To elaborate further, I’ve added a page on Comment Policy.  It’s not as serious or administrative as it sounds, and I certainly don’t expect or even really want anyone to read it.  Just keep leaving comments.  I’m sure you’re doing it right.  But for anyone who’s curious, there it is.

If it weren’t for the comments, I wouldn’t keep writing this blog.  They encourage me, challenge me and very often inspire me.  You guys have given me so much to think about, like on my recent post, My Son Wants to Wear a Dress.  I’m very grateful for all those comments, which have helped me open my mind a bit on the topic.  Look for a followup to that post soon.

Finally, to all the new readers, welcome!  I’m working on a memoir about how my boyfriend and I created our family through gestational surrogacy.  It should be funny, touching and primed to piss off all the right people.  You can help me get it published by subscribing to this blog, liking it on Facebook (where I’m stuck with the blog’s old title, Where Do Gaybies Come From?), following me on Twitter or, best of all, alerting your dear Aunt Oprah about this cool new writer you’ve discovered.

Thanks.

I’m keeping mine – for now, at least.  Pretty soon, my kids will be moving to toddler beds and won’t need them at all anymore.

But if you’re using these yourself or considering buying one after what I wrote, I think you should be aware of the danger.

Where did she get this crazy idea that you can marry, you know, people of the opposite sex?  I blame Disney movies.  Ariel and Eric, Tiana and Naveen, Beauty and the Beast.  Daddy and Daddy just can’t compete with love stories like those, especially without any Menken-penned showtunes of our own for her to dance along to.

I’ve even reminded her that girls can marry girls, at least here in New York.  No thanks, she’s marrying a boy.  And her brother is going to marry a girl.

So she says.

Like most boys his age, Bennett hasn’t shown much interest yet in marrying anyone, of either gender.  But he does want to wear a dress.  Badly.  Lately, he’s been asking me every day.

I read absolutely nothing into this, of course.  It’s not like either of his dads was ever into the drag thing, but he certainly hears about dresses an awful lot.  His twin sister is obsessed with them and gets a lot of attention for them, so I don’t blame him for thinking something magical will happen if he puts one on.  He’d definitely get a lot of attention.

Of course, that’s my fear.  I don’t care if the kid wears a dress, whether or not it ends up being something he wants to do when he gets older.  But I know if he wears a dress to the playground or the zoo, some schmuck kid (or, perhaps more likely, grown-up) will feed him that nonsense that “boys don’t wear dresses”.

If that happens, it might not be a big deal.  He might go, “Oh, really?  They don’t?  Why didn’t you tell me that, Daddy?”  Then again, he might cry.  I’m just not ready for the world to teach my kid shame.  I grew up in the closet myself, albeit a slightly different one, and I don’t want that to happen to him.  For now, I don’t even want him to know there is a closet.

So when he asks me to wear a dress, I don’t say no.  I tell him he can do it “later” (as in when we’re not going outside for a while).

“Later” also means when he’s old enough to understand how other people might react.  And if he wants to wear dresses anyway, then I’ll have his back — plunging, ruffled or otherwise.

I’ll also remind him that he can marry whomever he wants, no matter what society – or his sister – might tell him.

According to the 2010 census, there are 154,000 stay-home dads in the U.S.

154,000?  That’s not even a lot of people in Delaware.  Isn’t that exactly the number of Wayans brothers?  We couldn’t take over Lichtenstein with those numbers.  You really think we’re taking over parks?

Look, I’m not one to cry “oppression”.  I’m a middle-class white male, after all.  My kind have had it pretty good for the last few millennia or so.  Yes, I’m also gay, but let’s put that aside for a minute.  Other than that, I’m fairly demographically charmed.

Still, I’m in a minority group because of what I do for a living, and as a result I face a particular kind of prejudice on a daily basis.

That’s right.  I’m talking about “Dadscrimination”.  There may be more of us than there used to be, but in a lot of ways, the world still doesn’t get us.  We’re second-class parents, a joke or an afterthought.  Yo, it’s hard out here for a Daddy.

From the serious to the semantic, here are just a few of the ways dads get the shaft:

- The Mommification of Everything Parent-Related

You never see “Men at Work” signs anymore.  It’s always “Crew Working In Trees”.  We don’t call them “Policemen” or “Mailmen”, they’re “Officers” and “Postal workers.”  But when it comes to parenting, everything’s “Mommy”.  “Mommy movies”, “Mommy & Me” classes, “Mommy wars”, “Mommy Zumba”.  It’s as if the M-word is synonymous with “parent”.  No matter what barriers we break down in terms of gender inequality, inclusiveness goes out the window once you have kids.

