Judge Not, Lest Ye Have Children

Look, I know that I'm not supposed to say bad things about other people. My parents are solid, moral people that raised me with clear sense of right and wrong. My Quaker upbringing was built on a foundation of compassion and respect for all people, regardless of where you come from or what you believe. And I truly, honestly believe that the world requires ALL KINDS of people to make it go round. But DAMMIT if I don't get a sick, undeniable pleasure from making fun of stupid people. And, given my current career status, most of the people I meet are parents.

Next stop, Tantrum Town!

We've all seen it, at a grocery store or a playground somewhere: An exhausted mom or dad trailing an insufferable child, that defeated look in their eyes. The other day me and Baby G were at our local playground (her favorite thing to do is steal random women's cell phones and iced latté straws), and all of a sudden some 5 year old boy comes screaming and crying, running maybe 50 feet to his mother's side, and buries his face in her dress. Apparently a dog had barked at him. The dog was a small, white terrier with a friendly face. I don't know about you, but I see things like this and... I know I shouldn't, but I can't help and roll my eyes a little and think, “Loser.” I realize this makes me sound like a total asshole. Which is fair. But I don't say these things out loud... I mean, until now. But try watching some little shit push your son off a swing, or insist on alerting the staff at the playplace that your son isn't wearing his socks, and not call him an asshole in your head. I dare you. And most of the time it isn't the parents' fault. Upbringing is only one piece of the puzzle. Spend enough time around children, you start to realize they're people too. And, just like grownup people, most of them are pretty stupid.

Being a helicopter mom sounds super exhausting.

Make no mistake though, I enjoy mocking parents too. I think it's the guilty pleasure of all parents, perpetually comparing yourself to everyone around you, and evaluating your parenting skills according to their weak moments. It's human nature, and very empowering. Earlier this week, while dropping Eli off at summer camp (which is basically just preschool during the summer), I watched a mother explain to her daughter, neither of whom I'd met before, “I'll be right outside the classroom, sweetheart. I can't play with you in here, but if it doesn't work out, I'll come and get you.” I did my little eye-roll thing, signed Eli in for the day, and left. About 30 minutes later, while me and Baby G are hanging on the playground outside, guess who I see hauling a crying daughter out to the car? Because, obviously, you can't do that. You can't offer a 3 year old with attachment issues such a blatant opportunity to find a way out of a classroom she doesn't want to be in. If she knows you're sitting on the other side of the door, she's going to devote 100% of her attention to getting your attention, 100% of the time. This is probably why the girl has attachment issues (he said boldly). This is Parenting 101, people.

Okay, I know I'm being condescending and judgmental. I know that parenting isn't something you do right or wrong, it's just life. We all suck at it, just in different ways. Kids aren't their parents and vice versa. Every tantrum or poor decision probably has a story and a context that made a lot of sense to the people involved. In my heart I know we're all just people, different though we might be, doing our best to get by. Making the world go round, and so on. Which is why I keep my mouth shut (except when I don't, and on this blog). But, let's stop and think here, is there ever a circumstance when you're perfectly entitled to say: “You're wrong, you're stupid, and a you're shitty parent”?

Yes.

This popped up when I Googled "anti-vaccine" and I can't even...

A few weeks ago, Jess and I spent about 48 hours convinced that someone close to us was not vaccinating their children. It was a misunderstanding, and the story itself isn't really worth telling. (And, no, I didn't tell anyone they were a shitty parent.) But it spawned a lot of conversation between the two of us about what we would have to do if it were true. And the answer was, cut them out of our lives. Plain and simple. If your kids aren't vaccinated, then they're not hanging out with my kids. Family, friends, doesn't matter. Why? Because it's fucking stupid. There's about 600 years of science behind vaccines. People have dedicated their entire careers to it, people who went to college for a lot longer than most of us. If you don't understand the science, it's because you're not a scientist. I'm not even going to bother justifying this with metaphors or facts, because, honestly... Why bother? Fuck those people. And if you're one of them, fuck you too. You're the worst kind of stupid person, because your stupidity is literally killing children. As a not stupid person, it's my duty to let you know that you're a danger to society. (If you're genuinely seeking more information on this subject, I highly recommend checking out this website: http://howdovaccinescauseautism.com/)

Screw you, Walt Whitman.

