I Need A Timeout

The lines have been drawn. The battle has begun. After almost two years of peaceful coexistence, my daughter and I are in a war of wills— a struggle for power, if you will. We have officially entered that challenging phase of parenthood known as The Terrible Twos (insert scary “Da, da, daaaa!” sound).

Before I was a father, I hated when parents would talk about this legendary period of misery and frustration. I heard horror stories of inconsolable, uncontrollable toddlers causing public scenes and wreaking Godzilla-like havoc. I used to scoff at these tales. How could someone so young and so small possibly cause so much trouble? It must be bad parenting, I thought. Certainly, when my time came, I would fare better.

How foolish was I.

In her brief time here on Earth, my daughter has always been somewhat advanced for her age. So it’s no surprise that her Terrible Twos started right around 18 months. Our sweet little angel – always well behaved, always a good eater – suddenly decided one day that she wasn’t going to listen to us anymore. Suddenly food wasn’t something you put in your mouth, but rather something you threw across the room. It was if one morning we woke up and our daughter’s angel wings had been clipped and replaced with devilish horns.

Back in the old days, the remedy for such naughty behavior would’ve been a firm spanking with a custom-made wooden paddle (preferably one with copious holes drilled through it for extra spanking power). However, my wife and I do not subscribe to this type of corporal punishment. Instead, we put our faith in a kinder, gentler form of discipline: the Timeout. We believed this was a much more effective and humane method than spanking. Besides, we saw it work on TV.

The first few times we put my daughter in Timeout, it worked perfectly. Sitting alone on the special Timeout Chair in the Timeout Corner, my daughter wailed in shame and shed rivers of tears as she begged for our forgiveness. Then, after letting her think about it for a minute or so, we’d ask for an apology and give her a hug as she whimpered in defeat. That’ll teach her to fling her mashed potatoes across the room! At least that’s what we thought.

It wasn’t long, however, that my daughter lost her fear of this trendy form of punishment. Now the once dreaded Timeout is about as effective as threatening her with an ice cream cone. “Do you want to go in Timeout!?” we ask in our best angry-parent voices. “Yes!” she answers, nodding and flashing a fiendish smile. Funny, but this never happened on TV.

Maybe the Terrible Twos isn’t caused by bad parenting after all. Maybe it’s just some preprogrammed type of behavior that’s just a natural part of the development process. Then again, maybe it’s God’s way of having a good laugh at our expense.

Personally, I don’t know how much more of this I can take. It’s exhausting. Maybe I’ll just put myself in Timeout for a while and think about it.

Valentine J. Brkich is a writer and father who’s losing a battle of wills with a two-year-old. Check out his website at www.valentinebrkich.com.

The Pathetic Life of a Born-Again Bachelor

(Copyright 2009 by Valentine J. Brkich)

What dad wouldn’t love the chance to go back in time and relive his swingin’ bachelor days, if only for a little while?

Just recently, my wife and daughter left for Florida to visit my sister for a couple weeks. My sister was expecting, and my wife wanted to go down and help her get things ready for the new baby. At first I wasn’t sure how I felt about not seeing my daughter for such an extended period. After all, two weeks is a long time for a 22-month-old. A lot can change in that amount of time, and I really didn’t want to miss out on anything. So I decided to put my foot down and tell my wife, I’m sorry, but she just couldn’t go.

But then she booked her non-refundable plane tickets, so I reconsidered.

Soon I got to thinking about how nice it might be to have a couple weeks to myself. Two weeks to rediscover my bachelorhood. Two weeks of eating nothing but Ramen noodles and microwaveable chicken patties. Two weeks of drinking beer every night, staying out late on the weekends, and coming and going as I pleased. In other words, two weeks of freedom—glorious freedom!

In the days leading up to my wife's and daughter’s departure, I made a list of all the things I would do while they were gone. I’d take care of all those unfinished jobs around the house that I never seem to have time for. I’d go hang out at the coffee shop after work and catch up on some reading. I’d go to happy hour with my friends and crash on their couches. I’d do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. It would be awesome!

