Level playing field

Not my son I thought. But I guess every child must, or else there wouldn't be a name for it. Coleman has entered the tumultuous, turbulent, truculent, tempestuous, termagant two's.

It's not terrible, it's not that bad, just surprising. All the whining. AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!! Just this medium pitched, half assed, Tarzan cry, it goes on for about 15 seconds - we say Coleman, stop that, use your words - "I want that juice daddy." All that for juice. It just seems so unnecessary.


And he's not taking no for an answer. He'll ask 5 or 10 times the same question. My mother-n-law says the only way to get him to stop that, is to not answer him after the first one. How can you not? You got this little person asking you the same question over and over again, he's drowning out the TV, it's very annoying.

He's so smart and so lovable, it really surprises me when he acts like - a two year old.

Level 1 is whining.

Level 2 is charging. You take something away from him and walk away, he'll just run at your legs and bounce off of you on to the floor. Then he looks up at you like you knocked him over.

Level 3 is the legs flailing. Usually on a bed, or he's laid himself out on the floor, kicking into the air, in some sort of toddler break dance. Or if he's standing it turns into running in place, coupled with the low grade crying/whining Tarzan yell.

Level 4 is just standing still and screaming. Call the Department of Child Welfare level screaming. Usually reserved for elevators, hallways and family functions with elders standing around waiting for you to go get the switch.

He's getting really good at combinations - a running, kicking, charging, screaming tsunami.

I know it's frustrating for him right now, his consonants and vowels have not caught up to his wants. "I want that juice, I want that applesauce, I want that donut, I want that DVDV (that's what he calls his collection of Baby Einstein DVD's - DVDV.)

It's hard to get mad at him, I know it's just a phase, but it must be addressed. We cannot allow it to escalate. So I have different levels of responses to his levels:

Level 1 - the charge - "Coleman,get down off the table." He does not, I say it only once, then I make a fake Gorilla charge as if I'm coming to get him. He backs down. He thinks it's a game, probably because he sees me trying not to laugh.

Level 2 - snatch him up. "Coleman don't pour that juice on the floor." Before I can get to the fake charge, he pours. Super Nanny says you must get down to their level to discipline. I don't believe in that. I snatch him up and bring him eye level, holding him by his shoulders, little feet dangling in the air. "Daddy said don't do that, now say sorry." "Sorry daddy." We get paper towels, I direct him as he dabs and wipes up the mess. It usually makes a bigger mess, as he just spreads out the liquid. He runs off to play, I have to finish up. But he got the point. Again.

Level 3 - time out. He's perched on all fours, diaper off, head looking in between his legs, he's just watched himself pee in between the cushions of the couch. First thing is diaper on. Second - into the stroller, strap him in and push him into a dark corner for 2 minutes. Sometimes he cries. Sometimes he starts to sing, which usually means the corner isn't dark enough. I find another corner. He cries. After 2 minutes he must apologize - again. "Sorry daddy." He runs off to play, while I figure out the damage to the cushions.

Level 4 - distraction. Usually follows call Child Welfare level screaming, because I can't watch "Curious George" any more so I've turned off the DVDV, or we're out of ice pops or mommy has just left or whatever. I know I can make him laugh in a second. I drop my eyes, lower my head and I start to move stealthily towards him. All it takes is one step and he's laughing so hard he can't sit up. Singing is a good distraction as well. "Where is Thumpkin?" is his new favorite. I put my hands behind my back, he knows whats coming. He's smiling through his tears.

I'm missing so much valuable TV. Thank God for Tivo.

Funky Town

So Coleman and I are in the bedroom. Roz is teaching in the other room. Coleman's Curious George video is on, he has his trains out, puzzles, books, everything to entertain him for 2 minutes at a clip. During these alone father/son times, I've been known to doze off, not a heavy sleep, OK that's a lie, I go deep very quickly, but not for long, I swear.

Coleman is now in this phase where a heavy diaper slows him down, disturbs his sense of balance, so he just takes it off. Most of the times it's OK, it's just full of #1, but every once and again - OH MY GOD!!!

So I'm checking the back of my eye lids for cracks, i.e. napping, and the funk wakes me up. I think, it's time to change the diaper, but it's too late. The diaper has been removed, contents spilling out the sides, but he wasn't finished with his movement so there is a pile on the floor, somewhere!! Not only is there a pile, but he's kinda stepped in it, so there are footprints. He's also reached around to see what was sticking to his behind, so it's on his hands. Now he's climbing onto the bed, to show me his hands are dirty, so now the bed spread is tainted.

My next door neighbor Lili, warned me about the amount of laundry I'd be doing. I laughed it off. We have a laundry room down the hall. I've spent so much time in there, it's going to be a tax deduction.

