FiveManns.net

Daddy is the kind of man that reads the directions.  Kids don’t come with directions, but they come with parenting books, so Daddy read a few parenting books.  Some have really good ideas … when your kid misbehaves, discover the underlying motivation and find an alternative way to satisfy it.  Those we used.  Some have really harsh ideas … if you are going to spank your kid, make sure it hurts.  Those we didn’t.

Toddler parenting books have ideas about potty training.  Mommy had been saying for a while, “I think it’s time for potty training.”  Daddy thought about that.  Daddy thought about all those independent, asynchronously timed, triplet trips to the toilet and imagined that the only outing they’d be doing is back and forth to the nearest restroom.  How does a parent know when it’s time for potty training?  Daddy heard about a boy who announced one day, “I want potty.  No more diapers.”  That seemed pretty clear.  But Daddy wondered … are there other signs?

Toddler parenting books have ideas about when it’s time to start potty training.  The child must be physically mature enough, psychologically ready, aware of his body and cognitively capable of understanding the process.  Daddy  even saw a Potty Training Readiness Checklist … including “gives a physical or verbal sign when he’s having a bowel movement such as grunting, squatting, or telling you.”  We’re at a slight disadvantage, of course, because Team Vietnam grunts to communicate everything and squats like a Vietnamese to play with anything.  One supposes the signs existed.  A tug at the pants here.  A red faced grunt there.  Daddy may have missed them.  So the boys came up with a sign that was unmistakable, a sign Daddy never read about.  Daddy didn’t see this in the parenting books.

It was 7am.  Daddy’s alarm goes off.  It’s wake-up time.  The boys are up, squealing and banging and waiting for Daddy to open the door.  Daddy dresses.  Daddy’s still half asleep.  He opens the door.  Blankets, animals, socks, toys and pillows are scattered about the room.  All seems normal.  This is the way it is every morning.

Or is it?  Something’s off.  Something’s different.  They boys stand quietly in the middle of the room.  Grunt!  One points.  What’s he pointing at?  Daddy scans.  What’s the matter with that bed sheet?  Why is there a diaper on the floor?  Where are his pants?  Why are there three pajama bottoms on the floor?  What is that?  Another diaper.  Is there a smell in here?  What’s that over there?  And that?  And the bed sheet … what’s up with the bed sheet?  It looks like poop.  Poop.  That looks like poop, too.  It smells like poop.  The boys are pointing at something else.  Grunt!  Grunt!  And more.  Oh my …

At this point reality collides with Daddy’s half-awake expectations of normalcy.  This can’t be happening!  Daddy’s brain refuses to see what he sees.  Only a single word launched itself from Daddy’s mouth … “NO!”.  “No”, as in, no this can not be happening at 7am in the morning.  “No”, as in, this is a no-no-no-no.  “No”, as in, those slow-motion movie scenes where the hero witnesses something horrific while “nooooooooooo” reverberates through the canyon.

Poop.  There is poop everywhere.  There is poop on everything.  Sheets.  Carpet.  Toys.  Walls.  Blankets.  Clothes.  Hands.  Stuffed doggies.

A plan.  Daddy needs a plan.  Neurons fire.  Where to start?  What’s the plan?  The plan … isolate the contagion and protect the boys.  STRIP!  Daddy strips the boys.  Minefields are everywhere.  Step carefully.  Quarantine everything.  Nothing leaves the room but Daddy and naked boys.  Daddy’s socks stay behind.  The stuffed doggies have little tags saying, “Do not wash. Surface clean only”. Fine.  Burn the doggies.  Wash everything else.  In hot water.  Including the carpet.  Daddy thinks … this is what Daddy is doing today.  Great.  Daddy closes the door.  Save the boys.

Naked boys get a shower, a really good shower, all at once.  They love it.

Days later Mommy and Daddy are talking to a friend.  She says, “Oh, yeah, my girl did that.  Poop all over the walls.  It was disgusting.  Happens to a lot of parents”  Really?  Never heard of it.  Daddy checks out the web.  Dr. Heather on Babyshrink.com wrote a whole article on the topic after a number of mothers complained of poop smearing toddlers.  And you know what … it is the all-time, number one, most read article on her web site.  Number one?  Most read?  This must be an important topic.  It sure became important to Daddy in a hurry.  What was Dr. Heather’s take on it?

“… take it as a sign of interest in potty-training.”

A sign of interest in potty training?  No shit!?!  Why wasn’t that in the books?  Daddy’s looking for subtle tugs and grunts and nobody tells him that a room smeared with feces is on the menu of possible communications?  If Daddy ever writes a book on toddler potty training, this is going to be in it.  It’s going to be first.  Right up front.  With photos.  It’ll be like those Drivers Ed films he watched in high school … look for the early signs of interest in potty training, or this could happen to you!

Daddy sure hopes he catches the early signs of interest in driving.

The other day someone asked me, “How is fatherhood?”.  Here’s my reply.

