Things have changed just a little bit in the time since Justin’s trip. Back then we actually bought him his own ticket and sat him comfortably in his car seat during the flight. The budget didn’t allow for a separate seat for Brina this time around, so she is going to be snuggled up with mommy. While Justin’s was a post-9/11 flight wrought with all the drama that comes with it, the rules for flying with breast milk have been relaxed a bit [click here for info] . Basically, the a-holes are no longer making mothers taste their own milk to make sure it isn’t explosive.

As the Daddy who is staying home, my responsibilities are fairly light. I’m home with Sabrina today while Mel runs some last minute errands, and I will be driving them to the airport. After that, Justin and I will succumb to a Nintendo Wii-induced coma before I glue my eyes to the television for the NBA playoffs.

With the weather getting warmer, some of you may be taking your babies on their first flights soon, so I’ve provided some great web resources for you:

• FlyingWithKids.com offers tones of tips for keeping your kid happy during the flight and not going nuts.
• BabiesTravelLite.com will actually ship your formula, diapers and wipes to your destination so you don’t have to pack it.
• Looking for a family-friendly airline? Check this list from Cookie Magazine.

Safe travels!

Should you kiss your kids on the mouth?

Deep Cover: The breastfeeding debate

Now, I’m not going to dive into the pool of questioning anyone’s sexuality, but I do have some clear feelings on the issue of kissing your kids. As far as Baby’s assertion that Wayne is his “son” thus making a kiss on the mouth appropriate, I totally disagree. I have never kissed my son on the mouth, even as a baby, and my father never kissed me on the mouth. To show affection, we hugged, or I’d give him a peck on the cheek, but most often my Dad gave me a rub on my head while I was doing my homework. I think that’s why I’m bald now, but that’s another story for another day…

If I were to give any leeway to a man kissing his son on the mouth, I’d have to put the cutoff age at 2 years old. Babies are adorable and I can’t fault anyone for kissing a sweet newborn on the mouth, but when he’s old enough to wipe his own butt, that needs to stop.

I do feel that there is a different standard for mothers and specifically for girls, but age plays a huge factor to me. While I’m not a big fan of mothers kissing their sons on the mouth either, my wife does do it to our six-year-old Justin from time to time. However, even she knows that the time is coming pretty soon where she’ll have to stop. Conversely, our 3-month-old daughter gets the mouth kiss from her constantly, but I’ve yet to do it. I’ll kiss Sabrina on her cheeks, forehead, hands and even her little feet but I’ve never felt compelled to kiss her on the mouth. Some of my female friends have said they kissed their fathers on the mouth until they were about 8-years-old and agreed that the practice should stop once a certain age is reached.

I acknowledge that there are cultures or families where parents kissing their kids on the mouth is normal, but it’s not for me.

Deep Cover: The Breastfeeding Debate

Though “Chappelle’s Show” stopped taping years ago, that sketch lives on in my house. My son was breastfed and our daughter is being given breast milk as well. At the conclusion of many feedings, my wife will sing the breast milk song to celebrate another full belly.

Beyond the health benefits to a baby, breastfeeding has been a financial lifesaver to us. The Medela breast pump that we purchased six years ago for our son is still pushing along for our daughter, and with infant formula costing almost $20 a can (depending on the size), we are saving a considerable amount of money. CLICK HERE FOR A CHART.

The other benefit of pumping is that I actually get to help with the feedings. We keep several containers of milk in the fridge and have almost a gallon in the basement freezer for when my wife returns to work.

There has been some controversy about breastfeeding in public and from experience I don’t have a problem with it, as long as it’s discreet. We were recently at a neighborhood diner when Sabrina finished the bottle we brought with us and demanded more to eat. I don’t think any crying child should be left hungry, so my wife covered herself with a blanket and let the baby feed.

Some people go further to argue that women shouldn’t have to cover themselves during public breastfeeding, but I honestly feel more comfortable with a little discretion. Why? I’m not completely sure. However, I know that we had a long talk with our son explaining to him what breastfeeding was all about before his sister was born, but I can’t assume the other parents in the diner with their kids felt the same way or had that same discussion. Some families don’t breast feed at all, but now they have to explain to their kid why that lady whipped out her privates to feed a baby.

When we’re in public, we all make polite concessions – even if we’re within our legal rights. We don’t HAVE to cover our noses when we sneeze, but aren’t we all glad we do? Word to the Swine Flu.

How afraid are you of saggy boobs?

I was around Justin’s age the first time my dad took me to work. I remember getting up at some ungodly hour and it still being dark outside when we left. In 1980 we lived in the “unfair zone” of Cambria Heights, Queens, so the commute to midtown Manhattan took a good hour and a half to two hours, but my Dad didn’t so much as yawn the whole way.

After taking the bus to the subway, I just remember staring up at the huge buildings as we walked towards his job at Citibank’s corporate offices. I was like Arnold Jackson stepping out of that limo during the “Diff’rent Strokes” intro. But my Dad just strolled along like it was no big deal.

When we arrived at his job, everyone from the security guard to my Dad’s boss said “I’ve heard so much about you!” which made me wonder what exactly my father was saying about me all this time to all of these people. He was stoic, but couldn’t hide his pride as he said, “this is my son, Jerry.”

The rest of the morning was spent typing my name on anything I could think of and seeing it printed out on these yellow punch cards. When I wasn’t doing that, I was spinning on the chairs and drawing on the white and green paper with holes on the side.

Today the computer has been substantially upgraded, but kids in the office are still kids in the office. I’ve been bringing Justin to work pretty much since he was born and he always has a great time. We drive pretty much everywhere at home, so taking the LIRR and subway was always the adventure for him that it never is for me these days.

However, they weren’t staying the entire day with me we so that my wife could take them home. When Justin realized we were driving into the city, he couldn’t wait until we reached the Midtown Tunnel. I have no idea why it fascinates him so, but it’s his favorite part of the journey into Manhattan. “Look, Daddy, the light is coming up!” Then, when we reach the city, he points out anything that seems familiar, “That’s where we went to the circus!”

The only thing we agree on is our intolerance for traffic. I heard “Why aren’t we moving?” more than a few times heading crosstown.