Mohawk

I thought she was kidding. According to everyone else, it was time for Coleman's first haircut. I was fine with his hair. It's still baby soft and unruly, kinda like Coleman. But maybe it was time for a trim. Roz said she wanted to get him a Mohawk. That's silly. My son's not getting a Mohawk. She took him with her when she went to get her hair done. She told me she would ask the stylist if he could cut Coleman's hair. Apparently it was relatively uneventful, he sat in Roz's lap, the hairdresser cut his hair, he didn't cry, squirmed as per a two year old should squirm. And my son came home with a Mohawk. It's actually not severe, the sides of his head aren't shaved, so it's kind of a Fauxhawk.

He's two, it's only hair and it's the first countless haircuts over a lifetime, but I hate it. I just hate it. Not really sure why, he's still incredibly cute. I just hate it.

Maybe it's the beginning of all the decisions I will have nothing to do with. All the things I'm gonna have to choose whether or not to fight over. What do I do the first time he walks in here with his pants around his thighs? What do I do when he wants a tattoo or big fake diamond earrings in both ears? Or he won't eat anything orange?

No more Mohawks.

Call a Spade a Spade

What am I supposed to do now? I can't watch repeats of Seinfeld anymore. Kramer? Kramer is a racist!!!

There's no other word for it. For the tirade. RACIST!!

As far as Kramer was concerned, the black people heckling him were not even entitled to speak his name. How dare these people who were so far beneath him, look him in the eye and tell him he wasn't funny. It's as if the black hecklers in that comedy club were standing in a grocery store in Money, Mississippi and whistled at a white woman.

Kramer said to them "if it were 50 years ago, you'd be hanging from a tree with a fork up your ass." That statement is from his core. That's Bull Connor racist.

Now he's running around apologizing - to Al Sharpton and Jessie Jackson - I don't remember voting them as my proxy. I won't him to apologize in a room alone, to Suge Knight.

And what's he apologizing for? He meant what he said and he said what he meant. We know he's only apologizing because there is some deal in jeapardy, some new sitcom he was working on has now been cancelled.

He just blew his chance to be on next seasons "Dancing with the Stars."

And what timing. He revealed himself just as Jerry Seinfeld was out promoting the release of the 7th season of Seinfeld on DVD. I'll bet those DVD's are flying off the shelves in Mississippi.

It's a sad day when a rich, white celebrity can't get a break.

It's Our Anniversary

Five years. Me and Ms. Roz. Five years today.

Earlier this week, we went to the restaurant where we had our very first date. A little Italian bistro in Chelsea. By chance, the waiter seated us at the exact same table.

Our first date was 7 years ago.

Do you know the story? I'll tell you.

Roz and I were both actors. We each answered an add in Backstage for a short film. Somehow we made it through the piles and piles of headshots that I'm sure were received and we were called in to audition.

Here's the kicker. The part Roz ended up playing (the lead as she always reminds me) was written for a man, but the director liked her so much he changed it to a woman. The part I auditioned for I was really too young for, but the director liked my audition so much, he wrote a little part for me. The director's name is Jono, he and his wife and newborn were at our wedding.
The name of the short film is "The Window."

The Window - A glimpse - there's a poetic connection to be made, I'm afraid I'm not deep enough to make it.

Now here we are. In life together.
In wedded life.
In family life.
In business life.

All the billions of people in the world - Yet the randomness of this union feels like it's supposed to be this way. Give a shout out to the Man!!

Toast to our friends in the 5 year married/toddler club - Gerald and Stephanie, Charles and Nathania.

And of course to my beloved-
Roz
Rozzie
Rosalyn
Roz Coleman
Rosalyn Coleman Williams - thank you for randomly selecting to make me yours.

Love and 5 more and 5 more and 5 more...

His Majesty

Damn I'm tired. What time is it? 6:30am. I went to bed at 3am.

Writing that damn blog.

Why am I up? I'm not really up. I'm sitting here on the edge of the bed. Want to lay back down but I can't - he's there.

The little one - the boy. My son. In our bed. Again.

He's in the middle of the bed - sprawled out like the King of Siam. He has the nerve to snore. Roz has been pushed to the edge, her head is literally resting on the nightstand. If I lie back down he'll put his clawed feet into my kidney. I have to cut those toenails.

How did he get in our bed? Somebody broke the rule. I know who it was, but I'm not allowed to say.

If I try and put him back in his bed, he'll be up in 15 minutes. I'll just go sleep on the couch. If I can get up, but I can't. I'm just sitting here, staring into space. Wishing my bed were bigger, wishing Coleman were in his own bed, wishing I could turn back the clock to midnight, wishing I wasn't so tired.

"Juice Daddy, I want juice." I musta been wishing too loud.

The King of Siam is up.

My Compliments to the Chef

I guess it's a good sign. After Coleman finishes eating, if he has enjoyed the meal, he puts the bowl on his head.

Problem is, even though he's finished eating, the bowl may or may not be empty. So now we're waiting until after breakfast before we dress him.

24

My son turned 2 yesterday. Two! A nice round number. I don't have to say he's 24 months. We're done with the months. I hated the month math. A woman once said to me her son was 28 months old - cut the cord lady.

