Christmas Classics? Bah Humbug

Happy Holidays!

It really is the most wonderful time of the year, isn't it? People are nicer, commutes are easier, and we're all pretending the brutal, interminable chill of January and February will never happen. Yay! Christmas!

One of my (and maybe your?) favorite things about the holiday season is the Christmas classics. Frosty the Snowman, Rudolph, the Grinch. I have fond memories of cold nights, hot chocolate with plump marshmallows, and hearts growing three sizes.

As I've gotten older, these classics aren't really must-see TV anymore. Sure, if I'm home with my mom and sister for the holiday, we might relive a half hour of magic, but mostly, I've moved on. That is, until it was time to introduce them to my own children. And this year, with Annabelle at the ripe old age of 3, I couldn't wait to share the joy.

It, um, didn't go well.

Maybe it's because she is too young. Maybe it's because I sold them too hard. Maybe it's because these classics are a little (or a lot) stranger than I remember. Here's how three attempts went down:

Attempt #1: The Grinch Who Stole Christmas: Obviously, I'm talking about the cartoon. That creepy Jim Carrey-led abomination has no place in this house. Ever. Anyway, Bridget was putting Belle to bed one night last week and I flipped on the TV. I saw that this delightful Dr. Seuss tale was just starting. Like any 3-year-old, Belle loves any excuse to stay up, so she was more than happy for me to rush her downstairs to visit Whoville. Three minutes later, as the Grinch started plotting the end of Christmas with Max, Annabelle said, "Daddy, I don't like this." "What's not to like?" I replied. "It's the Grinch!" She thought about it. And then thought some more. And then she thought of something she hadn't before ... Just kidding. As soon as the Grinch threw Max over the sleigh and it nearly fell on the poor dog's head, we were on our way back upstairs. Attempt #1: Fail.

Attempt #2: Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer: It's tough to catch these classics on live TV, but the world of Hulu, Netflix, and YouTube make life a lot easier. Last Sunday afternoon, after my fantasy football team let me down, we decided to give this claymation classic a shot. We lasted a few more minutes than we did on Attempt #1, but that was about it. The problem? Rudolph's Dad. And, frankly, Santa. They're jerks until the end of the hour and little girls don't like jerks. "Let's watch Frosty," she said. Attempt #2: Fail.

Attempt #3: Frosty the Snowman: This was a disaster from the first 30 seconds. The kids are wearing totally weather-inappropriate outfits (not a good example for a girl who hates wearing a coat) and the magician with the enormous chin is just a dick. "I don't like him," Annabelle said. Neither do I, Annabelle. Neither do I. Click. Attempt #3: Fail.

Sure, I might reintroduce these classics in a year or two, but to be honest, I'm in no hurry. So what's the solution? Right now, there are two:

1. The Snowy Day, a new special on Amazon based on the book by Ezra Jack Keats. Laurence Fishburne, Boyz II Men, and a plot line that promotes diversity and inclusion? Yes, please. If you have little ones, this is well worth the 38 minutes.

2. Snowflake Day, Season 4, Episode 5 of Daniel Tiger. No matter the question, with a 3-year-old, Daniel Tiger is almost always the answer. We've watched this no fewer than 75 times in the last three months. And, I tell ya, Daniel saves that damn play every time.

If you know of other (good) holiday episodes aimed at little ones, I'm all ears.

And if you've made it this far, thanks for reading. I've really enjoyed writing this blog for the past few months and look forward to sharing more stories about our two little roses in 2017. Have a great holiday!

Six Questions with Annabelle

As soon as Annabelle turned 3, she started saying some pretty hilarious things. She could obviously talk before then, but she really turned up the funny meter starting last September.

Sometimes I capture some of her better one-liners on Facebook. From October 12, for example:

Me: "Are you excited to go to the new library?!"
Annabelle: "Yup! I'm going to get some books!"
Me: "Oh yeah? Which books?"
Annabelle: "I'm going to keep my pants on when we get inside."
Me: "Okay. Hmm. Yeah ... good."

Or this one from September 30:

Me: "Annabelle, can you please eat your ravioli? Please?"
Annabelle: "If you put more cheese on it, it'll help me survive."

These conversations, of course, are curated for social media. I cut away the chaff and harvest the (witty) wheat.

But what if I just left the camera rolling? What would come out? I came up with six questions last week and this 150 seconds is the result:

Hopping on the Potty Train

This is going to be awkward.

There’s really no way around it, because people don’t typically talk or write about bathroom activities. And, frankly, we probably shouldn’t. What happens behind closed doors, in this case, should stay behind closed doors. Like Vegas. Just without the fun and hangovers.

But as a Dad of two daughters, one who is now (somewhat) successfully trained, potty training has been a pretty eye-opening experience. And that, after all, is what this blog is meant to chronicle.