I’ll admit I’ve never been to a Mommy movie, mostly because neither my kids nor I are interested in a film whose title is preceded by the words “Katherine Heigl in…”.

I did take a Mommy & Me class when my kids were young, although I think the kids and I all snuck in through the “Me” loophole.  Some parenting groups won’t even allow men.  I get it.  Ladies want to talk about breastfeeding (and do it) in privacy.  But until there are enough stay-home dads to sustain a decent-sized get-together, we don’t have a lot of places to turn for information.  I’m going to vouch for straight dads, too.  They’re not trying to look at your boobs.  We’re all just doing it for our kids, so please let us crash your party.

- The Boob Tube.

My only role model

If you’ve ever turned on TV between when school starts and the work day ends, you know it’s slim pickins for anyone with a moderate amount of testosterone in their system.  Good thing we have Tivo, On Demand and Netflix Instant or we’d be stuck with nothing but endless infotainment featuring doctors, judges and chattering coffee-sippers sitting on stools.  You know what I’m talking about .  The “The” shows.  “The View”, “The Talk”, “The Chew.”  Yes, there’s really a show called “The Chew”, and if I didn’t love my kids so much, that alone would be reason enough to go back to work and throw them in day care.

And what about choosy dads? I’m all ears, Madison Avenue!

Of course, no one is blinder to the existence of stay-home dads than advertisers.  Check the commercial breaks during those aforementioned shows, and you’ll see what I mean.  Look, I buy the Lemon Pledge in my family.  Would it kill you to show a dude dusting his fine wooden surfaces now and then?

- The Great Potty Disparity.

Nowhere is the disparity between dads and moms more obvious or extreme than in public restrooms.  I’ve already written about one bad experience I had at a children’s play center, but it’s an ongoing concern.  Too many businesses only put changing tables in the women’s bathrooms, which is not just dadscrimination but sexist, too.  Who says wiping poopy tushies is just a woman’s job?  If dads aren’t changing their kids, they should be.

There’ve been times I’ve had to wait outside a women’s bathroom until the coast was clear so I could go in and change a diaper.  Other times, I’ve had to lay my kid down on a scummy men’s room floor in the shadow of a urinal or take them back to my car just to get the job done.

Nothing makes me happier than seeing a Family Bathroom, because I know it’s well-equipped and Dad-friendly.  I know a lot of small businesses don’t have the funds or the square footage to add a third bathroom, let alone one with curtain-shielded rocking chairs for discreet feeding.  But at any public establishment that welcomes families, Koala Kares in the men’s room are a must, or personally, I’m going to find somewhere else to pump my kids full of chicken fingers.

- Perv stares at the park.

I don’t hover over my kids at the park, but I’m always watching them closely from afar, for two very important reasons: 1, so they don’t get seriously hurt and 2, so they’re not snatched up by a perv.

We all know public recreation areas are pedophile smorgasbords, but here’s the irony: While I’m standing there by myself, eyes narrowly focused on a child who’s frolicking far off, then turning occasionally in a different direction to eyeball my other kid, what do I look like?  That’s right…

A LOUSY, STINKING PERV.

Ask any dad, and he’ll tell you: In a Mommy’s world, you are assumed creepy until proven otherwise.

Stay-home dads often fit the perv profile — middle-aged guys who look tired and unshaven, wearing yesterday’s Spaghetti-O-stained t-shirt and seeming as if they didn’t have time to take a shower that morning.  We spend a lot of time at playgrounds and toy stores.  And if you catch us in a moment when our kids aren’t eagerly tugging at our pant legs and begging us for some Dora the Explorer fruit snacks, we might look like we’re just there to case the joint.

In researching this piece, I came across this post from Daddy Dialectic, who faced the ultimate indignity.  Someone actually asked him to leave a park because she assumed he was a predator.  He did a survey and found out it was more common than he thought.  Having read that, I consider myself lucky that that’s never happened to me.

When I get a perv stare, I’m always quick to establish contact with my kids, just to prove my credibility.  Of course, that only works when your kids back you up.  One time, while my daughter was throwing a tantrum at Target, she yelled out, “Where’s my Mommy?”  That’s the only time that’s ever happened, but if the wrong person had been listening, I could’ve ended up in a one-on-one with store security.  Thanks, kid.

- Mommy cliquishness.

I thought my days of feeling hopelessly uncool ended with high school, but that was before I tried striking up conversations with stay-home moms.  Anywhere moms gather, dads are outcasts.

