The Thirteen Rules of Engagement

In the 1 1/2 years since the children have been with us we've experienced an overwhelming amount of support from family, friends, and complete strangers. We've also been met with some reactions, responses, and passes of judgment along the way, which I've summarized below in what I call The Thirteen Rules of Engagement. Some of these aren't unique to two dads raising two children, but they've turned into pet peeves nonetheless.

1). The Three Second Assessment

When we turn the aisle in Target or the grocery store and you see one or both of our children for the first time don’t size them up in three seconds and think they’re a little prince or princess. First of all, we don’t fill their heads with notions of them someday marrying into the Royal Family or becoming an animated Disney character. It’s best to hold your assessment until after you’ve spent five hours, or even twenty-five minutes, with one or both of them (double your trauma) and get back to us. Until then our cynical facial expressions or tepid responses will simply come across as rude or unappreciative, which isn’t entirely true, when we’ve likely just finished telling them for the thirty-seventh time to stop touching things and to keep their hands to themselves.

2). Candy and Stickers, et al

Don’t offer our kids candy, stickers, balloons, or toys without spelling, miming, or mouthing the words to us first (I’ve learned to interpret all and you’ll want me as your partner when playing Password and charades). Otherwise in mere seconds you’ve thwarted our plan, which we’ve invested an exorbitant amount of time, strategy, and effort into diverting them from these items.

3). Advice

Don’t offer parenting advice unless we’ve specifically asked you for it. And don’t think that just because we’re complaining about being a parent for a brief moment that the door has been cracked open for you to tell us what works, or has worked, for your child(ren). I can assure you that the behavioral issues and deficiencies that our children have manifest themselves differently than your child(ren). As a matter of fact, one parenting strategy rarely works on both of our kids as I’m convinced it’s their sole mission to make me schizophrenic.

4). Don’t Pass the Judgment

When I’ve had hours, or in some cases days, of dealing with oppositional behavior, defiance, or a little girl who purposely pees on the floor when the toilet is just four feet away, the last thing I need is a disapproving glare from a complete stranger in regard to my parenting skills. Unfortunately, no child comes with an operating manual so there are surprises, challenges, and LOL moments every single day. Providing a little compassion in my direction goes a long way, as does a good bottle of wine!

5). Public Displays of Defiance

If I’ve had to resort to putting one of our children into a time-out in public, trust me, it’s for a good reason. And if you see our son hitting his head with his hand or banging his head against the wall, he isn’t hurting himself, he just wants more attention, which is why I’ve chosen to actively ignore him, and you need to as well.

6). One Way Conversation

If one of our children says “hello” to you, and you hear them, please say “hello” back so I don’t have to explain to them why you’re so mean. Or if you engage in conversation with one of our kids don’t look to me to interpret what they’re saying back to you unless you’re willing to pay me an interpreter’s fee.

7) Open Invitation

While my son is sitting on a bench on a tennis court minding his own business while watching his dad play tennis DO NOT invite him over to your golf cart to pet your dog. I could care less that your dog is friendly, or that you have six grandchildren, I’m his dad and you should know better to check with me first rather than letting him traipse off out of my line of vision and causing me to have a heart attack when I don’t see him sitting on the bench any longer. What you also don’t know is that my son has Reactive Attachment Disorder (RAD) – Disinhibited Type, which means he has bonding issues and a willingness to go off with complete strangers, which we’re continuously working on with him, as well as with his sister.

8). Fathers Know Best

Don’t tell us the pixie haircut is too sophisticated for our daughter when as her [gay] parents that is what we’re asking for – after all, we’re fans of America’s Next Top Model and Tabatha’s Salon Takeover.

9). We’ll Pass

When giving birthday or Christmas presents to our kids please don’t send them flannel clothing (especially pajamas). We appreciate the thought, but we live in the desert where flannel is never in fashion and is considered the enemy.

10). Where’s Mom?

When you ask one or both of our kids, “Where’s your mom?” try not to look too surprised when I respond back with, “They have two dads,” especially when its mother’s day weekend and we happen to be out shopping. These days, with so many unconventional families in existence – single or divorced parents, two moms or two dads – maybe we just need to have a “parent’s day” instead?

