the microsoft network (msn.com)
For several years I wrote original articles for MSN.com on topics that weren’t covered by its big-publisher content partners. Stories ranged from light to serious, timely to evergreen. I also had a column titled Daddy Dispatches, which served as an outlet for me to share funny or poignant anecdotes about parenting.
As with everything I write, I tried to make every article feel entertaining and meaningful, even throwaway pieces like Gag Gifts for Guys from Guys (see below). Here's a small sampling of the many articles I wrote.
Why Baseball Is the Greatest Sport on Earth
By Kristopher Kaiyala
In recent years baseball has become an easy target. From complaints about rampant steroid use to games taking too long to owners and a commissioner loathe to address pressing issues or to embrace the future, critics are more than happy to proclaim America’s national pastime dead and gone. Funny thing is, attendance is up. Way up. Somebody forgot to tell the fans their sport is irrelevant.
For those who truly follow and understand the game, baseball isn’t merely a sport—it’s magic. Field of Dreams struck a deep chord with Americans because so much of the movie is true. Baseball really does change lives. It’s where the past meets the present, where Cornfield America connects with Fenway Park. Here are a dozen reasons why it’s still the greatest sport on Earth.
The Home Run
Basketball has the slam dunk. Football has the Hail Mary. But for fan appeal and sheer awesomeness, nothing is more sublime than the dinger. Think about it: the very object without which the game cannot be played (never mind that the umpire has hundreds of replacements at his disposal) is purposely drilled out of the field of play into a sea of humanity or empty bleachers, becoming a souvenir—possibly worth millions—for a lucky fan. There’s a reason that “home run” is America’s favorite metaphor for anything that seriously doesn’t suck.
Strategy
Think baseball is just a batter desperately trying to hit a pitch? Think again. Get to know the inner workings of the game and you’ll see it’s a living chess match, where pieces are carefully moved into place but with a twist—the pieces are fallible. The strategy is in the player movement but he magic is in the uncertainty of what will happen next.
Stats
Baseball’s statistics, dating back well over a hundred years, have been called “sacred” (which is why passionate fans get worked up when alleged steroids users like Mark McGuire and Barry Bonds start messing with them). No other American sport boats such a rich history, catalogued so precisely. Sure the numbers can get boring sometimes, but pay them respect: they’re the sport’s DNA.
Summer
During late-fall and winter, when the NBA, NFL, and NHL seasons are in “full swing,” most of the country fights to stay warm and dry. This gets old and bothersome after a while. Except for the buffer months of April and October, baseball is played in short-sleeve or no-shirt-at-all weather. You can wear flip flops and shorts to a game, no matter how old you are. Summer makes everyone feel like a kid again, and so does baseball.
Time
To really fall in love with baseball, you have to slow down. After all, at upwards of four hours per game, it is a sport of patience. Which I suppose is why some in the Halo (or even the Donkey Kong) generation can’t go the distance. But there was a time, not so long ago, when people probably thought a game couldn’t last long enough—to get away from the daily cares of surviving a great depression or a world war or two. If you can be patient with baseball, it will provide you an enjoyable escape.
Daily Schedule
It’s good to know that no matter how bad your day goes, or no matter what changes pounce or creep into your life, that six out of seven days of the week you can tune into your favorite team, or check the box score in the paper in the morning. A little consistency is good for sanity.
‘It Ain’t Over ‘til It’s Over’
Coined by legendary Yankees catcher and manager Yogi Berra, “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over” has very real meaning in baseball where the outcome isn’t determined by a clock but by outs. In theory, no matter how far a team is down, it can still come all the way back in that final at-bat in the ninth inning, no matter how unlikely. That, my friends, is poetry. And America.
Wrigley Field, Fenway Park, Yankee Stadium
The old yards have all but disappeared, but a few relics remain even if their futures are uncertain. Better get to Yankee Stadium fast. It’s about to be replaced by a $1.3 billion (and counting) theme park.
Game-day Traditions
From the organ chimes (now probably a stadium intern clicking a mouse) to the ceremonial first pitch to the seventh inning stretch, baseball’s traditions are alive and well, and they’re not even corny. And there are few places left where you can bury your feet in peanut shells and feel proud.
Voices of the Game
Even as a seven-year-old kid I knew the name and friendly voice of Vin Scully. Listening to a good baseball announcer is like settling in for an entertaining books-on-tape session. Every game is a new story to be told, and baseball has the best stories. Hats off to Mariners’ broadcaster Dave Niehaus, who, still working the booth every day, enters the hall of fame this summer. If you’ve never listened to Dave, tune in.
Americana
Baseball isn’t only played in major cities, ya know. Sometimes the best games are played by teams with names like the Toledo Mudhens, the Birmingham Barons, or the New Hampshire Fisher Cats. You want to see players working hard and struggling to make it to the big leagues? Check out minor league baseball. One thing’s for sure, you’ll see more wacky marketing promotions in small parks then you ever will this side of Madison Avenue.