Cynicism, I'm sure most of us are aware, is not something you can turn off. It's a voice in the back of your brain that is constantly reminding you that everything and everyone around you is full of shit. And, most of the time, it's right. Nothing changes after you have kids, you just get to see a different side of the world. (Often, there's actual diapers full of actual shit.) And, while keeping it to yourself is usually the best policy, I like to believe that seeing the worst in everything helps keep me sane. I mean, what else am I supposed to do, be positive and productive? Yuck, no thanks.

Tantrums Can Swing Both Ways

Baby Gray had a meltdown yesterday. A big one. We're talking a solid hour of uninterrupted, inconsolable crying. It was awful. And to make matters worse, Eli was at school, so it was just me and the screaming lady. Okay, we both did a fair amount of screaming. In the end, well... Let's just say, it's good the lady can't talk yet, otherwise I'd probably be in trouble.

Things change when you're alone with a baby, when it's YOUR baby. A lot of people don't seem to get that. Most of the time the feeling is empowering. The two of you share a bond that is literally unbreakable. You can anticipate her whims (nonverbally!), supplying everything she could ever need or want. Kissing boo-boos and snuggling away scary moments. Her ENTIRE LIFE is in the palm of your hand, and you are her unswaying, ever-powerful Provider. Best of all, nothing anyone says, positive or negative, impacts this relationship one bit. You are a Unit, fuck everybody else.

Until she turns on you... Until the screams begin...

And we're not talking about the simple pout of a bruised forehead, or an everyday "where's-my-bottle" wail. No, no. These cries don't belong to a baby. Not YOUR baby. These are more like the wails of a banshee that's somehow hidden inside your baby's belly. So deep she has to take deep, long breaths between outbursts just to make room for all the noise cascading out of her. This isn't pain, this isn't hunger. This baby is having an Existential Crisis.

And like any loving parent, you swoop to the rescue. Bounces and binkies (though we call them "blasters" in our house), hugs and kisses. But she gives you NOTHING. Suddenly there's no give and take, your flawless communication system has very rapidly decayed into... NOTHING. Just more and more screams. In your ear, in your face, muffled against your chest. Screaming screaming screaming screaming screaming.

... twenty minutes go by ...

"We're supposed to be a TEAM!"

"WAAAAAAAHHH!"

"I don't get it, you don't want a blaster, you don't want me to hold you, you don't want me to let you go! WHAT IS IT!?!?!"

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!"

... and twenty more ...

"I will give you anything, I will tear a hole in the sky and make God Himself come down here and apologize to you if you will just--!"

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!"

"JUST TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT!!!!!!"

... and then ...

...

Okay, this is where it gets really bad. At least, it did for me. My temper BROKE.

Don't worry, no physical harm came to my baby. This is not that kind of story. But I did end up plopping her in her crib for about 7 minutes while I cooled off in the kitchen. And I shouted some pretty mean things to and at her. Things I shouldn't have said and I feel terrible for saying...

But it happened. These things happen. And, as painful as it was, it was and is a very real part of living with small children. And I don't just mean inconsolable babies, I mean inconsolable parents too. Like I said, things are different when you're alone with your baby. First off: Not only is there no one around to help, there's also no one to VENT to. Personally, I find all shitty things are easier when I can joke about how shitty they are with someone. But second, and this is a big one: Nobody else is looking. Hell, you're the only one who WOULD be looking. There's nobody there telling you what you're doing is right or wrong, bad or good parenting. It's just you and YOUR baby... There are no rules.

And so, inevitably, you're going to make some pretty awful decisions. You'll say and do some terrible, despicable things. And, worst of all, you'll KNOW IT.

But here's the thing they don't tell you: These moments, the ones where you break, when things go bad... They don't make you a Bad Parent, they make you a Parent. Family isn't about being perfect together, always making the right moves and never letting each other down. Good times don't happen without bad ones, that's called physics. Parenting isn't a job or a hobby. It's not something you can prepare for, or think your better at than other people, not really. It's just another way of getting through life. And ask ANY baby, life can suck some serious ass sometimes.

