Father of the Year

 

Well, this will be my last blog on Babble.  I can't thank you all enough for caring enough to check in on the kids and me and to those of you who wrote comments, thank you so much for your sage advice.   I've enjoyed filling you in on our comings and goings (although sweet A was less thrilled about how much I like to share).  We're all doing so well together.  Our families are blending together very nicely.  Even little Chet is finally coming around (A made him his favorite vegetable, spinach, of all things, and he loved it.) 

 

If you still want to check in on us you can reach me at treyellis.com.

 

And stay tuned for Bedtime Stories, the TV series coming from executive producer Chris Rock. 

 

love,

 

Trey

 

 

There's nothing to make your heart explode in your chest like seeing your son in his first tux.

 

 

And your daughter her first time as a flower girl. My cousin Eileen just got married last weekend at a mansion off of Fifth Avenue (turned into her Catholic school).  The kids fit right in with the painted ceilings and intricate woodwork.  Chet danced up and down the massive marble staircase like one of the Nicholas Brothers in the 1930s. 

 

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This was our first week with our new arrangement and all in all it's been going pretty well.  The hardest part has been Chet. After a month in Georgia with his mother and grandmother it's been a little hard for him up here.  He just said that the huge log home in the woods on a lake where they live is his real home.  He's also been asking me, repeatedly, if I had to choose between A and him and his sister who would I pick.  

 

I'm not sure how much of that is him just being a natural-born actor and how much of it is real.  He is playful and wonderful around A and of course it's hard for him to believe me when I say that A and I are planning on being together forever.  With Cristina, my previous girlfriend, who lived in Italy, the kids never had any real competition for my day-to-day affection.  Now A is here half the week but she is a very steady presence in our lives  so of course there will be some growing pains.  It's just that my amazing little seven-yearp-old shoots off the hardest questions to answer.

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A huge week for us here. The kids, Ava and Chet finally came home!  I missed them terribly. I hadn't seen them in two weeks. They're sleeping now. I worked them to the bone and they start school in two days poor things.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

 

A and I have been working at least twelve hours a day moving her stuff. Half of it goes to my place, the other half to Boston where she will be getting her Ph.D. in sociology three days a week. She'll be making the four hour drive twice a week to see us and to teach a college writing course.  I know it sounds nuts but if anybody can pull it off she can. She's amazing.

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I talk to my kids every day and saw them just last week but really, this month has been about getting to know M, A's amazing little girl.  I find myself calling her "Ava" by mistake sometimes because her antics so bring me back to how my now ten-year-old used to be when she was just two. Here she is jumping on the Dora bed that I made her.

 

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I flew down from Manhattan to celebrate Chet's actual 7th birthday with him down in Social Circle, GA, where he and Ava spend the month of August with their grandparents, my ex's mom and step dad and their cousins.  My ex has also been living down there for the past two years, ever since I moved the kids to New York.  I come for two days at Christmas and this year three days in the summer.  These few days are  the only time that the kids have their entire family all in one place.  Two of the three cousins, pictured above, Athan and Jovan, are wonderful kids and probably Chet's best friends in the world.  Chet, especially, adores it down there and said many times that his dream is for us all to move down there and live all together in this huge log cabin in the middle of the woods... 

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I can't believe how clean their room is when they're not in it.  And I can't believe how I much I miss those loud, (sometimes) pains in the asses. I'm having a deep and wonderful time here with just A and M and I'm spending some alone time just with M so A can write and that has been a treat, but I really, really miss my other kids too.  I'm flying to Georgia on Tuesday for Chet's birthday and just can't wait to wrestle him, can't wait to squeeze Ava till she giggles.  This is the only time of the year that I'm away from them so long and I know it's good for them to spend time with their mom and grandma and I know it's good for us three to get a little break from each other, but geez. It hurts.

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This is always an odd time of year for me.  Ava and Chet  fly down to rural Georgia to spend August with their mom, their grandma, grandpa, aunt, uncle and cousins.  I know it's important for them and I really love the family down there and they love my kids and me, but still, after just about two days without them I fall to pieces.  I rattle around the apartment, find myself wandering in and out of their oddly non-messy room and call them every day on the phone.  

