-Dewan Gibson

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Where’d that come from? Well, we “did” sex often and our little ones are close in age: 7, 8, and recently turned 10. Whatever the oldest learns the youngins do, too. For fourth-grade Health Day he was asked to watch “Always Changing and Growing Up: Boys Puberty Education Video,” sponsored in part by…Tampax? The video tells boys they’re going to smell, get pimples, and grow ball hair. It also describes how loins vary in size and suggests they blame Dad if they feel penis inadequate. 

Even before Health Day, they had a surprising awareness about their bodies. They called testicles “pee-balls” and claimed that urine is held by a “pee stone.” I don’t know, I haven’t raised girls, maybe it’s different with boys? My guess is that they see their schlongs hanging, inflating and deflating for reasons unknown, and they start relating everything to their privates. As my youngest recently told me, “My penis is hard and my nose is stuffy.”

Since Health Day they’ve been looking forward to puberty. Statements that used to begin with “When I’m a grown up…” have become “When I get my Adam’s apple…” Also, the stork is a thing of the long ago past. As my 8-year-old explained: “We were swimming in your pee-balls. We’re lucky we made it. I just swam to the egg.” That’s deep. Made me think, “Man, maybe he really does remember being conceived.”

Still, I’m unsure my 10-year-old has a need for sex ed at such a young age. He sleeps with stuffed animals. He has an imaginary friend named Rick. He ran away from home (we found him two streets over) because he’s a superhero and wanted “to go to the city and fight bad guys.” He ain’t thinkin’ about no sex! 

When I was a tween, a time when the teen pregnancy rate was double what it is now, my sex education came from HBO and Skinemax, among other avenues. My older brother once found a VHS tape mislabeled “When Harry Met Sally.” I don’t know who penciled in that title (Hi, Dad!), but it wasn’t a romantic comedy starring Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan. There was some serious bonin’ going on. I was intrigued but also freaked out. Outside of being shy, or possibly “scared of the pu**y!” as friends teased, it may be why I remained a virgin until college.

But these days, no matter how much oversight, the little ones can access nudie films and the like on demand. So early intervention makes sense. Even it’s just more about understanding changing bodies. So we got the boys some books: Guy Stuff: The Body Books for Boys, The Human Body, and The Boy’s Body Book. Yeah, overkill. That’s how it goes when Mom’s a teacher. 

They got something from the books, lots of laughs and an understanding that everyone develops at their own pace. Most importantly, their question was answered: Yep, Mama and Dada did “do sex.”

As for what the details of what that means? We’ll save that for later.  

-Dewan Gibson  

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I’ve posted a few of them above and below. The Mrs. says I have to keep some private because we’re going to use them for Christmas cards, which we plan to send every year but actually get mailed out once every half-decade. Shoot me your address if you’d like one. I’ll send sometime in the next five years. 

-Dewan Gibson

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-Dewan Gibson

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The first stop during our road trip to D.C. was the National Portrait Gallery. We saw the famous President Obama portrait (there was a short line) and paintings of other politicos the kids recognized from textbooks. There were also portraits of celebrities, including an extravagant portrait of LL Cool J, widely known as the greatest rapper ever…to land a starring role on NCIS.

Overall the kids had fun at National Portrait Gallery. But if your little ones are like mine, and have to be told “Don’t touch!” 17 times before they begin to listen, you’re going to spend a lot of time supervising and miss out on a lot of the museum’s 1,400-plus portraits. I got tired of snatching kids up, so after about 45 minutes we spent our time letting them run around in the museum’s courtyard.

The Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History was up next. There’s a space in the museum called Q?rius, written as if it’s a moniker for a musician of fluid sexuality, and pronounced “curious.” It’s the interactive section of the museum where kids can play with microscopes without worry of breaking stuff.  Other than Q?rius, there were elephants and dinosaurs to gawk at, along with a life-size blue whale hanging from the ceiling. 

We also checked out some of the monuments during our two-day trip, recreating our Martin Luther King, Jr. photo from 2011, though with two additional results of reproduction. The Lincoln Memorial was enjoyable–“Dada, how did he get that BIG!”–as was watching the breakdancers near the White House, likely the only diversity you’ll see anywhere near that place until 2020.

Our family trip to Washington, D.C. ended at the Smithsonian’s National Zoo. As a frequent visitor of the Columbus Zoo and the San Diego Zoo, widely regarded as two of the country’s best zoos, my standards for enclosed animals are pretty high. I wouldn’t say the D.C. zoo was great, but they have good views of pandas and it’s free. Well, it’s $25 to park, but you can do so for free (two hours max) on Constitution Avenue. Just be sure to let your zoo crew know that they’re on the clock. 

Our kids are 7, 6, and 4 and too young and impatient to fully enjoy Washington, D.C.’s museums and history. There were two other museums we planned to go to–the National Museum of African American History and Culture and the Bureau of Engraving and Printing–but the kids are only going to tolerate so much “speak in your small voice and don’t touch” before they organize an uprising. But we’ll be back to recreate another photo near the MLK monument, though preferably without an increase in the number of children.

-Dewan Gibson

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I’ll be upfront: it was rough at times. There was the physical aspect of lugging around infants and toddlers who could not or would not walk, and the mental drain that came with being on-call all day. And the crying…man! I’m noise adverse, so the screams were akin to the U.S. military torturing Al-Qaeda suspects with Barney’s “I Love You” theme song played at maximum volume for hours. (True story, by the way.)  But I didn’t crack. And I now look fondly upon my time served, for the most part. 

The SAHD experience enabled me to develop “manny” skills that I still utilize. I learned to cook Instagram-worthy meals for five in fewer than 15 minutes; I developed a soldierly sense of time and scheduling—Having fun playing with your toys? Too bad. Time for a nap!—and I increasingly became one of those annoying people who wants everything clean and orderly the second it becomes messy. Unopened mail, toys everywhere, a sink full of dishes…ewww!  

Most of all, my time as a stay-at-home dad made my heart, previously selfish and hardened by years of #RNS, more empathetic. I’m still known to yell out, “Stop all that whinin’…Just whinin’ for nothin’!” but I have developed an understanding of where they’re coming from as recently de-wombed little people in an exciting and scary new world.

Still, there were a couple of long-term negatives of being a stay-at-home dad. For one, my career fell off. I suspect this is one reason why SAHDs have such high rates of depression and divorce. I was doing contract work during the SAHD years, which meant trading off upward mobility and benefits for flexibility. When I reentered the workforce looking for stability, employers were like, “Management? You mean that lil’ experience from five years ago? Nah, bruh. You gotta start over.” I’m just now recovering.

Also, I began to feel as if “I already put my time in” at home. My wife would come home from work and I’d immediately dump the kids on her and head upstairs for a nap. I’d awake reenergized, cook, work for a bit, drink liquor, watch Netflix, and then get about four hours of sleep. But as far as anything else with the kids, like calming them if they awoke screaming at an odd hour…NOPE. Handle that, Amber! That same feeling pops up today. I fight it off, but maybe I have PTSD from their wild asses.  

The boys are now in school at least some of the day and pretty much on autopilot outside of spontaneous outbreaks of hand-to-hand combat. I’m not sure if they remember staying at home with me, but I like to think that they got something out of it. Even if it’s just a fresh perspective on gender roles or a comfort where they see me as a goofy ass nurturer and not only a disciplinarian. 

Amber and I switched roles for a time, and she got her alone time in with the boys. They liked her more and showed it by being extra clingy. Now we’re both back at work, putting in a busy 3 to 5 years so we can retire early and spend more time with the boys just before they hit that age where they don’t want us around. I hope they don’t think they got rid of me. I’ll be back for more!

-Dewan Gibson 

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When you enter the Children’s Museum of Indianapolis, the first thing you see is a giant Transformer. This lets you know it’s going to be a hell of a day. There was also a dinosaur near the main entrance trying to break into the building.

The kids went down an elevator that showed a brief film about excavating China’s terra-cotta warriors. My kids read and watch Goosebumps, so the dark elevator freaked them out a bit. But they were fine by the time they got a chance to dig for and reassemble replicas of the warriors.

A small part of the space exhibit. I’m not too sure of everything that was going on, but it was an opportunity to push a lot of buttons, and kids love pushing buttons.

There’s an antique carousel near the fun house portion of the museum. It costs a dollar per person if you’re not a museum member. The machine wouldn’t accept our cards, so Amber spoke White to the operator and he let us all on for free.

