Tiffany’s Restaurant Massacre

The seeds we plant in our children are sometimes twisted ones, ones that take time to germinate, root, grow and burst from their tiny minds in a tangle of shock and confusion. I know. I stumbled across cultural landmines from my childhood repeatedly in college. Things that my family (my father in particular) had said or done that I thought were just our family weirdness but in fact were a Dennis Miller-esque cultural sub reference. Yes, of course I have an example…

I was a Junior in college minding my own business sitting in my room in the frat house I lived in when my roommate/little brother comes in with our resident hippie brother (every house had one – the pot has to be grown somewhere – I never inhaled). They proceed to the stereo and put on the “song”. I use the quotes because there was a lot more talking than singing and it was a smidge longer that the 3:05 that Billy Joel’s hits are cut down to.

This was not shocking or intimidating to me. My roommate was the same guy who made party tapes with fraternity songs on them at twenty minute intervals to clear the room and bring in a fresh crowd when the “good” music started. His musical eclecticism was well known. I grew up exposed to the singer/songwriter set and my father’s penchant for Harry Chapin meant that I could stomach a seven or eight minute song without too much trouble.

All that said, the song starts up and it’s this guy talking about the song, or the name of the song or the restaurant it’s named after. It was amusing but nothing to really get my attention. When the chorus starts up, I realize this is Alice’s Restaurant. Like the Rocky Horror Picture Show or Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell, there are some things everyone encounters in college or did back then. I checked the box on my mental list of things to do before graduation and tuned back out.

About twelve minutes later, I heard something that yanked my attention back to the song. "Kid, I want you to go and sit down on that bench that says Group W .... NOW kid!!" I stopped the tape (yes, this was that long ago) and rewound it. My roommate was confused and asked what the big deal was. I explained that when I was a kid and my brothers and/or I misbehaved that there was a bench in my father’s room that we would have to go sit on. Sometimes he’d even make us hold hands; that was the worst. He called it the “Group W” bench. Here is the original bench as it has been preserved for posterity. It’s far more uncomfortable than it looks. I know. Trust me.

Here’s a list of who sits on the Group W bench according to Arlo Guthrie: “there was all kinds of mean nasty ugly looking people on the bench there. Mother rapers. Father stabbers. Father rapers! Father rapers sitting right there on the bench next to me! And they was mean and nasty and ugly and horrible crime-type guys sitting on the bench next to me.”

Here’s a picture of posterity sitting on the original bench in December 2007. When my father sent this to me he noted that, “the occupants are miniature-sized reproductions.” You will note Liam has his hands up as though he’s been caught in the act, complete with a sheepish look. Graeme, on the other hand, is planning his escape or next shenanigan.

So, it’s time to plant some seeds of our own and see how old our children are before they encounter Arlo Guthrie. Behold the second generation Group W bench in all its teak glory. It’s backless for increased discomfort.


As you can see below, they seem to have forgotten already that sitting on the Group W bench is a punishment.

There Is No Joy in Muddville

It's a little scary the photos that parents can dig out of their archives if you provoke them. This picture came from my father with the quote, "The year you didn't strike out." Mighty Casey I am not...

From left to right, me in all my scrawny glory, my best friend down the street David Bowman, and my brother Matt.

Dance Fever

There's a war being fought in my sons' genetic code. It's not a battle for survival or against some malignant disease, unless you count social leprosy. It's a struggle between their mother's natural gift of rhythm and their father's fundamental whiteness. It's one that I hope her genes win. As Dan Quayle said, "What a terrible thing to have lost one's hipness. Or not to have hipness at all. How true that is." At least I'm sure that's what he meant.

What does it look like when white boys under three feet tall try to lay down the boogie and play that funky music ? No, that's something else. Anyway, here's baby dancing, oh and whining, and a penguin being bashed with a hammer. They're not really related, but they are funny, painful and funny as hell, respectively.

Diaper Baseball

A decade ago Trey Parker and Matt Stone, of South Park fame, created a horrible movie called BASEketball. We'll forgive them as this was clearly a warm up for the brilliant satire that became Team America, but I digress.

My sons have invented Diaperball. This involves taking off all your clothes except your diaper and hitting a wiffel ball off a plastic tee with the wrong end of the bat. I hope this never becomes a professional sport, but you can make your own judgement call. Their diapers aren't all that much worse that the short-shorts NBA players wore in the 80's.

Now, before you watch this I must warn you about a couple of things. First, we're still working on our videography, so no complaining if one minute there's a chair blocking your view, the next you have a great look at the kids and then you're spinning and staring at pavement. You will note that I am headless through most of the video. Mommy is focused on her littler boys. Anyone who wants to shoot video for us is welcome to come on over - then you may critique at your leisure.

Second, it's hard to tell sometimes, but I am joking about the boys' performance. I have no expectation that they will be professional baseball players or even adequate little leaguers (although their father did bat .800 his last year). I don't think I'll ever be one of those psychotic push-them-to-be-star-athletes-parents. If I disappoint us all and do become one, you will be able to say you saw it coming on video back in 2008.

Other than that, Tiffany's voice over sets this up for you.

NOTE: I'm having trouble balancing file size limits, video length and download quality when mixing from our video camera. Somebody let me know if this is incredibly painful to download or the quality stinks. The file is pretty huge by upload standards, but you're getting three minutes of crazy for your money.

Some Words from Our Sponsors

Okay, this one may be lost on those of you that don’t have to live over here, but I have to share some of the language challenges that we encounter. I’m going to tie this back to the boys by saying that Tiffany has had to ask both our helpers not to use certain phrases as we’d prefer the boys not adopt them. That said, some of these are primarily work-related.

