A Couple of Firsts in the Gregg Household

Hello. It has been awhile.

Things ARE happening with the kids. And yes, they ARE funny. But I have been either too busy or too lazy to post. We had a vacation. We prepared our house for sale. LeBron returned to Cleveland. There was that whole World Cup thing. (Ok, I maybe caught about five minutes total.)

We do have two freaking kids under the age of 3, for God’s sake. Give me a break. I have mastered the art of working and parenting on four hours of sleep a night for weeks at a time, but there is not a lot of energy left for writing.

What has happened during the past two months? Well, Tyson has taken his first steps and Sydney has started using the “big girls” potty.

Let’s start with Sydney.

My wife likes to say she is potty trained because she can sometimes go a whole day without any accidents. That’s like saying Justin Bieber has matured because he hasn’t done anything stupid or annoying in a week. You know there’s another episode right around the corner. I say a kid is not potty trained until there are NO accidents, including sleeping through the night without a diaper.

We should have potty trained her long ago. I planned on having her trained last summer, before she turned two. But then we had the stuff with Tyson’s heart and we were consumed with that, well into this year. Potty training Sydney required focus and stamina we did not have.

We began trying this spring, but we really began in earnest in June, when my wife, a teacher, began her summer “vacation.”

I put that in quotation marks because is staying home with two children under age 3 ever really a vacation? I know there are some weekends when I walk around my disaster of a house searching for a corner to escape the screaming and crying and just pray for the sweet relief of 8-10 hours of work at the office.

  

Sydney has done pretty well since Brooke took over full time. Most days, she can make it through the day without an accident. Accidents usually happen when she is doing something fun, like playing on the iPad. She doesn’t want to stop and go to the bathroom, so she just lets loose.

On the couch. Or the floor. Or even outside on the deck.

I do not understand kids. What in the world would make you feel like it would be a good idea to wet your pants? She’s of an age where she understands consequences, so this makes no sense to me. She is consciously choosing peeing herself over walking to the bathroom.

She used to have her own little potties, one upstairs and one downstairs. She was never more than 15 feet from a potty, yet she periodically felt it easier to just go in her panties than walk over to the potty.

By the way, those little potties are kind of nasty. I’m not sure how guys who have to clean toilets for a living ever become comfortable with it. Is it like working in a casino, where after awhile, you are deaf to the clamor of the slot machines? I’m not sure I could ever get used to scraping someone else’s poop out of the toilet or regularly experiencing someone’s pee sloshing over my hands.

Now that she is on the “big girls” potty, at least I can just flush. Of course, I still have wipe duty. For some reason, my daughter has chosen daddy as her dedicated potty assistant. Lucky me. So, more often than not, I get stuck wiping while my wife gets more glamorous duties, such as turning on the right cartoon. Why can’t I get a job that requires me to sit on the couch and work the remote? I’ve been practicing for that my whole life.

I guess it could be worse. My co-worker has a 2-year-old who gets up in the middle of the night and poops in dresser drawers. How'd you like to have to clean that up? Now THAT is funny. 

Sydney’s got a long way to go. We are reading books to her about going to the potty in hopes it will stick. We cheer for her after every successful evacuation. That alone leads to some uncomfortable episodes where she will emerge from the bathroom and squeal “I did poopie!” in hopes of getting her parents and WHOEVER ELSE MIGHT BE VISITING to celebrate her with a round of applause.

Still, I think we’ll have her completely trained before her third birthday on Aug. 30.

Now, to Tyson.

Sydney was a late walker, so the fact he had not walked by age 1 was not a worry for us. Given what he had been through with his heart, we knew there would be some developmental delays, but I was prepared not to worry until he hit the 15-month mark.

To this point, he has been ahead of her in gross motor skills and behind her in verbal and intellectual skills. The boy hardly speaks more than "mama" and "dada," but he crawls around the house with the speed of a German soccer player advancing toward the goal.

The other day, I left the baby gate open and turned my back for a second, only to hear my wife yell, with some urgency, a very loud “Brian!”

Now, when your wife yells at you like this, you know you are in trouble. Either you did something wrong, or one of the kids must be rushed to the hospital.

In this case, the angst in her voice was meant for me.

“Tyson just rounded the corner of the bathroom up here while I was getting Sydney ready. He climbed the whole staircase by himself. I don’t need to tell you what could have happened if he had lost his balance!”

No, you don’t. While one part of me was proud of his ability to climb 12 steps straight up in the time it took me to wipe mayonnaise off the kitchen counter, the other part of me knew that had he gotten to step 10 or 11 and somehow lost his balance, well, we’d be taking that trip to the hospital or planning his funeral.