These are mirror balls from the fun house exhibit. Actually they had a lot of different mirrors and places for kids to crawl and hide. The only thing missing was a scary clown.

The Playscape exhibit is great for energy burning. Kids can splash in the water tables and climb walls, giving parents time to relax and judge other families.

Here are pictures from the Ripley’s Believe It or Not section of the Children’s Museum, where you can see a robot version (he sits and stands) of the world’s tallest man, Robert Wadlow, among other natural wonders. Warning: Your kids will spend the next few days asking you how Mr. Wadlow got so tall, though they’ll find it difficult to understand the function of one’s pituitary gland.

‘Tis the season for debt and celebrating Jesus’ birthday on the wrong day. The museum had free a meet-n-greet with Santa. My middle boy didn’t want to go anywhere near Mr. Claus. According to him, Santa should already know what he wants because “he knows what’s in my mind.” Good point. Oh yeah, there was also a 45-minute live rendition of The Snow Queen. The kids found it funny; I found the dark theater to be a perfect setting for a nap.

We spent nearly five hours in the Children’s Museum of Indianapolis and still didn’t see every exhibit. And that’s just the inside. There’s an entire athletic complex outside (the Sports Legends Experience) that was closed for the winter. Even if you can’t find Ali The Hustleman for discount tickets, a visit to the Children’s Museum of Indianapolis is well worth the price. If you’re frugal like me, be sure to bring your own food, lest you end up with swaggerless pizza at $4 a slice.

Note: This last picture isn’t from the Children’s Museum; it was taken near the Soldiers and Sailors in Downtown Indianapolis after we went to the Pacers versus Spurs basketball game. I figured I’d post it since we made the kids pose in the rain at 11 p.m.

-Dewan Gibson

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Gigi barks at ceiling lights, raised arms, smoke, cars, pedestrians, and nothingness. She bites the kids. (To be fair, our 5-year-old puts his finger in her ears, and occasionally, pokes her taint.) Gigi chose our area rug as her preferred place to piss when everyone’s asleep. She obeys commands, only to change her mind and take off running to the sewer in search of raccoons that will maim her. Gigi is an independent woman who don’t need no owner. She is 7 and will never change.

Gigi was given to us by a family friend. I was not too keen on getting an indoor dog. I prefer dogs who spend their days in the streets and stop by the house every now and then to see what’s up. I’ve seen them in Tijuana. But the kids wanted a family dog. And Amber wanted to please the kids. She told me this through tears. I gave in to the will of the family.

Gigi has her own little staircase that allows her to jump into our bed. She sees the space as hers and snaps at our three kids when they sneak into the bed early each morning. I wake up, and thanks to a total of four invasive species fighting for space and attention, have trouble going back to sleep.

Still, it ain’t all bad. Gigi cleans the kitchen by eating food dropped on the floor, warns me if the mailman or Jehovah Witnesses are stopping by, is always happy to see me, never seems distracted by an electronic device, and walks with an attractive little switch in her hips.

And I’m good to her. I fix her the perfect mix of dry dog food and wet cat food, as her previous owner suggested, and then walk her 30 minutes later. When it’s too cold for Gigi to relieve herself without her paws freezing, I shovel a spot where she can do her business. She shows her appreciation by following me around the house, in search of food or skin-to-skin contact.

But…if I could do it all over, I would not have gotten a dog. This isn’t the best way to judge relationships, but if I compare the positive and negative aspects of having her, she’s in the red big time. I don’t know, maybe I’m just anti-domesticated animals. They take a dump, don’t wipe, and just walk around the house bare ass like everything’s cool. Filthy!

To my fellow parents, don’t be fooled into a thinking you need a family dog. Tell your kids to shut the hell up and get a pet when they move out. Tell your spouse something similar but in a much kinder way. You wouldn’t want to end up divorced and lonely with nothing but a dog to keep you company.

-Dewan Gibson

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The decision to ban tackle football for the Gibson boys was made quickly, but it wasn’t easy. We live in Central Ohio, home of a bunch of guns and The Ohio State University football team. More than 100,000 fans pack Ohio Stadium each game day to watch young men sacrifice their bodies and minds for a free public education. Millions more engage in Facebook taunting about the team’s success. Even the interiors of many Columbus-area homes are painted scarlet and gray. If fandom were a cult, Buckeye backers would be willing to follow an eccentric white man to Guyana.

And it’s not just the Buckeyes. Our two local high school football teams are ranked top 10 in the state. Their players, goofy-looking and muscular, have come to my door asking for money for the programs. I wanted to tell them, “Save your brain, man. O.J. got off, you won’t.” But I just lie about not having any money. Based on the look of their football facilities, they don’t seem to be hurtin’ for cash.

What has me most freaked out about football brain injuries is that the problems start early. According to folks who study brain injuries for a living, Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE) is not caused by the occasional concussion. It’s actually the repetitive subconcussive hits to the head that put players most at risk. The longer one plays football, the higher the risk of CTE. Ninety-nine percent of brains tested from former NFL players have been found to be CTE positive, along with 91 percent of those former college players, and 21 percent of those who only played high school football.

Obviously you can test the brain once the person has passed, so it’s very likely that thousands of former players are out here suffering and maybe even ready to “wile out” like Aaron Hernandez. Then you account for the hundreds of kids of are paralyzed or seriously injured playing football, toss in a few deaths each year, hundreds of thousands of children’s ER visits due to football, and add the doctor who discovered CTE referring to youth football as the “definition of child abuse,” and it’s like, man, you better go outside and play some golf!

I enjoy watching football and conquering peasants in my fantasy football leagues. But absent of some new, amazing technology that enables players to ram head first into each other without injury, I don’t believe the rewards of playing football (which you can get from safer sports) are worth the risks.

So far my oldest son has taken it in stride. He’s at the age where every rule results in a “why” question. When he asked just that, I thought to myself, “Because I goddamn said so!” But I wanted to explain in a way his developing mind can grasp. So I told him, “If you want to know what football does to your brain, go ‘head and run into a wall as fast as you can.” He got the point. And then we found out he was playing tackle football at school during recess, with the teachers’ approval. This is Buckeye country.

-Dewan Gibson

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Now, 25 years later, the Gibson tradition of picking celebrity haircuts for our kids continues, but with an interracial twist.

This week we were deciding on back-to-school haircuts for the kids. Amber suggested our oldest, Nile, get a Matt Damon crewcut. The hell with Matt Damon. I thought he should get a really close cut like rapper/Instagram philosopher T.I. Such a cut would last an entire semester and it’s the go-to style for racially ambiguous woke guys like Shaun King. As for Nile, who probably should have been the decider, he wanted a fade with a part like Drake, Lord of All Biracials. I get it; they both have omnipotent hairlines and “God’s Plan” is the soundtrack of Nile’s 7-year-old life.

Mom won. He ended up with a Matt Damon.

Then there was the issue of where to take the kids for haircuts. Nile has mostly straight hair that swoops around in odd directions. Cassius has big curls that comb out into an exquisite fro. Larke has a dome of straight hair that makes him look like one of The Beatles, or a sheepdog. Of course that’s nothing out the ordinary, but barbershops, like churches, are segregated and sometimes politely reluctant to cut hair that’s different from the majority of their customers.

We’ve taken them to national chains like Fantastic Sam’s for $7 specials. The barbers’ apprehensive white hands had no clue what to do with their hair. The boys ended up with swag-deficient scissor cuts.

We did have a go-to black barbershop when we lived in San Diego. Our barber, who, by the way, claimed to be LeBron James’ real father—“Yeah, I got a history with Gloria (James)”–was used to cutting all types of hair. I mean…it’s Southern California, Filipinos and Latinos are also familiar with line-ups and the potential for hairline jokes if a cut goes wrong.

Upon moving to Ohio, I found a black barbershop near our home. The barbers were pretty good, but there were two levels of service: one for newbies and one for the regulars. Newbies had to wait for a chair, regulars just showed up for “appointments” that were not really scheduled. Plus there was contradictory pricing. You had to pay more if you had an afro, but kids’ cuts (priced at 20 damn dollars!) were not discounted. I’m like, “I thought you were cutting on a dollar-to-amount-of-hair ratio, man!”