My son is 24 months old, he has 8 teeth on the top, 8 teeth on the bottom. He is 33 inches tall, he ways 27 pounds. He loves animals, pictures of animals, sounding like animals, videos of animals. Our neighbors have a big coffee table picture book of animals of the African Safari. He loves that book, every visit, he looks at it at least 4 or five times.

He loves to sing, he'll sit in his stroller and just sing up and down the street. His favorite jams are "Old MacDonald" or "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" or he just sing his "ABC's" over and over again.

He's very talkative, lot's of his sentences begin "I want." We understand about half of what he says, the other half is incoherent. He doesn't seem to mind when we don't understand what he's saying, he just keeps moving on.

He likes broccoli and chicken macaroni and cheese and oatmeal with blueberries and anything cold. slushies, ice pops, ice cream or just a good old fashioned ice cube.

He plays better with girls than boys. He's not good at sharing yet, so having to share a toy usually results in a meltdown. His meltdowns consist of very dramatic flinging himself backwards onto the ground. Sometimes he bangs his head, and it hurts. So every once and a while, mid-tantrum, he'll fling his body half way down and ease the top half of his body so that he doesn't hit head. It's a very cute, calculated tantrum.

He is ridiculously delightful and endlessly exhausting.

Next on to the halves. How old is he? 2 and a half, 4 and a half, much easier.

Rice Sweeps up easier after a couple days

It seems as if Roz and I are always cleaning and picking up stuff only to turn around to see everything we just put away back out and on the floor again. I have my own little category 5 disaster maker, his name is Coleman, he turns 2 next week. He’s quick, agile, destroys with much glee and without mercy. This is just a phase right. We can entice him to pick up after himself, but only if we turn it into some sort of game. In other words, there has to be something in it for him. So some days we just leave it, there are toys strewn all about, but sometimes it’s not just toys.

On the floor in my living room/office/dining room/playroom/ is a hard little gnarled bit of something stuck to the floor. It won’t sweep up, I’ve tried 3 or 4 times, it just won’t move. And there are too many other tasks to be tackled. To deal with it I’d have to get on my hands and knees with brillo or sponge or knife or jack hammer, and I can’t invest that kinda time right now. It could be raisin or maybe, I’ve stopped guessing, guessing scares me about the possibilities, it’s not emitting and odor, I don’t think.

A mother with too many children said to us recently, rice sweeps up easier after a couple days. I know it’s disgusting, but she’s right. Try and sweep up rice right away, it drags and smooshes and then you’ve got to get out the brillo or the jackhammer, but wait a couple a days, it moves cooperatively into the dustpan. Don’t judge me.

I could mop you say. Ha! Then I’d have to take out the mop and the bucket, that’s not so easy either, the mop it’s wedged between the wall and the refrigerator, all the way back, the handle is up against the wall and the mop part is stuck to the ground, because it was still wet when we put it away last time. Then there’s the bucket, underneath the sink. Filled with sponges and brillo pads and a spackling knife. So say I was industrious enough to get the mop and the bucket out. Where would I fill the bucket. Can’t do it in the sink, there are dishes there, there are always dishes in the sink. Waiting to we move to the bigger apartment with the bigger kitchen before we get a dishwasher so in the meantime, there are always dishes in the sink. I could fill up the bucket in the bathtub, then I’d have to spend an hour moving all of Coleman’s bath toys. Stop judging me.

We are just not from that time. We’re not from the time when women ironed sheets. Roz’s grandmother still irons her sheets. OK she’s 88 and she lives alone, so I guess she has the time now. But I can’t believe she was ironing sheets when she had a 2 year old. She had 3 daughters all under the age of 7 and she worked full time. I doubt very much that her sheets were ironed. But yet mothers and grandmothers always want to give you the impression that they had time to do everything when we were young, we were always clean, our clothes ironed, our rooms neat and tidy, the house spotless, meals served hot, delicious and on time. Yeah right.

Last week my mother chastised us because our Britta water pitcher had a little mold on it, or maybe there was a lot of mold. OK so it was something that needed to be addressed, I did, this week the house is filled with bottled water. Usually my mom doesn’t say anything, she’ll just clean it. Like when we come home from writing class, the kitchen floor has been moped. Maybe sheÂ’s the one who leaves the wet mop behind the refrigerator, because I don’t remember the last time either one of us used the mop, so ha! We are artists!! There are bigger fish to fry. I can’t be spending all my creative energy on gnarled bits of food stuck to the floor. Damn it I wish we had dog. He would have eaten it by now and all our problems would be solved.

It could be a blueberry.

Boob Tube

I met this very nice couple at a party recently, it was a big deal, we were all out at an adult function sans children, maybe a bigger deal for them, they have 3, we only have one.

Let's call them Jack and Jill, I was talking to Jill and she had overheard that my wife was an actress. Very proudly I told her Roz just got cast in a recurring role on the new show Kidnapped. Jill didn't know what that was, no biggie I told her, it hadn't aired yet and she won't be on until the 5th or 6th episode. I also told Jill that Roz was just cast in an episode of Law and Order Criminal Intent. This is when Jill confessed that she'd never seen L & O, in fact she doesn't watch TV at all, they didn't own a TV.