11). Nurture vs. Nature

To the therapists (more on the “therapist from hell” in a future blog entry) and so-called child experts out there -- STOP questioning our ability to provide our children with the nurturing they need, especially for our daughter. We’re two gay men, not two cave men, who are in touch with our feminine sides. We might not know how to throw a football, but we know how to bake cookies and accessorize.

12). It’s Legal

When we tell you that we’re in the process of adopting the children, don’t look at us like we’ve given you a calculus problem to solve. You may not approve, or maybe it hasn’t even crossed your mind until now, but it’s legal in California, as well as many other states, for two gay men to adopt children together.

13). No Doesn’t Mean Yes!

Stop offering our kids cookies and ice cream right before their bedtime, and right after I’ve explicitly asked you not to give them any sweets, and then say, “I know I’m breaking the rules” as you hand them a chocolate chip cookie. First of all, you’re undermining me as the parent and the limitations that we’ve placed on sugar in their diets because they have ADHD. And don’t tell me that you don’t believe sugar has an effect on their energy levels when you don’t witness them scaling the walls because five minutes after overloading them with sugar you’re shooing us out your front door. I realize it’s highly unlikely you’ll invite us over for dinner again since I couldn’t hold back any longer and got all confrontational on your ass and brought the dinner party to a screeching halt; but in the rare event you invite us over again and still insist on giving our children sweets when we tell you not to, don’t be surprised when you suddenly find yourselves hosting a slumber party for two young and very hyper children at your house.

Best,

Thomas L-L

STILL in Training!

Poop in the Potty
After Angelica pooped on the laundry room floor I guess it shouldn’t have been a surprise that she would be the first one to do a poop in the potty. Although I later realized it wasn’t intended. After we all crowded into the bathroom, including Humphrey, we started celebrating by giving high-fives, dancing around and praising Angelica for going poop in the potty! We did everything to celebrate her accomplishment short of putting up a banner proclaiming, “Angelica is the #1 Pooper!” and wearing party hats and blowing horns, or having a marching band come through the bathroom. At least we didn’t go so far as having a t-shirt made for her that said, “I went poop in the potty and all I got was this t-shirt.” I have to admit that one of my first thoughts was, This potty training thing isn’t so bad after all. I quickly learned to never underestimate the power, determination, and stubbornness of a three year old and not to become too confident with my own parenting skills, at least when it came to potty training. For months we didn’t see another poop in the potty from Angelica. We resolved that it was a complete fluke on her part and that all of the pomp and circumstance literally scared her shitless (diapers and pull-ups excluded).

You Happy and Proud!
As soon as some of the poops landed in the potty then we started to hear things like, “I went a big poop!” or “You happy and proud of my poop?” We toned down our level of excitement because it was obvious that our kids didn’t come from environments where their little accomplishments were acknowledged and celebrated, and therefore they had no prior experience on how to accept over-the-top praise. So we stuck to high-fives (Purell afterwards) and praising and acknowledging what they had just accomplished, and made sure they were “happy and proud” of what they had just done as well. Unfortunately, a poop in the potty one day doesn’t translate to a poop in the potty the next day, or even the day after that. In sharing pooping stories with some other parents, and reading potty training stories online, we consider ourselves lucky that our kids weren’t into smearing their poop on the walls, the carpet, the furniture, or onto themselves! Hearing about these stories helped to put what we were going through, and to a degree are still going through today, into a perspective that we could actually appreciate.

Let’s Talk Poop
At some point along the way I found myself freely talking about pooping experiences and habits with just about anyone who was willing to listen. It didn’t seem fair to keep all of these “happy and proud” parenting experiences trapped inside of me and not share them with other parents, daycare providers, teachers, social workers, therapists, checkers at the grocery store, tennis opponents (getting the thought of poopy diapers in their heads messes with their game), and now blog readers. Sometimes it’s difficult to avoid the topic all together when one, or in some cases both kids, announce to a perfect stranger in the supermarket, “I went big poop in the potty!” There are only two reasonable options at this point; actively ignore what was said and hope the stranger doesn’t notice the four boxes of Raisin Bran in the cart (it’s on sale and I have a coupon), or simply smile, nod my head and say, “We’re so proud.”

