The Joy and Pain of a Work at Home Dad

As a full-time work at home dad, I will admit that sometimes I miss the camaraderie that comes from working in a communal space, where coffee pots drip all day and phones ring endlessly. Though I enjoy the flexibility of my current position, which allows me to drive my boys to school every morning and be there when they arrive home every afternoon, sometimes I do long to be able to discuss last night’s Parks and Recreation with a real human being in the flesh instead of the randomTwitterverse.

One of the biggest career challenges I’ve faced was when I began working for a company with a completely remote workforce just before my younger son turned 1-year-old, which coincided with when Mrs. Dude began teaching full-time. She and I made the bittersweet, yet necessary, decision to hire someone to watch our son at home while I was working just a few feet away. Though I keep a separate workspace from our living area, it was frustrating every time I left my office to refuel or relieve and saw him frolicking with the nanny. I desperately wanted to drop what I was doing every time and roll around with my Littler Dude.

This adorable face was staring at me every time I'd grab a drink or snack. It was refreshing and upsetting at the same time.

Sometimes I could do just that, but for only a fraction of the amount of time I would have preferred. Other times he’d run into my office just to see me or sit on my lap for a moment and when the nanny kindly took him so I could resume working, I felt like a part of my soul was being forcibly yanked out every single time.  The irony of my great new job permitting me to be home with my son, while not really being with him, was a struggle that took some time to come to terms with. It was almost a relief when he started pre-school this past fall so that I was no longer faced with the temptation to build block towers instead of PowerPoint presentations on a daily basis.

Working from home is the kind of gift which not everyone wants or appreciates, and that’s OK. The Catch-22 I’ve frequently considered is being able to trade my zero-mile commute for a higher paying job requiring an hour or more each way in L.A. traffic. Now, if my kids need me while I’m working at home just a few minutes away, I can be there if they are sick or to attend their holiday shows at school, no questions asked. What would I do if I worked 25 miles away, which in L.A. terms can be anywhere from 30 minutes to 2 hours in traffic?

The view from my desk chair.
My boys are never really out of sight.

The traditional familial roles which my generation, and countless more before us, grew up with have been thrown out the window and just as women’s lib was such a big issue almost 50 years ago, maybe it’s time to consider this an era of men’s liberation. Men can be engaged parents who stay at home to raise their families or work in or out of the home and still take an active role in parenting. The days of the incompetent “Mr. Mom” father are long gone, so it’s time to finally quash that lame stereotype, just as we have so many other archaic cliches. It was nice to see that the tide is turning during several recent Super Bowl ads featuring actively involved fathers. 

Still, when friends mention going out for happy hour after work and I tell them I’m already deep into making Mac & Cheese for my boys at 5:30pm, the dormant phantom limb known as my office-working days starts to tingle. Then I go eat some of Kraft’s finest while looking at some adoring adorable faces and it all feels OK because I know I’ve made the right decision for my family for now.

This is my happy hour.

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Come hang with me on Instagram for more great pics like those in this post. 

Bonding

It’s early. An hour at which no one should be awake and moving except paperboys and roosters. I’m lying in a small bed with my 3 year old Little Dude and the invisible flu bug he brought home from preschool, which he kindly and unintentionally shared with me.

He's tired, hot and achy but doesn't know how to express what his body is feeling. Facing each other, I notice he’s grasping one of his beloved Hot Wheels tightly in each hand. For strength or comfort, they are with him. As am I. I subtly turn on the white noise machine again, hoping it will coax a few more minutes of sleep out of him for his weary body. And mine, as well. I’ve gotten used to running on empty, but doing so while fighting off illness is a different battle. Another hour of sleep right now would be better than winning the lottery. And I could really use the money.

As the sound of artificial waves crashing upon a distant artificial beach repeats, I pick up my iPhone and sigh as I look at the ridiculously low numbers its clock is displaying.  It's so early that my friends 3 hours ahead on the East Coast haven’t yet begun sharing their pictures of omelets or tales of getting stuck in traffic on Facebook to entertain me.

Resting our stuffy heads on fluffy adjoining pillows, I hope that the source of the flu was at least fun for him while being an evil conduit. Was it the swings on the playground or the school’s lunchroom? Or the grocery store cart’s handle?  We’ll never know.

