I watched my oldest son flick through the pages of the display iPad in the Nature’s Bioluminescence exhibit at the Museum of Natural History (aka the dinosaur bone museum) and watched his eyes twitch from icon to icon and his finger flit over this or that button before pressing it. And in that rare moment of silence, my mind drifted.

He turns four this week and I just cannot get over the fact that this little man is my kid. I could tell you that he is smart as a whip and a handsome devil to boot, but I know that already so I won’t bore you with the details. I just take the greatest pleasure in watching when he is interacting with something or someone and see those little pieces of me (and my wife, of course) that are reflected in those big brown eyes. You have to understand that I am slowly getting the hang of this parenting thing or rather I am OK with the fact that it is beyond my control and yet I have to put all my brawn, brains and heart into it in an attempt to budge it this way or that in a direction that is hopefully the better path for my kids. It usually, though, feels like Sisyphus and I actually have decided to adopt him as my parenthood mascot – my patron saint of Parenthood.

With my oldest son almost four and my youngest almost 9 months, I still have an eternity to go before earning my veteran parent benefits. There is still plenty of watching that boulder roll back down the hill and trudging back down the hill to push it right back up. And it’s draining.

Two things comfort me and transform the trudge into a little more of a skip in my step. The first is that I see plenty of other kids throwing tantrums at the supermarket and schadenfreude is the best therapy for parents – bar none. The second is the deception created by those moments – often just a split second – where your kids do something so normal and yet so superlative that you turn into silly putty and slide right back down that hill. A smile, a song where all the words are wrong, an unexpected hug, a sincere I’m sorry, replicating something taught without prompting, a delighted laugh, you know what I’m talking about. It gets you every time and is worth all the schlepping that is parenthood. Call me a sucker for punishment, but it’s every bit worth it pushing that rock day in and day out with a skip in my step.

For the past 100 years in a land not so far away (it’s actually a bedroom), a little boy (I know… you’re wondering how he stays so young!) shows up at the foot of his parent’s bed (they look every bit a hundred years old) and at the top of his lungs says:”I want very very better latte, per favore!” The latte he is referring to is not the Starbucks kind, but simply “milk” in Italian. Every day for the past century his parent’s have slept with one eye and ear open dreading the moment. They’ve tried everything to break the spell. Pleaded, threatened, ignored, hidden, cried even – to no avail. Every morning at around 5am, rain or shine, much like a Swiss cuckoo clock, the boy comes and makes his proclamation. It is repeated several times and more. Even the neighbors must hear and fear it since no village posse bearing pitchforks and torches has ever descended upon the household seeking to purge this scourge. I know this tale seems fictitious, but I assure you it is something that neither Tolkien nor Lewis nor Jordan nor Goodkind nor Eddings or any of the other master bards could conjure from the deepest recesses of their brilliant imagination. Such is the fantastical reality known to some of us as Parenthood.

(Source: The New Yorker – Cover by: Chris Ware)

Just got this issue in the mail today and I had to smile… great wit. My gift to all of you awesome mom’s out there (albeit this is more akin to ripping out some of the neighbor’s prized roses and pretending I grew them myself…). I know I’m early, but shouldn’t it be a daily recurrence? Happy Mother’s Day!

That’s a question I envision my sons asking me in a few years. And yet, there I was staring back at the nice old lady with my mouth in a half opened grimace searching for words. She had just asked me the simplest of questions: “Where is the nearest travel agency?”

I am so used to reacting automatically to questions for directions that my body was slightly turned and finger raised, ready to point out the North, South, East and West of it to this poor frightened lost tourist in the big bad city.

I was at a loss, thinking to myself “Aren’t they extinct?”, but quickly recovered and asked what she needed a travel agency for since there were very few still around. She wanted to visit family in D.C. and was looking to book a flight. Someone told her to look online and she frankly didn’t know where that was so she started walking around asking people.

Granted this seems an extreme case in our über-connected world, but this lady was seriously walking around looking for a travel agency. I vaguely remembered seeing a Liberty Travel somewhere in the neighborhood, but I did not want her to keep wandering aimlessly until she found the guy who said “Sure lady! My cousin has a travel agency…” This is New York after all. So out came the iPhone and I showed her that there was one fairly close by and sent her on her way.

I stared at my phone before slipping it back into my pocket and as I walked on I got to thinking that indeed technology is a wonderful thing to have at your fingertips. With a few clicks this woman would have booked her flight and printed her tickets. Then I thought how terribly helpless someone like that feels. It is not, obviously life threatening, but it is still something we take for granted and yet for some (or maybe many) is a real daily hurdle. I will even guess that with the exponential advancement of technology in the last 20 years doesn’t help either, but wasn’t that the case in prior decades? I read that the iPad is helping Alzheimer’s patients which is incredible and yet this lady was unable to do the simplest of tasks like buy a ticket. I guess it is an inevitable technological limbo that many of us will pass into as “our” technologies become outdated and we find daily amenities out of reach – good thing I’ll be able to call my kids to help me out (if cell phones and Skype still exist). I’m still getting over the fact that she was actually looking for a travel agency – me – the jaded New Yorker.