Real Men
They may not be pretty, and they’re certainly not ‘pretty boys’ like the stars of other sports leagues. Baseball players are more like survivors. It takes a lot of grit to play night in and night out and work your way through the farm system. The spitting, the scratching, the grabbing of nether regions—it’s all good. And if you still don’t get it, go stand in the batter’s box with a 95 mph fastball whizzing by your head and see how THAT feels.
Boxers versus Briefs—a comparative essay
By Bruce Baxter (pseudonym)
Sure, laugh all you want, but briefs have been my closest companions all these few decades of my life. There’s nowhere I haven’t gone without them—school, work, airplanes, the subway, stores, ferries, soccer pitches, ski hills, ocean-faring container ships, Wall drug in South Dakota, a baptism dunk tank, Finland, traffic court, the great American wilderness, Grand Central Station, Tijuana, even occasionally the swimming pool. I suspect you’d say the same for whatever you’re wearing under your pants—assuming you’re wearing anything at all.
Underwear is one of the great human equalizers. That rich guy in the mansion on the hill? He wears underwear, just like you do. Of course his is made of pure silk woven with fine threads of real gold, but that’s beside the point. He wears them. You wear them. You guys are simpatico.
For most men, that’s about as complex as underwear gets. They’re not something we think—or talk—much about. A non-scientific survey of the guys who live on my street reveals…nothing. I have no idea whether my male neighbors wear boxers or briefs (or the much ballyhooed boxer-briefs or thongs or women’s underwear) because the “Hi, how ya doin’? So whatchya got on under there?” line of casual questioning will likely lead to a slow backing away followed by an uncomfortable stare and the closing of doors and drapes when you later step outside.
Unlike the sensual relationship some women have with their undergarments, most men don’t spend a lot of time thinking about underwear. We find a brand and fit that work and we stick with it. If we spend time thinking about our underwear—because they’re too tight or too loose or won’t stay put—it’s a bad day in Dodge.
Even shopping for underwear is blasé. At the department store (have you noticed there isn’t a Victoria’s Secret retail equivalent for men?), where everything from silk to cotton to nylon undergarments available in various sizes, lengths, and stretches are available, men generally sneak up to the shelf containing their skivvies of choice, maybe hide them under the shirt they’re thinking of buying as they walk around, and pay for them with as little conversation as possible. Put them in a bag and move on.
When it comes to briefs versus boxers, I suspect that most guys my age (37) went into adulthood wearing whatever style of underwear they were given right after potty training. This was probably the same style dad wore all those years down in the coal mine. Perhaps because the Vietnam War generation didn’t have Eminem’s drooping pants-waist as a cultural icon, the wearing of boxers was less of a fashion benchmark than it is today.
And yet, after half a lifetime of wearing proud-to-be-me tighty whities, I recently gave traditional boxers a two-week test drive. My primary impetus was to get some relief during a summer heat wave. As the temperature crept over 85 (yep, that’s a heat wave in Seattle), I felt a palpably greater degree of sweating and discomfort in the nether regions like never before. What I pined for was air—as in, circulation. As the mercury rose, those tight cotton briefs turned into fiberglass insulating foam. New thoughts into the nature of genital garmentation were born and I was suddenly on a mission.
While some would correlate the personalities of briefs and boxers wearers to those of PC and Mac users, those who prefer vanilla to double fudge chunk rocky road, I say nay. It isn’t that black and white. When it comes to choosing briefs, boxers, or the middle-ground boxer briefs, you have to take the whole package (pardon the pun) into account, which includes a fair evaluation of each of the four universally accepted Underwear Factors: Dribble, Dangle, Dazzle, and Double.
Call me an “understudy” if you will, but here’s what I learned during my two-week briefs re-evaluation. All garments sampled were of reputable quality and roughly middle of the price range.
Dribble
Let’s face it—you don’t always get every little last bit of drainage out of your system when standing at the urinal. The nice thing about close-fitting cotton briefs is that remaining drips that make their way to freedom are nicely absorbed. With loose-fitting boxers, I found said reserve sometimes traveling down my pant leg. Nope, it’s not a pretty image or feeling knowing you mildly pissed yourself and it may be showing. Sure, this could be chalked up to “operator error,” but when you’ve spent a lifetime not knowing such a problem could exist, perhaps a grace period is permitted. Either way, this could be an ongoing problem, and those extra few second standing an d shaking at the loo is time taken away from a Lost commercial break.