It’s an in-your-face personal development training.  Oddly, people would pay thousands of dollars for a workshop that accomplished the same thing.  In this workshop, you would be handed something unbelievably precious to take care of with the goal of never getting angry or physical or abusive with it.  Then the thing would proceed to detect your weaknesses and torment you with the goal of getting you angry or physical or abusive.  If you don’t kill it, you graduate.  If you don’t maim it too badly, you graduate with honors.  If you never, ever get angry or physical or abusive, you are enlightened and get to start your own religion.  You would have to pay for the entire workshop up front; otherwise nobody would last beyond the first week.  It’s too hard of a workshop.  That’s why people pay thousands of dollars to sit in circles and listen to other people talk about enlightenment, after which they do some chanting and art work.  It’s a lot more fun and you get to sit down for a nice dinner.

We pay to have nanny-help a few days a week.  Nanny-help allows daddy to work with clients and earn money to cover the cost of food and nanny-help.  From the Workshop Fatherhood perspective, this is backwards.  I’m giving away the world’s most potent self development program for free.  People should pay us to hone their character against our three terrible-two’s toddlers.  Nine thousand dollars for a week-long initiation into patience, persistence and discipline.  No boring lectures.  No abstract philosophical nonsense.  No dogma.  Pure, unadulterated, experiential transformative healing.  You have to cook your own food, and it would be still be worth it.

The only problem with this idea is that in order to succeed you can’t kill the kids.  I’m not sure nine thousand dollars is enough motivation for someone to keep them alive. For that, you have to love the boys more than you hate the workshop.  Best if people do it on their own.

Back in BT (before triplets), fathers used to tell me, “You have noooo idea what you’re getting into.  You can’t.  Unless you’ve been there, you just don’t know.”  OK.  Sure.  I knew that was true.  You can never know what a person knows until you walk the proverbial mile in their shoes.  You have no idea what it’s like to spend a month climbing a glaciated mountain if you haven’t done it.  Only nine human beings on the planet are still alive who know what it’s like to walk on the moon.  So, we all agree on the irreplaceability of direct, experiential empathy but, somehow, fathers like to underscore this point.  Why is that?  What is it about fatherhood that inspires such a blood bond of membership?

Extraordinary ordinariness.

Walking on the moon is obviously extraordinary.  There’s nothing ordinary about it.  Its rarity, its unreachability, and until Kennedy choose to go to the moon in 1962, its virtual unimaginability communicates volumes about the experience without uttering a word.  Even if we can’t know what it’s like, we can know of its specialness.

Fatherhood, on the other hand, is ordinary to the point of problematic.  There are too many people on the planet;  thus it stands to reason there are too many fathers.  Common as weeds, we are.  Everywhere you look, there are fathers.  For a trip to the moon a rich man would pay millions.  For fatherhood … free for the asking.  As such, it is easy to underestimate fatherhood’s value and soul sparking capacity to mold and develop.  It’s a club whose inner sanctum is more precious than gold, but whose outer facade is deceivingly common and simple.

Years ago I wanted to rent a sea kayak in Maine just after the ice broke.  Rental shop after rental shop said the same thing:  “Nooooo … the water’s too cold for you to sea kayak.  You’re from California.  This is Maine.  You have noooo idea how cold the water is here.”  At the time I took their cautionary admonitions as a form of regional boasting, as if for a sun belt boater to survive the Maine waters in early spring would cheapen the depth of their winter hardened strength. And when fathers pulled me aside to warn me, “You have noooo idea what you’re getting into”, perhaps shaking their head in casual significance or tightening their voice for emphasis, I took it the same way.  It sounded like boasting.

But I’m in the club now.  I understand now they weren’t boasting, they were congratulating me.  They were telling me in the only way that, before I walked in their shoes, I could possibly appreciate the extraordinary gold inside the hard work of fatherhood.  Fatherhood from this perspective embodies the wisdom teaching ideal of living an ordinary life in an extraordinary way.  Mystics speak of enlightenment not as being beyond the ordinary, but rather a continuously refreshing experience of the ordinary.  So it would seem that fatherhood is the common man’s training into an enlightened life … sort of “enlightenment or else.”

Every now and then Mommy and Daddy break up the kids.  Mommy takes two.  Daddy takes one.  Oh, one is soooo easy.  Two hands, one kid.  Piece of cake.  You got kids?  You thinking about adopting triplet, two-year-old boys? You have noooo idea what you’re getting into.  You can’t.  Unless you’ve been there, you just don’t know.  But I’m probably just boasting.

The boys steal a lot. Mostly they steal from each other, but playground raids on other toy endowed toddlers are not unknown. “No, no, we don’t steal things from other boys”, says Daddy. Literally speaking that’s not true. We do steal. We steal all the time. We steal, but we’re not supposed to. The boys grab toys and Mommy and Daddy don’t want them to do that.

When we first picked up the triplets, stealing was straightforward. Daddy understood the toddler perspective. He has it. I want it. I grab it. Although not fair, the logic was simple. The thief desired something. To stop the theft, satisfy the desire.

