I am NOT a Granddad!

Tags

aging, author, children, grandparents, humor, parenting, Stephen Roth

NOT a photo of me and my child.

It’s only happened a few times, but I remember each one vividly and painfully, the way you might recall a bee sting or getting a really bad spanking when you were a kid.

The first time happened when my son was just a few weeks old. It was a warm, spring evening and I was pushing him around the neighborhood in his new stroller when we passed a plump, platinum-haired lady who lived across the street from us and whom we knew slightly. In fact, my wife had just purchased a photo print from the lady at her garage sale a few days earlier.

The lady stood before us, stooped toward the stroller to inspect my child, and cooed, “Oh, what a beautiful little grandson you have!”

My mouth dropped open. This batty old bird lived a hundred feet from our home. Surely she knew we had just had a baby. At the very least, she must have noticed the cardboard stork and blue balloons in our yard.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I stammered before pulling the canopy over my son and hurrying back home, frightened and ashamed.

The second time happened just a few months later. I was at home awaiting a service appointment, and I answered the door with the baby in my arms.

“Sorry I’m late, Mr. Roth,” said the handyman with the ripped Dale Earnhardt Jr. T-shirt and the slight stench of marijuana smoke. “Oh, hey, nice grandkid!”

“He’s my son,” I said tersely.

“Wow! My bad! I guess I just—”

“—That’s okay,” I replied. It really wasn’t, though. I felt a strange panic invade my body. Being a new dad in my late 30s, I expected to be the oldest person at my child’s Gymboree music circle and at all the daycare holiday parties. But did people really think I was a grandfather? Was this how it was going to be for me throughout my son’s growing-up years?

“It’s because you’re bald,” one of our less-tactful friends advised, giving me a pitying little pat on the shoulder.

Thankfully, several years passed before another well-meaning stranger mistook my perch in the family tree.

My son wasn’t even with me a few days ago when I purchased a little something for my wife for Mother’s Day.

“What a cool gift,” said, the chatty, 20-something clerk with onyx studs the size of nickels in both of his ears. “Somebody is going to have a very nice Grandmother’s Day!”

My first thought when I heard this comment was to say, “My grandmother is dead.” Then, it dawned on me that he wasn’t talking about my grandma. The clerk was implying that my wife was a grandmother—and I was a granddad.

I just smiled and nodded, anxious to complete the transaction and return to my office, where I will likely toil for 20 more years before reaching the age when most granddads can retire.

This case of mistaken identity is probably going to happen more frequently as I continue to age. Hopefully, at least, people will perceive me as one of the cool grandpas, like the Dos Equis’ “Most Interesting Man in the World,” or one of those grey-haired guys in a Cialis ad, driving his classic Camaro home and always finding that the light is on in the upstairs bedroom window.

Spiders! In the bathtub!

Tags

children, fears, kindergarteners, parenthood, parenting, spiders, tarantulas

According to several articles I’ve read on the Internet, it is fairly common for Kindergarten-aged children to develop intense fears that have no basis in reality. Our six-year-old son has a couple of these.

One fear is being left alone in a room in our house, particularly the basement. Our son loves playing in the basement, where we keep most of his toys, but is deathly afraid of being abandoned down there by himself. Sometimes we will be able to talk him into taking the dog downstairs with him, but he usually insists on human companionship. A typical after-dinner conversation goes like this:

“Daddy, can you go downstairs with me?”

“Not right now. I’m doing the dishes.”

“Can we go after you finish doing the dishes?”

“We can,” I say. “Or, you can go downstairs now and I can join you in a little while.”

My son nods as if giving this some thought. “That’s okay,” he decides, heading to the living room couch. “I’ll wait for you.”

Our son’s fear of the basement is nothing new. He has never felt comfortable being alone in most rooms, even when surrounded by stuffed animals and other toys. I am told he will gradually grow out of this. My wife and I pray this to be true.

