My 3 Sons: Let it Snow

Matthew enjoys the northern snow.

Originally published on Athens Patch on Dec. 15, 2011.

For my three sons, snow on the ground is synonymous with Christmas. With both sets of grandparents and extended families in Chicago, the 800-mile trek up north has become an annual holiday tradition.

Of course, seeing family and getting gifts tops their “things I’m excited about” list, but getting a chance to play in the snow is a close third. And most of the time, Mother Nature complies with their wishes. Last year she dumped nearly two feet of snow on Christmas Eve. Armed in boots, a stocking cap, gloves and a rigid snow suit in which he can barely move his arms — resembling little Randy Parker from “The Christmas Story” — our 3-year-old Jackson rushed out into the snow and plopped on the ground.

After experimenting with making snow angels, throwing snowballs and sampling what snow tastes like, it was time to complete the family task: building a snowman. With the help of grandpa, we built a 3-foot snowman, which to no surprise the boys named Frosty. Jackson was pretty protective of Frosty. He didn’t want anyone else to touch his creation, and was especially mad when his brother started throwing snowballs at the snowman. When it was time to head in for hot cocoa, Jackson didn’t want to leave Frosty alone, perhaps waiting for him to come to life. He kept a close eye on his snowman from grandma’s patio door and living room window, taking a break from playing every few minutes to make sure Frosty was OK. He hesitated to join the family for Christmas Eve church service, worried that someone might attack his snowman in his absence.

He feared going to bed — even with the promise that Santa Claus was coming — because he was worried that Santa would kick his snowman. We assured him that Santa wouldn’t do that. Then he expressed concern that the reindeer would knock over Frosty. We assured him that Rudolph’s red nose would spot the snowman and Frosty would be safe. Indeed, Frosty would survive Christmas Eve, but Santa’s presents shifted Jackson’s attention on Christmas morning. His first memory of Christmas was much more snow-filled than Jaydon’s. Then an only-child, the promise of snow on the ground was his motivating factor taking the 15-hour drive. When we pulled into grandma and grandpa’s driveway, he was elated to see snow on the ground — albeit a little patch of snow no more than a half-inch deep. As we unbuckled him, he jumped out of his car seat not to race to the front door, but to jump on the tiny patch of snow at the edge of the driveway. Every time we went outside the house, he would race to the edge of the driveway to stand in the tiny patch, which shrunk each day during the unseasonably warm weather.

Mother Nature eventually changed the winter warm weather to sub-freezing temperatures — too cold to snow — transforming that tiny patch to ice. As we ready the family for the trip, our boys have recalled their vivid memories of last year’s snowfall. We assure them there will be snow during our visit. We’re hoping Mother Nature complies.

My 3 Sons: The Santa Question

Jaydon a year ago when he was a believer.

Originally published on on 12/1/11
My 7-year-old son Jaydon inherited his mother’s inquisitiveness. So it’s only fair that I avert his life questions to Carla.

Jay: “Dad, how did God create the world?”

Me: “Your mom sings in the choir. You should ask her.”

Jay: “Dad, how do tornadoes happen?”

Me: “Your mother lived in Kansas for a few years. You should ask her.”

Jay: “Dad, what makes boys and girls different?”

Me: “Your mom has a biology degree. You should ask her.”

Last week he asked me a question — in the form of a statement — that caught me off guard.

“Dad, I just don’t believe there’s a Santa Claus,” he said.

Thankfully, his little brothers weren’t around to hear this in his more-than-certain tone. Knowing we were on our way home where he could destroy their Christmas dreams, I felt that I couldn’t wait for Carla to bail me out. My mind raced to memories of my own childhood. When did I question Santa? I never had a chance. In second grade, Sister Mary told us there was no Santa. That won’t work here. Next my mind raced to WWCD — what would Carla do? Shoot. I don’t know. I really should’ve listened more to her answers to his questions. Then my mind jumps to the multiple parenting books and articles that Carla has forwarded me over the years. I really should’ve read those more intuitively, but I think I can scrape together an answer. (Please note by no means is this an actual step-by-step solution to answering kids’ difficult questions. It’s just what my brain put together from stuff I think I read at some point.)

Step one: Ignore child’s question.

I turn up the radio. Jay isn’t satisfied.

“Dad. Dad. DAD! Please turn the music down. Please just be honest with me. Is Santa for real?”

Step two: Avert child’s question.

I ask Jay about his day at school.

“It was fine,” he said. But I don’t want to talk about that now. Please tell me if Santa is real.”

Step three: Answer child’s question with another question.

I ask, “If Santa isn’t real, then who do you think puts all those gifts under the tree?”

He answers, “I think you and mommy buy the gifts, wrap them and put them under the tree when we are asleep.”

Step four: Repeat step three, in an attempt to exhaust child.