In Defense of Screen Time

You know I've never seen this movie?

 

Eli watches a lot of TV. Probably too much. By proxy, Grayson watches a lot too. Now that I think about it, Gray probably watches MORE because she gets to see Eli's shows on top of the grownup programs. Jess and I also probably watch too much TV. Parenthood is hard work, so forgive me if I like to relax in front of the old boob tube for a few hours a day.

Of course we've all read that "Screen Time" is unilaterally BAD FOR KIDS. The American Academy of Pediatrics weighs in: "Television and other entertainment mediashould be avoided for infants and children under age 2." Which means no TV, no computers, no tablets or smartphones for two whole years. Meaning, I guess, that I'm supposed to spend those first twenty-four months paying attention to my kid, or something. Which, frankly, sounds unilaterally EXHAUSTING.
 

WARNING: The music in these videos is DANGEROUSLY catchy.

 

When he was a baby, we never bothered to shield Eli from our shows. But for his own viewing we started him out on Baby Signing Time at around 6mo, which he enjoyed immediately and quickly picked up a few basic signs from, making day to day communication a little easier for everybody at home. He has since learned how to navigate Netflix on his own and has a whole plethora of shows (mostly educational) he's largely picked out for himself through independent exploration of what's available. Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood is the current favorite, and (imo) probably one of the best kids shows out there. We supplement with a list of movies or shows I find on the internet. Pixar movies abound, obviously. We're also fans of Teen Titans Go!

 

Daniel Tiger is an updated version of the old Mr. Roger's
Neighborhood. And a HUGE hit with all the kids I encounter.

 

He also spends a lot of time on the tablet and computer. Grayson not so much. When I first got our tablet about a year ago, he was extremely eager to use it. I did a little research and found a couple programs good for teaching toddlers how to use touchscreens. We started with one called "Escape the Bee" that's just a bee on screen, and where ever you touch he'll fly over to your finger. If you drag a pattern he'll follow it. And that's about it. Within a month he could navigate the device almost completely, rarely (if ever) asking for help. The desktop computer didn't come until a couple weeks ago. It seems to me a mouse and keyboard are no where near as intuitive as a touchscreen. But, with the help of a few 3yo-oriented websites, he's picking it up faster than I would have expected.
 

"Escape the Bee"

I feel obliged to mention here that as of now Eli (3.5yo) can count well past 30. He knows all his colors, shapes, and has been singing the alphabet flawlessly(ish) for more than a year. All of this he's learned from television, with little to no help from me.

The implication from the anti-screentime crowd seems to be "that excessive media use can lead to attention problems, school difficulties, sleep and eating disorders, and obesity." (AAP again) There are lots and lots and lots of websites out there quoting elaborate studies about how harmful it can all be to your precious baby's innocent eyeballs.

But what do these studies really say? Is ALL screentime equal? Are Sesame Street and Texas Chainsaw Massacre equivalent variables? Do the games on PBSKids.org have the same cognitive effects as Grand Theft Auto? Where were the parents when these studies were being conducted? And what about the simple fact that a basic understanding of touchscreen technology is a fundamental NEED for anyone coming into our modern way of life?

The Street has changed A LOT since we were kids.

 

Really, I'm just having trouble with the black and white nature of the conversation.

Okay, fine. My kids watch too much TV. I admit it. And yet, they are sweet, social, and healthy (so far). It's not as if they're getting locked in a basement with nothing but a pale television screen to keep them warm at night. Most of the time I'm sitting a couple feet away, either lost on Facebook or nosedeep in a comicbook. Grayson and I watch The Walking Dead together every Monday afternoon. Eli's favorite position for movie watching is nestled in Jess' legs while she reads the New Yorker. We cook and eat together, make cookies, play superheroes, and sometimes all nap together in our king-sized bed.
 

This is not us.

 

Does this sound like a dysfunctional family?

