Stage Dad: What I Wish I Had Known...

Occasionally, I get questions from others whose children are interested in pursuing a career in the performing arts. Usually, they want to know how to pursue an agent or manager, and what they should expect.

Often I will point them to the BizParentz Foundation (www.bizparentz.org), a California-based nonprofit that provides “education, advocacy, and charitable support to parents and children engaged in the entertainment industry.” The foundation has a wealth of information about child labor laws and regulations as well solid, common sense advice for parents.

But in conversation, I also have developed a list that I’ve titled, “What I wish I had known…”

Here it is:

Simple facts of your new life

This is a job. Just because your child has a manager and/or an agent, their success will not mean less work for you as a parent. If anything, it will mean more. They will not drive/fly/walk/train your child to an audition/callback/rehearsal/show. You are responsible for that.

“Entertainment” is first and foremost a business. Your child may be pursuing this because they love to entertain, but the goal for the producers/production companies ultimately is profitability and sustainability. You could be working on the best project in the world today and be on the unemployment line tomorrow. Be prepared to prepare your child for that inevitability.

Training is a costly – and necessary – proposition. Kids who perform professionally are expected to be able to sing, dance, and act. Not being able to do so is to their disadvantage, and that becomes readily apparent the minute they walk into an audition. So start looking for people who can help you, and be prepared to pay. (Advantage: Training is a tax write off in most cases.)

Auditions

Auditions are tough, no matter how prepared you are.

Look at how your child handles difficult, stressful, and/or trying situations. Do they hate auditions? Are they making progress from one to the next? Are they more comfortable? Do they feel like they’ve learned anything new?

Reality Check #1: Be prepared for disappointment. Know going in that auditions are a crapshoot. Chances are that you won’t get the part nine times out of 10, but all it takes is one.

Audition spaces are not as fancy as they look. If you think auditions and rehearsals are held at beautiful, spacious Park Avenue studios, think again. Don’t let the appearance of the place you are going deceive you; professional shows have been cast or rehearsed in spaces that ordinarily would be classified as dumps. That said, be sure to be on the lookout for troubling signs that your child is not safe or in good hands.

On time means early, even if you have to wait. Chances are pretty good that arriving 15 minutes early means you will have to wait 45 minutes to be called, but it may not. Someone scheduled before you might not show up, and you need to be prepared.

 Reality Check #2: You will drive three hours for five minutes with someone who may or may not give you the time of day. That’s one of your biggest adjustments, given the amount of prep time your child must put into a project.

Arm your child with the tools necessary to be successful. This means headshots, shoes, sheet music, notebooks, water, etc. They need to be prepared for every possible scenario, without being overwhelmed. For parents, wear comfortable clothes and bring a book/e-reader/hobby of choice. You never know when you’ll be stuck for two hours with nothing to do.

 Don’t court distractions. It is natural for young performers, especially novice, nervous ones in a room with other, equally talented kids, to want to show off their skills. Save your best for the audition instead. This goes for parents, too. Don’t spend your time talking about your child’s talents, no matter how multiple and varied they might be.

Reality Check #3: You likely won’t get feedback. Even though you’re dying to know what your child could/should have done better, chances are that you’ll hear nothing. Casting directors, in most cases, simply don’t have or take the time.

That’s my list, but I’ve saved the most important for last: Have fun.

You have a rare opportunity to do something that could end up being amazing (or not). Yes, it’s a rollercoaster, but it has a tremendous upside, so enjoy the ride.

Keep In Touch

Last week, one of our neighbors died from pancreatic cancer. She was so private that only the people closest to her — her immediate family and pastor — knew she had been ill for the past seven months.

The news came as a shock to the neighborhood, which saw its somewhat fragile and itinerant ecosystem shaken. Living close to a military base 15 miles outside Washington, D.C., we are used to seeing For Sale signs pop up every several months as neighbors move away, but no one is prepared for something like this.

No one expects to die at age 49, leaving a teenage child without either of his biological parents. And for the core group of families that has been in the neighborhood since the beginning, losing a charter member is an even deeper cut, especially when you did not know that person had been ill.

••••••

One disadvantage to living in an area that has four seasons is that you rarely see anyone outside from November to March. Smaller children, the thread that is the fabric of suburban neighborhoods, stay inside during inclement (read “cold”) weather.