And unlike our barber in California, the barber in Ohio lacked confidence when cutting Nile’s kind-of-white-folk hair. I gave him an overview of what to do and he looked at me like I asked him to give my boy a lacefront. I didn’t feel like I was getting through to him, so I ended with, “Just use your creativity.” The haircut was OK, but not $20-and-wait-in-the-shop-for-hours good.

Our solution was home cuts for Cassius and Larke. Amber’s pretty good with the clippers and curls tend to cover mistakes anyway. As for Larke, he’s only 4. If you’re gonna have a messed up haircut, 4 is a great age. As for Nile, he just started going to Amber’s hairdresser, a black lady who does all types of hair and only charges $10 for kids.

I’ll be sure he brings a picture of Drake next time he goes.

-Dewan Gibson

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Kidz Bop is lit, as the cool kids say. I didn’t anticipate that they’d really sing, but they did, and they got down–especially Cooper with the Justin Timberlake frosted highlights. (Don’t get the JT corn rows, bro.) They performed a lot of Bruno Mars–substituting the “champagne on ice” lyrics from “That’s What I Like” with “strawberry milkshakes on ice”–and even played some ol’ school Kriss Kross during the parents’ dance off, where four goofy moms did a running man battle for some Kidz Bop merch. Too bad Amber wasn’t in it.

After intermission, which was required to make sure none of the performers had lost their voice due to puberty during the first half of the show, Kidz Bop returned and did a few more top 40 hits, performing for about 90 minutes total. There was also an encore, but thanks to some food truck chicken wings that messed my stomach up, I had to rush to the bathroom as it started. Guess it could have been worse. Can you imagine a grown man shitting himself at a Kidz Bop concert?

Anyhow, the show was well worth the money, even from the cheap seats. The kids loved it and Amber did, too. As for me, I don’t typically enjoy being around kids other than my own, and even they begin to wear on me after about two hours/120 questions asked. But seeing thousands of sweet, trusting, and free little human beings wildly in their element made me think: “This doesn’t last.” Soon enough someone will tell them “You can’t dance” or “You’re too old for Kidz Bop” and they’ll grow self-conscious. Sad! Keep that young spirit, y’all.

-Dewan Gibson

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The common belief is that summer vacation from school originated from America’s agricultural past. Children needed to be home to toil the land, or to at least watch black people do the work. But the common belief is mostly untrue. Schoolkids working farms in rural areas were needed less in the summer, as prime crop seasons were spring and fall. So they actually went to school in the summer. Urban schools were different. They went to school year-round, though it was not mandatory and many cut class when it was too hot.

The modern school year was shaped once The Man decided to create a standardized school year across urban and rural communities. This mandated a summer break from the heat and offered teachers a chance to have free time. You can read more about this on PBS’ website. Anyhow, this change led to summer break learning loss for kids and temper loss among parents.

According to the smart people who study such things, during the summer, kids lose 25 to 30 percent of what they learned during the school year, even more for kids who didn’t learn much to being with. My kids are on break right now. Recently, I asked my middle child what’s 5+5 and he said, “Can I download a game?” Maybe he did know the answer, but with all the free time his mind was occupied with nonsense. And as parents we can only do so many activities and camps before our routine is completely thrown off. And this goes on for 90 long days!

So what happens in today’s technology-reliant society is that kids’ addiction to electronic devices worsens during the long break. For mine, that means watching “It’s Raining Tacos” over and over again. (Warning: There’s a 10-hour loop of the video on YouTube.) And I’ve tried to reduce their screen time, but they’re like, “You’re on YOUR phone, Dada!” They’re right. But it’s also true that my brain is developed enough to obtain any number of dead-end jobs. They need to be discovering the offline world and letting their minds wander.

So, about a month into vacation, I got fed up. I unplugged the television and snatched devices and hid the tablet in my closet. My youngest had this initial reaction:

Then I took everybody outside…well, I actually yanked all three of ’em outside and locked the door behind them. I may have also yelled, “I’m tired of these devices and all this fightin’ over ’em! Go play!” But it was all done in love. Love and anger.

After a few minutes of crying and yelling “Let me in!” they started to play. They murdered bugs and raced on their bikes and scooters. A rain storm hit, but even that didn’t stop them. They ran and splashed in the water. I watched from the garage and felt like I was onto something. Apparently, confiscating electronic devices and locking kids out their home was the key to a fulfilling summer break. Well it worked once. The second time I did it my two oldest boys said they said they didn’t like me anymore and just kept walking down the street. As you can see in the picture below (check out the two little figures) they got pretty far until I chased after them. Once I caught up, they said they were going to Amy’s (I have no idea who she is) and that they liked me again.

We’re about a month into the summer and the craziness has moderated…most days. It’s helped that they have friends to play with outside. They’re also signed up for baseball, but it only meets once a week and it’s been rained out two of the first three sessions. We have a road trip coming up. There may be some misery involved with driving 22 hours roundtrip to Montreal, but I think they’ll be intrigued when they hear a language besides English or my outside-of-working-hours-Ebonics. But still…the countdown to the first day of school on August 15 is on, and hopefully, one day, year-round school.

-Dewan Gibson

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Eight years and three kids later, we’ve been able to reach a compromise about reducing the amount of stuff we have, driven by the mantra of “experiences over things.” Fewer things equals fewer dollars spent and less mental baggage. We’re not living off the land and drinking well water, but we have been able to minimize our lives in a reasonable manner. Here’s how we simplify life with a family.

The Best Car Is The Paid Off Car
I came across an article that said the average new car owner is making a payment of $535 a month for 69 months. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, the median American mortgage is just $1,030. So people are out here driving a half-a-house asset that’s depreciating each day. Hell, maybe two of ’em. After five long years of learning the hard way, thanks to buying a poor man’s Porsche that I couldn’t really afford, my goal was to: 1) not spend more than $15,000 on a car; 2) not have more than one car payment at a time; 3) keep our cars for about seven years. The result is that we’re not burdened with car payments, thereby freeing up money for travel and memory making and slacking off at work. And when I feel like we “need” a new car, I just give the old one a deep cleaning. Example: Our 2012 Mazda 5 minivan, which I like to call a “sport wagon.” It has 145,000 miles and we’ll probably drive it for 100,000 more.

Netflix & Chill, Hulu & Chill, Amazon Prime & Chill…
We were early adopters of cutting the cord and I don’t think we’ve paid for cable in at least six years. There’s Netflix and chill, Hulu and chill, Amazon Prime and chill, and if that’s not enough we have a digital antenna so we can Dateline and chill. Oh yeah, we also buy and cancel the HBO Go app depending on when our favorite series are starting. We’re paying about a third of what cable costs.

There Is Civilization In Flyover Country 
I spent 15 years in a high-priced city and mistakenly thought the stuff I was into (sushi, craft beer, nice places to walk aimlessly) could only be found on the coasts. Maybe that was true early on, but now–thanks, hipsters–you can find the same ol’ stuff throughout the country, all while paying much less for housing, taxes, gas, and food than you would in either of the coasts. No better way to simplify life with a family than sharply reducing what’s typically one’s largest bill. Of course there’s no ocean, but there are plenty of lakes and rivers. Just make sure you have a strong immune system to fight off the e. coli. On second thought…just try the local pool.

How Many Clothes Can One Kid Have? 
I used to buy clothes just because they were on sale. So I ended up with a lot of ill-fitting pants and shirts that I didn’t love. Even worse, they were often from H&M, so after one wash they were “ridin’ my ass like some ’85 Wranglers” (Master P). Now every 3 to 4 years I buy a few things from luxurious-to-me Banana Republic. Quality clothes that last. I only have about five pairs of pants and seven shirts, and I tend to wear the same stuff, but it keeps life simple.

The kids and Amber are a whole different animal. She forms sentimental attachments with clothes–“I’ve had this for 10 years!” or “This was the first shirt we bought Nile when he was a baby…”–and I’m like, “Cool. He’ll never wear it again. We have a pic saved on Google Photos. Put it in the Goodwill bag.” Plus there’s the issue of hand-me-downs and gifts. It got to the point where each of our three kids had like 15 pairs of pajamas and probably 30-something shirts. Washing clothes wasn’t the problem, but when it came time to fold we’d have baskets of clothes sitting there for weeks.

The solution: Amber had a few big giveaways after listening to “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up,” the house we moved into had a California Closet installed, and we started saying no thanks to all the nice folks that gave us hand-me-downs. Not that we didn’t get our use out of them, we did three times over, but we have enough to last us years.