 

If so, then we'll just have to agree to disagree. I just finished downloading The Wolverine and plan to watch it while my kids are asleep. Your approval is not necessary to this plan.

Please Don't Tell Me Not to Help Your Kids

There's a blog post that's recently gone viral, written by an irate mother, exploring the complicated world of playground politics. In the piece, she complains about other parents helping her daughters climb structures because, apparently, this is going to teach them to be lazy and overly-dependent on our societal patriarchy, and thus, be utter failures as not only human beings, but as women. 

Her words: "They're not here to be at the top of the ladder; they are here to learn to climb." Ooh, I feel so inspired. "If they can't do it on their own, they will survive the disappointment. What's more, they will have a goal and the incentive to work to achieve it."

Hang on, let's break this down... Your daughter is attempting to climb some ladder that she thinks is too big for her. You, for whatever reason, are choosing not to help her. And I, by offering her a helping hand, am IMPEDING her development. Are we on the same page? 

Perhaps you can explain it a little clearer: "I don't want my daughters to learn that they can't overcome obstacles without help." Fair enough. I want my kids to learn that too. "I don't want them to learn that they are entitled to the reward without having to push through whatever it is that's holding them back and *earn* it." Yeah, okay. Sounds like pretty standard parenting to me. "Because -- and this might come as a surprise to you -- none of those things are true. And if I let them think for one moment that they are, I have failed them as a mother." Wow. Got a little condescending towards then end there, huh?

I think I'm starting to follow along here... You want your little girls to learn that the world is a cold, unforgiving place and that you can't count on anyone, ever. No, too harsh? You're hoping to foster strong, independent women, and to teach them that accepting help from men, especially strange ones, will only lead to a life of submission and passivity? What, you never specifically mention feminism and I'm just inferring bitterness into your argument? Fair enough. But you gotta admit, this is an awfully backhanded way of teaching your kids a lesson.

How about, instead of writing a tirade, proving the world how passionate of a mother you are, you talk to your girls about this goal of independence. When Eli wants help doing something I know he already can, I stand behind him and coach his movements, explaining that we both know he knows how to do this.

Or, how about, we not assume that I'm actively undermining your parenting decisions. Because -- and this might come as a surprise to you -- I'm not actually paying very close attention to you or your children, I'm focused on mine. Your daughter just so happened to be climbing next to me and I thought it was easier to just pick her up, and then keep watching my kid, rather than attempt to watch BOTH children. I don't know if she can climb or not. What am I supposed to do, just let her fall? I'm standing right there!

A week ago, at a playground, a small girl I didn't know slipped and fell off a slide and got stuck in a crevice of the structure while I was sitting nearby. Because the structure is made of slippery stuff, she couldn't get herself out. Yes, if she just slowed down, took a breath, and looked at the situation, she'd have realized it wasn't a complicated procedure. But, BECAUSE SHE'S A CHILD, she started to cry and scream instead. So what did I do? I picked her up. Her dad soon came rushing over, took her from me, and calmed the girl down. She was fine, by the way. But it made me realize, this is the world we live in. It has become more socially acceptable for me to LEAVE HER THERE, because it is either weird for me to touch a child I don't know, or (apparently) I'm teaching her to be dependent on men for the rest of her life.

Whatever happened to the kindness of strangers? Or finding a helping hand when you need one? Doesn't it take a village? That's what I was always taught. Of course, you could also try just putting your damn smart phone down. That makes it a lot easier to raise your kids the way you want. Just saying...

Deep Fried Cornish Hens

Been a while. Holidays and such. You understand.

Today's dinner was a fun one. I've been trying to perfect fried chicken for a while now. Being such an American classic, you'd think it would be easy to prepare. But it's not. Over and over again I'd end up with a black skinned outside or a totally raw inside. Even after I got my cast iron pans (thanks mom!) I thought: "Finally! I can deep fry with dignity!" But again, it just didn't work. Then I finally caved and bought one of these:

Actually, my wife bought it.

This is a fry thermometer. Also known as a candy thermometer. And you can't deep fry without it. No exceptions.

