Archive for November, 2009

The Daddy Report: Sometimes They’re Cute

Thursday, November 5th, 2009

Daddy’s friend Brad postulates that the tradition of men leaving home for work arose out of the need to keep men from eating their young. Daddy can relate. But Daddy works from home. What keeps Daddy from eating his young? Sometimes they’re cute. Cuteness is a highly evolved toddler survival mechanism. In spite of nutty toddler behavior, abject destruction and the cardinal sin of taking a swat at Mommy, one flash of a sufficiently cute smile melts Mommy & Daddy’s hearts.  All is forgiven.  Compassion and love spontaneously wash away the impact of a thousand indiscretions.

One the first and still one of the best shows they put on is milk bottle time. We warm the milk formula and bring it out. The cry goes up, “Whoooaaa!!”, and the boys rush to the milk zone. They lay down on the milk sheet, a holdover from Vietnam where we used a bedsheet on the floor to cue milk time. Now they bring out the sheet themselves and … sort of … set it up. Total bliss as three wild toddlers settle in for a few minutes of silence and slurping. Sadly this ritual will be ending soon as we plan to move away from the formula.plasma-train-cropped

Daddy’s favorite cuteness is the plasma train. Plasma cars are clever ride-on toys powered through the force of wiggling the steering wheel back and forth. First the boys pushed themselves along with their feet. Then they did the wiggle-power method. Finally, Tai innovated the Plasma Train, whereby the front of one Plasma car is hooked over the back of the car in front of it. They all cruise along chanting their signature, “Dey! Dey! Dey!” Definitely cute.

The boys love books. They love to tear books, eat books, break book spines and steal books. But they also love to read books … well … they love look at the pictures. We have book circles. Everybody sits in the circle and has a book to look at. Grunt! Point! That’s a flower. Grunt! Point! That’s a dog. Grunt! Point! That’s an airplane. And so on. They grunt and point and we name the thing. For popular things like flowers and airplanes, each boy will independently grunt and point and require his own naming of the thing.

When they want a book, they nod. They nod as if they are saying “yes”, presumably a result of Mommy or Daddy asking, “Do you want a book?” with an affirming nod. But now nod doesn’t mean “yes”, it means “I want a book”. So they nod. They nod with determination. Relative to their body size, toddlers have huge heads, and watching them whip that thing down and back up at lighting speed gives Daddy neck cramps. It’s also cute.

Nhan adds to the effect as the only one who has learned how to say “please”. It comes out “peas” in his delicate viet-english accent. “Peas … “, nod, nod. Hearts melt. We go and get books. Always.

When not shoving, hitting, biting, kicking, scratching, pinching or stealing from each other, the boys are touchingly tender with each other. They hug to make up. They kiss to show affection. They pat their brothers ever so gently to express remorse, or to provide a healing touch to the day’s owies. When one is about to perform a forbidden act, the other two will wag their fingers and entire lower arm in a grand gesture of “No-no”, never mind that ten minutes later either of the waggers may next play the miscreant role.

They boys are riotously helpful. It’s cute. They put their dirty clothes in the hamper … with a bit of micro-management. “Put the clothes in the hamper. No, the hamper. There. Yes, the basket. No, don’t touch the washer. No. NO!! OK, good job! Let’s go out. Out. OUT out out out out out out. No-no. Don’t touch the water heater. That way. Out. Out out.”

They put away their toys before dinner. “OK, everybody, humm humm time”. Humm-humm is the family word for food … it’s a Czech thing. “Put your toys away. Put the toys on the shelf. No, don’t play with the toys, put them away. Nhan, stop bossing your brothers around and help. Put the toys away. Put the toys away. Tai, no, stop playing. Do you want humm-humm? No humm-humm if you don’t stop playing. Tam, on the shelf, honey, not on the table. Put the toys on the shelf.”

They fetch the diaper supplies from the shelf before changing. “One diaper. Just one diaper. Only one. No, Nhan, I’m changing Tai. Nhan, you wait … NO! … damn … don’t pull all those diapers … Tam, no, leave the tea tree oil there … don’t open that, I’ll put it on you … Nhan, stop pulling out the wipeys … here, give me that … NO! … damn … YOU! Over here! … Tai, let me get your shirt off …”

They even point out when we’ve left a toddler gate open … a clear security breach. This is really helpful. I don’t quite get it. They climb over the gate, charge the gate, kick the gate, whine about the gate, crawl under the gate, rip out the bars and step through the gate and, when it’s left wide open, remind me to lock the gate. It’s like a prisoner letting the guard know that his cell door is unlocked. A challenge thing? Unconscious habit? Who knows. But this is also cute.

Each night Mommy and Daddy put the boys to bed. We read a story. Then we play How Tall Are You? Mommy and Daddy sit on the floor. The boys stand on our legs. We ask, “How tall are you?” The boys raise their arms straight up and we finish with, “That tall!!” We do this a couple dozen times. It sounds stupid, I know. But they do it with all three of them holding hands, raising their arms in unison. When we finish a round of How Tall Are You?, the triplets unleash a squealing, clapping, leaping frenzy of joy-joy-to-the-point-of-drooling and hurl themselves into our laps like amped up rock stars into a crowd. Each day this is the peak moment of triplet ebullience. It’s also the peak moment of Daddy laughing. Sometimes they’re really cute.

Then they party. It’s been a long day full of hikes, no-no’s, eating, drinking, falls and scoldings. They party hard and long, eventually falling asleep blanketless, feet dangling over the bed’s edge, arms crooked at all angles, with pillows and plush toys strewn about the room, generally presenting the image of now hung-over rock stars the morning after.

Every morning Daddy wakes up and says to himself, “Today I’m going to be gentle with the kids. Today I’m not going to lose it.” And every day … so far … there comes a moment where Daddy loses it. Maybe it’s a moment when Daddy yells. Or a moment when Daddy pushes. Or a moment when Daddy grips too tightly. Nhan has even started wagging his finger at Daddy. “No-no, Daddy! You shouldn’t be doing that to me” says the gesture, and Nhan is right.

Every night Daddy goes into the boys’ room, picks the blankets off the floor and covers the sleeping toddlers. As he does so, Daddy likes to imagine that the boys are watching Daddy in their dreams and know that, in spite of whatever that went wrong that day, Daddy loves the boys. Daddy likes to imagine that each night as he covers a boy with a blanket, he forgives the boy and the boy forgives him. Tomorrow can be a fresh start. Sometimes Daddies are cute, too.

Posted in Family, Posts with Pictures, The Triplets, Year One | 2 Comments »

The Daddy Report: The Evolution of Stealing

Monday, November 2nd, 2009

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.

Posted in Family, The Triplets, Year One | No Comments »