A newer development is our son’s fear of spiders—specially, spiders in the bathtub. This started a few weeks ago, when our normally mild-mannered son broke into a screaming fit and emphatically refused to take a bath in the tub he has been using since he was one week old. When pressed on the issue, he explained that he was afraid of spiders in the tub, even though he admitted to never having seen a spider anywhere inside our house. He had, however, seen a picture book about tarantulas at school. What could be more terrifying, really, than to be relaxing in your tub and to open your eyes to find a palm-sized, hairy spider swimming toward you? Do spiders even swim? Well, it doesn’t matter. The image alone is just horrible.

All the child-help literature instructs us to sympathize with—not belittle—our child’s fear, no matter how insanely irrational it might seem. We tried a few different tactics to get our six-year-old to wash himself. We let him use our shower. We let him use the “big” tub in our master bathroom. One of us took a bath with him to ease him into using his own tub again. We made a big deal about how cool his bath toys were, and now much they seemed to miss him.

After a few nights, our child seemed to conquer his fear of spiders in the bathtub. A washcloth under his rump seemed to help, for some reason. Bath nights were, if not exactly fun, at least tolerable again.

Then, a few nights ago, it started all over again. Our son, who used to love splashing around in the warm water of his tub, again refused to set foot inside its fiberglass shell. “I’m scared of the spiders!” he sobbed.

We know enough other parents who have kids our son’s age to understand that every child has his or her own quirks. This fear of spiders, and other bugs, confounds me, though. Like any other overprotective parent versed in the trendy psycho-babble of the day, I wonder what our son’s unprovoked fear of arachnids really means?

Conversations in the Car

Tags

boys, children, dinosaurs, fathers, kindergarten, parenthood, parenting, sons, stegosaurus, Stephen Roth, summer, winter

“Daddy, do you wish that dinosaurs were still around today?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”

“But if you thought about it, would you want them to still be around?”

“I don’t think so,” said the middle-aged man. “It would be kind of scary, having those big dinosaurs stomping all over the place.”

The little boy sighed, as if frustrated by always having to explain everything to his imagination-starved father. “But it would only be herbivores stomping around. No meat-eaters allowed.”

“Okay. Well, that makes me feel a little bit better.”

“What’s your favorite dinosaur?”

“Hmmm,” the man said, looking both ways before pulling onto the main road. It was a question he’d gotten a lot recently, so he should have been ready with an answer, but he wanted to come up with something flashier this time. “I’d have to say my favorite dinosaur is…the Stegosaurus.”

The boy giggled. “That can’t be your favorite dinosaur. That’s mine!”

“Why can’t we have the same favorite?”

“Because it was my favorite first,” he said. “I like how Stegosaurus has spikes on his tail, so he can use it against his predators.”

The father nodded, having seen his son demonstrate a Stegosaurus “tail sweep” more than a few times in the downstairs TV room.

The child looked out the window at the beige winter landscape. “Daddy, do I have to go to school today?”

“Yes, you do.”

“I wish it were summer already.”

The dad chuckled, thinking how the swimming pool would open in just three short months, which would have seemed like an eternity back when he was in Kindergarten.

“It’ll be here before you know it,” he said, trying to sound hopeful.

The Words Get in the Way

Tags

boys, children, communication, fatherhood, four-year-olds, humor, parenting, words

I’m a word person. I work as a copywriter during daylight hours, and I write creative prose and essays in my spare time. I have also been told – usually by a supervisor who is trying to find something positive to say in my performance review – that I have excellent verbal communication skills.

In short, I am good with words.

Why is it, then, that I struggle to communicate the most basic things to my own four-year-old kid? Last night, my son was in the bathtub, and he wanted to get out. I have been trying to teach him that he needs to pull up the plug before exiting the tub, allowing the water to drain. For some reason last night, the right words weren’t coming to me.

“Pull the thing! Pull the thing!” I commanded as my son dangled a wet leg over the tub.

“What thing?” he asked.

“The, um, the metal thing that holds the water in,” I stammered. “The plug! The plug!”