After settling in at my desk, Justin sat down to click away on NickJr.com and I fed Sabrina. My coworkers marveled at how quiet she was and I had to agree that she was not just showing off – she really is this calm most of the time. After a good burp I took a walk with Sabrina so she could show off her perfectly coordinated purple outfit.

After eating a lunch I packed, Justin took the time to type me this note:

Before long, my wife buzzed to say she was on her way, so it was time to pack it up. I gave Sabrina the rest of her bottle and she promptly fell asleep. Justin wasn’t quite ready to leave, but the promise of seeing his cousins in Boston this weekend got him motivated.

I’m fortunate that my company is open to letting us bring our kids in on just about any day, but I encourage you all to take advantage of Take Your Child To Work Day whenever possible. Unless, of course, you work at Home Depot.

If you’ve been following my blog at all you know how much of a Pokemon fiend my son Justin is. So over the Easter Holiday I borrowed my sister’s Thundercats DVD collection to show him what real cartoons are supposed to look like! When I got home I stuck my chest out and boldly declared to Justin that “Thundercats are better than Pokemon!” and he leapt to their defense, mumbling something about a crystal laser-guided Pokemon that I’d never heard of before. I teased him back, saying that no Pokemon that was a match for Lion-O, The Sword of Omens, or Panthro and his Thunder Tank! He just rolled his eyes as I put the DVDs in and waited for the opening theme song.

At first he tried to player hate because the first episode had no real action, it was just them landing on Earth and Lion-O aging in the capsule giving Snarf a heart attack. When the credits rolled he let out an incredulous, “That’s it?” I told him to be quiet and watch the next episode.

Then things changed.

When he saw the battles with the evil mutants and all the fighting styles of the different Thundercats I definitely had his attention. By the third episode, he already knew the theme song and had choreographed his own dance moves. It was fantastic.

The best part was remembering all of the lessons they actually taught about patience and using your brain instead of rushing into battle first. Justin took a liking to Wilykat and Wilykit, because they were kids like him that got by on their wits even though they were small. (And who remembered that Cliff Huxtable’s dad, actor Earle Hyman, voiced Panthro??) It was just as great as I’d remembered.

Now, does Justin think that Thundercats are better than Pokemon? Watch the video to find out! Which classic cartoon should I show him next?

I have been blessed with an easy-going kid… so far. Sabrina doesn’t make a fuss unless something is really wrong; she’s either hungry, needs changing, wants to sleep or has the illmatic gas bubble sitting in her little chest making things really uncomfortable. In the first 9 weeks of her life I’ve grown pretty adept at discerning what the problems are. The legs kicking means the diaper needs changing, the clicking mouth means she’s hungry, head rocking back and forth Stevie Wonder-style means she’s trying to sleep and needs some incentive, and the Hulkmania arm flex means she’s got gas.

Out of all of her maladies, gas is the hardest to deal with because the fix isn’t automatic. When she’s hungry, a bottle of milk gets her quiet instantly. A diaper change has brought out the most beautiful smiles from this little girl, and when she’s ready to sleep, it’s pretty much non-negotiable. However, the gas has taken a steady hand and a lot of patience. I used to place her over my shoulder with the cloth, old school style, but found that I got the best results sitting her upright with her chest in my right palm and patting her back with my left. On more than one occasion my wife has been in the living room feeding Sabrina and she’ll call me in to burp her. After two taps on the back, Sabrina is belching like Shrek after a plate of snail eyeballs and fungus fondue. I’ve gotten so good at burping her that my wife has dubbed me “The Burp Whisperer.”

You’re reading this and thinking, “What’s the big deal?” But spend some time with an infant with gas, and you’ll understand why. Better yet, drink some soda and instead of letting that first burp out, hold it. Feels uncomfortable as hell, right? Now imagine that you can’t get that burp out without some help, and you’re still thirsty/hungry to boot. That’s why burping is so important.

On another note, Sabrina has rejected her pacifier. While she may take it during some road trips to see my parents, she will not accept it as a substitute for food or in any attempt to quiet her down. For example, if she is hungry and I give her the pacifier to calm her down until the bottle warms, she spits it right out. In general, she refuses to be silenced. Or maybe she just wants a clear path for those burps.

Want to see Sabrina in action? Click here!

Having a newborn usually means long nights, short days, and the occasional… accident!

Are pacifiers for suckers?

Check out the first video edition of Fatherhood Fridays here!

Every good deed deserves a reward. Okay, or maybe a bribe. Which is which?

Well, either way, Jerry teaches Justin to tie his shoes, and he gets the fine prize of a set of Pokemon cards for being a big kid. Fair!

So what’s Justin’s little sister Sabrina up to? Click here to find out!

My son loves report card day. Not because he’s on some early waiting list for MENSA (though he is smart as hell), but because he knows that report card day is damn near like Christmas. Thanks to my father and sister-in-law, good grades have become synonymous with new toys. Making the honor roll means being able to walk into the store and pick out anything he wants. Though his picks are usually within reason, you figure report cards are three times a year, plus the miscellaneous gift for a score of 100 on an exam. Justin brought home all “A”s, so you could just see his eyes light up as he rubbed his hands together.

So I guess I wonder, when do you cross the line from bribing and giving incentive… to straight up bribing your kids? When I was growing up, I never got toys or money for good grades. I had to be happy with a pat on the head and “keep it up” from my Dad. Which sucks in a way cause I was dang near a straight-A student through most of elementary school and would have caked off! But oh well.

Dr. Virginia Shiller, a clinical psychologist and author of Rewards for Kids, (www.rewardsforkids.com) recommends that parents reward their children for short-term (e.g., grades on a project or test) rather than long-term progress (e.g., end of semester report cards). In doing so, parents turn the focus to those small things, like effective study skills, that will have lifelong benefits to the child.

Dr. Shiller also suggests using incentives other than cash and material items. For example, consider planning a special trip or allowing your child to have a friend sleep over. Or maybe they get to sleepover at a friend’s house and you get a night off – Win/Win!

If your kid needs a little more incentive to do well in school, you can always use the Cosby method:

Looks like Justin’s been doing pretty well since starting first grade!

Justin’s a good kid – the biggest reward of all is not being these kids!

To binky, or not to binky?

I am not a pacifist. In today’s blog, I discuss the gift and the curse of the baby pacifier. Every parent knows that silence is golden, but at what price?

