Summer is coming to an end. I’m at the pool with Evan and three of his friends, soaking in the last days of summer. Pool days make me anxious and I don’t typically enjoy them unless I am with a friend that keeps my anxiety at bay. Unfortunately I’m solo today, just me hanging with my murder-podcast-filled thoughts, wondering who here is a caregiver and who is a predator. A very large and hairy man just sat next to me, and I’m trying to figure out a way to move my seat ever so unnoticeably, before he asks me if I’m Filipino and starts telling me about his time in the Philippines when he was stationed there during the war, and how all the women were “very nice.” Ugh, I’m regretting doing something nice for the kids today. The pool is like a wet Walmart, and I’m stuck here wondering if I love it or hate it, and I definitely can’t stop people watching.

I haven’t been to this pool in at least 3 years. It’s strange to have the kids in there on their own now. It’s funny how water wings on a kid can make a pool seem so big and scary. Now my little guy is going down water slides by himself, hardly even looking back in my direction. Bittersweet.

I gave the kids some very specific instructions if they wanted a pool day. I said no one is allowed to ask me for anything and only talk to me if they are bleeding. Also, they are not to get into situations that would cause bleeding. If they start fighting with each other, they are to deal with it on their own. If they get hungry, too bad, drink water. They are to socially distance because Covid still very much exists, and I don’t want today to be the reason they can’t start school in a week and a half. All were in agreement. I asked them if they put sunblock on, and they looked at me as if I had three heads. They said they didn’t have any, and I said, “Oh that’s weird because 10 minutes ago when I asked if you had some, you said yes it is in your bag.” They look in their bag, and shocker, sunblock appeared. Another stare down ensues. “Anyone have broken hands or fingers?” I asked. They shake their heads. “Then please sunblock each other. I’ll be sitting right here if you need me, which you will not.” Suddenly everyone knows how to apply sunblock. Then they were on their way, probably thinking, “Damn, she a bitch.” Yep, sure am, but one that drives and has a credit card to pay for the pool.

The man beside me smells like Cheetos and half-wiped butt. And there is a breeze blowing in my direction. I heavily regret my seat choice. The kids are in the pool and splashing around, and I’m happy to say that I am still dry and unbothered. I’d like to take a few deep breaths to calm my anxious pool day nerves, but seriously, the butt smell is real.

Whistles blow and it is time for the kids to come out and allow for adult swim. Evan asks if he can sit…in my seat…even though there are other vacant seats very close by. Didn’t I tell this boy that I plan on sitting almost the entire time? There is nothing special about my seat. In fact, it is right next to this special smelling gentleman, so why would he want to sit here? He gets the hint, and they sit in their own non-mom-touched chairs and survived the 15 minute break by talking to each other and being present. Amazing concept.

The man next to me has gone for a swim now, so I can pick my head up and look around, instead of pretend I have very important things to do and can’t pick my head up to have a conversation. I see so many versions of me here at this pool. The earliest pool day memories I have were when I was old enough to go with just my friends. There are definitely the preteens and teens here, little posers, leaving nothing to the imagination. I am now my mother, shaking my head disapprovingly, just as she did, at the scantily clad teeny-boppers. That’s going to be Reese soon. I’m dying inside. Enjoy the perkiness now, girls, before gravity and life take you down!

At the shallow end, there’s the new mom in the tankini with the 6 month old wearing a cute little bucket hat and SPF 50 smeared all over its chubby arms and legs. The baby sits in the zero depth pool while the mom has constant eyes on him to catch him when he no doubt falls over. He shakes his swimmer sogging bottom to the music. She shoots the kids next to them a nasty look for accidentally splashing the baby as they run by. The young mom looks at her watch, counting down the minutes until the baby’s nap time. In about an hour, the baby will sleep soundly, and for two solid minutes, she is going to feel like she did a really good job momming today.

I look a little further down and see the pregnant mom watching her toddler go down the baby slide. The little girl has her water wings on and frilly skirt swim bottom. She’s way too brave in the pool, and mom watches closely. This mom looks hot and uncomfortable. Her butt will be clenched for the next hour or so. She is saying a silent prayer that her potty-training daughter doesn’t have to go pee right now.

Towards the deeper end stands a mom confidently in a bikini, casually and infrequently looking for her kids. She looks good, super fit, and not anxious at all. I’m looking to see if there are cameras around her because it looks like a photo shoot, and she can’t possibly be a real mom. She must be a version of me I haven’t gotten to yet. I’ll get there someday. After I finish those salted caramel brownie oreos. What? They can’t eat themselves. And they were placed strategically where all the school supplies were at Walmart. That sort of product placement works for suckers like me. The bikini will have to wait.

And then there’s me, still successfully sitting in my chair, occasionally looking for the kids, but playing it cool. I want nachos, but if I get them, the kids will sense my joy and definitely take it away. I stay strong. My hairy wet buddy has returned to his seat, so I stare very diligently at my phone and ignore him. It’s been over an hour and a half, the kids have hardly bothered me, they are having a blast, and I didn’t have the panic attack I was expecting to have. I suppose the pool is not half bad, as long as I don’t have to get wet and I could just sit here and make doctors appointments and catch up on reading (by ‘catch up’ I mean start). I could hang in this version of me for a while. I hope the kids stay in this phase for a little longer too.

My chair buddy just got up and left for the day. His chair is soaked with his butt stank. I feel sweet relief that I didn’t have to have a fake conversation with him. A grandmother with her daughter and two granddaughters took his spot. Grandma sits relaxed, head resting on her folded hands behind her head, looking around and enjoying the fact that she’s done all the hard work years ago and now gets the front row seat to the fun chaos. I bet she’s having the same reminiscing thoughts I’ve had today, only her anxiety is replaced with wisdom. This too will be a version of me someday.

Fingers crossed that I don’t become a version of the large, smelly, hairy dude of the pool day characters. Only time will tell.

My uncle passed away three weeks ago. We were on vacation with my whole family when my parents got the phone call. We were all shocked. We sat around the table for a while, trying to gather our thoughts, though it was difficult to even make a coherent thought. It was good that we were all together under the same roof at the time, it seemed to have softened the blow, especially for my parents.

I experienced many different phases of my Tito Reny growing up. In my earliest memories, he was a jokester, a button pusher. He just loved picking on my brother and me because we were easy targets and quick to cry. He would air box us, and then when we least expected it, he would smack us in the face. He smoked Marlboro Reds, so we would get whiffs of cigarette smell from his fingers when he took a swing. Then we’d either cry or complain to my Tita, she would scold him to stop, and then he’d walk away chuckling and take one last smack at us on the back of the head as he passed us. I swear I have marks on my head from the big ass ring he used to wear. He always got the last laugh.

When we got older and actually found his air boxing funny instead of annoying, he found less joy in it and moved into the next phase: the card shark. He was my dad’s gambling buddy, and when he found out my dad taught us a bunch of card games, he started playing different versions of poker with us. On weekends when we would sleep over at his house, he would bring out poker chips and we’d play for hours. He would not let us win, which is probably why we played for so long. It seemed like we only ended up winning when it was time to go to bed. He would never admit it, but it seemed like he was having fun and maybe a tiny bit proud that we were decent card players. I don’t know if it’s a Filipino thing or not, but it seems like if you’re a pretty good card player, it’s on par with being a good piano player, which is a big deal. I’m decent at both, so I’m definitely going places (still waiting on that).

Teen years came, and so did the next phase of Tito Reny: the healer. He and my Tita claimed he had some uncanny healing power. I would roll my eyes and think to myself, “Ok, just because he walks around with a container of Vicks vapor rub in his pocket, it doesn’t make him a healer.” I remember hurting my wrist once, and he took the Vicks out of his pocket, massaged my wrist, and it was oddly better. Or maybe I was high from the Vicks fumes. Either way, it helped. He had noticed while he was massaging my wrist that my hands were super sweaty (my hyperhidrosis, it always comes up in stories). He told me he had a fool-proof solution that would end my sweaty palms problem. He told me to pee on my hands. Yes, you read that correctly. I looked at my aunt in disbelief, and she nodded in all seriousness like, trust your Tito Reny, he’s legit. I told them there was no way I was going to do that. But keep in mind, I was a teenager, and that meant having to hold boys’ hands. I was desperate. So in secret, I did it. I urinated on my damn hands. And it worked! Just kidding, it definitely didn’t work. And as I sat there with urine on my hands, I thought to myself, is a part of Tito Reny still in the jokester phase? Yep, I think so. Sorry to all those I’ve high-fived in the past. I peed on my hands.

As the years went by and his daughter and all his nieces and nephews got older, he entered his final phase: the proud observer. He grew quieter and more reserved. We’d hear the occasional, “Study hard, finish school” and “Get a good job,” which was enough for us to know we had to keep a straight path. Because he was so quiet, I definitely listened if he said anything. One time, I brought a boyfriend to a family party, and I heard him describe the guy to my parents as “mayabang,” which is “arrogant” in Tagalog. I knew I couldn’t marry that guy. So instead, I married Jamie, and he approved. He hardly said five words to Jamie, so you can imagine our surprise when he came downstairs during a visit to their house one day and had a full-blown unsolicited conversation with me and Jamie. At first we all sat in silence as Tito Reny just watched the kids play with his house plants and glass trinkets. Then he began to chuckle to himself, and started to tell a very random story. He said, “One time, I was on an airplane going to the Philippines. I couldn’t sleep because these Japanese men were snoring so loud and taking up all the space. So you know what I did? I farted. It was a quiet fart, but it woke them up. They were all so upset and looking around, trying to figure out who did it. And then I just laughed and closed my eyes and finally fell asleep. Hahaha, Japanese…” (some residual Filipino/Japanese animosity from the war I suppose). That was seriously all he said, dropped the mic, and then he went back upstairs to his room. And it was by far one of our favorite stories of all time.

I suppose as you get older, you don’t need to be a person of many words. You can just sit back and be proud of what your hard work has brought to you years later. And that’s what Tito Reny did; he observed his daughter raise her own family, and watched his nieces and nephews grow up and add grandnieces and grandnephews to the mix. Everyone turned out okay, and that’s all he wanted. He wasn’t the kind of uncle that gave me sage advice that saved my life or changed the course of my life path forever. He was just there. He was part of my core family, there for all the Thanksgivings, Christmases, birthday parties, graduations, weddings, and baptisms. Even if he didn’t say much, he was present, and that spoke volumes.

When you are growing up and navigating through life, and things get really confusing and difficult, especially during those teen and early twenties years, it’s a comfort to have constants in your life. Tito Reny was one of them. It is difficult to comprehend not having one of those figures around after 42 years of expecting it there. But he left his mark. I hope that I could be a core figure in my nieces’ and nephews’ lives too, provide some stability for them, just as he did for us. And bonus, I would especially love it if I could get one of them to do something as egregious as peeing on their hands. Life goals.

The night we found out he died, my siblings and I decided to play a few hands of pusoy and pusoy dos in Tito Reny’s honor. At first we couldn’t remember all the rules, and we were sure he was going to haunt us because of it. But then my brother straightened it out and we were able to play his favorite card games the right way (and we didn’t get haunted). The next day, all of us, including my parents, played card games and talked about Tito Reny. A part of me kept feeling like he was behind me, looking at my hand, likely figuring out a way to prank me. It was an eerie feeling, and also a comfort. Days later when we came home from vacation, we said our goodbyes to him. I know he would have been happy to see all of his family and close friends together. That night, I once again felt like someone was watching me as I prepared dinner alone in the kitchen. I was pretty sure it was Tito Reny making his rounds. And I was okay with that.