I know what you're thinking: "Well, I'll just try to wing it. It can't be THAT important, right?" WRONG! I just said it, but because you clearly weren't listening, I'll say it again. You CANNOT deep fry without this thermometer. NO. EXCEPTIONS. The accurate maintenance of temperatures in your fry oil is essential to this process. There's no way for you to tell if it's too hot or too cold without one of these. If you're not carefully monitoring this variable, your chicken is going to suck. No exceptions.

Moving on.

Lately, Jess and I have been using Cornish hens instead of regular chickens. They're always super cheap, they cook fast, and one bird is the perfect size for two people. Apparently they're just young chickens, which does open some moral gray area, I suppose. But here is not the place for that argument... 

Step 1 - Spatchcock.

If you've never done this before, it can be both sickening and empowering. You really get to know that you're cutting up a formerly living creature. Start with a good set of kitchen shears, or just some sturdy scissors you won't use for anything else. At the back of the bird, there's a little flap of skin, using that as your guide cut right up the back. You're trying to be just off center, since the goal is to get the spine out, not cut it in half. Do the same on the opposite side, and remove. After, stretch the bird out, doing your best to pop the sternum out of the ribcage.

Step 2 - Cut out the sternum and the wishbone. This can be a little tricky, I'm not great at it either.

This part is a little gross. The breastbone and the big piece of cartilage right beneath it need to come out. Using a knife, just dig in under it, trying to avoid tearing up the flesh around it, until it cuts right out.

Step 3 - Cut in half, down the front. 

(not pictured)

Pretty self-explanatory. Using the same set of scissors, just slice right down the middle of the front of your bird. This should be easy, since there's no longer a bone to impede your progress.

Step 4 - Buttmilk. Heh.

A quart of buttmilk, a couple splashes of hot sauce, and about a tablespoon of salt. Stir it up. Add the bird, try no to make a mess. Cover, put in the fridge for at least 12 hours. Mine were in for more like 36, though not entirely on purpose.

Step 4 - Dredge.

Get yourself an appropriately sized dish, and fill it with about an inch or two of flour. Throw in an appropriate amount of salt (in this case about a Tbs of salt for 2c of flour), a few grinds of pepper, and whatever other spices you want. Paprika, cayenne, cumin, all are acceptable spices. I also put in a couple handfulls of panko breadcrumbs into this mix for some extra crunch. Ulitmately, I found this to be excessive, but it's up to you. 

IMPORTANT! Three major tips I have for this process: 1) Wipe down the bird as much as possible after removing from the buttmilk. It doesn't have to be dry, but you don't want it dripping either. 2) Use tongs. Seriously. Your fingers are just going to turn into big gummy balls of raw-chickeny-floury-goo. 3) After dredging, let the pieces sit for a few minutes. That way the moisture can seep into the flour, forming a thick paste, and will more likely stick to the bird during the fry.

Step 5 - Fry.

Remember that thermometer we talked about? Go get it. Now. 

I used a combination of vegetable oil and vegetable shortening. I bet peanut oil would be the best, but it's expensive. Olive oil will not cut it, unless you want your chicken to taste like burnt olive oil.

Get the oil up to 350°. Actually, scratch that. Get it up to about 355-360°, then drop in the chicken. The temp is going to drop, so turn the heat up a little. You want to maintain about a 10° difference. Your goal is 350°, and the closer you stay, the better. But try not to get in the habit of cranking the heat up and down constantly, your pan should do the majority of the work. Took me 8 minutes, flipping at 4. I probably could have fried two of the half-birds at a time, but wanted to make sure I was doing it right.

When the chicken comes out, put it on an inverted cooling rack set on top of several layers of paper towels. This will wick away the dripping fat and keep it away, rather than just soaking it back into the skin as the bird cools.

Step 6 - Refrigerate.

(not pictured)

Maybe this is just personal preference, but fried chicken is better when cold. The slimy layer of fat just under the crispy skin will congeal, making for a much cleaner eating experience. But if you really want your chicken hot, then go ahead and eat it, I guess.

Don't, however, keep your chicken in a warm oven. It'll just get soggy. Here's an exchange I had with a chef friend about this exact issue:

Me: How do I keep the chicken hot and crispy at the same time?