Watch the video below and tell me what you think of the addictive, yet useful, pacifier.

Missed Jerry’s first Fatherhood Friday video blog? Check it out here!

While Sabrina’s working her way through the pacifier, Justin’s riding bikes!

Between working and being a new dad, Jerry is on mental overload! so instead of writing his post this week, he introduced us all to the beautiful Sabrina Rose in this video blog! Check it out below.

Not up to date on Fatherhood Fridays? Click here to read more!

So it seems that my blog last week got my whole family trying to throw shade. Well, not really, but my daughter is so cute that everyone wants to claim she looks like them. Can’t say I blame them, but daddy is pulling rank!

The funny thing about it all is that she looks so different now after just two weeks. Her color is coming in and she has earned her middle name with this reddish undertone to her skin. Plus she has been eating like a champ, filling out her little legs. So she is a striking contrast to her one-day-old self.

The montage to the left is my son Justin when he was first born, followed by Sabrina’s first day, and my sister Christine.

Genetics are indeed a beautiful thing. The similarities are definitely there, but she’s got her own thing going on. I’ll have baby pics of mom and dad next week so you all can really see where it all comes from!

As I’m writing this, I’m getting an update from my wife. She took Sabrina to the doctor to look into some acne she had above her eye, but the Dr. said it’s normal.

On a more serious note, we’ve found out she is carrying the Sickle Cell trait. It’s not a complete surprise – my wife has the trait, but I do not. It’s a game of averages from that point on because our son doesn’t have the trait, but it seems that with each subsequent child the chance increases for both the trait and the actual illness.

So much to consider with the little ones, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

On February 2, 2009 at 6:30pm, Sabrina Rose Barrow cried her way into the world. At 8 lbs, 4 oz she is a healthy hunk of baby. I’ve been home on paternity leave (yes, they have that now) and as my boys warned, this little girl has me wrapped around her finger.

As expected, she has my wife’s eyes (they are just too dominant a feature), but from her nose, skin tone and her sleepy pinky toe, she’s all me. I couldn’t deny this kid if I tried. Put away the envelope, Maury. We’re good.

Her temperament is like my own. She’s rather chill, doesn’t cry unless she’s hungry, but when she does? Watch out. I can’t tell if she likes sports or not yet, but she’s been quietly attentive during the midnight editions of “SportsCenter” and “Inside the NFL.”

She’s a lady first and foremost, but has engaged in some rousing games of “pull my finger.”

Like most newborns, she loves her some sleep! The first day she was home my parents came over to see her and I think she opened her eyes once all day. We’re actually getting her on a semi-regular routine where she’ll sleep for a good 5-hour block at night, which anyone who has taken care of newborns knows is fantastic. She wakes up first with a whimper, a sigh, and then the clicking of her tongue looking for food. That click is like the ticking time bomb. Let it go for too long and boom!

Her brother has been her biggest cheerleader. If we so much as joke about her stinky diapers he is fast to her defense – “Don’t talk about my sister!” He wants to hold and feed her all the time and can’t resist peeking in her crib when she’s sleeping. He even thinks her burps are cool.

Probably the coolest thing that’s happened so far is that she laughed. I know you’re thinking newborns can’t smile or laugh but this was in her sleep. She was knocked out on my chest after a bottle and all of a sudden she busted out in the sweetest giggle as if she was in the front row at a Katt Williams show. And just as quickly, she was back to her slumbering pout. She’d never shown that kind of emotion or expression in her waking hours so it made me wonder: what does a child whose whole life has been sleeping, eating, burping and pooping find funny?

Me. Her crazy ass Daddy :)

If you’ve been following “Fatherhood Fridays” at all you know that the day is fast approaching where my wife and I will be welcoming our second child into the world. It has been a very long road and, as she told me this morning, “I’m done.” She’s tired. Tired of everyone asking when the baby is coming and tired – literally. And bored. She is a Sales Director and is used to moving and shaking, wheeling and dealing, and the last month at home getting kicked in the ribs from the inside has driven her crazy. The office finally cut off her Blackberry last week, and it’s as if they severed a limb. All I could do to console her was leave for work because my mere presence was a reminder of everything she can’t do for herself right now. But if I’m not there, she can’t do very much. Can you say “No-Win Situation,” boys and girls?

But to be honest I can’t say I’d be much better under the circumstances. I recently had all four of my wisdom teeth pulled and just recovering from that for a week took its toll on me. So it got me thinking on the train ride in: what if guys were the ones who got pregnant?
10) Forget a birth control pill. AXE would have a spray, a lip balm and patch for that situation and become the sole sponsor of the Winter X Games.

9) Maury Povich would be the top-rated show where every week the country would tune in to find out which of five women knocked HIM up. “Barbara, you are NOT the mother!”

8) Babys R Us would have an NFL section where you could dress up your newborn like a football. We’d terrorize the mothers tossing the kid back and forth during halftime with our boys. “Go long!”

7) Headlines like “LeBron James Out 3 to 4 Weeks For C-Section” would be more common than a torn ACL.

6) Ford F-150s would come with leather baby seats built in. Standard. Jeep actually makes a stroller but now they’d come with 22″ rims and Magna Flow exhaust pipes.

5) Paternity Wards (wow, doesn’t that sound crazy?) would have Xbox 360′s in every room

4) Diaper Genies would be fully automated and modified with those towel launchers they use at NBA games.

3) Nike’s Air Force One would come in a mule.

2) Instead of… other things… guys would stand around bragging about whose baby was bigger.

1) President Obama would be knocked up RIGHT NOW. You saw how Michelle looked at him during the Inauguration. Tell me I’m lying.

Ladies, I know you can add a hundred things to this list so, by all means, have at it in the comments section!

Last week I shared with you all my challenges in discussing race with my six-year-old, and I just wanted to share what’s happened since.

After the MLK assignment, which required him to color in Dr. King, Justin was given an assignment on Abraham Lincoln. As with the MLK homework, Justin was instructed to color in the president, or he would actually lose points onhis assignment. With no instruction from us we left him to color in the picture of Abraham Lincoln. The image above is what he created.

Yeah So we asked him why he colored in Abraham Lincoln brown. He could have said a number of things, like “he’s on a penny, and a penny is brown,” or he “looked brown in the picture.” And it’s unlikely he’s read Leroy Vaughn¹s book, Black People and Their Place In World History, which asserts that Lincoln indeed had African ancestry. So why did he do it?