In past writings, I have given approximately twenty thousand reasons why I should not be a teacher, and quite possibly not a parent either. Yet here I am, faking it till I make it. Last year when all the kids went virtual, I started learning dances from YouTube and teaching the kids, just so we had something fun and active to do together. It often turned into me yelling at the kids, as if I was Lydia Grant from the ’80’s TV show “Fame,” walking around with my pretend dance staff. Then the school decided to have a virtual talent show, and I was all about it. I made up this cute little dance, and the kids just felt embarrassed to do it. But since they had no other way to “see” their friends, they agreed to play along. Practices were no joke, and I made them practice daily as if their lives depended on it. Yes, there were many complaints and tears, but they weren’t mine, so I was totally fine with it. They had three weeks to get it solid, and it was a hit. They crushed it, and I was beyond proud. And soon they forgot all about how much they hated practicing, hated getting yelled at, hated hearing the importance of getting a decent body roll down, and just reveled in their achievement. I watched that video countless times and remember it as one of the many creative ways we got through the quarantine.

Flash forward a year later to today, the kids are in in-person learning at school. However, there are still no large group gatherings, so the school decided once more to do a virtual talent show. When I got the email, I excitedly told the kids. To my dismay, they said in unison, “NOOOOOOOOOO!” I asked them why not in my most threatening voice. Reese said, “Ugh, Mom, it’s just embarrassing. It’s just not my style of dancing.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “‘Awesome and cool’ are not your style of dancing? Everyone thought your dance last year was so amazing. Didn’t you have so much fun?” Again in unison, “NOOOOOOOOOO!” Reese continued, “That’s your style of dancing, not mine. That’s not how my friends dance.” I responded, “Well, sounds like your friends are idiots. Don’t use that word. But your friends don’t know anything, not the good stuff.” Evan said, “And you made me cry a lot.” I responded, “First of all, you made yourself cry. Second of all, I made many people in college cry when I taught dances, and they are some of my dearest friends.” That didn’t seem to convince them. Final dagger stabbed, Reese said, “I don’t even like hip hop.” With eyes wild with anger, I gave Jamie a look like, “Make this child stop talking before I trade her in for a kid that likes hip hop.” Feeling myself losing their interest exponentially, I pulled the guilt card and said, “Okay cool, if that’s what you guys want. I thought it was a great way to bond with you guys, but it’s fine. Don’t do it if you don’t want to, I won’t force you.” Jamie came sweeping in and said, “Aww, Monkey, I’ll dance with you.” And I quickly pushed him away and said, “No thanks, I’m good,” to which he was appalled and dejected. Then Reese said, “Okay fine, Mom, I’ll do it. But nothing embarrassing like body rolls.” Seriously, whose child is this? I’ll have you know those body rolls got me Jamie’s attention decades ago. He’ll tell you it was my brains, but my brains were not in those little black pants.

I sweetened the pot and said, “I’ll use a pop song this time. And you know, if you guys are willing to dance, I bet you can get your two friends to dance with you. I can teach all of you together, it’ll be like a daily play date.” Hook, line and sinker, they were in. I told my friends to gently nudge their sons towards agreeing to my devious plan. Some background information, these friends went to Marquette with me and happened to have done many dances with me in college. So they were well aware of my teaching tactics, which means they either wanted their sons severely punished, or they were eager to see the results of their hard work. Their seven-year-old was all in right away, no questions asked. Their ten-year-old said no. I told them I’d get him. The following day, I picked the four of them up from school and immediately asked, “So wait, you don’t want to dance for the talent show? It’s going to be so much fun.” I started blasting the song I was going to use and said, “Dude, the energy from this song is bananas. You’re going to want to do this dance, it’ll be off the hook.” He gave me a look like he just swallowed a fart, and told me he’d do it, probably just to stop me from using terms like ‘off the hook’ and to turn the music down. Yes, I got the four of them. And yeah, in my head, it was going to be off the hook.

I gladly immersed myself in this little project, as I badly needed a break from the blah of my days. I made the dance up in my basement and had so much fun doing it. It did cross my mind a few times that this dance would be a little too long and difficult for them, and then I said, fuck it, it’s not about them, I need a challenge (see, definitely not what an actual teacher would say). Then I looked at the calendar and saw that I realistically only had about a week and a half to teach them a pretty difficult dance. Oh boy, time to dust off that dancing staff.

First practice was fantastic, they showed up with great energy and enthusiasm. They even told me they had fun. My friend said, “Damn, Ely, you’re so much nicer than you were in college.” “It’s day one,” I said, “Just wait.” By day two, I had already made Evan cry. He was complaining that the song was too fast and the dance was too hard. I tried to encourage him at first, but when he started falling down in protest as if his limbs lost all skeletal structure, I told him that if he didn’t learn how to work through hard things, he could sit there in the corner and cry while his sister and friends did the dance. To my surprise, he cried it out quickly and got back into it. I didn’t expect that at all, but I’ll take it!

The older two kids (I called them the 10’s) were able to focus and pick things up pretty readily. The younger ones (I called them the 7’s), yeah not so much. It really had nothing to do with their ability, but more about their attention spans. I have rocks in the backyard that pay more attention than they do. I would teach a move, and one of them would give me their very long-winded interpretation, “Oh, so this move is kind of like if a worm wiggled to the right, but then bumped into a rock and had to move the other way, right?” Then the other 7 would chime in, “No, it’s more like if a fish were swimming sideways, but then saw a shark and got scared, and changed to the other direction to save his life, right?” And then I’d lose my patience and say, “Okay stop. It’s like both of those things and none of them. Please stop telling me what it’s ‘like’ and just do what it is, okay?” Then both would say ‘okay,’ jump off the deck, and start playing with dirt and throwing grass at each other. I don’t think I’ve ever picked Reese or Evan up from a dance class before where they were covered in dirt, but here at the Newton School of Forced Dance, the students come clean and leave soiled with dirt, grass and dried tears.

Despite my lack of patience and stern style of teaching, the kids strangely kept coming back for more (oh that’s right, because I made them). The boys would tell their parents they had fun and would eagerly show them what they’ve learned so far. I would see Reese practicing by herself during the little free time she had. Evan even told me one night that he hoped there would be dance practice the next day because dancing made him happy and he feels better after doing the dance. What was this dance witchcraft that was transforming the kids? I personally always liked dancing because I enjoy shaking my ass, but I was seeing that the kids were loving it too. I guess we all needed a little side project to look forward to.

After a week and a half of some serious hard work, the 10’s and 7’s were so ready to record their dance, and they pulled off the performance beautifully. We were so proud of our kiddos, and even more importantly, they were proud of themselves. The way they cheered and celebrated at the end of their performance was pure joy to me. After we recorded the dance, I took the kids out for some frozen custard to celebrate and thank them for all their hard work. They were so grateful, telling me how much fun they had and how they will remember it forever and ever. One of the boys even said, “Thank you for being our dance teacher, thank you for the custard, and thank you for being my godmother.” I responded, “Okay dude, you’re laying it on a little thick…and that’s exactly how I like it. Keep it coming.” I was waiting for someone to tell me how pretty and fit I was, and maybe that I was a good dancer for an old person, but no takers. So I had to wait till we got home so I could tell it to myself in the mirror Stuart Smalley style. By the end of the afternoon, I watched their chocolate-custard-covered faces playing outside and thought, yeah I made those cute little bitches dance.

I came away from this experience learning quite a bit. First, kids love to move. Teach them a game, a sport, a dance, a new exercise, they will do it with just the right amount of encouragement or threat, however you want to name it. So even if my kids protest and say they don’t want to get up from their show or video game, I know that if I get them up and moving with me, they’ll eventually get into it.

Kids are also super easy to bribe. To get a couple more practices out of them, I dangled in their faces snacks, gum, screen time, play time, desserts, later bed times, you name it, and it always worked. I’m not ashamed of it. I will bribe children until it stops working.

I also learned the importance of making kids do hard things. If allowed, I’m sure the kids would have quit early on. There were many times the dance got too hard or practices got too long. I could have let them quit and made excuses for them, but I didn’t. I adjusted things or gave them breaks, but quitting was not an option. People don’t learn that feeling of accomplishment from doing easy things; it’s the hard stuff kids get through that give them that sense of pride. I knew I would not be the last person to make them work hard, so they might as well do hard things for someone that loves them and gives them snacks.

I question why it is I decided to put all this work into a little talent show. Was it because I was living vicariously through my kids, missing my glory days dancing on a stage with my friends with my tiny little pre-baby body for a cause I have since forgotten? Or was it something deeper? Perhaps I just wanted to give the kids something to look back on and be proud of, give them a sort of unique chapter in their lives that maybe not every kid gets, maybe even boost their confidence and self-esteem in the process. …Nope, it’s definitely the first one. The attention I got back in the day was dope and that little body of mine was ‘off the hook’, as apparently, no one says anymore (both about my body and the saying itself). But really, who cares what the reasons were. We all had fun with it, we made amazing memories together, the kids looked and felt fabulous, and I have the forced smiles on video to prove it.

(Special thanks to my friends for lending their children to me and giving me full reign, knowing the very real life-scarring risks. Way to throw them to the wolves, or should I say, into the Tiger Mom cage.)

Though most aspects of having to quarantine have sucked, one thing that has blossomed is my kids’ ability to play outside and entertain themselves with their imaginations. Normally I have the problem of over scheduling them with all sorts of park district activities and camps because I have that overwhelming feeling of giving them a chance at trying everything so that they could discover their passions. Turns out, their jam is simply playing with giant sticks outside and pretending to run a ninja training camp, or putting together a make shift soccer tournament with neighborhood friends in our backyard. I love hearing the kids playing outside (much better than hearing them inside). They can be out there for hours, and when they come in and “amoy araw” (smell like the sun), I feel like I was a good mom by not hovering over them and dictating their every move.

I typically keep the door open so I could hear if there is any bad language (usually it’s coming from my mouth, so whatever they say is peanuts). If I hear anyone saying ‘shut up’ or ‘stupid,’ it takes everything in me to not call them rude little assholes. I also listen for crying and occasionally peak out the window to see if everyone is wearing their masks and generally playing nicely with each other.

