Been There, Done That

by Al Roker Deborah Roberts

  Whenever I suggest going early, getting a massage, having a glass of wine, pampering herself a bit, Deborah says it sounds good in theory, but her Mom Guilt quickly creeps in before she can say yes. She always has a long list of things that have to be done, and have to be done by her.

  Sometimes less is more. I think Nancy Reagan was ahead of her time when she came up with the motto “Just Say No.”

  I have a good buddy who just can’t ever seem to say no!

  No matter how hard he tries, he just can’t say it. He’s such a nice guy, he doesn’t want to let anyone down, so he overcommits and spreads himself so thin that he’s exhausted all of the time.

  I don’t understand why people can’t just say no without feeling compelled to give a reason. Unless you are my wife or my parents, I don’t feel the need to justify myself—not even if you are my kids!

  “Because I said so and I am your father” is the only reason they need. I accepted that answer from my father, and I totally expect my children to accept it from me. Truthfully, it doesn’t always work, but hey, sometimes it does! Why is it we can say yes to things we want without providing a lengthy explanation, but somehow “no” has become something we feel the need to rationalize? When you think about it, “no” is the most powerful word we can speak. “Yes” is a good word, but “no” is better. “No” says you are taking control—or better yet, you are actually in control.

  People say yes to things they don’t want to do all the time, because they feel guilty saying no.

  Not me.

  I know what I don’t want to be a part of and I am quite comfortable saying no. I often think of the Snickers candy bar commercial where you are not yourself when you are hungry. Well, you can’t be you when you’re exhausted, tired and crazy because you’ve spread yourself too thin. Learn to say no and you will actually have a little time for yourself. Nobody is going to give it to you but you.

  At the end of the day, I know I am a better husband and father because I have taken “me” time instead of giving that time to things I don’t care about.

  When Steve Harvey came out with his book saying women should think more like men, I liked the idea, but I think he missed one important point. I believe moms need to think more like dads. They need to stop feeling guilty about allowing themselves time and space. They need it as much as we do. We all do.

  And guess what?

  Your husbands are capable and even happy to help out so you can have that.

  My coanchor, Natalie Morales, who is a great woman and married to a great guy, once told me she can’t let her husband dress their kids.

  “What would happen if he did?” I asked.

  “He would have them wearing gym pants every day!”

  “Are people going to stone them? Are they going to be shamed? Are people going to point at them on the street and post pictures on the Internet?” I asked.

  “Well, no . . .”

  Of course not! She knew I was right.

  Look, as hard as it is to say no, sometimes it’s even harder to say yes to help, or to just loosen your grip enough for your partner to chip in.

  Dads are not incompetent, despite the premise of most great American sitcoms, from The Flintstones to The Honeymooners to Everybody Loves Raymond to The King of Queens. All of these shows were based in truth. You’re supposed to be the king of the castle and the fact is you are not. (At times I feel more like the court jester, but it’s okay.) Our wives still run the home and we just get to live in it. On the rare weekday that I’m off and have the chance to get Nicky ready for school (Leila is her own girl, with her own fashion sense. I have nothing to do with that), this is what I hear when he walks through the door at the end of the day.

  “You sent him out of the house wearing that?”

  Never mind that Leila doesn’t own an outfit that covers her midriff. It seems I’m the only one in the house who has a problem with that.

  I’ve had some memorable disagreements with my wife over my buying the kids’ clothes or making their school lunches. These are things she feels are the mother’s role or responsibility. What she really means is that she doesn’t trust me to do as good a job as she would.

  “Is this 1955?” I said when Deborah shared her feelings with me.

  I liked the idea of packing the kids’ lunches; I saw it as a way to be a part of their morning routine even though I leave the house long before they wake. Making their lunch gave us a nice little connection. Unfortunately, I had to make the lunches at four thirty a.m. and Deborah worried that the food wouldn’t be fresh by the time they ate it at noon.

  What? I put it in the refrigerator. People aren’t salting their meats to preserve them anymore. We don’t need a guy with a block of ice coming up a flight of stairs to put it in a wooden case. Refrigerators run on electricity these days! I know a lot of people make their kids’ lunches the night before, but it was still a losing battle. Deborah started worrying about the portion sizes I was giving the kids. In her mind, I was putting fifty-five-gallon drums of sugar in their lunch boxes, when in fact I was giving them snack packs of Oreos or granola bars along with a piece of fruit. It’s true that I wasn’t packing carrots and celery sticks, but I had found those were the items that routinely came home uneaten. Call me crazy, but why bother?

  And so you know what I did? I stopped making lunch. I said to Deborah, “It’s probably better if you make lunch, since you know how you want it made and it’ll save us a lot of stress and strife. I love you too much to argue about lunch.”

  Suddenly, my early mornings got a lot less hectic. I wasn’t worried about what bread to use and whether we were out of raisins or where’s the mayo? Deborah, on the other hand, started complaining that the extra workload was becoming a pain.

  Ohhhh. Really?

  Eventually, I took pity on Deborah, and now I’m back to packing lunches and she’s staying out of it, letting me pack what I want. She even admitted that my making lunch makes her morning a little easier.