OK, so husband, wife, 3 daughters, 8 years old, the other 2 were younger, living on the upper east side of Manhattan and no TV????!!!!

I was particularly interested in how the no TV doctrine affected the 8 year old, now that she was out in the world. Jill admitted the 8 year old occasionally watched TV when she was with friends, but not in her home. Jill reluctantly volunteered that her 8 year old was brilliant, read books that would choke a TV watching horse, she was creative and totally interesting to be around. I buy that. I'd be a little worried about her being a cultural misfit, but it's really not so terrible if she doesn't know that Brittany Spears just had another baby.

Here's the kicker, no COMPUTER either!!! I wondered if she knew women had been given the right to vote.

The no computer thing is when she lost me. I didn't ask, but I hope she's learning computer stuff at school.
I think my job as a parent is to teach Coleman the good and evil in everything. TV can be awful and a ridiculous waste of time, but it can also inform and be a learning tool. And sometimes it's just good for entertainment. Don't we need that?

Reading can be just as harmful. What if the 8 year old decided she was only going to read newspapers? And her newspaper of choice was the New York Post? Or what if she accidentally picked up a copy of George W. Bush: The Right Man. The consequences could be catastrophic.

Can you say moderation?

MBA

I'm feeling good these days, no more crappy day job. I'm writing for a living. Not paying as well as I would like, but it'll get better. Am I worried about money? A little, sometimes a lot. Mostly because of this whole pre-school thing.

$15,000 a semester for preschool? MBA (My black ass)

Then some of them want you to come and help teach and then clean up. MBA

Even 2 days a week is $1000 a month. Why do I have to pay somebody to watch him snatch toys from other kids?

And we keep missing cut off dates. For some schools to get him in for September, we were supposed to have put in an application last January. For some really fancy schools, we should have put in our application when Roz and I got engaged.

He's only 2. Why are we stressing over getting him on lists?

It's sooo complicated. You want him to have all the opportunities.

The right preschool to the right kindergarten to the right elementary school to the right junior high school to the right high school to the right college to the right graduate school. All that an he'll be 30 years old sittin on my couch talkin about - What's for dinner?? MBA

We could home school!!

Yeah right. Say it with me people - MBA

Grandma

Grandma’s, nana’s, noni’s, bubby’s, big mommies, gamma, big ma’s, abuelita’s. I called mine Ma, she was my mothers mother. My mother called her Ma, so my brother and I called her Ma. When she died I cried for a week and was sad for a year. I can still see her gap toothed smile, Coleman has it. Christmas dinners or Thanksgiving dinners or whatever, looking around the room at the collection of misfits and over and under achieivers that was my family, there was Ma, sitting quietly, observing, sipping ever so daintily from her shot glass half full of Christian Brothers Brandy. Listening mostly, interjecting occasionally, laughing heartily. And she was funny. Cracked me up. I miss her; she’s been gone a long time, over 15 years, maybe closer to 20, but not quite.

My other grandmother, my father’s mother died a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t know her. One of the many tragedies of divorce. She died alone, in a nursing home. I didn’t even know where it was. It wasn’t Alzheimers, she was just sad. She birthed and buried all three of her children. First she lost her husband of I don’t know how many years, grandpa Sam. He lost part of his arm in World War 2. He was always in bed sick and he smoked foul cigars. But at the end of every visit, he would call my brother and me into his room, take out his wallet, hold the wallet against his body with his nub and hand us cash with his good hand. I believe to this day it’s why I’m not squeamish around handicapped people, I always think they’ll hand me money.

Just a couple of years after grandpa Sam died, grandma lost her youngest, Sam Jr., and then just 4 years later my father. I was about 14. About 5 years ago Her last remaining child, my Aunt Amy, a nurse, woke up one morning with a pain in her shoulder, after a couple of days, she decided to have it checked out. She was informed she had cancer, in her lungs and stomach and liver. She was given a few weeks to live, it didn't take that long. That was the last straw for my grandmother, she checked out. She was past crying, past pain, past grief, her mind was wherever her children were; she was just waiting for her body to catch up.

My Aunt Amy’s 2 daughters, my younger cousins took on the task of looking after my grandmothers empty shell. They tried keeping her in her home, it became too much. Nursing home was the only option. I can’t even tell you how long she’d been there, 3 years, 4 years, 2 years; I don’t know and never bothered to ask. So needless to say I never visited. So when the body of Cara Lee Williams, age 83, joined her spirit and her family, it was without fanfare. My cousins had her cremated and buried and then called us a couple of weeks later. At first of course I was indignant, after all I’m #1 grand, how many baby pictures they got, a couple, maybe a page. I got volumes a through z. I got over my indignation.