One afternoon the kids were playing soccer with some friends that stopped by, and I heard Evan crying. I could tell it was a for real hurt cry, not a bitch boy cry. I opened the door and saw Evan on the ground, some kids surrounding him, and another boy and Reese separated from him. He ran into the house crying, holding his crotch and screaming that one of the kids whipped a tennis ball at his “titi” (penis). I was not having it. I came outside and immediately Reese steps in front of me and says, “Please Mom, don’t do it, don’t say anything. It was an accident, he was just defending me from Evan.” I gave her a ‘move, bitch, get out the way’ gesture, and I called the boy to me. I asked the boy, “Did you just throw a tennis ball at Evan’s privates?” He nodded and said, “But it was an accident, I have terrible aim. I didn’t mean to hit him there.” I responded, “Oh, so you were purposely trying to hit him with a ball though? That’s no better. You are bigger and older than him. If you can’t play nicely here, you are not welcome here. That goes for all of you (and I pointed at all the terrified kids looking on). You have one more chance here, and if I so much as hear a bad word, see a mean touch, or am told of an aggressive behavior, you are out of here and I’m calling your parents. Do you hear me? You’re not about to come up on my property and hit my kid. Not here, not anywhere. Got it?” He nodded. I finished with, “And another thing. If you think this girl needs “defending,” let me tell you something. She is stronger and faster than any kid in this yard. She doesn’t need defending, she can hold her own.” I then peaked to the side of my yard and saw my neighbor right outside the fence listening, and immediately I felt like, oh shit, another adult just heard me rip this kid a new one. I used my nice voice and said, “Oh hey, didn’t see you there. You can come in with your kid and play now, I’m finished here.” I’m sure I looked and sounded like a crazed lunatic. Plus, at the time I was trying (and failing) to rock the middle hair part, which just makes my face look harsher than usual. And who knows when the last time I washed my hair was, so it was surely oily as hell. So I basically looked like Severus Snape from Harry Potter doing some dark arts shit out there on the kids.

Reese came into the house all frustrated and giving me attitude. I said, “What are you all huffing and puffing about?” She responded, “You embarrassed him and you embarrassed me too.” Taken aback, I replied, “Why, because I defended my family member, who happens to be your family member too? He’s your little brother, you’re supposed to protect him. Dude, he whipped a ball at his FRICKING DICK, you better believe I’m going to say something.” She gasped so loudly, as if sucking all the air out of the room. Jamie said, “ELY! Language!” I backpedaled, “Ugh, fine. Penis! Penis, penis, penis, he hit him in the penis! I just did what any mother would do and stuck up for him. And if you think that’s embarrassing, ha! Just wait.” She stormed upstairs like the tween she is. Jamie said, “Well, I would have handled that differently.” Oh really? Well then maybe don’t be taking a shit everytime something important happens around here. Seriously, how does his colon know when to get him out of all these uncomfortable conversations?

Eventually the tensions subsided and the kids resumed playing. The boy apologized again to Evan, and they went on as if nothing happened (adults could learn so much from kids). I don’t think I scarred the boy, just maybe set some clear boundaries. I definitely don’t want to be the cranky mom in the neighborhood, but I’m certainly not the cool one either, especially after that little ditty. Evan appreciated me stepping in, as he can often be a little passive. But I think it’s crazy that Reese was embarrassed of me. I suppose if something like that happens again, I could always just hose the kids down until they are out of my yard. That’s not embarrassing, right?

So a few life lessons here. First, stand up for your family members and friends. The kids that were watching hopefully learned that it is okay to speak up for those who can’t speak up for or defend themselves. Second, speaking up against a behavior doesn’t mean friendships have to end, it just means boundaries are being defined. So define them and move on as best you can. Third, don’t be embarrassed of your parents unless they’re hammered, streaking, or hammered and streaking. Fourth, take a shit during the mornings while the kids are at school so you can be an active part of their drama while they’re home. And finally, don’t part your hair in the middle if you already have a naturally bitchy face because you will just scare away your neighbors. On second thought, maybe I should keep a middle part just to keep these kids in line; between my RBF and this ridiculous hair part, no one would dare mess with my kids.

It’s no secret that moms and dads do child rearing differently. There can be such a huge contrast between our styles, everything from communication, to discipline choices, to comforting tactics. Kids know this too, and the little devils figure it out so quickly and just play us because we’re weak, dumb, and too tired to care sometimes. I know this from my own experience with my parents and also observing Jamie for the past ten years. And yet, as I watch some dads in action, I still find myself cocking my head to the side and thinking, “Is this really happening?”

My parents were very different; mom was more comforting and easier to approach and Dad was often very scary and strict. He had these transition lenses that I swear would turn red whenever he was angry. I remember my mom would bathe us when we were little; she had a gentle touch and would entertain us with cautionary tales about the kids who turned into goats because they didn’t bathe on a regular basis. I even remember her giving me a little speech therapy to help me pronounce my L’s and R’s during bath time, like a true woman multitasking. But some days she was too tired from working all day and cooking dinner afterwards, so she’d have my dad bathe us. Those were the absolute worst. We laugh about it now as adults, but as kids whenever we’d hear my mom tell my dad in Tagalog to bathe us, my brother and I would almost instantly start crying. There was no story time with dad baths, no gentle touch, just near drownings as we’d watch his lenses transition to red. First he’d get us in the tub and take a “tabo” (a bucket of sorts that you can find in any Filipino bathroom…sometimes it looks like the little bucket they send you home with from the hospital after you had a baby, sometimes it looks like a recycled tub of yogurt or a take out soup container) and dump masses of water over us in a fast and furious way without warning, so that we’d have a bunch of water up our noses. Then he’d take our arms and rub them raw to show us how much dirt we had on our bodies. We’d see brown flecks shedding off our arms, which at the time he said was dirt, but now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure it was the five layers of my epidermis that he had rubbed off. Then he’d soap us with a wash cloth so hard that I was convinced he was taking all the brown pigment off my skin. He would use a bar of soap to clean our hair, and I’d tell him that Mom uses shampoo for our hair, which seemed to piss him off and make him use more soap on my hair. Then the worst part: he’d soap our faces and warn us not to open our eyes, then cover our faces and use the tabo to dump water over our heads. Sounds like a logical way to rinse us off, right? Nope. What ended up happening was that his hand would actually trap all the soapy water by our faces and create a puddle of water right around our noses and mouths, so it felt like we were drowning in our own soapy filth. So then we’d flail around in a panic, and he’d get super angry because he was wet and we were crying. It felt like the longest and most tortuous five minutes of my childhood, as if this was an acceptable form of parent waterboarding. We’d come out of the bath with dermis exposed, shivering and terrified, with my dad standing by us looking at my mom with an ever so slight grin like, “Look, I did it! Praise me!” Did it suck…hell yes, for all parties involved. BUT, he bathed us just as my mom requested. It was a different style than my mom, but it was done, and that’s all that mattered in the end. And bonus, you better believe I learned at a very young age how to shower myself. Parent win for them, permanent scarring for me.

That is just one of a million examples of how my parents did things differently. So I should not be surprised when I see Jamie doing things in his own way too. But it’s natural and easy for me to think (and often say) that my way is the right way, so do it my way, dumbass. Rather than having that same argument over and over, I’ve just learned to sit back and watch him do his thing.

When Evan was five months old and Reese was three years old, Jamie sent me on my first weekend getaway with my girlfriends and said he would take care of everything. I was terrified because he had never been alone with both kids. In between spa treatments I would call and check in on them. I’d ask things like how much did the baby take from the bottle or how were the kids’ naps, and he’d say something like, “I don’t know, Mom and Megan came over and are helping.” Then I’d hear one of them answer all my questions for him. So the women were taking care of the kids while Jamie was doing Jamie things (I don’t even know what that means). Eventually at some point during the weekend he was left alone with the kids and was handling everything beautifully (I think, since they’re still alive today). When Sunday came around and I was heading home, he told me he was taking the kids to the park and he’d get home right around the time I got home. Sure enough, forty minutes before I pulled into the driveway, he sends me a picture of Reese with a fat lip, cut up nose, and scrapes all over her face after a fall on the concrete on the way home from the park. He was so close! He said, “Ugh, if you just came home a little earlier, I would have had a perfect record for the weekend with no casualties!” But even though my kid looked like she just got into a bar fight, both kids were alive and happy, so overall it was a dad win.

I don’t think Jamie was alone with them again until I went back to work, and by then, Evan was one and Reese was four. Just to give you an idea of what things typically looked like on weekdays when Jamie would come home from work, both kids would be fed or in the middle of dinner and a home cooked meal was waiting for Jamie. The house wouldn’t always be clean, but it was relatively tidy. When I worked on the weekends and would come home, it looked like a little tornado ran through our home. The tv would be blasting but I wouldn’t see anyone. Then one by one, I’d see little heads pop up from the top of the couch like two whack-a-moles and hear, “Hi Mommy!” No sign of Jamie. I’d ask where Daddy was, and they’d point downward on the couch, and there he was passed out. Then he’d wake up looking all Steve Urkel like, “Did I do that?” Then he’d ask me what I wanted to do for dinner. In my head I’m thinking, “I’d like to punch you in the face for dinner,” but my mouth would say, “Let’s just order food or eat left overs.” But again, the kids were alive and did not sustain any major injuries, so I suppose it was a dad win.

I thought that maybe Jamie was just in survival mode because the kids were so young, so I gave him grace since he doesn’t typically take care of them on his own and he was already tired from a busy work week. But no. The kids are now seven and ten and it still looks nuts when he’s flying solo. And I know it’s not just him. As an example, this past spring break we spent a long weekend with my brother’s family and close family friends. The ladies went out one night for a wine tasting, and the guys went out to a bar the following night to watch some March Madness games. When the ladies went out, we were gone for about two to three hours. When we got back to the house, it was eerily quiet, all seven kids were playing on their own in the basement, the dogs were in their crates or napping, and the guys were playing a board game, drinking and watching basketball. Within two minutes of our arrival, the kids smelled our presence and all came racing upstairs to ask us a ton of questions and told us they were starving, the dogs began barking, the house was madness, and then the guys asked us what the plan was for dinner. Buzz kill for sure. The following day was their turn to go out. While they were out, the ladies were actually interacting with the kids, making homemade pretzels with them, feeding the kids dinner, taking the dogs for walks, and starting dinner for the adults. There was no sitting around watching basketball or playing board games. And then here come the guys jovially strolling into the house five to six hours later, nice and tipsy, with dumb looks on their faces like, “Don’t be mad, we brought home cake.” No kids came running up to bombard them with requests, and I think fifteen minutes had past before any of the kids actually noticed they were back. Very different experiences. They were lucky they brought home cake.

Perhaps it was like that because we were on vacation. I get it, looser rules for everyone, we all just wanted to relax and have fun. Totally fine. But still no. Just two weeks after spring break, I played in an all day volleyball tournament and Jamie was once again in charge of the kids. Baseball and soccer games hadn’t started yet, so he had a free day with the kids. I knew my brother-in-law and nephews were going to hang out there at some point, so I made sure to clean the house since we hadn’t had company over in a year. I didn’t hear from him most of the day, and I figured there were two adults there, so no news was good news. When I got home, the house was a disaster, the dog was crazy, the kids were in the basement, and the Moscow Mules were flowing. The kids sensed my mother smell and all came up to see me. They were fed and happy, so I was overall super pleased. I thought this was fantastic, Jamie did a great job and I’m actually going to be able to kick my feet up. I went over to the couch and said, “Ummm…there is dog shit on the couch!” Jamie, sipping his drink, said, “Hmm, what’s dog shit doing over there?” I don’t know, asshole, I was gone all day! So then I started walking all over the house and found a small trail of dog shit and pointed out all the spots to him. He giggled and said, “Hmm, maybe because I fed her a ton of treats while you were gone and she had super soft shits. At least that’s what Reese said, she took care of the dog all day, I just gave her the treats. Oh well, Daddy Rules.” Both adult men looked at me and shrugged their shoulders, as I’m on my hands and knees cleaning up dog shit. But again, I told myself that the kids were fed and having a good time, the dog didn’t die, and I had a day to myself. So I guess I could classify that as a dad win. But that dad win bar is low as hell. Someday when he’s golfing all day and comes home, I’m just going to smear shit everywhere, make a mess of the house, force the kids to ask him a thousand questions, have the dog jump all over him, all while I ask him, “Hey babe, what’s for dinner?” The sad part is, he would think nothing was wrong with that and be excited to order pizza. Rose-colored dad glasses, we could all use a pair.