Poop Tracking
I have this weird ability (sometimes it’s a curse) to keep track of the oddest details. Some (and by some I mean my husband) might say I’m anal retentive or even a little OCD when it comes to keeping track of minute details that no one else has noticed or even cares about. I was programmed this way at some point in my youth so as an adult it’s something that happens uncontrollably. Trust me, if there was an on/off switch I would be using it because at some juncture I unconsciously started to keep track of everyone’s poop schedule, including the dogs! It’s like I’ve turned into a human Excel spreadsheet that generates bar graphs, pie charts and trends (oh my!). Through my unscientific tracking abilities this is what I’ve learned so far. If Ronald isn’t told to go on a daily basis, which I affectionately refer to as “Poop on Command” (POC), then he just won’t go on his own. A POC is almost always met with resistance, accompanied by a head-drop and some pouting, but 10-15 seconds later a “I went big poop” is heard echoing from his chamber. I know what you’re thinking, How does he not realize he has to go. (Okay, maybe it’s not what you’re thinking, but just humor me and refer to the “Let’s Talk Poop” section above.) I’ve lost count of the number of circular conversations I’ve had with Ronald about whether or not he feels the poop in his tummy. Of course it’s never a good idea to have the “do you feel poop in your tummy conversation” right after he’s gone because I’m always met with, “It’s not in my tummy, it’s in the toilet” look on his face.

A few times I’ve experimented in not giving a daily POC to see if he would eventually go on his own, but after keeping it in for 2-3 days he ends up with an unfortunate accident in his underwear. One would think that a 6 year old boy who is so dependent on routine and schedule would end up being the most regular in the family, but instead it’s the one thing that is most irregular about him. Even Humphrey (that’s our dog) is on a schedule. Every night, without fail, after he eats his dinner he’s anxious to go out into the backyard. Jim or I will say (preach), “See, even Humphrey tells us when he has to go potty.”

At the other end of the pooping spectrum is Angelica who does not and will not respond to POC, but you have to be careful of POS – Power of Suggestion.

Yucky!
If there is one thing you can count on with Angelica it’s her inconsistency. We’ll have two, three, even up to four days, where everything is landing in the toilet and then all of a sudden there is havoc in her pull-ups! Here is a classic example of what I’m talking about.

One Friday after arriving home from school Angelica is in the front courtyard blowing bubbles while I’m in the office trying to get some writing done. The office window looks out into the courtyard and the front door, adjacent to the office, is wide open, so I can keep a watchful eye on her (always a necessity). We’ve had several days of things not landing in the potty so I decide to have yet another conversation with her about the importance of going poop in the potty. It went something like this…

“Angelica, where does your poop and pee go?”

“In the potty.”

“Does it go in your pull-up?”

“Noooo, not in my pull-up. In the potty.”

“Does poop feel good in your pull-up?”

“Noooo, poop in my pull-up is yucky!”

“That’s right, it’s very yucky. And Daddy Thomas and Daddy Jim don’t like cleaning up your poopy butt. So when you have to go poop you’ll go in the potty, right?”

“Yes Daddy.”

And with that she goes back to playing with her bubbles in the courtyard. A few minutes later I see Angelica jamming herself into a corner, slightly bent at the knees, while scrunching up her face and making a grunting sound.

“Angelica! What are you doing?”

“Not me go poop in my pull-up.”

“Get over here right now!”

She plucks herself from the corner and steps inside the house, the all too familiar odor of poop wafts in behind her.

“Is there poop in your pull-up?”

“Nope.”

“Let me check.”

She turns around and I peek inside.

“Angelica, we just talked about going poop in the potty and what did you just do?”

“Me went poop in my pull-up.”

Obviously what this little four year old pieced together from our earlier conversation was something like, “Daddy Thomas tell me poop in pull-up. It feel good!”

I launch into some rant that includes poop, pee, pull-ups, yucky, wiping, smelly, disgusting, potty, listening, talking, gross, training, until her eyes glaze over. Trying to rationalize my way through this isn’t doing me any good and only makes the situation more frustrating. I throw my arms up in the air, clearly the universal parental sign of disgust and I’m so over you and this situation right now.

However, I’m sure Angelica’s interpretation is more like, You’ve surrendered and victory is mine once again.