But then my wife and daughter left, and now all my grand plans don’t seem so grand anymore. Coming home from work, instead of being greeted by my smiling daughter, now all I find is an empty house. Sitting in front of the TV with my beer and chicken patties, I find myself wishing I was at the dining room table, talking with my wife about her day. And at night, lying alone in bed in my eerily quiet house, I long for the comfort of having my wife beside me and my daughter snug in her crib just down the hall.

These past two weeks have felt more like two months. It’s funny, really. I’m the guy who always says he likes to be alone. The guy who thinks it would be fun to be marooned on a desert island, with nothing to drink but coconut milk and nobody to talk to but a volleyball. Here I am, Mr. Independent, bored and lonely.

Fortunately, the two weeks are just about up, and soon I’ll be flying down to the Sunshine State to be reunited with my darling girls. I can’t wait to hug them and kiss them and tell them how lost I’ve been without them. It’s sure to be an emotional and memorable reunion.

Then, after our tearful embrace, I’ll ask my wife if she wouldn’t mind making me something to eat. If I’ve learned anything in these past couple weeks it’s that man cannot live on chicken patties alone.

Valentine J. Brkich is a professional writer, husband, and father, who recently remembered how sucky his twenties were. Drop him a line today at valbrkich@gmail.com.

www.ValentineBrkich.com

The Same Old Song and Dance

(Copyright 2009 by Valentine J. Brkich. First printed in the July 2009 edition of The Point North Magazine, Wexford,Pa.)

I fear sequins. I loathe the sound of taps on hardwood, and I despise French terms like plié, jeté, and échappé. You see, I have two sisters, both of whom were in dancing school before they were in pre-school. The fact that they danced didn’t bother me; it was that for years, whenever they’d go to dancing school or to a recital, I was dragged along to suffer.

So you can see why when my daughter was born, one of my first edicts was that she would never taking dancing lessons—absolutely never. As far as I’m concerned, there are plenty of other physical activities she can partake in – soccer, golf, curling, jai alai, the biathlon – anything but dancing.

You see, when I was a kid, every Wednesday as soon as my sisters and I got home from school, my mother would pack us into our International Scout and cart us off to my sisters’ dancing school in the dusty old American Legion building. For the next couple hours or so I’d sit in the corner and write or draw while my sisters learned the basics of tap, jazz, and ballet. The painfully loud commands of their totalitarian dancing instructor still reverberate in my brain to this day.

Finally, my father would come and rescue me on his way home from work, and then we’d head to the bowling alley for his weekly league. Then I’d sit in that smoky building for another hour or so, writing and drawing amidst the constant cursing and the incessant sound of urethane colliding with maple. Eventually, my mom and sisters would rescue me again on their way home from dancing school. We did this every Wednesday for about 45 years or so.

And let’s not forget the recitals: four or five mind-numbing hours of sequin-clad dancers performing routines set to some of the worst music you’ve ever heard. To this day, just hearing a few notes of Glenn Frey’s “The Heat is On” can throw me into a panic attack as I relive those many dreadful hours trapped in some dark, high school auditorium.

So you can see how, when my daughter began to show an inclination to dance, I became concerned. Ever since she’s been able to stand on two feet, if music is playing, she’s dancing. And the worst part is she’s actually really good at it.

A couple weeks ago we were at street festival in town where some local dancing schools put on a show. My daughter was mesmerized by the performances and, to the delight of dozens of onlookers, mimicked every move of the dancers with uncanny precision. At just 20 months old, she displayed rhythm, grace, coordination, and obvious dancing ability. It was terrible!

Now everyone’s telling me the same thing: “You HAVE to send that girl to dancing school. She’s really got some talent!” Wonderful. Of all things to be talented at, she had to pick dancing. It’s like some cruel joke; a punishment doled out by the Fates for some transgression from my past. Oh, woe is me!

So I guess I’m doomed to spend the next 10 to 15 years of my life sitting through dancing lessons and recitals and listening to that horrid music. I just hope we’ve gotten past the Glenn Frey era; I don’t know if I can handle it.

Man vs. Toddler: A Never-Ending Struggle

(Copyright 2009 by Valentine J. Brkich. First printed in the June 2009 edition of The Point North Magazine, Wexford, Pa.)