Though I hope for more rest, as I was just up feeding his newborn brother an hour ago, I know it's unlikely any time in the foreseeable future. As my eyelids bounce heavily, simultaneously trying to sleep and stay awake, I feel something rolling up slowly up my neck like a tarantula in a bad horror movie would. Thankfully it’s only a Hot Wheels monster truck cruising before parking on my congested scalp.

I put down my iPhone, as it needs rest too, and watch my son. He looks at me as we cough together.

This is bonding.

Dairy Delight

Dealing with a picky eater is challenging. Dealing with a kid who refuses to range beyond his half dozen core foods is exhausting. Every time we leave the house for an extended amount of time we have to pack a full meal for our 3-year-old Little Dude. Needless to say, I can now boil pasta in my sleep. And given our current exhaustion level with a newborn in the house, I often do.  

He would eat pancakes 3 times a day, if given the chance.

So as a parent who has dealt with this for 3+ years, one ongoing concern is how he will get his protein, since he flat-out refuses the protein staples most kids eat: chicken nuggets, hamburgers, pizza, etc. He eats a variety of fruits and even some vegetables, which is great, but protein is such an essential item to have throughout the day for energy.

He has an affinity for hot dogs, but I try not to overdo those even though I buy the nitrate-free ones. I’ve tried cheese, both grilled on buttery bread and fresh from the fridge in slices, strings and cubes and he won’t touch them. I’ve tried bribery and not even the allure of new Hot Wheels is enticing enough to make him give any of these things a shot. As though pizza is such an awful thing.

But there is one thing that really whets his whistle. It’s probably the only thing that I can order him virtually anywhere and he’ll actually consume it. Good old fashioned milk.  You always hear the old wives tales about how “milk is good for your bones”. It turns out that old wives are actually pretty accurate sometimes.  I recently discovered that an 8oz glass has 8 grams of protein, which is not too shabby.

I know the feeling...

Since he started preschool in the fall, the Little Dude burns a lot more energy in the mornings than he used to. There are a lot of days when he’ll come home from school and literally lay prone on the floor because he’s so wiped out. I never knew watercolors could be so exhausting, but I believe Picasso was a tired Dude, too.

So when he needs a pick-me-up in the afternoon, I hand him one of his trusty Cars cups filled with the white creamy goodness that only comes from a cow. That tides him over for the afternoon until dinnertime, when his pickiness resumes. It also gives him the energy to get outside and play. I hope that if he drinks enough milk, he’ll soon be able to start training for the 2028 Olympics because given how he sometimes plays with his stuffed animals I think he’d be a good shot putter. So I’m thankful for the vitamins and nine essential nutrients that I know will help him grow big and strong. And thankful for milk, because I don’t know any other natural way he’d willingly get them.  

Milk tastes better when served by Lightning McQueen

Given how important milk is to my children’s growth, I’m teaming up with the “got milk?” Campaign and Fuel Up to Play 60 for the Breakfast Blitz program to help provide $250,000 in grants to local schools across the country to help give kids greater access to a healthy breakfast. Now through Feb. 17, when you buy milk you can vote to have a portion go to a local school.

If you don’t already know, Fuel Up to Play 60 is a great in-school program designed to show students how to eat right and stay active. I know firsthand that choosing healthy foods and leading an active lifestyle gives me and my family the energy to do the things we love.

Want to learn more about the wonderful benefits of milk? Check out:

·  Sweeps page: MilkMustache.com

·  Hashtag: #BfastBlitz

·  FUTP: http://www.fueluptoplay60.com/

·  Facebook: Milk Mustache Campaign

·  Twitter: @MilkMustache

·  Pinterest: Milk Mustache Campaign

·  Instagram: Milk Mustache

I wrote this post while participating in the got milk? FUTP60/Breakfast Blitz Promotion and was compensated, though the opinions expressed are entirely 163% mine. For better or worse. 

Keep Your Chin Up

Having been raised in the Midwest, I’ve been amazed by the lack of weather preparedness most Southern Californians possess for pretty much the entire 13+ years I’ve lived here.  I’ve never owned a raincoat during that time, or probably since I was 5 years old, but was appreciative of the generosity of a relative who dropped one off for the Little Dude recently.  He’s the lucky recipient of many hand-me-downs from some older cousins and this was one more for the collection though it didn’t really seem essential given our climate.  Of course, I’m the type of genius who says something like that and then it immediately starts raining. As it did that night.