 

This August, of course, is different.  I'm here in NYC with A and M.  I still miss my kids but I am also loving spending time with little M by herself.  When my kids are around they tend to  hog her attention and her hugs but now I can greedily hoard them myself.  It's still hard to believe how radically my household has changed in the course of only a few months.  This month of just the three of us will be good for us.

 

Before they left Ava and Chet were very funny.  I'd bought a bottle of hard cider, 4% alcohol, for A and I for our family dinner, and Ava pulled me aside and said she worried that I was developing a drinking problem...

 

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Usually summers move lazily around here but ours is traveling at warp speed.  As soon as we returned from France where the three of us were a quiet little family we've returned to  A and M and a very full house.  Neither A nor I are quite sure how it is that we have come to be living together but at least for me it really is pretty freakin' wonderful. I guess the plan was just that they'd stay while we were in France so she could sublet her place but now we're all together and it feels so perfect.  Chet and Ava dote on M, I do too...

 

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Though we were only gone for a two weeks, it felt like months.  We all needed it.  We're of course close, the three of us, but in Paris, and then in the South of France we were inseparable.  It was hard to show them my favorite city in just four days but I tried.  Besides the Eiffel Tower we took a bateau mouche along the Seine river and of wandered through Notre Dame...  

 

 

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These almost two weeks here in France, just the kids and I, have brought us even closer.  We are hardly ever out of each other’s site and I must say it’s been wonderful.  Yesterday was the huge Bastille Day fireworks on the beach, four barges worth in the bay.  We sat in the sand with hundreds of French and tourists, and watched the show (which started at 11:30pm. It doesn’t get dark till ten.)  It was easily one of the most spectacular fireworks shows I’d ever seen. They’re nuts about fireworks here in France.  Even on your birthday cake they stick in a roman candle...

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It’s hard to feel bad for your boyfriend when he’s vacationing in the south of France, without you.  I know he is missing me as he lounges on the beach with the kids, but the swell of sympathy just isn’t there. Plus my daughter and I are staying in his apartment, and I just stumbled across an underwear-only picture of his last girlfriend who also happens to be vacationing in the south of France.  Get this, she met T for coffee in NYC a couple of weeks ago (while I was watching the kids) and asked if he wanted to fool around. He says they’re friends and throwing away the picture seemed “mean.” Maybe I’m overly sensitive because cheating was involved in my divorce.  But T and I both have ex partners who are in our lives because of our children- and I say, that’s enough- it’s crowded in here. Am I asking too much...?

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With the dollar so pathetically low I seriously considered not taking the kids to  France this year.  That was one of the very nice things about Ethiopia, it’s still a place where a dollar goes a long way.  Here in Europe a dollar’s more an historical artifact than currency.  But still, since I was flying us three over on miles and staying with friends I figured it was actually cheaper to go than to put the kids in some sort of day camp for a few hours each day so I could work.  The day camp here on the beach in St. Tropez is surprisingly reasonably, about 15 euros a kid for a half day. That’s about $20.  Manhattan child care is a heckuva lot more pricey.  And the kids get to play soccer and ping pong and trampoline right on one of the world’s prettiest beaches.  

Try as I might, they still don’t speak much French.  They know how badly I want it for them and that’s exactly why they are so reluctant to try and speak.  Ava, especially, has a pretty great vocabulary and a super ear but she’s soft-spoken even in English.  In French she is absolutely inaudible.   Despite all that I’ve drilled them with, “Je m’appele Ava et J’ai dix ans.  Tu veut jouer avec moi?”  (“I’m Ava and I’m ten years old. Would you like to play with me?”)  We’ll see if  she or her brother have the guts to ever say it.

Chet knows me too well. He was getting on my nerves, over stimulated and leaping over every and any obstacle that came our way even the ones in the middle of village traffic.  I was just about to punish him when he said, “Papa?”  like a proper little French boy.  “Papa, I love you.”   I shut my mouth and just let the warm feeling wash over me.

I’m such a cheap date.

And I promise to send photos but I've forgotten to bring the cable to upload from my camera. I'm working on it though.