There was a small memorial service. I read the eulogy. Just as I was leaving the podium, the pastor asked me to say a few words about my grandmother. I hadn’t prepared anything. Thank God I’m a ham at heart. I spoke of the time we took a 24 hour bus trip to Dothan, Alabama for a family reunion. If the United States were a body, Dothan would be the armpit. I remembered how proud she was to have her oldest son's children with her. She often introduced me as Steven, my father's name, sometimes she corrected herself, sometimes not. The last time I saw her, at my Aunt Amy's funeral, I was Steven. I remembered how dignified and proud and fashionable she was, I also remembered how incredibly messy she was. Her home was a disaster area, clothes everywhere, but when she stepped out of her house, she was as clean as the board of health.
That made people laught, the pastor thanked me for bringing levity to the occasion. Levity is my middle name.

I want Coleman to get to know his grandma’s. I wish Roz’s family were closer. Did I say that? I’m kidding, I adore them; I never deny the opportunity to visit them in DC, no matter how brief. My mom just turned 60; we had a surprise birthday party for her this past weekend. We’ve had a very scary fortunate year. Mom is as recovered as recovered can be. With almost no remnants of the stroke she had the day before Coleman’s christening. On the days when his parents are stupid, clueless, unhip buffoons, hopefully Coleman will have his grandmothers to look to for comfort.

Karma

I'm having good Karma. I left my cell phone in a taxi. The next passenger called Roz's phone from mine to say he was leaving it at a bar he was going to. I got it back the next day.

A few weeks before that Roz and I found a cell phone in the lobby of our building, we scrolled through the contact list and knew right away it was a kid's phone, there were no dignified names like Constance or Alibastair - every name was Kiki or Nay Nay, or La La or Tre Boom, we scrolled until we found mom. Mom sounded as if she had no idea her little girl was on 43rd St and 9th Ave, but she was thankful we called. We left the phone at the front desk and went on about our way.

So I"m feeling good about my Karma. Not really sure what it is or how or why I believe in it. Is Karma really a balancing of the universe - the good or bad done by me will come back to me in some form or fashion. When I really think about that, it doesn't seem right.

What about the women in Darfur? Raped, beaten, husbands and sons killed, daughters raped, homes burned to the ground. Exiled from their land. What did they do to get their karma?

What about all those people who sat in shit in the superdome? What did they do to the universe to deserve such misfortune?

What is the universe trying to tell these people? Or is the message for the rest of us?

When the grocery cashier gives me too much change, I always return it. Does that mean I won't get hit by a bus?

What is a proportional response?

What do I have to give the universe in order to get back - let's say - a Faberge Egg.

I'm not even sure what a Faberge Egg is worth or where to get one or where I'd unload it. But I know they're rare and valuable.

I want peace in the world. I want George Bush and his war loving cronies out of office. I want to write the great American novel, that turns into the great American screenplay, that becomes the great American Broadway musical, that becomes the great American TV series.

I want my son to grow up happy and healthy. I want to grow old with Roz.

How many phones do I have to return to get all of that?

One Of Them

I remember the moment I became one of "them." One of those parents. I found myself playing the - What does your child do game.

They were hanging out in the lobby - I knew they didn't live in our building, her son Jackson was sitting in a $829 Bugaboo stroller, nobody in our building has one of those.

As we walked by, she asked how old Coleman was, "one year next Tuesday," I replied. Coleman gave her his best 2 tooth smile. She replied, "look at that beautiful smile," then she added "by a year Jackson already had eight teeth." Bitch! Here we go!

"Wow eight teeth already," I can't stand her, but I'm smiling. I asked not really caring."How old is Jackson?" "He's 14 months old, she grinned while wiping Jackson's nose. 14 months? I was still doing the baby month math when I asked, "how old was Jackson when he started to walk?"

She said - I love this part - "he's not walking yet." Gotcha!!! Bee-Acth!!

I fixed a stare as I lowered the boom. "Coleman started walking 3 weeks ago."

Trying to mask the hurt and disappointment on her face, "he's walking already."

Smiling so big, she could see my lower intestine, "yep he's on the go."

Pulling at the seams of her size 18 Seven jeans, "Jackson shows no interest in walking."

If I was being tooled around in a $829 stroller, I wouldn't show any interest in walking either. I didn't say that of course, but I transmitted it telepathically as Coleman and I were waving goodbye.

Then I did a terrible thing y'all.

I took Coleman out of his stroller so she and Jackson could watch him walk away. Coleman was tired and not in the mood, but somehow he sensed my need to be an ass. And he obliged.

When we were out of sight, I picked him up and promised him a pony.

One of them and proud of it.

Shut Up and Stop It

Stop it. Shut up and Stop it. I am not putting my son in commercials. I'm just not gonna do it. Yes he's cute - thank you. But so what. Why can't that be enough? What's so great about being in an Old Navy commercial? OK so maybe we can make a little bit of money. Enough for a college education? Shut up and stop it. I'll pay for his college education. I can't pay for it right now, but he's not going right now. Maybe he'll get a scholarship or I'll get another job, or he'll get a job. There are other options to pay for college other than putting my 2 year old to work.