Mommy understood this way in advance. To Vietnam we brought three little noisemakers, three little cars, three little stuffed toys, and three more of a thousand different things. Daddy, being minimalist of mind but mindless of toddlers, thought this was silly. “Why don’t we just bring a noisemaker, a car and a stuffed toy and they can trade around?” Daddy was naïve. Luckily Mommy ignored Daddy and filled our suitcases with three of everything.

Boy 1 has car. Boy 2 steals car from Boy 1. Mommy and Daddy give identical cars to Boy 1 and Boy 3. Stealing stops. It actually worked that way for a while.

The boys didn’t have access to toys at the orphanage. Parents are encouraged to send toys to the orphanage. The staff sends back pictures, sometimes even video, of your child gleefully opening up the toy that you sent. Weeeee!!! Smiles and giggles and joy all around. Then you, or another family, shows up at the orphanage a month later and, lo and behold, no toys! Where did all the toys go? I still don’t know. The orphanage was loving and caring and gave the boys a wonderful grounding in eating neatly, napping regularly and climbing fearlessly. But toys … no toys.

I’m guessing, but I think I figured out why. As soon as we gave a toy to a boy he tossed it. He tossed it hard. Then he smashed it. He whacked his brother with it. He had no idea how to play with toys. Daddy took it for granted that kids knew how to play with toys, but in fact they need to be shown how, and that takes a lot of time.

So in the early days in Vietnam, when Mommy and Daddy preoccupied themselves with preventing the boys from destroying each other and everything else with projectile toy tossing, one of our boys actually slowed down enough to learn what to do. Tai. Tai was the first to play with a car. Squatted down on his heals in that way that westerners just can’t do, Tai gently rolled his little car along one of the foam cushions strewn about the apartment. No “vrrooooomm” noise. No screeching turns. Who knows what internal imaginations fueled his young mind, but it was clear that Tai played car in his own little world.

And the rules of stealing changed forever.

Tai was engrossed. Tai was self sufficient and happy. Tai used that gift of human consciousness to imbue has car with something special. Nhan’s car just flings through the air. Tam’s car just whacks against furniture. But Tai’s car … Tai’s car rolls sensuously, slowly and silently across the great hills of cushionland. Tai’s car is now better. Tai’s car came alive with the spark of imagination, and that spark attracted attention. Tai had become a target. Tai has it. Nhan wants it. Nhan grabs it.

The difference now is that it is more than the toy which Nhan grabs. They’re not stealing cars, they’re stealing entire imaginal landscapes … the toy, the place where toy is being played with (requiring a hefty shove to get the previously happy and satisfied Tai out of the way), and the mannerisms of play. If Nhan has as yet to create his own imaginal world, he can at least recreate Tai’s world through mimicry.

To Mommy and Daddy this is infuriating. But before it gets better, it gets worse. And we’re still waiting for it to get better.

Stealing gradually evolves into the game to play for its own sake. It’s no longer about replicating imaginal worlds. It’s no longer about the car at all. Stealing is a thrill. The grass is greener. He has it. I want it. I grab it … utterly disconnected from the it that I steal, for I already have it in my hand and in my own imagination. To steal is to feel alive! I steal therefore I am!! The power!!! The glory!!!!

The horror. The horror. Mommy and Daddy descend in the heart of darkness of thievery, thuggery, muggings and all form of necessary police work.

Mommy and Daddy serve as beat cop. “Hey! No-no! Don’t steal his toy.” Those are the easy ones, caught in action before the theft.

Mommy and Daddy patrol team respond to calls from the dispatcher. The dispatcher cries. The thief takes flight with his ill gotten goods. Mommy and Daddy rush to the scene and apprehend the errant boy. “No-no! We don’t steal from our brothers. Give it back. Give him back the car. NOW!” The stolen goods are returned. “Now hug your brother.” Hugs all around. Reparations made.

Mommy and Daddy FBI agent investigate crimes. The perpetrator’s long gone. The victim is crying. Two boys are playing. One is guilty and one is not. Agents check the records … which car was the victim playing with last time we looked? Agents interrogate … did you steal his car? Agents try to scare out the perp by threatening time in the joint … do you want a timeout? Sometimes the guilty party gives himself away … why is he playing behind the dining table where he never usually plays?

Sometimes the cases are too cold to solve. Mommy and Daddy try to pay off the victim to keep him quiet … what about this car? This Lamborghini is way faster than that old Lexus he stole.

Mommy and Daddy, beat cop, patrol team, FBI agent and witness payoff program struggle to keep the peace. Mommy and Daddy enforce the values, but the triplets are their own people. Mommy and Daddy swim against a rising tide of self aware, individuating little muggers.

A theft occurs. The victim cries out. This time, the perpetrator stands idly by. It’s an unfortunate reflection of the degradation in triplet morals that thieves don’t even see fit to run any more. It’s like … “Yeah, I stole that car. So what! What are you going to do about it?” Timeout, that’s what we’re going to do about it. Timeouts are effective. Timeouts temper the flow of hot cars pretty well.