He smiled at me and started singing a song he had made up about his favorite colors. Then he wrapped his arms around my legs and got my jeans wet. He loves doing that.

Even the king knew how to talk to his children.

A few minutes later, as I was coaxing him to put on his pajamas, he asked me what the term, “inside-out” means.

“Well,” I said slowly, trying to conjure up the right words, “It means that the inside of your shirt is on the outside, so your shirt looks funny when you wear it.”

He gave me a puzzled look. He was standing naked in front of the TV, clean pajamas and underpants scattered around him on the floor.

“It’s the opposite of the way you should wear your shirt,” I tried again.

“But what does inside-out mean?” he asked.

“You know what it means?” I blurted. “It means you need to put on your pajamas by the time I count to three, because you know what happens when I get to three?”

He looked down. “I go to Time-Out.”

“That’s right,” I said, feeling a little bit more in control.

“But what does inside-out mean? You still haven’t told me.”

I know why I sometimes have trouble communicating with my son. First, when I am around him during the work week, in the early morning or after six o’clock at night, I am often tired and my brain is not functioning at its sharpest. Secondly, shifting gears from interacting with adults all day to breaking a concept down so a small child can understand it takes a lot of thought and patience. Finally, I have never been comfortable issuing directives, which, unfortunately, is a big part of managing life with a four-year-old. Sometimes when I tell him what to do, I talking haltingly and sound unsure of myself. The right words do not always flow naturally off my tongue.

It bothers me that much of the time I spend with my child occurs when I’m tired or, if it’s near the end of the week, exhausted. I also worry that my son sees his father as this tongue-tied guy who stammers to express even the simplest, most rudimentary thoughts. As the week winds down to Thursday and Friday night, I feel like a middle-aged Forrest Gump, a kindhearted but mentally feeble man, struggling just to get his kid out of the bathtub and off to bed. Sometimes, when I’ve turned off the bedroom lights and my child looks up at me, eyes wide open, and asks one of those Troubling Questions, (“Why do people die?” “Why do I have to go to school?” “Why can’t we have a cat?”), I actually wish I was Forrest. He always seemed to know how to tackle the big issues with a little metaphor that sounded simple, but had a more depth to it once you thought about it. “Life is like a box of chocolates,” sounds more profound than “Life isn’t fair,” although they both pretty much mean the same thing.

Forrest Gump: a man in command of his words.

Hopefully, when my kid reaches the age of 10 or 12 or 25, he and I will able to sit down and have a conversation that doesn’t revolve around finishing his dinner, brushing his teeth, or watching very carefully while I tie his shoes. We’ll sit down and have a real, heartfelt, man-to-man talk (in between whatever programs he has queued up on Netflix, of course). Then, my son will realize how thoughtful, wise and articulate his dad really is.

That’s the hope, anyway.

Stephen Roth is author of the humorous novel, A Plot for Pridemore. Be sure to “like” his author fan page at https://www.facebook.com/StephenRothWriter

A Dog Named Keiko

Tags

birthday, children, dogs, english shepherd, family, free willy, kansas city, keiko, marriage

On July 31, 2005, my wife and I adopted a dog. It was not an easy decision. We had two cats at the time, and adding a dog to the mix was certain to cause some domestic unrest.

“I’ve had dogs before,” I told my wife. “They need a lot of attention and can be a lot of trouble.”

We were not planning on getting a dog in the summer of 2005. One evening after work, we got a phone call from my wife’s cousin. He told us about this dog he had rescued from a co-worker who could no longer care for it. The dog’s name was D.J., and it was some kind of a border collie mix.

“You should come look at her,” he suggested. “She’s really pretty.”

The cousin lived near our house, so we went over that night. It had been raining earlier in the day, and we found D.J. running around the backyard with our cousin’s Siberian Husky. Both dogs were covered in mud but were friendly and wanted to put their paws all over us. The dog we came to see looked to be a tri-color, but it was hard to tell because of the muck on her coat. Our cousin told us he thought that D.J. was about six months old, and had been chained to a tree most of her life.

