Chapter Six: Flying Solo (Day One)​​​

 

     Even with the kids', my week of Alma training flew by in what seemed like thirty seconds. Suddenly I had no backup - I was truly on my own.

 

     I got up a half-hour before Alma on her first day of work, hoping for some last-minute pearls of wisdom that would allow me and the kids to survive the day intact. As I continued in a vain attempt to locate the oatmeal, Alma tried her best to be supportive.

 

     “You’re hopping around like a hamster on speed. You do that in front of the kids, and you’ll be dead before you start. Do you want advice?  Never, ever let them see you’re panicked. Remember Shark Week?  Children can also smell blood. If they do, they’ll rip you apart in no time.”

 

     “You realize this is our home, not Amity Island?”

 

     “Don’t ever think the two are any different. They’re kids - you need to herd them. You can let them graze a little in front of the TV, but otherwise, your job is to simply move them from point A to Point B, eventually reaching bedtime with all the other steps we talked about occurring along the way.” 

 

     Disturbingly, Alma’s grazing metaphor did calm my nerves. After kissing Alma goodbye, I prepared for the great awakening.

 

     As instructed by both women in my life, I woke Emily at nine o’clock that morning. Usually a late sleeper, Emily had informed us she wanted an earlier wake time in preparation for the start of kindergarten. Emily’s rising also brought the first challenge of my new job description – the morning wardrobe.

 

     Like most guys, I paid little attention to my daily attire. When I was working, I wore a grey suit with a matching shirt and tie. As clothing-challenged as I was, even I managed not to screw that up. Weekends meant jeans and either a sweat or T-shirt. On those days, I didn’t even have to worry about matching colors. The fact I dressed like a hundred million other guys wasn’t remotely a consideration.

 

     Not so for my daughter. For Emily, an item of clothing worn on a certain day of the week must always be worn that same day of every week in succession. That worked fine if the day’s clothing was available. If not, there would be hell to pay.

 

     A white sweatshirt with a pink and blue unicorn, Monday’s outfit was one of Emily’s favorites. This particular shirt featured a unicorn wearing shades, perhaps hoping to appear cool in front of his friends at the unicorn disco.

 

     Sunglasses or no, Emily loved that shirt and would wear nothing else on a Monday.

After ten minutes of poring through the items in her closet, I finally tracked down the wayward unicorn shirt in a clothes basket on our laundry room floor. The shirt, still stained and unready to wear, would not make it through the laundry for another ninety minutes.

 

     My daughter was getting impatient, and I needed some major-league spin. I made my career in marketing - I could do this.

 

     “How about you wear your Tuesday shirt today. I’ll wash your Monday shirt right now, and it’ll be ready for you to wear tomorrow morning.”

 

     Not a good beginning - I tried something new. “What if you wear your pajamas for a couple of hours this morning. While you’re doing that, I’ll wash your shirt, and you can put it on when it’s dry.”

 

     The mad face softened, if only slightly. Taking advantage of my reprieve, I grabbed the soiled unicorn shirt. With Emily supervising, I threw it into our washer and set it to a cycle I prayed would not result in the shirt’s destruction. Moving from laundry to food, I grabbed the box of Cheerios, Emily’s new cereal de jour, and quickly threw some in a bowl.

 

     Unfortunately, I was not quick enough. The thump from upstairs was unmistakable - Jack was moving, and his crib was in jeopardy.

 

     Alma and I had learned early on of our son’s affinity for dismantling the world around him. It wasn’t like we handed him tools. Something of a mechanical savant, Jack never seemed to require any.

 

     Our initial clue to our son’s inherent ability was the little red and yellow toy train we bought for his first birthday. The gift was age-appropriate, too large to fit in a child’s mouth, and with no dislodgeable parts capable of even the slightest bit of mayhem. Still in the crawling stage, Jack seemed quite happy pushing his train forward as he scooted along the floor.

 

     The train scooting phase lasted a single week - then Jack went hardcore. A week after Jack’s birthday, Alma was stunned to discover his toy in three pieces along our dining room floor. Neither my wife nor I ever figured out how Jack accomplished this feat. We first assumed Emily was the culprit, but Emily rarely walked into Jack’s room, much less played with his “baby” train.