 

It feels like I haven't had a moment's rest since coming back from Ethiopia.  Chet's party was the day after and then two days later I was driving Ava and three of her best friends to the Hamptons for a slumber party.  Ava'd been planning this for at least ten months, ever since I'd told her that my Uncle Billy was kind enough to allow us to use his beach house whenever we wanted.  I also hit him up to borrow his big Mercedes so the girls got chauffered out there in style.  It was Radio Disney on the radio and Nanny McPhee on the portable DVD player in the back for three hours.  A and her daughter M and Chet drove in A's car.  I was still a bit off balance, remembering that just a few days before I was watching donkeys pass through a traffic jam in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.  If it weren't for A's help and M being the cute mascot to all the little girls I'd never have made it.  I was also still battling my GI tract.  It felt like a rabid family of ferrets were wrestling inside my stomach.  But Ava had a great time, the ice cream cake and the pizza and the beach were just perfect.  I hope she remembers it for years to come.

 

Now back in the city for a few days we have to pack tomorrow for two weeks in France.  I'm not thrilled with the idea of getting back on a plane but the kids have been looking forward to the trip for months...

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I've been silent for a week but not out of laziness. I've been in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, helping them start up a film industry.   The kids' mom flew up from Atlanta to watch them.  

 

Here is one of my favorite buildings in the bustling city of five million, a bar shaped like the space shutte. 

 

 

 

Here is a typical street scene

 

 Here's my favorite photo from the teff grain store of the "Former Women's Wood Carrying Collective."

 

 

And here's just outside:

 

Most of the rest of the city is more chaotic and urban.  I was just there a week but am already looking forward to coming back.

 

What I wasn't so much looking forward to was what's happening right now...

 

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I welcomed Obama's Father's Day speech chastising the legions of black  absentee fathers, a number, he points out, that has doubled in a generation. 

He's hardly alone in his criticism.  Besides Bill Cosby's now famous crusade Chris   Rock, back in 1996, and the late great comedian Robin Harris even earlier  were busy upbraiding the cowardly black men who don't do the right thing and help raise their children.   Citing the miserably low expectations we have for black men, Obama even mentioned Rock's rant in his speech (albeit cleaned up a lot).  Here's what Rock said back then (courtesy of the Mother Jones blog)

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So I'm in the supermarket after taking the kids to school as I am most every morning since the grocery store is right in front of the subway.  Maybe it's just that I'm older now but the Westside Market on 110th Street here in Manhattan plays awsome music considering the venue.  I rarely listen to Seventies  hits at home but there while I'm debating my cereal choices I'm often humming to Steely Dan or James Taylor.  Today it was Harry Chapin's "Cat's in the Cradle," and I nearly fell to my knees and wept.  Chet's pretty melodramatic but this morning he was in rare form telling me that I loved A and her daughter M and Ava thiiiis much (holding out his arms wide) but him only this much (pinching his little fingers together).  I'm afraid he's becoming the forgotten middle child.  

 

 

He is a magnificent movie star of a boy, and the only boy in our house and perhaps the most dominant personality.   I do feel sorry for him sometmes that he doesn't have his mom around as much as he deserves so I think I try to be an extra attentive dad but I know that sometimes our situation is hard for him.   

 

He's been sucking his thumb since he was an infant. His mom breastfed him for about the first four months and then she moved out at eight months.  I've always seen his thumbsucking as compensating for that.  Still, now that he's knocking on seven my patience is worn out and sometimes I'm terrible about riding him about it.   He did a program of rewards and marking a calendar for every night he didn't suck his thumb back then when he was four with our dental hygenist.  It seemed to work for a while but now, lately, he's sucking his thumb more than ever.  I've tried a special shirt that has mittens attached to the long sleeves and every night I put one of my tube socks on his hand but now, during the day, he's sucking it more than ever.   

 

Today was his publishing party in his class and he showed me his very thick book of all that he'd written this year.  I was so proud of him.  He's come so far this year.  The very first story was a drawing of the two of us with the words, "My dad is the bast dad in the hol wrld."   When I pointed it out to him he said, "I meant 'worst'."  I just laughed and had him sit on my lap.  

 

With  Father's Day just behind us I've been thinking about my own dad a lot. The New York Times ran an excerpt from Bedtime Stories talking about my dad last Sunday that I'm very proud of.  I'd love to hear what you think about it.  When Chet saw the picture he said that he thought that it was me dressed up as a mad scientist.  Funny, it's my favorite picture of my dad, it sits on this very desk, but I always thought of him as so much older than me.  It's only now that I realize that the picture was taken three years before he died so he was 47.  I'm 45.