“What do you think?” the cousin asked. “You want her?”

“We’re going to have to think about it,” I said.

The cousin stroked his Van Dyke beard and nodded. “You’ve got ‘til tomorrow. After that, she goes to the pound.”

Later that night, my wife and I talked about the dog. One thing we agreed on was that D.J. was a horrible name. We couldn’t agree on anything else, however. My wife wanted the dog. I said I didn’t think that this would be a good time to add another pet. “Dogs take a lot of work,” I said.

The next day around lunchtime, I got a call at work. It was my wife.

“I had a dream last night about that dog,” she said. “I really don’t want her to go to the pound. I think we should take her.”

“Your cousin isn’t going to take her to the pound. That’s just a bluff,” I said. I have to admit now that I did not know my wife’s cousin as well as she did.

“Can we please get her?” she said. “I just can’t stop thinking about that dog.”

I agreed. How could I say no? That night after work, we took the dog, gave her a bath and bought all the necessary dog things–two bowls, a leash, dog food, squeaky toys, and a big rubber ball that we tied to a low-hanging branch in our backyard. As it turned out, the dog’s coat was a beautiful white, black and tan mix. She also had different-colored eyes–one brown and one very light blue.

“Isn’t that unusual? Is she blind in one eye?” we asked the veterinarian a few days later.

“I don’t really know,” he said.

“She’s really pretty, isn’t she? What kind of dog is she?” we asked.

“I’m not really sure,” the vet replied.

We soon learned that she was not blind in her blue eye, and we eventually discovered that she was an English Shepherd, which is a fancy name for a border collie/Australian Shepherd mix. After a few days of trying out names, we decided on “Keiko,” which means “blessed child” in Japanese and was also the name of the whale in the movie, Free Willy. My wife picked Keiko, however, because she liked how it sounded. The dog seemed to respond to the name as well. At the very least, she liked it better than being called “D.J.”

Nine years later, Keiko is still going strong. The photos above were taken earlier this month after a recent grooming appointment. Keiko has been everything we could have wanted in a dog: smart, happy, fun, energetic, sometimes mischievous, always hungry for a treat. We worried about having a high-energy dog around little kids, but Keiko turned out to be a wonderful companion for our children–always gentle and patient, and very often protective.

July 31 is not the date of Keiko’s birth, but we remember it as the day her life began with us. She has brought us so much joy and helped us to navigate life’s ups and downs. She has always been there for our family. For me, she has been a regular walking companion, a reliable playmate, and the only dog I could ever teach to catch a Frisbee.

So, happy 9th birthday, Keiko! We love you so very much.

Worrying About the Overprotected Kid

Tags

abductions, childhood, children, fear, helicoptor parents, media, overprotected, parenting, play, supervision

I wanted to share this long but very worthwhile article published by The Atlantic, titled “The Overprotected Kid.” If you’re a parent, the findings in this article won’t surprise you: children, particularly middle- and upper-class children, are under almost constant observation. They have little independence or time to play in an unstructured environment. They are not allowed to go anywhere by themselves. They are not allowed to take risks or make their own decisions.

I worry about my son, now four years old, growing up in this fearful environment that we adults have created. Like anyone else, I am shocked and appalled by the constant barrage of child abduction stories on the cable news. However, I know the chances of my son being taken away by a complete stranger are very small, maybe just as unlikely as when my wife and I grew up in the 1970s and ’80s. Still, I’m not a responsible parent by today’s standards if I don’t do everything I possibly can to prevent a tragedy from happening.

Even through we live in a friendly, self-contained neighborhood where kids sometimes ride their bikes to each other’s houses, I know my son will never experience the free-wheeling childhood I enjoyed. From the time I was eight years old, my friends and I rode our bikes all over the place. We played around the lots where new homes were being built, and we looted spare construction materials to build a network of forts in the nearby woods. One Saturday, we built a massive dam of rocks, branches and mud in the creek near my home. We spent a whole afternoon joyfully slopping around in Georgia red clay that went up to our knees. Nobody watched us or seemed to care what we were doing. We were in our own world, a world that could sometimes be slightly dangerous and cruel. But it was ours. Our parents were on a strictly need-to-know basis about our activities.