 

     Over the next two years, several of Jack’s other toys met a similar fate. Among the casualties were a plastic Buzz Lightyear and a garage designed to hold Jack’s multiple toy trucks.

 

     With the aid of a nanny-cam borrowed from Alma’s sister, we finally realized our toddler son had learned the use of tools. In the case of the garage, that meant he adapted the mini decorative barrier that wrapped around its side. Being diligent parents, we took the faux tools away from Jack. Being persistent, Jack had no problem finding substitutes.

 

     Fortunately, Jack had shown no desire to swallow any of these objects - on most days, we could barely get our son to eat real food.  Hoping for the best, Alma and I initially treated Jack’s mechanical ability as a curiosity, something amusing to show the grandparents at family visits. We stopped laughing when Jack turned three and began dismantling the roughly thirty-six-thousand childproof locks Alma had placed around our home.

 

     Several of those locks had given Alma and me problems. Before Jack went to work, the cabinet next to our stove had remained unopened for so long we were beginning to forget what it contained. Jack himself never seemed overly interested in what lay beyond the once-locked doors. The mere act of opening seemed enough for his three-year-old curiosity.  

 

     Jack didn’t pay attention to his crib until he had opened enough of our child-proof locks to no longer find them challenging. That stage now reached, my son began jimmying his crib latch the month before Alma started her new job. Knowing I would soon be taking over, my wife warned me to be on the lookout for an escape.

 

     With Emily eating her Cheerios, I raced upstairs to greet my wayward son. Running into Jack’s room, I found him working on his crib’s latch mechanism with a small plastic connector from his toddler toy train set – my son’s version of a jailhouse shiv. Realizing it was well past time to invest in another toddler bed, I grabbed Jack and his shiv, admonishing him while doing so.

 

     “Jack, you have to stop opening things. If not, I’ll take your train set away until you learn how to use it properly.”

Looking back at me with innocent brown eyes, Jack’s reply was succinct if pointed.

“Hate crib.” 

 

     How could one argue with that sort of logic?  Unmoved by the threatened loss of his toy, Jack still looked disturbingly pleased with his accomplishment. Reminding myself to search later for more tool-like implements, I rushed Jack to his potty seat for his next morning ritual.

 

     After weeks of cajoling, begging, and even outright bribery, Jack had finally become potty-trained two months before his third birthday. That being said, there was still the occasional accident, most occurring in the morning before Jack was dressed. Today Jack finished his morning constitutional without incident, even remembering to complete the process by washing his hands. It was now dressing time.

​

     This portion of the morning was less dramatic than it had been with Emily. Like most boys his age, Jack had little interest in what clothes he was wearing. If Alma and I allowed it, he would have been happy to dispense with clothing altogether. Not quite willing to sink that far, I dug up a pair of shorts and a reasonably matching T-Rex short-sleeved shirt.

​

     We were ready for breakfast – part two. Jack’s favorite word might be Cheerios, but for breakfast Jack was an applesauce man. After confirming this was still the case, I grabbed a bowl, spooned some Mott’s from a jar, and my son was ready to go.

​

     While setting up Jack’s meal, I saw Emily had undertaken the next part of her morning routine - the reading of the day’s Bob book. Alma and I had purchased a set of Bob books for Emily at the recommendation of Alma’s psychotic older sister. While not exactly exciting, the books were perfect for how most kids learn to read, relying on short, easily pronounceable words to boost the learner’s skill level. The pictures were also helpful, though they initially misled us as to Emily’s progress.

​

     With the Bob Books as her guide, Emily took to reading with the same ferocity she approached all other tasks. Sounding out words like “Matt sat,” Emily flew through the books at a record pace, finishing a new Bob book every one to two days.

​

     It wasn’t until Emily showed off her newfound skills to her grandparents that Alma and I realized we might have misjudged the speed of her advancement. Looking at a page featuring Sam walking his dog, Emily informed us that “Sam has a knife.“  My mother looked at Alma and me, and I looked at Emily - perhaps these books were more interesting than I realized.