Of course, I felt guilty. Of course, my wife was happy to increase my sense of guilt. That’s what marriage is all about, right?

But he survived and, now, only a few days past the 14-month mark, he is walking like a drunken sailor.  His head has regular appointments with the floor and any other object within three feet, but, by God, he is walking. And there is no slowing him down.

While Sydney likes to page through a book, he likes to tear a book to pieces. While Sydney will occasionally get wrapped up in intently watching a television show, Tyson prefers to have it on in the background while he walks laps around the house. While Sydney will sit on the bed and let her daddy read to her, Tyson will attempt to dive off of the bed head first – numerous times.

First steps and first shits (in the toilet.) That's life in the Gregg household.

Consider me blessed.

Hide the Playboys, it's Time to Find a Babysitter

Let’s talk babysitting.

I have no idea how to pick one, how much to pay one or, most importantly, how to trust one.

I’ve recently been thinking about babysitting and that has me pondering how this world has changed. Babysitting, like everything else, has evolved over the past generation.  

I’m not saying the art of watching children has changed. If you were skilled in that in 1970, you are skilled in that now. Actually, if you were skilled in that in 1970, you might be dead now. Or at least using a walker to get around, and that would make it tough to be a good babysitter.

What I am talking about is what babysitting says about us as a society. Gone are the days of calling up grandma or the trusted neighbor down the street. We are much more mobile now and that makes it much more difficult to find a good babysitter.

I also want to clarify that I believe babysitting and child care to be two different things. Child care is something one does as a profession. I formerly sat on the board of 4C, the local child care education and referral agency, and am fairly knowledgeable about child care and brain development from birth to 3. You want a child care professional spending 10 hours a day, five days a week with your child, not a babysitter.

Child care professionals take this s--t seriously. This is a permanent job for them, not a temporary gig. It involves teaching and developing children, not just making sure they don’t set the house on fire.

It is when my child care provider has an emergency and needs the day off that I must turn to a babysitter.

In fact, that’s really what got me thinking about this. Our provider needed a day off to put her dog to sleep. Sidebar: This situation just about brings me to tears, and it is not even my dog.  I am a dog owner and lover. I barely knew this dog, but the plight of anyone having to put their dog down sends me spiraling. I know it is a choice I will have to make one day with my 9-year-old German Shepherd, Vegas, or my 8-year-old Weimaraner, Murphy, and I am sure I will be a blubbering mess when it happens.

So, my child care provider needed a day off. But that meant that either Brooke or I had to take off work. In fact, any time our provider has a day off, one of us is cashing in a vacation day.

That is the state of our society today. Thirty years ago, generations of families lived within the same town, if not on the same block. If you needed someone to temporarily watch your child, you had a half dozen people to choose from. A couple of grandmas, aunts, uncles, even a trusted neighbor.

But, over the past generation, society has become much more mobile. I ended up in Cincinnati because of a job and stayed because I liked the town. Brooke went to school here and stayed. Neither of us has family in this area. Mine is four hours away, hers is six.

When we need a babysitter, we are s—it out of luck. Whether it be an emergency day off from our child care provider, a wild Friday night on the town or even something as simple as having to work late – we don’t really have anyone to turn to.

I’m sure there are people who would do it for us. We have friends. But they work during the day, too. We know some people with children in their teens. But they go to school and have after-school activities.

I envy people whose families live in Cincinnati. They simply dial a number and say, “Mom, I have to work late tonight. Can you get Johnny from school today?” My wife and I have to play the game of “who has more important things going on at work?” Or even, “who will get in more trouble for taking off?”

Another sidebar: Work is important and all, but you know when a babysitter would really come in handy? Saturday and Sunday mornings. It would change my life. Not only could I catch up on all the sleep I miss during the week, but I could do a little guilt-free partying on Friday and Saturday nights because I would have someone to watch the Berenstein Bears with the little one in the morning.   

I’m not saying we couldn’t find a babysitter if we really put out the effort. But the truth is, I’m afraid to leave my child with someone. I work in the child protection field. I hear stories every day of terrible things happening to children. I don’t want Sydney falling down the basement steps because my babysitter was distracted by an intense texting conversation with her BFF over which country song best resembles her current love life. Nor do I want the husband of one of my wife’s friends, who might drink 13 beers to "wind down" at night, giving my daughter a hard shake because she is making too much noise.