Chef: Keep the oil hot.

Me: Well, can I keep it in the oven between batches?

Chef: No. That'll ruin it.

Me: Then what am I supposed to do?

Chef: You're supposed to EAT it.

Clear enough for you?

The next step will be finding fun new flavors for my fried chicken. Garam masala is the next up. What other crazy ideas should I try? Suggestions please.

Notes: For a clearer explanation of spatchcocking, follow this. It's a great technique, I use it often.

Pregnancy Fucking Sucks

So help me God, if any of you show this post to my wife, I will come to your house and burn everything you love. Do not test me...

Remember when this idea was a novelty, not my life? Me either.

Pregnancy is awful. For everyone. It's uncomfortable, exhausting, and just downright gross. And that's just my side of the story.

I know what you're thinking: "You poor baby, life is so hard. Imagine what your wife is going through." You want to rant and rave about how terrible it is to carry a beach ball around on your midriff all day everyday. And, believe me, I know. I do live with a woman who is 9 months pregnant and has been over it since about 2 weeks before conception.

There in lies the problem. Or, should I say, the source of all the sucking. Since I am a dutiful and loving husband, I have made a very concentrated effort to pick up the slack around the house. But as the pregnancy slides into it's last legs, that line of slack seems to be getting longer and longer. Suddenly I'm responsible for EVERYTHING around the house. I do all the cooking, all the cleaning, all the housework. I chase Eli everywhere, all day, everyday.

He looks like a superhero, but he's actually just trying to catch the bus.

Have you ever tried to simultaneously prepare a delicious meatloaf with roasted vegetables, take out the trash, and keep your son from throwing all the toilet paper down the drain? It's nearly impossible. Don't worry though, tomorrow your neighbors are going to do you a huge favor and babysit Eli for the night so you and your (beautiful, hardworking) super-pregnant wife can go have a relaxing dinner somewhere special.  But what's that? Your wife is too exhausted from working all day that she can't even decide what kind of food she wants to eat? You go back and forth about it so many times, inevitably snapping at each other (for no good reason), that the only solution capable of being agreed upon is to buy a frozen pizza from Safeway and watch yet another goddamn six-episode session of CSI: Miami!

Wow, that sure was relaxing. Can't wait to get up tomorrow and do it all over again.

In this modern world, there surely must be some way to circumvent all of this. Can't we just grow our babies in test tubes like CIVILIZED people? What ever happened to the stork myth? Is there any validity to that? Anyone?

If only...

And I can't exactly say that I'm excited about the birth. Eli was an emergency C-section (that's a long story all its own) so we kinda skipped all the gross stuff. The prospect of watching the (amazing, strong) woman I love more than anything get ripped in half, spewing every imaginable fluid out of places you never even knew existed... Golly jeez, I just can't wait. I think a placenta might be the grossest thing in the entire history of everything. And I've only seen one on that video the hospital made us watch.

Mother Nature is an asshole.

Inevitably though, as hard as these 10 months may be (yeah, pregnancy is 10, not 9) you can't argue with the payout. Once I get that baby girl in my arms, I may not ever let her go. I am gonna love her so hard.

All day.

Everyday.

Yeah, kinda like that.

Notes: I love you sweetheart. You're the better half of this marriage and I couldn't be or do anything without you. I just needed to blow off some steam. You know how it is.

How to Discuss Gender With Your Toddler, or What the Hell am I Supposed to Do Now?

Hell if I know.

Me: Are you a big boy?

Eli: NOOOOO!

Me: Of course you are

Eli: Not big boy. I Eli!

Lately, Eli's been making a lot of the comments and asking all the questions that paint a very clear picture: He's discovering the ever mysterious landscape of sex and gender. Ever curious about his own penis, and nearly as curious about mom and dad's bits-n-pieces, it feels like I'm as new to this whole thing as he is. What do you do? What do you say? I don't want to give the poor kid a complex.

Preach it, sister.

