Toddler Tales: An Older Dad Survives the Raising of Young Children in Modern America

by Lee B. Mulder

put the penny in his pocket and walked out the door amid the new flow of shocked screams from my son. I mumbled something about welcome to the real world.

  "Here, kid," I said. "Have a Lifesaver. It's on the house."

  A Night on the Town

  I knew it was Friday night when I walked in the door, weary from work, and was greeted by, "I'm tired of cooking! I have nothing planned and if you want to eat here, your choices are the ends of the meatloaf we've warmed up twice already, peanut butter sandwiches with Ritz Bits or a one-egg Cheerios Omelet."

  "Hi, Honey, I'm home," I said, briefcase still clutched in my hand. "Say, I've got a great idea. Why don't we pack up the kids and go out to eat tonight?"

  "Great idea, Intuitive Husband," she said. "The kids are in the van. We have a table waiting at Wun Lung's." Once again, I'm amazed at the teamwork this family exhibits. I the great strategist and leader, am fulfilled putting forth the events that build a productive, exciting life. And beside me, working shoulder to shoulder, is this strong woman, the great implementer of dreams. "Well, don't just stand there," she prods. "Bring your wallet and let's get a move-on before the kids beat each other to death."

  We've been going to Lung's since long before we had kids. After late nights at the office, we'd step off the train, walk stiffly in hungry silence to the cold car and, with one knowing glance between us, drive straight to the cheery Chinese eatery. The red and gold glyphs hanging from the ceiling spoke to us of peace, prosperity, tranquility. The trickling fountain in the pool full of koi soothed our stressed-out souls.

  In those days, Mina (pronounced Mee-nah), the grandmotherly waitperson would see us coming and scurry with great ceremony to make a corner booth available.

  She met us as a solitary couple, then with one of us pregnant. She had cooed the first baby, smiled the grandmotherly smile at our being pregnant again and then cooed at the second child as well. And now, ever more bent with advancing age, the white-haired Mina bustled with that twinkle in her eye to set a table for the little family that burst through the door.

  "Mina, we'll need some tea and a Seven-Up with cherries on a sword and a double scotch for my husband," the expediting wife said while buckling the baby into her seat.

  "Of course, madam," she said, catching my eye.

  "I want a burger and fries and a coke," my son said.

  "We're eating Chinese tonight, dear," his mother said patiently with the pipe-down! momlook. He wrinkled his face in pewy defiance.

  "The usual?" I suggested, removing all lethal silverware from the baby's reach.

  "Absolutely," my life partner said, settling into her chairat last.

  Mina appeared with the drinks. She tactfully let me take two sips of the Scotch before she asked, "Ready to odor?"

  "Yes, Mina," I replied in my best head-of-the-household demeanor, "We'll do half-orders tonight of the Kung-Fu Pork, the Taiwan Jimshu, Hao Nao Brown Kow and, my son's favorite, Shar-Pei Almondine. Bring plenty of plates and we'll share."

  "Very good," she bowed, retreating to the kitchen.

  My wife and I looked at each other for one brief moment. We touched hands. There was a fleeting of memory about how we used to be, but the bubble burst as my son played sword swallower, trying to cram four cherries down his throat at once. "Save one of those for your sister," his mother commanded gently. He wrinkled his face in protest and then, with a devilish grin, handed over the first cherry in line, the one that had been farthest down his throat. Mom dipped it in Seven-Up to fizz away the germs, sliced it in half and gave it to the one year -old. The baby slipped into a state of Nirvana at the Maraschino nectar about the time my son separated his chopsticks and was waving them around as he had been taught in his instructional Ninja Turtle video.

  "How'd you like to go see the fish?" I suggested, looking for a calm distraction.

  "Yeah! We can go fishing!" he replied, brandishing the chopsticks over his head.

  "Sure, sure, you go fishing," I said, craving another micro moment with my wife. "I'm gonna talk to mom for a minute." The boy marched off to the little pond at the front of the restaurant. I'll let him go explore a bit, I thought to myself. The feeling of independence is good for him. He'll get tired of the futile chasing of splotchy gold fish soon enough and will be back in a moment, demanding his dinner. Mom had just administered the last half of cherry and was about to mouth "How was your day, dear?" when a loud victory shout came from the direction of the pond yelling, "I got one! I got one!" A second later, I saw my son running with the Olympic torch between the tables of the restaurant... no, not a torch, a chopstick with a four-inch-long fish skewered on it, held high over his head. Good Lord, he did get one. The restaurant was silent with the alarm; our mouths were open and eyes wide, just like the fish, in abject surprise. I bolted from my chair to intercept him, thinking I should paddle him for this stunt, but how could I be angry? He's so proud of himself.

