Yesterday I stopped by CVS and went through their seasonal clearance items, and came home with something I thought my 2-year-old daughter would be bananas over. It’s a yellow plastic cylinder, like the base of a flashlight, with a clear egg-shaped top made to look like a bee. When you press a button, the insides of the egg spin causing lights to flash and the whole thing to buzz and quiver. The toy cost 62 cents or approximately what it cost to make.

Sienna squealed with glee and I smiled because I’d made my daughter happy.

“Ear!” she shouted, eyes gleaming with fascination at this new sensation tickling her skin. She pressed the buzzing bee to her earlobe. “Nose! Arm! Elbow! Head!”

“Wait until your bedroom’s dark,” I said excitedly. “It’ll light up blue and green and yellow and red! Do you like how it vibrates?”

And then my innocently meant words hit me in an entirely different context.

I looked at the shape of the thing. The bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz sound echoed in my ears.

:: facepalm ::

To all you new or soon-to-be parents out there, letting these dirty things slip out of your mouth isn’t an abnormal thing. You’re all going to say something really simple only to do a double take as it sinks in that you’ve said a simple phrase you’ve happened to associate with Skinemaxian entertainment for the past decade or two.

At first, you’ll blush.

Then you’ll giggle.

Soon you and your partner will race to say, “That’s what she/he said!”

And finally, as your child gets older, and you and your partner try not to laugh at what one of you just said, you’re just going to do the old facepalm.

So I present to you the seven funniest phrases (plus one bonus Q&A that had me and my wife on the floor) I’ve said to my daughter that, when taken out of context, means something entirely different in the bedroom:

Dirty Things I’ve Said to My Child

No. 1: “Do you like how it vibrates?”

See above.

No. 2: “Please swallow!” and “Don’t spit! Swallow!”

The first time I said this (while trying to get my daughter to eat dinner) I literally cringed until I caught my wife’s eye and saw her trying so hard not to laugh. Then I just laughed along and went with it.

No. 3: “The girl was so wet, she was dripping.”

Ah, those fluctuating pre-air conditioner spring days when you put your kid down for a nap and discover her all sweaty and disgusting because her room was about 80 degrees.

No. 4: “You need to suck harder.”

Teaching my daughter how to use a straw. My wife beat me to “That’s what he said!”

No. 5: “She’s so cute, I just want to eat her.”

Can’t remember when or why I said it, but does it matter? When those words come out of your mouth, translate into adult connotations, and you realize you’re talking about your daughter? :: shiver::

No. 6: “Did you just put that whole thing in your mouth?!”

After Sienna gobbled an entire string cheese without chewing forcing her cheeks to look like she’d been gathering nuts for the winter.

No. 7: “Stop playing with your balls!”

Doesn’t apply to a girl, but it still generated a sideways look between me and my wife. Parents of boys are sure to love saying that one for the first time!

BONUS: One thing new and soon-to-be parents might not know is that kids sometimes take time to learn how to use their tongues correctly (:: facepalm::) meaning that the letter “L” often gives them trouble. Hence, I bring you the following interaction that had our daughter standing with such a gloriously proud and pure look on her face:

Me: “Sienna, what do you want for dinner?”

Sienna, pointing at the wall clock: “C*ck”

What can we parents do but cackle?

A version of Dirty Things first appears on Raising Sienna. Photo: ©Krakenimages.com / Adobe Stock.

Editor’s Note: We’re digging into our ample archives to find some great articles you might have missed over the years. This one comes from 2016.

Since the internet and calendar tell me I’ve got a kid approaching age 13, I offer you eight observations that will give you important insight into what you need to know about raising a tween.

1. Your Silence is Golden … Sometimes

I get it, fellow dads, you’re fixers. Same here. But when you’re raising a tween you will find she will go through some stuff that you can’t fix, complicated stuff that she doesn’t even want you to try to fix. Often during this time, a steady shoulder to lean on — literally and figuratively — is all that’s required of you. You’ll know when your sage advice and vaguely related stories of your own youth are needed. That’s when you can strap on your cape and save the day.