At least this is one area where gay dads have an edge.  Once I out myself, moms tend to get friendlier.  Maybe their real fear is that I’ll be some suave male homewrecker like Patrick Wilson in Little Children.

I suspect it’s something deeper and darker.  Most women just don’t respect men who stay home with their kids.  They see other women raising kids and think, sure, she’s a traditionalist or a post-modern feminist proving she doesn’t need a career to be a strong woman.  Go, sister!

When they see a man raising kids, they think he’s lazy.  They can’t help imagining his poor wife busting her ass trying to make partner while he stays home wearing flip-flops and eating Fritos on the couch.

- The presumption of cluelessness. 

When Drew and I were exploring our parenting options, we saw a counselor to help us sort things out.  She was smart, supportive and extremely helpful.  She quickly became one of my favorite people I’ve ever met.

Then, after the kids were born, I lamented how hard it was sometimes to soothe them when they were crying.  Our counselor just shrugged and said, “Well, you’re a dude.”

I was stunned, but I’ve since realized that’s how a lot of people think.  “That poor guy, alone with his kids.  He must be in over his head.”

Thanks, I’m doing fine, and you can spare me your advice, strangers.  I prefer to screw my kids up my way, not yours.

OK, fair enough.  Moms get unsolicited advice, too, and they hate it just as much.  Maybe this is one area where dads are catching up to moms faster than we’d like.

I know dadscrimination isn’t the worst form of bias.  Nobody’s making us sit in the back of any buses or denying us the right to vote.  I won’t be leading any marches on Washington or trying to become daddyhood’s Malcolm X.  Mostly, I just wanted a chance to vent.

Aren’t dads allowed to complain once in a while, too?

OK, gotta go.  My kids are waking up.

What are my kids going to do when their classes are making macaroni and glitter cards and milk carton bird feeders every mid-May?  Sit in the corner and do long division because they have no one to give theirs to?  I don’t want them to feel left out, and I would never want a school to cancel Mother’s Day for their benefit.  It’s a great holiday.  I even have a mother myself.

Actually, my problem with Mother’s Day started before the kids were even born.  Three years ago, around this time, our surrogate, Tiffany, was pregnant with the blobs who would eventually become Bennett and Sutton.  She did everything a pregnant woman is supposed to do – ate well, got regular check-ups, stayed off crack.  For her diligence, she was rewarded with non-stop morning sickness, a fetus who kicked the crap out of her uterus, Braxton Hicks contractions and eventually, 24-hour bed rest, all for the sake of someone else’s kids.

For that alone, I’d say she earned a bouquet of flowers once a year, but it doesn’t make her, you know, an m-word.

Then there was Drew’s sister, Susie, who’d gone through the hassle and discomfort of egg donation, who’d injected herself with needles on a daily basis, flown across country about five times – at the risk of losing her job – and forked over her DNA to make a couple of kids who would always call her “Aunt”.  What would Mother’s Day represent for her?  Just another Sunday?  An annual unacknowledged reminder of her sacrifice?

It didn’t seem right.  But using Mother’s Day to honor Tiffany and Susie didn’t seem appropriate either, because we were very clear about our family structure and who was in charge.  Fear not, Right Wing.  I have no desire to redefine motherhood.

After thinking it over for a while, we invented our own holiday, Surrogate and Egg Donor’s Day, which we celebrate on the Saturday before Mother’s Day every year.

The timing is significant, because it keeps our kids from feeling left out of Mother’s Day weekend, and it allows our surrogate and egg donor, both of whom now have kids of their own, to celebrate Mother’s Day with their own families, while still being honored for their contribution to ours.  Because they’re such amazing people, they get a whole weekend of love.

We’re not the only non-traditional family who can use this extra holiday.  Plenty of special women fall outside the definition of the word “mother” but still deserve recognition for their contributions to families.  It could be:

• Your adopted kid’s birth mother
• The woman who raised you in your mother’s absence
• A stepmother
• Your family’s long-time nanny
• A trans parent who’s not sure where they fit in on Mother’s/Father’s Day
• A co-parent
• A mean green mother from outer space

Mommy?

Or whoever you think deserves a special day to honor her for her role in your family.

The same goes for special men, who you might want to celebrate the day before Father’s Day, rather than, you know, not at all.

In writing this piece, I realized I’m not the first one to use the term “Other’s Day”.  Some people are even offended by it, which is fair enough.  But the distinction is totally up to you and your family to make.  If someone’s special to you, you can celebrate them on Mother’s Day, Father’s Day or Other’s Day.  If Other’s Day sounds off-putting to you, call it Special Women’s Day or Special Men’s Day or even something clumsier, like Surrogate & Egg Donor’s Day.  Every family’s different, so we can all celebrate in different ways, too.