 

     Alas, it was not to be. After some questioning, we realized Emily had taken a shortcut around word-sounding by simply interpreting the pictures on each page. After that eye-opening session with Grandma and Grandpa, Alma and I took turns practicing each word with Emily page by page. Her progress was slower, but she seemed happy, nonetheless.

 

     It also might have been fortuitous we discovered Emily’s workaround when we did. After Emily went to bed one evening, I read through her next Bob book to preview upcoming attractions. Noticing Sam wearing a red cone-shaped robe and a matching pointed hat, I couldn’t help make the association.

​

     “Sam looks like he’s wearing the party hat your sister used to drink whisky sours at our last New Year’s party.”

​

     “You say that in front of Emily,” Alma replied. “and she’ll repeat it to your parents. That and the knife might push them into reassessing our parenting skills.”

​

     I kept my sense of humor to myself, and Emily stuck with the Bob books, convinced everyone in her kindergarten class would be reading but her. While attempting to keep her brother from decorating the kitchen floor with his applesauce, I tried to be there for her as best I could.

     

     I was determined to keep to Alma’s written schedule as much as possible. After breakfast and reading time came a TV break. Unfortunately, Alma had neglected to let me know what show.

In her best big sister voice, Emily said, “It’s my turn to pick - I want SpongeBob.”

Her brother, no fan of sponges or pineapples under the sea, would have none of it. “Little Bear, Little Bear, Little Bear,” Jack chanted.

 

     I cut him off before he reached his third Little Bear. My children were staring at me, both hoping for a decision in their favor. Homer, wandering into the room after cleaning Jack’s spilled applesauce, was also beginning to look interested. Did dogs have TV preferences? 

 

     Realizing I had the beginnings of a headache, I stalled for time. Looking at Jack, I said, “How about we watch SpongeBob first and Little Bear afterward?  We can record one while we watch the other.”

Undeterred by my attempt at diplomacy, Jack again began his Little Bear chant. Just as I was wondering if I could beg for my old job, I had a sudden epiphany. We would make this into a game.

 

     “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll hold onto Homer and hand each of you a dog treat. Jack, you stand over here,” I said, pointing to a spot on my right, “and Emily, you stand to my left. Whoever Homer goes to first wins and gets to pick today’s show. The loser gets to pick what we watch first tomorrow. Does that sound good?”        

Both my children eventually concurred. While uncertain how he got roped into this contest, Homer felt comfortable with any compromise that resulted in a canine treat. All parties in agreement, I grabbed two dog biscuits from the container in the kitchen and returned to the TV room. While holding Homer with one hand, I gave each of my children a dog biscuit and motioned them to their designated spots.

 

     Still uncertain what he did to earn this good fortune, Homer remained motionless, staring at me in confusion. I waited a minute longer; so did Homer. My kids were growing restless.

 

     “If we keep waiting,” Emily pointed out impatiently, “we’re going to miss both shows.”

Jack stamped his foot, suddenly in agreement with his sister. Even Homer was looking agitated. If I waited any longer, I would have a full-blown riot on my hands.

 

     “Okay, we move to Plan B. Before he has a stroke, I need both of you to hand your treats to Homer. As far as the TV goes, age carries certain benefits. Emily gets to pick today’s show, and Jack will pick first tomorrow.”

 

     Jack was less than thrilled, but he accepted my decision with more equanimity than I expected. Alma was right – herding was the operative word. I wondered if Amazon carried cattle prods.        

 

     As Emily and Jack sat down to watch SpongeBob, I prepared for my own personal Plan B, intending to bring down my laptop and work on a website project I had accepted just one week before. Before grabbing my computer, I figured I would watch at least a few minutes of today’s episode.

 

     Thirty minutes later, I realized I had gotten completely sucked into the world of Bikini Bottom. As much as I watched the show, I also watched my kids watching the show. Jack had a constant stream of questions his big sister was only too happy to answer, if in a slightly big sister way.

​

     “Where did the sponge buy his pants?”

​

     I wondered about that myself. Fortunately, Emily had a response.

​

     “He calls Amazon. They have two-day delivery.”

​

     My turn - “What about the meat for the Krabby patties?