  "Come on, son," I said, spinning him around, "You can't murder the decor, hunt down the ambience, or eat gold fish.

  You've gotta put him back." I helped him hold the stick upright as we marched back through the gauntlet of tables. When we got to the pond, I said, "Okay, put him back." He obeyed in his own way and flung that fish like a Chinese yo-yo, about six feet through the air. Once in the water, it swam tentatively. But it moved, which was a great relief. I apologized to Lung, expressed my deepest regrets and said that if the fish dies, I will be glad to replace it. He was gracious and assured me not to worry. I think he was laughing at me behind that oriental mask.

  By the time we returned to the table, our food had arrived. Mom served and we all ate like the victims of famine. When we had nearly finished, I asked my son, "How did you catch that fish."

  "Easy," he said, with unbridled pride. "I found some chewing gum under one of the tables. I put a little bit of it on the end of the stick and when the fish came to bite it, I jammed the stick down his throat and yanked him out of the water. Easy." Of course. Why didn't I think of that?

  The meal ended as all Chinese meals do with fortune cookies. My fortune read "The day is long." Huh? My son's said, "Long time no see." Huh again. The baby ate her fortune after smearing it in the finger painted gravy on the high chair tray. My wife's said, "Play your cards right, honey and he'll probably bring you here again."

  It was time to go home. Mina presented the bill and I paid it with great apologies and thanks for her patient service. There was no fish on the bill. She bowed graciously, a knowing half-smile on her lips. As we departed, I couldn't help but glance at the pond... no, nothing swimming belly-up yet. I held the door for the brood to exit; my wife was the last one through. She sidled close to me and said sweetly, "Thank you for feeding me."

  "My pleasure," I replied, finally loosening my tie.

  The Stain Maven

  My wife loves stains in clothes. She covets them. They turn her on. She seeks them out. She's disappointed if clothes don't have them. This is not the woman I married.

  It wasn't long ago that she was a high-powered business woman commuting to the city, working long hours, doing deals, charming clients, ascending the golden ladder, making money and regular trips to the dry cleaners. But she's home now, fulfilling her maternal mission. Since the baby turned two, all that energy is focused like a laser beam on stains.

  "What is it," she pries, having pulled a pair of my jeans from the hamper. "Blood? Wine? Catsup? If I know what it is, I can get it out."

  "Ummm, I don't remember," I mutter.

  "It's okay. It's okay," she says. Her eyes glaze. I can tell she's initiated a search of her mentally stored stain database. "I'll run some tests. I can get it out." She squints in deep thought, attempting to decide which of her lotions and potions will loosen the chemical grip of this mysterious blotch. She retreats to the lab. There, leaning intently over the washing machine, she peruses the neat rows of bottles, jugs and boxes that hold a precisely catalogued inventory of sprays, solutions, pre-washes, eradicators, exotic microbe co
lonies enough to clean up Prince William Sound, radioactive isotopes and eye of newt she has found to be successful at one time or another.

  Some of the bottles one would recognize at any grocery store. Some look like they came from a Wild West snake oil drummer, others from Aunt Marge's root cellar. A thick, hard-bound, scientific log cross -references chemicals to stains by color, texture and odor. A red telephone on the wall is linked directly to the neighborhood Mom's Stain Network for emergencies.

  "Okay," I say, "I'll go out for awhile to run some errands."

  When I return, I realize she hasn't moved out of the room. Strange fumes waft through the house. It's nearly suppertime but no meal appears to be imminent. Where the kids have gone is anybody's guess. I creep cautiously down the stairs and peer into what used to be a simple laundry room. She is there, her new reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, examining a pair of toddler-sized jeans with a seriously self-satisfied smile on her face.

  "Ahem," I say, unobtrusively obvious. She looks up, over the glasses.

  "I got it!" she says. "Grass, blood and bubble gum all out in one wash. I KNEW I could do it! I'm REALLY getting good at this."

  "Ummm, that's great, honey," I say cautiously. "Do we have any plans for, like, maybe, dinner?"

  "Oh, yes, sure," she says. "Just one more stain. I think this is mashed fruit roll-up