My kids are still a little young to understand the meaning of our special holiday, but I look forward to getting them involved in it as they get older, doing art projects, Skyping, or sending flowers.  It’ll be a great excuse to retell the incredible story of how they were born and to acknowledge what makes our family special.  Maybe it’ll also be a reminder of how corny their dads are, but I’m fine with that, too.

Again, I’m not trying to redefine anything, but I think it’s only fair that non-traditional families have a way to honor the people who matter to them.  I know, the last thing we need is one more holiday on the calendar, but if Hallmark wants to put out a special card with some schmaltzy sentiment aimed at surrogates or egg donors, they’ve got their first customer right here.

It’s sung by three women, each recalling in turn how her miserable childhood at the hands of lousy parents drove her to that most destructive of lifestyles, dancing.

Maggie sings last.  Actually, she does some spoken monologue thing where her voice nonetheless goes unaccountably up and down in pitch because she’s just that perturbed.  She’s pissed at her dad because he ditched the family right after she was born.  She used to hold her arms up in the living room, waiting for him to show up and lift her triumphantly like a swan or something.  Also, in her fantasy, Daddy was an Indian Chief, but that’s not really relevant.

He’d say, ‘Maggie, do you wanna dance?’

And I’d say, ‘Daddy, I would love to!’

Everything was beautiful at the ballet.

Raise your arms and someone’s always there.

If you want to see a grown man cry, play me that part of the song.  Never fails.

I don’t really have any sense of rhythm.  I certainly know nothing about ballet.  And if I were Native American, there’s no way anyone would make me the chief.  I have every excuse to avoid dancing with my kids.

Yesterday, they were acting a little wild, and I needed a break.  I turned on the TV, then retreated to the other room to do a little writing.  Ten minutes later, Bennett came running in.  There was a perky song on their show, and they had both climbed down from the couch to run around like lunatics, as 2-year-olds are known to do.

“Daddy!” Bennett shouted.  “Come dance with us!”

I don’t remember what I was doing at the moment.  It really didn’t matter.  “Bennett,” I said.  “I would love to.”

I know I’m not a perfect dad.  I’m not the best athlete or cook or nurse.  I’ve been procrastinating on potty training for a long time now.  My Pigeon voice sounds just like my Bus Driver.  If my kids want to perform sappy monologues about me when they grow up, they’ll probably have plenty of material to work with.

But there’s one thing they can count on: when they raise their arms in the living room, I will always – always – be there.

Now that I’m confessing my worst sins as a father, it’s only fair that I balance that out by patting myself on the back from time to time.  Thus, I introduce my counterpoint column to Confessions of a Bad Dad, Shameless Boasts of a Superdad (me).

One thing my kids have always been good at is sleeping.  They could sleep through the night at four months old.  No midnight bottle, no crying, just blissful uninterrupted sleep from 9pm until 7am.  Both of them.

These days, it’s more like 8pm until 8am.  A nice 12-hour break for Daddy.  For more than half the day, it’s almost as if I didn’t have kids at all.

That’s not even counting their daily nap.  Until they were 18 months old, they took two naps a day, each about two hours long.  Since then, they’ve dropped the morning nap, but I can count on them sleeping reliably from 1-3pm every day.  Sometimes they’ll sleep for three hours.  A couple of times, they’ve gone for four.

I know the odds of getting even one baby who sleeps that well are pretty long, but somehow Drew and I hit the jackpot.

Go ahead.  Hate me.  You won’t be the first.  My kids’ sleep habits have made parenting astronomically much easier and less exhausting than it has any right to be.

When they’re sleeping, I eat lunch, sneak snacks I don’t want them to know I eat, write blog posts, watch last night’s “Daily Show”, pay bills, straighten up and, most importantly, take my own naps.

How did I get my kids to sleep so well?  I’m not sure.  I probably didn’t even do anything.  I just lucked out with two amazing kids.  Or maybe I’m a supergenius.  You decide.

All I can do is tell you my approach to sleeping and let you figure it out from there.

1. Yes, I’m going to tell you to Ferberize.  Yeah, I know, what a news flash.  Feberizing works.  You want your kid to sleep through the night?  Ferberize.

I’ve heard people tell me that Ferberizing didn’t work for them, but when I’ve pressed them for details, the story is always the same: they didn’t follow through.