Advantage: briefs and boxer briefs
Dangle
One of the reasons I—and I suspect it’s true for many others—have stuck with briefs over the years is because of the snug feeling they give. Everything more or less feels held together. This is especially true where sports are concerned, but it’s nice even for just regular old walking around (cue Elaine’s Seinfeld quote here). For boxers adherents I suspect the looseness is just as appealing. The preference may also have to do with natural endowment—either the need for more room or for “police line do not cross” style containment. Some claim that briefs reduce sperm count, but my two happy offspring that arrived all too easily seem to counter that argument.
Advantage: three-way tie due to personal preference
Dazzle
I’m not one to prattle about aimlessly in my bare necessities, but in certain situations—say the locker room or the bedroom—if you want to avoid ridicule, even some gentle teasing from your significant other, briefs probably aren’t the way to go. I can say for certain my wife likes the appearance of boxers far more than the other two options. And if I’m going to be the butt of a mysterious de-pantsing in public, I’d rather be left standing at the bus stop in something that resembles shorts over a slightly more materialized jock strap.
Advantage: boxers
Double
The “double” I refer to is the roughly double amount of material one needs to stuff into his pants—and keep it there—while wearing boxers and boxer briefs. This was consistently the most frustrating aspect during my two week underwear assessment. With briefs there’s no worry. You put them on and for the most part they stay put. With loose-fitting boxers I had to keep tucking them in at the store, in the parking lot, at my son’s preschool. I also found certain pairs of low-waisted jeans didn’t want to stay on my waist while worn over boxers. This wasn’t fun. And while boxer briefs are a tad less moveable by design than loose-fitting boxers, I encountered with them a different problem—they wanted to rise up my leg. I realize there are boxer designs out there that try to combat these migration issues, but I suspect this is a problem endemic to the anti-brief.
Advantage: briefs
And so, on the balance, this guy is sticking with briefs. I have a drawer full of boxers and boxer briefs now so there may be times I’ll wear something different, especially if the certain somebody in my life persists in smirking and calling my briefs tighty whities, but the mild ridicule is a good trade for not having to think about what’s under my pants—and where it’s creeping to next.
11 Worst Things a Parent Goes Through
By Kristopher Kaiyala
It’s considered bad form to dwell on the negative aspects of parenting for (at least) two reasons: 1.) you got yourself into this mess, and 2.) parenting is supposed to be about happiness, love, laughter, the passing on of traditions, sleeping in hammocks—you know, all that stuff you see on TV commercials for insurance and investment companies.
As every parent will tell you, raising children really is about all of those good things, and more. The fierce loyalty and admiration we feel toward our kids is undeniable. Still, parenting is one of life’s hardest jobs, harder than anyone can know unless they’re going through it themselves, and it does take its toll. Perhaps you can identify with many of the following:
Philosophical Acquiescence
Having kids won’t change my life, you tell yourself. But somewhere between finding out you’re expecting, picking out items for the baby registry (“Why is everything plaid?”), and testing the sometimes turbulent-looking waters of the parenting universe, an inevitability to your new life creeps in: you’re a parent, and while life is still great and that little bundle of joy really will make you a drooling, sentimental mess, nothing—not your living space, your free time, nor your personal decisions—will ever be the same. At times you’ll honestly wonder: what have I gotten myself into?
Sleep Deprivation
Nothing can prepare you for those first few months (or in some cases years) of waking up every couple hours to change a diaper, prepare a bottle, or walk around the living room in a daze hoping the kid you’re cradling will finally call it a night. (They probably will around dawn.) Nursing mothers obviously bear the brunt of this, but dads who want to do their part (and to those who don’t: why are you sitting on the sidelines?) feel the effects too. When you’re both this tired it affects everything: your social life, your productivity at home and at work, and your ability to communicate amicably. Watch out for that last one.
The Blowout Diaper
Poop. Better get used to it being everywhere—on the furniture, on your clothes, under your nails. And it’s staggering how much poop that little human can store up in its body and without warning evacuate it all at once—as in, Mt.-Vesuvius all at once. The prudent will stock up on extra baby wipes, and take them everywhere the baby goes, just for this moment. My wife and I still refer to our seminal diaper-changing moment as “The Costco Parking Lot.” We had the car cleaned afterward.
Public Embarrassment
You’re there to support your child through good times and bad. But somewhere along the way your kid will trip and fall in full view of hundreds of people at a basketball game, knocking over a vending machine with a loud crash and bring the event to a halt, and you’ll want to hide. Guess what? You can’t. (And you won’t.) Suddenly your parenting skills are on full display, for better or for worse. Good luck.
Mortality
Whether the deceased is a goldfish or a grandparent, managing your child through the death of someone close is one of the toughest and saddest parts of your job. There’s not much you can do to stop the tears, so be prepared to ride it out and fumble your way through big questions like, “Why does anything have to die?” If there’s a silver lining it’s that kids seem to bounce back faster than adults do, eventually giving you time to grieve—but only after you’ve helped them get over the loss.