One of the first things you learn as a parent is that getting your child to listen to you is about as easy as teaching an elephant to do a cartwheel. Fortunately there are several methods you can try.

The first – and by far the least effective – is simply asking them to do whatever it is you want them to do. This one’s a real roll of the dice. If you’re lucky and your kid is too young to know better, you might actually get them to go to sleep just by asking them to. But more than likely, they’ll decide pretty early on that you’re an idiot and, therefore, anything you want them to do can’t possibly be right. That’s just the way it is. It’s God’s little joke on us.

The second and much more effective way to get your kid to listen to you is with trickery. It didn’t take my wife and me long to realize that if we really wanted our daughter to do something, deception was our best option.

Take eating, for example. Adults love to eat. We’re addicted to it. Heck, entire industries revolve around our inability to stop eating. Kids, on the other hand, could take it or leave it. If it wasn’t for us adults shoving food down their throats three times a day, kids would go for weeks without eating anything, save the occasional Oreo or jelly bean. My daughter started out as a good eater; but we now realize it was more of an innate reflex than a conscious decision. Now that she’s a toddler, getting her to eat what we want, when we want, has forced us to become masters of subterfuge. For a while, the best way to get her to eat something was to tell her not to eat it. “Don’t you eat that broccoli!” I’d say. “That’s Daddy’s broccoli!” No sooner would I say this than she’d stuff a floret in her mouth and flash a fiendish grin, believing she had done something mischievous.

The effectiveness of this reverse psychology was fleeting, however, and soon we were looking for another solution. That solution was bribery. If you want your kid to do something, nothing works better than offering them something else in return. And it doesn’t even have to be something good.

For example, a toddler doesn’t understand that a remote control with batteries is much more effective than one without batteries. They just want to hold a remote control—any remote control. So, if they’re holding the remote and refusing to relinquish it without throwing the hissy fit of all hissy fits, just find another remote and make like it’s the greatest thing in the world. (If you can’t find another remote, just use something else like a spatula or a banana. Don’t worry; they won’t know.) When you do this, your kid will immediately drop the real remote like a hot potato and demand the one you’re holding. Soon you’ll be happily surfing the channels, and your kid will be off looking for something metal to stick into the outlets.

But that’s an entirely different article.

Speaking in Strange Tongues

(Copyright 2009 by Valentine J. Brkich. First printed in the May 2009 edition of The Point North Magazine, Wexford, Pa.)

I’ve always wanted to speak a second language. I took three years of Spanish in high school and another in college. Yet, even with four years of schooling, I’m still limited to just a few phrases:

“Me llamo Val” (My name is Val)
“Donde esta la biblioteca?” (Where is the library?)
“Feliz Navidad!” (Merry Christmas!)

Unfortunately, these phrases aren’t very useful unless it’s Christmas day and I’m looking for a library in Mexico…or Miami.

Recently, I’ve been learning a brand new language: baby-talk. Over the past few months my daughter has been gradually increasing her vocabulary, and, as a result, she is getting better at communicating her needs to us. When I say “vocabulary,” however, I’m not necessarily talking about actual English words as you and I know them. Hers is a hybrid language of sorts—one part English and one part jibberish.

Sometimes it’s easy to understand her. Words, like “eat” and “play,” come out clear and phonetically correct. Other words, however, are not as understandable, and it took some time for us to be able to first identify and then translate them.

For example, “waah,” as we have come to learn, means “rag” and refers to the cloth diaper my daughter sleeps with. When she says “why,” she’s not asking a question; rather, she’s asking for “water.” And the confusion doesn’t end here.

One of my daughter’s unique linguistic traits is that she likes to add the “uh” sound before a lot of her words, while putting the emphasis on the latter half. For example: “uh-EAT,” “uh-PLAY,” “uh POOPOO,” etc. Sometimes she even puts an “uh” sound at the end of the word, which makes her sound somewhat Italian, i.e., “uh-WOK-uh,” meaning “Put me down; I want to walk.”

Here’s a little sampling of some of her other phrases and their meanings:

uh-MALK-uh = I want my milk.
uh-DUCK-uh = It is dark.
uh-MAN-uh = I want a banana.
uh-SEAT-uh = Sit down.
shoosh = shoes
moe = more
uh oh = I’ve spilled something (most likely on purpose)
aw doe = All done = Get me out of this highchair or I’ll start
throwing food all over the place!