“He was a president and the President is brown.”

Wow. Wherever you stand on the debate of Barack¹s race and its relevance to us, the impact has been made and it is undeniable. Of course we corrected him and told him that not every president is brown by default, but dangit if I didn¹t smile on the inside. His mind is open to possibilities that we never imagined at his age, and that is change I can believe in.

“Daddy, what does ‘murder’ mean?”

It was one of those rare nights when I got home early enough to help my son with his homework. My wife thought that with Martin Luther King, Jr. being a member of my fraternity, I’d like to help Justin with his MLK report for school. Let me tell you, I haven’t felt this awkward since I pledged.

There were so many issues to tackle in one sitting that I didn’t even begin to know how to address them all with my son. The irony is not lost on me that my son’s introduction to violence was in learning about one of the icons of non-violent protest, and it became glaringly clear how sheltered he’s been thus far. (The other day he asked us “What’s a cockroach?” No lie.) How do you address racism when you’ve never discussed race in your house? My son is peach-colored, as far as he is concerned. I’m brown. Mommy is yellow. The first time he heard the phrase “Black” or “African-American” was when Barack Obama announced his Presidential candidacy. It’s never been an issue for his six-year-old mind to grapple with. My wife and I have passively pushed race in the house. The angel on top of our Christmas tree is Black, as is baby Jesus. He never asked why.

His friends at school are of many different races and ethnicities, but they don’t define themselves in those terms yet. He knows that his mother is from Haiti and that his Grandmother is from Grenada, but that is as far as we’ve gotten with personal distinctions. In school he is Justin B. B for Barrow, not Black.

Covering the basics of MLK’s birth and early life were simple. But when we got to why he was important to American history, I paused. How do you explain Jim Crow laws to a kid who is just grabbing the concept of law and legality? I had to explain to him that there was a time when Black people were treated very badly because of their skin color, and that it was legal. I was given the “Daddy, my notebook is Black – look!” but he kept quiet and listened. I made the distinction between legal and illegal because the police still treat us like its 1963, even though it’s illegal. Dr. King wanted to change the law so that everyone would be treated equally and to get along with each other. He got that.

Then we came to his death. I don’t know how much was covered in class but Justin knew that “a bad man shot him,” though he didn’t know what the word “murder” meant. It pained me to tell him that that is when you take another person’s life. It’s not just dying, like with his goldfish. This was intentionally done by another person. The man that shot Dr. King murdered him. Justin’s face just fell.

I spoke to my sister about my dilemma and she said that we both had a stronger sense of race at Justin’s age because our father is very much a “race” man. He was always talking about “Black people” and what we needed to do to succeed, etc. But how could you not be if you’re a Guyanese immigrant living in New York during the Ronald Reagan/Ed Koch era? Thirty years later not much has changed racially, but I hadn’t felt the urge to push this lesson on my son yet. Yet.

Am I wrong for letting him be ignorant for just a little longer? Or do I need to sit him down and show him video of the BART shooting of Oscar Grant? So much on my mind I just can’t recline…

My son is 45 pounds and about 46 inches tall. He’s a healthy six-year-old bean pole. While I am not opposed to spanking kids for disciplinary reasons, I do keep those numbers in my head when I get mad enough to hit him. Seems a little extreme, but when I read news headlines about fathers beating their children to death it helps to have a little perspective. As a parent, you have to stop and ask yourself: if hitting your child is the only way you’re getting them to listen, is it possible you’re doing something wrong?

There is an ongoing debate as to what the line between discipline and abuse is, and unfortunately, it’s terribly subjective. If you were raised where a belt and/or switch were commonly used for discipline, you may balk at the idea of “time out” or the idea that hitting your child is ALWAYS wrong. But if you are a child advocate or social worker who has witnessed the bruises, burns and even deaths of children victimized by parents who couldn’t manage their own anger, you’d have a zero-tolerance policy.

My personal philosophy is “get ‘em young so you won’t have to get ‘em at all.” I can count the times I was hit with a belt as a kid on one hand, and the memory of those beatings carried me into my teen years. I’m no child psychologist, but in my limited experience my son has hated the IDEA of being hit way more than being hit. By the time he could walk, he associated his bad behavior with a tap on his Pampered butt. I will gladly emphasize my words with some open-handed support because I don’t want my son ending up like these kids. I’ve even employed the idle threat of “don’t make me get my belt,” knowing damn well that I’ve never hit him with my belt. His imagination is doing all of the work for me.

The key for me is balance. The spankings were coupled with taking away his favorite toys or activities or making him stand in the corner. I don’t believe just beating your kid is going to solve any long term problems, but in the age of PS3, Internet, DTV, cellphones and so many digital goodies, there are plenty of ways to hit a kid where it hurts. My son has cried when I’ve hit him, but it’s nothing like the look on his face when I throw some of his Pokemon cards in the garbage. The batteries are dead in your Nintendo DS? Good. Let it stay that way.

It has gotten to the point now where I can’t remember the last time I hit my son.
It’s January of 2009, and I can just guesstimate that somewhere around the spring of 08 was the last time I raised my hand to him, and that feels good. If your six-year-old doesn’t have a healthy fear of you by now, you’ve dropped the ball. I know that by the time he’s a teenager I may have to issue some refresher taps, but at least by then he’ll be closer to my size.

I have to begin this by saying that I’m extremely proud that my son is learning to read. He is now a card-carrying member of The New York Public Library System. But his newly-acquired powers are really starting to cramp my style.

When my son was younger, it was easy to hide things from him. When my wife and I were having a conversation and wanted to camouflage certain words or phrases we could just spell it out. For example, if we wanted to plan something while he was in the room, like taking him to a movie, we could say, “let’s go and see S-H-R-E-K…” and he’d be none the wiser. But now that he’s stacking just as many books as Pokemon cards, that tactic is played out.

If we were out and about, the biggest fear used to be him being able to recognize certain logos as we drove by: “Oooh, Toys R Us!!” or “Daddy, McDonald’s!!” But it’s beyond mere recognition now. The other day my man said “Daddy, chicken nuggets are only 99 cents! Can we get some? Pleaase!! They have Madagascar 2 Toys!! And they’re hiring!” I can’t even plead broke anymore cause my son can read the Dollar Menu AND probably fill out a job application!