Except for the holidays, or when it snows/ices, casual neighbors see each other only long enough to wave while walking the dog or getting in or out of the car.  Then another spring rolls around and the kids emerge, taller and with new toys.

Once your kids reach that tween/teen phase, playing outside becomes less important, falling victim to technology and peer groups. With busy lives and crazy run around schedules, you have to make a persistent effort to remain in touch.

The person who passed away is — I can’t bring myself to use the past tense — the first person we saw in the neighborhood. And that was even before our house was completed.

Our Virginia-based children, then 4, 3, and 3, immediately picked up on the fact that one of our neighbors had a child who was around their age. Ben, in particular, was thrilled to see that it was a boy.

For several years, our boys played together regularly. They spoke of each other as brothers. When Ben started acting, his friend’s mom regularly brought her son to his shows. When the boy’s father became ill, he started coming over to our house more and more. On the day of his father’s funeral, he came home with us and stayed for several hours; that Halloween, he went trick or treating with us while his mom remained at home to hand out candy.

About two years after the funeral, Ben moved to New York. By this time, his friend had a new father figure in his life. His mother was glowing and happy. During the spring and summer, they were always outside, working in the yard or playing basketball.

Like many kids, Ben and his friend drifted apart, in part because of distance and in part because of divergent interests. His friend has shot up in height, while Ben has remained relatively small. His friend is consumed by sports — especially basketball. Ben, although he enjoys athletics, obviously is not.

Kate and Emma would see the family down the street occasionally, and comment on how all seemed well. But over the past several months, we saw them less and less.

Today, that 14-year-old boy is without his mother, too.

••••••

There were little signs. She looked thinner when I drove past their house. The boy and his stepfather did not play basketball outside. The impeccably groomed yard started showing signs of wear.

But those little signs did not add up, and the family’s desire for privacy overwhelmed everything else. That’s why the news, sudden for most though months in the making, was such a shock.

Our thoughts — everyone’s thoughts — immediately went to the boy who has lost both of his biological parents. We thought of the kind man who has taken responsibility for a son he never had, and — while grieving on his own — is faced with continuing his wife’s work alone.

On Saturday night, in between trips that prevented us from going to the funeral 90 miles away earlier that day, I stopped by to pay my condolences. What started as a simple hello and goodbye evolved into a 90-minute conversation about faith and loss and hope.

Leaving, I thought of the little things we can look out for and do. Will we see them playing basketball? Will the yard return to its usual impeccable shape? Will the presence of the woman with the unshakable faith always be felt? As the boy enters high school, how can Jill — thanks to her school counseling connections — help and assist with her wonderful, professional and parental touch.

As their friend, I left with the pledge to stop by and check on them, and with the offer to help in any way we can without pressing or pushing.

After all, isn’t that what good neighbors do?

Stage Dad: A Lesson From Dance

Like many parents with school-age children, a standing feature on many of our Saturdays is toting the kids to various lessons. For all of our kids, those precious weekend hours have revolved around one place: a dance studio in Northern Virginia.

Metropolitan Fine Arts Center, or MFAC as it is known, is a non-competitive dance studio that has branched out to offer classes in acting and voice. It also is the recipient of much of our family’s discretionary income over the past eight years.

While the studio’s emphasis is on the kids’ fun and enjoyment, it also is on skill building and performance training. The big picture goal, if kids and their families wish to go for it, is to develop performers who will pursue careers if they wish.

Throughout their elementary school years, all three of our Virginia-based children – Ben, Emma, and Kate – took multiple classes on multiple days and nights at MFAC. They participated in the annual spring production – a melding of the traditional dance recital and a musical theatre show – and summer dance and theatre camps. Nicholas, our oldest son who grew up in North Carolina, saw his passion ignited at a musical theatre camp; now he’s working toward a degree in acting at Elon University.

My wife and I have become friends/acquaintances with a number of the families that are part of our kids’ core group. As Ben started working professionally, most were extremely supportive and a number came to see him in DC-based shows. They’ve also watched out for our daughters, given them rides, and helped us out when we asked. You can tell they seem genuinely proud that “one of our own” is living his dream.

That said, competition is embedded into any extracurricular activity, whether the team or studio competes for trophies or not. And some parents have definitely looked at our son’s pursuit of a professional career with a raised eyebrow, wondering if he was the recipient of favoritism, questioning why we “pushed” our child into a professional life at such a young age, and asking if this experience is “changing him.”