In her 13 months, Sydney has been watched by my mom for a week while we went to a wedding in California, my mom for a night when we went to a local wedding, and by my wife’s friend for three hours while we cashed in an expiring Groupon for a Cajun dinner.  Other than grandma and Libby, and her child care provider, Amber, she has spent all of her time with either mom or dad.

I know this can’t last. Something will come up that we have to be at. Or want to be at. Like a Ryan Gosling movie. Or a Justin Bieber concert. I need to break down and find a babysitter. I’m going to have to trust someone.

I guess I’ll start with the kids of friends. But how do you know if someone is trustworthy? Every parent is going to say their kid can babysit. And there are a lot of kids who can do everything right in every other walk of life, but they might get stressed by a crying baby and give them a good shake to settle them down.

I guess I could interview them and background check them like I did my child care provider, but what 16-year-old can hold up to that kind of scrutiny? Besides, aren’t all kids a bit irresponsible? When I was that age, I would have considered myself more responsible than most, but I remember visiting my girlfriend while she was babysitting and attempting to get my groove on while the children slept in the nearby bedroom.

Lest you think I was a complete knucklehead, please be aware that I cared for my younger brother and sister after school when I was about 13. I cooked the hot dogs or mac and cheese or Hamburger Helper when mom worked late. The house did not burn down. No one got arrested. My sister did get hit by a car once, but I was right there loading her into the ambulance when it came. 

But that was a simpler time. When I was a kid, my mom could have left me with any of our neighbors and I would have been fine. But nowadays, you never know if your neighbor is a psychopath and you’ll come home to find your child cooking in the microwave.

A friend of mine is a teacher. He gets all his sitters from his pool of students. That’s bold. I’d be afraid they’d rummage through my personal affects and I would show up at school on Monday to rumors that I have a prized Playboy collection dating back to 1988.

Not that I do. (Wink, wink.)

If I do finally find a babysitter, how much do I pay them? I was talking to a guy the other day who said he pays $15 an hour. So if he and the wife go out for Happy Hour to closing time, or spend a Saturday night at a wedding, he’s spending $100 on child care, as well as what he spent taking the wife out or buying the wedding present.

That’s a little out of my public-employee pay range. Plus, that guy has three kids. I have one. I’m thinking maybe $8 an hour? Here’s where writing a blog comes in handy -- you tell me what the going rate is these days.

There is so much that goes into this babysitting decision. Who to pick, how much to pay, where to hide the Playboy collection….I long for a simpler time when my street was filled with relatives and trusted neighbors who longed for nothing more than to earn $2.50 an hour watching babies.

Massillon, Ohio, circa 1978, I’m coming home. Keep the light on for me.

Life at 45: Hangovers Without Alcohol

My, how my life has changed.

Let’s look at a typical Friday in the life of Brian Gregg at…

Age 20:  Every college student who likes to get his “party on” schedules classes to end as early as possible on Fridays. If I could have somehow taken all the classes I needed to get my journalism degree on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I would have.

I’d meet up with my roommates early Friday afternoon and bust out a “suitcase” of Old Milwaukee. Every group of young guys has that “go-to” cheap beer that they rely on when money is a factor. Old Mildoggy was ours.

If it was nice out, we played wiffle ball in the yard of our apartment complex while polishing off our brews. I was the king of hitting Bonds-esque homers over the building across the complex. Let’s face it, I had a Barry Bonds-like physique – at least in the later, blown-up, steroid-scandal, Michelin Man years.

Wiffle ball was always cool, but we mostly invented our own games to keep us occupied while drinking.  We had something called “handy ball,” which consisted of batting a Nerf basketball around while drinking.  Think volleyball without a net. The person who let the ball fall needed to guzzle.

In our dorm room, we invented a baseball game that used a crushed beer can as a ball. We wore real baseball gloves and used a makeshift bat to hit the can. It is amazing what you can do with beer cans. Someone I know made a coffee table out of Old Milwaukee cans. They also make great Christmas tree ornaments.

We’d jam Springsteen while we played. These were the years of Madonna and Prince, but my roommate, Pat, turned me on to Springsteen and I wanted to be a little harder than my 20-year-old counterparts. Material Girl, my ass.

About 11, we’d head to the bars. We spent part of our freshman and sophomore years doing cheap happy hours where we would drink 5-cent cups of Black Label (a Canadian beer, I think) for hours, but quickly realized this life was not for us after several nights ended by 11 p.m. with us lying in bed holding a trash can to our face.

Down at the bars, we’d make our play for “ladies.” This generally consisted of standing around talking to the few female friends we had (we rarely were bold enough to migrate outside our own circle) hoping we could convince one to go home with us. About once every two months or so, we’d get lucky.