Justin reads everything now: street signs, scribblings in the bathroom at our local diner (a real problem there) and my random hip-hop promo T-shirts with questionable song titles.  There is nothing more embarrassing than your six-year-old looking at your shirt and moving his lips to sound out “Bust…It…Ba-by.”

The worst of it all is his fascination with DVR. The kid can scroll through a week’s worth of TV and find all of his favorite shows. I turn on my set sometimes and there are 25 episodes of “Spongebob Square Pants” already recorded and five more being scheduled.
If we’re sitting and watching TV, I can’t flip through the channel guide the way I used to because he can read the titles of dang near every movie and show out there. “No wait, Daddy, The Iron Giant is on…no, Flushed Away, waaait… Bee Movie!” Sometimes I just want to turn to him and yell, “who taught you Octagon??”

But it all felt better when I went to get his report card yesterday and saw all of those As, Gs and whatever else they write on there to say your kid is damn smart. Now, if I can only figure out how to disable the DVR when I’m not home.

This weekend, my son is having his sixth birthday party. This is one of the first years where he is AWARE that it’s his birthday so the countdown has been crazy since school started. “Daddy, you know how long until my birthday? September, October, November, then DE-CEM-BER.”

The list of what-I-wants is longer than ever. (Pokemon cards, books, video games, DVDs, etc.) This is also compounded by the fact that Christmas is only weeks away. We try not to cheat him out of birthday gifts because of this, so I’m about to go broke. You all read the papers, so this year party planning had to take the economy into account.

Every year we’ve escalated his party, inviting more and more people. Last year we actually had half of his class from school over and our basement was a mad house. My wife orchestrated all of the games but, being almost 8 months pregnant, she just doesn’t have the energy this year. And the last time I managed a room full of more than three kids was in 1997 as a first grade teacher. I quit after one year, so that should tell you where my head is at on kiddy crowd control.

We were going to save ourselves the headache of doing a house party by going to one of those theme places that host your party for you and do all the clean up. We’ve been to a lot of parties at Chuck E. Cheese and neither of us could handle the stress of that many kids running around, and Justin isn’t much of a Build-A-Bear kid, so these spots out on the Island seemed like a fair compromise. The set-ups were pretty fly, with Knights and Princess themes, or Nintendo Wii parties, but when we saw the cost per kid the dollars didn’t make sense. Even if we kept his school friends out, we have friends with too many dang children! We are looking at 15-18 kids easy within our really close friends and family. After crunching the numbers, we had to go back to plan A and keep it in the house. Since his actual birthday was Wednesday, we bought two dozen cupcakes to give out to his friends at school. Problem solved.

Tonight we’re heading to BJ’s/Costco to get a sheet cake and put our own Pokemon decorations on it. I bought copies of Kung Fu Panda and Wall-E for the kids to watch on the big screen in the basement, and there is already a Wii for them to play games on. I have a “JUSTIN” playlist on my iPod of songs he likes and instrumentals (damn you, cursing rappers!) to keep the party going.

I just keep telling myself to make it from 3pm to 6pm on Saturday and it will be all right.
Wish me luck. Pictures next week!

Picking the name for his sister to be was a bit more of a process, and still is. While we eventually settled on Sabrina for a first name, it wasn’t the 1,2,3 process of the first go around. Names like Britney were thrown around, but anything that reminded me of a pop star didn’t sit well. My wife suggested Sabrina and while it didn’t grab me at first, it rattled around in my head for a while until one day it just sounded right. So we chose that.  The middle name is a little trickier.

For those not familiar, for Catholics your middle name can double as your St. name if you don’t choose to have a separate Saint name. With boys it’s a little easier because many St. names are common names, period (Michael, James, Matthew.etc.) But with girls, the list seems to be a little limited. Elizabeth was tossed into the ring and got a positive response, but this wasn’t even the issue this time. My wife is named after her grandmother and wanted to do the same for our daughter’s middle name, naming her after her mother, Roselle. I didn’t object to this outright but it made me think about my own mother, Gemma. Why not honor her as well? Maybe it’s a matriarchal thing. It never occurred to me to name Justin after my dad, but her request gave me pause. We discussed it for a while and came up with a few permutations, one of them being Emma-Rose. Phonetically it sounded better than Rose-Gemma but I could tell that it wasn’t sitting well with my wife, since it was her idea to use her mother’s name for the middle name. I wasn’t trying to impose on her traditions; I just didn’t want to leave my mother out if it was possible.

This is further aggravated by the fact that we are certain this is our last child (another blog for another day), and there would be no other opportunities to pass on names. I countered by suggesting the names of two of our late aunts, Jacqueline and Agnes.  After thinking it over my wife felt that was something best left for their own children to do, our cousins. Ok, so it was becoming clear to me that this was not going to get resolved easily, but I was out of compromising suggestions.

A few weeks later my wife offered the compromise of Rose-Agnes, considering that our daughter is due to be born around the feast of St. Agnes (coincidentally, our mothers’ birthdays are both in late January as well). This seemed like the most reasonable compromise and I quite frankly didn’t want to debate it any more. It’s not a bad name and I felt like I was the one dragging the issue out. So I conceded. Of course, a few days later she muttered something about Elizabeth. Sigh.  I guess we’ll have to wait and see what she looks like.

How do you decide what to name your child? Tell us your naming stories.

In this spirit of the upcoming holiday, I woke up this morning feeling thankful for my relatively well-behaved little man. After watching these clips of bad-ass kids, go give yours a hug and be thankful, too!

“SOULJA GIRL” HARASSES OLD WOMAN ON THE TRAIN

What IS it with girls and the subway?

SEVEN-YEAR-OLD LATARIAN MILTON STEALS GRANDMOTHER’S SUV

I think Milton actually surpassed O.J. Simpson as star of the worst “driving while black” incident ever.

KID SLAPS HIS MOM ON “DR. PHIL”

This clip had every parent saying “I wish he would have hit ME …”

BAD TEEN ON “MAURY”

This is just one of many bad-a$ kids that Maury Povich has on his show and sends to boot camp.

