Phases and Stages

It’s hard for me to believe that all four kids are teenagers, although I have the gray hair — especially in my beard — to prove that they have been part of almost one-third of my life.

Reflecting on this — and seeing my reflection in the mirror — made me realize that parenting can be broken down into phases. For us, with three kids in 11½ months, it was the “Lift, tuck, and separate” phase of diapers, bottles, and all of the other assembly line tasks that new moms and dads face. At that point, parenting often feels like a series of inputs and outputs, with a few giggles and tears in between.

The elementary school years are another phase that, with occasional hiccups and surprises, tend to follow a familiar pattern. (You learn, for example, that “project” is actually a four-letter word.) Parents and children go through this wonderful evolution from discovery (everything has “first” attached to it) to exploration (dance classes, sports, hobbies), and eventually — you hope — start narrowing it down into career interests that match their abilities.

We are fortunate. Our kids found things they loved reasonably early and we have had the means and opportunities to help them pursue their passions. Of course, that meant we evolved early into the A1 Taxi Service phase, a virtual ballet of pickup and drop off that requires “Swan Lake”-style precision and the cooperation of the traffic gods on an almost-daily basis. And for the past three years, we added the “Planes, Buses, Trains, and Automobiles” value pack to our parenting.

Now, the kids officially have moved to the “all you can eat activity buffet” phase. Given where we live, the offerings are plentiful. Parenting, in between the pickups and drop offs, becomes a revolving checklist of “do you have this?” and “did you get that?”

The evolution is moving along — sometimes lurching — at a somewhat natural pace. As teens, they are at that familiar, restless place where they wish life would just hurry up. They want to drive. They want to spread their wings. They want economic freedom.

Don’t we all?

I try, like most parents, to remind them of this absolute truth: You spend the first 25 years of your life hoping it will speed up, and the rest wishing it would slow down. Enjoy where you are now, and make progress toward tomorrow.

As you move from one phase to the next, parenting doesn’t really become harder or easier, just different. Each brings new challenges, new obstacles, and new opportunities.

Sounds a lot like the rest of our lives, doesn’t it?

The Morning Duty Spouse

This is another from my parenting archives, written in 2003. At the time, the kids did not go to school until later in the morning. Now, Emma and Kate get up before dawn. Jill, who still leaves early for work, now picks up the majority of the “morning duty” part (bless her) while I do a lot of the late night pick up. 

The moral of this update: Busy children = L-o-n-g days. But as you will see, this has always been the case.

When you are blessed with three smart, inquisitive and articulate pre-school and kindergarten children, mornings are like a presidential press conference:

“Yes, Pop Tarts are OK.”

“Middle Eastern policy? Can’t talk about that right now.”

“Milk? That’s too heavy to pour, I’ll do it.”

“New Hampshire primary? Can’t go there yet.”

“Socks. Your mother put them out last night.”

Like many couples with young kids, my wife and I both work. An early riser, she leaves around 7:15 for the office and picks up the kids in the afternoon. I’m the morning duty spouse, more often than not the greatest challenge I face all day.

What this means is I have the onerous task of getting Katharine, Emma, and Benjamin — ages 6, 5, and 5, respectively — out of the house and onto school so I can get to the train station in time to catch the 8:30 Virginia Rail Express. For me, “No Child Left Behind” means a daily head count in the van.

7 a.m.: The Wake-Up Call

Come 6:15 on a weekend morning, they’re internally caffeinated, dressed, brushed and ready to start banging on doors at the surrounding houses, just because it’s light outside. That’s made us real popular in the neighborhood.

But Monday through Friday, no matter how much sleep they’ve had, I get the same refrain:

“I’m tired…” Stretch. Yawn.

“Just a few more minutes…” Yawn. Stretch.

“Daddeeee…” On a good day, it’s four syllables.

And then, as if the opening bell has sounded, they’re up and running. Doors open and close. They kiss Mommy goodbye. Faucets turn on, then partially off, always leaving a drip. I listen for weather and traffic on the 8s, fearful of facing Beltway traffic if I miss the VRE.

7:22 a.m.: The Breakfast

The cereal is out. Cheerios surround the bowl, some soggy, some still dry. Milk dribbles onto the floor. It’s no wonder that walking through our kitchen is akin to tiptoeing barefoot to the middle row seat in a movie theater.

Television is verboten during the week, in large part because my wife and I feel guilty about being able to quote entire episodes of “The Brady Bunch,” “Partridge Family,” and “Gilligan’s Island” from memory. But without the tube for company, we have to talk, and so the conversations and questions begin.

Topics for discussion include:

• What does a specific bodily sound really mean?

• Why does the cereal box always have only one toy and not three?

• The inevitable weather question: Why is it raining again today?