 

     “Same thing.  Where we are, Amazon uses use drones and UPS. For Bikini Bottom, they use subs.”  She was as logical as her mother. I was frightened to think what would happen when she entered school.

 

     Eventually, Jack had a question that stumped even his sister. Pointing to SpongeBob and his friend sitting around a campfire, Jack asked the obvious question, “They’re underwater. How does the fire stay on?”

Not a bad question for a three-year-old. Emily looked at me for help, and for once, I had an answer. My father had once gifted me a subscription to Popular Mechanics. As a married man, he feared I might one day be called on to actually do something mechanical.

 

     While Dad’s primary goal remained unfulfilled, I did read all the magazines. For the first time in memory, one of those articles came in handy. Praying for no follow-up questions, I gave it my best shot.

 

     “They use a substance called thermite. It burns hot enough to light a fire underwater.”

Jack and Emily looked doubtful, but I found a YouTube video. It was not easy to see, but it did show a fire under some remote lake. I was super dad once more. I abandoned my work plan, and the kids and I finished watching SpongeBob together.

 

     Later. I put Jack down for his nap; Emily forgoing hers in preparation for kindergarten. With Jack upstairs, Emily decided to take her academic prep up one more notch. She brought out her color and number flashcards, asking me to play teacher.

 

     “It’s purple,” Emily said as I held up the first card.

 

     “It looks a little plum to me.”

 

     I got that look again - one of many traits Emily inherited from her mother.  “It’s purple, Dad. Plums are fruit.”

Clearly, I was not to go off-script. Chastened, I went through cards, numbers, and all the animals in the farmyard. Emily and I finished just as we heard Jack on the monitor.

 

     Lunch went more smoothly than breakfast. Jack had discovered he enjoyed spaghetti, one of the few preferences he shared with his sister. Spaghetti was also one of the few foods I could make without the risk of food poisoning, so pasta was a match made in heaven.

 

     While the kids were eating, I showed Emily and Jack how you could make a lasso out of a single spaghetti strand, a decision I soon regretted when Jack turned the finished product into a hangman’s noose. As I watched him execute his small fork, I knew Alma would have my head if she found out. I just hoped she wouldn’t then decide to work her way down.

 

     “Maybe we should avoid the subject of lassos with your mother.” 

Both kids heard the pleading in my voice, and I remembered too late Alma saying I should never show fear. Unfortunately, I couldn’t take it back - Emily did the bargaining.

 

     “Can we go outside after lunch?”

 

     “It’s January. It’s only thirty degrees outside. Besides, I don’t see outdoor time anywhere on your mother’s schedule.” 

 

     Emily just stared - she knew she had me.

 

     “Just what do you guys intend to do outside?”

 

     Emily had things all figured out. “We,” she said, again borrowing her mother’s determined look, “are going to build a snowman.”

 

     I looked at Jack. Less verbal but just as persistent, he chanted, “snowman, snowman, snowman.”

 

     I looked out the window. There was still plenty of snow from a storm just three days before, and today’s relatively high temperature meant the drifts would pack. Even if they didn’t, the potential for blackmail was very real - we were going outside.

 

     As far as winter weather is concerned, Greater Cleveland is divided into three regions. Consisting of those cities to the west of the Cuyahoga River, region one received a reasonable amount of snow, almost enough to justify those expensive snowblowers the hardware stores were always pushing on their customers.

 

     The second, more hard-hit region included those Greater Cleveland cities just east of the Cuyahoga. That region received considerably more snow - region two residents cursing the weather and spending their off-hours praying for global warming. Many region two dwellers test their two-stage snow blowers as early as July “just to make sure.” 

 

     Residents in the third “heaviest snow” region thought the people in the other two districts were wimps. Not bothering with snow blowers, region three inhabitants use their John Deere and Ford F-150 assisted plows to remove their snow, all the while imagining how it would be to have a real machine, like the ones used by those city employees who cleared the streets all winter.  

 

     My South Euclid home fit squarely in region two, which meant I had snow-cursing privileges as long as the kids weren’t around to listen. For their part, Emily and Jack both loved the season, reminding me every winter how I once did as well.