LATARIAN MILTON HITS GRANDMA OVER CHICKEN WING SPAT

He was so not-nice, he made the list twice!

Have a happy Thanksgiving!

I have a hard time beating my son. Slow down, I’m not talking about discipline. I have no problem tanning that butt if he gets out of line, but I’m talking about playing games with him – video games in particular. For the past couple of years we have developed some father-son bonding time over the Xbox or, more recently, the Nintendo Wii that I was given for Father’s Day. I typically like to choose games that we can play cooperatively, like Lego Star Wars or Shrek 2, but not all of our games fall into that category. For whatever reason, the folks at Nintendo have deemed that most of their multi-player modes/games must be competitive rather than cooperative. So instead of us being able to play as a team against the computer, we have to go against each other most of the time on Wii sports, etc.

This isn’t necessarily a problem because my son’s age and vitality give him a decisive advantage in some games like Wii Boxing. When you literally have to swing your arms in the air continuously for three minutes, the five-year-old has it in the bag. It took me a few good pummels before I chalked my first victory. He didn’t mind by then because he’d already left his old man looking like a Kimbo Slice victim many times. The problems came later.

My son has an older cousin that he spends a lot of time with, and said mini-mentor introduced him to the fine art of trash-talking. So one day my mild-mannered son transformed into this loud-mouthed braggart when he picked up the controllers. “You’re going DOWN, daddy.” At first I just giggled, but he was really into it. He’d roll a strike in bowling and where we used to give each other high-fives, I now got a “Yeah, in your face!”

What made it worse was the reversal when he lost. Eventually when his streak of luck ran out and I’d notch a win, he’d damn near drop those very expensive controllers on the floor and frown like I’d cheated somehow. I had to set him straight quickly that that was not how you behave when you lose. I took it a step further to tell him that the trash talking wasn’t polite and I hope that’s not what he does in school to his friends.

After a few more games I took a moment to ponder his behavior and realized that part of it was my fault. There were times when we played that I did indeed let him win, especially if it was a new game. I’d try not to make it obvious, but I wanted him to keep playing and not get discouraged. My wife is also guilty of this when we play Candy Land, letting him draw a new card if she sees it will send him back to the beginning of the game. It’s not that we want to spoil him; we’re just trying to keep the experience fun. But is that the way to do it?

Social Psychologist Susan K. Perry advises,

“Instead of letting your child win, try making the game fair from the get-go. Suggest a handicap before the game begins. For example, say, “Because you haven’t played this game as many times as I have, you should start three spaces ahead of me” or “Because I’m older, you should have an extra turn.” If you both agree on the changes, then you’re not letting her win – you’re changing the rules together to make the game fair.”

We only allow him to play video games on the weekends, so I’ll give her tactics a try. If this doesn’t work, my little braggart might have to get his butt whooped. What would you do?

So tonight, let us ask ourselves – if our children should live to see the next century; if my daughters should be so lucky to live as long as Ann Nixon Cooper, what change will they see?  What progress will we have made? – President-Elect Barack Obama, Nov. 4, 2008
Dear President Obama:

I’m writing this letter to you to not as an African-American, or even as a Democrat, but as a fellow father. When it became clear that you were going to be the next leader of this country, I thought first of my children, especially the one waiting to be born. Yes, you are already an inspiration to my young son, who was with me when I voted for you in both the Democratic primaries and the general election, but not because of your skin color, Mr. President. For me, your victory was a victory for decency in this country. For the first time I feel that the hate and intolerant thought that we are allowed to display as one of our inalienable rights is the exception, rather than the rule. Those who called for your death at rallies, using the word “Muslim” as if it were a slur, were silenced for at least one night. Those real terrorists, the hatemongers, were witness to the country saying “enough” with a resounding and definite vote for change and were left to cower in their caves of bigotry. I wasn’t just proud; I was relieved. I was relieved that my son would be allowed to hold onto his innocence just a little longer. That I could tell him with a straight face that the country he is growing up in is fundamentally good.

Many of your supporters have been maligned for indulging in an “audacity of hope,” that the inspiration you give us is a “drug” that we have collectively overdosed on. Well, I’m here to say that those critics are right. As a parent, hope is a fundamental part of my daily life. When I drop my son off at school every morning, I leave him in the hands of his teachers, hoping that they will nurture and protect him as I would. I hope that the lessons that I have taught him will guide him throughout his day and ultimately his life. I hope that, when I see him again, we are both better people in some small way. Because of their innocence and purity, we saddle our children with lofty ideals that we ourselves have problems following with the hope that they will be better than we are. By electing you-a very real symbol of this country’s hope to judge each other not by the color of one’s skin, but the content of one’s character-America has told me that the things we teach our children are not merely hopeful; they are sincere.

President-Elect Barack Hussein Obama, I’m asking you to not think of the campaign promises you made to me and the millions who voted for you, but of the promise we’ve both made to our children as parents. Do your job, but don’t let those T-shirts and buttons go to your head. You are not Superman. I wear the cape in my house. I just need you to keep the sky clear when I fly to work.

Last Friday I took my son to his school’s annual Halloween party. This is his third year in the school, but we always waited until the last minute to buy tickets and missed out. This year, he is way more cognizant of time and dates (at least when it comes to something he cares about), and the reminders came two weeks early: “Daddy, the Halloween party is in Ten days, 9 days, 7 days…etc.” So I bought the tickets for us, made sure his ghost costume was complete with mask and chains, and we got ready to rock & roll.

It didn’t hit me until we arrived at the school that this wasn’t just a gathering of kids in costume acting like inmates during a power outage. This was my son’s first “dance.” The DJ was playing the latest hip-hop hits as the kids screamed and ran back and forth hopped up on green soda and sugar cookies. At first Justin was a little intimidated by the sheer number of people and the older kids towering over him in their witch and monster costumes. He gripped my hand for dear life and asked me not to leave him. This was a complete 180 from the mornings when I drop him off for class and he can’t get away from me fast enough. But I assured him that I was not leaving, and he calmed down a bit. Of course I became irrelevant once he saw some of his own classmates dressed up as Power Rangers and Princesses, and he completely perked up when he saw his girl, Zoey.
From that point it was “Daddy who?”