Until … in a frightening merger of brilliance, style and duplicity, Daddy encounter a new level of sophistication in the criminal element.

The case seemed routine at first. Daddy was on patrol alone. A theft occurs. The victim cries out. The perpetrator stands idly by, the new norm. The resolution seems obvious and Patrolman Daddy responds. “No-no! We don’t steal from our brothers. Give it back. Give him back the car. NOW!” The perpetrator doesn’t move. FBI Agent Daddy checks the records … no prior information. Agent Daddy interrogates … did you steal his car? No response. Agent Daddy threatens time in the joint … do you want a timeout? No response. Hmmmmm. This is a tough case. There’s no choice. Daddy brings in the SWAT team. SWAT Daddy moves in. SWAT Daddy rescues the car and returns it to the victim. The victim is elated.

The perpetrator does time in the joint and he’s upset about it. Doing time in the joint always creates upset … that’s kind of the point. But this time there’s a riot. The timeout jail is a source of wailing and screeching and howling of injustice that far exceeds the usual response. Complete lawlessness doesn’t create this kind of riot. Something stinks here. Something’s not right.

Agent Daddy decides to do a stakeout.

All the boys are back on the field of play. Daddy’s preparing dinner with one eye. Agent Daddy is watching the field with the other. It won’t take long. It never does.

The cry goes out. Thief! Thief! He stole my car! Help! Help! The victim cries out for justice to be done, but in a shocking and unexpected twist, there was no theft. He’s faking it! The little b*****d is faking a theft to get Daddy to rush in, play cop, and effectively steal the car from an innocent victim with the added bonus that the victim goes to jail for the mugger’s crime. He’s learned how to work the system well enough to get the system to steal for him. It’s brilliant. It’s nuts. It’s infuriating.

Does the faker get a timeout even though no stealing occurred? We need new laws on the books. The books are out of date. They need to learn the word “fake”. Daddy’s in a bit of a spin. What now? What’s the answer to this?

Mommy and Daddy’s answer? Commerce and trade. We have introduced the concept of trade. Don’t steal a car, trade for it. Offer your car! If he won’t trade for your car, find another car, and see if he’ll trade for that. Try trading with your other brother. Try again later when the market has changed. Trade! Exchange! Barter! We don’t steal from our brothers, we trade with them.

How does it work? So far so good. Felony theft has leveled off. Patrol duty is a bit more relaxed. What’s also helping is increased vigilance on the part of the brothers. Neighborhood Watch is quite active, especially during diaper changing, a time of high vulnerability.

All the time people tell us it will get better. So I hear.

Our boys have new names. They’ve always had these names since we adopted them, but now it’s official. Last Monday three toddlers whose legal names were Phan Thanh Tai, Phan Thanh Nhan and Phan Thanh Tam went to the Marin County Superior Court and came home Devon Tai Mann, Nicholas Nhan Mann and Alexander Tam Mann.

Currently we call them Devon Tai, Niko Nhan and Xander Tam. The boys recognize their Vietnamese name, so we’re using the double name until they grow accustomed to their American name as well. Our plan has been to eventually call them by their American name at home, and we may do that. However, just as the boys acclimatize to their American names, Mommy and Daddy grow fond of their Vietnamese names, which are quite beautiful.

As her parting gift to them, the boys’ birth mother gave them their Vietnamese names. To be a good and successful person, one first needs talent. Tai is the Vietnamese word for talent. That talent must be combined with heart. Tam is the Vietnamese word for heart. With talent and heart, one becomes a good human being. Nhan is the Vietnamese word for human being.

The ceremony was simple, lovely and warm, thanks to the appreciative and toddler-friendly atmosphere created by Commissioner Wood at the Marin Civic Center. The two adoption cases that day entered the courtroom first. Obviously it’s a smart move on the part of the court to empty the room of fidgety toddlers before getting on with the day’s work, but they didn’t have to keep the room clear of everyone else during our time. They didn’t have to bring out a little basket of toys for the boys to play with as Mommy & Daddy held their hands up and promised to raise these adopted children as we would any natural born child. They didn’t have to grant three scrambling monkeys unfettered access to the courtroom, something Daddy was pretty sure the court would regret.

Commissioner Wood’s sincerity in her well wishes and acknowledgement of the triplet’s happiness in our family touched us both. The court clerk burst out with, “I think I’m going to cry.” But the memory that will stick with me the most as we took pictures of our family of five, was that of the otherwise staid sheriff’s deputy jumping up and down, jangling his keys, making faces and keeping the boys’ attention on the camera. I wish I had a picture of that.

The boys fall a lot. They fall when they run and skin their knee. “You’re OK. Brush, brush”, we say as we teach them to wipe the dirt off their own hands. They fall off the play structures, some more insidious than others. “You’re OK”, we say to encourage confidence even as our own hearts skip a beat. Tam fell and rolled into a creek, giving himself a pretty good scraping. Faceplants into parking lots bruise noses. Heads bonk hard as brother trips over brother. Falling, scraping, bruising and bouncing are part of our educational routine.