You see, I grew up Quaker (most of you probably knew that already). And here's the thing about Quakers: They're weird as shit. Don't get me wrong, that's what makes us awesome, but it's still weird as shit. Here and now is not the time to explain what a Quaker is, so if you don't know: Find out. If you want to. But all you really need to know right now is that Quakers (or at least my version, don't ask) are super liberal. And I mean Super Liberal.

I often hear people talk about growing up in an ultra-conservative family, and now, as they walk through the world, there's a little voice in the back of their head spouting all the dogma of their early years, forcing them to look at everything through a filter of (quite often) a philosophy they no longer believe or even respect. 

The same thing happens to me. Except, for me, I see the world through a rainbow-colored screen that makes everything Diverse (we love that word) sparkle a little brighter and everything that causes Conflict (but we hate that one) is politely swept under the rug. When my son pulls his penis out in public, I think: "Well, it's important for him to feel comfortable with his body," and THEN run over to tuck him back into the diaper. All toy guns and Barbies look like the devil spawn, attempting to morph my children into their little brain-washed corporate slaves. And when my son asks me things like: "Where's mommy's penis?" I totally freeze up.

Umm... What?

What I want to say is: "Boys have penises and girls have vaginas." But, then, isn't gender a social construct? And sex and gender aren't the same thing, right? That's what this article I just looked up says anyway. Questions like this get all tangled up in my brain and what I end up wanting to say is: "Mommy doesn't have a penis. She has a vagina. But the jury's still out on why."

You know what this reminds me of? The ever classic question: "Why is the sky blue?" Well, umm... Because light is both a particle and a wave. When it comes into our atmosphere, it is constantly colliding with molecules like oxygen and nitrogen, bouncing all over the place. And since light is a vast spectrum, with only a tiny slice fitting into our visual range, lots of that light doesn't make it through the clouds of molecules. Ultimately, the light that we see now appears a certain color due to the amount of atmosphere it had to pass through in order get to your eye. Blue represents a shorter distance and red the longest, which is why the sky turns red and orange in the evening.

Yeah. Try explaining that to a toddler.

Oh, NOW I get it!

And so goes the gender/sexuality issue. These questions and answers are just too big for the little guy. But, again, I don't want to give the poor kid a complex. I don't want to accidentally give him the wrong information, ultimately screwing up his personal identity forever. I want him to be happy. To grow up into whatever and whoever he wants to be. If he and his college boyfriend want to spray paint each other hot pink and hang out at manga conventions, then so be it. Just so long as the paint doesn't rub off on the sofa. That would just kill his mother. As far as I'm concerned, there are only three things he is not allowed to be: A murder, a rapist, and a junkie. Beyond that, as long as he's happy and not hurting anybody: Go. Do as you please.

I hear and read about things like "Gender Neutral Parenting" and I just shake my head in confusion. So much of this stuff just feels like everyday life to me. Eli's clothes aren't covered in sports kitsch, because neither my wife nor I likes sports. And Grayson won't wear tons of pink, because pink is ugly. That's pretty straight forward. I've seen little boys garbed in pink and purple, and it feels like their parents are intentionally trying to gender bend their kid. And, at least to me, that seems like the kind of thing that'd give your kid a complex.

Heh heh.

But who am I to tell other parents what to do with their kids? Nobody, that's who. There are 3 people in this world that are allowed to criticize my parenting skills: Jessica, Eli, and baby Grayson. That's it. Grandparents are permitted to question and suggest, but I am under no obligation to listen.

We ended up telling him that mommy had a vagina. And that boys have penises. And so on. Because, the truth is, you gotta pick your battles. And this one, the mythical pure gender identity, is not mine. There is no perfect parenting. There's no Grand Philosophy or Flawless Method that will deliver your little dude (boy-dude or girl-dude) through childhood unscathed. They're gonna come out the other side kinda fucked up. And probably because of something you did. Might as well get used to that idea now.

Notes: For the record, if Eli decided he was gay or trans, I wouldn't care. But if he decided he likes manga, I'd be devastated. And on the spectrum of "Super Liberal" my parents were fairly middle ground. They did a pretty good job with what they had, too. I also do still consider myself a Quaker, so don't kick me out guys. I'm sorry I called you weird!