 

It really seems to be happening.  My little family of three seems to be shape-shifting into one of five.  As I write this A is at her place working on her dissertation while my kids and I watch her amazing litle daughter M.  It all feels very natural, oddly comfortable.  I had a long radio interview today that I didn't want to cut short but thought I'd have to to pick my kids up from school. But wonderful A volunteered to pick up my kids. Wow.  When my ex and I were married everything was a horse trade. We split the parenting duties right down the middle as if we were already divorced.  There's a New York Times  article  this week about exactly that kind of arrangement.

 

Now with A it feels so much more giving than contractual.  We had friends over for our first dinner party last night and she did all the shopping.   I cooked the salmon and the garlic bread, she made the salad.  Today, as I said, she picked my kids up from school but then when I got back from my interview she went home to work for a few hours while I watched her little M.  I was actually hoping the Ava would do most of the watching however weekends I allow her to watch TV so Ava immediately became hypnotized by the Disney Channel.  M is a Dora addict so I put it on my old lap top in the kitchen.  Chet was on the kids' computer playing Sonic.  I snuck off to my office to  answer emails and write this blog.  

 

M ran into my office smiling and town criering about the poop in her diaper so I laid her on the kitchen floor and started to change her.  What a powerful emotional memory hoisting her two little legs in the air like a turkey while I reached for the Costco wipes.  I was reminded of Al Pacino in The Godfather III:  "Just when I thought I was out they pull me back in again!"   Unlike Pacino, however, I am delighted to be pulled back in.  As my two are getting more and more dependent I've been missing having a really little one around.  

 

Just as I was starting to get misty about how lucky I was to have another great little baby in my house, M started howling for her mommy.  I'd forgotten how mercurial little ones can be.  I held her and tried to explain that we'd be seeing her soon for bbq but she was having none of it.  Then I brought her over to Ava.  She's Ava's biggest fan and Ava peek-a-booed with her until she started smiling a bit. Then M noticed that Dora was still playing on the computer and she crawled back up into her chair to watch.   

Even self-proclaimed cool dads have their limits.  I'd heard Soulja Boy's megahit and dance craze "Crank That" months ago and didn't pay much attention to the signification of the lyrics.  I just laughed at the hundreds of YouTube performance videos of the catchy dance.  I guess I just didn't want to believe that this 18-year-old had really written a huge hit song about ejaculating all over his woman.  

 

My kids are addicted to Radio Disney, listen to it obsessively on the computer so I figured they were immune to contamination but of course last week my nine-year-old daughter and one of her best friends came home singing the song and doing the dance.  It's hit their public elementary school and is all the rage with the girls.  They obsess over dance moves anyway and the Soulja Boy dance is ridiculously infectious.  

 

When she's not practicing the Soulja Boy  dance she's practicing her ballroom dancing steps.  Every New York City fourth grader in the school took eight weeks of ballroom dancing and last week she had her big, all-school recital. The hundred of them paraded on stage in various stages of dress-up and counted their way through the foxtrot, the Lindy hop, the merengue and the tango.  They looked so almost grown up there that every parent's heart was wide open.  

 

Ava and her friend were just as open and happy running through the Souja Boy, of course have no idea what they lyrics are talking about, and I wasn't about to correct them.  

 

These age-inappropriate events were so much cuter when she was very, very young.  Now they give me the creeps. Back when she was three her mom and I were playing Rick James on the car stereo and when he crooned, "GIve it to me baby," she piped in from her car seat, "Give it to the baby."    I'll remember that forever.  And even just two years ago when Ava was 8 and Chet 5 they'd heard 50 Cent's "Candy Shop" on the radio and for weeks were singing, "Take me the candy shop, I'll let you lick my lollipop."  I didn't encourage them but of course I never disabused them of their reading of the lyrics.

 

I love sex and know that zealously hiding all traces of it has produced a neurotic and repressed culture.  But its omnipresence now is making it hard for a kid to be a kid.  

 

Here in the near triple-digit heat A and I took the kids to the Botanical Garden to see the Henry Moore statues.  I love this photo of them. It looks like an album cover. Maybe they could be the Carpenters of the new millennium?  Good, clean music (minus the eating disorders).

 

Do you censor what your kids hear? 

