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.