I want my kid to have a safe, fun, healthy life. I also want him to have some level of freedom to interact with his friends without an adult getting involved. I want him to be able to take a few risks without fearing the consequences. Finally, I want him to enjoy playing outside. On Sunday, my son and went into the woods behind our house to cut down some small trees and brush, and “explore” the creek bed that snakes through our development. Then we went to the playground with our dog, and I watched my son climb around, swing and slide for about an hour.

It was a chilly but sunny day, and we spent most of the afternoon roaming around our neighborhood. As is often the case, we didn’t see another kid outside the whole time.

The Perfect Christmas Gift

Tags

children, christmas, gifts, modern life, parents, sleep, sleep-deprived

He didn’t have a lot of money, but he wanted to give Sarah something special, something he knew she would treasure. The past year had been hectic for both of them – job changes, a new house, a strong-willed two-year-old girl they both loved and adored. Sarah hadn’t complained even once all year, and now he was going to give her what she wanted most of all this Christmas, something more precious than anything he could buy on Amazon or even at the jewelry store.

He was going to give her a night of pure, luxurious, uninterrupted sleep.

“Honey, I’ve been thinking,” he said as they sat by the fireplace, enjoying a few minutes of quiet now that Madison was finally in bed.

“Yes, dear?” Sarah said, stifling a yawn.

“Why don’t you go down to the guest bedroom and get a good night’s sleep tonight?”

“What?”

“Get some sleep. I’ll get up with kid. Take all the time you need.”

Sarah stared at him with those big, brown eyes of hers and, then, she couldn’t help it. She broke out into tears.

“Oh, Mike,” she said. “Oh, Mike.”

“I know,” he said, holding her and closing his eyes, wondering what he had just gotten himself into, staying up with Madison half the night. He would pay for it tomorrow but, by God, Sarah deserved this. She was such a good woman.

“I love you, Mike,” she whispered. “I love you so damn much.”

“I love you, too, baby,” he answered, trying hard not to get emotional.

“I’m going to go downstairs now.”

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll try not to wake you.”

She giggled and gave him a little wave. He waved back. It was tough. He was going to miss having someone to cuddle up with tonight, at least until about one o’clock in the morning when Madison crawled into their queen-sized bed. But Mike knew this was the right thing to do, and he knew it would make Sarah so very happy or, at the very least, a little more alert.

Sleep, he thought. It’s something you don’t think much about until you don’t have it. And then, it means the world.

The Drone on the Shelf

Tags

children, christmas, north korea, nsa, orwell, parenthood, spying, television, the elf on the shelf

The Elf on the Shelf has been around for a few years now, I know. It’s new to our household this Christmas, however, because our son has reached the age when we felt that hiring a member of Santa’s secret police would be most effective in curbing his holiday behavior. Last year, he was just getting used to the idea of this fat guy in a red suit flying around in a sleigh and spreading good cheer all over the world. This year, he really gets it. Our son is almost four years old and he completely buys into the Santa Claus concept.

“It’s almost Halloween,” I told him one warm October afternoon when we were sitting on the front stoop, eating popsicles.

“That’s nice,” my son said. “But it’s not Christmas.”

On Friday night, we unveiled the Elf on the Shelf package ($30 for a cheaply made elf doll and a hardcover storybook. Can you imagine the profit margin on this product?). We introduced our son to the elf, I read the storybook, then we sat down to watch the Elf on the Shelf Christmas Special on TV. Then, it was time to “name” our elf and file the necessary paperwork, which included registering online for an official adoption certificate. After some thought, our son decided on the name “Nick.” My wife promptly placed Nick on top of the upright piano, and explained that we cannot under any circumstances touch the elf, because then he will lose his magic.