Blogging warps your reality. I'm convinced of it.  I'm often looking for material to write about, cute pictures to take.  This Sunday was a classic. Their school had their big Spring Fair where they bring in inflatable rides and every class in the huge New York public school sponsors a booth.  Chet remembered the epic squirt gun fight  from last year.  He'd won a tiny little squirt gun shooting hoops but he was no match for the kids armed with supersoakers.  So this year he pestered me into buying him this monstrous, pump-action supersoaker and he wore his matching Lycra swimming body suit under his clothes.  

 

When we got there the squirt gun war hadn't started yet so we ambled through the fair.  The biggest hit was the dunking booth but since it was about 80 that day the line to get dunked was twice as long as the line to dunk.  It was when Chet got in the dunking line that I remembered that I'd forgotten my spiffy digital camera (again!).  Ava was lined up to hurl the baseball to dunk him. Chet jiggled with uncontrollable excitement.  He lept and capered like a leprechaun.   What could be cuter!   I tried to reconcile myself to the fact that I'd screwed up big time and just enjoy the moment. Everyone was squealing with delight every time the ball hit the bull's eye and another kid dropped into the tank.  Finally it was Chet's turn and Ava got ready to throw.  Baseball isn't her best sport but she gave it a good shot and actually hit the target but not hard enough to trigger the fall.  I protested and asked if she could just hit it with her hand and the nice volunteering moms said yes.  

That's when Chet started to freak. "The water's too cold!" he howled.  He desperately scrambled to get out of the tank, clinging to the side like a rat fallen into a pot.  The big kid working the dunker hauled him out.  Maybe it was just me but everybody seemed suddenly sad for the poor little kid stuck in the big plastic tube.  

 

Bad dad (again).  There I was trying to pre-program some supposedly priceless moment instead of just living in the moment.  Luckily, however, he soon was smiling again, the water war had begun and he had some of the heaviest firepower out there.

 

 

Have you ever tried to create a Kodak moment that blew up in your face? 

 

 

My sweet little Ava hardly ever gets in trouble.  I think I might have put her in perhaps three time outs in her nine and 11/12ths years.  It's not that she's an angel but she's the way I was, sneaky.  I must have modeled my behavior on Eddie Haskel on the Leave It to Beaver reruns I used to watch.  Maybe "sneaky" is too harsh, but certainly my daughter and I are clever enough to rarely get caught when we're bad.  Chet, on the other hand, strikes first and makes up excuses for why he did it  afterward.

 

I was in my office the other day and could hear the escalation of tension between my kids in the other room.  I was determined to ignore them and to let them sort it out.  Then I heard the inevitable crash and Ava hiss, "You stupid f-ing boy!"  I have no qualms about writing the word "fuck" but I didn't actually hear it and anyway could never believe that such a word could come out of the mouth of my little darling.

 

This all happened in the morning before school.  About ten minutes later when we were all eating Honey Bunches of Oats I casually asked  what the ruckus was about.  

 

"Oooh!  Ava said---!"

"Shut up!"

"Ava said--"

"I said shut up! I didn't say anything!  I --!"

 

She was already bawling and out of control and I hadn't even accused her yet.  She'd make a lousy spy.  You even look like you're going to start interrogating her and she falls to pieces. She swore that she didn't swear but her attitude gave her away instantly.  Still, something didn't make sense.  My kids' greatest pleasure in life is tattling on the other so why didn't Chet rush to me the moment she launched the F-bomb?

 

"I didn't want us to lose points, daddy," he explained.  See, I'd recently instituted a points system, ten points for giving the other the seat on the subway, minus-ten points for whacking the other with a Heely.  Once they reach 500 they earn a nice toy. They've been stuck in the mid-100s now for weeks.  I was impressed by Chet's logic.  Ava, all this while, was howling and hyperventilating.  I could tell that she was freaking out because she thought I'd seen the ugly truth to her, not the super-sweet fawning adoration she usually purrs my way.  I told her that nothing would make me stop loving her and that everyone is human.  I also told her that I was angrier that she'd called him "stupid" than the F-word.  The punishment I'd decided on was a week without computer games.  She howled some more, begged me to just make her make all our beds instead (she loves doing that, even puts chocolates on our beds like in a hotel.)  I didn't budge and let my ruling stand (until yesterday when I commuted her sentence to making the beds. She squealed with delight.)

 

What kinds of punishments do you mete out? 