I think every mom reading this would agree that mom’s way is not the only “right” way to do things, but it’s absolutely the better way. Most dads would likely agree with that too. My kids might not agree with that, since they get away with many things while I’m away, but when they are adults, they’ll get it. I’ve learned to accept and love Jamie’s way of parenting. His way is just fine, borderline unsafe at times, but if nothing else, a great opportunity for our kids to create memories to share with their kids of when Dad was in charge. And the stories will likely entail blood, shit, candy, video games, very distant supervision, and somewhere in the background, a stiff drink.

I took a trip to Michaels one Sunday afternoon with my daughter, in an attempt to find tools to help organize her life and declutter her mind. She was just happy to be out in public, at a store no less, to do some shopping and spend time with me. While I was looking for anything from color coded post-it notes to daily planners to to-do lists, Reese found a mother/daughter journal that we could fill out together. I thought that would be a fun idea, so I added it to my cart (like an actual cart with wheels, not a virtual Amazon cart that I have grown to know and love). The first pages we filled out were entitled, “Twenty things about me.” To give you an example of how different I am from my daughter, she wrote that her favorite word is “Love you,” while I wrote that my favorite word is “Fuck” (spelled F*?! to save her innocent eyes). But we had many similar answers as well. She wrote that she hates “mean people,” and I wrote that I hate “racism.” And I do, I hate it to the core. Are all racists mean people…yep they sure are, when they know they are being offensive and still choose to discriminate anyway. I hate that I even have to write that I hate racism in this present day in a journal that I share with my young daughter, and that racist people and ideas are the mean things that I have to protect my children from or prevent them from becoming themselves.

Sounds like that Michaels trip took a turn for the worse, huh? While the store itself gives me high anxiety, with the endless craft supplies and glue guns that seem to mock my inability to do or like crafts, the store itself is not the impetus for this piece about racism. This week there was a mass shooting in Georgia, where the shooter, a white male, targeted Asian Americans, with six of the victims being Asian women. It’s hard not to feel something from that. It’s not a headline I read and think, “Dayem! That sucks!” Rather, it induces a surge of emotions in me, as if I was personally attacked. I questioned whether or not I should discuss this with the kids, and then I decided, fuck it, they need to know. What am I protecting them from? They need to know the reality of our current day climate, and as Asian Americans, they need to be aware of what they might be faced with someday.

On my ride home with Reese last night from basketball practice, I felt that bringing it up then was as good as any other time. There’s no good segue from her story about playing “Knock Out” to a serious talk about racism, so I just plainly started with, “Hey, a bunch of Asian Americans were targeted and shot down in Georgia by a very angry and violent white man. There were other non-Asian victims as well, but it appears that the shooter was targeting Asians. There is still an investigation going on as to what his motivation was, but I’m just going to call it what it is, a hate crime.” Boy did that get her quiet. I’m not one to beat around the bush, and our car ride was only ten minutes long, so I had to be succinct. I continued to explain, “During this entire pandemic year, Asian Americans have experienced a growing rate of racist acts towards them. The former president and many others in power and in the media have used terms like, “China flu,” “Chinese virus,” or even “Kung Flu,” which have seemed to open the doors for everyday people to also use these phrases and take it a step further and treat Asians differently or meanly. This is why words can hurt. Words and what seem to be small harmless jokes, when used and said often enough, can fuel action. We are seeing the elderly and women being beaten for no reason other than them being Asian. It’s not right, there is no excuse for it, it has to stop.” It was a lot to take for both of us; for Reese to hear it for the first time, and for me to say it out loud.

“Why would people call it the “Chinese flu?” she asked me. “Exactly, kid,” is what I thought, but I tried to be rational and answered, “Well, some of the original strains of the virus originated in China. HOWEVER, people have used the term, not because they are referencing where one of the strains came from, but to take a passive-aggressive jab at people that are not like them. I mean, come on, the term “coronavirus” or “covid” are sitting right there for them to use, but when they readily choose “China flu” instead, you must wonder why? What is their intention? Clearly for many, they intended to use it in a hurtful way.” I explained to her that the reason I was bringing this all up is because racism is very real and it is taught and learned at a very early age. My responsibility as a parent is to teach my kids what it is, how to identify it, how they can (and should) respond to it, with the end goal of ending the cycle of hate. Again, I know it’s a lot, but I know she can handle it. She has to. I wish it was different, but it is not.

She was engaged in the conversation, and though I couldn’t see her face clearly in the rear view mirror, I could just feel the wheels in her mind spinning. She asked me how she could tell if someone says something or does something racist, and I told her that she’ll feel it in her gut. I told her sometimes examples could be really subtle (I then had to define what ‘subtle’ meant), and other times words and actions could be really obvious. There was an incident in her classroom last year that came to my mind, and I brought it up again last night to help give her some real life examples. She was working in a small group and one of the kids said to the other, who was Chinese, “Your language sounds like ‘ching-chang-chong.” All the kids laughed, including the Chinese kid, but Reese was confused. She told me the story right away, I believe to see my reaction, because I honestly don’t think she knew how to react. She asked if that was wrong, and I told her to follow her gut instinct; if it feels wrong, it’s probably wrong. I explained to her that what he said was offensive, and even though she laughed it off, you don’t know what she is really feeling inside. I said, “Listen, I don’t think your friend is racist, and I don’t think the people that laughed are racists either. I don’t think his intentions were to hurt her feelings or to make her feel like she is less than him just because she is Chinese or speaks a different language. Ignorance is different than racism. But it needs to be pointed out that it is wrong to say things like that, otherwise, no one learns what is and is not offensive, and it will continue and even get worse. That’s when ignorance becomes racism.” Reese sounded worried that if she confronted someone and said they are being offensive, it would cause drama. I told her, “Don’t go around calling people racist this and racist that, otherwise you will just find yourself in an argument with someone who is defensive. Just plainly state that their comments were offensive and explain why. There’s no need for name calling or labeling. And hopefully, they will listen and learn. But maybe they won’t. That part is out of your control. All you can control is your own actions. Normally I tell you to stay away from drama, just walk away. But do not walk away when you think someone is treating another person meanly because they look or sound differently from them. That’s a battle I’m okay with you choosing to fight.” She then asked what to do if a family member says something that sounds racist, and I gave her the green light to call them out. I told her to think of it as a teaching moment, and not so much as being the racist police. I pulled into our driveway, and that was that, talk was over. The conversation was short, to the point, and packed with a punch, like her mama.

I’ve learned from past experiences talking to the kids about race, racism, and discrimination that these conversations have to be short in duration, only because they start to tune us out. Sometimes I could see the kids’ eyes rolling, probably thinking, “Mom’s doing her ‘being Filipino is important’ thing again.” I’ve also learned that it was important for Jamie to take an active role in talking about these issues. There is great value to hear these things from their white parent’s perspective as well. In fact, during the summer when George Floyd was murdered and the BLM protests were happening, Jamie took the lead in the conversation. It is very difficult to talk about racism, entitlements, and social injustices in language kids could understand, but whether difficult or uncomfortable, it is imperative. It brought Jamie to tears for many different reasons, and I think seeing raw emotion was an effective way for the kids to understand the gravity of the issues at hand. We learned that these conversations have to happen simply and sadly often, because racist-driven bullshit keeps happening.

Never in a million years did I think it would be 2021 and we would still be having these racial issues. I kept telling myself that what I experienced growing up was going to be different for my kids because the world would be better for them. It’s not, not better enough. When I was in kindergarten at a school-sponsored Halloween party, I was in a costume contest. I was dressed as a clown (talk about foreshadowing). Members of the Knights of Columbus were judging the costume contest. Believe it or not, I was a very timid and shy child, scared to death to stand in front of these big burly men (I’m sure they were just regular men, but to a 5 year-old, all adults look big and intimidating). I can’t remember who won or what the prize was, all I could remember was being scared to stand there alone and I just froze on stage. One of the men said to me, “It’s time to leave the stage now. Hey, I’m talking to you. What’s wrong with you, you don’t speak any English or something?” I was nearly in tears, partly because I couldn’t find my mom, partly because I was confused as to why he would say that to me. I told my mom what he said, and she looked annoyed and just said to ignore him. I kept asking myself, “Why would he ask if I spoke English? It’s the only language I speak.” I didn’t know why and I didn’t know where his comment came from, I just knew in my gut that it was wrong and it was mean. That man was an usher at our church, and every week I saw him when he was collecting my family’s offertory envelop, I had a visceral reaction. I felt hot, I felt my hands ball up into fists, I felt sweaty (I have hyperhidrosis anyways, but let’s just chalk this sweat sesh up to racism). Later, when I understood what racism and discrimination were, I was finally able to label that gut feeling I had when I was that 5 year-old clown. For years, I saw that man in church, and every single instance I could feel myself burning a hole into his soul with my eyes (active bitch face). He might just be the reason I have RBF today, it’s permanently ironed on my face after all those Sundays facing him at church. I’m sure that man is deceased now, and I’m certain he had zero recollection of that night even if he was alive. It meant nothing to him, it didn’t affect him at all. But here I am at 41 years old, still shaking when I think about that night, still furious that an adult could say something like that to a child, still hurt that for even just a few seconds I felt like I was less than him because I looked different. I had many experiences of racial discrimination towards me thereafter, too many to count, too hurtful to repeat. Like any trauma, they shape you, they teach you, they change you.

My experiences with racial discrimination has and will be different from what my kids might experience for several reasons. For one thing, I was raised in a home by first-generation immigrants (or am I the first generation because I was born here? I don’t know the correct terminology, and apparently Wikipedia and the US Census bureau don’t know either…thanks for nothing, interwebs). My parents had the balancing act of trying to fit into American culture without letting go of their Filipino culture. We were taught to respect our elders and authority, stay humble and quiet, but prove ourselves with stellar grades and extra-curricular achievements, preferably with a musical instrument and not necessarily with athletic equipment. It wasn’t said in words, but the underlying unspoken tone was, “Show them that you belong here.” I am sad to say that many times I’ve turned a blind eye to racial acts, many times I’ve overused the “benefit of the doubt” card, all because I was keeping my head down and staying quiet. Those instances could have been opportunities to teach someone that their words or actions were offensive. Because I stayed quiet, my silence might have been interpreted as acceptance, and I could have prolonged the problem. As a parent to bi-racial children, my balancing act is different. I am not worried that my kids will be told to “go back to your own country” like I was told as a kid. Shoot, my kids blend in so much with white kids, sometimes I can’t even tell which one is mine on a busy soccer field or in a gymnasium. My balancing act is to teach my kids about Filipino culture as much as I can because the American culture is so very strong in both me and Jamie, and honestly, I fear that if they do not identify with their Filipino heritage, the heritage will die with me. While my kids might still unfortunately experience some racial discrimination towards them, they might find themselves witnessing it more amongst or towards their peers. But just because it is not happening directly to them, I still want them to stand up for those who are being targeted or treated differently. The more people speak against it, the less breath it will have to thrive in this society. But it’s going to continue to be a long road with far too many bumps along the way.