Marriage Issues
Few things can bring out the differences in people like parenting. You may find that your spouse has other ideas when it comes to praise, discipline, routines, homework, housework…just about everything. And those differences usually arise when times get tough. Plus the constant “hands-on” nature of parenting means a lot less time alone with your partner. Constant communication and mutual understanding are essential, otherwise get ready for an uncomfortable and unpredictable ride.
Health Issues
Kids are cute—so cute that germs love them. You can disinfect all you want but you’re still going to be wiping noses or cleaning up vomit on a regular basis. This malady comes with a side “benefit”: because your immune system is feeling the pressure of getting little sleep and being generally more anxious about life, you get sick too, far more often than you ever remember before having kids. Welcome to the Petri dish.
Routine
Try as you may to avoid it, parenting has a way of sapping the spontaneity from life. Sure you can still go shopping or hiking on a whim, but that whim may now include packing snacks, making sure each kid has his favorite toy for the car ride, folding the stroller and putting it and the diaper bag in the back of the minivan, checking twice for full water bottles, telling the car’s occupants not once but four times to “go to the bathroom before we leave,” enduring World War III in the backseat, someone havign to go to the bathroom right away, and turning around after two blocks to return home for whatever it is you forgot. Maybe it’s best to just stay home and play in the backyard.
Breakdown
There are times you’ll feel at your wits’ end, and not in some funny way portrayed in a movie or on a sitcom. When something snaps inside, you feel it and the resulting emotions may be confusing or alarming. Worse, you may have no outlet to deal with them because you’re the parent and the show must go on. It feels warm and fuzzy to say these trying moments help you grow as a person, but the reality is that sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they take the life right out of you.
Trouble child
You get the call at work to come to school for a meeting with the principal. Turns out your little Johnny is the school bully and he just punched three kids and a teacher. You saw the tendencies at home, but now your worst fears are true, and in addition to dealing with school administration you have several other parents to answer to. What did you do wrong, and is fixing the problem coming years too late?
Worry
Despite your best efforts to project a calm façade, inside you’re wondering if your kids are failing at school, having trouble making friends, hanging out with the wrong crowd, or experimenting in ways that make your skin crawl. As they get older, they spend more time away from you and your protective eyes and arms, and though you try to grant them independence, you dread getting bad news. Suddenly it hits you: you’re just like your mom. Somehow that doesn’t make you feel any better.
Gag Gifts for Guys from Guys
By Kristopher Kaiyala
My friend Steve and I have been exchanging the same dumb gifts for 15 years. The first was a jar of tartar sauce. It went back and forth a few times before we moved on to trading a Belinda Carlisle CD. That also lasted several years, but more recently we’ve been re-gifting an Albino Bowler Action Figure. (Yeah, such a product exists, and I’m sure to get it back for my birthday in January.)
Why? Why send the same gift back and forth to each other, and why these gifts? The answer is, in part, “You had to be there.” Inside jokes are a mainstay of dude relationships and how guys relate to each other. Except for very rare moments, we don’t try to make each other feel warm and fuzzy. Sincerity, what’s that? For guys, it’s much easier to laugh and make fun of each other.
Gag gifts aren’t supposed to be useful. Instead, they commemorate life (read: embarrassing) moments that we don’t want the recipients to forget. To that end, here are several gift ideas that might get the juices flowing this holiday season.
Gift: The Clapper
Commemorates: Laziness
Nothing says your buddy is slowing down like The Clapper. Even if his joints give out, technology won’t let him down. Next to the TV remote, The Clapper may be humanity’s greatest invention ever.
Gift: Beano
Commemorates: Road trip or hotel stay gone bad. Real bad.
Every guy has his shining moments of flatulence. (Girls, if you don’t think your dude gets bad gas, think again. He’s probably hiding it from you.) For that friend whose efforts rise to the top, as it were, nothing says “I don’t want to travel with you again” like Beano.
Gift: Exploding Golf Balls
Commemorates: Questionable sports talent
This is best given as a surprise, i.e. when you distract your buddy on the 13th hole and replace his real ball with one of these because he’s sliced his last 12 tee shots into the adjacent fairway.
Gift: Kid’s Toolset
Commemorates: Questionable handyman talent
Not all of us are blessed with mechanical skills. For that friend who’s always falling off the ladder or who can’t hang a picture straight, this gift says stick to the playground and hire a professional.
Gift: Princess Leia Wig
Commemorates: Being in charge
When most guys think of Princess Leia, they envision a different accessory (you all know the scenes in Return of the Jedi). But the wig says two things: that your pal likes to be in charge a little too much, and he’s a bit of a princess about it.
Gift: Assorted Fake Doughnuts
Commemorates: Change in body size
The assorted fake donuts cruelly beckon “Here I am, come get me” without the sugary payoff. On the upside, they make for a nice table centerpiece and can catch the unaware off guard when they try to bite into one.