  One of my favorite movies of all time is Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. At the very end of the movie, Indiana has fallen into a gap, trying to reach the Holy Grail, and his father says, “Let it go.”

  His father spent his entire life looking for the Holy Grail, but when it became a choice between that and his son, there was no contest. When it comes to keeping peace in your home, sometimes you need to just let it go. The true Holy Grail is what is around you—your family, your happiness. If your kids are happy and healthy and they want to hang out with you, and your wife is happy and healthy and wants to hang out with you, stop looking for the Holy Grail, my friend—you’ve found it.

  AL

  Kids (and Dogs) Invading the Bedroom

  When my kids were younger, I used to feel a tinge of rare dad guilt for not spending more quality time at home with them. I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t about the quantity of time spent, but the quality. It turns out, I was wrong. It comes down to both.

  I always wish I had more time to spend with my kids. I’m not there when they wake up and get ready for school, and one of the downfalls of getting up so early is finding myself dead tired at the end of the day. I can’t remember the last time I slept late. Even when I have the opportunity, Nicky wakes up at the crack of dawn, so I find myself getting up with him by five or six a.m. But because my chance to see the kids is in the evening, I try to stay up as late as I can possibly manage in order to spend some quality time with them. I’ll offer to help with homework or we’ll cook something together, but honestly, by seven p.m., I am beat. People are talking to me and suddenly my eyes are closing.

  “DAD!”

  “Wha . . . what is it?” I mumble, half asleep.

  “You’re falling asleep—again,” they say.

  “I’m not sleeping. I’m just resting my eyes!” I can’t help but think of my father every time I give th
at answer because that’s exactly what he used to say.

  Sigh. I may as well give it up. Sooner or later we all become our parents, and my day has come.

  Admittedly, my perpetual state of fatigue has become something of a running gag around our house.

  You see, by the time my kids finish all their homework and we have dinner, I have come down from my day and am ready to hit the sack.

  Leila will say, “Why are you so tired?”

  And before I can answer, Nicky will chime in with my usual answer. “Do you know what time I get up?”

  “Every day I have to wake up at three forty-five in the morning. I work a long day, so of course I’m tired by the end of the day . . .” Leila will continue, as if it were a well-rehearsed monologue.

  It’s like their version of Abbott and Costello’s Niagara Falls bit . . . “Slowly I turned . . . step by step . . . inch by inch.” As soon as you hear the words “Niagara Falls,” you launch into the routine.

  Same in my house. They sure know my spiel by heart.

  Well, they should.

  I’ve been saying it for years!

  And it isn’t just at home where this can happen. I have been known to doze off in restaurants, at the theater, in cabs and just about anywhere I can catch a little shut-eye. Sometimes Deborah tries to get me to sit up straight as a way to revive me, but it doesn’t help when all I want is to get horizontal.

  Yet just as I’m ready to call it a night, Leila comes in and sprawls at the foot of our bed and starts to download her day. It’s literally an information dump. She begins to talk and doesn’t take a breath for ten minutes. Meanwhile, Nicky comes in and snuggles up, and of course, Pepper, the World’s Greatest Dog, will not be denied and takes up her position. When we got Pepper, I always said that no matter what, that dog wouldn’t be allowed to sleep on the bed; that is where I draw the line.

  Well, you can see where I rank in the pecking order, because this is the usual scene that greets me as I come out of the bathroom, freshly shaved and showered and ready for bed.

  Noooooooooo!

  I may have mentioned I am a bit OCD about certain things. My bedtime routine is one of them. I like my pillow cool and untouched. I like my side of the bed cool as well. I love the feel of slipping into those crisp, unrumpled sheets and settling in. When there are two kids, a wife and a dog in there, my pillow and sheets are anything but. They are warm, rumpled—and occupied! So not only is there no room at the inn, but the inn is as hot and bothered as I am.

  Now I must wriggle in and find a spot to settle on, while my children and dog, wide-awake, want to engage their dad.

  Believe me, I want to be engaged.

  I try to keep my eyes open.

  I do everything I can to not fall asleep.

  But usually I fail.

  “Dad, I want to—” Leila says before noticing I’m drifting off.

  “DAD!”

  “I’ve got to go to sleep,” I sheepishly say.

  Deborah often reminds me that we don’t know how long Leila will want to continue sharing the details of her high school life—that we should cherish it, embrace her presence and let her talk. I agree. She’s right, but I’m really tired!

  I’m trying to get better, but it’s hard.

  Besides, I come from a generation where you didn’t spend any time in your parents’ bedroom and there was no expectation of it at the end of the day. I did my homework, took a shower, put on my pajamas, kissed my mom and dad good night and went to bed. I never even went into their room unless I was summoned, sick or absolutely had to bring something to them. And if I did enter their sacred space, I knew enough to stay for a brief moment and then get out.

  The only time we spent any significant time in their room was to watch their color TV. We had a black-and-white television in the basement, which we could watch whenever we wanted. The color TV was reserved for special occasions, such as the World Series or the Knicks championship game.