Let me be clear: Ferberizing is absolute agony.  It goes against every instinct you have as a parent.  It feels cruel and selfish, like you’re torturing a poor, confused baby so you won’t have to get up five times a night.  But the worst thing you can do is to kinda Ferberize.  If you let your kid cry for an hour and then cave in and pick her up, then you just taught her she needs to cry for an hour to get your attention.  And from now on, that’s what she’ll do.

It’s all or nothing when it comes to Ferberizing.  But if you go all in, the benefits extend far beyond your baby’s sleep habits.

The best part of that awful night of a thousand screams is what happens the following morning.  Your kid is just as happy to see you as ever, just as sweet and loving as they were before that evening of unspeakable torment.

They’ve forgiven you.

They probably weren’t even mad in the first place.  And now they know more than ever that they can rely on you.  Just because you don’t respond to their cries, it doesn’t mean you’ve abandoned them or stopped loving them.  They know they can soothe themselves to sleep, and tomorrow their parents will still be there to love them.

In that respect, I truly believe that Ferberizing has set up a parent/child dynamic that has paid off to this day.

2. Have a routine.  I called a potential babysitter recently for a phone interview.  It was 9pm, and I could hear her 2-year-old in the background.  He was helping her bake cookies.  I didn’t hire her.

Don’t people want their kids to sleep?  Why are you engaging your child in stimulating activities at an hour when you could be sipping wine and watching Revenge?  (Full disclosure: in my case, it’s Pepsi and The Good Wife.)

We start winding our kids down at 7pm, when Daddy gets home from work.  A bath, some bedtime stories, a couple of YouTube videos, then finally, they get into their cribs…

… where the routine continues.  We recap our day, share our favorite memories, then read Goodnight Moon, turn off the turtle that projects stars onto the ceiling, give hugs and kisses, then we say good night.

By then, they’re so worn out from the bedtime ritual, they rarely make a peep.

3. Babies belong in prison.  We resisted tenting the kids’ cribs.  It seemed like we’d be imprisoning them.  Then we realized cribs are already prisons.  And don’t most prisons have a roof?

We caved on the crib tents after one agonizing night when Sutton realized she could climb out and run around in her room.  We must’ve gone back into the room and put her back in the crib 25 times before she finally fell asleep.  After that, the baby jail seemed like a great idea.

Not our kid, but they really do get this happy in their cribs.

To our amazement, the kids actually loved the crib tents.  They were excited to get in and try them out.  It felt like a bounce house inside.  It was also a step forward, a sign they were growing up.  They felt like they’d graduated to something for bigger kids.

The zipper recently broke on Sutton’s crib tent, and she’s inconsolable.  She doesn’t feel safe unless she’s zipped securely in her crib tent at night.

4. Kids go in kids’ beds; parents in parents’ beds.

I’m always shocked when people tell me their kids sleep in their bed with them because that’s the only way they’ll go to sleep.  Sure, they’re that way… because you let them get away with it.

Call me crazy, but if you’re letting a two-year-old establish a policy that affects your entire household, something’s wrong.  Don’t you want a break from your kids every night?  Don’t you want privacy when you go to bed?  You have to be hard-core with your kids.  Don’t let them sleep in your bed – ever – or you’ll never get them out.

It’s no different than if you fed them a bowl of M&Ms and whipped cream for every meal, then said, “Well, it’s the only way he’ll eat.”  Oh, God.  People probably do that, don’t they?

Lay down the law and be firm: “We paid a lot of money for those Thomas the Tank Engine sheets, kid.  Use ‘em!”

If it helps, make their bed somewhere special for them, somewhere they want to go.  Let them pick out a blanket with their favorite Disney character on it.  Let them take their favorite stuffed animal to sleep.  (No toys, though.  Beds need to be a place of rest.  Not a place to play.)

And when your kid cries and screams and begs to come to bed with you, say no.  No, no, no, no, no.  If you have toddlers, you undoubtedly hear that word a lot from them.  Well, it’s good to throw it back at them once in a while.  “You want to come to bed with me?  No!”

If your kid is used to sleeping with you, you’re going to have a tough time breaking them of that habit.  I’m sure you’re in for a few hellish nights, but I can guarantee this – once you get them to sleep regularly in their own bed, it’ll be worth it.  They’ll sleep better, and so will you.

Now that I’ve been at this a while, I feel like sleep is probably the most important thing babies and toddlers need.  If my kids miss their nap, they’re cranky and wild.  They cry, scream and have meltdowns.  Yet so many people I’ve talked to let their kids sleep “on demand”.  They don’t take naps, and they go to bed whenever they feel like it.