“Well you know mom and dad don’t have a lot of money. How in the world could we afford so many gifts?”

He answers, “You just charge it.”

(Great. Looks like we’ve already instilled bad financial habits on him.)

Step five: Use threats on child.

“Well you know what happens if you don’t believe in Santa. He won’t bring you gifts.”

After a few seconds of thoughtful silence, I think I may have caught him off guard.

“Will Jackson and Matthew still get gifts?” he asks.

Perfect! I think I found my out, which leads me to step six.

Step six: Guilt the child.

“That’s right,” I said. “Don’t ruin Christmas for your little brothers.”

“OK,” he answers. “But I just have one more question.”

Excited that I may have escaped this conundrum, I confidently encourage him to ask me anything.

“I know Jackson and Matthew were in mommy’s tummy. How did …”

Before he could complete the question, I give him my answer.

“It was your mommy’s belly. You should ask her.”

My 3 Sons: While they treat, I trick

I guard my haunted house.

When I was in middle school, I couldn’t wait until eighth grade. Every Halloween, the eighth grade class at my Catholic school would sponsor a haunted house for the community. Since I was an unpopular — and pretty dorky — child, I envisioned that haunted house as my time to shine. I would disguise myself as a monster and be the most terrifying — and popular — character in the school. I was crushed upon entering eighth grade and learning that the church was cancelling the haunted house.

Perhaps that emotional scar I still carry with me is what makes Halloween my favorite holiday. It’s the one day of the year when I can channel that 13-year-old dork and transform myself into anyone — or anything — I want to be. From visiting haunted houses as a teenager to attending Halloween parties as a young adult, I embraced Oct. 31, costumes always necessary.

My three sons have been incorporated into my celebration of Halloween. Our house has turned into the place to be for Halloween for my children and their friends. And it has become the house that trick-or-treaters remember and revisit year after year.

The preparation starts several weeks beforehand, as I create as spooky a front yard as my wife will let me. A mock graveyard adorns our front lawn. Black lights dangle from our awning. A full-size skeleton hangs on our garage. Skull lights circle our front bushes. Severed heads swing from a dead tree (it’s literally dead and despite Carla’s wished, I refuse to chop it down because of its awesome Halloween effect). Barbed wire circles our mailbox. Spider webs are tangled between our bushes. And most importantly, a mummy welcomes visitors as they enter our walkway. With their mother’s help, my oldest boys carved up scary pumpkins to add to the scenery. Without a doubt, my house is the spookiest — if not the only decorated — home in our neighborhood.

For the fourth consecutive year, the Dennis household is where Halloween is celebrated amongst our friends with kids. After some pizza and drinks, our home is the staging area for our children to assume their alternate identities. Jaydon morphed into a scary ghost. Jackson was a sword-fighting ghost (his creation). Baby Matthew was a pumpkin. Our friends’ children included a panda bear, Harry Potter, a hippie, a cat, Iron Man, a witch and a lion. It was quite a crowd.

The parade starts as the motley crew marches down to the Halloween festival that our neighborhood sponsors. And then starts the magic of trick-or-treating. All the kids, with parents in tow, head up and down our subdivision seeking their treats. The tricks, however, remain at our house. While they’re off trick-or-treating, I return to the Halloween headquarters and morph into a monster.

I shut off all the lights in the home, flip on a strobe light and blare the “blood theme” from the show Dexter. I close the door a crack and wait for the victims — I mean — trick-or-treaters. I hear voices as parents urge their hesitant children to walk through the graveyard, past the mummy and approach the door. As they say “trick-or-treat,” I slowly open our creaky front door (it’s always creaky and despite my wife’s wishes, I refuse to grease the door because of its awesome Halloween effect). The first sight is a bloody machete I expose, then I peak through the door crack and offer up some candy.

I’m not cruel. If I notice a child is scared I take off my mask and assure them it’s all fake. But the real fun is when an older child, who probably is too old to trick-or-treat anyway, provokes me by saying, “I’m not scared.” Then the chase begins. And they always escape unscathed, at least physically.

My Halloween reputation is strong. Several parents drive their children to our neighborhood specifically to visit our house. Some have asked me (as the monster) to pose for pictures with their kids. Even when I visit our neighborhood elementary and middle schools, some students will recognize me as “that scary dude from Halloween.” And best of all, my oldest son is proud when his father is recognized as “that scary dude.”

It’s difficult as parents to maintain our own selfish interests while meeting the needs of our children. But in the case of Halloween, I have scored.

My 13-year-old self would be proud.

My 3 Sons: Home Alone

Originally published on Athens Patch on 10/27/11.

Jack, 2, with dangling his cast.

My wife is going to be out of town for the weekend, so that means three days alone with my three sons.