2. What are You Wearing/Doing to Your Hair?

Tweens will, especially if they weren’t permitted to have any decision-making power in their “younger days,” push boundaries and your buttons when it comes to fashion. While you should have been granting them this freedom all along, it is important to understand they are trying to define themselves to the world. This is a good and important thing. So pick your battles wisely. Eventually, the “Can I color my hair?” or “Who said you could color your hair?” conversation will happen. Have a spare towel and a pair of plastic gloves at the ready.

3. Watch What Your Face is Really Saying

Michelle Icard nails it in her great book, Middle School Makeover: You may think you are saying nothing while your tween opens up about him or her or them or it but your face is anything but quiet. Raising a tween means paying more attention to your facial expressions than you ever thought necessary. (Listen to the Modern Dads Podcast with Michelle Icard about this very topic!)

4. Smell Like Tween Spirit – Eww

Babies smell like rainbows. Toddlers like every food ever made AND then combined. Tweens … well, tweens smell like sweat and hormones and awkwardness. Water bill be damned, daily showers are now essential.

5. It’ll Inevitably Come Unhinged Raising a Tween

Usually, by using nothing more than a Phillips head screwdriver, you can take a door off its hinges. Keep this in mind if door slamming becomes a part of your life when raising a tween because it gets awfully hard to slam something that isn’t there.

Now for a few things that might fly in the face of conventional wisdom about raising a tween …

6. They’re Never Too Old for a Snuggle

Admittedly, it might not happen as frequently as when they were 5 and maybe not in front of certain (or any) friends, but your tween will still crave a good snuggle and they won’t necessarily refuse a hand to hold while walking into a concert with you either.

7. You Can’t Spell ‘School’ Without ‘Fun’

OK. None of the letters in “fun” are found in “school” but tweens, while obviously growing up, are still kids and kids like having fun. That’s a fact. It’s important to remember not to strip all of the school time fun away just because the kids are starting to look like mini-adults.

8. Toys are Still Fun

It’s not all texting and dystopian books with tweens, or at least it doesn’t have to be. Littlest Pets, Matchbox cars, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Legos, Minions, and more: pop culture toy icons don’t fade away when a kid turns 10 (only to return a decade later when that kid is suddenly a hipster 20-year-old). They are still fun and if given the opportunity to enjoy an elongated childhood, your tween can and will still be a kid.

A version of this first appeared on Out with the Kids. Photo: © Alinute / Adobe Stock.

“What’s that?” asks my daughter, Libby.

It is a discarded dildo, laying on the dusty trail between the train station we just left and her elementary school.

In a flash, two tiny figures appear in mid-air. Over my right shoulder, a fella named Cool Hand Luke goes into high gear: “Don’t be so nervous. She’s old enough to know what’s going on. You better do it now or she’ll learn about it from TikTok and that weird friend of hers … the one who’s been in fifth grade a couple of times …”

“It looks like a branch. Where did it come from? Lemeee …,” Libby starts to reach for the abandoned sex toy.

“Don’t!” I grab my daughter’s arm.

“Why?” Libby, my relentlessly curious 10-year-old, asks. She wants answers. Now. Based on the way her eyes have narrowed into slits and are trained on me, our daily walk will go no further until I produce something sage.

The second member of my invisible entourage chimes in, one Ward Cleaver: “She is too young. I implore you: do not contaminate her mind with inappropriate images. It will play on her psyche. Tell her it is an old piece of rusted pipe.”

With Luke’s little arm wrapped around mine and Mr. Cleaver staring at me with naked disdain, I have a decision to make … and right quick.

“Ah. Well … sometimes … people …”

The words are like lead weights on my tongue. I try again:

“It’s like … when people play baseball … but not on a team … alone … in a batting cage …”

“Dad, are you sick? Your face is all sticky.” A blind man could have made Libby’s observation.

Truth and face the consequences, or …

Cool Hand Luke, swigging down his first beer of the day, sticks his face into mine. We are nose-to-nose: “What’s wrong with you, man? You want her to become a lonely, clingy cat lady? Tell her for crying out loud: you’ll both feel better. Then, we’ll all get a drink and celebrate!”

Mr. Cleaver, who had been scanning my psychological profile, snaps the folder shut, looks at me through rimless glasses, and says: “Do not repeat your father’s mistakes. Libby is entitled to have the childhood you never had. Children, whether they know it or not, need their parents to parent. Your father was … cool … and we both know how that turned out.”