Lah – as in, “Twins, lah?” It doesn’t really mean anything. Singaporeans us it for emphasis or just use it.
Can – yes, a trailing lah is standard.
Can not – no.
Don’t want? – You don’t want this?
Aircon – Air conditioning
Giddy - dizzy
Carpark - parking lot/deck
Lorrie - truck
Leave(s) – vacation
Mails – mail
Works – road work/construction
Table (object at work) – desk
Concall – Conference call
Table (verb) - to bring up for discussion. The opposite of its U.S. business meaning
Revert - reply
Lift – elevator
Boot – trunk

This last one led to one of the funnier bumper stickers we’ve seen in Singapore, “Ex-husband in Boot.”

On another note, it seems that the video worked and was well received, so I’ll be trying to put some additional cuts up over the weekend.

A Smattering of Reality

It’s an odd stage in the boys’ development. There are things they do that drive us completely crazy, but there are things that they used to struggle with that they have mastered. It’s a fine line between pushing them to new skills to make everyone’s life easy and starting to have conversations that start with, “Remember when they couldn’t…”

Examples? You want examples? Of course you do.

When we moved to Singapore life was time bound. The rules were simple. The boys got up around 7 am, got fed, and were good until about 9:30 or 10 am. Then they went down for a nap, got up after an hour to an hour and a half, had lunch and were good until 1 or 1:30 pm. Then they would nap again until around3 pm, be up for a couple of hours, have dinner, bath and bed by 7 pm. They couldn’t feed themselves, couldn’t walk, couldn’t talk, didn’t know what a potty was and didn’t like disruptions to their schedule.

Oh, you could take them out between 7 am and 10 am, but miss the start of that nap and suffer the consequences: the whining, crying, pre-tantrum consequences. Not to mention the fallout for the rest of the day because they got off track: more whining, crying and pre-tantrums. We found out the hard way in a Pizza Hut in Plaza Singapura last May. We put them in high chairs and bibs, pulled out their bottles and baby food jars and began to attempt dinner. It was too late in the day. Less than thirty minutes later, the only thing in a five foot radius that wasn’t covered in a thin layer of milk and Gerber 3s was the inside of their stomachs. This was one of those occasions when they began to melt down and we just pulled them out before they began to affect those around us (except for the milk shower and free Gerber topping on their pizza).

Today is different. They’re down to one nap, they walk, they talk (on their terms), and they’re more flexible (in their own way). A typical day is wake up between 6 am and 7 am. This is what I call the red zone. If they sleep until 7 am all is well; if they’re up at 6 am then mommy and at least one of them (Liam) will be grumpy for at least part of the day. Mommy contains them upstairs until 7 am regardless and then they go downstairs for breakfast. Then we play or have class (Kindermusik or MyGym) or go to play group. Come home for lunch around 11 am (or fall asleep in the car if we’re tired or running late) and then nap for an hour or two. They get up around 2 pm and then dinner around 6 pm (or earlier if we’re grumpy) and then bath and bed around 7 pm. Now, bed and asleep are two different issues as mentioned in other entries.

What’s a meal like for comparison? Well, to start with, they feed themselves. They use forks and spoons (and hands). Our biggest challenge is either getting them to eat if they’re being finicky or getting them to slow down if they’re not. It reminds me of when my father used to jokingly call one of my brothers “Garbage Jeff” because of his adolescent eating habits. Jeff had puberty for an excuse. Liam’s just a bizarre combination of goat and trash compactor (I’ll let you decide which side gave him which genes).

Since he was an infant, we have joked that all food belongs to Liam. I had this realization when he was about six months old. He was laying on our floor in the den in Atlanta and I was sitting down on the couch to eat some pizza I had just heated up. Liam hated lying on the floor on his tummy and wasn’t a big fan of rolling, but he rolled onto his tummy pushed up and arched his back so he could see what I was doing. The look on his face as he watched me eat was hilarious. It seemed to say “Hey! Wait! What’s that? Wait, you’re EATING that. You have food of your own? You’ve been holding out on me.”

Today things aren’t too different. You cannot eat pizza in front of them and expect Liam to eat anything else. Liam, “Pizza, pizza. PIZZA!!!;” Graeme catching on, “I eat a pizza. Graeme eat a pizza.” Tragically this applies to anything that is triangular, so mommy’s quesadilla was branded pizza. Its self-esteem has never recovered. Another challenge with pizza (or quesadillas) is getting the boys to eat them properly. Apparently biting a hole in the middle is both challenging and entertaining. Meals are sometimes a chorus of, “Bite the pointy end.” To which Graeme uses one of his stock phrases combined with his ability to repeat anything (and yes there are funny stories on that, but I have been censored by the guilty party) “I bite a pointy end.”

The newest mealtime trick is drinking from cups without lids or straws. It’s been less than a week, but they’re actually doing quite well. Tiffany has to meter the volume. Pour a little, they drink a little. Pour a lot, it’s bath time. Funny thing, when they’re thirsty there’s not a lot of fooling around. We do have to keep them from dropping food into the cup and fishing it out again.

Other meal time fun: Liam likes to put his hand on the table and push his chair back on two legs. As his mother and I react, he yells, “NO!” at himself before we can, with a big grin on his face. Once meals are done, Tiffany has the boys clearing the table by carrying their plates, cups and bibs (one at a time) into the kitchen to our helper. Occasionally, someone gets lost on the way back to the table and ends up standing next to the large painting (Red Square, by Ford Smith) on the dining room wall. Here he (usually Graeme) waits with a devilish grin on his face until we notice. Despite previous warnings, he then pushes the lower corner of the painting as hard as he can and runs for the stairs. Why the stairs? Because he’s going on the naughty step, where he will recite, “I sorry. I sorry painting.” After correction, “I sorry mommy/daddy.” It’s a different world from last year.