Gift: Kitten calendar
Commemorates: Getting involved too fast
We’ve all had a friend who goes from zero to 60 in nine seconds in a new relationship, and while we don’t begrudge the guy for finding happiness, sometimes it all just seems too fast and cute. Get that guy a cute kitten calendar to remind him of the life he’s entering—or leaving behind. Hey, don’t forget about your bros, K?
Gift: Big Boy Pants
Commemorates: Becoming responsible
A gift-wrapped pair of boy’s size 8 jeans tells your way-too-immature-even-for-you-guys friend that he’s finally made a decision you can all be proud of. Goodbye pull-ups, hello big boy pants.
Movies That Make You Want to Work Out
By Kristopher Kaiyala
Few things in life inspire as strongly as movies. No, not Carrot Top movies. We’re talking about films that make you jump out of your seat and scream “@&$# YEAH!” while spewing popcorn all over the guy or gal next to you, simply because the hero got it right. Maybe he or she just destroyed the Death Star, proved their innocence against all odds, or caught the crook in the act near the wood chipper. Films, especially the happy-ending variety, are a great break from the sweat and toil of real life.
Of course, some of the most inspiring films are those that involve feats of athletic prowess. Need help getting off the couch? When the credits roll after these five movies, you’ll be out the door or in the gym with a new attitude on exercise.
Rocky (1976)
It’s true, there may soon be a Rocky VI. Stop laughing. Stop it! While “Rocky III,” “IV,” and “V” gave sequels a bad name, the first two films, especially the original one, were inspiring on many levels. Not only is the acting superb and convincing, the workout sequences showcase true grit. And c’mon, who doesn’t get a bit choked up during the scene in which Stallone runs through Philly neighborhoods chased and cheered by every kid in town? Need some real workout motivation? Yo Adrian, just rent it.
Bring It On (2000)
Even if the whole notion of cheerleading makes you want to barf, you’ll probably still enjoy this high-energy teen parody in which Kirsten Dunst stars as captain of the defending national champion cheer squad. Infinitely perky and petite, Dunst and company square off against the rival squad from the other side of the tracks. Sure, this comedy’s plot is somewhat shallow, but in a way that’s kind of the point. In the end the girl gets the right guy and makes good choices along the way, even if the whole competition thing doesn’t quite turn out as planned.
Breaking Away (1979)
This little-known film headlined by Dennis Quaid is a feel-good movie if there ever was one. Four aimless high-school grads in Indiana take up competitive road cycling over the summer before pedaling into their adult years. One of them, Dave, becomes so completely obsessed with the cult of Italian cycling that he speaks only in Italian to his worried parents and renames his dog Fellini. You don’t have to be a hard-core biker to enjoy this love letter to road cycling. It’s that ever elusive sports film that also features a great script (it won the Oscar for original screenplay). Rent it and you might be a biking maniac in no time.
Flashdance (1983)
“What a feeling, na-na…na-na-na…” Want to relive the ‘80s? Then don your leg warmers and aerobic-dance to one of the hottest soundtracks of the decade. (The Irene Cara tune above won the Oscar for best song in ’83.) Though the movie was panned by critics for its shallow script, it won over audiences nationwide who apparently identified with the struggling lead character played by Jennifer Beals—a tough Pittsburgh welder by day and sexy dancer by night who aspires to ballet stardom. If dancing, working out, and welding go together in your world, it’s likely that “Flashdance” is already in your Betavision, er, VCR. Just hit play.
Victory (1981)
Allied soldiers held captive in a German POW camp use soccer as a way to escape daily depression. Sound like a downer? “Life Is Beautiful” this ain’t. Oscar-winning actor Michael Caine is the team’s captain, who recruits none other than Sylvester Stallone to play goalie and soccer great Pele to be his star forward. The film climaxes with a brutal match between the underdog POWs and a German all-star team in a packed stadium. Rather than escape through a tunnel in the locker room as planned at halftime, the allies stick around for the chance to humiliate the German champs. The unpredictable finish includes a must-rewind-at-least-five-times bicycle kick by Pele that is the stuff of legend.
Running Brave (1983)
Another little-known movie, “Running Brave” will have you caressing your Nikes by film’s end. Think of it as an alternative to Chariots of Fire. “Running Brave” is based on the true story of Billy Mills, who leaves the Sioux reservation for a turbulent college and international track career. Mills doesn’t just run toward a gold medal, he’s constantly running away from a troubled past and the era’s prejudices against Native Americans. He’s a long shot at best at the ’64 Tokyo Olympics but in the end he does his family and long-time coach proud. It’s a Hollywood finish if there ever was one.