No question that, as a male who sings and dances, Ben has an advantage over females. Girls pursuing careers in the performing arts outnumber boys by a huge ratio, something you can see by peering into any class at MFAC or other dance studio. It is simply harder for girls to break in because of the numbers.

At the same time, the gender advantage also can be a disadvantage, simply because a boy who pursues a passion for dance is considered “different.” And, as diverse and open as Northern Virginia is about a number of things, “different” still is not widely embraced as you would hope, a theme echoed in “Billy Elliot.”

Natural talent and gender advantages would be all for naught, though, without passion and training. As parents, we are very fortunate. Our son – and to varying degrees, the rest of our kids – has passion for his craft in spades. When all the kids are at our house, dinner rapidly morphs into dinner and a show. And I can’t tell you how many times I’ve told Ben to stop doing turns in second in the living room, or feared that Emma would come through the ceiling while working on handstands in her room.

Jill and I have tried to support that passion by giving our kids the opportunities to get proper training. MFAC, for Ben, was a great start. For Emma, his twin, it is a great place to find her passions in life, an outlet and an opportunity for exercise, and a terrific social circle. For his older sister Kate, it remains a mostly fond memory.

When the “Billy Elliot” tour came to the Kennedy Center last December, MFAC supported the show by purchasing 100 tickets for parents and students. By the night of the performance, we had almost 200 people in the audience, many of whom had never seen our son perform professionally.

After the show ended, I saw a couple of people who had openly questioned our choice to allow Ben to pursue work as a professional performer. As he talked to his friends, one told me he looked “so comfortable” on stage. Another said she was glad to see he “hadn’t changed.”

In some respects, those are the best reviews he’s gotten yet.

Stage Dad: A Triathlon in Chunks

Being the parent of a professional child actor has a lot in common with triathlons. Sometimes you run, sometimes you spin around in circles, and sometimes you work heroically just to keep your head above water.

Take today for example. It’s just 10 a.m., and already it’s been a long morning.

I’m sitting on the Amtrak as I write this, heading back from New York to Virginia. It’s a familiar drill, one that we do a lot less frequently since Ben has been on the “Billy Elliot” tour. In fact, after making this trek almost weekly for more than two years, I’ve only been to “The City” — shorthand for what Manhattanites call the “true center of the universe” — three times since November.

Yesterday, however, was worth the commute, and the four 36-block roundtrips between the apartment and the rehearsal studio. It was the day — after numerous classes, callbacks, setbacks, hopes, dreams, and prayers — that Ben started formal rehearsals for the lead in a show he has pursued and been part of for more than four years.

And yet, it was just another day.

••••••

For stage parents, days and nights are broken into chunks, and show schedules can consume significant parts of your life. Professional guardians (more on that in a future installment) are hired by the show and assigned to the child when he/she is working. Parents and/or the child’s personal guardian (another future installment) are responsible for the rest — drop off, pick up, and the breaks in between.

How you handle the chunks is the difference between enjoying the experience and hating it. In my line of work, I use the uninterrupted two and three-hour windows to edit and do the tasks that require time to think. Over the past three years, Starbucks, diners with Wi-fi, and hotel lobbies have become my second office, and I’ve become one of those people you see with a squinting, scrunched up face working on a laptop.

I’m lucky that my job allows me to do that. Not everyone is.

When Ben was working in the D.C. area, it was more complicated. Our house is in the Northern Virginia suburbs, and it was a 30 to 45 minute drive home and back. That’s when I learned about chunks of time, because it was not worth it to take in, drop off, drive home, and return for pick ups. Jill and I would either split the difference or one of us would stay.

In New York, we also tried to make sure that commuting between the apartment and the theater was not a factor. It was a reasonable walk, except when the elements were against us, and even then it was a short cab ride. Most of the time, I didn’t go back to the apartment unless it was necessary, instead finding a place to work or indulging in my then new, now regular hobby — photography.

I’m fortunate that I’ve been able to deal with the chunks of time pretty easily, but making the most of them does require some advance planning and mapping out of your day. Otherwise, before you know it, it’s over.

••••••

Everyone handles these things differently. I’ve seen parents who arrive for pick up five minutes early, make no eye contact with the other adults, scoop up the child, and drive away without saying goodbye. They are doing this out of parental obligation, not out of love for their child’s passion, and they seem to resent it. That’s a shame.