Since putting up labels in the nursery/playroom, two things have happened that have tested my nerves and probably the labels’ nerves as well (they might have feelings too, you know!). The first is my older son’s obsession with the Alphabet and spelling has intensified. “That’s great! What are you complaining about!” you might be thinking. Well you try to carry on a conversation or train of thought with a toddler shouting “Look Daddy, t as in table!” “Look Mommy, z as in zebra!” non-stop for hour and hours and hours. Of course the labels are no exception and they can’t even leave the room – they’re just stuck their helpless. “Daddy? Look! T-R-U-C-K… truck!”

The second is the numerous play dates that have suddenly become part of my life. As you may know, I am very OCD about things and order is something that is a pillar – nay – the very foundation upon which I am built as a person. Without order, chaos takes over and that I start to lose control myself. You can say that parenthood certainly has tested me to the core and I am only a few years in.

So back to the poor labels that not only have to take my son’s abuse, but they also have to take it from perfect strangers who (and I am an eye witness) deliberately subject them to torture. They have taken it very well and must say that aside from one particularly fearsome attack with scissors that did not go well for the targeted label and underlying woodwork the labels I stuck in the playroom are still standing and despite ongoing wear and tear have lived up to the Brother P-Touch reputation of durability.

The next project will be beach gear as Spring arrives and Summer follows. It will be interesting to see how the labels hold up against the heat, humidity and sand of the beach!

NB: I wrote this review while participating in a campaign by Mom Central Consulting on behalf of Brother P-Touch and received a product and gift card to facilitate my review and a promotional item to thank me for taking the time to participate. All opinions expressed are my own.

I know. Depeche Mode wrote that about teen angst relationship stuff, but here I am past midnight enjoying it – immensely. I have not been able to sit down for two seconds to write anything down in the past few months – not even by locking myself in the bathroom (that actually makes it worse because the banging is even more nerve racking). Sure, I was warned, but this is something else. I don’t mind the having to change diapers again for the little one or the loads of laundry due to the tail end of potting training for the older one. I can handle the “stop touching your brother” and “don’t give that to him he will choke… and stop laughing it’s not funny!” or “how many times do I have to tell you not to (fill in the blank with pretty much anything a toddler could do)!” and my favorite from the adults “do you know what YOUR son did?!” I can take all of that because somehow I expected it from hearing other parents and from watching lots and lots of Bill Cosby. What I cannot take is the incessant cacophony of screaming and crying and yelling and singing (although closer to screaming) and the “daaaaaady can you (fill in the blank with anything)?!”

I used to hear myself think. Even after my first son was born. There were moments in which I could contemplate and knit my brow while reading, surfing the net or just thinking. I miss it terribly. I crave it. I dare say I need it!

I’ve been reduced to a bumbling fool by a 6 month old and a 3.5 year old.

I envy Homer Simpson.

OK. Back to enjoying the silence.

The ferocity with which you find yourself loving and protecting your children as a parent goes beyond any primal instinct I have ever felt in my life. There, I said it. Carry on.

I got back from Rome about a week ago and have been looking through my travel notes (yes, people still do that). Since I decided to enjoy my holidays away from the computer as much as possible I am just getting around to transferring some of these stories from paper to bytes.

The funny thing about Italy and Italians is their obsession with gadgets. Odd certainly for an ancient culture that still holds on passionately to quality of life over relentless innovation. And yet, despite their love affair with the latest hi-tech gadget (especially cell phones), the few times they attempt to implement technology on a larger and more practical scale the following occurs.

Imagine arriving at Rome’s Fiumicino airport after your first two-child (newborn and toddler) flight during which the toddler unexpectedly behaved the entire trip and the newborn discovered he hated flying the first seven hours of the eight hour flight. Mercifully my father-in-law has come to pick you up and things start to look up as he sweeps up the newborn in one arm and toddler in the other while you chug your first proper espresso on Italian soil after an almost 9 month absence. So what if it is drizzling outside? Three adults, two children, stroller and assorted luggage pile into the Nissan Micra (slightly larger than the new FIAT 500), which is the only size car capable of navigating the city center and parking on a dime. And just as we shut the car door the sky opens up and it starts to pour. That was close.

We pull up to the automated parking attendant to leave the lot and my father-in-law quickly sticks the parking receipt in the machine to pay. The machine chirps: “7 Euros please!”. My father-in-law inserts a 10 Euro bill only to hear the chirping voice again say, “No cash at this time. Only credit cards.” Fine. In goes the card. Silence. Again. Silence. Try another card. The first impatient honking is heard from behind. Another card and still silence. The voice suddenly chirps: “Please reinsert receipt!” As my father-in-law extends his arm towards the machine, the receipt, which is similar in flimsiness to the ones they give you in retail stores, is instantly soaked. At this point he pulls back into the lot to let other through. As we pull away we see the other two lanes are backed up with drivers stuck in the front fumbling with receipts and credit cards. Why, you must surely be asking, has my father-in-law put us in this situation instead of just waiting for us at the curb? Well, the airport has decided to eliminate curb side pick up except for taxis for arriving flights so you must park at the pay-to-park lot. Cha-ching!