Like getting him into commercials is that easy. We may have to take him to dozens and dozens of audtions before he booked a commercial.

We're loosing generations of kids who just want to be famous. You can't cure cancer if you're standing on line waiting to be judged by Randy, Paula and Simon.

Look it's no biggie, not gonna do it.

So shut up and stop it.

Let Her Rip Boys

Real men don't cry. I thought about my son being hurt and I cried. I thought about how helpless I felt and I cried, I thought about his little body lying on that big girney and I cried. But somewhere deep down, I felt it was kinda wrong, kinda silly, kinda unmanly.

On a recent episode of the Sopranos, Tony had to bail his son AJ out of jail. In the parking lot Tony slammed AJ up against the car and told him what a disappoint he was, AJ started to cry. Tony got even madder "don't you fuckin cry, don't you dare fuckin cry." If a fictitious mob bosses son can't cry - who can?

So it's OK to steal, but don't cry.

Sell drugs, but don't cry.

Kill, whack, bump off, eliminate, shoot, stab, decapitate, poison, burn, bury, drown - but don't cry.

Why don't men value the tear?

I think it's women!!

Some women say they want a man who will cry, but I've been out there in the jungle and I know a well placed tear can get you very far, but too many is a turn off.

It can be the difference between getting some pussy or just being called one.

What's the big deal, it's just tears, just an involuntary bodily reaction, like laughing or farting.

If left up to men, I think farting would be a more acceptable display of emotion.

If your puppy gets runover by a bus, fart.

At your grandmothers funeral, lift up that right leg and let em go till you feel better.

Men need to find some kind of release. Hezbolah is bombing Israel, Israel is bombing Lebannon. Soon the Syrians and the Iranians will join in bombing Israel. We'll have to help Israel - while still bombing Iraq and with our foot on the neck of Afghanistan. North Korea is throwing bombs into the sea. China will have to respond sooner or later. I can't even think about whats going on in Darfur - apparently neither can the rest of the world.

All this war stems from the evil that men do. Not women.

I want my boy to retain his compassion, I don't want it dared out of him or scared out of him or beat out of him.

Let's teach our boys to fart their way through conflict. No more wars. The next generation will be able to sit down in a room and break wind together.

Holding my breath

I remember stuff
I just don’t remember stuff
OK how’s this?
Coleman’s birth
In the operating room
Roz is having a C-section
It’s been a scary few hours
The room is bright
Really, really bright
Not like on ER
That’s mood lighting
Surgeons have to be able to see
Duh
Smells?
Can’t smell anything
Sounds?
The sounds of doctors babbling
As they cut Roz open.
I’m listening AND
Trying to talk over them
So Roz doesn’t hear what they’re saying
“I’ve never seen anything like this…”
“Move your hand…”
“Don’t touch that…”
“Do it like this…”
“He’s out…”

We listen
The cry
I exhale

Now I know why I couldn’t smell anything
I’d stopped breathing
Holding my breath
Waiting
Waiting for the little boy
Who will call me
Daddy

Spank Me Daddy

Just read a article that says 94 percent of 3-4 years olds have been spanked in the last year. 74 percent of parents beleive it's OK to spank 1-3 year olds.

The article continued to say: Clearly, the majority of parents say they spank their kids. Various factors increase the likelihood, including geographic location (children in the South are spanked the most), family income (less money means more spanking), race (African-American mothers spank their children more than other ethnic groups), and religion (parents more fundamentalist in their religious beliefs spank more than those who are less so).

So in the age of the public "time out," privately, secretly parents are still smacking those behinds, like their parents did and their parents before them.

Coleman's not 2 yet, but he's at that kicking and screaming phase, mostly out of frustration because he can't tell us what he wants. So we cut him some slack, but there are days when I want to pluck those fingers or slap that leg. So far I'm holding back. Finding other ways. Distraction still works best, but he's beginning to figure that out.

We have not ruled out spanking yet. We're smart enough, educated enough, to know we have options, but ultimately I want to get my childs attention, and I'll do whatever I have to do to get it, social stigma be damned.

Beautiful is temporary

The world is open to him. He laughs, he jumps, he makes unintelligible noises, he is applauded, wherever he is, whatever he's doing, whomever is watching. It's an amazing thing to witness. Every age, every color, they just want to stop and take him in. Does this happen with all children? I only have one, so I have nothing to compare it to.

He demands that you acknowledge him. "Hi', hi, hi," he'll keep saying it until you respond, lately he's added a miss America hand wave to his greeting. It's unbelievably adorable. I love the back handed compliments we get - "He looks just like both of you, but he's beautiful."

Our friend Nadine asks us if we know how beautiful he is? I don't think about it, until somebody else mentions it. I think about other things, like -
is he eating enough,
is he eating too much,
when will the rest of his teeth come in,
will they come in straight,
how young is too young to get braces,
is he learning enough,
is he playing enough,
do I play with him enough,
shouldn't he learn to play alone,
do we read to him enough,
should he be able to count by now,
should he be in preschool like some of his other friends,
he seems smart,
but how smart,
what are the other smarter kids doing at his age,
how can I make him smarter without turning him into a geek,
but a geek owns Microsoft,
so shouldn't that be OK.