Each night, right before bedtime, she’ll quickly run through several of these phrases in a last-ditch effort to avoid going to sleep. (“Uh-EAT! Uh-MALK-uh! Uh-PLAY! Uh-EAT!!)

I used to listen to other babies babble incoherently and wonder at the ability of their parents to translate what they were saying. Now I have this same superpower, which is pretty cool. Unfortunately, I also now find myself speaking back to my daughter in a bizarre, third-person dialect that makes me sound a little like a cave man:

“Daddy love you!”
“Bad girl! You listen to Daddy. Daddy mad!”
“Shhh! Mommy tired. Mommy sleepy.”
“No, no…no touch…Daddy’s wine…NO TOUCH!”

It’s not so bad talking like this at home, but out in public it can be a little embarrassing. I just wonder how long I’ll continue to talk like this. (“Daddy no like your boyfriend. Boyfriend have mustache. Where Daddy’s wine?”)

So maybe the four years I spent studying Spanish were all for naught. That’s okay. It’s not like I’ve put all those years of studying advanced mathematics to use, either. Besides, I can now count baby-talk as my official second language.

Although I don’t think it will do much for me on my resume.

What A Difference 10 Years Makes

(Copyright 2009 by Valentine J. Brkich. First printed in the April 2009 edition of The Point North Magazine, Wexford, Pa.)

Over the past few weeks I’ve come to the conclusion that the “me” of just ten years ago would hate the “me” of today. In fact, I think that 24-year-old me would absolutely loathe 34-year-old me and what I’ve become.

This enlightenment came to me a couple weeks back when two of my best friends invited me to accompany them on a little snowboarding getaway to a local mountain resort. The plan was to head up there early on Saturday and snowboard most of the day, while stopping for several breaks at the ski lodge bar. It was a fantastic plan, filled with all kinds of winter fun with two of my closest compadres, and it was one that 24-year-old me would have jumped on.

Thirty-four-year-old me, however, decided to forgo this day of winter revelry and, instead, spend the day at the children’s museum with my wife and daughter. Whilst my friends were out shushing down some icy slope in the Laurel Highlands, stopping for the occasional drink and spying the occasional snow bunny, I was one of what seemed like a thousand parents crammed into the Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood room, chasing my little one around with a video camera. It was a wonderful afternoon that concluded with my exhausted but happy daughter passing out, slumped over in her car seat on the ride home.

Twenty-four-year-old me is just sick hearing me say this.

The funny thing is, although I knew my friends were out having a great time, I was really glad I decided not to go. I gave up a day of adrenaline-pumping outdoor excitement with two of my best buds in order to watch my daughter paint an unrecognizable blob and then try to eat the paintbrush – and I was okay with it (the passing-up-snowboarding-to-go-to-the-museum-part; not my daughter eating a paint brush).

Right now, 24-year-old me is shaking his head at me from the past.

What can I say? My priorities have changed. Twenty-four-year-old me’s priorities were 1) looking for girls, 2) continuing to look for girls, and 3) making enough money bussing tables in order to buy beer for the week.

Thirty-four-year-old me’s priorities, on the other hand, are 1) spending time with my wife and daughter, 2) making enough money to pay the bills and save a little for the future, and 3) making enough money through my writing to buy wine for the week.

Twenty-four-year-old me really hates that I like wine.

Here’s what a typical conversation between 24-year-old me and 34-year-old me would sound like:

Me at 24: Hey, Val, you wanna go to happy hour after work on Friday and look for some girls?

Me at 34: Hey, Val, that sounds fun, but I think I’m just going to stay home, play with my daughter until she goes to sleep, and then maybe have a glass of wine before turning in early.

Me at 24: What?!? Wine?!? Turn in early?!? Didn’t you hear me? I’m talking about girls and beer…and girls!

Me at 34: I heard you. I’d just rather spend a nice quiet evening at home with my wife and daughter. Did you know my daughter can already say her A-B-Cs? She’s really into Elmo now, too.