When I was about my daughter’s age, I became hooked on “Choose Your Own Adventure” books, the ones where you got to decide what the hero of the story would do. It was great to be the star. If you chose right, you saved the kingdom and married the princess. But one false move and you were thrown into a dungeon on top of a tower for the rest of your life.

I took those books so seriously. I really thought they could transport me to times and places far away.

Now I’m right smack in the middle of a real-life fork in the road. What kind of woman will little Libby grow into? Depending on the answer I am about to give she will either become a kick-ass, amazon warrior who grabs the world by the tail or a sad recluse with nine cats and nothing but Netflix for company.

Pressure, anyone?

I take a deep breath, take my little girl’s hand in mine, and take the plunge: “OK, sweetheart. Here’s the thing. That thing is …”

“Libby!”

My daughter’s best friend is charging toward her from the end of the trail, right where it links with the crosswalk leading to their school. Libby bolts toward her. They nearly collide halfway between where I’m standing near the dildo and the end of the dirt path.

“What’s going on, Ellie?’”

“They’re gonna say who won. Come on!” Ellie grabs my daughter, and they head off. Today’s the big day. I completely forgot. The principal is about to announce to the entire school the winner of this year’s young architects contest.

Libby had spent hours making sure her Eiffel Tower mockup was perfect. As tired as I was some nights, commuting two hours each way every day, I would instantly snap to attention whenever she wanted to show me the work she had done that day on her masterpiece.

Waiting for me in our living room as I walked into the apartment, my mass of frustrations magically melted away. Libby needed her dad: enough said.

Heading back to the train station, I let out a laugh. I’m no architect: not even close. Chances are nothing I told Libby about her Eiffel Tower will affect the outcome of the contest.

The only thing that matters, the only thing that will decide what kind of woman my daughter grows into, is my giving a damn about her.

Kids are not messed up by bad advice, only bad parents – the kind that can’t be bothered.

Even though the train I embark on for the long ride to work is packed, all is quiet. Cool Hand Luke and Ward Cleaver have clocked out for the day, and my mind is clear.

No doubt they’ll be back the next time I have a Choose Your Own Adventure moment with Libby. Just like those books from long ago, Cool Hand Luke and Ward Cleaver mean well … but should be taken with a grain of salt.

About the author

Gidon Ben-Zvi is an accomplished writer who left behind Hollywood starlight for Jerusalem, where he and his wife are raising their four children to speak fluent English – with an Israeli accent. Ben-Zvi’s work has appeared in The Jerusalem Post, Times of Israel, Algemeiner, American Thinker and Jewish Journal.

Choose your own adventure photo: © Sondem / Adobe Stock.

There are no real rules to parenting. Well, there are some very basic rules like you must feed the kids and make sure they don’t look like a hobo catching the rail from Cleveland. But overall, you can parent any way you want. 

I have decided to parent like I’m in an action movie. 

“Must. Get. The. AHH!” My scream shatters glass. Twilight shards twinkle down on me.

“Dad?” my 5-year-old says.

“Son! Son!” I reach out my hand. “The couch won’t let me go; can’t let me go. No, it’s too late for me. Save yourself, son!” 

“Here, Dad,” he says as he hands me the TV remote. And there, just like a good action movie, the story arc is complete.

See, I couldn’t just get up off of the couch to get the remote. Where is the struggle? What did I have to sacrifice? Where is the drama?

Now I have some rules. Action Movie Rules.

Every struggle becomes sequel material

In the sequel to Get Off The Couch, the toy skitters across the hardwood floor. I inch my way forward in an army crawl. What is the toy? Why do I want it so much? What’s at stake?

It’s the toy to stop the mother of all toddler meltdowns.

So I belly crawl. The boy jumps on my back, uses my pants legs as a rope ladder, and tries to gouge out my eyeballs with his thumbs. There is a struggle. Good vs. Evil. Morally ambiguous motives fight righteousness that is confusing and complex. It is a battle that happens one plot point at a time.

Of course, I could just stand up and walk to the toy. But when do you see that in an action movie? No, it’s always the belly crawl when the object (usually the Holy Grail or a detonator) is 20 feet away. That’s Action Movie Rules. 