Mostly I want him to be treated the way he's treated right now, every day for the rest of his life. But that's just not a realistic thought. He'll change, of course he'll change, but say by some miracle, he remains as open and as loving and as accepting as he is right now, how do I protect him from the way the world will respond to him. It'll be difficult enough to be 16, and smelly and awkward. Or 22 and less smelly, totally unsure of what you want to do with your life but positive that you know the answers to everything. It's a hard time for everyone, black white boy or girl. But if you're fair skinned, people don't cower when you get into an elevator, they don't fear that you'll rob them or violate them or marry their daughter.

It's something you learn to live with, I live with it every day. I get mad at myself sometimes, because I think I've overcompensated, I'm too accommodating, too willing to make people feel at ease. I try too hard to be the exception to what we've all been told is the rule. But If I get into an elevator and make small talk and make every effort to let this person know that they are in no danger, will their attitude change a little or will she consider herself lucky because she turned her rings around in time.

We've been taught to fear. Roz and I always say we live in the age of fear and consumption. Be fearful of the terrorists, they can come and kill you at any moment, but in the meantime go shopping. When the terrorist strike, we have to prove to them they haven't won, so - go see Spamalot. Many of the people who ran to the suburbs out of fear are running back to the cities. Why? Cause there's land to be bought. People will move to the depths of hell for cheap rent and an exposed brick wall. I don't want to pass this on to my kid, how do I teach him to not let the world define who he is? I have a little time before I have to start dealing with that - or do I? He's not even 2 years old yet.

Right now, he's beautiful.

Man Child

I love Wednesday nights, it's my writing class. All those warm beautiful women in our cozy loft. It’s no accident. I’m supposed to be here - to learn something. They all have boys, I have a boy. Yes I know Susan has a daughter, but for the purposes of my writing I’ll ignore that. All boys. Men-children. Man-child. Raising a boy into a man. I’m supposed to learn something, what is it? It feels familiar, listening to their stories. There is traditional, the untraditional, then the traditional that became untraditional. Yet we all have the same tasks; to raise a man. Raise a man who won’t end up on Dr. Phil or worse Oprah - because he won’t wash a dish or wipe a child’s behind or wipe his own behind or say I love you I need you I want you.

Roz, I love you I need you I want you I feel you I learn from you I see you I cherish you I hear you I thank you I believe in you - in your dreams for yourself for me for Coleman for us. You/me, we gotta raise a man.

It’s not gonna be easy for me. I feel like I just got here. My entry into manhood is very recent, very, very recent. Like in the last couple of minutes.

I gotta show him how to be a man. I wasn’t shown by a man how to be a man I had my mom. No it’s not one of those sad stories you hear on the 6 o’clock news. It’s a great story - I’m here and I’m a man. So good job mom. Yes my mom is a pill. She’s long on unsolicited advice and short on patience for any opinions that don’t agree with hers, but I’m here and I’m a man. I could drag my mother to therapy and make her admit all the things she did wrong, but she would probably look at me like I was a fucking moron. So I’ll just let it go because I’m here and I’m a man. I’m a man and I have to raise a man, with Roz.

I can remember that September day. It was warm, the kinda warm that made you think summer was gonna last till December. I sat with my friend Nicole in her car waiting for Roz to show up. There she is: black wedge sandals, denim skirt, pink top. I can’t remember if the top was tube or halter, but I remember the shrug. Not really a sweater or a shawl, you just put you arms through it and it covers your shoulders. One of those bizarre pieces of clothing women wear, like the skort. Our first date, in a small Italian eatery in Chelsea. Sitting across from each other, dipping our bread in the olive oil and balsamic vinegar. My big smile, her big smile, our actor/waiter’s big smile. Scientists say subconsciously I was making sure her hips were big enough to birth my babies. Subconsciously she’s making sure I can provide for her and our babies, so our actor/waiter is gonna get a big tip.

The night is easy.

I feel at ease.

This is her, the woman who is going to help me raise Coleman.

Great Black Dads

So there are a ton of people out there who believe that I am some kind of anomaly, a caring black father, it shocks and saddens me.

My parents split when I was 4, dad died when I was 14 and I didn't see much of him in between. So by all rights, I should be one of those people who think black men as caring, nurturing and present, is an aberration. I am an aberration?

I don't think so.

I think all the black men out there who have been doing the do, just don't speak up enough.

Roz belongs to a couple of mother support groups, NYC MOMS and Hell's Kitchen's babies. They are big on email. On a daily basis information is shared, topics are debated and the milestones of our little ones are celebrated. They talk about everything from pre-schools and discipline to engorged breasts and yeast infections. I read ALL of the emails, every once and a while I chime in with an opinion, and another father may give some information, but it's mostly the mothers.