Me at 24: (blank stare) Uh…okay. You have fun sitting at home then. I’ll be out having a great time and meeting a bunch of girls.

Me at 34: No you won’t. We never had the guts to talk to any girls. Besides, we always felt like crap the next day from drinking too much cheap beer.

Me at 24: I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Turn-in-early-wine-drinker.

Me at 34: Yeah, Whatever.

Me at 24: Whatever, yourself!!

Me at 34: Wait…aren’t we the same person?

Me at 24: Huh?

Me at 34: Oh…never mind.

Yes, I’m perfectly happy with 34-year-old me. Sure, 24-year-old me had a lot of spunk and was always up for a good time; then again, 24-year-old me didn’t know what its like to have your baby girl sit on your lap and smile while you read her favorite bedtime story. Too bad. I think 24-year-old me might have really liked it.

Twenty-four-year-old me seriously doubts that.

Valentine J. Brkich is happy to be 34 years old. Visit his website today at www.brkichwriting.com.

A Black & Gold Obsession

(Copyright 2009 by Valentine J. Brkich. First printed in the March 2009 edition of The Point North Magazine, Wexford, Pa.)

Parents spend a lot of time teaching their children about shapes – circles, squares, triangles, etc. I’ve been teaching my daughter to recognize the most important shape of all: the astroid hypocycloid. Not ringing a bell? Check out the yellow, red, and blue star-like objects on the Pittsburgh Steelers logo.

It’s been over a month now since the Pittsburgh Steelers won Super Bowl XLIII, but I’m still in celebration mode. It’s not every year that your team can call itself the best in the world, so I’m milking this baby as long as I can.

I still remember the gut-wrenching moment, late in the fourth quarter, when Larry Fitzgerald caught that pass up the middle and blew past the Steelers defense like they were standing still. I didn’t stick around long enough to see him reach the end zone, though. I immediately left my family and friends to go sulk in private. After all, there was no way we were going to come back and score with just over two minutes left in the game. No way.

But of course, we all know what happened.

As I watched the Steelers accept their sixth Vince Lombardi trophy, I couldn’t help but wonder why I cared so much. And care is an understatement. When I thought we were going to lose, I was devastated. How would I come to terms with such a painful loss? I may be mentally ill.

Then, when the Steelers won, I was euphoric. It was as if I, not Santonio Holmes, had just caught that miraculous game-winning touchdown. Again, the psychosis.

Why do we care? It’s not like the players are actually from the Pittsburgh region. Heck, Hines Ward lives in Georgia. The only thing that ties them to Pittsburgh is the contract they sign and the jersey they wear on Sundays. So what does it matter to us if they win or lose?

I’ve thought about this a lot since that wonderful Sunday evening (I need help), and I’ve come to the conclusion that we love the Steelers because they represent something that binds us together. We all have separate lives, separate jobs, separate neighborhoods, and so on, but the Steelers are something we all have in common. They give us an excuse to gather with friends on a Sunday afternoon and forget our problems for a few hours. In a region that’s seen its share of hardship in recent times, this team represents something we can all root for and be proud of. And I think, deep down, that’s something we all need.

After we screamed and cried and yelled and embraced and kissed and jumped up and down like a bunch of lunatics, I glanced over at the baby monitor. Surely there was no way my daughter, upstairs in her crib, had slept through such a raucous celebration. But, to my astonishment, the monitor was silent. I guess that’s what they mean by “sleep like a baby.”

Thinking of my daughter lying there, sound asleep, as we lived and died…and lived again with the Steelers, I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her. Just as I had missed out on all the fun of the Super Bowls from the 1970s, she was missing out on all the joy and excitement we were experiencing now. What a shame. But at least she didn’t have to deal with those final fifteen minutes of nail-biting anxiety. Can’t the Steelers just win a game outright for once, for cryin’ out loud?

I’m looking forward to the day when my daughter and I can cheer on the “Black and Gold” together – when we can revel together in their victories and comfort each other in their defeats (hopefully we won’t have to do much comforting).

Sure, maybe it’s a little childish to get all wrapped up in the fortunes of a professional football team. Then again, maybe there’s nothing wrong with that.