The other day Tai fell from the top of his dresser. He’s not supposed to be on top of his dresser. Daddy told him so a thousand times. Daddy hoisted him down from the dresser a thousand times. Daddy yanked him down unceremoniously hard a few times. Daddy scolded … “That’s a no-no!!” Daddy explained … “You could get hurt if you fall.” Daddy moved the bed, which served as climbing base camp, further from the dresser. Daddy tied the drawers shut with rope to eliminate the scary north facing route. Daddy did everything but grease the sides and put shards of glass on top, and for a moment considered even those. But all of this served only to make the irresistible climb to the dresser’s summit more difficult and more hazardous so that, the other day, Tai fell from the dresser.

A few weeks prior to Tai’s fall from grace off the dresser, Tam took what in rock climbing would be known as a whipper. Tam took a nose dive off the banister to plummet 12 feet to the base of the staircase. Mommy was cooking and glanced away for an instant. Daddy was bathing Nhan near the bottom of the stairs. Thud!! Daddy looks around to see Tam’s body roll the last few steps to the floor. Terrible thoughts race through Daddy’s imagination as Daddy races the few feet to the now hyperventilating-crying-fear-gripped little boy while naked Nhan drips water all over everything.

Daddy’s first words were “Don’t freak out”, ostensibly spoken to the rapidly approaching Mommy because Daddy didn’t think he could keep it together if Mommy lost it, but he was probably talking to himself. What to do? Pick him up? Keep him still? Take him to emergency? Daddy can’t think beyond holding Tam still so his spine doesn’t move. Mommy gets the phone and we dial 911. Daddy is filled with love, compassion, concern and is deeply moved by the genuine suffering and courage of such a small lad having taken such a huge fall.

Within minutes the sirens are wailing. “Dey! Dey!”. That’s toddler Vietnamese for “Truck! Truck!” The other two boys who aren’t paralyzed with fear and shock are excited by the sound of fire trucks. The thought passes through Daddy’s head … too bad we can’t take them out to see the fire engines. A dozen firemen, paramedics and a sheriff’s deputy pour into the house and down the stairs. That’s way too many strangers for Tam, who, after just beginning to settle down, freaks out again. More crying and wailing and, a great relief to Mommy & Daddy, a lot of squirming as evidence of a healthy spine.

The nice paramedic asks Daddy to carefully take Tam upstairs. We tell the story. “Hi little boy …” says the paramedic, keying on the alertness of Tam’s eyes. Any loss of consciousness? No. How did he land? Shoulder, I think; there’s a small bruise. Is his behavior currently normal? Relative to his tumble of terror and shyness around the invasion of strangers, yes. We wait. We talk. After about 45 minutes Tam starts to giggle. He runs into Mommy’s arms. He smiles. The paramedic is satisfied. Mommy and Daddy are satisfied. And fortunately, the sheriff’s deputy is satisfied as well. It is mandatory for the sheriff to show up at any 911 call involving an infant to check for child abuse. Oh.

Daddy spent most of that night building balsa wood mock-ups for how to secure the stairwell. He spent $400 and all the next day building a two foot high, wood frame and polycarbonate extension to the banister. The shelves which provided access to the banister were removed. Making a house triplet resistant knows no end.

How does a toddler launch himself off a banister? Daddy would have thought a million years of evolution would have built in more sense of self preservation. Just how did the toddlers of Mesa Verde survive? Daddy never thought to tell the boys, “Hey, stay away from this deadly 12 foot precipice”. However Daddy did tell them to stay off the dressers. Daddy told them a thousand times. Daddy did everything he could think of to prevent that fall from the dresser.

In spite of Daddy’s efforts … thud!! Tai tumbles from the dresser. Daddy hears the hyperventilation cry. Daddy opens the door to the boys’ room. Tai is on the floor crying. Nhan and Tam are gently stroking Tai, patting him and providing comfort. That was cute. Daddy’s response was different. Daddy was loaded with (a) I told you so and (b) Hell, after the banister, this is nothing. “You’ll be fine. Stay off the dresser.” That was about the extent of Daddy’s comforting. Apparently it wasn’t enough because Tai plots his revenge.

About an hour later the boys were upstairs. All seemed calm. Daddy was unsuspecting. Tam pooped. The poop stunk. Daddy smelled the stink, picked up the pooper and carried him downstairs for a diaper changing. Daddy’s nose has grown keen over the last few months and there’s very little time lag between the pooping and the changing. It’s quick. Diaper changing is quick, too. Boy on mat. Pants down. Diaper in the can. Wipey wipey all around and slap on the clean diaper. No time at all, minutes at most.