Others hang around outside and peer in the stage door whenever it opens, obviously pained to spend any time night or day without their supervision. They don’t understand why they are not allowed to watch rehearsals or be part of things backstage.

That’s when you’re reminded that this is a business, folks.

Understanding that fact is foreign, at least at first. Recognizing that your child, no matter how large or small, is in a work environment while in elementary or middle school does not seem to compute. At the same time, you have to trust that your child receives good care while in the company of other professionals. Knowing how and when it’s appropriate to step in and advocate is a judgment call.

If your child is fortunate enough to be in this position, let them concentrate and enjoy it without having to worry about your lurking presence.

Of course, diligently showing up five minutes early won’t hurt anyone’s feelings, especially late at night. Just don’t forget to say hello. Other parents appreciate it, even if they don’t say so…

Stage Dad: Three Simple Rules

Everyone has heard horrible stories about stage parents.

Reality shows paint the worst pictures in vivid, cable-ready HD. Tabloids are littered with tales of the Lindsays, the Brittanys, the Mileys, the Gary Colemans, and other assorted child actors/personalities whose lives became train wrecks. Somewhere along the way, egos explode and lines get crossed. Advocates become asses.

For a parent, that possibility is frightening as you enter into this strange world. In our case, we had a child who found a passion very early in life, and we wanted to support his pursuit of that passion. But we were terrified of becoming anything resembling the stereotype.

Early on, my wife and I developed three simple rules that we live by regarding our son:

#1: Maintain good grades: Your education comes first. Yes, the education and training you receive by working with professional actors, writers, directors, choreographers and others is invaluable. Doing so at the expense of your formal education is not an option, however. The minute your grades go south is the time to reevaluate what’s important, no matter how good the professional opportunity.

Funny story: When Ben was in fourth grade, he got a role in the Folger Theater’s production of “Macbeth,” directed by Aaron Posner and Teller. Early on in the show’s run, he arbitrarily decided that math was not necessary for him to pursue an acting career. In Fairfax County, students receive interim report cards every three weeks. His grade was a “D.”

That night, when I picked him up at the show at 10:30, I started drilling him on multiplication tables during the 30-minute drive home. The next night, the same. The following night, the same.

By the fourth night of 9X9=81, he looked at me exasperated and asked: “What do I have to do to get you to stop?” My response was simple: Get your grades up and I’ll stop. Otherwise, it will be a long 52 rides home for you.

He got the message.

#2: Be a professional when you are in a professional environment: You are working with adults who rely on this job for their living. You are lucky; you don’t have to do this to support your family. It doesn’t matter who you encounter – director, writer, choreographer, casting director, grip, stagehand, wrangler, costumer – everyone deserves equal respect. This is a very small world, which means you will encounter these people again at some point. How you represent yourself yesterday, today and tomorrow makes a difference.

Working on his first show, Ford’s Theatre’s “A Christmas Carol,” Ben was five minutes late for a rehearsal. Traffic was bad and we did not plan accordingly. He arrived and promptly was chewed out by Mark Ramont; we were not late again.

Later, I asked Mark why he did that. His reasoning was simple: No matter how talented our son is, having a lax attitude toward his coworkers is disrespectful and not acceptable. Again, lesson learned.

And most important…

#3: When you’re not in a professional environment, don’t forget that you’re a kid. You don’t have to be on all the time. Play (safely). Enjoy time with your friends. Get away from the pressure cooker that this life presents. Yes, it’s a remarkable life and you are having some fabulous experiences, but striking the life/work balance is just as important.

We are lucky. Our son, and for that matter all of our kids, are still very much teenagers. Ben is interested in his technology, theme parks and Facebook. He has encountered the often-tangled ropes on relationships with girls. He still gets nervous when he’s facing a test in school or about to go on in a new role.

And yet, he’s still our little boy, not afraid to give me a hug in public, not ashamed to be seen talking to his dad, his mom, or other adults.

The best part of this entire experience is when friends and relatives see him now. Quickly, they discover the things we already know, that no matter how crazy and nontraditional things are, he has not become someone else. He is still “just Ben.”

I would like to think that’s because we have preached and preached these rules, and that he has taken them to heart. Yes, my wife and I are stage parents. Yes, I’m a stage dad.

But parent and dad come first. 

Stage Dad: A New Column

Note: In May 2012, I was asked to write a column for a Washington, D.C., theatre website (www.dcmetrotheaterarts.com) on being a "Stage Dad." I'm crossposting the columns to this blog as well after they are published.