While I would love to protect my kids from experiencing racism and social injustices, it’s not beneficial to them, and quite frankly, it’s impossible. My best move as a parent is to teach them how to deal with the evils of the world and not to perpetuate hate in any form. My goal, not just as a parent, but as an Asian American who finally found a voice, is to be able to have these difficult conversations, however uncomfortable and emotionally charged they may be, with people who will hopefully be open enough to listen. I know there are people out there who value and choose humanity over defensiveness, who want to listen and learn instead of debate their side, who are brave enough to say, “You know what, I’ve been thinking and acting a certain way for years. I didn’t realize I was being hurtful. But I see now that I could learn and change for the better.” Or maybe you were like me, not speaking against it enough to be heard, and you want to talk about how that impacted your life, and how we can use our experiences to bring about change. That would be great too. Sounds cheesy? Too positive? Yes and yes, and I want that all. I have to believe in my gut that people want to have such conversations. I don’t have a quick fix, and I really have no concrete solutions to end racism. But I think open conversations, no matter what your experience, is a start. Like my kids’ preschool director always said, “Practice makes permanent.” If we practice talking about diversity, practice acceptance, practice kindness and compassion, practice introspection, practice forgiveness, maybe positive changes can be permanent. So if you’re out there and are ready to talk, find me at Michaels; I’ll be the one sweating and cursing in the aisles, waiting to be rescued. Hey, we can save each other.

After spending several hours of my childhood “researching” some of the top TV moms, including Carol Brady, Elise Keaton, Maggie Seaver, and my favorite, Claire Huxtable, I was sure by an early age that I wanted to be a mom. I was certain I was going to be good at it too, visualizing myself as an even-keeled, calm, super cool mom of five kids, always looking put together and on top of my game. Slowly through the years, bits of reality settled in and the thought of five kids sounded impossible, but three kids sounded totally doable. Reese was born, and I realized this shit is hard and not at all like it is on TV. Then Evan was born, and I realized this shit is not only hard, but it smears all over your walls as more kids enter into the equation. I thought to myself, “If we had a third kid, would my family visit me in the institution I was permanently placed in?” And before I officially made up my mind about a potential third kid, cancer showed up and was like, “No girl, you’re good with two.”

And so here I am, mom of two. I am grateful every day for being able to have this family. But I am finding more and more that I can be grateful and sad at the same time. I’m not talking about the typical frustrated or angry feelings I get with my kids being messy, loud, or whiny. I’m talking about this feeling of heartache that is somewhat new to me these past few weeks.

As the kids have gotten older, they have become more independent and need a little less hands-on help from me. That’s all fantastic, until you realize it is replaced with some serious attitude and an influx of emotions that they are just learning how to express. It has been a challenge particularly for Evan to express his frustration and anger; he feels and expresses it all in an intense way and has zero ability to self-soothe. There is no “choose your battles” with him; he is more of a “fight them all to the death” kind of guy. As a baby and toddler, he had some doozy tantrums, so I guess I shouldn’t be all that shocked. But I spent so much time reading up on how to handle tantrums the “right” way and putting these strategies into action, and all it has left me with is a little bomb walking around our house. If you’ve ever watched the movie, “Inside Out,” Evan is the little red “Anger” dude at its finest, ever so cute and ever so explosive.

We have had a handful of some serious outbursts from Evan over minimal things, anything from the way I said something, or him not getting something he wanted, or asking him to do chores or homework. We can’t even pinpoint what it is exactly that sets him off. He could have a sharp booger in his nose, blame me for somehow putting it in there, and start screaming at me over it. Once he loses his temper, he strikes with some really hurtful words, I’m talking things that would haunt any parent’s dreams. I won’t share the specifics, as I don’t want to paint this picture of him being a sociopath in the making, plus I can’t even write these things without crying. I know they are just a kid’s attempt to get any sort of reaction out of me, but the words cut so deep and scare me to my core. He says the types of things that are putting up red flags for us, like we need to help him now while he is still impressionable. These rants can go on for hours until we finally calm him down. We have tried so many things, from deep breathing, to quiet time, to less punishment and more reward for good behavior, to giving him more control. It’s a crap shoot, sometimes they work, other times it’s useless and we just wait out the storm.

One night after one of his bad tantrums, I was in the shower trying to calm myself down. I was asking myself what the fuck the source of all this anger is, and why is he expressing it in such threatening ways? We don’t let him watch violent shows, he doesn’t play any violent video games, he hasn’t had any issues at school, and the friends he hangs out with do not talk this way. So why all the screaming outbursts? After some quiet time to try to understand it all, it dawned on me that I did this. He’s emulating me, he learned how to be this way from watching me. When he was a baby, Reese was a little stinker getting into trouble and boiling my blood. There was a lot of screaming from me losing my temper. The yelling never stopped, and soon it was directed towards him too when he started being a little trouble maker. He no doubt observed that when Mommy yells, they eventually give in and she gets her way. So of course he’s going to yell until he gets his way, just like me. Through years of practice, he’s just gotten more intense with his yelling, and now that he is more articulate and has a pretty decent vocabulary, he’s expressing himself to the max. This is all on me, I showed him that raging is a normal way to solve problems.

This is where the heartache comes in. I have the best intentions for my family, I want only the best for my kids. I try so hard to give them everything they need, not necessarily everything they want, but enough that they live pretty cush’ lives. But there’s only so much I could take, and days turn into weeks turn into months, and I’m here at maximum capacity of shit I could take and I just explode. So now there’s two “Angers” walking around the house, able to detonate at any point in time. I realize that, despite my intentions, my actions and reactions have broken my children, and that fact is gut-wrenching. I feel an immense sense of guilt and remorse. I feel lost.

I vowed to stop yelling at them, which sadly only lasted for a few hours. Then I adjusted my goal to just reducing the yelling, trying instead to talk really quietly and calmly, taking notes from some of the kids’ preschool and kindergarten teachers. That lasted a few days, not a total fail, just a near fail. But it still wasn’t a strong enough strategy to calm Evan down. I made a deal with the kids and told them that they could call me out whenever I’m raising my voice, and then I’ll take a step back and calm down. That did not work at all because it was just them disrespectfully yelling at me that I was yelling at them, and before I knew it, it was just a good old yell fest up in here. It is a lot of hard work and requires a very conscientious effort to stop what has been years of a natural reaction to yell when I’m pissed off or to express a point, and switch it into a calm speaking voice. That is not me, it has never been me, but I’ll become it if it saves my kids from having disastrous lives.

After lots of talks and implementing various strategies with him, Evan seemed to be working through his emotions slightly better. Though the outbursts have become fewer and have lasted for shorter periods of time, he still falls back into his old comfortable ways, as we all do. Just this past week, as I was getting ready to drop the kids off at school, he raged on me again for something so petty. It was over “Pennies for Patients,” a program where the kids donate money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. Obviously this is near and dear to our hearts, so I’m pretty liberal with what they donate from their piggy banks. Well, Evan decided to dump all the money from his spending bank and a chunk from his savings bank (which he is not supposed to touch) because he really wanted his class to win the school contest. I get it, he was excited to give what he could, and given that he has no concept of money or spending whatsoever, such an act is pretty benign to him. I told him he can’t just put all his money in a bag and bring it to school, he should count it and make a more thought out decision. He was having none of that. He started yelling at me about how I don’t know anything, how his teacher wants him to do this, how I never let him do what he wants, how all I care about is making him feel bad, and on and on. My head was spinning and I was at a loss as to how something so little turned into this. I told him to go to Jamie and talk to him like that, say exactly what he said to me in that exact same tone. He refused. This infuriated me. The kids rarely take that sort of confrontational tone with Jamie the way they do with me. They respect him too much, and most days, I feel like they don’t respect me at all. It has gotten to the point that I often find myself saying to them, “Treat me like you treat Daddy. You don’t ask him any questions when he’s on a call, so don’t talk to me when I’m on the phone. You don’t ask him to get you a snack when he’s taking a dump, so don’t bother me when I’m in the bathroom. You don’t talk to him in a sassy way, so don’t talk to me that way either.” Spoiler alert, this method also did not work.

Evan did not calm down, in fact he cried and huffed and puffed during the car ride to school. Then he wouldn’t even say goodbye to me. I said, “Bye, Evan,” but sort of in a ‘Bye, Felicia’ kind of way, and he grunted a ‘bye’ that probably translated to ‘fuck you’ in child speak. I came home and I sobbed, like full blown ugly cry. I couldn’t take it anymore, it finally just all came out.

The sobbing took Jamie by surprise. He knew things were rough with Evan, but I don’t think he knew how much pent up pain I had inside. He tried to calm me down, as Alby very excitedly licked all of my salty “eye treats” off my face. I told Jamie that I’ve had it, I can’t handle all the verbal and nonverbal disrespect I get from the kids, that I just get treated like their punching bag on a daily basis. So many days go by where I feel like the kids walk all over me. Soon they’re going to learn that it’s okay to treat others like this because they do it to Mom. I cried about how I feel like they love me but don’t actually LIKE me, which is a hard pill to swallow. In fact, while I was in their bedrooms last week, I found drawings each of them made. Reese’s picture is of a kid screaming that she is hungry, while the mom is tired and either drinking a cup of coffee or looking at her phone. Evan drew a sign for his door that said, “Stay out,” with an angry monster kid living in an angry monster world. I cried when I found them because it was the truth of how they perceived me from children’s eyes, a tired and angry mom making everyone around her angry too. Of course they don’t like me, I’m the drill sergeant who keeps them on track with time, tells them to do homework and chores, gets them to their activities with all their gear in hand even when they don’t feel like going, tells them no when they ask for more screen time or sugary snacks, refuses to buy them phones (you get the picture). I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t the bad cop. I’m not the fun times parent, never have been, and really, how could I be? Who the fuck does all that on the daily and not yell or lose their shit every now and then? Not me, I’m not built that way. I know there are many moms out there who are a million times more patient than I am, who can get things done without raising their voices, who don’t get frazzled with fucking common core math and getting their kids to all their activities, who don’t lose their cool when their kids lash out at them. I wish, I so so wish I was like that, because that’s the mom I know my kids wish they had. But I’m not, and it feels like I’m a disappointment to them. It makes me feel like shit, that I give them my all until I have nothing left in the tank, and they still don’t respect me or at least show a little gratitude. Alas, my Clair Huxtable aspirations are pretty much dead. I’ve been reduced to a mom version of The Hulk with a bad temper (also my jeans feel like they’re ripping when I put them on due to pandemic poundage; no relation to my temper, just an added similarity).

Jamie suggested that he take over on enforcing the things that the kids hate to do, like their homework and chores. While very thankful for that, in my mind I was also thinking this would have been super helpful five years ago. Better late than never though. At least it will lessen the tendency for the kids to blame me for all things that suck in their lives. He also thought it would be a good idea if we put the kids in an immediate 5-minute “timeout” as soon as he or I feel like we are being disrespected; it is not for a punishment, but rather, to help them take a step back and think about what and how their actions could have made us feel disrespected. Timeouts do nothing but enrage Evan, so we would need to give him some serious prep time to understand this process.