There are thousands of parenting books out there. Oddly, most of them now have the word “fuck” in the title. They have rules, but most are not connected to the real world or are painfully obvious. “Make sure your children eat in the morning!” Well, no shit. A lot of those books give advice that is completely useless like “when traveling by yacht, make sure the toddler is polite to the help.” Who actually parents on a yacht? That’s what the help is for. 

Breaking out the ninja moves

“I can’t believe it!” I yell at my daughter in the movie that completes the trilogy. “You betrayed me! My kin. You have gone against the family.”

My teenager stands motionless. Sweat drips off her brow. In her hand, she holds the last of the bean dip. A Frito hovers just over the lip of the can. The confused look on her face at my action movie setup monologue is the only opening I need. Against all hope, I charge. 

With a sweet ninja move I saw on the Netflix original Punisher, my hand locks onto her wrist. I use my legs as leverage and twist. The tables have turned! Now, I have the bean dip. 

“What the hell was that?” she asks. It’s cool, teenagers are allowed to almost swear in action movies. Just enough to let the viewer know that they are edgy and independent. 

“Justice,” I say, and my finger scrapes out the last bit of my prize, forever denying its sweet and chalky taste to the villain.

Everything looks great when it’s choreographed. But in real life, when things go south, the ultimate truth is that no parent knows what they are doing. We are all winging it, and we just edit the stories in post-production. 

In action movies, paper-thin metal filing cabinets can stop an AK-47 for some reason. Explosives are so simple that a 10-year-old can rig Nakatomi Tower to blow. Everyone can sprint. And most importantly, if you have a franchise, you can always come back when you are older for a surprise reimagining.

If only Action Movie Rules really ruled

From the top of the stairs I do a badass double flip and somehow don’t over-rotate. Not bad for a mid-40s washed-up action father. Something is wrong, though. Something is off. How do I know? Action Movie Rules: The hero always knows to go with his gut when something feels “off.” 

I hear it; a slight click. Without explanation, I run to the living room dodging several glass panes being carried by extras, and a guy pulling a tourist in a rickshaw. Action Movie Rules: Nothing has to make sense. 

I must make it to the thermostat. There is no time! I help an orphan on the way, have an emotional connection with him, and now he is my ward. 

I see the light spark on my Nest Smart Thermostat. It has gained awareness. Now we are parenting by Sci-Fi Action Movie Rules. That click I heard before was the furnace warming up. If I can make it, if only I can make it, I can stop the evil machine overlord from coming on and warming the house up from 69 to 70. The orphan gets kidnapped. I vow to come back for him. 

I strap into my exoskeleton suit and light a blow torch because that makes things look more industrial and gritty. I reach my hand out while a disembodied voice counts down.

Three.

Two.

One.

I turn the thermostat off, and the furnace shudders. I go back and save the orphan, which turns out was always my 10-year-old son. 

“That was close, Dad!” he says. 

“Yeah. Too close. But you know what they always say …”

“What, Dad?”

“It’s never close when you believe in yourself, even when the world don’t.”

BOOM! There is my tagline. The bad grammar will connect with the masses, and I’ll go viral. 

“You’re the best, Dad!”

“Yes, I am.” My words are slurred because somewhere between the first movie and the remake, I had a stroke. “Now let’s go home so I can have sex with your mom.”

A version of this first appeared on Hossman At-Home. Photo: © ra2 studio / Adobe Stock.

UPDATED November 2022: The Holiday Train Show at the New York Botanical Gardens in the Bronx is one of the best winter break activities in NYC that you can do indoors with your children. Tickets are on sale now for this year’s show, which runs from Nov. 19, 2021, to Jan. 16, 2022. Admission is limited so don’t wait to buy tickets. Here’s a review one of our members did of a past year’s show (most of which still holds true).

The annual train show is one of my 4.5-year-old son’s favorite things to see, and this is his third year in a row attending. The show combines major “attractions,” model trains and model architecture, with the buildings of New York City, complete with bridges, made out of plants (remember, this is the Botanical Gardens).

The Holiday Train Show was about the same as previous years, with a few new buildings but younger children are unlikely to remember what they saw the previous time.

