Sharing vs. Self-Denial: When Your Kids Insist on Martyrdom

Source: Sharing vs. Self-Denial: When Your Kids Insist on Martyrdom

What Could Possibly Go Wrong?: The Longboardstroller

This image comes from a discussion about the need for helmets at http://www.silverfishlongboarding.com, a forum for “everything longboarding.”

From the Harried Husband’s Department of “What Could Possibly Go Wrong?” comes the Longboardstroller! It seems European baby stroller manufacturer Quinny has decided that traditional buggies are passe, so they’ve teamed up with Belgian design agency Studio Peter van Riet (because who knows kids safety better than a Belgian design studio offering services such as “Keynote & Inspiration,” “Opportunity scan,” “Product, service and brand design,” and “Design coaching?”) to develop what they call an “experiment in urban mobility.”

An awkward moment.

Maybe I’m getting old and having a “hey kid, stay off my lawn” moment, but I have a number of problems with the Quinny/Studio Peter van Riet “experiment in urban mobility” not the least of which is calling it an experiment. Feet and wheels have done just fine since the invention of the latter, and this trendy classification terms comes off as pure BS to me. It also makes the Baby Mop seem perfectly practical and toddler leashes downright reasonable and dignified.

To provide a little perspective, here’s what a couple of pros have said about skateboarding:

“Skateboarding teaches you how to take a fall properly. If you try to kickflip down some stairs, it might take you thirty tries – and you just learn how to take a tumble out of it without getting hurt.”

-Bam Margera

The hardest thing about skateboarding is consistency: The slightest flick of your foot or gust of wind can send your board flying, so it’s really anybody’s game out there.

-Shaun White

Compared to the Longboardstroller, the Baby Mop seems perfectly practical.

Sure, these guys are in the daredevil business and not likely to be strapping any kids onto their decks for the X Games or the next installment of the Jackass franchise (well, who knows what Johnny Knoxville and company are capable of?), but they hit on the basic truths about skateboarding. It’s one thing for a consenting adult to choose to participate in this or any other kind of “extreme sports” activity, but it’s another thing entirely to strap an unsuspecting child (and potential crash-test dummy) on to the front  of a skateboard and call it an “experiment” or “mobility solution.” But I’ll give Quinny/Studio Peter van Riet credit–they’ve come up with some pretty snappy names for stupid ideas.

Let’s face it . . .unless you’re someone like professional Jackass Bam Marger or pro snowboarder/skateboarder Shaun White (who’ve built empires out of the sport), skateboarding is primarily a young person’s pursuit, a temporary phase fraught with danger and the potential for serious bodily harm (if you’re doing it right). Skaters don’t’ just live on the edge metaphorically; the vehicle itself is an “edge” on wheels. And in the instant both feet are planted on the deck after a final push, the skater surrenders bipedal stability to become a balancing act on wheels, fighting (and sometimes losing) a battle with gravity. And it can turn on you in a second…all it takes is a chunk of rock, traffic, anything in the unpredictable world can stop you in your tracks.

Here’s a promo video posted on Youtube by the folks at Longboardstoller called “Hooray, it’s test day!” It’s a very cheery presentation of the product in a controlled environment, brimming with an Ikea-like quality that’s all about style and simplicity. But you know what? Life is neither controlled nor simple, so I suspect the Longboardstroller folks were a bit surprised by some of the comments (none of which, for the record, were posted by me).

This so-called solution is less about sustainability, convenience, or solving anything and more about creating a product that appeals to aging hipsters with Peter Pan complexes and disposable income to spare.

On the other hand, maybe raising children is kind of lame and uncool, what with making sure your kids don’t eat cat litter, lick electrical outlets, or get in cars with strangers. What parent couldn’t use a little more danger in their lives? Wonder how that thing would take the half-pipes at the local skatepark?

Before Having Kids, I Never Thought I’d…

Before Having Kids, I Never Thought I’d….

via Before Having Kids, I Never Thought I’d….

Manual Not Included

I’ve adopted this as my personal theme song . . .

Girls! Girls! Girls!