Between nods and tears, I said, “This all sounds great in theory, but in reality, you are in your office working, and so the heat will be directed at me since I’m always with him. How do I take anymore of this from him without losing my own shit the minute he starts raging at me? Am I supposed to just stay calm and take it, because I can’t right now, I don’t have any juice left.” He responded, “This is about HIM taking a step back before he reacts, teaching him how process things before automatically defending himself.” I tilted my head and gave him a look like, is it though??? We both started laughing and I said, “You’re amongst friends here, go ahead and say it, you’re safe. You want to tell me that I need to work on this too. I see it, I agree.” He said, “Weeeeeellll, all I’m saying is that you can’t go full ‘Ely’ on him when he has an outburst, or else we will lose our opportunity to teach him how to stay calm and be empathetic. All that will happen is he’ll see red and lose his temper even more.” “Okay I get it, but again, how do I put this into action if I feel spent already?” I asked. “You could always meditate with me,” he responded with a smile. I laughed it off and said I couldn’t because I had to go to Costco. That’s as close to saying, “Sorry, can’t go on a date with you, I’m washing my hair tonight.” Turns out, spending way too much on bulk items when you’re sad does not make you feel better. It only leaves you with two giant water jugs for activities the kids are not it, a huge corned beef brisket I don’t know how to cook, and so many hydration packets to help me prevent hangovers.

Talking with Jamie made me feel better, now that we had a new plan, and he said he would take the lead on it. When the kids came home, Jamie came out with a list of their chores and things they needed to do before any free time. Both kids looked very confused that this was coming from him, but went with it. The minute Jamie said something about homework to Evan, he started to lose his temper. He literally finishes his homework in less than five minutes, but for some reason, he just does not like to be told what, how, or when to do something. I know what you’re thinking, he sounds like me. But this is actually more like Jamie, so I’m putting this on him. I’ll take responsibility for his defensiveness and quick-temper, that’s all me. Jamie took this opportunity to talk to both kids about how they have been acting lately and the toll it has taken on me. Immediately I started crying again, just a blubbering mess. He told them he has noticed that they are not treating me very kindly, talking and treating me disrespectfully, and gave them specific examples. Evan of course got defensive, while Reese quietly processed the information and carefully watched me as I cried. Evan wasn’t getting it, he didn’t understand why I was crying. I told them I was crying because my feelings were hurt, that I feel disrespected and unappreciated for all I do for the family, that their words, their tone, their eye rolls, their foot stomping, their tantrums are all hurtful. I could see the wheels spinning in Evan’s mind, and his eyes widened when he realized he was the reason I was crying. He hugged me so tight, and strangely enough, I felt bad for even having to tell him this and I cried even harder. Jamie gave me a look and said, “They need to see and hear this.” He told them the new 5-minute timeout plan. Evan gave a little push back, but eventually got on board. Reese remained a quiet observer.

Evan got his homework and chores done, even happily made his lunch with no complaint. After about an hour, he came up to me and said, “Mommy, I really am sorry for making you feel so sad. You know, I’m just getting used to being older, and every year I get older life gets harder. But I’ll do better. Also, this morning I was in a bad mood because I was tired. I stayed up last night 20 minutes past my bedtime watching the Bulls game. When I woke up, I was mad that I had to get out of bed. And you know I have to do so much stuff in the morning, like brush my teeth and eat breakfast. When I got home from school today I was upset because I had a substitute teacher all day and I just missed my teacher. I’m sorry I took it out on you.” Wow, now that was a genuine apology filled with accountability. I responded, “It’s okay, we forgive in this family. I’m sorry for all the yelling too. I’m still learning. Every year I get older life gets harder for me too, so looks like we’ll be growing together. And trust me, I am not a morning person either, ask anyone that knows me. I don’t expect things to be all better by tomorrow, this is a slow process, so we have to remind each other to be patient.” We hugged it out, and I was glad to see a happy Evan again. Later in the evening, Reese left a note on my pillow, apologizing for being disrespectful and promising that she would be better. There is hope after all.

I wish I could say that was the end of the story, that the kids magically became the most loving and respectful children, but that’s not realistic. There have been slip ups, but we acknowledge them immediately, and it seems to snap something in their brains now. It’s kind of like training a dog, you have to immediately give them feedback when they do something wrong, or else the teaching moment is lost. I can’t believe I had to get a dog to understand how to raise a child.

I’m happy to say I finally stopped crying, though my sad and anxious feelings linger. I wonder what sort of long term damage I’ve done to their self-esteem, I question if they trust me to be strong for them, I wonder if and when I’ll ever have a good relationship with them, and I pray they become good adults despite all my parenting mistakes. If Evan grows up to be a narcissistic misogynist, is it because our attempts to teach him accountability failed, and he blames his mother for all that is terrible in his life? If Reese turns into a passive woman that avoids confrontation at all cost, is it because all the yelling in the house growing up was too much for her to take, and she’d rather be a people pleaser to avoid a potential screaming match? Will she be too afraid to speak her mind? I’m haunted by these very possible what-ifs. The pressure to raise good, well-rounded children that become decent and respectful adults can be so overwhelming. The failures from both parents and children during the process are heartbreaking. To watch your child struggle to get through some really difficult times is perhaps the worst of it all. And I wonder, is the struggle a part of growing up, or are they struggling because I didn’t do my part in giving them the right tools to succeed? This is so hard.

Those fabulous TV moms seemed to solve all their problems in the allotted thirty minute time slots, and here I am ten years deep into parenthood, looking for clues on how to raise my kids by watching dog training YouTube videos. Some days I just wish I could hear the happy theme song of one of those shows that signal that all will be right with the family. But lately, all I hear haunting the background of my thoughts is The Imperial March, and destruction feels like it is just around the corner. I just want to know, will the kids be okay? I guess this is my cue to heal, mom up, and make it okay.

We made the decision to allow the kids to watch Cobra Kai with us. It was perhaps a questionable decision at best, given the heavy use of the words “pussy” and “asshole” in just about every episode. But after season one, we were all in. Over winter break, we even binged season three (so good), but then I felt that I should probably pump the brakes on the somewhat inappropriate shows I’m allowing them to watch. Since the Bears are done for the season, I thought I’d watch Zoe’s Extraordinary Playlist with the kids on Sunday while Jamie watched a football game I didn’t care about. The kids had watched half of Zoe’s Extraordinary Playlist with me a few months ago and absolutely loved it. I thought all the music and dancing on this show would be a nice break from all the fighting and bad language of Cobra Kai. Love me some redemption momming, bringing light-hearted and musical fun to my kids after flooding their brains with some bad ass shit from Cobra Kai.

To my dismay, one of the episodes of Zoe’s Extraordinary Playlist was filled with a shit ton of sexual innuendos, as in, the episode was ALL about Zoe getting laid. Mental decision tree enacted: I could turn it off and say this is inappropriate, but then I’d have to stop watching too; or I could keep it on and go old school like my parents did and just make the kids close their eyes so that I could finish the episode. One choice is clearly more responsible than the other, but I went the selfish route and finished the episode while they closed their eyes for most of the parts. I figured it was probably fine, couldn’t be any worse than what they watched in Cobra Kai. Per usual, I was wrong.

The next day, we decided to let the kids watch the Bulls game with us after dinner. We thought it would be good family bonding and finally some super clean screen time. With the game in the background, Evan jumping around on the couch, the dog whining in her crate, and Jamie taking an untimely and abnormally long post-dinner shit, Reese hit me with a bomb: “Mommy, how do you get pregnant? I mean, how do you “try” to get pregnant?” Mental decision tree enacted: do I pretend I didn’t hear her, do I pretend I’m super busy and blow her off, or do I proceed with caution and give just a tiny bit of detail to pacify her? And if I proceed with caution, do I go God and stork route or give her a little Fallopian tube action? I take the bate, but answer the question with a question, “Weird question to ask during a basketball game. Why do you ask?” She responds, “Well, I asked you before but you said you’d tell me later when I was ready. I’m ready.” Damnit, I had forgotten that I blew her off already.

Quick side story on that one. I was getting ready to take her to a park play date a few months ago when she asked me what “sex” and “sexy” meant. Jamie heard her question and quickly shut his office door and pretended to be on a call. I gave her a very vague answer: “Sex is something that two married adults that love each other do to make a baby, and ‘sexy’ just means being flirty.” She responded, “But I thought you said God made the babies.” After a long pause, I replied, “Okay, get your coat on for your playdate, we’re gonna be late. We’ll talk about this more when you’re ready.”

But was she ready? Ugh, who the hell knows. And where the fuck is Jamie?!? I thought that if I kept avoiding her questions, she would go elsewhere to find the answers. I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice. So here’s how the rest of the conversation went:

Ely: “Females have eggs inside their bodies and males have sperm inside their bodies, and when the two of them come together, a baby forms.”
Reese: “But how do they come together?”
Ely: “Science. Biology.”
Reese: “But HOW?”
Ely: “Well, females have ovaries here and here (pointing in appropriate anatomical places) and an egg comes out of them every month. And if a sperm happens to swim its way towards the egg and attaches to it, the egg and sperm together make the baby. The baby then grows in the female’s uterus.”
Reese: “But how would it swim in there if it is in the guy’s body?”
Ely: (Long deep breath in) “Through sex, Reese. It all happens through sex.”
Reese: (audible gasp, along with giggling from Evan) Sex? Like how Zoe was gonna do the sex?
(Ugh, fucking Zoe’s Extraordinary Playlist! This is where the questions are coming from!)
Ely: “Yeah kinda, except they weren’t trying to have a baby.”
Reese: “I don’t get it. How do the swimmers get in?”
Ely: “They are called sperm.”
Reese: “Okay, how do the spermers get in the girl?”
Ely: “Sperm.”
Reese: “Ahh! Sperm! How do the sperms get to the egg?”
Ely: “It comes out of the penis….Ok, you don’t need to know the details on how, just know it is a very adult thing to do, and if you don’t understand it thoroughly, you could be in trouble and get pregnant when you were not intentionally trying to get pregnant.”
Reese: “Oh, like how Johnny got his girlfriend pregnant and then wasn’t really there for Robby?” (Ugh, Cobra Kai, you too?)
(Enter Jamie, completely oblivious to the conversation at hand)
Reese: “Ew, Daddy, you did the sex with Mommy to get pregnant?”
Jamie: “What is happening right now? I feel like I should leave.”
Ely: “Oh no, you are staying right there. During your very long time in the bathroom, Reese wanted to know all about how someone gets pregnant.”
Reese: “Yeah, I just thought if you want to get pregnant and have a baby, it just happens and your stomach grows a baby.” (Thanks a lot, religious ed)
Ely: “Okay, well now you know. So are we good here with the sex stuff, or do you have any more questions?”
Reese: “More questions! So Mommy, you were trying to be sexy with Daddy when you wanted to get pregnant?”
Ely: “I don’t try to be sexy, I just am.”
Reese: “Daddy, did you think Mommy was sexy?”
Ely: “Daddy thinks I’m sexy when I cook spam. It’s not very difficult.”
Jamie: “Why are you asking this? What does ‘sexy’ mean to you?”
Reese: “You know, acting sexy is like how Zoe ripped off that guy’s shirt and all that stuff.” (fucking Zoe!!!!)
Ely: “Oh Reese, that’s just in the movies. When you are trying to make a baby, none of that is going on.”
Reese: “Is that REALLY the only way to get pregnant? There’s no other way? It sounds awkward and I don’t want to do that.”
Jamie: “Good!”
Ely: “Sex is the first way to try to get pregnant, and if sex doesn’t work after a while, then you go to a special doctor’s office and scientists like Tito Manny collect eggs and sperm and make a baby in a Petri dish. Okay, so we good now?”
Evan: “I’m definitely doing the sex way.”
Ely: “Okay, champ, calm down.”
Evan: (jumping on the couch) “Sexsexsexsexsexsex!!!”
Jamie: “Okay guys, this is a serious talk, this isn’t something you share at school with your friends. Parents have talks with their own kids about it, and some of your friends may not be ready for this information. So you guys are not to talk about this with your friends, got it?”
Reese: “Okay. But I still have more questions. How do the spermers get to the girl? Wouldn’t it get all over their pants and underwear?”
Evan: “Yeah, the sermp would mess up your clothes.”
Ely: “Sperm, not sermp.”
Jamie: “Okay, he’s not ready to hear all this. I’m not either. I’m taking the dog out.”
Evan: “Oh, wait, I get it. The boy would have to take his clothes off. Oh, but then their privates will be showing. That’s bad.”
Ely: “Yes, it is very private. You only do something like this in a private place with someone you care about. (Evan, creeping up closer to me in a weird Oedipus kind of way). Evan, why are you so close to me?”
Evan: “I just love you.”
Ely: “That’s fine, just love me from the other side of the couch please. Alright, my brain hurts. I think we’re good with the science lesson for now. If you have other questions, we can talk about it later. Go to bed.”
(Scene ends with me pouring a lot of vodka into a cup)