I always dread when Carla leaves town. Not that I don’t enjoy some one-on-one-on-one-on-one time with Jaydon, Jackson and Matthew, but for some reason they seem to overwhelm me in a way they cannot get to their mother. And bad things happen.

The first time she left me alone with the children for an extended time was a couple years ago. After feeling guilty for taking annual “mancations” over our time as parents, I was happy she had the chance to head to Las Vegas with a friend. Despite her reservations, I assured her I could handle our (then) two sons.

And things were going well over the four days. Of course, there were a lot of arguments, junk food, movie watching and staying up past bedtimes, but Carla was actually going to come home to a house that was still standing, happy children and a relatively unfazed father. But her return wasn’t to the house. It was to the emergency room.

It was pouring rain outside and the boys were running circles around me in the house. So I decided to take the kids to McDonalds for dinner, but mostly for a chance to get their childhood energy out in the play area. It was the perfect plan. I could get some much-missed time with my iPhone and the kids could run around.

But then I heard the scream. And it wasn’t just the my-big-brother-was-too-rough-with-me scream. I immediately ran to Jackson as he was hyperventilating. He complained that his foot hurt him. I wasn’t too worried – just tried to calm him down. But as I encouraged him to head back to play, he took a step and collapsed to the ground. I knew it was time to head to the emergency room.

When we got to the hospital, Carla was in the air heading back home. Her plane would land in about an hour. I’m thinking we should be home by then and the damage would likely be minimal. What 2-year-old boy doesn’t suffer an ankle sprain at some point? (Please don’t answer.)

But an hour later we were still in the hospital. Jackson was being fitted for a cast. My iPhone rang. It was Carla.

Me: Hey you.

Carla: Hey you. How’s it going?

Me: Don’t worry.

Carla (sounding worried): What? What’s wrong?

Me: I said don’t worry.

Carla (definitely worried): Don’t tell me not to worry. What’s going on, Joe?

Me: Nothing to worry about. We’re in the hospital.

Carla (extremely worried): What! What happened!

Me: Jack had a little accident on the slide at McDonald’s.

Carla: Oh, my gosh! Is he OK?

Me: Yeah. He’s OK. He just broke his ankle.


Me: Well. OK. You’re probably right. How was you’re trip.

She wasn’t really interested in talking about her trip.

Eventually the cast came off, I learned about her “girl-ventures” in Vegas and she entrusted me to watch the boys solo again. And I’m looking forward to this bonding time. I’m just going to make sure I have all their insurance cards in my wallet.

9-9-9. Yes We Can. Got Details?

Recent polls suggest that Herman Cain may emerge as the Republican nominee. Cain arose from obscurity with a flash — in the form of three numbers, 9-9-9. It’s a catchy phrase, albeit the thought behind it seems a little too simplistic to solve the nation’s budget problems. But Obama showed that sometimes it’s the flash that counts. Got Hope? Yes We Can. Got substance? Not quite.

It’s a disturbing problem with American politics, and it’s not all the politicians fault. We live in a soundbite society. Despite three 24-hour all-news channels, American media — and the American public — is drawn to the soundbite.

Want details on a three-tiered plan to pare down the nation’s deficit and reform the tax code? Boring. 9-9-9!

Want information on how we can change the course the country has been taking the past eight years? Yawn. Yes We Can!

But it’s not all the media’s fault.

The internet has allowed us to access an endless flow of information. Smartphones give us the opportunity to access that information from virtually anywhere. Putting these elements together, one would think that our electorate would increasingly become more educated about their candidates, forcing them to give more details on their websites.

But the information explosion has backfired on our political process. Perhaps because of an information overload — fun distractions like Facebook, Twitter and YouTube — our brains cannot handle the capacity to discern American politics. So we fall on the catchy phrases and the unachievable promises.

So whose fault is it? Perhaps we should look in the mirror and think about our priorities. Before you get mad, consider this less popular slogan from the Barry Goldwater campaign, “In Your Heart, You Know He’s Right.”

My 3 Sons: Addicted to Baby Clothes

Originally published 10/19/11 on

Matthew is about to rock, and I salute him!

The trips to Target have always been dangerous for me. I would get lost in the electronics aisle, looking at the latest video games, movies and albums. It was rare that my wallet escaped unharmed, and I have more than 1,000 DVDs, CDs and video games to prove it. I once went to Target to purchase a storage bin and two hours later left with a Playstation and three games … and forgot the storage bin.

I have since escaped that addiction. I guess having the responsibility of feeding, clothing and housing my three sons was my cure. But I think I have taken that clothing responsibility too far as a new Target danger has emerged: the baby clothes aisle.

I never thought this would happen to me. I hate shopping for clothes. My wife Carla has picked out all my work/church outfits, and most of my other business casual clothes were given to me as gifts. If it isn’t a T-shirt, I likely didn’t buy it.