Crack!! What was that sound!?!? Daddy’s ears have grown keen as well. He knows all the sounds of mischief. The toy car rattling across the furniture. Forbidden ascents of the toddler gate. The tearing of book pages. Forbidden light switches. Clanking of the shelves. Even the puffy-soft landing of tossed plush doggies creates the audible signature of a household no-no. Daddy knows them all but he doesn’t know this one. How bad could it be? Daddy’s only been down here a minute. Squeals of delight. Uh oh.

The diaper’s done. Daddy goes upstairs. What’s that … something large and black and deformed in the shared hands of Tai and Nhan. Scanning the room.

When Daddy was single he started working for an internet consulting company at the height of the boom time. After 20 years of renting single rooms in shared housing, he bought this house. Daddy moved in with no bed, no furniture, and no kitchen supplies to speak of. He owned camping gear and books. What’s the absolute first thing Daddy bought for his bare, sterile house? A stereo and TV, of course. Daddy was a guy. A big stereo with enormous, four foot tall, expensive, high quality speakers from Lexington, Kentucky. Fifteen years later Daddy is still terribly proud of those speakers. He even put a layer of thick cardboard underneath the grill to protect the speakers from prodding fingers.

But he never thought of protecting the grill itself.

Crack! In the few minutes it took to change Tam’s diaper, Tai and Nhan organized a raid on the speaker grill and smashed it, dragging it’s spent, unrecognizable carcass around the living room. Oh, Daddy got angry. Daddy yells. Daddy put the culprits in timeout. Daddy gets so angry he smashes what remains of the grill to bits. Whoops. More crying. By this time Mommy has arrived. Now Mommy’s upset as well. Mommy’s angry at the boys for making Daddy upset. Mommy’s upset with Daddy for ramping up the destruction. Mommy’s upset ramps up Daddy’s upset until it’s an upset-fest.

And then it’s over.

Perspective returns … after all, it’s just a speaker grill, even if it is a $180 speaker grill. Daddy reassures Mommy. Mommy comforts Daddy. Mommy and Daddy console the culprits. Daddy puts pants on Tam. Calm returns. Mommy and Daddy are slowly learning to put love before anger. Things are getting better like people said they would. Slowly.

And the boys? One would think big falls would be fast teachers. One would think. The morning after Tam’s whipper he worked hard to find an alternate route to the banister. Tai still surmounts his dresser summit nightly. Headfirst falls over the kitchen toddler gate, no matter how loud the crying is in the moment, do nothing to deter dangerously precarious perches along the ridgeline. Watching Mommy cook is just too fun to do from the ground.

They’re not supposed to be on top of the gate. Mommy told them so a thousand times. Mommy hoisted them down from the gate a thousand times. Mommy yanked them down unceremoniously hard a few times. Mommy scolded … “That’s a no-no!!” Mommy explained … “You could get hurt if you fall.”

Thud!!

We had a Big Meltdown this week. It was horrible. It was ugly. It was the Mann Family Chernobyl. And it wasn’t one of the boys that melted, it was Daddy.

All great disasters stem from a perfect storm of collaborating mess-ups. Last week Daddy crushed his finger with a 200 pound boulder. His finger popped like a balloon and Daddy howled in pain while dressing the wound enough to drive himself to the emergency room for his eight stitches. The nanny took sick. Strep throat. No nanny. Then Daddy’s back blew out, leaving Daddy writhing on the floor in pain trying to not tear open his new stitches.  Daddy moved to the couch, cane by his side.  Daddy was out of action. No nanny. No Daddy. That leaves Mommy against three.

Mommy gets disturbing news from a close friend. Mommy’s upset. An upset Mommy is a sensitive Mommy. A sensitive Mommy is a reactive Mommy. A reactive Mommy needs emotional support from Daddy. Meanwhile, mash-fingered, hunch-backed, cane-carrying Daddy finds out his project proposal was too late to be accepted and he was not going to get the work. Less work means less money.  Less money means fearful Daddy.  And a fearful Daddy is incapable of emotionally supporting reactive Mommy.

Meanwhile, with three months under their belts, Mommy & Daddy have come to the realization that the triplets are extremely sensitive to their environment. If either Mommy or Daddy are stressed out, the boys will go nuts. If Mommy & Daddy hire a babysitter who has a bad day, they will tear the house apart. If everyone around them is calm and in a good mood, they are a perfect joy. One day a week Mommy & Daddy are fortunate enough to be able to hire a Tibetan babysitter of unbelievable calm. She walks in the door and the boys just settle down and there is hardly a cry the entire time. This is generally true with all kids, but our three are not only very sensitive individuals, they also ramp themselves up as a trio, amplifying the effect.

So … the scene is set. Crushed finger. Blown back. Sick nanny. Upset Mommy. Worried Daddy. Three sensitive kids. Foul moods funneled through three-phase power amplifiers. What do you get? The Big Meltdown.