Anxious Parents
By Kristopher Kaiyala
When I was a kid, if it wasn't a school day or a soccer weekend I was off in the woods with my dog or with my neighborhood friends. We lived on a forested hill on the outskirts of town--exactly the kind of place an adventurous kid would want to grow up. There were creeks to dam, dirt mounds to jump bikes off of, tree forts to build, new and winding trails to explore. In winter, with a foot of new snow to track out, it was even better. I would leave in the morning, after doing chores, and as long as I made it home at the agreed-upon time, or checked in by phone if I ended up at a friend's house, all was good. I was free for the day.
Can you imagine letting your kids roam free today, all day, unsupervised and without a cell phone or BlackBerry or homing device or 100-foot-tall giant orange flag, visible for miles, strapped to his or her waist? There's something about our world in 2006--the seemingly ever-present threat of shooters, kidnappers, predators, drug dealers, scammers, or natural hazards like ponds or wells--that makes the child-rearing freedoms of yesteryear seem dangerous and anachronistic. And yet somehow we survived.
My mom and dad were great parents. They were involved in all aspects of my childhood, but when it came to just being a kid, they backed off. They gave me a lot of space to grow and learn and explore and figure things out on my own or with friends as long as I showed them I could make good decisions and be responsible for my actions.
Of course back in the '70s most people smoked and seat belts were an abstract concept. Public safety campaigns and liability lawsuits had yet to grip America, and PlayStation/xBox/Nintendo and the Internet weren't even blips on the short-attention-span horizon. "Disorder" probably meant you got the wrong hamburger at Dairy Queen. One could easily dismiss those days as a "different time," but I think there's one critical exception. While technology and medical science and communication and safety standards have changed dramatically, kids are still kids. Their basic needs haven't changed.
I'm just a dad, not a sociologist, but it seems to me that for healthy development kids need equal doses of responsibility and freedom. Get rid of one and you're asking for trouble. Get rid of both and it's going to be a bumpy ride. And yet that's exactly what I see a lot of parents doing today. They eagerly do all they can to smooth out life's troublesome potholes for their kids while at the same time micromanaging their every move. As writer Hara Estrof Marano puts it, parents try to "engineer a risk-free world for children."
Marano is the author of the 2004 Psychology Today article "A Nation of Wimps." Her book by the same title is due out in 2007 (http://www.nationofwimps.com). I'm not one to pay much attention to "experts," but I think Marano is really onto something. "Cell phones function as an eternal umbilical cord," she said during a recent phone conversation, "and it's all so misguided. Kids aren't allowed the freedom that allows them to build their own identities. They can't make their own mistakes, and so they miss out on critical life skills. When something difficult arises, there's mom or dad on the cell phone trying to fix everything."
Parental anxiety is natural, said Marano, but too often horribly misplaced. "Anxious parents turn their kids into projects." And you can dispense with the notion that it's the working parent who's most at fault, acting out of guilt for not being home enough. "Often the at-home parent is the one freaking out. A lot of moms and dads, especially in affluent homes, leave the work force to focus on their kids. They apply their professional training to parenting and try to turn their kids into resumes on two legs."
Or worse, into patients. "I think it's appalling how many parents are willing to have their kids labeled 'diseased' because they think it will help them academically," Marano continued. "It all centers around giving their kids more time to take tests, especially the big test--the SAT." She says a lot of parental anxiety centers around getting children into college. "When kids do not function well in that narrow academic groove, parents try to give them an edge or have the rules bent for them." She also says kids are often labeled "defective" so early that they don't fight it; they internalize that something's wrong with them. They see themselves as weak.
Marano has plenty of research and experience to back up her findings. Me? Just my daily observations. You see them at the playground, at the mall, across the backyard fence, at PTA meetings--moms and dads who hover or praise or scold to the point of annoyance or irrelevance and who are so consumed by their kids' security and self-esteem and academic standing that you wonder if those poor children will ever have a chance to speak out or grow up or just be themselves.
Of course it's our duty to protect our kids and help them succeed. But at what cost? The last thing we should do is project our sometimes irrational anxieties onto them, like the mother who recently told me she wasn't sure if her child was allergic to peanuts but she had the medication for it just in case.
You know, all kids are different, but they're tough. They're built to survive, and sometimes we forget that. We need to step back and remember the world for the beautiful place it is. And let kids be kids.
Daddy Dispatches
(I wrote this column over the course of two years while I was working as a freelance writer and editor at home and taking care of two young children (daughter and son). Here’s a small sampling of the more than two dozen column entries I wrote.)
A Boy and His Yogurt
By Kristopher Kaiyala
It was one of those nights. The whining, the crying, the persistent stand-in at the refrigerator--I’d had enough. So I caved. I gave my son the yogurt.
"Green" yogurt, to be precise. At 18 months old, he's developed a keen taste for the flavor of key lime pie. My resolve to keep him from his favorite dairy product had nothing to do with diet and everything to do with his desire to spoon it out of the container all by himself.
