kid drawing

Wee the People

The voice of democracy rang through our house last week. Owen (9) came home to inform us that he was running for student council. “Only 4th and 5th graders can be classroom representatives,” he told me excitedly. “Each class elects one boy and one girl. A lot of boys are running, but I think I have a shot.”

As he walked out of the kitchen, I already felt like he had won. I was so proud of the fact that he decided to run on his own. As a parent, you’re often not sure if your kids are getting the message. We don’t keep a checklist on the fridge of all the things we do/do not want them to do. So, we try to lead by example. But, more than that, we hope. We hope a lot. Hope that they will understand all that we cannot put into words. That they err on the side of what’s right. That they just be nice, and kind, and president.

Over the next few days, Owen worked on his campaign. He sat in his room creating posters that highlighted his policies and platform. Posters that looked like this:

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“Wow, Owen!” I said, impressed. “This looks awesome!”

“And I made him this one, Dad,” said his little brother, Hayden (8):

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And just like that, I beheld the candidate and his campaign manager. For the next few days, it felt like I was in the presence of a young JFK and his brother, Bobby. The boys continued their work in earnest.

“Dad, did you notice on my signs where I ask everyone if they got their cards?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said.

“See, you can’t give out candy or prizes, so I thought it would be neat to give each of them a card before they vote.” Cards. He made 28 little cards for his classmates. Cards that looked like this:

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“Here’s the one he made for me,” piped in his manager, Hayden. And he showed me this:

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“Now, Owen, you should put all of these in a folder so you don’t…” directed Hayden, and the two boys were off again. I saw them cutting and folding, and placing everything in what I am sure was the first file cabinet for many of us–underneath the couch.

The day before the election, the boys and I were driving in the car. “So, Owen, if you did win, what is something you think you might do for your fellow classmates?”

“Well,” he said, “every month we go to a meeting with the principal and some teachers and tell them of any problems.”

“What do you think might be a problem you would bring up?”

“Umm, like, let’s say the buses are too crowded. Then I would work to fix that.”

“Okay, how?” I implore.

“By telling them we need more buses!” he answers emphatically.

Would that it were that easier, my son. Would that it were, I think. Yet, I say, “Sounds good, buddy.”

That night, I watch him craft his speech. He doesn’t let me read it, but he allows me to show him how to write it in big letters on several indexphoto (56) cards. Since I will not see him in the morning, I wish him well before bed.

“Good luck tomorrow, O. And just remember, no matter what happens you can still be a leader.”

“Okay,” he says.

“You’re a leader just for wanting to run in the election. No matter what happens–you’ve already won in my book.”

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I first thought about writing this post before the election took place, and I thought it would be cool not to reveal if he won or not. I truly believe he is a winner just for trying to do this at such a young age. And not a “winner” in the sense that every kid gets a trophy at the end of the season regardless of their record, but a winner in the sense that he took a chance, he stood up, he wanted to be a part of something bigger than himself.

But now that I know the outcome, I must inform you–and not for the reasons you might think.

Owen won. He did, and I am proud. But the victory was enlightening for other reasons.

For one, some of his “friends” said mean things about his winning–one even claimed they were no longer buds (the same boy who was playing with him at a birthday party two days later)–and therein lies a hard lesson for anyone. As the wise sage Taylor Swift once proclaimed, “And the haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate…” An important lesson indeed: there will always be people who will try to dampen your spirits, who don’t want you to succeed. But I am happy to tell you that Owen seemed quite unphased by this.

The second insight from the election comes from the fact that two of Owen’s running mates wore oxfords with bow ties and delivered Power Point presentations. My son wore his usual shorts and sneaks, delivered a heartfelt speech and gave everyone a colorful voting card–looks like Owen’s on his way to being a Democrat.

Regardless of his political leanings–he’ll always have my vote.

God Bless America!

 

 

“Alright, Mr. Demille, I’m ready for my…armpit fart?”

Huffington Post. THE Huffington Post. It’s the calling card that every blogger aspires to receive. If you are featured on the Huffington Post–you’ve arrived.

I have not been featured on HuffPost, as they say. Oh, I’ve submitted posts. I’ve tweeted them. I’m friends with HuffPost Parents on Facebook. I’ve done the sort of thing that most daddy bloggers have done, but still no bites.

So, imagine my surprise when, a few weeks ago, I received an email from a producer of “Tell Me Why…,” a video segment on HP featuring kids asking and answering questions. It read:

Hi Michael,

I’m a producer at HuffPost Live and I produce a segment each week called “Tell Me Why” where we invite a kid to come on and ask a question or explain something he or she is passionate about.  
We’ve covered everything from String Theory and Evolution to Space… but perhaps one of our favorite episodes was one about Boogers 🙂  I just saw this post about your son’s “to do” list, photo (40)which brilliantly ends with armpit farts.  We’re hoping to pick up where we left off with boogers, and discuss farts on “Tell Me Why” and I wonder whether you think your son may be interested in joining.
A strange request, I know… but I look forward to hearing from you, nonetheless!
All best,

Well, I called Claire right away and she could not have been nicer. The premise was pretty simple. They would Skype with Hayden and talk to him about armpit farts. We didn’t even have to leave our house. I set out to convince my eight-year-old that this was a grand adventure.