Then those parents tell me how funny “Go the F*** to Sleep” is.  Really?  Well, shut the f*** up, because your kid’s lousy sleep habits just might be your fault.

We’ve promised to get our kids toddler beds for their third birthday in a few months.  I’m a little nervous how the transition will go, but we’ll deal with it.  Kids’ sleep habits are constantly changing, and I think that’s why so many parents throw in the towel and let their kids dictate what they want to do.

Again, maybe my kids are just awesome sleepers and I’m the luckiest dad in the world.  If so, then I apologize for boasting, and I wish that kind of good fortune on all fellow parents, because everyone deserves a little rest now and then.

OK, I have to go.  Nap time’s over.

UPDATE: Please note that the crib tents I shamelessly rave about in this post have been recalled due to safety concerns.

http://jerry-mahoney.com/2012/05/18/public-service-announcement-on-crib-tents/

That time, I didn’t wait for his nanny to reprimand him.  I got down on his level and told him sternly, “Do not pull her hair!  Do you understand?  It’s unacceptable.”  The nanny muttered half-heartedly, “He’s never done this before,” but I ignored her.  She was a lost cause.  I moved my kids away from that boy… and I kept my eye on him.

He found another kid – a crawling 10-month-old – and pulled his hair so hard he screamed.  Then he did it to another kid.  And another.  It happened at least five times that I witnessed personally over the next 20 minutes.  He never apologized and he never got punished.

The other day in my kids’ art class, a little boy shoved my son so hard he fell down.  It was unprovoked and intentional, and he did it with a smile on his face.  His mother ignored it.  A minute later, he pushed Sutton just as hard.  His mom looked the other way, so I got down in his face and said, “No pushing!”

After that, he left my kids alone, but he kept pushing the other children.  He eventually became fixated on one little girl.  He pushed her over and over, knocked her down so many times that I lost count, but it was at least 10.  His mom meekly muttered, “Don’t push” a couple of times and told the teacher something annoyingly familiar: “He’s never done this before.”

What else did these two situations have in common?  The caretakers did nothing.

I’m not talking about the bad kids’ caretakers.  Of course they weren’t doing anything.  That’s why their kids were monsters.  But the victim’s parents didn’t do anything either.  They never addressed the offending kids or their guardians, even as their own kids were getting the crap beaten out of them.

I want to say something to those parents:

Sometimes, you have to lay some smack down with other people’s kids.

I know disciplining your own kids is hard enough, but this is different.  You’re not trying to teach the bad kid how to behave.  That’ll never work, because his parents clearly won’t follow through.  When you discipline someone else’s bad kid, you’re doing it for your own kids – to protect them and to make sure they know that you can’t get away with that kind of behavior.  They should see that the standards you hold them to apply to other kids, even if those kids’ parents don’t always enforce them.

Why do parents sit idly by while their kids get harassed?  I think most of us are just too nice and conflict-averse to question anyone else’s disciplinary practices (or lack thereof).  Well, I’m conflict-averse, too, but if your kid pushes my kid, he’s the one who initiated the conflict.  I’m just stepping in to make sure it’s resolved to my satisfaction.

If there’s one thing parenthood has taught me, it’s that I can be a lot braver on my kids’ behalf than I would ever be on my own.

Yes, this begs the question: Don’t I feel like a bully for intimidating someone 1/3 my size?

You bet, and it’s awesome.  I can see why these kids enjoy it so much, and it’s high time they had a taste of their own medicine.

As I’ve said before on this blog, I’m not an authority on anything, just an overly opinionated man who feels extremely lucky to be a parent and who’s taking full advantage of the meager power this role provides him.  In other words, feel free to ignore my advice.  But if you’re ever in a situation where some out-of-control hellion is tormenting your child, here’s how I would handle it:

Strike One.  You just saw some kid attack your child – or maybe your kid came to you crying and saying something happened, but you’re not 100% sure what really went down.  OK, fine.  Comfort your kid and tell him that the offending behavior is wrong.  Leave it at that.  Give everyone the benefit of the doubt, because everyone’s kids misbehave sometimes.  But from that moment on, watch the other kid closely.

Strike Two.  Now you know exactly what happened, because you had your eye on the bad kid, and you saw him do it.  Now, your focus shifts to his caregiver.  Make sure she or he knows what’s going on without confronting them directly.  Again, give them the benefit of the doubt.  Maybe they didn’t see it happen and they just need your cue to step in and discipline the kid.

Here’s what you do: comfort your kid again, but do it louder.  First, validate your own kid: “Yes, he pushed you.  I saw it.  That was not acceptable.”  Make sure the bad kid and his guardian hear you.  Give the guardian a chance discipline her kid, and if she’s any kind of parent, she’ll be embarrassed and she’ll apologize profusely.

