A month of dead presidents can be confusing

On nights like this, I barely have the will to think, nevermind write a blog post. Jenn's working late, and the boys were ... challenging. The only way to describe an evening like I just experienced is to imagine herding 17 cats through a water-filled tunnel with mice running in the opposite direction. That's how things felt tonight.

But I must admit that the bedtime conversation a few minutes ago was memorable. I had already tucked the two older boys into their beds and was putting the finishing touches on Colin's bedtime routine. This involves quietly singing songs to Colin while rocking him in the dark room – and yes, I just admitted that I sing nursery rhymes and made-up songs to my child.

While I was rocking and singing, I could hear voices, then louder voices, then screaming voices. Thankfully, Colin flopped into the crib and I slipped out of the room. I went back down the hall to visit the two debaters and before I could even ask what they were arguing about, out it came.

Matthew screamed, "Josh thinks President Obama is dead!" I assured them both that the president is alive and well, I asked them to please stop yelling, and I tucked them in for a second time. As I was walking away, I realized that Josh's confusion probably comes from a month of schoolwork devoted to dead presidents. Since Jenn and I haven't progressed very far in our explanations of world geopolitical systems, Josh has a limited understanding of how the nation's government functions. Since Lincoln and Washington are dead, he might assume all presidents are dead.

A minute later, I was in my office when the debate resumed:

Matthew: "Josh, he's not dead!"

Josh: "Yes, he is."

Matthew: "Josh, didn't you hear Daddy? He's not dead."

Josh: "Well, Abraham Lincoln's dead. George Washington's dead. Presidents die. So Obama's going to die."

Matthew: "Yeah, Josh, but then they'll get a new president."

They continued on for a while longer before puckering out. On another night, I might have visited them again to explain things in great detail and eliminate the confusion. But I didn't. I didn't have the strength. Not tonight. Tonight I just wanted them to stop talking. Blessedly, they have.

Confessions of a dirty kid

Matthew and I were discussing which of the three boys would take a bath tonight. I suggested that it should probably be Colin and him.

"Josh and Colin took baths last night," Matthew said.

"They did? Okay, then I guess you should take one tonight," I responded.

"Well Colin is welcome to join if he wants," Matthew said.

"That's awfully nice of you," I told him.

"It'll be a bath party," Matthew said. "We'll have water. And soap. But I never use the soap. I only pick it up when you come in the room to make it look like I'm using the soap."

A boy and his comb

This is what happens when Matthew decides to style his hair. I was in the shower this morning, when he entered the bathroom, told me he needed my comb and ran out the door.

I didn't realize he had also taken a bottle of hair gel – and used about half of it – to fashion his own version of a mohawk. So I ask you, who's cuter, my son or David Beckham?

I know, it's no comparison.

Crisis - no pancake mix

I just made a terrible discovery. We're out of Bisquick. Nearly every Saturday morning for the past seven years, I've made blueberry pancakes. It may be the most lasting tradition in our household (aside from asking boys to please pee in the toilet).

Now we're facing a crisis. I just announced the problem to the boys, and Josh was first to react.

"Daddy, we'll have to get up early. Let's get up at 6 and get in the car ... We're going to Target!"

I offered to buy Bisquick during the day tomorrow and have pancakes on Sunday, but they're not going for it.

"Okay, guys, so we'll have pancakes on Sunday," I said.

"No," said Matthew.

"What do you mean 'no'?" I asked.

"N. O. N-O means no," he said.

Jinkies. So now I have to drive to Target in the morning? This parenting stuff is tough. It would be so much easier if I could say N-O to them.

A busted lip – Dad's fault

I busted my son's lip today.

Put down the phone and don't call social services. It was an accident. I was trying to herd the two oldest boys out the door and didn't see tiny Colin walking behind me. He was making a trip from the laundry room, toilet plunger in hand, apparently trying to clean the kitchen floor.

I took a step back, bopped into him, and he did a face-plant on the hardwood floor. The tears were immediate, but I didn't think he was really hurt. I let him cry for a few seconds before I picked him up to console him. That's when I saw the mouth full of blood.