Building highlights among the 175 featured include Yankee Stadium, the Empire State Building, the Apollo Theater, and the Brooklyn Bridge. They even have the Little Red Lighthouse to complement the George Washington Bridge. The trains are all large-scale and extremely cool. The kids like to get close-up (unfortunately, there is very little you can actually touch) and it’s also fun to watch the trains go overhead across the bridges.

The Holiday Train Show can get very crowded, especially during peak season, which is why I suggest getting tickets for the start of the day Tickets are timed, which means you can’t enter until the time on your pre-purchased ticket, but once you are in, you can stay in as long as you like.

The exhibit is one big loop, and you can go around the loop as fast or as slow as you like, but as one dad pointed out, you might have to deal with a “codger bottleneck” or a pack of school kids. Security prefers that you not go the wrong way on the path. My daughter (15 months), enjoyed walking through, so I stayed at her pace anyway. A couple of the dads made two loops because their kids were napping during the first go round

The Holiday Train Show is a little pricey but it’s a good chance to do an activity you can only do in the winter here in NYC. Strollers aren’t allowed, as there is no room, so bring a carrier if your child doesn’t walk. However, there is stroller parking for those parents that do bring their strollers. I drove up to the New York Botanical Gardens with a friend, which is the easiest way to get there, but parking is expensive if you don’t have a Wildlife Conservation Society membership. Metro-North is also a fast option, and is right across the street. To get there via the subway requires a bus or a schlep as well.

All in all, The Holiday Train Show at New York Botanical Gardens is a fun experience, if not a little redundant for me on my third trip. Fortunately, the kids loved it and that’s what matters!

— Josh Kross

NYC Holiday Train Show info

• Location: New York Botanical Gardens, 2900 Southern Boulevard, Bronx, NY
• Hours: Generally, 10 a.m. to 6 p.m., Tuesday to Sunday and Monday federal holidays.
• Tickets: $20 to $35, children under 2 get in free. Timed entry. Buy in advance. Buy tickets.

Photo: © hitman1234 /  Adobe Stock.

I don’t really like my son’s friends. Not at all. I don’t like their music or their lack of manners. Still, I relented when he asked if he could just take one more ride with them before coming in to dinner.

I definitely didn’t want him to give them rides. Yet, I sighed and stood there, watching my 5-year-old boy hold his friends tight in his lap, taking them one at a time down the slide. He laughed, and I was glad for his joy. One by one, they slid.

All 27 of his friends.

All 27 cicadas currently residing in his bug house.

And, for the record, I hate bugs.

But it’s not about me.

Let me back up.

In the final months of my wife’s pregnancy, my excitement began to grow. I was nervous to be a father — all right, make that terrified — and, at the time, had absolutely no plans to be a stay-at-home dad — my current profession. Yet, beyond the newness and the normal life-shattering “let’s flip the entire world upside down and never see the universe the same way again” stuff that everyone deals with, my growing excitement centered around another factor.

You see, this soon-to-be kid was going to be a “little me.” This was someone I could share my interests — my nerdiness — with, right from the beginning of his life. I just knew my son was going to love everything I loved. I bottle fed him in front of anime shows. He took his first steps to the Star Wars soundtracks. And one of his earliest complete sentences was “You … shall not … pass!”

Where our interests part

However, as he grew, something funny began to happen. My son wasn’t a little me. He was a little “him.” He had a huge, almost stereotypical boy-interest in trucks. Why is he so interested in trucks? How can he go from an adorable Lord of the Rings sentence to walking around saying “What’s that truck?” — which, due to his developing vocal patterns sure sounded an awful lot like, um, something less age appropriate. I tried to encourage him, though. I don’t like trucks, but I started getting books about trucks, drawing pictures of trucks and learning with him.

When trucks went out, and dinosaurs came in, I learned more than I thought possible about the beasts. I swear, when I was a kid there were only five species of dinosaurs. (Yeah, I’m old. Pluto used to be a planet, too.) It wasn’t until we were eating with another family and my son took out his toys that I truly realized what I’d learned. “Nice triceratops,” said my friend. “Um, that’s clearly a styracosaurus,” I instantly replied. It was. My son smiled. And I smiled.