On the way home, we’d spend our last $2 on a gyro from a guy who probably put three children through college by running a food cart outside the Kent State bars. Then we’d do an after party and drink Old Milwaukees until we passed out.

The next day, I usually had a hangover.

Age 25: This was my golden age. No longer bound by the constraints of money and not yet held down by the affects of age, I spent my 20s living a Hugh Hefner lifestyle. Blessed with a shift where I covered the police beat from 2 p.m. to 10 p.m, I was able to do all that a young man should do: get off work in time to go to the bars, party all night, sleep late and spend my mornings playing basketball and softball to stay in shape. I worked in a one-man news bureau my first year and even had a cot in the office so I could take a nap if I had a particularly tough night.

My buddies and I would spend our Friday nights at a place called the Quark, grooving to tunes that would make Springsteen cry. Hammer Time. Ice, Ice Baby. I like big butts and I cannot lie… Sorry, Boss.

Most of us would stand at the edge of the dance floor and hope some woman we barely knew would be drunk enough to take a liking to us. I hoped for slow dances, because my actual dancing resembled an epileptic seizure.

About once a month, we’d get lucky.

On the way home, we’d hit up Uncle Nick’s gyros to eat while watching late night television until we passed out.

The next day, I usually had a hangover.

Age 30: Age starts taking its toll on me here. I can no longer treat a weeknight like a Friday night because the next day at work feels like a ride on a Kings Island roller coaster. Also, despite my once-a-week basketball games, the pounds start to accumulate toward Michelin Man status.

I’m back to doing happy hours. That’s because I hope to be in bed by midnight, although most of the time I still see closing time. I’m mostly hanging in bars that play classic rock, because the music of the mid-1990s was horrendous. Mariah Carey? Celine Dion? The freaking Macarena??? Put a bullet in my head. 

I’m also back to primarily hitting on women who are somehow in my circle. Women at this age usually want to have some knowledge of who the guy is before they head home with him. I’m getting lucky about once every two months, just like in college.

On the way home from the bars, I stop at the sandwich cart for a barbeque pork sandwich, mostly to suck up the alcohol. I hit the bed as soon as I walk in the door and hope for the best the next morning. If I mixed in enough glasses of water throughout the night, I avoid the hangover.

Age 35: Girlfriends have always come and gone, but at this age, I am doing a lot more “dating.” Let’s face it, that is the only way I am getting lucky. Friday nights consist of a nice dinner, glasses of wine, maybe a trip to a comedy club or to hear some live music. I’m getting lucky almost every other weekend! Of course, with the same woman or two.

I don’t eat on the way home because I already stuff too many calories into this body. I’m usually in bed by midnight. Hangovers are rarely a problem.

Age 40: Serious girlfriend time. Dating a girl 15 years my junior. That means returning to my glory years. Pretty much guaranteed getting lucky every weekend!

I start each Friday with a pre-game at her or her friend’s house, drinking a higher-class beer than Old Milwaukee, usually some micro-brew that makes me look cool to her friends who are still drinking cheap beer because that is all they can afford. We head out to some dance club and listen to horrible music. Justin Timberlake? John Mayer?  Who the hell is Jesse McCartney? Was that Justin Bieber’s older brother?

We make it to closing time most weekends. On the way home, we hit Taco Bell. This is fun. But I am too old for this. It only takes a few months for me to say, “Honey, how about if you go out with your friends by yourself and I will be here when you get home.” Then I watch TV and hit the sack after the 11 p.m. SportsCenter. No drinks, no hangover.

Age 45: Well, here it is.

I get home from work about 5:30 and my wife wants to know if we should order a pizza. The big debate is if we have enough money for something like that. Every penny counts now. Bars are out of the question.  

Music? The only music we listen to are the lullabies that play on Sydney’s swing. Getting lucky? Yeah, like back in college, about every two months. Who has the energy?

I spend my evening playing with my daughter, trying to keep her stimulated and away from crying. This usually requires my total attention, so there is not a lot of time for say, writing a blog post, or watching a DVR-d episode of Man vs. Food, which, at this point, I could star in and win every challenge.

My wife and I pass her back and forth like a football, sharing the "stimulating duties." For some reason, she is generally quiet and happy when my wife has her. I get the screaming and crying Sydney. Roses for Brooke, thorns for Brian.

We get to bed whenever we get to bed. My daughter sets her own schedule. She usually sleeps a couple hours and then is up a couple of hours. All day long. All...night...long.

I never leave the house, yet I am worn the hell out.

The next day, I have a “baby” hangover.