We look around for a human being and I spot a sign that says (in English): “Cashier”. Good a human being. I grab the receipt from the dashboard and dash across the lot towards the sign. Thoroughly soaked I look around and notice two machines identical to the ones at the exit. What the… I walk up to the machine and comically attempt to stick the limp receipt into the slot (talk about feeling emasculated) successfully mushing it to bits and rendering (if possible) even more useless. I notice an intercom button. Nah. There is no way that there is a human being at the other end. This is Italy. Land of the beautiful, yet seldom-functioning, objects.

“Yes?” crackles a voice on the intercom.

“Agh!” I let out a small yelp of surprise. Someone is at the other end and answered immediately. I look around like in a spy movie and then slowly approach the intercom.

“Uhm… the machine at the exit is not, uhm, reading the, uhm, receipt because the rain soaked it. Uhm, what do I do now?”

“Sir, please try the other machine.”

“But the receipt is…”

“Sir, please try the other machine and if it still does not work call back.”

I actually did. I took the ball of sopping pulp that was the receipt and jammed it as best I could into the other machine. At the same time I pressed the intercom.

“Yes?”

“I just called and…”

“It didn’t work?!” the voice sounded surprised and rather annoyed.

“Uhm, no… not really.”

The voice sighed a very exasperated sigh and continued, “What is you name, Sir?”

I gave him my wife’s last name because if I attempted to tell them my very Anglo-Saxon last name we would have been there a while.

“Sir, go back to your car. Get in. Drive back to the exit. Get out of the car. Locate the intercom button. Press it. Give your last name. I will let you through.”

I did exactly as I was told for fear that any divergence would set our escape from the parking lot back a few more hours.

I pressed the intercom under the pouring rain and drew in a deep breath.

“Yes?”

“I am here at the exit.”

“Hello? I cannot hear you.”

Gulp.

“I am here at the exit.”

“Oh, it’s you.” The “Sir” had been dropped altogether. “Just a moment.”

A moment passed adding angst to what was now an experience that was lasting longer than our actual flight. Finally, the mechanical arm swung open and just like that the parking lot – like Monstro – spat us out.

So sad to see it go, but alas I am mulling over bringing back the goatee and so after growing the mo’ for all of November for Movember – no mo mo’ for me.

Throughout Movember, a group of about 50 dads was spurred on by our fearless ring leader Laid Off Dad and did an amazing job of raising around $19,000 for prostate cancer research and men’s health awareness in general. To top it all off when it came time to start thinking about shaving off the whiskers that have become a constant source of irritation to my 3 month old (how can you stop yourself from smothering a newborn with kisses – albeit prickly), LOD gets a nod from Philips Norelco to not only use and keep some of their high-tech 3-D shaving gizmos – a trimmer and an electric shaver (for which you can get a nice $30 rebate over here), but they were willing add to the group’s donations with an additional $15,000. All we had to do was shave our whiskers for a national, nay worldwide, audience (see the all the silliness at the ‘Stache-tacular Shave Off site).

So without further ado here is my whisker striptease. For copyright reasons I cannot put a soundtrack on this video, but if you feel goofy and have time you should play it with “That Dude” by The High Decibels. Trust me it works real nice!

The trimmer worked great although the vacuum thingy that is supposed to keep all the whiskers unsurprisingly had a hard time keeping them all in. The shaver was pretty impressive (aka a close shave) considering I am a safety razor guy. I did use a wet shave and brush with cream because you do not under any circumstance want to pull metal across your face without lubrication, but as they say: “De gustibus non disputandum est.”

I hope you enjoyed and I hope you keep Movember in mind. My mo’ will see you all again next year for more silliness.

As we turn into the last lap of #Movember , I wanted to confess that I was hoping for an “Abracadabra” look, but with a toddler and a newborn it’s a miracle I haven’t sliced my face up shaving. Therefore, I would like to introduce you to my “Undercover Brother.”

He’s a scratchy little bugger. Sort of a painful sidekick. Figure that I actually shaved off my goatee to grow this bad boy out. I don’t know why, but the mo’ is twitchier than the goatee. Not sure why. Also it just looks terrible on me. Could be the false impression of balance that a goatee gives you since it is vertical as opposed to horizontal and so growing the mo’ has shown what having a “round” face is all about. Or it could simply be that I am somehow related to Ned Flanders.

As #Movember wraps up another successful year, hopefully our silliness (at least in my case) in growing mo’s has given you pause for thought about prostate cancer and men’s health in general. Make sure to donate to me or to the Dad 2.0 team lead by Doug French of LOD fame. He has put together a stellar cast and has raised an astounding $13,500 so far making us the 48^th ranked team in the nation. If you are feeling generous I would appreciate even a small donation that is easily made at: http://mobro.co/NewYorkDad

My “Undercover Brother” thanks you!