Now you’re watching the kid and the guardian very closely.

Strike Three.  By now, either the guardian has reprimanded the kid appropriately or he hasn’t.  But the kid did it again.  This is where you address the kid directly.  Act as if he were your child.  Be firm, but don’t shout.  “Don’t hit!  Do you understand?  Say you’re sorry.”  The kid will probably be shocked, because no one’s ever talked to him that way before.  You may even make him cry.  (Good!  That’s a sign that he never hears “no”, and you got to be the one to introduce him.  Bravo.)

At this point, don’t make any excuses for the other parent.  Maybe they weren’t paying attention and missed the behavior yet again.  Well, too bad.  They know there’s an issue, so they should be watching their kid closely.  If they’re not, you have every right to handle the situation yourself.

Strike Four.  Tell the other parent to leave.  Their kid is out of control and needs to be removed from the situation.  If you’re at a place of business like an indoor playroom, speak to the manager.

If the other parent refuses to leave and the manager does nothing, then you leave.  Tell your children clearly, “I’m sorry we have to go.  You haven’t done anything wrong, but that other kid is out of control, and I don’t want you around him.”  Don’t wait for a strike five.

I know in baseball, you only get three strikes, but what can I say?  I’m nice.

Does that sound harsh?  It shouldn’t, because here’s how I think you should handle it if your kid is the aggressor:

Strike One.  Let’s say that you didn’t witness the action first-hand, but your kid is standing over some other kid who’s crying and all evidence suggests your kid just did something bad.  Ask your kid what happened, and whether they confess or not, remind them, without directly accusing them, “It’s not OK to hit or push.”  Then, keep your eye on your kid.

Strike Two.  Now you know what your kid is up to, because you were watching your kid closely.  It’s your job to take control of the situation.  Pull your kid away.  Tell him you saw what he did, and it was wrong.  Make him apologize to the other kid.  Then, apologize to the other parent yourself.  Don’t make excuses, don’t assure them that your kid never does that sort of thing.  Everybody’s kid does bad things sometimes.  Your actions at this point will do a lot more to vouch for your parenting than your excuses.

Strike Three.  Repeat step two, but more firmly.  Remove your kid from the area for a serious talk.  If he seems contrite, let him know he only has one more chance.  If he can’t behave himself, you’re going to leave.  (If your kid is uncooperative, don’t even give him another chance.  Just leave.  You know when your kid is out of control, so react appropriately.)

Strike Four.  Leave.  Make sure you apologize to the other parent(s) on the way out.  Let your child know that he’s behaving inappropriately and that’s why you have to go.

Maybe I’m being overly lenient letting my kid get to four strikes, but sometimes with twins, that’s only fair.  I don’t want to make both of my kids leave if only one of them is misbehaving, so I’m going to do all I can to make the situation right before I punish both kids for the actions of one.

Then again, I’ve never actually gotten past strike two with my kids.  As I said, I’m no expert, but I assume that means I’m doing something right.

One final note: don’t be scared of the other parents.  Chances are, if they’re afraid of their own kid, they’ll be even more afraid of you.  I’m a short, scrawny little weasel.  99% of the other parents out there could take me down in a heartbeat.  But no one’s ever roughed me up for talking smack to their kid.  On the few situations when I’ve actually done it, the other parents have been totally speechless.

And witnessing that is the best part of all.

What do you think?  Do you have a better way of dealing with situations like this?  Let me know in the comments.

My toddlers appreciate boybands at a 13-year-old girl’s level.

Not to be immodest, but with my 2 1/2 year old twins, that would be an understatement.  They squeal with delight when a One Direction song comes on.  We watch the videos for “What Makes You Beautiful”, “One Thing” and “One Thing (Acoustic)” before they go to bed at night.  They beg to hear the album whenever we’re in the car.  They even specifically request “the sad song” with an appropriate degree of tweenage sullenness.

And I, for one, couldn’t be prouder.

My kids clap along to 1D's SNL appearance.

Before anyone gets any creepy ideas, my personal fondness for boybands is in no way akin to Lou Pearlman’s.  I don’t know any of the boys’ names, their favorite colors or their secret celebrity crushes.