We rarely discuss painting, unless it’s the picture on our refrigerator. We don’t talk politics, unless you include the intricacies of sibling rivalry. Our conversations about literature and art consist of Barbie books, the latest plastic “Bot,” and “Finding Nemo.”

It’s a decidedly upper middle class existence, and my wife and I constantly convey to our kids how lucky they -- and we -- are. We try to teach them manners, to subtly convey that it’s not OK to jam your mouth full of Pop Tart and recite the Pledge of Allegiance.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes I survive. Sometimes I think longingly of the 10-hour day ahead at work, knowing it will be my only chance to rest.

7:51: The checklist

Often, our most difficult transition is going from the eating breakfast-brushing teeth- combing hair stage to the getting buckled up in the van stage. Our well-intentioned and informative breakfast conversations end with the intrusion of the day-to-day reality of life, the checklist we face every morning.

“Book bag? Check…”

“Hair combed? Check…”

“Coffee spilled on tie? Check…”

“Teeth brushed? Check…”

“Three kids still? Check.”

My 5-year-old son hides contraband toys in his pockets to show to school friends. That is, unless he’s trying to ride his two-wheel bicycle — a source of pride — down the street and around the block “just one time.”

Ben’s twin, Emma, tries to decide which pair of the aforementioned socks to wear. My oldest daughter, Katharine, dashes across the street to see about a neighbor’s aging -- and infinitely patient -- dog.

So many distractions, so little time. And it’s ticking away.

8:16: A fond farewell

Time has become a recurring theme for my wife and me, especially as we delve deeply into this most challenging period as adults, spouses, and parents. It’s difficult to remember a day when we weren’t held captive by time.

Pre-school and elementary school children are not similarly encumbered. They wake up when the sun wakes up, and they go to sleep when the sun goes to sleep. Time management is not a factor. The passing of time is not either.

That will come soon enough, I think as I kiss them goodbye, the van idling. And it’s a thought I have daily as I rush to catch the train.

Trip Planning 101

Thanks to a dose of nostalgia, and a desire late at night to return to the days when I didn't have four teenagers, I’ve been going through old files and rereading essays I’ve written about the kids. When you have three in a single calendar year and a fourth who is just four years older, there is much to be observed and chronicled.

So much of those early years are such a blur that it’s been good to look at what I wrote then, largely because I have no idea how we survived.

Here is one from the summer of 1999:

Taking trips with my family makes me appreciate how the Allied leaders felt when they planned the invasion of Normandy.

My wife and I have an 18-month-old daughter and 6 1/2 month-old twins, making even the most innocuous of errands an exercise in organizational management. But after a full week of playing solo mom, my wife has such a bad case of cabin fever that she would do anything short of dropping napalm on the surrounding area to get out of the house.

So we take trips. Little trips. Long trips. Side jaunts. We even go out to dinner, leaving patrons to do the math — “Two and one, that poor mother” — and waitresses dreading our arrival at their stations.

Of course, this takes preparation. We need to rent a U-Haul so we can take half the house with us, but we can’t afford it. So we jam everything into the van and my wife goes over the checklist.

“Diapers — check.”

“Bottles — check.”

“Change of clothes for babies — check.”

“Two changes of clothes for mom and dad — check.”

“Toys — check.”

“12 pack of Valium — check.”

And so we go, hoping against hope that the children will fall asleep at the start of the trip, rather than waiting until we are almost at our destination before nodding off. My wife and I take bets on how many people will come up, shake their heads and say, “My, you’ve got your hands full.”

Most of these longer trips so far have involved holidays, which require modified planning because there are even more things to take along. At Easter, we drove 2 1/2 hours to Boone, and I am still finding plastic green grass in places that I never thought possible.

On the Fourth of July, we took the kids out to watch the fireworks.

The 5-year-old, who visits on alternate weekends, was fine. The 18-month-old jumped up and down and squealed with excitement. The twins just sat there, bug-eyed and thinking:

“OK, Mom and Dad have us up past our bedtime, and they’re forcing us to watch 2001: A Space Odyssey.”

As we returned home that night, children finally to sleep three hours past their bedtime, I took a minute to look at each of them and wondered if they were dreaming about their day.

Even though they won’t remember these excursions with mom and dad, we will. And our lives — though hectic — are greatly enriched by these gifts that are these children.

It makes me think of all the times we pass parents with one child in a stroller, seeing that look in their eyes that says, “Good grief, that could be us.”

And I strain to remember what it was like — just a few short months ago — to be them.

Sitter Instruction Manual

Recently, while digging through some old computer files, I found a list of instructions for our babysitter from 2000. As you can see below, they were detailed and explicit, in part because we were foisting a 3-year-old and two 2-year-olds on unsuspecting (but excellent) sitters.

The girls who worked for us, now remarkably married (time flies), were mostly recruited from the middle school where Jill was a counselor. It was a good deal for the sitters’ parents, too; we advertised ourselves as the Rockingham County Adolescent Pregnancy Prevention Coalition.