Being home with him most of the time, it's not as if I don't already spend half my days cleaning. Keeping the spoon and the yogurt in separate hands was my selfish way of drawing the line--No More Messes. The problem was he'd grown stubborn and refused my offer to spoon feed it to him. It was mano a mano, my son and me, and we'd come to a rather noisy impasse.
So I caved. Just one chance, I decided. Just him and the six-ounce container of yogurt, in the high chair, with no interruptions from dad.
The first minute went rather well; the spoon made it into the mouth on most attempts. But then the yogurt hit the fan (almost literally). The spoon soon forgotten, he began shoveling yogurt into his mouth two handfuls at a time. Soon his arms and face were plastered in green. I lost sight of his eyebrows. His shirt, the eating tray, the floor--all part of the playing field. With his final two scoops of yogurt he decided to style his hair.
I gave him a warm shower and put him in bed. I think they were the best 45 minutes of his young life.
The Talking Potties
By Kristopher Kaiyala
The toilets in our house used to talk. And I don't mean they ran or gurgled in the night due to bad plumbing. They used to talk out loud in human voices, to our daughter and sometimes to each other, and they all had names. We lived in the house of the talking potties.
It was potty-training time and for some wacky reason I decided to become a toilet ventriloquist. The lids would open and close in time to words like "Hey, whatcha doin'?" and "Want to come in and say hi?" It was the toilet's way of recasting itself as a welcoming friend--someone you'd like to sit with (okay, on)--instead of a cold, imposing porcelain entity.
The toilet became known as Big Guy. My daughter and Big Guy had many interesting conversations abut this and that, but still she wouldn't sit on him. So we got a training potty and placed "her" next to Big Guy. She was known as Little Guy and was Big Guy's daughter. The potty-family further expanded one day when we acquired a travel potty (a kind of foldable, plastic mini seat that uses plastic bags). Naturally the travel potty became known as Travel Guy, and was a cousin of Little Guy. The upstairs toilet was Big Guy's sister.
So anyway, this family of potties talked amongst itself. Location didn't matter. We would be at the grocery store and Big Guy would ask Little Guy a question and my daughter would jump in to remind Big Guy that we were at the store but we'd be home soon and then we'd put Little Guy to use. Or if she couldn't hold it we'd rush outside to the car to pay Travel Guy a visit in the parking lot. Sometimes it works out that way.
I don't know if our potty personification made much of a difference in her toilet-training efficiency. But in a weird way it taught her a little about kin. I guess the family that flushes together, stays together.
Five-Minute Spaz Out
By Kristopher Kaiyala
Why is it that my kids can act as though they're too tired to stand on their own or speak in syllables other than grunts or moans during the 7 o'clock hour, but as soon as 8 o'clock rolls around the electricity comes back on and they're snapping around the house like live wires?
No matter how hard I try to quell the nightly power surge, I can cry "Settle down" or "It's time for bed" only so many times before I eventually need to yield, albeit briefly, to their urgent need to expend their excess energy. Putting live wires to bed isn't easy. Which is why I recently instituted the Five-Minute Spaz Out.
The Five-Minute Spaz Out occurs just after brushing teeth and donning PJs. We usually gather in my daughter's room (her little brother loves to play with all her stuff, much to her chagrin). I yell "go" and they oblige--by going totally nuts. Five minutes of running (not very far, it's a small room), jumping, shouting, hysterically laughing, falling over, bumping into each other and/or mom and/or dad, sometimes knocking things or each other over, and rolling around on the floor.
We count down the minutes so they know when Five-Minute Spaz Out is nearing completion. By the last 30 seconds or so they're already winding down due to dizziness, hiccups, or the little guy is playing with something his sister deems off-limits. When it's over my daughter grabs a book and starts reading in bed, then I go help my son fall asleep in his room.
Sure, sometimes there are brief energy spillovers beyond the allotted time, but the rate of drowsiness (ROD) seems to increase exponentially following Five-Minute Spaz Out. All it take is a chapter or so of reading (or a few quick picture books) and they're ready to call it a day.
Come to think of it, that goes for their parents, too.
Clock and Peanuts
By Kristopher Kaiyala
In case you had any doubts, kids really do say the darndest things. Take our 2-year-old son. He's still learning to put words and sounds together in a non-gibberish fashion, and quite often the things that come out of his mouth are pretty funny. Even he thinks so. For a while he's been calling the computer a "puter-com," quite on accident, which makes his seven-year-old sister fall over laughing. When he sees her rolling on the floor, he gets to giggling too. It's family entertainment at its best.
But one night, not so long ago, took the cake. My son and I were shopping together at the neighborhood grocery store. He was in a good, talkative mood as he helped me push the cart down the aisles. Whenever he recognized something familiar on the shelf, like spaghetti or yogurt or crackers, he would say its name out loud. "Nice job," I'd reply when he'd get it right. Only spaghetti sounded more like "pesketti," and yogurt "oh-gurt," and crackers "kackers," and so on. Still, pretty good stuff for a little guy.