Our son likes the idea of having Nick around the house, and so far he delights in getting up each morning to find where Nick has landed (he flies back to the North Pole every night to report to Santa on how our child is behaving). I can’t say that Nick’s presence has improved our three-year-old’s behavior, but he does understand that the elf is there to do a job.

“He talks to Santa,” he said solemnly when I reminded him that Nick wouldn’t be very pleased to see how much leftover turkey our son had left on his plate during Sunday dinner.

As a parent, I have mixed feelings about The Elf on the Shelf. On the surface, it seems like a fun Christmas tradition (one that could easily be staged without paying $30 for the boxed set). But in reading the storybook, which lays out the elf’s duties in somewhat clumsy rhyme and meter, I grew a little concerned. Take this passage, for instance:

I tell him if you have been good or been bad.
The news of the day makes him happy or sad.
A push or a shove I’ll report to “the Boss,”
but small acts of kindness will not be a loss.
In the car, in the park, or even at school,
the word will get out if you broke a rule.

Wow. So Nick is part of a vast network of elf spies who report to Santa each night leading up to Christmas on everything your child has been doing, good or bad. Then Santa alone will pass judgment on whether or not the child should be rewarded or punished in the form of giving/withholding Christmas presents. Correct me if this doesn’t sound a little bit like North Korea?

On the other hand, maybe The Elf on the Shelf is distinctly American? After all, our children are going to grow up in a world where anything they do in public or on their digital devices can be filmed, monitored and analyzed, where GPS in their phones will track everywhere they go. Maybe the elf is just a primer for the big, Orwellian world to come?

Perhaps it is good that our children become acquainted at an early age with the reality that somebody out there is watching them and taking notes. At least Nick the Elf is up-front and friendly about it:

The gleam in my eye and my bright little smile
shows you I’m listening and noting your file.

Merry Christmas, everyone. And be good!

Christmas in August

Tags

children, christmas, drugs, form letters, holidays, law, parenthood, politics, suburbia

If you’re like me, you have probably already started penning the form letter you plan to send to friends and family over the holiday season. Though it’s only August, a lot has already happened, and I don’t want to forget any salient details when sharing my family’s story with people I don’t care enough about to call on the phone or message on Facebook.

The Roth family form letter is a holiday tradition, one that I know dozens of people look forward to receiving each year. It’s important that I get it right.

Below is an early draft of the 2013 edition. Let me know what you think!

Dearest Friends,
As the chestnuts warm upon our happy hearth and the snowflakes gently gather on our three-car-garage home at Whitehaven Hills, we reflect on people like you who have meant so much to us over the years. We pause with regret that we haven’t kept in closer touch in 2013, but we hope this little missive will catch you up on all the Roth family’s activities!

First of all, Madison and the twins are doing just great in school. Maddie celebrated her “Sweet 16” by making the National Honor Society again and earning a letter as the star “mounter” for the Pembroke Day School equestrian team. The twins, Reagan and Nixon, continue to excel in arithmetic and science (History is another matter!) and our five-year-old, Rand, remains the light of our lives. In addition to soccer, gymnastics, fencing and photography, Rand enjoys spending time with his friends. After a four-hour play date and 30 minutes of quiet time at home, it is not unusual for him to ask, “So, who can we call to play now?” Precious!

Jessica continues to enjoy her job as a top researcher for Blecht Pharmaceuticals, Inc. This year, she helped develop a serotonin inhibitor that will allow patients to live without ever experiencing physical or emotional pain. Clinical trials have been very promising, and we expect FDA approval sometime in 2016. Outside of family, professional life and weekend marathons, Jessica can usually be found working with one of the six charities she currently chairs. Childhood obesity is still her main passion. This year, she was asked to pilot the Governor’s Task Force on Chubby Middle School Boys.

Stephen, of course, is a rising star in the tobacco defense practice at Rubenstein, Brown, Moody, Eckersly, Murphy & Rubenstein LLP. He’s up for partner in March, so keep your fingers crossed! Stephen has also recently gotten into politics — he’s treasurer this year for a new PAC called Hedge Fund Managers for a Stronger America.

