My 3 Sons: Home Alone

Originally published on Athens Patch on 10/27/11.

Jack, 2, with dangling his cast.

My wife is going to be out of town for the weekend, so that means three days alone with my three sons.

I always dread when Carla leaves town. Not that I don’t enjoy some one-on-one-on-one-on-one time with Jaydon, Jackson and Matthew, but for some reason they seem to overwhelm me in a way they cannot get to their mother. And bad things happen.

The first time she left me alone with the children for an extended time was a couple years ago. After feeling guilty for taking annual “mancations” over our time as parents, I was happy she had the chance to head to Las Vegas with a friend. Despite her reservations, I assured her I could handle our (then) two sons.

And things were going well over the four days. Of course, there were a lot of arguments, junk food, movie watching and staying up past bedtimes, but Carla was actually going to come home to a house that was still standing, happy children and a relatively unfazed father. But her return wasn’t to the house. It was to the emergency room.

It was pouring rain outside and the boys were running circles around me in the house. So I decided to take the kids to McDonalds for dinner, but mostly for a chance to get their childhood energy out in the play area. It was the perfect plan. I could get some much-missed time with my iPhone and the kids could run around.

But then I heard the scream. And it wasn’t just the my-big-brother-was-too-rough-with-me scream. I immediately ran to Jackson as he was hyperventilating. He complained that his foot hurt him. I wasn’t too worried – just tried to calm him down. But as I encouraged him to head back to play, he took a step and collapsed to the ground. I knew it was time to head to the emergency room.

When we got to the hospital, Carla was in the air heading back home. Her plane would land in about an hour. I’m thinking we should be home by then and the damage would likely be minimal. What 2-year-old boy doesn’t suffer an ankle sprain at some point? (Please don’t answer.)

But an hour later we were still in the hospital. Jackson was being fitted for a cast. My iPhone rang. It was Carla.

Me: Hey you.

Carla: Hey you. How’s it going?

Me: Don’t worry.

Carla (sounding worried): What? What’s wrong?

Me: I said don’t worry.

Carla (definitely worried): Don’t tell me not to worry. What’s going on, Joe?

Me: Nothing to worry about. We’re in the hospital.

Carla (extremely worried): What! What happened!

Me: Jack had a little accident on the slide at McDonald’s.

Carla: Oh, my gosh! Is he OK?

Me: Yeah. He’s OK. He just broke his ankle.


Me: Well. OK. You’re probably right. How was you’re trip.

She wasn’t really interested in talking about her trip.

Eventually the cast came off, I learned about her “girl-ventures” in Vegas and she entrusted me to watch the boys solo again. And I’m looking forward to this bonding time. I’m just going to make sure I have all their insurance cards in my wallet.

9-9-9. Yes We Can. Got Details?

Recent polls suggest that Herman Cain may emerge as the Republican nominee. Cain arose from obscurity with a flash — in the form of three numbers, 9-9-9. It’s a catchy phrase, albeit the thought behind it seems a little too simplistic to solve the nation’s budget problems. But Obama showed that sometimes it’s the flash that counts. Got Hope? Yes We Can. Got substance? Not quite.

It’s a disturbing problem with American politics, and it’s not all the politicians fault. We live in a soundbite society. Despite three 24-hour all-news channels, American media — and the American public — is drawn to the soundbite.

Want details on a three-tiered plan to pare down the nation’s deficit and reform the tax code? Boring. 9-9-9!

Want information on how we can change the course the country has been taking the past eight years? Yawn. Yes We Can!

But it’s not all the media’s fault.

The internet has allowed us to access an endless flow of information. Smartphones give us the opportunity to access that information from virtually anywhere. Putting these elements together, one would think that our electorate would increasingly become more educated about their candidates, forcing them to give more details on their websites.

But the information explosion has backfired on our political process. Perhaps because of an information overload — fun distractions like Facebook, Twitter and YouTube — our brains cannot handle the capacity to discern American politics. So we fall on the catchy phrases and the unachievable promises.

So whose fault is it? Perhaps we should look in the mirror and think about our priorities. Before you get mad, consider this less popular slogan from the Barry Goldwater campaign, “In Your Heart, You Know He’s Right.”

My 3 Sons: Addicted to Baby Clothes

Originally published 10/19/11 on athens.patch.com.

Matthew is about to rock, and I salute him!

The trips to Target have always been dangerous for me. I would get lost in the electronics aisle, looking at the latest video games, movies and albums. It was rare that my wallet escaped unharmed, and I have more than 1,000 DVDs, CDs and video games to prove it. I once went to Target to purchase a storage bin and two hours later left with a Playstation and three games … and forgot the storage bin.

I have since escaped that addiction. I guess having the responsibility of feeding, clothing and housing my three sons was my cure. But I think I have taken that clothing responsibility too far as a new Target danger has emerged: the baby clothes aisle.