You see, it doesn’t matter what interests me. Or what I’m interested in. Maybe he’ll get into that nerdy stuff later on, maybe not. It’s not about me, it’s about him.

We took a single vacation during the pandemic. Before vaccinations or re-openings or the world feeling close to sane, we traveled to Rehoboth Beach, Del., during the coldest week of winter. We stayed in a virtually abandoned vacation community, right on the water, and were the only people on the beach. After months of struggling through Zoom Pre-K, I saw a spark ignite. I saw my son become interested in things he had never cared about. We darted shell to shell, marveling at mussels and the washed-up bodies of horseshoe crabs. Thanks to my friend, Google, (note: Google Lens on the phone is a lifesaver) I learned that horseshoe crabs aren’t crabs at all. Who knew?

New interests, new knowledge

And did it work? Is he learning?

Well, here’s our bedtime conversation last night:

Me: I’m so proud of all the growth you’ve shown. You’re done with Pre-K, and you’ve learned so much. You’re growing up fast.

Kid: Well, you taught me a lot.

Me: I appreciate that, but I’m still very proud of you.

Kid: I am pretty grown up. I’ll be a daddy like you soon, and then I’ll have 15 kids … no, probably 9,000 kids.

Me: Nine thousand, huh?

Kid: Yup. I think I might need a wife first.

Me: Might help.

Kid: I grow up fast, though. I mean I don’t know everything like you. I don’t even know what’s in the deep.

Me: The deep?

Kid: You know … the deepest part of the ocean. The midnight zone. I don’t really know what’s there.

Me: Yeah, well, I think you already know more than me about that. You know, ever since the beach —

Kid: Oh, sure I know about hydrothermal vents, yeti crabs, gulper eels, anglerfish, [continues naming like a hundred other things for five minutes] … but I definitely don’t know everything. What am I gonna teach my 9,000 kids?

Me: I’m sure you’ll think of something.

And that brings me back to today. The truth is that dinos and the ocean were easy. I knew nothing about them, but it’s easy to encourage something you don’t mind. But bugs … bugs are gross. Here in the Mid-Atlantic there’s a perpetual scream, roughly 10 billion decibels loud. It’s the so-called Brood X cicadas. (I’m pretty sure Broodix is a planet from Star Trek. Or it should be.) I’m typing this with the windows closed. I can still hear them. And they’re swarming all over the window screen.

But it’s also a once-in-a-17-year event for my son to embrace. Did you know cicadas have five eyes (three ocelli between the two big red ones?) or that only the males “sing”? I didn’t know those things, but my son taught me. He taught me they’re harmless and ultimately, if he wants to take some extra slide trips with his friends, whether I like those friends or not …

It’s not about me. It’s about him.

About the author

Chris Mannino lives with his wife and two children. As a full-time stay-at-home dad, he considers himself a lion tamer, cat herder, sanitation manager, personal chef, private teacher and more. Somehow, he also manages to squeeze in a writing career: crafting fantasy stories from picture books through adult. Visit him at www.ChristopherMannino.com

Dad embraces kid’s interests photo: ©golubovy / Adobe Stock.

These are the words every father must say at some point in his life. “Don’t worry about your schoolwork. This is more important.”

My 12-year-old puts aside his math and follows me into the living room. I sit on the couch and hand him the second player game controller. He smiles. Game on, bitches.

“OK, Dad. Where are you at?” he asks, a touch of superiority in his voice. I don’t like him to see me in a moment of weakness, and I have to remind myself that there is no shame in showing emotion.

“It’s the cave, son. I can’t get past the cave.”

“On it.” And like that, we jump into one of his video games.

During the quarantine, I have found myself with some extra free time. As a result, I have taken up one of the video games I gave him years ago. Some of you may have heard of it, ARK: Survival Evolved. A ferocious game with dinosaurs, and I think laser weapons. Although I’m not too sure about that last part. I’m pretty low level.

If I could only get past the cave, then maybe I could get some freaking lasers up in here. This is what my goal is while on lockdown. Lasers. I want freaking lasers. We begin to play together. He chaperones me into his world.

“You got to move faster, dad,” he says. Like that’s an easy thing for an old man such as me.