Oh sweet child, but victory is mine, because thousands…okay, maybe hundreds…alright, two dozen…people have read all about you on the Internet and an electronic copy of this blog will one day mysteriously land on a future boyfriend’s iPad (or whatever is the hottest Apple device at that time) and be linked to your Facebook page!

Love,
Daddy

by Thomas L-L 6/13/11

I Can't Do It!

It starts out like any other morning. At 6:15am I go into the kid’s bedroom and wake them up. They take off their pajamas, take turns going to the bathroom, and start to put on the school clothes I've laid out for them. Angelica is the first one finished getting dressed and is already at their little table eating her “apple bar” (a breakfast bar that either has an apple, strawberry, or blueberry filling but no matter what the flavor, the two of them always call it an “apple bar”). Ronald, after finishing his one-man talk show while he puts his clothes on in the bedroom, finally moseys into the kitchen area . Every morning, without fail, he engages himself in a running dialogue about absolutely nothing, or continuously makes sounds that must mean something to him but are completely foreign and annoying to anyone else. He stands in the middle of the kitchen and proclaims, “My shoes are on the right feet!” I look down and today his shoes are in fact on the correct feet. At least half the time he’ll come out of the bedroom and announce his shoes are on the right feet but sadly they aren’t. He has a fifty-fifty chance of getting it correct each morning but sometimes the odds seem to be stacked against him.

I have Ronald sit down at the table across from Angelica while I gather his medication, water, vitamin, and his “apple bar.” As I place the items in front of him he launches into his morning ritual of thank yous. “Thank you for my napkin. Thank you for my medicine. Thank you for my water. Thank you for my ‘apple bar’.” He takes his medicine, chews his vitamin, and then eats his “apple bar.” It’s the same routine every morning, and he is generally content.

Except that one morning. He was struggling to get his shoes on so I told him to come out to the table and we would put them on later. He reluctantly sat down at the table as I began to dole out his morning supplies.

“I don’t have my shoes on,” he states in a monotone.

“I know," I say back to him while mindlessly pulling the clean dishes from the dishwasher and putting them away. "Your laces have knots in them so we’ll put them on your feet later.”

“But I can’t have my ‘apple bar’ with no shoes.”

“Sure you can,” I reply back.

“No, I can’t.” Not having shoes on, whether on the right feet or not, has put a hitch in his morning, and possibly for the rest of his day. I reassure him that we will put his shoes on after he is done with his breakfast, but this does little to reduce the anxiety that I can tell is building inside of him. By not having his shoes on he struggles with what to do next. I prompt him through each step and by the time he has finished eating his “apple bar” he isn’t doing any better. This is just one of the many examples of how dependent Ronald can be with his routines.

But I digress…

By the time Ronald is done at the table on this particular morning, Angelica is already on her school bus and on her way to torment a small group of adults at her pre-school.

“Daddy Thomas, can you help me with my butt-ins?” In speech therapy Ronald is learning to put more emphasis on his consonants so sometimes one word sounds more like two or three.

Ronald is wearing a powder blue polo shirt with thin white and pink stripes running horizontally. If Ronald is wearing a polo shirt he usually wants every “butt-in” done. I know that he’s done buttons before, so I say, “Ronald, I want you to try to do them by yourself. If after trying you still aren’t able to do them then I’ll help you.”

Without evening lifting a finger he says, “I can’t do it.”

“Yes you can,” I reply back enthusiastically.

“I no can do it,” he says. I can tell from the lack of structure in his sentence that he’s becoming frustrated.

I kneel down so I’m at his height and give him a little pep talk, “Ronald, in our house, in our family, we try before we give up or say we can’t do something. Now, I would really like it if you tried doing your buttons before saying you can’t do it.”

His bottom lip pops out and his head drops down. “I don’t wanna.”

Normally I would say something cheeky like, “You know, pouting about it isn’t going to change anything.” But in a moment of parental genius -- if I do say so myself – I come up with a different tactic. “Well, I can see that you’re feeling sad right now so I think you need to go to your room and have some ‘Ronald time’ until you’re feeling happy.”

He comes back with, “Nooooo, I’m not sad!”

As I lead him to his bedroom I’m telling him, “Oh yes you are. And you know what? It’s okay to be sad.”