Before long my little ghost was doing the Cha-Cha slide, dropped it like it’s hot to Flo-Rida and broke out his patented “Crazy Robot.” I was cheesing from ear-to-ear watching him bust a move for all he was worth.

After consuming about three plastic cups worth of nacho cheese Doritos (hey, he couldn’t have them for breakfast, so he got it in while he could) there was a “Pass The Pumpkin” contest. Similar to Hot Potato, the kids got in a circle and passed the pumpkin pon’ de left hand side while the music played. Whoever was holding the pumpkin when the music stopped was out of the game. So Justin got into the scrum of first- and second-graders and reinvigorated my hopes of his being an NBA point guard one day. He passed the rock like Chris Paul and ended up in a one-on-one with a pretty girl in pigtails. Maybe it was my parental bias, but when the music stopped I swore that pumpkin was in her hands. However, the refs called it in her favor. Unlike his rigged Pokemon matches at the house, Justin was a good sport in his loss and clapped for her as she got her prize. I gave him a high five for making it to the final round and figured it was probably good karma for him to take the L this time. Girls hate to lose.

With the sugar fading in his system, Just gave me a hug and said he was ready to go home. It had been two hours of haunted mayhem and I was ready to call it a night, too.

Tonight we going out for sanctioned begging, but I think I already got he best treat of all.

Her name was Caffrin. Not Catherine or Cathy…but “Caa-FFrin” as I was reminded on many occasions. She was my son’s fish, his first pet. A red Beta. We picked her out earlier this year at Petland Discounts and placed her in a plastic bowl with blue gravel and a fake castle. Justin was charged with feeding her every day and he did so—most of the time—but we did when he didn’t. By the way, Caffrin was a boy, but, as far as Justin was concerned, she was a girl. Seeing that I couldn’t prove him wrong, I let it go.

When I got home last night Justin approached me with a somber look on his face, “Daddy, I have to tell you something.” I was expecting it to be a recount of something bad he’d done that day at school but my wife came up behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders and gave me “the look” that said “be sympathetic, not angry.” So I listened…

“Daddy, Caffrin died. We had to flush her down the toilet and pray for her.”

I was taken aback at both the news and his composure. He was sad, but very practical. “She was sick,” is what he reasoned. He asked his mother when it happened if he was a “fish killer,” and she assured him that he wasn¹t.  She said that fish don¹t live as long as people and that everyone dies. He seemed ok. I felt guilty because I wasn¹t there when it happened.

This week I¹ve been consoling a dear friend through a loss and my thoughts have been consumed with my own mortality and that of my family¹s, so the timing of this occurrence is more than coincidental in my mind. I rubbed Justin on the head, preparing to give him an uplifting speech, but I think my wife had already done much of the damage control. He rattled off to me about how they prayed and that Caffrin was in Heaven now. The debate still rages amongst my Catholic peers if animals have souls, so I¹ll let his ignorance be bliss for the moment. He quickly turned his attention to the jerk chicken I¹d brought home for dinner.

But, just like a grown-up, it hit him more the next day. This morning when we went to wake him for school he was already up, standing up at his dresser, staring at the empty space where Caffrin¹s fish bowl used to be. “I miss Caffrin,” he said, hanging his head. My wife gave him a hug and assured him that it was ok to miss Caffrin. We asked him if he wanted another fish and he said yes. Then proceeded to bargain for more fish: “Since I’m five, I should have five fish.”

Kids. Gotta love ‘em.

So, finally, I rectified the situation this past weekend by rolling into to Toys R Us and picking out a red Schwinn. I stayed away from getting any Diego or Pokemon-themed bikes because he may not be interested in them a year from now, and we needed something that could grow with him. The Schwinn was a nice racing red with blue trim and we got a matching bike helmet (safety first).  We packed the pre-assembled bike into the car and drove out to Brooklyn, where he was having a sleepover with my folks. When he first came down the stairs, he ran right past the bike to give me a hug, not realizing it was his. As great as it felt to know that I was more appealing than a new bike, I turned him around and said, “Justin that’s YOUR bike,” and his eyes widened as he smiled from ear to ear.

After securing his Pikachu helmet (hey, we had to get SOMETHING Pokemon) he took his first bike ride on his two-wheeler. The gears were still stiff so it took a bit of effort on his part at first. His feet would slip from time to time. When he pedals backwards, it’s not like the old bikes with coaster breaks that stop – they just keep spinnin’. Shin guards may be the next accessory. The sidewalks in BK were unforgiving with their cracks and bumps, so my dad and I took him to nearby Wingate Field and let him loose on the track. I lost a good two pounds trailing him in a power walk. Dad supervised from the sidelines.

After a few laps, he’d already given his bike a name (Bikey), and insisted it needed a bath when we got home. He complained to my wife that his legs hurt, but was ready to ride it back home to Queens. We’ll keep practicing and hopefully have the training wheels off by his birthday in December.

Now I just have to teach him how to tie his shoes.

Life is like a box of chocolates, and if I don’t sell these things, I’m gonna be out $50. Yup, it’s the time of year that most parents dread: Candy Sale. Some of ya’ll remember those boxes of World’s Finest chocolates they’d pimp us out to sell as kids?  We’d be enticed by these glossy catalogues filled with prizes like trips to Disney World and brand new bikes! The only catch is you had to sell enough candy to feed a small country to win anything like that. Those of us who sold the $30 or $40 bucks worth (which was a lot in the ‘80s) were lucky if we got a book of tattoos or an eraser that smelled like bubble gum. But we worked hard for our spoils.  Back then I had to hit the street going door-to-door like a Jehovah’s Witness with my order sheet and a catalogue. I was the anti-trick or treater/ census taker. My neighbors would commit to a box of overpriced chocolate covered almonds, hand over their money and, in a few weeks, the candy would come in and I’d distribute my inventory. When I’d pestered everyone on my block, my dad would take the list to work and hit up his co-workers.

Nowadays the schools have the kids selling on consignment like it’s an episode of The Wire. They send home a box of mixed variety chocolates: almond, crispy, caramel, chocolate covered raisins and gummy bears (for those people who don’t like chocolate or want to pretend they’re dieting). You’re given a deadline to come through with the cash or the goods…actually, just the cash. Anything that doesn’t get sold I’ve got to come out of pocket for. So, in effect, it’s actually worse than drug dealing.