It was a giant shit show to say the least, but I don’t know why I would expect anything less from my phenomenal parenting style. I always imagined having a calm, informative sex talk with my kid the way Claire Huxtable would do it. But instead, it turned into a shoot from the hip Rosanne Barr situation that seemed to never end. While informative, I don’t know if I hit all the important points, which means I have to go through this shit again. And since I literally just heard Evan say he is getting his period soon, I definitely have to redo this talk with him too. I am overall not pleased with myself, but I can’t take it back now. My only victory in the situation is that I didn’t shy away from the difficult topic, which hopefully will show Reese that she can come and ask me anything and I will give her an honest answer. Man, and I thought showing the kids Cobra Kai was going to create the issues. Kinda wish one of the kids would have just called a kid at school a pussy or asshole. That would have been a lot easier to handle than talking to them about sex. Parents, be ready, this could happen to you at any point in time! Be armed with pamphlets, books, or at the very least, vodka!

I’m allergic to dogs. So are my kids. The kids go to an allergist every year to get tested, and every year the doctor says, “Sorry guys, you’re still allergic to dogs. You really shouldn’t get a dog, it could be dangerous, even life-threatening.” So we got a dog. What can I say, the ‘Rona makes you crazy, puts you in mad denial, and makes you crave control. We could have done worse things with that, but buying a dog seemed like the kind of living on the edge that we could handle. With every great adventure comes a great story, and this one is no exception.

This dog campaign has been in the works for over 2 years. It started with my sister texting pictures of cute dogs to me and Jamie, coaxing us to buy one. Of course Jamie was on board right away, since he’s a dog lover and not allergic to dogs. I was always the voice of reason, saying a dog will kill me and the kids and that he must not love us. That usually ended the conversation pretty quickly. When I was going through chemo and stuck in the hospital for all those months, I would find myself looking at available puppies to cheer me up, and sending pictures to Jamie to torture him. I knew nothing would come of it because we just weren’t in a good place in our lives to get one.

As the years progressed, the campaign continued with texting warfare and the sharing of new adoption and breeder sites. Then the ‘Rona got people stuck at home with their families, making them totally sick of their current family members and in need of a new family member to love (because there’s only so much Uno you can play in one lifetime). Covid puppies started showing up all over Facebook, and I would stupidly share that information with Jamie and the kids. Soon, there was puppy fever in the house among all of us. Then my brother hit us with a bomb; they bought a cavapoo. He looked like the cutest live stuffed animal, and this tiny dog had the power to make my human puppy ovaries ache for our very own pooch (if that was actually a thing). It was a game changer.

We started filling out applications at various rescues, and looking for available pups at rescues and breeders became my daily obsession. I believe my kids were still doing e-learning at the time, but I stopped caring (I was as over it as they were) and put my efforts into puppy shopping. I happened to come across this set of puppies in Wisconsin. It seemed appealing because it was the closest drive for us; I couldn’t convince my brain to drive 8 hours round trip to buy a puppy that might be the cause of my demise. So yes, I partially chose a puppy based on commute. The litter was also super cute and exactly what we were looking for in terms of breed and color. But there was a red flag; while other breeders had all sorts of information on the dogs, this site very simply said, “Parents are farm dogs.” No information about the puppies was provided, nothing about shots or their activity level, not even the added bonus comment about being a part of a loving family and good with kids. Just simply farm dogs. It piqued my curiosity. I contacted them, with the knowledge that this could possibly be a scam. The contact quickly responded, and we had the most awkward conversation in my life. First, he told me his name, which was not the name on the website. I responded, “Oh, that’s odd. Your name is not the name listed on the website. I was expecting to hear from someone else.” He replied, “Hmm, I should change that.” Long pause. Then he said, “So you are interested in the puppies?” I said, “Yes, I would like to schedule an appointment to meet them if that is possible.” Long pause. His strange response was, “Sure, that could happen. I’m sure you wouldn’t just want to buy a dog without seeing it, especially coming from Arizona.” So he must have googled me and assumed I was still living in Arizona. I told him that I was in Illiinois, and then he acknowledged that that made more sense since I was calling from an Elgin number. Wow, he definitely googled me. Now I’m getting nervous. Long pause. “Soooo, can I see them sometime this weekend?” He replied, “I’m sure that will work. I don’t actually sell the dogs, I just post the information. When you go see the dogs and meet the guy that is actually selling them, I think you’ll understand why and it will all make sense.” Long pause. Red flags were flying all over the place. I said, “Well that sounds very, ummm, mysterious.” Long pause. “Yeah, I suppose it does,” he says. At this point, the only explanation I could come up with for all the long pauses and weird comments was that I was speaking to some evil-intentioned person from a foreign country who was typing in responses and the computer was generating a voiced response in the English translation over the phone. I was thinking this was not legit and possibly even dangerous, but my puppy ovaries kept pushing me to pursue it. “Soooo, is there an address that you can give me?” “Yes.” Long pause. So many long pauses! Finally he broke, “Ok, here’s the thing. They are Amish and they live on a farm. They are not breeders, they are just selling the puppies for their uncle.” Well, that’s a relief, they’re not scammers, they’re Amish. I respond, “Oh, well that’s fine. I don’t know much about their culture, but if they will allow visitors, I would like to see the puppies.” More long pauses. He finally gave me the address to the farm, along with the phone number to directly contact the Amish folks. I called the number and left a message. And then it was off to the interwebs to google the shit out of these names, phone numbers, and addresses. Turns out, the Amish are pretty much off the grid and don’t leave much of an online fingerprint. We were left waiting and wondering just exactly what the fuck we were doing. Being the risk-averse guy he is, it’s not like Jamie to be willing to even meet with these people under such suspicious circumstances, but his puppy ovaries were probably aching too and he was still on board.

Later that evening, the mysterious man called me again, this time telling me that the number he gave me is now disconnected for some reason, and gave me a new number to call. He then called me again first thing the next morning asking me to call again to get in touch with them. This all felt wrong, and I ignored my gut and continued to follow this guy’s lead anyway. Eventually, I got in touch with the guy’s father or brother (I lost track), and I put Jamie on speaker so that he knew I was coming with a male (who writes contracts like the toughest dude I know). We set up a time to meet the puppies, and he answered as many questions as he could. A few hours later, the actual guy who is supposed to be in charge of the puppy selling contacted me to confirm our meeting. It was another awkward call with a lot of awkward pauses. It felt so bizarre that I texted my sister all the information about all these people that I could gather, in the event that I would end up dead on a farm, and my story would end up on Dateline. I could already hear Keith Morrison’s voice, “What started out as puppy love, turned into a brutal game of fetch…”

Yet, despite all these negative feelings about what we were getting ourselves into, I went into full Amazon Prime mode and bitches be shopping! I started buying everything from dog crates, to beds, to leashes and brushes. I went to the pet stores with my sister to buy food, treats, toys, shampoo, poop odor spray stuff, and all these other supplies I wasn’t even aware I had to have. I went to Walgreens to load up on kids’ allergy medicines. And then I went to the wonderful world of YouTube to watch videos on how to train a puppy. I had less than 48 hours to get this house ready for a dog…or a murder…whichever was awaiting us in Wisconsin.

We decided to make this puppy mission a surprise for the kids. We told them we were buying a new car and were going to pick it up early on Saturday morning in Wisconsin. My cousin said, “Wouldn’t it be great if you drove up to the farm and there was a horse and buggy there and you said to the kids, ‘Hey guys, check out your brand new car!” Both funny and quite possible. The anxiety was high in the house, and I hardly slept the night before. I kept thinking to myself that I was making a huge mistake, putting the kids’ health at risk. I said a quick prayer, “God, please don’t let us die of murder or allergies. Amen.” 6:30am rolled around way too fast, and off we went to an Amish farm in Wisconsin.

It was snowing that morning and the visibility was low, which added to our nervousness. I shared my location with my sister, so that she would know where to find our bodies if this mission went astray. After an hour and a half of some white-knuckled driving, we pulled up to the farm. The kids looked very confused, but didn’t say a word. They didn’t even wonder why I was carrying a bulky backpack with towels and blankets. I kept the kids a little behind while Jamie met up with one of the guys we spoke with. He waved us to come, led us into the barn, and said, “Excuse our mess.” The mess he was referring to were horses and piles of horseshit, which they began shoveling out of our way. Once the horses were moved to their stalls, we saw the pen where the 9 puppies were, plus a few chihuahuas and other dogs. When we opened the pen door, all we saw were little black balls of fur running amok. The kids were delighted, probably thinking, “This is the coolest car dealership ever!” They handed me one of their girl pups, and she sat so still in my arms and was terrified. I kept a hold of the girl, and told them to see if any of the other pups seemed interested in them. There were a few that went to Reese (she probably had the most remnants of breakfast on her hands and clothes), but I still liked the girl I held. The farmers watched on while we played with the pups. Evan said, “I wish we could bring a puppy home instead of a new car.” Reese agreed too. Man, my kids are idiots. There were absolutely no cars in sight, and they still thought we were there to pick up a car. Jamie said, “What would you rather have, a puppy or a new car?” Evan screamed out puppy, and Reese shouted, “I want both!” The farmers laughed, but were probably thinking, “Get a load of these spoiled city slickers!” We told them we were going to bring home a puppy today, and they started cheering and jumping up and down. It was a really special moment that I’ll never forget.