First, I inquired about his talent. “Hey, do you still know how to do armpit farts?” I asked as we walked from the bus stop. He proceeded to do a lopsided chicken dance with his hand inside his armpit: (place tongue one inch outside closed lips and blow)–yeah, that sound. Feel free to make that sound for the rest of this post.

Then, my other son, Owen (9), joined in on the action. “Dad, I can do them with my knee!” And he did. Right there in the driveway. He sat down and flopped one leg in the air with his hand cupped behind his knee. “And some kids can do them with their neck,” which he then attempted, unsuccessfully.

At bedtime that night, I showed the boys some “Tell Me Why…” video clips from HuffPost.

“That’s weird,” said Hayden.

“Wouldn’t you like to be in a video like that? It would be like being on TV,” I say wide-eyed, channeling my inner Willy Wonka.

“No way,” says Hayden, scrunching his nose.

I look at his brother, Owen, who is more of a natural ham–always performing for audiences both real and imaginary. “How about you, Owen? Would you do it?”

“Maybe,” he says. And I think I can convince him. I don’t push too hard, for fear I might lose. I’ll continue to goad tomorrow, I think.

I come downstairs after putting the boys to bed.

“Honey,” my wife says, “this is so exciting! The Huffington Post…” and she doesn’t even know how to classify it. It is then that I reveal my trepidation. “Yeah, I’m not sure. Is this really how I want to be recognized by Huff Post?”

I think about how I’ve been trying to work over the boys, to enlist them in my quest for publication. Then, I think about how this really has so little to do with me, or my blog, or what I’m attempting to do as I tap away at this keyboard, putting words down to capture my experiences.

And that’s just it. This is not MY experience. This is my son’s experience. And even though I am proud of the collection I have captured on this blog for three years, a sinking feeling begins in my stomach. These boys are no longer toddlers, they are not cute props, but individuals. My boys, and my blog, are changing, and I need to be more mindful of their rights, their boundaries.  As they get older, I am feeling I have less of a right to tell their story, as they are telling more of their own.

I am embarrassed. I feel a bit ashamed that I am trying to pimp out my son’s penchant for all things fart on a national platform. I envision a video feed popping up years from now, when one of the boys is running for president of a class or the country:), a video of them demonstrating the art of armpit farts on the Huffington Post. A video that went viral, that has more hits than Grumpy Cat or “delirious boy riding home from the dentist” combined…

I resolve not to push my boys to do this. If they’re not interested, then it’s not happening. This is their decision. This is THEIR life.

**********************
“I’ll pay you,” I say, desperately.

“What?!” says Owen. Yes, Owen. I’ve decided to put the full court press on him. There’s no way Hayden would do it. I’ll see if Claire would be cool with Owen filling in for him, even though it was Hayden’s drawing.

“I will pay you. Twenty dollars to do the segment.”

“Twenty bucks!”

“Yep. But once I call this lady, you can’t back out.”

I don’t even recognize myself. I smell the desperation in my plea. Inside, I’m panicking–but what if this is my only shot? What if this leads to more features on Huffington Post? A spot on the Today show. A three book deal with movie tie-ins. Happy Meal toys of the family Grinch…

My thoughts whirl. I’m such a sell-out.

I give him a few hours to think about it–to spend the money in his head.

After dinner, I try to mask my eagerness. “So, what do you think, buddy? Will you do it?”

“Nah,” he says.

Dream deferred.

And with that, the wind is let out of my sails. I am deflated. For one brief shining moment, there was Armpit-fart-alot.

But, truth be told, I was also relieved. If my quest for a gig with HuffPost had already made me act like this, I could just imagine what I would have been like during the actual interview.

I call Claire and let her know that the Trainers are a no-fart for her upcoming segment. Again, I am struck by how nice and approachable she is. For her, it’s just another day producing for one of America’s largest news outlets. But for me, it’s the silencing of the knock of opportunity.

Yet, in the end, I was relieved. One of the primary goals of my blog is to make sense of my world in a way that makes me a better father. I want to understand my past and make sense of my present, so that my family will have a better future. I want my boys to be proud of me and what I have created. What I will continue to create–for me, for them, for us.

 

 

 

“Give me your tired, your poor, your second-grader who wants to run away to New York!”

My son, Hayden, came home with his report on immigration. He was very excited to show us all his hard work, and we were just as proud to read it. After doing just that, I had to share his paragraph on why people want to move to another country.

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At first, I thought Lady Liberty was simply holding her torch, but after reading the last line, it does sort of look like she’s flipping us the bird:) Please don’t move to New York, Hayden. We’d miss you.

Here’s to life, liberty, and second grade reports.

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XOXO

The following comic was inspired by a previous post of the same title.

Whenever my wife travels for work, she peppers the house with little post-it notes of affection for all. And she likes to put them everywhere.

A note like this will greet me when I come downstairs for my morning coffee.

xoxoxo

And there will be notes for the boys on their cereal bowls.

xoxo

We come across them in familiar spots throughout the day–from beginning to end.

xoxoxoxo (1)

Last year, as I was putting the boys to bed, they finally became intrigued about the ubiquitous XOXO that adorns all of her messages.