I Wish I Had Worked More & Spent Less Time With My Family…Said No One
I know only one or two people who love their jobs, far more who just tolerate it for the money, and about an equal amount who flat-out hate what they do and where they do it. For us, work has never been a defining aspect of our lives. One of us will work full-time, and the other will work a part-time flexible job that allows time home with the kids. We’re able to do that by reducing the expenses that I mentioned. We’re not rich, but the bills get paid (mostly on time) and we keep our most valuable resource–time.

-Dewan Gibson

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Years ago I became friends with a neighbor named Walid who had recently moved to San Diego from Saudi Arabia. We drank beer, smoked hookah, talked about women, discussed social justice, shared a mutual dislike of George W. Bush, and had a genuine curiosity of each other’s cultures. I have no idea where Walid is now–hopefully not imprisoned for activism against Saudi’s monarchy–but for a brief friendship, I have some pretty good memories.

One is of the time Walid told me that he didn’t know when he was born. When it came time to fill out paperwork to study in the U.S., his mom and aunt estimated his age based on when they sort of remembered his cousin being born. Apparently the two were born the same year…or maybe Walid arrived a year or two later. They weren’t sure. For documents like a driver’s license that required a day and month of birth, Walid picked January 1. Birthdays just weren’t a thing in his little corner of Saudi.

I appreciated his lack of appreciation for birthdays. Though I celebrated my birthday when I was a kid–my family would sing “Happy Birthday” and eat an ice cream cake from Dairy Queen–I don’t remember having an actual birthday party even once, let alone every year. Birthdays just were not that big of a thing. And that was fine. (Full disclosure: In my late 20s, I threw a birthday party at a bar and called it “Baby D’s Bucknaked Birthday Bash.” I was a wild boy.)

Fast-forward to 2018. I have three kids and birthdays are a hell of a thing. My wife is the coordinator/P. Diddy of the operations. At times the celebrations are extravagant–my oldest son’s Michael Jackson-themed 5th birthday party with 30-plus people–and other times they’re a bit more relaxed, just family and a few friends. But they always involve hours on Pinterest, money, mo’ money, Amber and I arguing and sighing at each other when we’re cleaning house the day of the party, me getting nervous at the thought of having company, me drinking too much to put myself at ease for conversation, and me sneaking off after a couple hours to sober up with a nap.

But…it’s not about me and admittedly the kids seem to enjoy the attention and the gifts.

Still, I’m not sure that it’s good for them. The focus on acquiring things, the jealously when it’s someone else’s birthday, the six month countdown to the celebration…what does that do to a kid’s mind? It’s almost like celebrating today’s materialistic Christmas an additional three times a year, making it thrice as evil.

Honestly, if it were up to me no one in the world would have a birthday. Everyone would just have an “I Didn’t Die This Year” party on New Year’s Eve. No need to buy gifts or anything. When the year’s ending just greet strangers with, “Glad you ain’t dead!”

Last weekend we had a small celebration for my youngest son’s 4th birthday. It was small because the few people with kids that we know in Ohio had conflicting schedules and he doesn’t know how to text his preschool friends.

In the days leading up to the event he was a bit unruly, yelling, “You’re not the boss of me!” and “I will neva-eva listen to you!” So we dished out “You’re not going to have a party” threats, which were mostly ineffective and taken as seriously as a Trump tweet. Even at preschool age they know when you’re just talking s**t.

The morning of was typical party preparation. We cleaned and shopped and moved things around. Amber thought the “conversation chairs” in the living room should face each other and the couch. I felt I was being more realistic by keeping them directed towards the TV. Does anyone have anything to say that’s more interesting than what’s on Netflix? I know I don’t. Despite a Judge Judy-esque eye-roll from Amber, the chairs remained facing that big, beautiful screen.

The party started and it was less stressful than I expected. I’m usually frying chicken fingers or making tacos while kids run amok, but we bought pizza and there was only one other kid there besides our three. Larke got lots of gifts and soaked up the attention from the adults, most of whom were buzzed. I had a few drinks and made a new friend before disappearing for a nap. The party ended and the cleaning began shortly after I got back up. I appreciated everyone taking time to show love to Larke, but “You ain’t got to home, but you got to get the…” Ya know!

Our oldest has his 7th birthday coming up in mid-July and he’s already counting days on the kitchen calendar. But this time around I’m going to give him options. I’ll tell him he can have any experience (not a toy!) that costs less than $100. That may be tickets to see a wraslin’ match, a mini-road trip, a flight, or even a dreaded birthday party. Whatever he chooses, he’ll be in charge of the planning. I know it sounds like I’m excusing myself of responsibility and perhaps policing fun, which I am, but I think he’ll get something enjoyable and positive from this.

After I run it past Amber.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Do You Have To Have A Birthday Party Every Year For Each Kid? appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

I went to check on Nile a few minutes later and arrived just in time to see him vomit all over our sheets. I can handle spit up; I can change a diaper regardless of smell or size; but vomit, especially little boys throwing up like a grown man infected with Chipotle…nah, man. It just grosses me out too much.

I pulled off the sheets and called Amber for reinforcement. She consoled him while I balled up the laundry and threw it in the washer. He would throw up throughout the night, a total of nine times over the next day and a half.

That was just the start. Two days later, our 5-year-old, Cassius, would also catch the bug. Amber had just left for twerk practice at Buti Yoga and I was finishing up dinner with the kids. Cassius was sitting on the toilet complaining that “Nuffin is coming out.” I figured it was the Domino’s we just ate. (By the way, Domino’s has been making pretty good pizza since that commercial where they apologized for making years of bad pizza. Get the hearty marinara sauce instead of the regular.)

I went to the bathroom to help out Cassius. I suggested that he stand up from the toilet and then sit back down, just to change things up a bit. The second he stood up his insides flew out his mouth and he lost like half his body weight. I tossed him in the tub before disinfecting the bathroom and texting Amber, “Cassius is throwing up everywhere!” He would go on to throw up six more times, somehow landing the mess in the mixing bowl or trash can in the bed each time.

Over the next day or so I kept researching the flu. It’s big news this year because it’s not just killing a lot of people in underdeveloped countries. Our two youngest were vaccinated earlier in the year, but Nile was not because his doctor didn’t have supply on hand. Apparently the vaccination is only 10 to 20 percent effective this year, but 20 percent sounds like a pretty good deal when your kids are barfing everywhere.

We took Nile to the doctor and the pediatrician said it was probably a stomach bug that’s being passed among filthy children in our city. She mentioned that she could have prescribed a medicine to stop the vomiting, but that it’s no longer needed since the virus usually lasts no more than 48 hours. She was right. He recovered, but then I got sick.

I wish I could say I handled the illness as well as my kids, but I really dislike throwing up. So I kept it down and let the waste exit from its proper end. Tens of times. Never thought I’d be 38 and worried about having motorcycle tracks in my draws.

Anyway, I didn’t eat for two days. Shots of Nyquil helped me sleep through the body aches and nausea. But the Nyquil also gave me a sad high. I began to think that for most people there’s a point in life where you’re sick and really have no hope of getting better. It’s like a far too real episode of This Is Us. Even worse, you could be unfortunate enough to see your kids go through it.

I was mostly recovered by day three. Whatever we had never touched Amber and Baby Larke. Our household was back to normal. Cassius said, “I wanna throw up again. I like throwing up.” I think he meant he liked the attention. I hope so. He and Nile would go on to argue about who threw up more. Both kept track. Sibling rivalries do not cease due to illness.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Kids Are Filthy Germ Keepers Who Will Sicken Your Entire Household appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

We’ve mentioned having another child in passing, but never seriously talked about it. Actually we never talked about having any kids. After our first I said things like “Let’s just see what happens,” and later, after we found out our third was on his way, “Dammit!” But for the most part, they sort of just showed up.

Now they’re in school (at least part-time) and they’re growing up and becoming independent and no longer pee on themselves. Soon they’ll be out the house almost the entire day, watched over by underpaid, often frustrated teachers who are de facto second parents. Considering I work from home and Amber’s here most of the day, we’re about to have a quasi-empty nest.

Plus we’d like to have a girl. And not just because my mom always says, “When somebody gonna give me a baby girl!” I’ve been told that daughters are closest to their fathers. I’m going to need this in the event my boys and I have that supposedly unavoidable “man of the house” conflict that ends with me choking them against the wall while yelling, “You don’t run s**t around here, mutha****a!”