That's also when I handed him to Mom.

I didn't totally abandon him. I got a facecloth, put it on the bleeding lip, apologized and left to usher the other two out the door. As we were heading outside, I remembered something one of my good friends, a mother of four, once told me. After I had described the scene where I nearly hit my son when chopping down a 40-foot tree in the backyard (a totally true story, but put down the phone again, I have since learned how to properly fell a tree), she said: "It's always the Dads who hurt the kids."

She said her husband caused stitches, bruises, bleeding, tears and injuries routinely when "playing" with their kids, especially their three boys. I suppose it's true. I remember back to my own childhood. Who slammed my sister's head into the ceiling while tossing her in the air? Dad. Who slammed her finger in the car door when she was a toddler? Dad.

Who "wrestles" with my boys and occasionally applies too much inertia? Yours truly. And yes, who nearly crushed his middle son with a crashing tree trunk? Yup, that was me.

It's not that we're careless with the kids. Sometimes we're just moving too fast to take all precautions. Sorry about that, boys. And sorry about the lip, Colin.

But don't worry about Colin, he'll survive. And he'll be tougher for it. It's just part of growing up. Right?

It's true - the kids grow up so fast

I realize this will be two "sad" posts in short order, but I can't help it. This was unexpected. I went looking for old photos of Matthew because he's the "Star of the Week" in the kindergarten class next week, and I found these old pictures. Both are of our oldest son, Joshua, at age 2.

The first was taken on a day when Jenn and I took him to Colt State Park, and he and I were playing soccer together. The second was the bedtime routine for Josh and I, back in the days when I read him five bedtime stories.

I opened these photos on my computer and immediately started crying. It's amazing how quickly time has passed.

I don't cry. Ever. I have actually gone years without crying. But these photos struck a chord.

This beautiful boy is now a complex 7-year-old. Like any child, he has issues. Like any boy, he isn't great at communicating with his parents. And like any parents who are juggling three kids, jobs, finances, childcare and the complexities of life ... we just don't have as much time for this beautiful boy as we once did. And that breaks my heart.

I love you, Joshua.

The bad stuff is crystal clear

It's easy to see the bad things. We see them in our friends. We see them in our spouses. We see them in our world, our jobs, our homes and our lives. We definitely see them in our kids.

Consider my oldest two, who typically get downstairs before I do on school mornings. On an average morning, in the 15 seconds it takes me to leave my bedroom, glance in the boys' bedroom, pass the bathroom, descend the stairs and walk into the kitchen, I can see the following:

• The bedroom light left on
• Pajamas on the floor
• An unmade bed
• The bathroom light left on
• The toilet seat up
• The toilet unflushed
• A stack of 20 books spilled on the stairs
• A bowl of cereal poured to overflowing
• Four family room and kitchen lights on
• Another bathroom light on
• The refrigerator door open
• The pantry doors open
• Five boxes of cereal on the island
• Seventeen CDs strewn on the counter underneath the radio
• Cereal spilled on the floor
• The cap left off the milk
• And the dog whining to go out without either boy even noticing.

As I walk, the bad-things counter keeps ticking in my head, so when I actually see the two loves of my life, I immediately unload the list of things they screwed up. My first words on this beautiful, sunny morning are heavy-handed complaints about how they need to do things better.

What I fail to notice is that a 7-year-old and a 5-year-old have:

• Gotten themselves out of bed;
• One of them is dressed;
• One made his bed;
• Both started breakfast without their parents;
• They're not fighting;
• They're cooperating on cereal and milk;
• And they're in a generally happy mood.

Yet here comes Dad to hit them with a list of failures. It pains me to think about how many times I complain to my kids; criticize them; tell them to be better. Would it hurt me to compliment them on all the things they've done right? Could I start the day with a list of great things they did?

The question is painfully rhetorical, because of course I could. Of course I should.

We all should. How often do we see the negative? How often do we share the bad stuff? How often do we see what's wrong, instead of all that's right?

Kids need to see those things, too. And they need to know that you see them all the time.