I evaded the baby clothes danger with my first two sons. Sure, I thought the funny slogans and teddy bears were cute, but I always let Carla “ohh” and “ahh” and select baby outfits. I figured it was a right due to women, who likely dressed up their dolls as little girls. As adults, they can now dress up their babies.

But for some reason, our third son Matthew has hooked me into baby clothes. He’s just so darn cute in them. Over his first nine months, I’ve been lured into purchasing several outfits. Most match his father’s rock star wanna-be personality. He has an AC/DC onesie, a long-sleeve shirt that says “Daddy’s Rock Star” and a onesie featuring the outfit of a leather-clad heavy metal rocker with room for his head to pop out. Hey, my son rocks, and I salute him.

When he’s not sporting the rock attire, he has an outfit for every occasion. On St. Patrick’s Day he wore a shirt that says “Irish You Would Kiss Me.” He showed his patriotism on Independence Day by wearing an “All-American Baby” onesie. We even dressed him for his first family reunion with a shirt that says, “Hi! I’m New Here.” I can’t wait for him to wear his skeleton with a pumpkin heart outfit on Halloween.

This addiction is so bad it travels with me. On a recent business trip to New York, I had to stop at every stand or shop offering cheesy tourist baby clothes, finally settling on a “NYPD” onesie. I figure he’ll keep the family safe. I spent $20 at U.S. Cellular Field in Chicago buying an overpriced White Sox onesie, because my wife is a Cubs fan and I’m trying to raise our boys right. A trip to Austin to attend a family wedding resulted in an “Austin is Weird” onesie — the town’s unofficial slogan.

I was told that Target is already stocking their shelves with Christmas ware. I’ll definitely be heading out to the store soon to get him his Santa outfit. And maybe I’ll pick up that storage bin too.

My 3 Sons: The Bedtime Battle

Published 10/12/2011 on

Jackson and Jaydon asleep, finally.

Weeknights used to be a time to unwind — having several hours of “me” time was the reward for a long, hard-worked day.

That was then. Now, the hours of 7-9 are the most dreaded of my day. Battling the clock to make sure everything’s done on time, cleaning up messes that may or may not require additional professional attention, breaking up verbal and sometimes physical fights, and dealing with endless whining, countless pleas and intense bargaining. No, I don’t spend these hours moonlighting at a biker bar or working as a prison security guard. In my house, this is bedtime.

The official bedtime in my home is 8 p.m., but the process is much longer. On a normal day it starts around 7, but normal days are rare — with Tae Kwan Doe, baseball practices, soccer games and church events to attend. We try to set the stage for a calm and quiet “wind-down” time, but my three sons have a different idea.

All technology is shut off as the time is reserved for imaginative playtime, leftover homework and/or reading. Despite this supposed wind-down time, a fight often brews between the boys over whose toy belongs to whom or which book to read, while we fend off requests to watch TV or play a video game. It’s amazing how much of a mess can result in imaginative playtime, as we discover around 7:30 when it’s time to clean up and take baths. I guess the boys imagine how much of a mess they can make.

We allow for several minutes of playtime in the tub. But night after night, our boys have a difficult time following one simple request – keep the water in the tub. It’s not for a lack of trying, but somehow Jaydon, 7, Jackson, 3, and Matthew, 8 months, all manage to fumble this task. Whether it’s Jaydon forgetting to close the shower curtain while showering, Jackson spilling a cup on the floor as he plays with toys on the tub’s ledge, or Matthew discovering the magical sensation of splashing, we always end up with a pond on our floor. Sometimes it even requires a plumber’s – and later a drywall repairman’s — attention, as the water dripped through our kitchen ceiling. At least we’re supporting our local economy.

Next up is the most dreaded part of the night – putting them down to bed. We read that structure is critical to a child, so we created a consistent bedtime routine: the older boys get changed, check off their accomplished tasks on their “responsibility chart,” say  nighttime prayers and we tuck each boy in bed with a kiss. It’s a routine that works for us. Unfortunately, they have established their own routine. First they plead with us to stay upstairs. Then they plead with us to keep on the lights. Then as we head downstairs, our toddler runs to us saying, “I thought you would stay upstairs?”

After a second tuck-in, we go downstairs and flip on the baby monitor. It’s quiet … until we hear the thundering footsteps of Jackson (amazing how a 35-pound child sounds like a giant when roaming the hallways), sometimes followed by the cries of our baby as Jackson thought it would be a nice gesture to toss toys in the crib.

Other times it’s followed by the screaming of Jaydon, as Jackson decided it would be a fun prank to flip on the bedroom lights and run back to bed. This process continues for almost an hour. It’s usually over after Jackson runs downstairs one last time saying, “I so sorry for going downstairs,” then heads upstairs to fall asleep, sometimes even in his bed.

Score: My Three Sons 1, Parents 0