"I saw my sis go pitter pat. Said I can do that. I can do that.”

Five and a half years ago, my little boy Ben was dancing in the basement of a woman’s house in Maryland, showing off his gymnastics moves, taps and splits. Afterward, he answered a few questions from the woman we arranged to meet and then we left, not knowing what would happen next.

Really, we had no clue how that audition would change all of our lives.

That little boy is now a teen, getting ready to fly back from Los Angeles to New York, where he will train for the role he’s pursued since 2008 – the title part on the national tour of “Billy Elliot.” And in a couple of weeks, he’ll flashback to that afternoon in the basement when he performs “I Can Do That” in a benefit called “Born for Broadway” at the American Airlines Theater in New York.

Things in his life – and the lives of our family – are coming full circle, the pieces of a long and winding path finally connecting. It’s a path that has featured numerous adventures (of the mis and grand variety), including six professional shows in Washington, D.C., two Broadway productions, one national tour, and one cameo in a TV series that was filmed before a two-show day. It also has involved countless auditions, stealth-like schlepping (planes, trains, and motor vehicle versions), two residences, long days, and sleepless nights.

At least it’s not travel soccer.

Looking back at those adventures, as well as the lessons learned, is the purpose of this blog/column that Joel Markowitz asked me to write. For the past three years, I’ve written a personal blog – http://lifeasarealityshow.blogspot.com – in an attempt to process what has taken place in our lives. Joel very graciously asked me to share some of those stories with his audience.

So let me set the scene for you.

My wife, Jill, and I have four teenagers – two boys and two girls, ranging in age from 14 to 19. My oldest, Nicholas, just was accepted into the BFA Acting program at Elon University in North Carolina. Katharine, the visual artist in the group, is finishing her freshman year in high school in Northern Virginia.

Emma, Ben’s twin sister, is in eighth grade at a different Northern Virginia school. Like her brother, she lives for dance. She also is forging, through hard work and good grades, her own path in life in a far more low-key way than her brother.

Now you can see why I like to say, with four kids in four schools in three states, “In our family, the only thing mellow is the drama.”

Over the next several months, I hope you will join us on this journey of what it is like to be a stage parent. We’ll chronicle the ups and downs, answer your questions, seek your thoughts and – I hope – provide you with some insight into the world in which we live.

What a world it is.

Joplin's 'Amazing' Year

Note: This essay was published this afternoon on NSBA's School Board News Today site to promote the Joplin Schools story I wrote for American School Board Journal. 

You never know who you’re going to bump into at the NSBA Annual Conference. But after a couple of days, I usually have a pretty good idea.

Each year, I meet a board member or superintendent early on, either on the shuttle bus or in line at the hotel. And over the course of the next several days, I seem to see that person everywhere.

Last year, that person was Randy Steele.

Randy is a school board member in Joplin, Mo., and justifiably, he was proud of the Magna Award grand prize that his district was receiving for a program called “Bright Futures.” Over the course of the three-day meeting, I saw him everywhere—in the hallway, in sessions, at the Magna luncheon. By the end of the week, it had become something of a running joke.

What happened in Joplin just six weeks later was no joke.

An EF-5 tornado cut a three-quarter mile path through the middle of this Missouri community, ultimately claiming 161 lives, causing $3 billion in damage, and destroying several of Joplin’s school buildings. Immediately, ASBJ’s staff reached out—via Facebook—to Steele and Superintendent C.J. Huff, asking if there was anything we could do.

This month’s cover story is the result.

Over the past year, we have followed a remarkable tale of resilience and recovery, of looking ahead when it is more tempting to look back. It’s a fascinating study of how tireless leaders—board members and administrators—turn crisis into opportunity as they work to protect students and staff and prevent them from having a lost year.

The first few paragraphs of this essay were taken from my editor’s note that appears in the print edition. Since we wrapped up the issue, which was distributed at this year’s annual conference, there are a number of things to update:

• Just after the issue went to press, voters narrowly passed a $62 million bond issue that will help in the district’s rebuilding effort. Joplin High School is the centerpiece of that effort; all of the pictures in the print edition are from the devastated building that is still being razed. (You also can find more pictures from the high school and the Joplin community that I took last year on ASBJ’s Facebook page — www.facebook.com/AmericanSchoolBoard.)