I never thought this would happen to me. I hate shopping for clothes. My wife Carla has picked out all my work/church outfits, and most of my other business casual clothes were given to me as gifts. If it isn’t a T-shirt, I likely didn’t buy it.

I evaded the baby clothes danger with my first two sons. Sure, I thought the funny slogans and teddy bears were cute, but I always let Carla “ohh” and “ahh” and select baby outfits. I figured it was a right due to women, who likely dressed up their dolls as little girls. As adults, they can now dress up their babies.

But for some reason, our third son Matthew has hooked me into baby clothes. He’s just so darn cute in them. Over his first nine months, I’ve been lured into purchasing several outfits. Most match his father’s rock star wanna-be personality. He has an AC/DC onesie, a long-sleeve shirt that says “Daddy’s Rock Star” and a onesie featuring the outfit of a leather-clad heavy metal rocker with room for his head to pop out. Hey, my son rocks, and I salute him.

When he’s not sporting the rock attire, he has an outfit for every occasion. On St. Patrick’s Day he wore a shirt that says “Irish You Would Kiss Me.” He showed his patriotism on Independence Day by wearing an “All-American Baby” onesie. We even dressed him for his first family reunion with a shirt that says, “Hi! I’m New Here.” I can’t wait for him to wear his skeleton with a pumpkin heart outfit on Halloween.

This addiction is so bad it travels with me. On a recent business trip to New York, I had to stop at every stand or shop offering cheesy tourist baby clothes, finally settling on a “NYPD” onesie. I figure he’ll keep the family safe. I spent $20 at U.S. Cellular Field in Chicago buying an overpriced White Sox onesie, because my wife is a Cubs fan and I’m trying to raise our boys right. A trip to Austin to attend a family wedding resulted in an “Austin is Weird” onesie — the town’s unofficial slogan.

I was told that Target is already stocking their shelves with Christmas ware. I’ll definitely be heading out to the store soon to get him his Santa outfit. And maybe I’ll pick up that storage bin too.

My 3 Sons: The Bedtime Battle

Published 10/12/2011 on www.athens.patch.com

Jackson and Jaydon asleep, finally.

Weeknights used to be a time to unwind — having several hours of “me” time was the reward for a long, hard-worked day.

That was then. Now, the hours of 7-9 are the most dreaded of my day. Battling the clock to make sure everything’s done on time, cleaning up messes that may or may not require additional professional attention, breaking up verbal and sometimes physical fights, and dealing with endless whining, countless pleas and intense bargaining. No, I don’t spend these hours moonlighting at a biker bar or working as a prison security guard. In my house, this is bedtime.

The official bedtime in my home is 8 p.m., but the process is much longer. On a normal day it starts around 7, but normal days are rare — with Tae Kwan Doe, baseball practices, soccer games and church events to attend. We try to set the stage for a calm and quiet “wind-down” time, but my three sons have a different idea.

All technology is shut off as the time is reserved for imaginative playtime, leftover homework and/or reading. Despite this supposed wind-down time, a fight often brews between the boys over whose toy belongs to whom or which book to read, while we fend off requests to watch TV or play a video game. It’s amazing how much of a mess can result in imaginative playtime, as we discover around 7:30 when it’s time to clean up and take baths. I guess the boys imagine how much of a mess they can make.

We allow for several minutes of playtime in the tub. But night after night, our boys have a difficult time following one simple request – keep the water in the tub. It’s not for a lack of trying, but somehow Jaydon, 7, Jackson, 3, and Matthew, 8 months, all manage to fumble this task. Whether it’s Jaydon forgetting to close the shower curtain while showering, Jackson spilling a cup on the floor as he plays with toys on the tub’s ledge, or Matthew discovering the magical sensation of splashing, we always end up with a pond on our floor. Sometimes it even requires a plumber’s – and later a drywall repairman’s — attention, as the water dripped through our kitchen ceiling. At least we’re supporting our local economy.

Next up is the most dreaded part of the night – putting them down to bed. We read that structure is critical to a child, so we created a consistent bedtime routine: the older boys get changed, check off their accomplished tasks on their “responsibility chart,” say  nighttime prayers and we tuck each boy in bed with a kiss. It’s a routine that works for us. Unfortunately, they have established their own routine. First they plead with us to stay upstairs. Then they plead with us to keep on the lights. Then as we head downstairs, our toddler runs to us saying, “I thought you would stay upstairs?”

After a second tuck-in, we go downstairs and flip on the baby monitor. It’s quiet … until we hear the thundering footsteps of Jackson (amazing how a 35-pound child sounds like a giant when roaming the hallways), sometimes followed by the cries of our baby as Jackson thought it would be a nice gesture to toss toys in the crib.

Other times it’s followed by the screaming of Jaydon, as Jackson decided it would be a fun prank to flip on the bedroom lights and run back to bed. This process continues for almost an hour. It’s usually over after Jackson runs downstairs one last time saying, “I so sorry for going downstairs,” then heads upstairs to fall asleep, sometimes even in his bed.

Score: My Three Sons 1, Parents 0