​

     After handing Emily her boots, coat, hat, and gloves, I dressed Jack, trying for the layered effect Alma used when the weather got cold. When I finally got things right, Jack decided he needed to go to the bathroom. Following that little adventure, I calmed a now-impatient Emily, redressed Jack, and we were ready to go.

 

     Once outside, even I had to admit the snow was beautiful. Slightly damp, it crunched underfoot the way snow should when you walked on it. Stomping our way to the middle of our backyard, the kids and I began to make our snowman. Homer did his best to help, his assistance consisting of biting the snow as Jack, Emily, and I rolled it to the desired size and shape.

 

     Our snowman was complete in just over an hour, finished off with buttons from Alma’s button drawer. I always wondered why women kept those things. I figured it was in some sort of manual, but today they came in handy.

Finished with their primary task, both kids were getting cold. Before we went in, I had one more suggestion.

 

     “Let’s make some snow angels!”

 

     Emily and Jack began to back away. I had managed to scare my children, and I had no idea how.

 

     “Didn’t Mommy ever show you how to make snow angels?”

 

     Emily finally found her voice. “Mommy said her grandfather became an angel after he died.”

 

     I was right - I had terrified them. I tried again. “Watch me, and if you don’t want to do one, we’ll go right inside.”

 Lying in an unblemished patch of snow, I began flapping my arms, snow angel style. The kids’ expressions transformed from nervous to curious, a definite step up from terrified. I stood up, and the three of us surveyed my handiwork.

 

     “See,” I said, pointing, “That’s a snow angel.”

 

     A fan of Christmas angels, Emily was delighted. Jack didn’t see the connection, but anything that involved lying down in the snow was okay with him. The purpose now clear, my two kids angeled away while keeping clear from Homer’s designated bathroom space in the far back corner of our yard.

 

     Having created angel shapes in all but Homer’s corner, the kids were finished and ready to come back inside. I briefly considered a snowball fight but decided to leave well enough alone. Now inside and having ditched our outdoor clothing, I realized there was one more task at hand: Alma was due back, and I needed to make dinner.

 

     Even with a recipe in hand, my dinner-making skills were less than ideal. Alma had years ago agreed to take on the task, more out of self-preservation than any culinary pretensions of her own.

My issues with mixing ingredients and following instructions were first noticed by the instructors in my college chemistry lab, a few of whom figured out a way to profit from my incompetence.

 

     In my defense, I had no interest whatsoever in the study of chemistry. I had signed up for the lab to fill the one-semester science course required of even non-technical students at Case Western Reserve University. A friend had told me the course was easy. That friend and I never spoke much after that semester.

 

     My issues were apparent from the first experiment. Working alone, we were told to mix chemicals A, B, and C – I blocked their real names long ago - and afterward observe the result.

 

     The popping sounds around me testified to the success of my classmates’ endeavors, but my glass tube sat un-popped. The instructor came over to help, asking me to repeat the process.

 

     Suddenly the eyes of all my fellow students were upon me. Who allowed this moron in their midst?  With the pressure on, I compounded the problem by grabbing the wrong chemical before my instructor realized my error. Luckily he managed to contain the fire, but his demeanor was considerably less friendly for the remainder of the period.

 

     My later experiments were not nearly as explosive, but my lack of success in the chemistry lab continued throughout the semester. Eventually, the assistants started a pool, the betting aimed at predicting at what point my endeavors would go south.

 

     Recognizing I was hopelessly out of my depth, I quit the course on the last day possible before the inevitable failure was etched in my college record. After informing my instructor, he appeared surprisingly melancholy.

 

     Passing him on my way out the door, I said: “I figured you’d be happier.”

 

     “On one level I am, but betting against you almost paid for my new TV.”

 

     My lack of success in chem lab transferred to most of my attempts at cooking. My list of successful culinary experiments was limited to just three items - lasagna, spaghetti, and chili. Having had spaghetti for lunch, I decided to go with lasagna, placing the noodles, cheese, and sauce in a glass baking dish located behind one of the childproof locks I could actually open. I placed my concoction in the oven and began work on a salad as Alma returned from her first day.