Even before the actions starts, the boys sense agitation in the air like wolves sense prey. They get excited.  Ears back.  Eyes alert.  The house is tense.  They push, and push hard. They climb stuff.  They break stuff. Mommy reacts! She yells. She yells way louder than normal. The kids respond. They disperse.  Before Mommy can finish yelling about what Nhan did, Tam and Tai have moved onto something else.  They’re jumping up and down on the turned-over lamp. The lamp is destroyed.  What the hell are you doing!?!?! Crack!  The wooden gate breaks. Security breach. Timeout! Timeout! Timeout! All of you are in a timeout! And stay there in a timeout!  Mommy herds wolves into the timeout zone, backed into a corner between the couch and the wall.  Up against a wall, the wolves fight and claw their way out.  Stay!  You stay there!

Daddy’s trying to get work done. Not possible. That screaming!!! Daddy’s head is exploding. He thinks Mommy is losing it. He thinks Mommy should get herself under control. More screaming. Daddy gets up. He’s going to go out and help. Daddy’s intention is to suffuse the insufferable chaos with a calming presence.  He opens the door.

Daddy opens the door just in time to see Tam take a hard swing at Nhan.  Whack! Tam slams Nhan in the head. Nhan screams.  What the hell!?!?! You brat! Daddy reacts! It’s timeout for Tam!!  Normally Daddy walks a boy to the timeout zone and quietly blocks the exit with a pillow and sets the timer, stay until the beep, please.  Today it’s a scene from the movie Alien, where the victim gets chomped and dragged screaming to his doom. This timeout is rough. Too rough to describe here. It’s ugly. Alien Daddy is humiliated at his own behavior. Nhan throws a toy. Crash goes the toy against the window. Damn! “Come here! Nhan! Timeout!” The Alien Daddy drags another screaming victim into the timeout cave. This timeout is also rough. Alien Daddy’s got his angry face two inches from the toddler’s face. Nhan smirks. Alien Daddy wants to take his cane and … well … no need to describe what Alien Daddy wanted to do (but didn’t!). Alien Daddy is again humiliated. Mommy is shocked.

This isn’t helping. Alien Daddy slinks back to his nest. The door closes, but it’s a thin door.  Mommy is screaming again. The triplets are off the charts. Sounds come through the door.  Unusual sounds.  Crunching and rattling sounds.  This can’t be good.  This can’t be happening. This is a meltdown. You would think that angry Viet Cong soldiers were adopted by the Americans that brought you the Mei Lei massacre.

Just like the movie, Alien Daddy keeps appearing suddenly from his nest to claim a victim.  Alien Daddy manhandles.  Alien Daddy yanks wolves down from the tree branches of the DVD rack.  Thud.  Screaming.  Mommy keeps saying over and over, “It’s not their fault.  It’s not their fault.”  Alien Daddies don’t reason.  Alien Daddies don’t think.  Alien Daddies are pure predation in the name of the rule of law, and in that moment, only Alien Daddy’s instincts are the law.  “It’s not their fault”, says Mommy, even as she screams all the louder.  When does this end?  Where is the door?

It goes on all day.  Playtime is hell.  Dinner is short and sparse.  Bedtime stories occur double-speed.  “Night night”. The door closes.  The wolves lash out at their den, destroying the last vestiges of the window shades.  Exhaustion kicks in.  The triplets collapse into sleep.  Mommy and Daddy are left to ponder.

Mommy is right.  It really isn’t their fault.  If Mommy & Daddy are calm, they are calm … er.  If Mommy & Daddy are having troubles, then Mommy & Daddy and the triplets are all in trouble.  Mommy needs emotional support and a break.  Daddy needs some rest.  And a substitute nanny must be found.

Daddy gets on craigslist and then gets on the phone.  He doesn’t care that it’s nine at night.  Daddy limits his thoughts to simple, focused thoughts.  “Must find nanny for tomorrow.  Must find nanny for tomorrow.”  Mommy gives herself a good cry, but in private.  East Europeans are tough, but even they need an outlet.  The walls are thin.  Mommy and Daddy find some time to talk.  They talk of humiliation and frustration and anger and upset.  They talk of how they want their family to be, and how today wasn’t that.  They share.  They understand.  They are too spent to be anything but still.

Someone calls back.  Daddy has found a nanny for tomorrow.  She’s warm.  She’s sweet.  She’s happy to show up.  Help is on the way.  Mommy will get some support.  Daddy will get some rest.  Tomorrow will be better.

On September 26, many local friends joined us for an informal picnic in the Corte Madera Park to celebrate our boys’ adoption.  It was also an opportunity for us to thank so many of our friends for their help and support in the transition from a family of two to a family of five.

The weather could not have been more cooperative – it turned out to be a hot sunny day, perfect for hanging out in the cool shade of our picnic spot. And although we had made our plans pretty last minute,  close to 60 people stop by throughout the afternoon.  It was great to see everybody.