My kids are too young to care about those things either (thank goodness).  So why are we a family of Directioners?  (OK, I’ll leave Drew out of it, but the kids and I are all fans.)  Here are a few reasons:

Their music is better than kids’ music.  Occasionally, I can get my kids to listen to The Shins or Wilco, and Bennett will proudly admit that “Motortown” by the Kane Gang is his “jam”.  But most of the time, “Daddy music” just doesn’t cut it, and One Direction is a lot more tolerable to these grown-up ears than The Wiggles.  1D’s debut album, Up All Night, is far less abysmal than you’d expect, and there are no blandly educational lyrics to spoil the fun melodies.

Their music is catchy enough to be kids’ music.  I may see a big difference between One Direction and The Wiggles, but my kids don’t.  Their tunes are upbeat (even the sad song), catchy and easy to sing along to.  My twins never complain when 1D is on, and I never have to pretend my iPod is broken just to get a moment’s peace.

Their music is cleaner than most pop music.  OK, yes, it’s time for me to strap on my fuddy-duddy hat and chase the rest of today’s top 40 hits off my lawn.  Do you know how hard it is to find songs that are appropriate for 2-year-olds (or 10-year-olds for that matter) in today’s music scene?

Madonna’s song “Give Me All Your Luvin’” seems perfectly pitched at her bediapered fans.  It even has a chorus which consists of shouting out letters, just like on Sesame Street.  And then, just when it seems like fun for the whole family, M.I.A. shows up and drops the S-bomb in a completely unnecessary second rap interlude.  You can’t avoid it either, because there’s no “clean” version of the song available.

My only choice is to lower the volume whenever the offending section comes on.  As a result, my kids have learned two things from Madonna’s latest hit – that “L-U-V” spells Madonna and that “Daddy doesn’t like M.I.A.”

With 1D, I never have to touch the volume knob or hit the skip button.  Their songs are actually even more innocent than their titles suggest.  “What Makes You Beautiful” isn’t “the way you do me, baby” or “that sweet ass”, as today’s Top 40 fan might expect.  It’s that “you don’t know you’re beautiful”.  Aww.  And when the guys say they want to stay “Up All Night”, it’s with the glee of a squeaky-clean teen whose idea of being naughty is thumbing his nose at bedtime.  Why do they want to stay up?  Duh, to dance, of course.

They’re easy to root for.  Just when you thought I couldn’t get fuddier or duddier, watch me double down…  I like One Direction because, well, they seem like nice boys.

They’re goofy and awkward, like 18-year-olds are supposed to be.  They have terrible hair.  They smile like they actually appreciate being famous.  These kids aren’t worried about bringing sexy back.  In fact, they’re doing their darndest to shoo it away again. And good for them!

Watching their TV appearances feels something like spying on the back two rows of a school bus on its way to the senior trip.  They’re laughing conspiratorially, but they’re not really up to anything bad.  They’re just happy not to be doing algebra for a change.

There’s something innocently appealing about that kind of unprofessionalism, especially in a world where we turn to reality TV competitions to make superstars out of novices.  (And of course, the 1D boys were discovered on the UK version of the X Factor.  They came in 3rd.  Aww.)

"Here comes my part. Better start singing!"

Just watch the blonde kid during any of their performances (including the videos).  You can see every single thing that’s going on in his head along the way, from “Oh, right, here’s where we clap.” to “They told me to smile, oops, better start smiling!” to “I wonder if my mates from school are going to see this.”

If one of the One Directions showed up on my doorstep 15 years from now to take my daughter on a date (or – let’s be real – my son), I would be totally OK with that.  In fact, I’d be psyched because Drew and I would have plenty of material to snicker about after the kid left.  (Did you see his sweater vest?  What’s up with that hair swoop?  Is there a nest of bees living in there?  Tee hee hee!)

The Wanted. If you see this band, run and tell a grown-up!

Compare them to the other British boy band of the moment, The Wanted.  Sure, they have a few catchy songs, but frankly, those boys scare me.  They look angry and thuggish.  Just because your band name is “The Wanted”, it doesn’t mean you need to look like you were recruited out of a police lineup.  Seriously, in just what sense are these boys “wanted”?  If I see them in public, I’m dialing 911, just to be safe.

Yes, I know what happens to boybands over time, so I know exactly which “direction” this latest batch is headed.  They’ll get jaded and egotistical, corrupted by the music industry and the bottomless pit of groupie poon at their disposal.  They’ll want to be “taken seriously”, so they’ll add single entendres and M.I.A. interludes to their songs.  They’ll see image consultants who’ll give them reasonable haircuts and walk-on roles on “Gossip Girl”.  I already hate the One Direction of 5 years from now.

But for now, let me enjoy 1D as it is today – a group of harmonizing dorks who have no idea how dad-friendly they are.

And that, of course, is what makes them dad-friendly.