My sister had requested to FaceTime while I was there so she could get a puppy fix, so I asked for permission from the Amish guys, since I didn’t know what they were okay with, and they were fine with it. When I called her, I saw the 2 younger boys sneak a peak at the phone screen and they looked amazed. I kept the call short because I felt like I was bringing Satan into their barn (both through technology and my sister). We spent about 45 minutes to an hour there, deliberating on which pup to take home. They all started looking the same, and I really wanted a girl, so we decided to bring the little shy girl that I held home with us. The kids were over the moon, and I will always remember the looks on their faces and the sounds of their voices, saying thank you a million times. And though on the inside I was melting, I put my tough love cap on (do I really ever take it off?) and said, “Don’t thank me yet. This dog is going to be hard work and everyone’s responsibility.” I proceeded to turn on a puppy training podcast, and off we drove back home. And that was our day with the Amish. I kind of wish we got a bonus tour of the farm, maybe see some butter churning in action, but the puppy was enough excitement for one day.

We named her Albus Dumbledog Newton of House Gruffindor, Alby for short. We argued about her name, even though I had already decided on it. I said, “You guys are only on book 5 of Harry Potter, you still don’t get the greatness of Dumbledore yet. Trust me, you want her to be named after the greatest wizard of all time.” That was very nerdy of me, I heard it as I typed. The kids finally agreed to it, as if they had a choice. We spent the next few days introducing her to family and friends, figuring out how to feed a scared dog, trying to bathe the barn smell out of her (still working on that), doing lots of laundry to get the barn smell out of us and our coats, crate training (which often sounded like a crazed chimp locked in a cage), and the beloved potty training. I was also watching the kids like a hawk, looking for signs and symptoms of allergies, making them constantly wash their hands and faces if the pooch licked them. Our evenings ended with the sounds of the Roomba sucking up the allergens, the kids blowing kisses to Ably in her crate, and Jamie and I wondering what the hell happened to our lives.

Jamie and I were so incredibly tired the first few weeks, just like we felt when the human babies were newborns. It’s a lot of energy to keep a constant eye on the dog, from the potty training to the eating to the activity. And the hardest part is not even the dog, it’s the training of the small humans on how to train the dog. It’s the ultimate micromanagement. All they want to do is snuggle with the dog and ignore everything I tell them to do. It doesn’t seem like it should be a hard concept to comprehend, but it is extremely difficult to convince a kid that rubbing their faces on the dog fur they are allergic to is dumb. One night, I had reached my limit with the dog and everyone else in the house. I had taken care of the pup all day and then made dinner. While I made dinner, the dog had an accident while the kids were watching her. After dinner I started cleaning up the kitchen while Jamie and the kids watched her, and she had another accident. I was like, WTF guys, watch the damn dog! I lost my shit and said to Jamie, “I’m outta here. I’m going grocery shopping, and when I come back I want a specific plan on how all 3 of you are going to help with this fucking dog.” During the hour I was at the grocery store, she had 3 more accidents. There was never a day I was more pleased to have liquor in the house. They did come up with a written schedule and plan, which has since been adjusted as needed. Since then, things had gotten better, though there have still been many more lectures needed from us about stepping up and being more helpful. My lectures sound like this: “I’m very tired and you are both very unhelpful with YOUR dog. I’m doing all the work, while you think squeezing a squeak toy is helpful somehow. I’m sick of hearing your arguing. Stop doing stupid crap, stop being annoying, start taking care of your dog, and maybe we’ll all get along.” Jamie’s lectures sound more like this: “Your mom and I are tired and we don’t have a lot of patience. All of our energy is going into the puppy right now, and we would appreciate more help from you guys. Let’s all work together.” Well damn, Jamie, I was all proud of myself for saying “stupid crap” instead of “fucking bullshit,” and here you come sounding like Mr. F’ing Rogers over here. I guess our dual approaches bring balance (of vulgarity and reason).

The kids are getting better and better with caring for the dog. Either that, or we are getting better at what sort of help to expect from the kids. Reese has definitely stepped up, and Alby tends to listen to her more than Evan, so we have her helping in more significant ways. Evan helps out too, but more on the playing and treat doling front. Still, the life lessons with a pup continue. For example, Evan has the habit of roaming around the house naked before and after his showers, and Alby seems to think his penis is a toy. We have had to tell him several times to wear a robe and cover his penis. Just yesterday he once again refused to hide his penis from Alby, and sure a shit, she went for his dingaling. I’m yelling, “Will you please hide your penis? It’s not funny! You cannot wiggle it around her. She thinks your penis is a toy. Do you want to know what it feels like for those sharp puppy teeth to bite your penis? She will bite that thing off and you will need surgery. I’m only yelling at you because we care about your penis. Put it away!” Jamie, though fully in agreement, was just laughing because he couldn’t believe what I was saying. Laugh it up, man; it’s all fun and games until your son’s penis is maimed and he is single for life and living in our basement.

We are now 3 weeks deep into puppying, and I think all members of the family, including Alby, are adjusting well. Allergies appear to be in check thus far, and fingers crossed they stay that way. When I hear so much as a sneeze or a sniffle, I start blasting my diffusers with all sorts of essential oil allergy concoctions. We have made many changes to puppy proof our house and lives, as she is a very curious and chewy dog. Although it has and will continue to be hard work, she is a joy to have. She is a lot of energy and excitement that I think we all need at a time like now. She has helped with all of our moods, adding a bit of happiness and distraction to all the not great things currently happening in the world. Just as Dumbledore said, “Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.” I can confidently say, at least for now, that I am beyond happy that we switched on that light, went to that Amish farm and picked up our perfect pooch (and also avoided a most heinous potential murder or kidnapping). It was a great way to end a tough year and start 2021 off with a bang and a bark. Cheers to all the covid puppies who helped us through this dark year. And to Ms. Albus Dumbledog, may your time with us at Dogwarts be a most successful and fulfilling journey for us all.

For the past 7 and a half weeks, I have obsessively refreshed my email and constantly checked my kids’ school website just waiting for the note from the district informing us that the kids will be going back to virtual learning. I knew it was coming. In fact, I expected it after the first or second week of them going back to in person learning. So, to have gotten the news this past Sunday was really quite a surprise that they even got to be in person this long. But no matter how much I’ve prepared my mind for the return to virtual learning, it still feels like the gut punch you were bracing yourself for but still hurts. It’s like knowing you eventually have to clean the kids’ bathroom, but there’s no great way to get your patience or stomach ready for the seven-year-old’s terrible aim, the nine-year-old’s habit of leaving everything from hair ties to slime to wizard wands on the sink, and the toothpaste somehow splattered all over the mirror, floor and toilet. I don’t want to clean this disgusting bathroom, but I have to do it anyway. And virtual learning, well, it’s my analogous dreadful bathroom.

The kids were sad when we told them the news. We’ve been preparing them for weeks about this, but surely if the adults in the room are upset about it, the kids will feel it even more. Reese said she was sad and angry that she won’t be with her friends and her teacher for over a month. Evan said he will miss his classmates and teacher as well, but at least we could start up neighborhood recess again (I hear ya, buddy, loud and clear). I texted the moms in the neighborhood that our recess will be back in session when we go virtual, in hopes that there’d be something social for the kids to look forward to. It’s the only thing I could think of that could soften the blow.

My mind started racing once the news settled. How am I going to keep the kids happy and in good spirits, so that their holidays aren’t ruined? How will I sneak their Christmas gifts into the house when they will always be around? How will I finish season 3 of Ozark when I have to help them with their schooling? So many questions! I was clearly well on my way to spiraling. Jamie stopped me, told me to get the idea of “perfection” out of my head, and ensured that it will all be fine. And why does he say that? Because he has noise canceling AirPods and can’t hear shit, so in his mind virtual learning is a piece of cake. Well, it’s shit-filled cake. And it’s smeared all over my figurative bathroom.

In truth, my kids do fine with virtual learning. Both of them can sit in front of their computers, participate appropriately, submit their work, and come out learning something. They just need a little nudge to work hard here and there. And they are fortunate enough to have me at their beck and call since I’m not currently working. Virtual learning is not the hard part of this monster, though. The real challenge is keeping everyone’s mood stable. I’m not even striving for happy, although that would be ideal. I’d be totally satisfied with fair to middling (oh boy, I just became an old ass man using that phrase, I must be reaching a dangerous level of stress). I observe the kids and Jamie so closely to make sure everyone is coping with their stress in a healthy manner, and sweep in to help before things get out of control. It’s a lot of pressure, and it’s kind of ironic that the most unstable person in the house has taken up this responsibility. But maybe because I’m so well-acquainted with the various versions of my own personal crazy, I can spot it from a mile away and help keep my family from reaching my level of insanity. If I could just make certain that Jamie and the kids are feeling loved, supported, and calm, then I could lose my shit on them any time I want and they’ll be able to handle it just fine. It’s a broken system, but a system nonetheless.

At my first job as a PT, I had the opportunity to rotate into different departments every three to six months at the hospital. I remember initially feeling the stress over having to relearn the documentation, reacquaint myself with the staff, and get back to the rhythm of the day. I would tell myself that having a position like this was too stressful and I couldn’t do it. But eventually, I got into my groove and found myself enjoying my time on the unit I was assigned to as long as I could, knowing that it was temporary. The periodic stress of change every few months was a struggle, but I became much more flexible and adaptable to change, more than I gave myself credit for. It became an asset for other jobs to follow because I knew I could be placed in any work setting and be successful. I believe this is the time my kids will learn this same valuable lesson of change and adversity, and coming out the other end stronger and wiser. Sure, my little creatures of habit thrive on consistency, but 2020 is just not the time to find it. And digging your heels into the ground until you get your normalcy back is not the way to survive this either. Despite my frustrations of how the hell we could still be in this situation after 8 months of a pandemic, the shake up and challenge has not been all for naught. We have learned how to find creative and safe ways to quench our social thirsts. We have been forced to find more effective ways to communicate our needs and feelings since we’re together all the time (Evan has learned that kicking Reese in the face is not a form of effective communication). We have had lots of practice to forgive each other and move on. We have learned the incredible value of empathy and how to manifest action from it. And most importantly, we have learned how to be grateful for little and big things alike: amazing teachers who remain caring and consistent in an ever-evolving situation, technologies that enable us to stay connected, family and friends who check up on each other, good weather for outdoor volleyball (even on days when we have to wear five layers of clothes), shitty weather that enable us to chill out at home and watch movies or do puzzles together, a new season of Great British Baking Show, and yes, even noise canceling AirPods, because there needs to be one adult present that isn’t on the verge of a breakdown. With Thanksgiving around the corner, it’s a good time to change the narrative from this being a dark and long winter ahead to a time to practice finding the good in any situation. It’s there, likely behind that shit-filled cake.

So here we go, round eleventy billion of this pandemic. Adrenaline…check. Coffee…check. Booze…check. Halloween candy…check. True crime podcasts downloaded…check. Booze (just in case the first booze runs out)…check. Diffuser with essential oils…check. Will…check. Now, watch me put my foot up ‘Rona’s ass. Gloves up, bitches, I’m going in!