When the Little Dude woke up the next morning he wanted to check out the bright yellow raincoat he’d received. And as I was headed out the door to take him to preschool, Mrs. Dude handed it to me to bring for him. When we got to school, I took the coat and his backpack out of my car and put them on the Little Dude for our short walk to his classroom. We climbed the slippery steps as a light mist coated our heads. I was content wearing a t-shirt and light fleece sweatshirt. Most of the other parents and kids appeared dressed for upcoming cruises on Noah’s Ark.

After we ascended the steps, we reached the courtyard which is where the Little Dude usually starts to get really excited for school. He started to take off his backpack, as he often does, and when we reached his room he was ready to play. I started to take off his jacket as he entered the room, but apparently the cuffs were a bit small and his hands got stuck while he walked. As his momentum carried him forward, his arms moved behind him like a bird taking flight.  When his feet touched the slippery tile floor below him, the Little Dude dropped to the ground. Chin first. Ouch.

I didn’t know what to do as I watched my first born crying on the floor. I hoped it was just due to shock and not actual injury, but couldn’t tell from my angle. I dropped his jacket, which I’d finally wrestled off his wrists and went to pick him up.

There is no worse feeling as a parent than watching your child crying for a legitimate reason.  Not “I want ice cream!” or “I don’t want to go to bed” crying, but rather “This freakin’ hurts! Help me!”

I picked him up and he clung to me like stink on a sardine. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t pry his face from my chest to assess the damage. We went to sit in the nearby school office, to avoid scaring the other kids, when I finally got a peak. His light-blue tie-dyed shirt now bore a significant red pattern. I was thankful that my sweatshirt was both zipped up and a dark maroonish color, aka the lone option that wouldn’t show any blood leakage.

Someone brought him a bag of ice, but he wasn’t interested. After what felt like 20 minutes, but was probably 3 or 4, of hysteria. I spotted some Hot Wheels and model cars directly next to us. I used a yellow Lamborghini as a distraction and within a few minutes the Little Dude resumed breathing again.

I asked the teacher what the protocol is in a situation like that, but honestly didn’t hear her answer. She said that despite the blood, it didn’t look too bad and he probably didn’t need further attention beyond the Band-Aid they’d administered. Once calm, we headed back to the classroom and I stayed for another 15 minutes to play and observe before heading out once things seemed copacetic. 

The tricky part came next: what to tell Mrs. Dude. I didn’t want to make a big deal about it, partly because I was led to believe by two teachers who are mothers that it wasn’t that big of a deal. I called her from the car and told her just that.  I explained what had transpired and said he’d be fine.  Of course I was disproven when she picked him up and saw the wound herself.  As a guy, I didn’t think it was that bad. To a mother, I can understand how it might be. So she called the doctor and I met them there a couple hours later.

As we waited in the waiting room, the wound opened up again. His yellow shirt turned brownish when the red spots started falling and spreading. Our regular pediatrician wasn’t available, so we saw another who used words like “plastic surgeon” and “sedation”. He said that the cut, which is under the chin and only visible if you look for it, probably wasn’t worth the trouble for something that wouldn’t be noticeable. For several reasons, we agreed and left with a new Band-Aid, a plastic millipede, some stickers and 3 lollipops. Fortunately my little patient had something to show for the $30 co-pay.

I took him in my car and Mrs. Dude took his brother in hers. As the stressful day wound down, my 3-year-old passed out. But I knew there was something else we had to do. So we stopped by the local Vons grocery store and I let him pick out a Hot Wheels car, which he’d told his mother earlier was what would make him feel better. I wasn’t sure if that was sufficient, so as my guilt over possible neglect set in, we walked a few doors down to Baskin Robbins with his new car to wash everything down with some Cookies and Cream. Though I’m not usually a big fan, I now understand why people say Oreos make them feel better. They certainly did the trick for us that day.  

Thankful for Metal

While sleepily driving the Little Dude to preschool last week, I decided to do something radical and turn down the music with the intention of having a conversation. Now that he’s a couple months into preschool, and loving it, the entire 12 minute ride is no longer filled with I don’t want to go to school repeated on a loop.

Thanksgiving was upon us and it was really the first time that the Little Dude should have been able to understand what the holiday is about. Beyond the tales of pilgrims and Indians, boats and turkeys, rests a concept that is so often overlooked. No matter what situation we have in our lives, we are lucky. We should think about that and appreciate it.