So let’s start at the beginning — changing diapers. I dreaded this before having children because I’d never changed a diaper before. But this is one of the biggest misconceptions about kids. Changing diapers, in reality, is no big deal. Take off the dirty one, clean things up, put on a new one. Not a big deal. Takes like three seconds.

Most importantly, the parent is in control during a diaper change.

Now, to potty training, which is a disaster of epic proportions and the absolute worst thing about having a child. It wasn’t even that bad with Annabelle (and, if we’re being honest, Bridget did 85% of the work here), but it was still awful. My mom tells me I was awful about it, too. I don’t think I was actually trained until I was 4, which, apparently, is late. Whatever. It all worked out.

Back to Annabelle. The constant fear that she’d pee on everything. The horrible days when she had to poop, but wouldn’t admit it and just wanted to “stay home all day” for unrelated reasons. The time we stopped at a shady rest stop on the Mass Pike because she had to “go real bad,” but it was just a false alarm. The coaxing, pleading, and urging to “just push” behind closed doors. (Told you this was going to be awkward.) Potty training is frustrating, tiring, and anxiety-inducing.

And, again, she did really well. We went pants-less for a week or so, had a few accidents, had to bring in the Miralax, but she learned pretty fast.

Now, she’s, mostly, a pro. She gets up on her potty herself using one of her trusty stools, does her business, and washes her hands. (Flush and wash and be on your way! Thanks, Daniel Tiger.) She's  even great in public (including the men’s room, when necessary), which I learned after four visits to a recent Starbucks bathroom in an hour one day a few weeks ago.

I’d certainly never wish for my darling daughters to grow up faster than they are. But I would trade all the fantasy football championships in the world for Aurora to be potty trained right now.

Then again, I’d probably never again get the chance to go to a Starbucks bathroom four times in an hour. And that would be a tragedy.

You Like Sports, Right?

I love sports. I play them, watch them, and fantasize about them. I love the drama, the excitement, the stories, the teamwork, the leadership, the winning, and the losing. Love, love, love. In fact, "love" may be the wrong word. It's not quite strong enough.

I idolize sports. There, that's better.

Sports, in all forms, have been an enormous part of my life for as long as I can remember. Quite possibly, more than anything else, they've made me the person I am today. It should come as no surprise, then, that I want my daughters to love sports, too.

But what if they don't?

It's a real possibility. Consider a recent conversation I had with Annabelle:

Me: "Annabelle, do you want to play soccer or take dance lessons?"

(Bridget and I figure we'll start with one activity and see how it goes.)

Annabelle: "Dance lessons."

Me: "Right, but soccer is awesome. You get to kick the ball, run around ..."

Annabelle: "I want dance lessons."

Me: "Are you sure? I mean, soccer is so universal. It's really cool."

Annabelle, now laughing: "Dadddd! Dance!"

Me: "Okay, okay ..."

And then we both laugh and I die a little inside. Her first dance class was yesterday. I'm told it went well.

I have nothing against dance, of course. But dance, and I hope this is okay to say in 2016, isn't a sport. Yes, yes, it's hard. Yes, there are competitions. But it's not a sport. It's a vigorous activity.

What I'm talking about is stuff like basketball, soccer, or even running. I'd totally settle for Annabelle and Aurora loving running because I could do it with them.

But what if running can't even make the cut?

I've tried — and continue to try — on numerous occasions to get Annabelle to love sports. She knows our favorite team ("the Cuse!") and loves watching college football with me on Saturdays. Sort of. After five minutes, watching college football devolves into her jumping from the ottoman to the couch again and again and again ... "Honey, look at that catch!" She looks. And shouts: "He made it!" Back to jumping.

I even trained her from a young age, putting on sports whenever she'd cry late into the night. One of my happiest moments in my first year of parenting was a three-week-old Annabelle sleeping on my chest as I watched the Iron Bowl. (Maybe someday she'll know what that is?)

This isn't a gender thing, either. It is 2016, after all. Girls are just as likely as boys to become superstar athletes. (I wrote a bit about gender equality in my first post to this blog.) But I can't lie and say I don't get jealous when I see my friend's son, clad in a football helmet and goalie gloves, cramming as many sports as possible into a given Sunday afternoon.

Annabelle is only 3, so there's plenty of time left for her to develop a life-long love of sports. She could be a great shortstop, a shifty point guard on the court, or an all-state hurdler. Or maybe all three! And obviously, no matter what she chooses, even if she hates sports, I will love her and support her completely. But I would really would prefer she love sports more than life itself.

As for Aurora? Well, she can't really crawl or walk yet, so we'll be watching lots of football later today.

"Honey, look at that catch!" She'll stare. And I'll hope.