• A week after the construction referendum, former board chair Ashley Micklethwaite announced that she has accepted a job with Mercy Health Center in St. Louis and will leave Joplin later this year.

• The district has started working on plans for President Obama’s commencement speech on May 21 — the day before the first anniversary. The next day, ceremonial groundbreaking ceremonies will be held for the new schools.

C.J. Huff, who has done yeoman’s work in leading the district’s recovery efforts, told the Joplin Globe that he and other administrators know that May 22 will be a tough and emotional day for the community’s residents.

“Everybody is in a different place,” Huff said. “Those days will bring a lot of celebration and a lot of reflection. As we reflect on the past, we have to think about the future. It’s just another step in the healing process.”

The year has not been without its glitches. In fact, Joplin is facing a lawsuit from the out-of-state contractor hired to demolish the high school. People who remain unsettled by the storm were upset that their taxes would go up and voted against the referendum, which passed by a 57-43 margin.

But none of that should put a damper on the remarkable story that school leaders — anyone in a position of leadership really — can read in this month’s issue.

Just before the issue went to press, I asked Randy if I would see him at this year’s conference. The new board president said he wasn’t sure, and ultimately he did not go. The reason: The meeting conflicted with Joplin’s prom.

Two weeks ago, in Boston, I got onto a packed shuttle and headed toward the back. This time, I bumped into Ashley Mickelthwaite. She had been remarkably candid in our talks last November and again in March, talking about the loss of her home, the struggles of her community, the changes in her job — Joplin’s Mercy Hospital was destroyed in the storm — and the hard work going on in the district.

As we rode toward the convention center, she told me about her decision to resign from the board and leave her hometown (“It’s tough, but it’s time,” she said.) She also talked of the resilience — and the grind — that everyone continues to face.

“It’s been an amazing year,” she said.

Indeed.

To read the story, go to http://www.asbj.com/MainMenuCategory/Archive/2012/May/Restoring-Joplins-Future.html

To read my earlier essay, written right after the Joplin tornado, click here.

Living With Bipolar

This has been a passion project for our family, talking openly and honestly about the struggles, challenges and victories of Kate as she deals with bipolar disorder. We are very fortunate — Kate is the most open of all.

Look through this blog and you will see essays I have written about Kate over the past several years. The most recent, published in February, is from the period described in this video. In the middle of the worst period, Jill asked me to chronicle what we (and Kate) faced in photographs.

Again, the difference in storytelling between photography and writing emerges. The essays depict a father who wrestles — not always in the best ways — with a daughter who is just as stubborn as I am. They depict a family that is dealing with "It" — as we have dubbed the disorder — lurking in the background at times and taking center stage at others.

The photography, with minimal written narration to provide context and a beautiful John Hiatt song accompanying the images, provides an even more visceral point of view.

I hope you will watch, respond, comment, and share your thoughts.

Thank you for your support.

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.

I Am A Child

This week marked my 11th anniversary at NSBA, amazing considering that I never worked in one job for more than 5 years prior to that. For some reason, it made me think back to our time in Rockingham County, N.C. – that period when our kids were little and just getting ready for work each day was an adventure. One morning, waiting to turn on to NC 14 after leaving our house on a particularly trying morning, this came to me fully formed. By the end of my 10 mile drive to my office, I could not wait to get inside, hoping that it would not leave my brain before I could write it down. It didn't, fortunately, and in scrounging through files today, I found it again. The words still apply...

I am a child.

I will push you (and sometimes my friends, too)

Poke you.

Prod you.

Run laps around you,

And sometimes through your legs.

If I want it bad enough, I’ll even beg.

I am a child.

I will laugh with you, and sometimes at you.

I will smile and giggle, too.

I am a child.

I will sing and act.

I’ll negotiate a bedtime story

With a sports agent’s savvy

And threaten a holdout if I don’t get my way.

But if you take some time, eventually I will settle down and pray.

I am a child.

It’s an innocent look.

I’ll never plead guilty to making a mess.

I was just playing, I guess.

I am a child.

I will inspire you.

Believe in you.

Sneeze, drip and cough on you.

Hug, kiss and hold onto you.

Never stop asking you why

Even when I cry.

I am a child.

I’ll refuse a home-cooked meal

And ask for spaghettios.

Look in my bowl and ask, “What are those?”

I am a child.

It is my job to test you,

And not in the standardized ways.

But every night and every day.

I am a child.

I will teach you.

Will you teach me, too?