Tonight’s Routine

If they’re not moving yet, wake everyone around 5:30. You can play outside and neighborhood kids can play in our yard as well, but keep them in our yard.

Eat around 7. Frozen pizzas are out; will take 60 to 90 seconds to heat. Ben likes milk, Emma likes juice and Katharine water or juice. We have self-contained juices in the pantry; Ben needs a cup that has a lid if possible. They’re in the kitchen cabinets or dishwasher.

After everyone finishes eating, get them in their pajamas (Ben likes to wear his pants/blue jeans, and that’s fine). Wash their faces; give them a bath if you feel brave, but it’s not necessary. Then help them brush their teeth.

Don’t give Emma or Katharine anything to drink after dinner.

Let them watch a movie downstairs (probably Rugrats) and aim to get them to bed between 9 and 9:30. (NO LATER THAN 9:30). We have popcorn in the cabinet that already has been popped; they can eat that.

Bed: Read to Ben and Emma (two to three stories minimum), then work on getting them to bed. Ben and Emma will jaw over what they want to take to bed with them. Go ahead and put their books in the bed. Ben likes Buzz or Woody; Emma sometimes likes to sleep with a towel. That’s OK. Read, bed, and leave the light on that is on their dresser. Don’t close their door; they’ll scream.

Katharine needs to be read to as well in her bed. Two to three stories, then flip over her tape and turn it on. Light on her dresser can be on as well.

That’s it. Once you’ve gotten to this point, you’ve made it! Congratulations and we’ll be home soon.

If Sondheim Was A Parent...

My one attempt to channel Sondheim, badly and without remorse, in a pitiful attempt to discuss those last few days before parenting begins.

Husband’s Friends:

Is it born yet?

How’s your wife?

Wife’s Friends:

Want to hear my labor story?

Or the story of my life?

Friends (both):

Is there anything we can do

Before she comes?

You know who…

Wife:

I’m surrounded, distracted,

Contorted, not contracted.

People asking why?

Husband’s Friends:

Is it born yet?

How’s your wife?

Wife’s Friends:

Want to hear my labor story?

Or the story of my life?

Husband’s Friends:

It’ll be soon, I promise.

Tomorrow, I’ll bet.

Wife’s Friends:

Full moon coming.

Next week, no sweat.

Husband:

I’m swirling, toppling, twirling.

My stomach curling.

People asking why?

Husband’s Friends:

Is it born yet?

How’s your wife?

Want to hear my labor story?

Wife:

That’s the story of my life!

Wife’s Friends:

I’m sure you’re ready.

Got the room together?

I bought her a teddy.

When she comes home, I’ll come see.

We wouldn’t want to bother,

Would we?

Wife:

I’m tossing, turning, pillows overhead.

Not sleeping. Not yearning.

Learning to leave things unsaid.

Husband’s Friends:

Is it born yet?

How’s your wife?

Husband:

That’s the story of my life!

Wife:

Phone is ringing.

Husband:

People singing.

Friends Together:

Is it born yet?

How’s your wife?

Want to hear my labor story?

Or the story of my life?

Wife:

I wonder if I’ll ever sleep again.

Husband:

Me too.

Friends Together:

Never again

Not you two.

Especially after you know who.

When it's born

You'll wonder why.

Sometimes you'll sit.

Sometimes you'll cry.

Sometimes you'll wonder, 

"Why do I try?" 

But then it's born, and you will see

It doesn't matter
He or she
Because you will love

Un-con-dition-all-eeee

Time Marches On

It’s Sunday night. Spring break has started for the kids, except for Nicholas, who had his a couple of weeks ago. Jill is in Boone with the trio visiting her dad, and we’re all heading to Los Angeles next week before Ben starts training for the “Billy Elliot” tour. I stayed behind to work, given that it’s budget time at my office and I have to save the few days of vacation that I have left between now and the end of the fiscal year.

In our household, that means there’s not much to report. And that’s not a bad thing, I guess, even if it is the calm before the storm. If anything, it's a welcome change from the past several months.

That said, the last week of March is tough for me, one that I find myself dreading annually and one that I'm glad to see pass. The reason: What used to be a week of celebrations has taken a 180-degree turn in a few short years.

It starts with Jill’s birthday, not itself a bad thing. Two days later is my mom and dad’s anniversary and the anniversary of Bill’s death, then two days after that is Fran’s birthday. It’s hard to believe Bill has been gone eight years, and that it has been five years since the long summer that saw our family lose my dad and Fran.

Time marches on — in so many ways. And so quickly, too. Soon, we'll be so busy that there won't be much time to reflect, or so we think. Memories have a way of popping up and surprising you...

Maybe I'll even write a few of them down.