So I asked my newly 3 year old if he knew what Thanksgiving was about and he replied “turkeys”. Um, sort of. I went into a long speech about how everyone has certain things in life that we need to be thankful for. For example, he has a Mama and a Dada, a new baby brother and an adoring dog.  I told him that not everyone has those things. Being the inquisitive toddler he is, he asked why. That’s a hard thing for a toddler to comprehend so I told him that every family is different. Some have two Mamas and some might have 5 sisters.Whatever our situation, we should be thankful.

I told him that he is lucky to have a bed to sleep in and clothes to wear. He has food to eat and a school to go to. He has friends and family. He has his health. I asked him if he was thankful for all those things.He said “Yes…and for my Hot Wheels, too”.  Ever since he received his first Hot Wheels a few months ago, he’s been in love with them. He talks about them day and night and sleeps with a few on his nightstand.  He memorizes their names and looks forward to earning more. 

Everyone has their priorities. He’s 3 years old, I know his will evolve.  And maybe next year he’ll consciously realize everything else he is so fortunate to have, even if it is not made of die-cast metal.

I know I do. 

The Crib Fairy

The Crib Fairy stopped by my house last week and left a trail of uncertainty behind on her way out.

At the suggestion of the Little Dude’s pediatrician, Mrs. Dude and I decided to remove the crib from our 2 ½ year old’s room and move him into a “Big Boy Bed” in advance of his brother’s arrival. The doctor said that we should remove the crib and put it somewhere out of sight so that when our new arrival starts using it in a few months, there won’t be jealousy or resentment from the previous tenant.  

The crib

Tinkering with the sleep habits of any kid is not easy. Tinkering with the sleep habits of a Rip van Winkle prodigy like my Little Dude had the potential for great disaster written all over it. But we had to do it with the longview in mind.  Bringing a new baby into the house is going to be an adjustment for all of us. As parents, I trust that we’ll handle the transition better than our happy toddler who is used to being the center of attention. Or at least I hope so.

My wife started prepping him weeks in advance with news of the Crib Fairy’s impending arrival.  As the story went, the Crib Fairy was going to come and remove the Little Dude’s crib, leaving a Big Boy Bed behind for him to sleep in. On top of that coup, CF was also going to leave a present. Seemed like a Michael Scott-style win/win/win for everyone involved.

As part of the preparation Mrs. Dude took the Little Dude to Target and let him pick out some new bedding. As a Cars aficionado, he settled on a nice Lightning McQueen set after his first choice --pink -- was thankfully vetoed.  

On transition day, the new bed was brought in and Mrs. Dude was tasked with disassembling the crib. Why was literal and figurative heavy lifting imposed on my 7 months pregnant wife? Because she put it together originally and knew how it all fit. I had a more difficult task that night anyway: occupying an antsy 2 ½ year old who was unaware of what was happening behind the scenes. I figured the best thing to do would be to make him more tired so that he might sleep better in his new environment. So after dinner we went on a walk around our neighborhood while my wife went to work. I didn’t think the disassembling would take very long, so when I texted her after 45 minutes and found out she wasn’t even close to finished I knew it was going to be a long night for us. Hopefully not for multiple reasons.  

We headed back to the homestead and I left the Little Dude with his favorite babysitter: Elmo and a sippy cup of milk, while I headed upstairs to check out the situation. Crib pieces were everywhere, making his bedroom resemble a war-torn minefield.  I stealthily started bringing crib pieces downstairs, not wanting my cover as half of the Crib Fairy to be blown.

The Big Boy Bed, just before the grand unveiling.

Finally it was time for the grand unveiling.  As our sleepy Little Dude headed upstairs, we told him that he was in for a big surprise. He ran into his room and saw a giant void where his crib had always been. Then he realized that the Crib Fairy had stopped by and he asked where his present was. On top of the Big Boy Bed was a Great Dane-size image of Lightning McQueen on the new comforter and on top of that was a gift bag.

He ripped into the gift bag as only a toddler can, finding a slew of Hot Wheels cars inside. He started pulling them out one by one and eagerly examining each exotic new vehicle. He was clearly not thinking about the imminent transition. Could it really be that easy?  

Checking out the new presents.

We proceeded with his usual bedtime routine of bath, tooth brushing and story time until the moment of truth was upon us. We dimmed the lights as he wiggled under his shiny new covers, slowly exploring the much more expansive sleep space than he was used to. As he clutched his Hot Wheels tight we tucked him in, turned out the lights and let out a collective deep breath of relief.  Just before he said “I wanna sleep in Mama & Dada’s bed”.

Damn Crib Fairy.

A moment before he realized this was for real.