Amber feels the same about wanting a girl. She alludes to being outnumbered and is unaccustomed to the testosterone and physicality that comes with having three boys and one man-child in the house. The boy brawls bring her to tears, and I’m like, “Well, that’s pretty much what we do. Must be innate.”

Still, taking on a fourth kid is a big task. We plan to spend a couple years abroad within the next few years and herding somewhat rational kids while in unfamiliar spaces is a lot easier than herding a toddler. Finances are also a concern. Kids come with unexpected expenses like earaches and weird rashes and parents are price-gouged for co-pays and medicine. Then you add in whatever Amazon Prime is selling (everything!) and next thing you know you can’t afford to buy anything for yourself. And you end up like me, wearing the same ol’ outfit you bought from Banana Republic’s sales rack two tax returns ago.

Then there’s the pregnancy itself. Amber was pregnant for about three straight years. I can’t completely empathize, but I imagine it felt like having to take a mean dump and only being about to do so once every nine months. The pregnancies were normal, though she almost salsa danced our first out the womb a few months early and our third was considered high risk because he had “markers” that indicated risk for developmental disabilities. Everything turned out OK with the kids, and even Amber somehow managed to escape without a single stretch mark or bout of postpartum depression.

One of the worst things about the experience was, as I recently learned, my smell. Like many pregnant women, Amber’s olfactory sense became canine-like. The excessive liquor that seeped out of my pores and mixed with deodorant, cologne, Negro hair product, and funk wasn’t doing it for her. For almost three years! (But I guess it wasn’t that bad if her ass kept getting pregnant.)

As of now it looks like a solid “No!” on number four. I asked internet friends with more than three kids what they thought and heard responses like: “It’s a trap!” and “Don’t do it!” I also did some research into tax policy and learned that once you have more than three kids you’ve exhausted the most lucrative refundable credits. Most importantly, we’re not sure we want to start “the process” all over again. It’s human propensity to look fondly upon the “good ol’ days,” but delivering and caring for an infant is heavy, no matter how fondly you remember it.

I looked into freezing my creation juice in case we change our minds, but I learned you can’t just put it on ice at home. You have to pay monthly. And freezing eggs is even more costly, up to $10,000. Who knows? Maybe we’ll be foster parents. I guess you can even get paid to cover the kids’ expenses, or buy yourself some new clothes from Banana Republic.

But as far as having kids goes, we’re done, and lucky-blessed to have three. They’ll always be babies to Amber. And well, maybe to me, too.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Deciding If We Should Have A Fourth Child (And Realizing To Do So Would Be Insane) appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

But of course, with three little ones and a wife, it ain’t really about my feelings. So each holiday season I hang in there and and try not to show my true colors as DeScrooge Gibson. And man, it was a struggle this year.

I kicked off the holiday season by spending Black Friday at Walmart. Not to buy gifts, just to see the spectacle up close. I lasted about seven minutes. It felt like I was in a crowded nightclub, with a fight brewing over liquor spilled on a new shoe, or, in this case, the last Fingerlings baby monkey. There was no “excuse me” from customers, no “Can I help you find something?” from employees, just a bunch of rude shoppers and fed up workers. It was stereotypical America: loud, excessive, unworried of debt, and obsessing over stuff-stuff-and-more-stuff.

By the start of December my wife was asking how much should we spend on Christmas. I avoided giving a direct answer for like 10 days, subconsciously hoping the holiday would be canceled due to some extreme circumstance. (Thanks for nothing, North Korea.) More time passed and she started to get upset, “Some of the things I have in my Amazon account won’t even make it here by Christmas! We’re waiting too late to buy!” Inside I’m thinking, “Hell yeah!” but I gave in and was like, “Just get what you need to get.” My goal was for us to not spend more than $1,000. But! That $1,000 included gifts, Christmas lights, Christmas dinner, gas money to see family, Christmas cards, and income lost due to decreased productivity…add all that shit up!

Christmas was about a week away and we were still a bit below my $1,000 limit. My sister texted and asked if I was getting our younger brother a Christmas present. I wrote, “Nope! He’s almost 30!” But see, she was really asking if I was getting her a present, which is a more realistic form of the so-called Christmas spirit: People generally get gifts for people who buy gifts for them. My answer was still “Nope!” But the three of us did combine our money to get our parents a hotel stay and dinner in one of America’s most underrated but hippest cities: Columbus, Ohio.

And then tragedy struck. The kids cracked the screen of our newish TV, which was actually the second TV they had cracked in about a week. The first screen broke after being hit by a flying remote control that was thrown during a fight between our two youngest kids. The second, an LED TV with 4k resolution, was intentionally broken by our middle child, who wanted it to look like “a TV in a haunted house.” Man, that boy has an imagination.

Much respect to his creativity, but I had a fit and accidentally gave up the truth about Santa: “I’m taking all your Christmas gifts back to the store so I can buy a new TV!” Oops. Luckily the kids didn’t catch on, or maybe they figured I would sell the toys to the store. Who knows what in the hell goes on in their little complex minds. See, it wasn’t really the cost of the TVs (both were relatively inexpensive “open box” purchases from Best Buy), it was what the TVs meant to us. Binge watching Netflix and Hulu on a high-resolution TV while getting drunk is an important part of our marriage and sex life.

Anyhow, Amber said it wouldn’t be fair to take back their toys, especially for our oldest, who was uninvolved in the crimes. I calmed down and agreed. Christmas would go on as reluctantly planned.

Christmas morning arrived and the kids were going crazy, but in a good way this time. They yelled and ran in place with excitement as they opened toys, even little toys like Pez dispensers, which might as well have been a Playstation to them. And of course they went insane when they saw their big gift, an indoor bounce house designed to keep them occupied and away from us grown folks. As Amber said throughout the holiday season, “It’s magical.” I wouldn’t go that far, but my Scrooge level did decrease while seeing them elated.

Our Christmas ended with a trip up to Cleveland to see my parents and nephews and siblings, minus my older brother who doesn’t like or talk to us anymore. But big bro was there in spirit, as we got some jokes off at his expense. From Dad: “What kind of nigga don’t even call his MOM!” (To be a Gibson is to know that there is no subject that cannot be laughed about.)

Anyhow, my parents got a kick out of having five grandkids under age 7 around for the holidays. I actually enjoyed this Christmas, too, though I still feel the stress in my stomach when I think of the weeks leading up to it.

Also, I bought a new TV the day after Christmas, which I hung to the wall while giving a “Don’t even think about EVER touching it” lecture to the kids. Of course it pushed us way past our holiday budget. But I guess that’s the Christmas spirit.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Surviving Christmas As A Parent Who Doesn’t Give A Damn About The Holidays appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

Now, I don’t remember the incident, it was more than 30 years ago. But I guess I went into a murderous rage after some little boy bullied me. As my dad would often tell me to do, I punched him “fast like (Hector) Camacho.” My teacher, Mrs. Level, a sweet lady who liked to tuck her gut in tight slacks, would later tell my mom that she let the fight go on because she was so surprised and happy for me.

But this ain’t the wild ass ’80s. We (aside from Roy Moore voters) have progressed as a people. And I’m conflicted as to whether I should be teaching my kids how to fight.

So far, I’ve been sending mixed messages by saying, “Hit him back if he hits you first.” But their little undeveloped minds can’t process past the “if.” They hear “hit” and think it’s fine to physically punish anyone who angers them, which leads to a situation like I have at home: three unruly boys ready to set it off at the slightest hint of disrespect. And me, standing there yelling, “I TOLD YOU TO STOP HITTING!” But Dada you said…

The good thing is that they don’t hit outside of home, though my two youngest make up stories about “taking down” some preschool classmate who’s sometimes described as a bully and other times said to be a friend. But honestly, there have been times when I wished they would attack.

I was recently tiring my kids out during our monthly McDonald’s playground trip. Some little unsupervised kid, probably about 6 or 7, pushed my 4-year-old and tried to stop my almost-5-year-old from going down the slide. They ran and told me, “He’s being a bully!” I suggested they ignore him and play on the other side of the playground. They did, but the annoying little boy, seemingly high on Coke and possibly a steroid user, followed them. My boys ran to me two more times and said he was still hitting. I was fed up, and plus I wanted to play on my phone in peace. So I said, “That’s enough. If he pushes you again, smack him in the face as hard as you can. Both of you!”