He sits down on his bedroom floor and he turns on what Jim and I have termed as his “fake crying/sobbing.” As I gently close his bedroom door his “sobbing” becomes louder.

About two minutes go by and the sobbing hasn’t decreased. This isn’t unusual so I just let him get it out of his system. We’ve been told by therapists that it’s good for both children to self-soothe during moments like this.

Then, through his exaggerated sobbing, I hear him scream, “I’M HAPPEEEE! I’M HAPPEEEE!” The only thing missing was a “GOD DAMMIT!” in between his two happy moments!

I can’t help but laugh to myself. I decide to leave him alone for several more minutes. When I don’t hear anymore sobbing, or anymore “I’M HAPPEEEEs!” I quietly open his bedroom door and see him sitting on the floor trying to do his button.

He looks up at me as a completely different little person and calmly says, “Look Daddy Thomas. I’m doing my butt-in.”

Sure enough, with his little hands trembling, he is trying to get the button through the button hole. With every ounce of determination he gets the button through the hole and looks up at me, his eyes filled with surprise, and says, “I did my butt-in, Daddy Thomas!”

“I knew you could do it, Ronald.”

With his face taken over by a smile and his blue eyes twinkling he says, “Yeah, I can do my butt-ins now.”

“I want to tell you something very important. Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, I’m listening,” Ronald replies.

“Just because I didn’t help you with your button doesn’t mean I don’t love you. And Daddy Jim and I will never ask you to do something that we know you can’t do. When you get bigger and older there will be all sorts of things that Daddy Jim and I do for you now that you’re going to be able to do for yourself, and then you won’t want us to help you.”

“Like my butt-ins and tying my shoes.”

“Exactly. And getting your breakfast and making your lunch.”

“I get my own lunch at school.”

“That’s right, you do. And after you get your lunch who do you help get their lunch?”

“I help my friend, Gus.”

“That’s right, you help Gus get his lunch and you help him so he can eat his lunch.” Ronald nods his head in agreement. “Why does Gus need someone to help him?”

“Because Gus doesn’t have any fingers. But I have fingers!” Ronald then launches into counting his ten fingers.

“Does Gus have any arms?”

“He just has one small arm.”

“So Gus needs someone to help him, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. And I’m his friend and I help him.”

“You’re a very good friend to Gus.”

“Yep! I’m a good helper.”

“And because you and Gus are friends you talk about Sponge Bob, and all sorts of things.”

“Sponge Bob and Pat-wick are friends just like me and Gus are friends, and Sponge Bob lives in a pineapple and works at the Krusty Krab and makes crabby patties, and…”

I cut him off with, “…and you did your button!”

“And I did my butt-in. Are you happy and proud?”

I kneel down so we’re looking at each other eye-to-eye. “I’m very proud of you, buddy.” I open up my arms and give him a hug. “Give me a big hug,” I say. Ronald squeezes his arms even tighter around me.

When we’re done hugging I say, “I love you.”

He replies with, “I love you too!”

“I love you three,” I say back and we both laugh.

“Daddy Thomas. Will you help me with my top butt-in?”

“Well, since you did such a good job on the bottom button then I’ll help you with the top one.”

“The top butt-in is harder,” he says. I agree with him that sometimes top buttons can be harder as I easily slide the button through the hole. “But when I get bigger I do it all by myself.”

by Thomas L-L 04/17/11

In Training...

We do it every day (recommended), sometimes two or three times a day (wow!), and yet it’s the one thing we don’t talk about very much, unless you’re Oprah (this might be one of her favorite daily things), or you find yourself with two children who haven’t been potty trained. If you guessed “poop” then you’re absolutely right. If you guessed something else then you haven’t raised young children (or it’s been a while since you have) or you’re not an Oprah fan as “poop” has been a topic on several occasions…Is it shaped like a “C” or an “S”?