I have yet to see the equivalent for fathers. Are they out there some where and I just don't know about them?

I know some of us are doing things our fathers never did, like changing diapers and cleaning spit-up and doing laundry and washing dishes and staying home with child or children while wife works. Some of us are just getting comfortable with our new roles. And all of us who are silent cave-dwellers haven't a clue as to how to share.

Let me start.

I can't imagine not being in Coleman's life. I love the way he walks, the way he talks, the way he smells, the way he laughs, the way he whines, the way he eats, the way he plays, the way he sings, the way he hugs, the way he screams, the way he sleeps, everything. I'm going to be in his life and in his face everyday that God lets me.

It's not easy some days and he's not even two. Some days I can't get my work done or a decent nights sleep. Some days I can't wait for nap time or bed time or a play date or for grandma to show up. But that's OK, cause I'm gonna be in his life and in his face everyday that God lets me.

I don't want to belittle anyone's hurt or pain. There have been some bad dads. Black, white and every shade in between. This ain't about them. This is about those of us who choose to be in our children's life and in their face everyday that God lets us.

This is about Don, Roosevelt, Roosevelt Jr, Andre, Tyrone, Fred, Derek, Ali, Jamar, Gerald, Omar and Anthony, and about your great black dad. Hey guys - Say it loud, I'm a Black Dad and I'm Proud.

You Give Me Fever

what are my goals? Is watching your son grow up a goal? I need to look up the word goal. Say it is a goal, when do I reach my goal, when he's 21? 30? 40? I love watching him, it's great to watch him discover things. What he's discovered lately is his reflection in car doors. He just kind of stands there and looks at himself, smiles, then he rocks from side to side, he points at himself, smiles some more, then he moves to the next car. I'm watching him much more closely then usual, cause we weren't really watching the moment his fever turned into a seizure. He was playing in with his toys, then he very quietly walked over to Roz, sat in her lap and began convulsing. Roz says to me, "there's something wrong with Coleman. He's shaking." I walked over to her. I take him. He's shaking like he's really, really cold, but he's not, he's really hot. "Call 911," I say to Roz - I'm very calm "talk to daddy, tell daddy what's wrong." A silly request now that I think about it, he's only 16 months old. I try to see if there's something in his throat, maybe he's choking on something, but I can't get his mouth open, his little gums are clenched shut. The 911 operator is telling Roz to lay him on his side, and to put a cold compress on his forehead. I tell Roz to put the phone on speaker and get the wet cloth - I'm in control. My son has been shaking for a very long time, 2 minutes? 3 minutes? his lips are blue, his body is rigid, his eyes stare at me. He stops shaking, his eyes roll back in his head, then they close, he's not moving. I'm holding my son and I think I'm watching him die (I've always been too scared to admit that.) I don't know CPR. I lay him on the floor and get really really close, he's still breathing. He's sleeping. Roz hands me the cold cloth, I place it on his forehead. I'm still really calm "Roz get the diaper bag ready," the paramedics are on their way...

The door bell rings, would the paramedics ring the door bell, shouldn't they just bust in. I don't know what that first paramedic was expecting to see, but it wasn't a tiny little boy lying on a bare wood floor with a cold cloth on his forehead. I saw in his eyes what he saw and then I realized how frightened I was. He dropped to his knees and begin "working" on my son. He didn't do a lot, but it seemed like a lot. He put an oxygen mask over my son's mouth and he and his partner lifted him to the girney. The sight of my 2 foot tall son on a 7 foot girney was too much for me - all the saliva that should have been in my mouth came pouring out of my eyes. Roz says "he s going to be OK." She's in control now. In the ambulance the paramedics try and get Coleman agitated, they say a good sign that babies are OK are crying and fussiness. But Coleman just wants to sleep and he does so for the next five hours. He sleeps through poking and prodding and diaper changes and x-rays. He sleeps in my arms, he sleeps in Roz's arms, he sleeps in my mom's arms. He just sleeps. And we watch...

Then he wakes up, Roz is holding him. I offer him a little turkey from my half eaten sandwich and he eats, and he eats a little more and a little more until all the turkey is gone. Then he wants to get down, he's ready to explore his new surroundings, so I hold his hand as we walk around the emergency room.

Febrile Seizure!! Lot's of kids under 5 get them. Caused by a spike in fever, he might get it again, there are no lasting effects, he'll be fine - we were told to go home. No lasting effects my ass. When he gets a little warm and babies are always a little warm, we're quicker to reach for the baby tylenol or baby moltrin or baby whatever will not cause my son to have another seizure. I feel kinda of robbed of the innocence of watching him play, every trip, fall or bump takes on the tiniest bit more urgency. But he's great, he's running and playing and talking and singing and a constant source of joy - and fear.

Our ordeal lasted only a few hours, what about the parents who spend days in hospitals, weeks, months - when does the saliva return to their mouths.

We watch him a little more closely now. I watch what I do, say, think and write a little more closely. I'm a husband, father and writer and this is my blog.