“I’m going fast!”

“Not fast enough.”

My character dies.

‘I am a child of Zelda!’

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I know what I’m doing!” Kind of.

“It’s nothing more than dungeon crawling. Do you know what that is?” he asks.

“I am a child of Zelda! I was born into the 8-bit world of dungeons before you were even a thought!”

“Then you should be good at it.”

I die again. My character respawns. We’ve barely gone 10 feet inside the cave. That’s OK, I’m just finding my groove.

“You go first this time,” I tell him. I’m a strategist. Tactics are left for the foot soldiers. I command better from the rear. He races in on his finely tuned dinosaur beast and destroys everything. He motions me forward. A quick head nod. I follow.

For the next 30 minutes, we go into places that even Homer wouldn’t write about. The dark recesses of the video game world where monstrous creatures loom. I manage not to get my digital head ripped off.

“Where are you going?” he asks me when we get lost.

“I’m going to wander around a bit and find the way to the treasure,” I tell him.

“It’s an artifact, not a treasure. Shouldn’t we make a plan?”

“Whatever, Indiana Jones,” I say. “Wandering has worked well in my youth and it is going to work now. Have you ever played a game called E.T.?”

“That was a game?”

“We don’t talk about it, but yes. Trust me, I’m great at wandering around for hours.”

Arcade or living room — video games bind

We push on with him doing most of the work. Slowly, I start to help, and he yells encouraging things at me. Helpful statements such as, “Good job not getting eaten!” It sounds condescending until I look at him and can tell he really means it.

He knows he’s better than me at this game. I know it. But I also know something he doesn’t, which is bigger than the giant spider thing that almost eats my face.

I played video games with my dad growing up. Not a whole lot, but it’s a memory that sticks in my head. Galaga, the old faithful from my youth in the early ’80s. My dad took me to the arcade and would give me five dollars, which was a fortune to us back then. We would go round and round on that game. My father isn’t with me anymore, but that is the memory that I cling to the most when I think of him. His laugh and his smile. His high five when I had a good game or the feel of his hand on my shoulder. Sometimes games are more than just games. That is what us old school dungeon crawlers know.

We make it to the final room and the onslaught is epic. Battle music plays in the background. A giant snake comes at us. We flank and eat it with our beasts of war. Spiders, bats and then something hidden in water jumps at us. We scream and fight on. My son is out of his seat, jumping up and down. His face fierce with concentration. I watch him as much as I watch the game.

And then we have it. The treasure, the artifact, the thing we were after. Heroes, we exit the cave. Every digital step of the way, we relive the battle. My daughter walks through the room and my son tells her our epic story like a bard singing the hero’s tale.

We finish and collapse on the couch. Exhausted but triumphant.

“I gotta go do my math now, dad,” he says.

“All right.”

Then we stand, and he hugs me. A full-on hug. Not that half-hearted bro thing he’s been doing lately.

And there it is. That’s the treasure that I really wanted all along. That memory. Not just for me, but for him as well. He turns to walk away.

“Next cave is tomorrow,” I tell him.

“You bet!” he says, actually excited.

In my own head, I feel a hand on my shoulder and smile.

Video games photo: © Scott Griessel / Adobe Stock.

Bucket Head is a game. A great game. One of our favorites.

It involves me putting a yellow plastic bucket over one of my kids’ heads until their face is completely covered and then using it for a drum. All the while loudly chanting, “Buuuucket HEAAAD! BucketHeadBucketHead!” I drum fairly lightly, and they laugh and laugh and then it’s my turn to wear the bucket. It is elegant in its simplicity.

The game has evolved. Now the Peanut plays it with her little brother. In her version, she runs at him and slams the bucket down over his wispy, blond-haired, unsuspecting head and then wails on it with everything she’s got.

Just pounds the snot out of him. While screeching “BUCKET HEAD!!!” like an insane bird of prey.

The Pumpkin Man usually vacillates between laughing and crying until I can rescue him. He’s so happy she’s playing with him, but man, love hurts. She smiles and screams his name and tells me, “He likes it, Daddy. He likes it!”

It’s a little frightening for everyone. In a good way.