They looked at me like, “What the f**k, Dad!” The oldest of the two said, “If you smack somebody in the face, that will hurt him, Dada, and we will get in trouble.” The youngest confirmed this with an angry “Yeah, Dada!” Well hell, y’all do it to each other all day. Now y’all wanna be logical and more adult than me? Anyway, the bully’s dad returned (Pops looked exhausted, as if he had just finished taking a long dump) and got him straight.

A few nights later, I was reviewing my decisions as a dad, as I tend to do when my wife’s asleep and there’s nothing new on the Late Night section of my HBO app. I thought about it more and my temporary pro-violence stance seemed to be based on the commonly held assumption that every boy or man faces a fight which they can’t avoid. And at that moment I wanted to prepare my kids for that…way, way too early: “I’m telling y’all, even though you’re 3 and 4, it’s REAL in these McDonald’s streets!”

But I’m not sure this idea of an unavoidable fight is realistic. I’m not very good at scrapping, but I’ve been in a few, and all were preventable had it not been for stereotypical male ego and hubris. To put it plainly, we men fight about dumb shit.

So now I’m trying to figure out how to better raise emotionally intelligent kids who can understand the distinction between a real physical threat and excessive pride. In the rare instance they encounter the former, I’m sure they’ll be able to handle themselves.

Just this week, Ca$$ius, who lectured me at McDonald’s about how hitting will hurt people and get him in trouble, angrily tried to smack me in my face after I laughed at him for farting.

I guess I had it coming.

-Dewan Gibson

The post Should I Be Teaching My Kids How To Fight (And Punch Fast Like Hector Camacho)? appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

We played one game that year. It was against Solomon Schechter, a Jewish school for kids whose parents didn’t really mess with black people like that. My big break came after halftime. A teammate passed me the ball and I ran as fast I could in my tiny short-shorts and scored a wide open layup. The crowd went wild…with laughter. I had shot the ball in my opponents’ hoop. F**k!

Minutes later, Mr. Love, who was the ref and my science teacher and wore some variation of a mullet, gave me a technical foul. I had disrespected him by saying “WHAT!” after a bad call. He didn’t like me, and rightfully so. I was a fool in his class. I used to act up in hopes that he would write my name on the board. That way, the girl whom I had a crush on, who was in the class after mine, would see it on the board and think of me. Man, I told y’all I been crazy.

Anyhow, we lost to Solomon Schechter by two points. Yep. Two points.

I would go on to get cut a few more times throughout middle and high school, though I did finally make varsity after transferring to a new school that wasn’t playing for a state championship every year. And on my backyard court I was the sh*t. But still, I look back on all the time spent practicing and worrying about basketball and feel as if I could have done something else as a teen. Like invent Google, participate in the Model United Nations, or better yet…watch more Skinemax!

Twenty-plus years later my 6-year-old has joined a YMCA basketball team. When he signed up I assumed everyone in the league would be a beginner. They were not. Some of the kids appeared to have been born shooting jumpers out their moms’ birth canals. These were the kids whose parents yelled during games, often in disappointment. Others had at least played organized basketball. And a few of the kids were like Nile; they had never touched a basketball.

Nile’s first couple practices and games were rough. Instead of dribbling the ball he just slapped it. He fell down a lot. He pulled a Gibson and shot the ball in the wrong hoop. But he seemed to be having fun, except when his coach confused him by using basketball jargon like “dominant hand.” (Nile would look over at me in terror and mouth, “I don’t know what that means!”)

We started practicing at home and he improved. Fast. He learned to dribble without looking at the ball and to play defense by sliding his feet. I bought him a pair of Nikes, his first pair of name brand name shoes. (Funny. He was used to his shoes having a plain design, so he thought the Nike sign was a tag that had to pulled off.) Within a few weeks, he went from the least-skilled player on his team to a middle-of-the-pack player.

As he got more interested in becoming a better player, my competitive drive increased. I encouraged him to be more aggressive. Like me, he’s a bit passive. But if you wrong us, we’ll rip out your kidneys and flash fry ’em, or at least fantasize about doing so, more so if hot sauce is available. “You don’t have to be nice in basketball,” I told him. And then, “Don’t let that kid cut you in line again. It was your turn to do the drill.”

Then came the worst game of the year. The coach let the most talented player on the team shoot each time down the court. The opposing team’s best player did the same. It was a one-on-one contest with eight other people on the court yelling, “Ball! Ball! Ball!”

At the end of the game I felt like approaching the coach and yelling, “That’s not FU**IN’ basketball!” But of course I just left quietly and complained to my wife. I even hated on the other players, thinking to myself, “He can play and everything, but is he reading above his grade level?” It felt ugly. I was in danger of turning into the asshole sports dad of the Six and Under Basketball League.

I took the next game off, and had my wife take him to the game, though Nile and I did run through some drills in the basement before he left. I had a funny feeling he’d make his first shot, but I didn’t want to say anything and jinx it. And I don’t even believe in jinxes. See, that’s what basketball does to me.

And yep, he did make his first shot. It came after an offensive rebound. He told me that the crowd cheered, and not with laughter. I seemed to be more excited than he did. He mentioned his Junie B. Jones book that day more than the game. Maybe that’s a good thing. It’s nice to have a variety of interests. Sure, you can learn life lessons from sports, but you learn just as many from studying abroad or listening to Wu-Tang, who will always be for the children.

But if Nile does become addicted to basketball, I’m all for it. And I’ll be there to offer the training and guidance he needs to kick Solomon Schechter’s ass.

-Dewan Gibson

The post The Intense Struggle To Avoid Becoming An Asshole Sports Dad appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

They ask to go outside and ride bikes. It’s 34 degrees. My wife, who’s white and supposedly more culturally acclimated to the cold, doesn’t want to go with them. To avoid dealing with simultaneous tantrums, I bundle up and take ’em out. An argument starts before they even get the bikes from the garage. Larke, the baby, is playing with a pogo stick that belongs to my oldest son, Nile, who’s at school. Ca$$ius, who believes he’s responsible for regulating toy transactions, throws a fit, tears and all. “That’s Nile’s! Get off it!” I tell him Nile doesn’t care. “How do you know!” he screams. “Cause Dada knows a lot of things.” Tantrum continues. I ignore. Tantrum continues. I tell him, “I’m not gonna sit outside in the cold and listen to you cry all day.” Tantrum continues. I drag him back in the house. Larke follows us, “OK. I can go out later,” he says in an understanding manner.

The tantrum gets worse. Ca$$ius swings his limbs and screams wildly. He catches with a good smack that lands far too close to the machinery that helped to create him. I smack his butt, restrain his arms, and carry him into his room. I sit with him and try to calm him. Too late. He’s only 4, but he’s down for a scrap. For the sake of both of us, I leave the room and hold the door closed. He kicks at it and screams. Amber runs upstairs to see what’s wrong. We usually play calm cop/out of control cop depending on which of us is deranged at the time. “He’s just bad,” I tell her, as I hold the door. She screams in a hushed voice: “Don’t say that! That’s not true!” I feel control leaving my body, “Well, he is! Look at him!” Now she’s about to cry. I let go of the door. They hug it out and calm is restored.

Later that day I think about my three-plus years as a stay-at-home dad. The kids weren’t the least bit self-sufficient, nor were they in school. It was nonstop monitoring and teaching (and laughs). Sure, sometimes I dozed off on them after too much wine for lunch and responded to tantrums with tantrums of my own, but for the most part, I just threw on my baby carrier, grabbed the stroller, and handled behavioral crises with calm. But now…man, I might get to wraslin’ one of these lil’ ni**@s. And I wonder…have my skills as a parent deteriorated?

Well, what better way to find out than a weekend alone with my three boys while my wife enjoys a short girls’ trip to Denver.

Day One
Nile had a YMCA basketball game at 9 a.m. He began the season as the least skilled 6-year-old in Central Ohio. Hey, just being honest. But in the two weeks after, I taught him to dribble, rebound, shoot a bit, and not be scared of the ball. But I didn’t really go over the rules. The game began. Nile grabbed a rebound and took off down the court without dribbling, like he was holding a relay baton. The ref blew the whistle and Nile looked ashamed. He glanced at me for approval; I gave him a thumbs up. Then I made his brothers cheer. It was progress! During the prior game he had shot at the wrong basket, just as I did in my day, though at a much older and much more embarrassing age, now he was at least going the right way.