 

     Emily and Jack ran to the door to greet their mom; the relief on their faces a sad testament to my parenting skills. For her part, Alma looked just as happy. Gazing down at her children, she exclaimed, “Thank God you’re alive!”

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     I shook my head. “Your faith in my abilities has been duly noted.”

 

     “I was joking. You’re a good father. I just figured there would be a learning curve.”

Jack, still wrapped liked an octopus around Alma’s left leg, said: “Mom, Dad made us lie down in the snow and pretend we were angels.”

 

     Alma looked at me with upraised eyes - perhaps her worries were not so misplaced after all.

“They were snow angels, Jack, snow angels. You can show Mommy out the back window.”

 

     Not wanting to be outdone, Emily said, “Daddy also showed us how to make a noose out of spaghetti.”

Alma was giving me one of those looks again, a bit more serious this time.

 

     “It was a lasso, I swear.”   

 

     Perhaps to avoid any further confessions, Alma went upstairs to change her clothes. Turning to Emily, I said, “No one likes a stool pigeon.”

 

     “I’m sorry, Daddy. I forgot I wasn’t supposed to tell.”

 

     I wasn’t really mad. Gazing at Emily’s earnest little face, only a monster could be.

 

     Our oven picked that moment to announce the lasagna was complete, so I placed Jack and Emily in their assigned seats and began spooning out the food, the lasagna turning out reasonably decent. While I knew tomorrow’s meal would necessitate opening one of Alma’s precious cookbooks, I had no wish to think too far ahead. Instead, I asked Alma about her day.

 

     Like my own, Alma’s day was busy - very busy. After a brief orientation, the school administrator threw Alma in on the deep end with department head introductions and Skype meetings with the other centers Cranberg was teaming with as part of their research. I had wondered if Alma would miss teaching, but that still seemed more like a perk than a disadvantage.

 

     While eating, the kids relayed the other details of their day. Overall I received positive reviews for my parenting skills, and Alma and I agreed to purchase a toddler bed for Jack this coming weekend. After dinner, the four of us watched Aladdin, Jack’s personal favorite. That brought us to bath time.

Bath time in our home was the stuff of nightmares, a cross between the Poseidon Adventure and Titanic – the real-life version without the romance.

 

     Jack went first. In his three-year-old wisdom, my son had recently learned how to blow bathtub bubbles, rarely from his mouth. To Jack, his eruptions were hilarious, made more so by the distressed reactions of his mother and sister. For my part, I tried hard not to giggle, a feat made more difficult when Jack attempted a Raffi tune, a version even Alma admitted sounded better than the original.

 

     Once Jack finished, Alma dressed him in his pajamas and paraded him to bed, Emily singing, “Kill the Beast,” as her brother exited the bathroom. While it had become an evening ritual, Alma still shook her head.

 

     “The people who write those parenting books would run from the room screaming.”

 

     “The people who write those parenting books,” I replied, lowering Jack into his crib, “never had to put these two little monsters to bed.”

 

     Emily’s bathtub routine was less physical comedy and more fantasy melodrama - my little actress playing the part from whatever TV show/movie caught her attention that day. These renditions had their high and low points, the worst following a TV session when Alma briefly wandered from the room only to find the channel switched to General Hospital.  That evening’s performance led us to expand the number of parental blocks on our cable TV.

 

     Echoing Jack, tonight’s performance was a series of Raffi tunes, the first involving a baby whale. I tuned out the others – it was either that or run screaming from the room.

 

     “Why do we let her listen to that crap?” I asked Alma after we put Emily to bed.

​

     “Just wait till she gets older and you hear what she’s singing. You’ll be praying for Raffi then.”

 

     “There are devil worshipers who won’t pray for Raffi. Most consider him too extreme.”

 

     “Just wait and see.”

 

     I tried to imagine music worse than Raffi, but the possibility was too horrible to contemplate. Trying to get the music out of my head, I sat down with Alma and asked more about her day. The more human stuff I understood, the clinical aspects were well out of my league.

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     More importantly, my wife seemed happy. Sitting on the couch with Alma, I realized I was too. Maybe this plan would work after all.