We selected to have the picnic in a park, thinking that nearby play structures might provide sufficient diversion if our or friends’ kids needed a change of scenery.That turned out to be a life saver, as our boys got very excited and, completely oblivious to potential hazards of touching a hot barbecue, wanted to help Daddy grill.  They were soon surrounded by friends’ kids. Under a watchful eye of our nanny, they were taken under the wing of several young girls who treated them like baby brothers, from bringing them snacks, water, and more snacks, to holding their hands, and lovingly bossing them around. The triplets seemed to have time of their life. And yes, by the end of the event their bellies looked like extra big balloons from all the snacking! But it was their party, and we were glad they had fun.

Everyone told me that toddler routine is the key to toddler happiness.  You break the routine at peril of toddler upset.  This, I have discovered, is not the whole story.

No doubt our boys love routine.  We get up.  We change diapers.  We drink milk.  We eat breakfast.  We play on the deck.  We go for an outing, we lunch, we nap, we play, and we go out again.  We shower, eat, drink milk, read, sing and go to sleep.  That’s the routine.  To deviate in the slightest, to skip a step, or to change the order is to invite a cascading series of vocalizations culminating in a meltdown.  Routine.  Every day.  Like clockwork.

Or is it?

That was our routine.  Then one day after dinner Nhan pointed and grunted.  Point!  Grunt!  What?  What do you want?  Point!Point!Point!Grunt!Grunt! Music?  Do you want music? Point!Point!Grunt!Grunt! OK, not music.  What then?  The candle?  Point!Point!Grunt!Grunt! The picture?  Do you want to see the picture?  Smile!Laugh!Point!Grunt!Yyyaaaaayyyy!!!  Oh, you want to see the picture!

Our friends gave us a multi-image frame with pictures of Mommy & Daddy, and each of the boys.  Nhan holds it.  He looks at it.  Points to it.  “daaaddeee”, says Nhan as he points to Daddy.  Our hearts melt.  “daaaddeee.”  He points at each member of the family in turn, mumbles toddlereeze, and points at the cute little animals on the frame.  That was soooo cute!

The pictures, especially pictures which arouse congratulatory ooohs and aaaahs from Mommy and Daddy, must now be seen by the brothers.  Tai looks at the pictures.  He points.  Mommy and Daddy oooh and aaah.  That’s soooo cute.  Tam looks at the pictures.  Ooooh.  Aaaah.  Tam starts to disassemble the frame.  No, no, stop that!  Picture time is over.  Clap.  Clap.  Everyone loved picture time.

Picture time had not been part of our routine.  That was new.  That was unexpected.  Most importantly of all, that was fun.  The toddlers enjoyed picture time.  But unbeknownst to Mommy & Daddy, picture time just became assimilated into the routine.

The following night dinner ended.  As always we clapped.  “Good job!”.  Clap, clap, clap.  We start to put the boys down.  GRUNT!  GRUNT!  “Hey, you!  Adults!  This is wrong!”  UPSET!  Crying and screeching ensue.  What the hell?  What’s got into you?  Daddy’s looking around frantically … did the house catch on fire?  Is there a kernel of rice out of place?  He runs through the checklist of upsetting things … dirt, dogs,  doorbells.  Nothing.  What gives?  Point!  Point!  Daddy looks around … the picture!  Oh … you want to see the picture?

But this isn’t a request any more.  This is no longer curiosity at work.  After a single act of spontaneity, this has become routine.  This is expected.  We now expect to look at the picture.  We have achieved entitlement.  Good job.  We can now modify our routine schedule.  Immediately following dinner but preceding milk, there will be picture time.  That is now our routine, newly evolved.

Daddy ponders.  Daddy thought toddlers did not like change in their routine.  Daddy was wrong.  Toddlers love change as long as they love the change, then they don’t want it to change back.

Being a scientist, Daddy built a model for the way that toddlers think.  It looks like this:

Daddy’s office is off limits to the triplets.  It’s filled with computers and phones and papers and everything from everywhere else in the house that we didn’t want destroyed.  One day in an act of spontaneous Daddy-ness, Daddy brought Tai into the office to sit in Daddy’s lap.  Daddy typed on the keyboard.  Tai dialed Botswana on the phone.  Tai loved it!  Tam and Nhan loved Daddy office visits, too.  Yeah!  Tam carved up Daddy’s desk.  Nhan shredded paper.  That was fun.  The boys were happy.  It brought some peace to the house.  Daddy office visits seemed worth it.

Until they became routine … which happened pretty much overnight.  Whereas office visits used to bring joy, now they could only satiate an irritating entitlement.  Whereas office visits used to be special, now they needed to occur with the regularity of Old Faithful.  Office visits were expected.  And what happens when a toddler does not get what he expects?  He throws a fit.  This would not work at all, because Daddy could not work at all.

So office visits were banned.

Office visits were banned cold turkey. Office visits were banned weeks ago.  Although not entirely throwing fits any more, Daddy’s knuckles still feel the strain of the occasional toddler tug in the direction of the office.  They remember.  It’s long gone as part of our routine, but it’s lodged in their hearts as a welcome change.  This is a place where the triplets dream of a day when the routine will break, when we will spontaneously visit the office, and once again assimilate visits into the routine.