After the game, we went to McDonald’s. The plan was just to get a yogurt and crash the playground, but McDonald’s in-store Happy Meal advertising is great at influencing undeveloped minds and crushing the wills of health-minded parents. I gave in to the kids’ wishes and got three Happy Meals, each came with a free Transformers mask. They devoured the chemicals and then went to the playground. It was packed; there was a private birthday party going on. I gathered my boys before they took their shoes off. “When I say it’s time to go, it’s time to go. No talkin’ back, no arguing. I’m telling you now. Everybody say OK.” Great two-way communication, huh?

We returned home and the kids spent hours playing “Africa” in the backyard. It’s a game where they pretend to be explorers who rob the continent of its most valuable resources and strongest people. Then they divide up the land for colonization, support dictators, and complain about the lack of democratic progress in the continent’s countries. Just kidding. It’s a game where they walk along the Nile River (my oldest son’s namesake) and capture wild animals.

Hours passed without a single fight or tantrum. This was not normal. I checked on them periodically, though I was careful not to break the golden rule of parenting: If the kids are quiet, leave ’em the hell alone. I brought them in for dinner. A relatively easy bedtime routine followed 90 minutes later. They were asleep by 8:15 p.m., earlier than usual. I celebrated by watching a boxing match and drinking half a bottle of wine and a few beers. I nodded off thinking, “Man, I could be a stay-at-home dad again.”

Day Two
Ca$$ius came to my bed around 3 a.m., screaming because his ear hurt. I wrapped myself in the blanket and walked to the kitchen for liquid ibuprofen and ear drops. After the meds, we fell asleep for another 20 minutes before the screaming started again. “I miss Mama! I miss Mama! Call Mama!” Of course she was in Denver and probably in a deep edible-induced sleep. “It’s too late to call. She’ll call you in the morning. Go to sleep! Or go in the garage and sleep!” More crying. So I called Amber and told Ca$$ius to leave a message. Hearing her voicemail greeting calmed him. Still, the commotion awakened the other two. They came to my bed and slept in various directions, limbs flinging for space. By 6 a.m. they were smacking and pulling me to get up. I kicked ’em all out: “Dang! Go in the kitchen and get a yogurt. Come back to bed after you eat.”

The rest of the morning was brutal. Everyone’s sleep is off. Fights and arguments, and yeah, maybe I bopped one of the boys over the head with an empty cereal box. After a few hours of chaos, I put everyone in the car. They asked where we were going. “It’s a surprise,” I said. It was a surprise to me, too. I just wanted to drive in hopes they’d fall asleep.

The two youngest were asleep within 10 minutes. Nile was also nodding off, but his curiosity kept him awake. “Where we going, Dada?” I took the exit for Ikea, where one can find stylish furniture, free babysitting, and good salmon. But it was Sunday and way too crowded. There wasn’t even a legit parking space to be found. Must have been a lot of parents suffering from kid fatigue.

So we went to Chuck E. Cheese. About a third of the games were broken and ol’ punk ass Chuck E. never came out to dance, but the kids had fun. We played the games 53 times and the kids were rewarded with enough tickets to get three tiny pieces of candy. I got a bookmark. Well, and a beer. Chuck E. Cheese sells $4 beers. Not bad. By the way, the only thing worse than a Walmart line on Black Friday is waiting for kids to pick their prizes in Chuck E. Cheese. Come on! Your choices are an Airhead or a plastic pinkie ring. Neither is going to last longer than a tenth of the time it takes you to decide. PICK ONE!

Anyhow, Chuck E. Cheese set the mood for the rest of the day. After returning home, we played outside and chased FedEx drivers, tried to resuscitate some type of weird beetle-praying mantis hybrid bug, and drew some zombies. I also let each of them steer our minivan/sport wagon around the block while I pushed the gas. Next thing I knew, it was time for dinner and bed, and in the morning, work and school, and then, Mom’s return.

The Aftermath
By Monday, I had regained confidence in my ability to remain calm while raising three boys who will be able to kick my ass in about seven years. Whatever the issue–fighting, whining, coming into my bed as I type this at 2 a.m. and asking “Why you always stare at that thing?”–it’s really just minor. There’s no need to give ’em the Joe Jackson treatment, though the potential millions that such parenting can generate is hard to pass up.

The time alone with the kids also reminded me that like wild animals, the boys need time to roam in the outdoors, even if that free time is spent pretending to be wolves and smelling each others’ asses (true story). Most of all, I felt oddly refreshed after the weekend. This will come in handy; Amber’s out of town again next week. If I had more than a couple friends I’d say I was due for a guys’ trip. Guess I’ll go somewhere with my boys.

-Dewan Gibson

The post A Weekend Alone With My Boys: Lord Don’t Let Me Bop These Kids Over The Head With A Cereal Box appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

Then came the kid tears, and then came my Amber’s tears, and then came Amber rhetorically asking, “Would you rather have another kid or a dog?”

So we got a Yorkshire terrier (or some variation of one) from a family member who didn’t have the time to give her the attention she needed. She’s 6 and is called GiGi, which makes her sound like a stripper, but hey, no judgement in the Gibson household. We’ve been told that she likes cat food and sleeping on her owners’ backs.

So far she’s quiet–I’m not sure if she barks–and a bit nervous adjusting to our hell-raising household. The kids love her, this despite Ca$$ius saying, “If she dies we can buy another dog,” when warned about letting her run loose outside. He meant that in the sweetest way possible.

In just a day she’s grown on me, too. The kids went right to sleep with her in their bed, so she’s already earned her keep. It’s a normally a two-hour process of reading and yelling and answering questions: “Dada, Dada…when will it be morning?”

Most importantly, she’s peed and dropped a deuce…OUTSIDE.

Welcome to our family, GiGi Wayne Gibson.

-Dewan Gibson

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One of my goals was to own a giant bed like the one R. Kelly rested on while pleading with someone to go “Half On A Baby.” I didn’t quite get a mattress that size, but I did buy a California King with more than enough room for me and my wife (who’s of age).

Unfortunately our bed has been taken over by illegal occupiers. Each night between the hours 2 a.m. to 6 a.m. our kids come in our bed. Sometimes they pee in it; others times they kick and cry for prime real estate next to Mama; worse yet, they’ve been known to interrupt the really-really fast act that produced them.

The co-sleeping began when our oldest was an infant (see below) and continued with each subsequent birth. It made sense. They were breastfed; when they needed to nurse Amber could just flip out the titty while staying asleep. That was six years ago. They have yet to leave.

We’ve tried the reward system. If they slept in their beds, they’d each get a sticker. After accumulating a certain amount of stickers–I can’t recall the number, this was Amber’s thing–they’d get a prize and eventually an ice cream party.

The result: We spent money on junk toys from a dollar store that wasn’t really a dollar store. Slick concept, by the way. The kids still came in our bed every night. And each morning after they would throw tantrums regarding the definition of “sleeping in your own bed the whole night.” (I can see them as politicians in the future, hopefully not of the “grab ’em by the p***y” variety.)

We’ve tried other methods to protect our territory. I used financial reasoning: “Mama and Dada spent all our money so we could have a bigger house that gives everyone their own space. So we should all sleep in our own beds.” They looked at me like, “Cool story. But do you have enough money left to buy a dog?”

Carrying them back to their rooms worked at times. The only problem with that is once I’m up and actually moving…I’m up for the rest of the day. And come, say, 7 a.m., when most people wake up, I’ve already been awake for about three hours, which means I’m grumpy and therefore short with the kids and friends who post fake news on Facebook.

Threatening to shoot worked for a night. This was after I bought water guns and conducted a surprise raid as they played in the backyard. They were overwhelmed by my accuracy, so when it came time for bed I said to my oldest, “If you come in mama and dada’s room tonight, I’m gonna shoot you with the water gun I keep next to the bed.” I felt kind of bad because he actually looked scared, though he did stay in his room until morning.

But he was back the next night. And his brothers were, too.

Our youngest, who’s three, yelled “MAMA!” from the top of the stairs sometime around 4 a.m. (our room is on the first floor). I stormed out the bed, as if someone had awakened me with a water gun shot. I ran up the stairs and said to him, “Stop all that yellin’! If you wanna come in the bed, just come on in!”

He did. And they won. They may never leave.

-Dewan Gibson

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Fast forward 20-plus years. I’m back in Ohio, the Columbus area this time, and I’m always up to find a park that offers enough free fun to tire out the kids while my wife and I relax with our phones. Here are some of best parks we’ve visited in the Columbus area so far.

