.

Because of this, I want you to understand the impact that guns have on people’s lives. Because of this impact you will never have a toy gun to play with. You will never see me holding a gun. And while there are many good, honest people out there who strongly disagree with me on the subject of gun ownership, I think the risk to our society far outweighs the good.

Anyway, tonight I say a prayer for the families of those whose lives were tragically lost. I also say a prayer for you, my little ones, that you be safe when you are far beyond your father’s grasp. I pray that you never know the horror of what these people had to endure and I pray that the America that your children live in will be a safer and more tolerant place than it is today.

I love you.

-Daddy.

1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10 (inhale)
11-12-13-14-15-16-17-18-19-20 (inhale)
21-22-23-24-25-26-27-28-29-30

Multiple Choice Question:

What is the above most likely to be?

A) Us teaching Swee’Pea and TheMonk to count.
B) The amount of counting it takes to calm down when Sanjaya survives another week.
C) Me counting the number of Cheerios wedged between the cushions of our couch.
D) Timeouts in the Childsplayx2 household.

And the answer is…

Well, “C” is ruled out because there are waaaaay more than 30 Cheerios currently nesting within my couch. In the same vein, “B” is wrong because I need more than 30 seconds to overcome the anguish of having to watch Sanjaya for another week.

So that leaves “A” and “D”. And the answer is… both!

Yes, we have perfected the “Time Out” method of teaching. If you truly want to teach your kids to count at an early age, give them one a few a lot of timeouts while you count out the seconds of their punishment.

And while the timeouts will have very little effect on curbing hitting, screaming and throwing of tantrums, it apparently is very effective in teaching the ancient art of counting.

For proof we need only look to this evening. After dinner Swee’Pea and TheMonk begin bouncing a ball back and forth to each other - laughing out loud at the novelty of playing together with this bouncing ball. As Mommy and Daddy encourage and watch, Swee’Pea picks up the ball, cocks it at shoulder level and shouts, “One… Two… Fweeeeee!” as she releases the ball.

Caught off guard, Mommy and Daddy look at each other, not sure we just witnessed our 22-month-old count. As if to make sure there wasn’t any doubt, Swee’Pea picks up the ball once more and this time goes even further…. “One, Two, Fwee, Four, Five!” As she releases the ball once again.

“Are you counting, Swee’Pea?” I ask.

“One, Two, Fwee, Four, Five, Seben, Nine, Ten!” shouts our little girl.

While not quite sure what she has against six or eight, we are amazed at her ability to count. It seems she wasn’t just sulking in the corner while we counted out all those time outs. She was taking notes!

Time Out

We are sitting on the couch after reading a book before bedtime. Swee’Pea has successfully pointed out the banana on each and every page of the book. As Swee’Pea sits on Mommy’s lap she notices Mommy’s freshly washed, slightly damp hair and reaches out to touch it.

“Hair” says Swee’Pea.

“Yes, Swee’Pea. It’s Mommy’s clean hair.” Says Mommy, speaking in the mandatory third-person.

Knowing how Swee’Pea hates to have her hair washed, she continued, “Your hair gets long when you wash it, Swee’pea.”

As if on cue, Swee’pea reaches out to touch my hair as I am seated next to her with Monk on my lap. “Yeah, Daddy must not ever wash his hair, huh?” I laugh.

Swee’Pea continues to look for hair and she grabs my shirt to expose the hair on my chest. Then, she does the same for Mommy.

“No,” Mommy says, “Mommy doesn’t have hair there!”

And we’re both happy about that.

Remember the “Good Old Days?”

In the “Good Old Days” things were much simpler. For example, you only had to choose between Coke and 7-Up. McDonalds and Taco Bell were the only fast food places worth considering. You were either a Nike guy or a Reebok guy. And, finally, there were cars and there were trucks.

It is this last one that has me up in arms today. I mean, I’m just a guy trying to teach his kids words without confusing them too much. For example, when it comes to objects with multiple possbile words used to describe them, I don’t want to get too complicated. I say “bucket” (not “pail”). I’ll say “jacket” (but not “coat”) or I’ll say “beer” (and not “Colt 45″). I try to simplify things so my kids understand what the heck it is I’m talking about.

That’s why I have no idea what to do about SUV’s.

One of our favorite past times in the morning is we sit at the front window and we watch vehicles pass on by. Our neighbors have a pickup truck so I’ll say, “Look at the red truck, Monk!” Other neighbors have nice looking BMW’s and I’ll point out the “Shiny car, Swee’Pea!” And it’s a special treat when a school bus or a motorcycle happen upon us.

But I have no idea what to say when, inevitably, an SUV passes by.

Is it a car? Is it a truck? Will I confuse my kids to the point that they’ll go their whole lives not quite sure what to call the boxy, big vehicles with large black tires? Will this prevent them from scoring a perfect score on the SAT? Will my New York Times obituary mention the unfortunate SUV gaffe back in ‘07?

And does SUV really have to be my children’s first acronym?

*sigh*

Of all the worries I have about parenting, this is what keeps me awake at night.

Man, this parenting thing is hard.