This continued for a while until we got to the checkout line, where 20 or so others were quietly waiting to scan and pay for their items. That's when my son saw a clock (he loves clocks) hanging on the opposite wall. Excited, he began shouting out its name for all to hear. Only his 2-year-old version of "clock" is lacking the crucial "L" sound. After shouting out "C-ock!" "C-ock!" "C-ock!" several times, I nervously asked him to tone it down, fearing sideways glances from our fellow grocery store patrons.
Not to be outdone, he pointed to the can of peanuts in our cart (he loves peanuts, too) and started shouting out that name. Only his 2-year-old version of "peanuts" is lacking the crucial "T" sound at the end. So he treated the checkout line to a rousing chorus of "Peanu-s!" "Peanu-s!" "Peanu-s!" I tried not to laugh as I quieted him again. A few people smiled at us, probably convinced I was doing all I could to keep his Tourette's Syndrome under control.
I don't remember what we bought that night, but I do remember, for better or for worse, that we owned the checkout line.
What the Heck? No Way!
By Kristopher Kaiyala
When my daughter was an infant, her primary learning mentors were adults. Perhaps this is why at 18 months she could speak in complete sentences and recite the entire alphabet and numbers 1-50 and draw a trapezoid. Our son, born five years later, was luckier in that he has a big sister and similarly aged cousins to learn stuff from. Perhaps this is why at almost two and a half years old he wasn't quite speaking in sentences but had mastered a few key phrases that got everyone in the room rolling.
The first complete phrase he uttered was "What the heck?" Except because he couldn't quite get the "e" sound right, and because his sister, whom he learned it from, has a flair for the dramatic, his version sounded more like "What the HEEK?" He'd run around the room yelling "What the HEEK?" at the stereo, his stuffed animal friends, even the garbage truck outside the window. "What the HEEK?" was soon followed by the pronouncement, "No way!" Which I'm pretty sure he picked up from my repeatedly and dramatically saying "No way!" to our drama-queen daughter's frequent household antics.
One day after school, a friend of our daughter's was visiting and I clearly remember her gasping "OH MY GOSH!" to something that came up in discussion, and that was all my son needed to leave "What the heck? No way!" in the dust. Except his version of "OH MY GOSH!" was a quiet and well-timed whisper usually in response to some kind of question. "Are you hungry?" we'd ask. "Oh my gosh," he'd answer, as if the world depended on it.
Come Halloween he was running around the house yelling "Eyeball! Eyeball!" referring to our trick-or-treat give-out candy (most of which mysteriously disappeared before Halloween arrived), a collection of foil-wrapped chocolate body parts. About this time he also came up with his own phrase for going to our favorite neighborhood burger joint. "French fries ketchup play the game!" he'd yell, the "play the game" part referring to the restaurant's vintage Pole Position and Ms. Pac-Man arcade games. Thanks to these games he can also spot a shiny quarter on the floor a mile away.
When our daughter started taking the bus, he'd spend the daytime hours reminding us over and over again that she was "taking the school bus home!" Pretty soon the answer to the question "Are you hungry?" was replaced with "Taking the school bus home! Taking the school bus home!"—to which I'd perplexingly look at him and ask, "What the heck?" His face would turn solemn and he'd quietly reply, "Oh my gosh," and turn to play with his toys.
The Sand Pile
By Kristopher Kaiyala
When I was a kid, the best present my parents ever gave me was sand. We lived in a house in a beautiful pine forest. With nature all around, there wasn’t much need for traditional landscaping, so for the first few years anyway my folks filled the backyard with sand. Two big dump-truck loads of it.
I happily spent my days digging tunnels, building roads for my toy cars and trucks, making castles and other structures, burying things—including my brave and willing sisters. It was endless fun.
Now that I’m a dad, I often think back on that sand pile, especially in light of all the unused new toys lying about our house. It seems like today’s kids are bombarded with flashy new gifts—for the holidays, for birthdays, and for many days in between. Gifts that talk and flash and sing. Gifts so interactive and descriptive that they leave little to the imagination. Gifts designed to raise your kid’s IQ to that of a certain physicist with messy hair.
And the gifts keep coming, and coming, and coming…
I wonder, do kids really need all this stuff? (And for that matter, where do we store it all?) I don’t know. But I do know that my 18-month-old has more fun with the box and wrapping paper than the “complex” shapes puzzle he just got. My six year still prefers drawing and sketching in her Picasso-esque style despite the unwrapped pile of new games and gadgets at her side.
Maybe they’ll change their tastes, but I hope not. This at-home dad has observed and experienced that the best and most appreciated gifts for kids are the simplest ones—like sand piles, pencils and paper, and empty boxes. They might not sing or flash or fly across the room, but in this regard they succeed absolutely: they get used.