However, it’s not like there aren’t incentives to sell. If I get through this box of 50 I am encouraged to come back and sell another box. Another $50 worth of cavity creeps gets my child a N.U.T card (pause!), which means No Uniform Today. So for me to have the headache of having to pick out an outfit one morning, I gotta move some more product for the man. Greeaaat.

By now you’re wondering, “why don’t you send your son out to sell it like you did?” Cuz this ain’t 1981 and the game has changed. For years every hustler between the ages of 7 and 17 has been running the “by some candy for my basketball team” hustle to the point where people give less than a damn. Why are you outside of my bank with a box of candy telling me you need uniforms for your basketball team? Shouldn’t you be home working on your jump shot? Or, better yet, your PSAT scores?  This has forced parents to hit up their offices, book clubs and lodges to convince folks to part with a $1 for a good cause.

So on behalf of all parents who will be hitting you up in the coming weeks, be generous. Don’t think of it as a bailout; think of it as a rescue.

So my clairvoyant son is two for two. After predicting that my wife was pregnant, his immediate follow-through that “it’s a girl” proved to be true. After keeping her legs closed for a good 45 minutes during the sonogram, my daughter finally let us in on her little secret. I hope this is a trend that she keeps throughout life.

I really didn’t know what to think at first. My family is ecstatic that there is one less peen running around. I’ve had some practice caring for my 18-month-old niece but as two of my boys (who each have little girls) have told me, nothing will prepare me what is about to happen.

My first thought was, “Everything you have ever done wrong to a woman will come back to you.” At least, that is what I’m told. My next thought was to get a shotgun and brush up on my braiding skills. When I was teaching first grade, there were some mornings when my girls would come in with one braid undone, looking crazy, and I’d have to do a patch job; “Cross right over left” is all I remember from my days of playing with my sister and her doll collection. Yes, I did it. Big brother was there to give the assist. That’s something I’m going to have to drill into Justin. He’s been getting all kinds of bad advice from his only-child classmates about what he needs to do as a “big brother.” I think he is more scared than I am.

Immediately after the revelation I called my mom and asked her, “How am I going to take care of a daughter?” and the word ‘daughter’ just hung in the air for a minute. It’s not the same until you say it for the first time. This abstract person now became more real than ever.

Hello, Sabrina. I am your father.

I need to get more sleep. This morning marked the end of the first full week of school. As in, this is not a drill, all systems were a go. I was up late making tweaks to my Fantasy Football league, so I got up a little slowly today. The Mrs. was cracking the whip on the boy to get dressed, but somewhere along the line my sleepy ass dropped the ball.

When I got downstairs he was perched in front of the TV watching Ratatouille for the 11-jillionth time, and I asked him if he was hungry. Most parents will tell you that the worst time to ask a kid if they’re hungry is while they are engaged in something they enjoy, especially if it involves a large, blinking screen. So his answer was a definitive “no.” I followed up with a “no chocolate milk? no pancakes?” He shook his head without even looking at me. This is where the “real” daddy was supposed to say, “Boy, get in the kitchen and eat something.” But Rip Van Winkle decided that if he was really hungry, he’d have said it. This is the same kid who asked me for Doritos for breakfast. So I packed his lunch and got us on our way.

Halfway to school he takes a break from telling me knock-knock jokes to say…wait for it…that he’s hungry. By now the “real” daddy was in full effect and promptly said, “I asked you twice if you wanted something to eat and you said no. Now you have to wait until lunch to eat.” His face fell and he wined, “but Daddy, I’m staaarving.” The plea by itself was not enough to sway me; I was going to “teach him a lesson.” But when I turned around to look at him he had this look like he was about to cry. And while I am a stern disciplinarian, I cannot stand to see my son cry (unless I spanked him – then, I don’t care. He had it coming.). But if he’s hurt or, in this case, hungry, watching him cry just isn’t acceptable. So I told him to pass me his book bag, pulled out his lunch box and asked if he wanted to eat half of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He nodded his head and I passed it to him in the backseat. Note: the next sentence has not been added for dramatic effect. It is the truth. My son took ONE BITE of the sandwich and handed it back to me saying, “I’ll save the rest for later.” I looked at him like he was crazy and asked, “I thought you were hungry??” He just grinned and chewed on his one bite of pb&j. I was too through. He played me. I gripped the wheel, hit the gas and told myself the same lie every parent tells them self in this situation: “Next time he’s getting nothin’!” Yeah, right. I am the weakest link. Good-bye.

I want to go back to school. This week my son started first grade. He was a little funky style about having to give up his days of DVRing Spongebob and kicking my ass in Wii Boxing to actually go and learn, but he’s come around to the idea. We’ve been letting him dress himself in the mornings, so, as an act of protest, he put his uniform shirt on backwards and tried to go commando…but I’ll take that over a temper tantrum any day. Besides, by the time he got to the schoolyard and realized he was reunited with his pre-K sweetheart, everything was right with the world.

There is a book out there called All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten. I’d like to amend that to include the 1st Grade. My first job out of college was teaching a room full of 6-year-olds at a private school in New Jersey. I’d somehow convinced them that I knew enough about math and kids from my days tutoring for Street Fighter II money to be trusted with their education. Suckers! I keeed. But I was little more confident in sending my son off to school this year because I kind of knew what he was in for. He was going to get the building blocks for life in this next year:

You will lose your teeth.
Vanity is the downfall of society, and most 6- and 7-year-olds will part ways with their two front teeth. They’ll be proud and scared at the same time while never realizing how many kinky people find gaps sexy.

Falling is necessary.
Time to take the training wheels off the bike, literally and figuratively. This year you will learn how to balance yourself and realize that you must keep moving in a forward motion, at a steady clip, or you will fall down. But even when you do, getting back up is the only option.

Don’t Sleep.
There is no more naptime. You will have to stay focused for an entire day without the aid of a pillow and a foam mat. And, much like your friend Jimmy who fell asleep on the bus, grown-ups that fall asleep at work find themselves left behind.

Keep your hands to yourself…
One simple phrase: Sexual harassment.

…And wash them when you leave the bathroom.
You’d be surprised how many grown-ups still don’t do this. It sends a loud and clear message about what kind of person you are.

And the real reason first grade is the shiznit? Life was so much better when I rocked a backpack everyday.