I’d sort of promised myself I’d make an effort to post regularly, but a couple of weeks ago, after just one post, I was sidetracked by an overnight stay in the hospital with something of a health scare. I could argue that I was “harried” into the hospital, but the battery of tests that all came back negative wouldn’t back me up. No rest for the weary (as the saying goes); more details to come about my hospital experience in a later post.
Before we go any further, here’s a breakdown of the cast of characters who inhabit (or should I say dominate?) my little world. Their names have been changed to protect their privacy. I too shall remain anonymous, for  couple of reasons: 1) to allow me to be as honest as possible without fear of reprisal, and 2) more importantly, to protect me from the wrath of my eldest child in response to that honesty. You’ll understand as you learn more about my happy little family. So without further ado, meet the girls in my life:
THE QUEEN BEE: age 15…name is short for “her highness, the high queen bitch of the manor,” the teenage daughter who thinks she’s in charge of all she surveys. Obsessed with curling her naturally straight hair, the Queen is Increasingly aware that her changing body holds some kind of power, but not exactly sure what it is just yet. Naturally, I list her first because she is the most important living thing in the universe.
THE BULL: age 6, the proverbial bull in the china shop, the youngest of three girls, we fear she’s really just Queen Bee Version 2.0. The curly-haired bull is not concerned with who’s in charge, but rather more interested in doing whatever she wants, whenever she wants, no matter who gets in her way. Prone to pushing and shoving and being generally uncooperative.
THE MOUSE: age 8 (and I’m told) the classic middle child. Thoughtful, conscientious, eager to please, and constantly tortured and pushed around by her older and younger sisters, the Mouse prefers the quiet comfort of a book or art project. Her sisters frequently complain that the mouse never gets in trouble at home. This is mostly (but not entirely) true, but the missus and I are quick to point out that Mouse has figured out something that the other two have not . . . it’s easier to cooperate and do what you can to get along instead of fighting us every step of the way over virtually every detail that comes down the pike. Or, as we say in shorthand, “vinegar and honey.”
THE MISSUS: My wife and the brains of the operation, the Missus reluctantly re-entered the workforce nearly four years ago, being the first of us to land a job in the then-crumbling economy. An accountant by trade, you’d think she’d be the most organized person in the world. But I’ve seen the inside of her purse, and it ain’t pretty. Most likely to ease the guilt she feels for not being at home with our girls, the Missus never turns down an opportunity to volunteer for school events or service, and juggles coaching, PTA, and other duties with equal abandon. Awake before 5 am and exhausted by 9 pm, the word “relax” is not in her vocabulary . . . in her world, it’s called “sleep.”
THE HARRIED HUSBAND: Finally, there’s little ol’ me, a tiny drop of testosterone awash in a sea of estrogen. Forty-something (bordering on the big 5-0) and the sole male in the house. I’m the launderer, cook, cleaner (not very good at this one), dog and cat care provider, and all-around indentured manservant.
And for the record, the dog and cat are females.

I used to think my days in working construction (and later in an office setting) were difficult, but that was before I became a stay-at-home dad. Without a doubt the most difficult job I’ve ever had . . . and the pay sucks too. I try to supplement the family income with a couple of low-paying part-time work-from-home jobs, but it’s often difficult to find even just a couple of hours a day where I can squeeze these in. I eat too much, sleep too little, and relish the quiet time I get while washing the dishes or walking the dog.

When I was growing up, especially during my early teen years, I was deathly afraid of girls. When most of the guys I knew were figuring out ways to “score with the ladies,” I was coming up with excuses for why I couldn’t play spin-the-bottle or dance, or just generally hang out with girls. I liked them just fine, with all their bouncy parts and batting eyelashes, but inexperience and an utter fear of the unknown (and embarrassment that surely would follow) would have me literally running in the other direction.
Now, I live with a house full of girls, and I’m pretty sure it’s God’s way of telling me I was right to be afraid.

Four Years Ago

On December 31, 2008, at 11:45 am, I became part of the “new normal.” That was the day I was told that after seven years, my services were no longer required in the marketing department of Philadelphia-based toy and hobby product manufacturer. I was part of the first wave of layoffs that included several employees who’d been with the company for many more years than I. A second wave followed, carrying with it several higher-ups in the ranks that many would’ve considered untouchable.

For several years, I’d considered my boss (I’ll call him Richard) a friend. A work friend, to be sure, which for me was always kind of an arm’s-length affair. Extremely personal topics were never breached, but we had laughs at the expense of other in the office and he pretended to prepare me for a promotion that simply was not in the cards (or the budget). I bought into it for a while, but the company’s less-than-generous compensation and benefits philosophy made it clear that I’d advanced about far as I could. But with a family to support and a imploding national economy, I knew I was lucky to have my dead-end, low-wage “Communication Manager” salary.  So I tried to suck it up and make the best of a bad situation. Most of the people in the office were nice enough, and that made the job bearable for a while.

As time wore on, thin, neat, single, snobbish,  career-centered Dick (our relationship soured a tad in what turned out to be my final months), began to make it clear that he had absolutely no understanding of nor interest in what it was to be a parent. He talked about it a lot, and professed to “helping me be the family man I wanted to be,” but I’m pretty sure he simply had no understanding of what it was to care for someone else, to be responsible for someone who was completely dependent on you for everything. The idea of sitting through soccer games and dance recitals was completely alien. On one occasion, ol’ Dick went so far as to praise me for “suffering through” my daughter’s events, never for a moment considering I was a willing spectator. Were they Olympic-caliber athletics or Tony-winning performances? No, but the girls expected their parents, and they were fun to boot. For Dick, whose world outside of work consisted of dinner clubs, art house movies, and finding just the right chair to fit in that little nook by the front door, the thought of doing something for someone else without any payoff did not compute.

So there it was, New Year’s Eve, fifteen minutes before our announced noon dismissal, and I get the call into the conference room. Dick, the VP of Marketing, and Eleanor, the HR Director, are agitated, starting off with lame apologies and end up giving me what sounds like the “it’s not you, it’s me” breakup line I must’ve heard a thousand times in my youth. But I can tell they’re not sorry at all.

Uncomfortable, maybe. But we all know this kind of thing is not done on the spur of the moment. Layoffs (or firings, if you prefer) take time to prepare, so those involved in planning have had plenty of time to get used to the idea. The execution is the thing now, and they look down at their hands and just want this uncomfortable moment to be over so they can get home in time to make their New Year’s Eve dinner and make fun of Dick Clark’s stroked-out countdown to 2009. To say I was in shock in an understatement, and that final fifteen minutes was spent in a blur of quiet anger while I cleared out my cubicle of seven year’s worth of personal clutter.

Before I knew it, I was on my way home, traveling north on I-95 in a light snow and getting text after text from my then 10-year-old daughter asking if I was getting out of work early for the holiday.

Oh, I was getting out early alright.