  Deborah and I go back and forth about whether or not these same standards and expectations still work in today’s world of cosleeping and family beds. Call me crazy, but I like the idea of taking a shower and not having to worry about covering up before walking from my bathroom to my bedroom. And while you’re at it, knock on the door and wait for me to say “come in” before you enter. That’s why we close the door in the first place! For privacy! A door should be knocked on if it’s closed.

  That said, one of the things I admire about Deborah and am trying to emulate more is her ability to engage the kids at bedtime. She gives them all the time they need to unwind, unload and unburden their souls. (Pepper just needs her belly rubbed. So do I, but that’s another story.)

  Kids’ lives are much more programmed and scheduled today than mine was growing up. Homework looms over them in a way I never felt. Even though we talk at the dinner table, I find that to be a very different kind of conversation. Everyone is still in their “on” mode, thinking about what still needs to be done before calling it a night. The only chance we all get to let out a sigh of relief is at bedtime. Those fifteen or twenty minutes spent hanging out in our bedroom allow our children to decompress and just be.

  And so now, when I come out of the bathroom expecting a chance to snuggle with my wife (and these days, as tired as I am, a snuggle is all I want!) and then a quick visit from the Sandman and find my kids camped out, I just smile and say, “Kids, start your mouths. I’m all ears.”

  Sure, I wish they’d stay off my side of the bed, for Pete’s sake . . . Okay, nobody under the age of seventy-five says that anymore but I can’t say what I’d like to say, so I smile and climb in, looking for a little room, offer an inviting ear and with a little luck, a quick rub o’ the belly.

  Is it an exercise in patience?

  Sometimes.

  Do I struggle?

  It’s harder for me when I am tired.

  When I don’t have to work the next day, the burden is certainly lifted.

  But I always try to remind myself of my father’s sage advice: It’s not about your needs; it is about what they need.

  Yeah, I know I’ve referred to this advice a few times throughout this book, but it does seem to cover a lot of territory, especially when it comes to parenting.

  Although my children don’t necessarily realize it, it’s our job as parents to know they need that connection with us, just as I need my connection with Deborah and she with me. Connecting as a family is a priority for us, and I will take it any way I can get it, because I realize these nights of gathering on the bed won’t last forever. Sometimes I hear Harry Chapin singing “Cat’s in the Cradle” in my head, especially on those rare nights one of the kids doesn’t pop in. Kids grow up fast, and you have to make each day count. Strive for both quality and quantity in your time together. That’s what creates connection.

  7

  Actions Speak Louder Than Words

  DEBORAH

  CEO of the Home

  I think it’s fair to say that women are generally the emotional glue that holds a household together. And most of us would say we are the logistical support too. With no disrespect to our mates, if our homes were a business, we’d be in charge. You may as well call us the CEO!

  Now, to be fair, I have a fabulous, capable co-CEO in Al. He often catches a glitch in the kids’ schedules before I do. But even he would admit—if he’s smart—that the brunt of our day-to-day life falls on my shoulders. Ask any woman, from any walk of life, and she’ll tell you that’s usually the way it goes. Whenever I get together with a girlfriend, we inevitably land on the subject of how stressed we are. Though most of my friends have spouses who pitch in, one complains how her husband aspires to do as little as possible around the house. He wouldn’t begin to know where the pancake griddle is, what time school lets out or where their child’s best friend lives. Thankfully, I don’t have t
hat situation. (Well, at least Al knows where to find the pots and pans!) But seriously, I am truly blessed to have a husband who not only looks forward to being home with the family but also cooks most of our meals and is deeply involved in the kids’ lives (sometimes a little too much).

  Even so, if Nicky forgot his lunch or Leila’s frantic because she left her PE clothes on the bench in our hallway, Al isn’t fielding that call at work.

  I am.

  If Nicky is throwing up at school or the piano teacher can’t make it, guess who races to the school or reschedules the lesson? You got it.

  Me.

  Even if I’m in a Texas jail about to roll on an interview with an accused murderer, somehow I’m the one who gets that call from home about how someone’s day is unraveling. Somehow everyone at my house seems to think that Al’s work couldn’t possibly be disturbed. Maybe it’s hard to imagine phoning the man you’re watching on TV warn the country of an impending nor’easter about missing gym clothes or a dentist appointment after school. Yet there seems to be an assumption that men are busy and unavailable but women . . . moms . . . not so much. I don’t think this situation is unique to our home so much as it is a social stereotype that all moms face.

  Make no mistake—I love it when Leila confides in me about things going on in her personal life, whether it’s about a problem at school with one of her teachers or how her once-close friend has changed and drifted away. We moms are often privy to shared moments of tenderness with our children that dads miss out on. But we also carry a lot of the burden in child-rearing, which can leave us vulnerable. If you are a working mom, you are probably weighted down by the details in the day to day. Aside from schoolwork, there is that added pressure of activities. Nicky is passionate about martial arts and swimming. Leila loves theater. But one year I insisted that she try sports. She fought me, but ultimately she played on both the volleyball and basketball teams, and guess what—she enjoyed both! I felt victorious; I’d pushed her beyond her comfort zone and it paid off. But of course I’d managed to add more activities to our already hectic lives!