Blendon Woods Metro Park (4265 E Dublin Granville Road, Columbus)

Blendon Woods is a great place to chase turkeys, who, by the way, look round and goofy but are actually very mobile. We followed a gang of them as they strutted around the park looking for some play (based on their loud gobbling). They didn’t seem to mind the attention, though I read that they’ll run up on you if you mess up their game.

The trails in Blendon Woods are also worth checking out. It’s like walking under a green dome. As for the play areas, they’re OK, but not so important considering you have the draw of giant birds walking around verbally harassing each other.

Whetstone Park of Roses (3901 North High St, Columbus)

The obvious draw of Whetstone Park is the roses, but during the time we went most were not in full bloom and had less swagger than the $9.99 Walmart roses I buy for my wife. Still, the idea is romantic, which does absolutely nothing for kids who want to tear the flowers apart but aren’t allowed to touch anything. But the playground saved the day. It has a double tunnel slide and lots of unsupervised kids running wild.

Rising Park (Route 37, Lancaster)

Rising Park is a little far out in Lancaster (the boonies), but it’s worth the 30 to 45 minute drive, if only to walk along the cliffs and risk severe injury due to selfie. I consider the area the gateway to Appalachia and there’s not much color among its visitors, but everyone was friendly to us black and kind-of-black folks. Anyhow, Rising Park has the most unique biodiversity of any of the parks we’ve gone to in Columbus.

Three Creeks Metro Park (3860 Bixby Road, Groveport)

This park is huge and we only saw about a quarter of it due to simultaneous tantrums from Nile and Ca$$ius, which led to them getting snatched up out the forest and forced in their car seats. But from what we did see there’s fishing and snakes and bike trails and black folks barbecuing while arguing about LeBron’s greatness. There’s a lot to do, and we had a good time until the eruptions. We’ll be back.

Scioto Audubon Metro Park (400 West Whittier Street, Columbus)

This park is known for its climbing walls (bring your own gear), but there’s also a water tower with stairs that you can climb without breaking a sweat. The kids liked the ponds a lot. They’re filled with frogs, two of whom we saw going at it. (Spring time is lit). There’s also an obstacle course that includes a wall and belly crawl station and so on. I was tempted to try it, but the achievement-to-possible-embarrassment ratio seemed a little off.

These are just some of the parks we’ve visited in Columbus in the past month. I’ll be sure to update this post as we go to others of note. Shoot me a message if you have recommendations. (Recommended parks need not have cool kids smoking blunts while camouflaged next to trees and heavily-lotioned girls lingering for attention, though that would be cool, too.)

-Dewan Gibson

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Potty training our first two boys was easy. We let them walk around bucknaked and use the bathroom where they pleased. During each splash or splatter, we’d rush them to the toilet. Afterwards we’d gently remind them to use the toilet on their own. Then we would celebrate with song and dance if they at least tried: “Nile peed in the potty/Nile peed in the potty!” Within a week they had it together. And they’re still proud. Even today when nature calls they announce, “I gotta pee-pee! I gotta boo-boo!”

(Nighttime training is a another issue. We were and are always washing pee sheets. I actually feel responsible for California’s water crisis. Ohio, we’re coming for you next.)

But back to our 3-year-old. He got the peeing down after a couple weeks and skipped the potty for the “big people toilet.” But the deuce dropping has taken him awhile. He’s always been sensitive about it. Even as 2-year-old he’d go in a private room to push out a load into his diaper. If you got near he’d yelled, “Get AWAY!”

Now if he feels a load coming on he runs around the house, as fast as one can with a turtlehead peeking out, and has a fit if you try to take him to the toilet. Eventually the load ends up in his underwear, in which case my wife and I avoid eye contact wait for each other to volunteer for the cleaning.

My first thought was maybe he’s in pain. But numerous stool inspections proved he was benefiting from a well-rounded, high-fiber Trader Joe’s diet. Then I figured the big people toilet was introduced too soon. Still, he insisted on using it and the toilet and footstool made it size-appropriate and provided leverage for pushing.

It turns out that it just wasn’t his time, and maybe there’s no normal or age-appropriate time to potty train. So we let him run around in circles and scream and do his thing, only intervening right before we thought the turd was about to crown.

And yesterday, it worked, though it took a little on-toilet counseling and candy and water. Now he’s feeling accomplished. Ask him about it and he’ll tell you, “I boo-boo’d on the potty ALL by myself.”

-Dewan Gibson

The post Is There A Normal Age For Potty Training? (Or I Am Just Tired Of Wiping His Butt)? appeared first on DewanGibson.Com.

I’ve smacked a few legs in my time and I get the anger. I feel it every time my 4-year-old has an hour tantrum that involves kicking whoever’s near and yelling like a cast member on the Real Housewives of Ratchet. I feel it when my 5-year-old tells me “NO!,” as if I’m asking him to get ready for school and not telling him. And I feel it when my 3-year-old…actually, he’s really easy-going and often says little more than “oh” when you correct his behavior.

But I’ve found alternative forms of discipline and self-care work better than corporal punishment, even if they don’t provide an instant outlet for the release of parental anger. Here are some of my favorite alternatives to corporal punishment:

Taketh Away
Repossessing toys and other stuff made by tiny hands in East Asian slum factories is pretty effective, and unlike gifts given to ex-girlfriend’s kids can’t go on Judge Judy to force you to return the items. Some would say this method places too much of an emphasis on material items, but I’d rather take material things than take confidence and self-esteem, which can happen when parents beat that ass.

Marijuana
Parenting should be a qualifying condition for medical marijuana. When I ingest an edible (smoking makes me cough like a lil’ biz-nitch), I’m a better parent the following day. The plant enables me to enter a meditative-psychedelic state that places me above all the craziness. Literally. I’ve actually levitated and looked down at my life. But most of all, it allows me to get deep sleep, even if I’m not actually sleeping more hours. And a well-rested parent is a thoughtful and calm parent who doesn’t make rash Trump-like decisions. On a related note, smart folks say sleep deprivation is the new smoking, and they don’t mean cannabis.

Snatching
One of my greatest accomplishments as a father has been my ability to snatch kids with either hand. Like any great basketball player, parents need to be ambidextrous in order to keep the kids guessing. Also, the snatch is a great move when in public and unable to implement other discipline. For example, if your child is refusing to leave a store because you won’t buy a toy and fails to embrace the wise adage of “It’s cheaper on Amazon,” SNATCH ‘EM UP! It’s quick, efficient, and shows the parent’s physical prowess without the possible trauma associated with a whooping or other form of corporal punishment.

Crying
My wife cries when she’s overwhelmed with the kids. Maybe I would too if I wasn’t whooped as a kid and told to “Stop all that damn cryin’!” But what’s interesting is how kids react when their parents shed tears. They show empathy and calm down. Our second son, the malcontent of the three, once said to my wife, after she broke out in tears: “I lost your love and want to get it back.” Hell, I didn’t even know he could speak in complete sentences. Bonus: Crying reduces stress hormones.

Timeout
Timeout works until the kids find out you can trap their body but not their mind, as illustrated by one of my boys in the picture below. But I guess that isn’t so bad; a contemplative kid isn’t better than a rioting kid. Of course timeout is probably a lot less useful if you a big oaf of a teenager.

Ignore The Troll
Ignoring kids when they’re acting up is as hard as ignoring Facebook trolls. You know the troll just wants attention, but then they go too far and you’re like, “It’s war now, bro! Bring it!” Then a long back-and-forth starts and afterwards you feel disappointed that you wasted time and therefore life on a whole bunch of nothing. Kids are the same. Ignore ’em until they do something positive, or at least until they do something that you can record and post for a lot of Instagram likes:)

I Joke…But Whoopings Are Serious
Corporal punishment is still very much alive, especially among us black folks; we’re twice as likely to whoop our kids when compared to Latinos or whites. We tend to romanticize it with “I’m remember that one time…” stories and explain that we turned out O.K., though maybe we turned out “O.K.” in spite of the whoopings…Not to mention the 360 black kids killed on average each year by parental beatings that often started with whoopings and “escalated as the child got bigger” (more info in a great piece that ran in The New York Times).

Anyhow, I don’t have all the answers, just a possible few alternatives to corporal punishment. And who knows, my kids may still end up on an Out of Control Teens episode of Maury. But it won’t be because they didn’t get whoopings.

-Dewan Gibson

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