On a sad note, our houseboy, Edgar, was deported in September. He practically became part of the family during his brief time living with us, and the sight of immigration agents swarming our front lawn is one we won’t soon forget. We are currently in the market for a new houseboy, preferably one who is a naturalized U.S. citizen.

Finally, our precious Pomeranian, Corky, is expecting puppies sometime this winter. Wish her luck!

Friends, we pray the holiday season finds you and your loved ones healthy and well. We hope that the weather is pleasant where you live, and that your local sports team is having a successful season. And let’s keep in touch!

Wishing you the Best,

The Roths

“Do You Need to Go Potty?”

Tags

bathroom, children, fatherhood, humor, jayhawks, parenthood, potty, potty training, toddlers, university of kansas

This is a proud time in my household. We are walking around with more spring in our step and our heads held just a little bit higher because, after six months of trying, our three-year-old is potty-trained. I say this with confidence because he has been going Number One and Number Two by himself on the toilet for more than a month now. Oh sure, we still outfit him in pull-ups for bedtime and naps but, really, that’s just a precautionary measure as much as anything. And, yes, we still have the Diaper Genie, but that’s mostly because I have a hard time parting with something that has been such a fixture in my life for the past three years. I’m sure I’ll get past that eventually.

So our son is potty-trained. And, yet, maybe because we are older parents who are slow to adjust to change, my wife and I still ask him the same question at least a dozen times a day: “Do you need to go potty?” We ask this when he wakes up in the morning, after he eats a meal, and when it’s been more than an hour since the last bathroom visit and he seems particularly engrossed in an activity. It’s a question we have been asking for so long, through months of on-again, off-again training, through interminable weekends with potty chart stickers and soiled underwear and crying fits (some of them mine), it is now engrained in our daily routine.

“Do you need to go potty?” one of us asks as soon as we get home from daycare.

Our child responds with the weary look of someone dealing with an elderly relative who has lost all short-term memory and keeps telling the same story over and over.

“I just went potty,” he says.

“All right. Well, just checking.”

“Ooookay,” he says, and heads off to the important task of jumping off the downstairs sofa.

Is this what parenthood is about, parroting the same mundane questions over and over, long after they have lost all relevance and meaning to our offspring? Several years ago, when I was a reporter for The Kansas City Star, I did a telephone interview with a University of Kansas basketball player named Greg Ostertag. It was the typical jock interview, filled with awkward pauses and monosyllabic answers. I can’t even remember what the story was about. What I do recall, however, was that our conversation was punctuated with Ostertag occasionally blurting the words, “Ya poopin’?”

I let it slide the first couple of times he said it. Ostertag was a big, country-boy center who had led the Jayhawks to a Final Four and was also known for an off-the-court incident in which he somehow managed to roll a car over his own foot. An intellectual heavyweight, Ostertag was not. So maybe he was uttering some kind of hillbilly expression with which I was unfamiliar. Maybe he was even making fun of me.

Finally, after the fourth or fifth, “Ya poopin’?” I had to ask what was up. Ostertag laughed and explained that he was in the bathroom, urging his toddler to use the toilet. Then I heard a flush and an excited whoop from the Kansas center. I guessed the kid had finished pooping.

At the time, I found it annoying that someone would conduct an interview with a major daily newspaper reporter while taking a child to the bathroom. Now, 20 years later, I get it. Potty-training, when it’s happening, can take over your parental life. It becomes an obsession that can quickly spiral into purchases of books, toys, stuffed animals and miniature toilets, all in the hope of someday getting your kid to use the bathroom on his or her own.

The good news is, once they learn, you can check that one off your list. Some days, a warm smile will wash over my face as I realize that I may never have to change a dirty diaper again. Still, the question persists:

“Do you need to go potty?”

“No, Daddy. I just did.”

If toddlers could roll their eyes, I’m sure he would.