As you might have gathered by now I can be insufferably smug about what a great job I think I'm doing raising my kids by myself.  Whenever I start to smell a whiff of pity coming from anyone about my little family of three my back gets up and I proudly say that we three are doing just fine, thank you.  I was a guest on the Dr. Drew show last month and I'm a big fan of his  but when he  told me, "Of course, your daughter will need a same-sex adult  to talk to as she goes through puberty," I wanted to punch him in the nose.

 

But raising a little girl baby, as I've done, was one thing, raising a gorgeous little tween on the fast track to being a teen is quite another.  Damn that Dr. Drew. He was right!  

 

Of course I'm doing my best, I've become a whiz at detangling and braiding her hair, but there are just some things that make me feel woefully inadequate.  When I'd first returned to New York from LA two years ago I'd found her an amazing, young pediatrician.  I picked her for both kids explicitly because of how great she'd be with Ava as she got older.  Then my insurance changed and forced me to switch doctors. 

 

A few years ago very good female friend suggested that I buy, "The Care and Feeding of You," by the American Girl folks.  Although I can't understand why those damn dolls cost so much, nor why my little girl is addicted to them, I do like the magazine for her and the  historical novels are smart.  If you have a little girl and you're visiting New York and want to see her eyeballs pop of her head then take her to the American Girl Place off of Fifth Avenue.  It's Graceland for girls who like dolls.

 

 

 

Anyway, as I describe in Bedtime Stories,  I ordered the book on Amazon two years ago when Ava was seven. I knew I was jumping the gun but I'm a recovering Boy Scout so wanted to be prepared.  As soon as the book arrived I opened it up randomly and found myself staring at a two-page spread of a cartoon vagina.  I closed up the book and haven't opened it since.  Now that she's knocking on ten, however, I think I have to crack it open again.  The only problem is that of course now that I need it I can't find it.

 

This is where A, my amazing girlfriend, is coming to the rescue.   She's amazing with my little angel.    Sure, I guess I could do it all if I were forced to, but I'm appreciating A more and more and more.

Atlantic City this weekend was our first roadtrip as a blended family and all in all it went fine.  A's two-year-old daughter M was in the middle of the back seat in her car seat which was good because it kept Ava and Chet separate so he coudn't pester his big sister.  I was going down there to see Chris Rock perform because we're talking about working together (sorry Tracey and the rest of you who give me grief over my name-dropping but I've known Chris for over twenty years).    I was excited about seeing in show and wanted to take A but who would watch the kids?  I owe her one, big time.

 

But I'm getting ahead of myself.  We arrived in AC in the late afternoon and our hotel, the Quality Bayside Hotel should have been called the "Low-Quality Bayside Hotel."  If they ever do a remake of The Shining in Atlantic City they should film it there.  Our low-ceilinged room reaked of something foul that was so much worse than mere mildew.  It wasn't until we checked out the next day, however, that I put a finger on the notes of the bouquet under the damp smell:  dried urine.  If we weren't such a traveling circus we'd have asked for a different room but it was such an event just getting us there that A and I were too beat to fight.

 

Instead we all went right back out and drove to the boardwalk, parking at Trump's Taj Mahal and cutting through the casino to get to the boardwarlk and the steel pier amusement park.  The park was as shabby as our hotel but pier amusement park's are supposed to be shabby so it was fun.  Fun, that is, until my kids' envy and greed kicked in.  Whenever they're in the presence of lots of cheap toys my little angels turn into devils.  They become obsessed with acquiring everything they can, or at least to getting one more than their sibling.  They began doing the same rides but then Chet wanted to try the Magic Slide, one of my favorites as a kid.  After he slid down the rolling slide on an old piece of carpet Ava said she wanted to ride the bumper cars.  Chet freaked, he desperately wanted to ride the bumper cars too. I told him he could but Ava would then get an extra treat. He agreed and when it was their turn they raced onto the track which was probably as old as I was.  Chet's was one of the several cars that were broken so at the last minute he jumped into Ava's and had the gaul to insist on driving.  Chaos ensued:

 

I love these little critters more than anything in the world but their endless compettion drives me nuts.  This morning I put out two clementines for school snack.  Chet was convinced that Ava's was bigger and started to complain. I just snatched them both up and put them back in the fridge.  

 

To his credit, Chet then asked if it was ok, picked up two peaches and handed one to his big sister.

 

How do you all handle sibling rivalry? 