At bedtime, I usually sit in the hall while the boys settle into sleep. I had just opened a book when Hayden (then 6) called out from his room, “What does XOXO mean?”

xo2 (1)

 

“Or is it kisses and hugs? X is for kisses and O is for hugs,” I clarify.

“Okay,” says Hayden. Their rooms grow quiet. I continue reading by the glow of the nightlight.

xo1 (1)

 

It’s strange, but I actually enjoy this time, sitting on the hard floor in the drafty hallway. The boys are safely tucked in for the night and I get lost in a book. I am just that when Owen pipes in from his room.

“Dad, what’s sex?”

My eyes shoot up from my book, panic-stricken.

xo3

Why is he asking about sex? What the hell have they been watching? What should I do? Pam’s away!

xo4 (1)

I think back to how goofy and innocent these two are. Like the time I thought they were coloring when they were really doing this with all of their crayons:

xo6 (1)

 

I can handle telling them how to properly use their crayons. But this is another matter altogether.

I take a breath, about to say, “Sex is something that mommies and daddies do when…” Just then, Hayden yells from his bedroom.

xo5 (1)

 

I exhale a sigh of relief. He was asking about X! X is a kiss. X is a kiss. “Goodnight you two!” I say, relieved. “Goodnight!” they reply, innocently.

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Post Script:

As I reflect on this incident over a year later, two things stand out. One, my mind really has gone to shit since having kids. I was not capable of recalling the conversation the boys and I were having minutes ago–I actually thought he was asking about sex, not X! That quickly, the thought is gone.

Second, in hindsight, I understand why I became so panicky in this situation. It’s not that I’m afraid for my boys to have such knowledge. Pam and I have always wanted to be open and honest with them–from the start, we’ve called things by their anatomical names in this house. No “noodle” or “woohoo”–two terms I’ve heard other parents use for penis and vagina. And I do think I would have begun the conversation as I did in my head: “Sex is something that mommies and daddies do to show they love each other…” And in time, that conversation would have developed into “Sex is something that two people do when they love each other…” It’s not the topic, per se, but the realization that I must be prepared at any time to confront questions my sons will have, and to answer them in an honest and respectful way.

I don’t think my panic arose from them knowing about sex, but just that it came out of nowhere. Even though it wasn’t even the question they had, I was reminded about the fact that, like all things in life, we cannot be prepared–we never know when something will occur. We cannot schedule the conversation, block off a half hour of our time for discussion, then cross it off our to-do list. Kids remind us that life is unpredictable, and we must try to be ready for anything.  ANYTHING!

XOXO,

Dadicus

To see how I handled a similar situation this year, click here .

MEET THE CARTOONIST: Jimmy Murphy
When he’s not performing Shakespearean Sonnets at The Great Wall of China, Jimmy Murphy draws everything from the creatures that haunt his imagination, to the ones that haunt his 9th grade reading curriculum, to the squishy noseless people like those seen on this website [figure1]. Although not yet at the peak of his popularity, artistically or high schoolistically, this fourteen year-old has been drawing since he could hold a crayon–the first recorded drawing being a rainbow–[figure 2]. Jimmy’s artistic influences include Shawn CossGris Grimly, and himself. He enjoys reading a good book, ranting about things he hates, raving about things he likes, sleeping, and can be endlessly entertained with a label-maker [figure 3].
[1] Jimmy.1 (1)      [2] Jimmy.2        [3] Jimmy.3 (1)

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March Madness

As the nation immerses itself in the craze of the NCAA College Basketball Tournament, I thought I’d give you another perspective on the rules of the game. I found this gem in Owen’s room, where the boys have weathered some of this winter playing hoops with one of those over the door basketball nets.

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Number 3 continues on back with …for defense.

Number 4 continues on back …a rope tie someone up.

Number 8 is particularly interesting to me, since Owen’s brother Hayden is 7.

My Son Turned 100 Today

Here is a picture that my seven-year-old drew of himself at 100–to celebrate the 100th day of school.  photo (46)

I love his red hair–which is brown now, and that he gave himself glasses in his old age. I could make out the cane easily enough, but I was confused about the thing he was holding in his other hand: A wand? A microphone?

“What’s that pink thing you’re holding, Hayden?”

“A lollipop!” he says, matter-of-factly.

Of course it is. If anyone will be eating lollipops at 100, it’s this guy.

Thanks for the glimpse into your future, Hayden. Enjoy every decade!

 

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Now Apologize!…To Yourself

I just found this gem when I was cleaning out the mail cubby. Back in the fall, our second grader, Hayden, was sent home with a note from the principal. Seems he had pulled his pants down during lunch to show his friends his new Star Wars underwear (so he says). As part of his punishment, we made him write apology notes to the lunch lady, his teacher, and his friends at the lunch table. That night, as I went to collect the notes and put them in his backpack, I found this:

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Once again, seeing things through the eyes of a child is so enlightening. When’s the last time you said sorry to yourself? I don’t think I ever have. Never too late to start, though.

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