My first “hands on” experience was with Humphrey, the shepherd/lab dog I rescued in June 2007. I was living in LA at the time and had to drive out to Santa Monica to meet Humphrey and then take him home with me. My friend Lisa and her eleven year old son, Lyndon, came along with me because Lisa was interested in meeting another dog, who she ended up adopting the following week (a Chihuahua she named “Peanut”). The rescue worker told me that Humphrey had been experiencing some diarrhea recently, which they attributed to nerves and him having a sensitive stomach. So before the four of us piled into my VW Jetta I thought it was prudent to take Humphrey for a walk around the block just in case he had to go, which he did. As we’re driving back to LA Humphrey is pacing around the back seat and trying to stick his head out the window. We all did our best to try and calm him down thinking that he didn’t like riding in a car. Since Lyndon was sitting in the back seat he ended up taking the brunt of all of this and did his best to try and put this 75 pound dog at ease.

About forty minutes later we finally arrived at my apartment. Before parking my car into my narrow parking space I let Lisa out first and suggested she get Humphrey out of the back seat, thinking he was more than ready to get out of the car as well. She opened up the back door on Lyndon’s side and Humphrey trampled across him and leaped out of the car. I tended to Lyndon, who was complaining about all of the dog slobber he had all over him, while Lisa took Humphrey to the neighbors’ backyard. After I parked the car Lisa came over with Humphrey and said, “This is one amazing dog you have here! As soon as he found the grass he vomited and had explosive diarrhea.” I was trying to figure out what exactly was amazing about this feat when she chimed in with, “There aren’t many dogs that would have held all that in for that long.” I looked over at Lyndon and said, “I guess dog slobber doesn’t seem so bad now, does it?”

Humphrey’s diarrhea continued for about two weeks, which only involved one accident in my apartment, easily keeping him in the “amazing dog” category. But when I would take him out for his daily walks around the neighborhood (at least three to four times) there was no way to be a responsible dog owner and “pick up” after him given how lose everything was. The neighborhood I lived in was very dog friendly, but they didn’t look kindly upon dog owners not picking up after their dogs. So I devised a plan that when Humphrey began to squat I would slide a folded piece of newspaper right underneath him that his poop would land on (okay, sometimes it sprayed so I made sure to keep my distance). Then I would pick it up by the four corners and place it in the plastic bag, tie it off (holding my breath) and toss it in the nearest dumpster or trash can. I continued to do this with Humphrey from then on, even after the diarrhea had passed (so-to-speak), as an efficient and sanitary way of picking up my pooch’s poop. At the time George W was President so it was fun seeing how good Humphrey’s aim was!

When Jim and I were in the process of becoming foster parents we were eventually informed that both children were still wearing diapers and hadn’t been potty trained yet. Let me just say right now, I would deal with Humphrey’s diarrhea issues any day over poopy diapers. At least I didn’t have to wipe Humphrey’s ass or deal with poop caked on his butt or oozing out of the back of a diaper. At some point you begin to accept this as the norm -- there isn’t a defining moment, it just happens. From then on it became a challenge to see how quickly I could do a diaper change, from snapping on the rubber gloves to tying off the diaper bag. I never officially timed myself (that would have been too anal), but when your own kid looks at you in amazement at how fast they’re out of a dirty diaper and into a clean one, you know you’ve set a new record. You’ve also just reinforced to them, in your own efforts to be efficient, that this pooping in the diaper thing isn’t so bad after all.

And just when you think you’re mastering the whole poopy diaper dilemma there comes a day when you don’t find the poop in the diaper. Don’t get your hopes up because it wasn’t in the potty either. Hmmmm, where could it be?

One Sunday morning I came home after playing tennis and saw Angelica gleefully running naked from the laundry room and through the kitchen. At that precise moment I hear Jim yell, “ANGELICA, get back in here!” I dropped my tennis bag to the floor and immediately found myself torn between chasing after the naked cherub and searching for my husband. Before I was forced to make a decision Jim appeared with a rubber glove on one hand and carrying a plastic bag in the other – not a good sign!

“Your daughter just pooped on the laundry room floor.”

“You can’t be serious,” I replied, channeling John McEnroe (fitting since I was in my tennis clothes). (If you’re not a tennis fan, or even familiar with tennis, then this reference probably won’t make any sense to you. Sorry.)

“Oh I’m serious all right. She took off from their bedroom and when I finally found her she was in the corner of the laundry room taking a dump!”

Sure enough, there it was in the corner (thank goodness the floor was linoleum). At least she didn’t have diarrhea. But some newspaper would have come in handy!

To be continued (oh yes, I have plenty of material)....

--Thomas LL