 

Chet, at least, is never one to beat around the bush. Ava can be more mysterious.  A is my first full-time girlfriend since the kids were very, very little and in general we all get along as if we'd all grown up together but of course there  have been some rough patches.  They were suspicious about my "friend" A for a month or so before I fessed up and since then it's Chet, much more than Ava, who has asked the hard questions.  You'd think it would be the opposite.  I'm her Elvis.  Whenever I'm in Ava's presence she can't go more than a few minutes without saying, "I love you, daddy" and throwing herself around my waist for a full-body hug.  My slightest display of displeasure with her brings her to the brink of tears.  And yet she genuinely seems to  enjoy A's presence and her amazing little daughter.  With A and her daughter around Ava is no longer the only girl in our boyish house.  A answers Ava's burning questions about makeup and boys.  Ava's never acted jealous of A even for a heartbeat.  And believe me, she had before. Back when she was five she would conveniently throw herself all over me the moment I sat down to flirt with any cute mom in the park.  It was hilarious how she'd pick that exact moment to play with my hair, lovingly strangle me and kiss me.

 

Chet has been asking more pointed questions about A from the beginning but yesterday he took it to a new level.  Chet, Ava and I were walking home from school yesterday when Chet said, "Who do you love more, A or us?"  I immediately answered, "you guys," instead of going into a discourse  on the difference between philia, agape and eros; that is, familial, spiritual and sexual love.  I knew he needed only the simple answer. This was no time for one of my many daily sermons.  Then he said this:

 

"If you had to kill one of us, who would you kill?"

 

"CHET!" howled Ava.  "Why are you so stupid!"

 

"Don't call your brother stupid, but Chet, I'm not killing anybody, what are you talking about?"

 

"Yeah, Chet.  What are you talking about?"

 

"Ava. I'll handle it."

 

I'm glad he felt secure enough in asking. I'm glad to know exactly what's on his mind and of course I realize that this blending of our two families will have to go slowly. He's great with A in person. He really is. She turned him on to her favorite film, "The Karate Kid," and now it's his favorite too.

 

 

We're all off to Atlantic City tomorrow to see Chris Rock and then Philadelphia where I'll be on a panel at the Philadelphia Book Fair.  This will be our first weekend adventure together.

 

Wish us luck. 

The good news, I guess, is that my last post got folks talking. The bad news was that I had no idea so many people out there think I'm a jerk.  Oh well.   But my biggest  critic of my Mother's Day lament was A, the hardest-working, most-wonderful single parent in the world.  When I asked her what she wanted to do for Mother's Day she said, "Ha!  I thought you didn't believe in it."  To get myself out of hot water and to show her how much I appreciate her, our blending tribe all drove out to the Bronx Zoo.  We weren't the only ones with that idea. It seemed as if the entire tri-state area had a sudden craving to watch animals. 

 

Although I'd grown up in the City I had never been to the zoo before last year.  It was very crowded that day too so when the kids had whined that they just had to ride the camels I looked at the endlessly snaking line and convinced them to forget about it.  Kids apparently have memories like elephants when it comes to riding camels and this time they insisted.  Just as they sat atop the charming, yet stinky beast I realized that I was about the only parent in the entire zoo who had forgotten to bring a camera.  To the zoo.  Again.  It was then that I distinctly remembered that I'd forgotten the last time too and vowed to remember the next time.  

 

Out of desperation I whipped out my cellphone and took a shot.

 

I didn't say it was my best shot.  It looks like they're riding a dumpster. But at least they're smiling.

 

I pride myself on my photographic prowess and I swear if I'd remembered my real camera I'd have taken a decent  picture.   I'm so embarrassed.  Undoubtedly the "Father of the Year" committee will  take off twenty points for this gaffe.

 

The rest of the afternoon was wonderful, all five of us laughing and gawking and laughing some more, until I noticed some Nikon-wielding dad taking a great shot of his kids feeding a llama or waving at a mountain gorilla.  I tried to be zen about it but it was hard not to complain.  Finally wise little Chet chimed in, "You're a writer daddy. Why don't you just remember it?"

 

Hearing this, my heart, like the Grinch's, suddenly expanded a few sizes. 

 

So although I might sometimes whine about being a single parent, doing twice the work on half the two-parent income,   most of the time, most all of the time, I remember that I'm the luckiest guy in the world.