At our twice-weekly YMCA playgroup, not everyone talks to me. It’s mostly moms. Some of them are nice, many are standoffish. Some of the standoffish ones even go to the trouble of carrying extra, suspicious, mistrustful stares in their diaper bags that they drag out just for me.

There are times when I’m self-pitying about it and I wonder what I did wrong. Of course, when I’m honest with myself, I know what I did.

It started innocently enough. I was over to the side, playing a game of Bucket Head with my kids.

Some of the other kids noticed. They were intrigued. Who wouldn’t be?

Being naturally friendly, I shared our family game with them. At first it was just a couple of the bolder 3-year-olds. They, in turn, passed it on. Paid It Forward.

In a flash, toddlers everywhere were playing Bucket Head. Playing it hard. Like a campfire in a meth lab, it quickly got out of control. Toddlers, dozens of them — maybe hundreds — eyes wild, unseen mouths flecked with foam, running blindly, screaming, “Bucket Head!”

(Some of them had placed the bucket on their own heads and were stumbling around the gym, the call of Bucket Head echoing out from under their plastic headwear. That is not how the game is played. I mean – c’mon, guys. Pay attention. Which is something I probably shouldn’t have been saying at that moment.).

We ran out of buckets early on. They used plastic bins, toy strollers, Big Wheels, Playskool garages; whatever plastic toy they could cram onto each other’s heads and then thump. Tiny warrior-savages careening around, smiting the stuffing out of each other, crashing into each other. Screaming and eventually, swearing.

“Bucket Head! Fucking Buuucket Heaaad! GAAAHH!”

Civilizations collapsed and the playgroup plunged into chaos. Darkness. Not unlike the darkness you might experience if you were to have a bucket suddenly descend, unbidden, over your eyes.

It took us a long time to recover. Not everyone has forgiven me.

I wonder if they would like Cymbal Feet any better?

A version of this first appeared on Musings from the Big Pink. Main photo: © Michael Kachalov / Adobe Stock. Secondary photo: Homemaker Man.

Back in the day, I was a nerd who worked at FAO Schwarz. I read too many comics, collected way too many action figures, and lived and breathed toys. And every year, I tried to find a way to get into Toy Fair New York.

Toy Fair, for those who don’t know, is the annual trade show where toy companies show off their wares and try to get you excited about the products they have coming out in the new year. While that can be a hit or miss prospect for getting store buyers excited for new lines, it never fails to thrill nerds like me.

You see, I used to agonize over not being able to get into Toy Fair. I may have worked in toys, collected them, and amassed vast knowledge about them, but I wasn’t a buyer and I wasn’t press, so I wasn’t getting in there to see all the awesomeness.

Well, things change. Thanks to the interwebz, I’m now officially press. And because I write about this nerdy stuff, I’ve gotten to attend Toy Fair these last three years, an ambition of mine that’s been literally decades in the making.

Toy Fair has become more than just being about the toys. It’s the people making, distributing or reporting on those toys that really makes Toy Fair awesome. Attending Toy Fair gives you a backstage pass to the toy industry, and it introduces you to some great folks along the way. After all, anyone can take pictures of all the toys to be seen there, but the really interesting stories are why some of these people are at Toy Fair in the first place.

Marty Abrams is well known by avid toy collectors, and even if you don’t know his name, you know his work. Marty is the man behind Mego, which made iconic toys in the 1970s. If you didn’t have these eight-inch action figures from Star Trek, DC, Marvel or even from Happy Days, then you know someone who did. So it’s really nice to see the gregarious Marty Abrams back at Toy Fair, bringing these beloved toys back!

Todd McFarlane is another rock star in the toy industry. I’ve been a fan of his ever since he drew Batman: Year Two in the ’80s, and watched with awe as he became a comics superstar. He started his own company, Image Comics, which revolutionized that industry, and then subsequently started up McFarlane Toys which revolutionized the toy industry.

McFarlane now handles multiple hot licenses, including Fortnite, Game of Thrones, and all major sports leagues. It also just acquired the rights to DC Comics’ characters. Because of that, Todd himself was being pulled in 80 different directions at once while I was touring his booth. But he still took a few moments to come over and chat with me and pose for a picture, because I’m a nerd, and so is he.

Charlie Friend, president of Green Toys, is also passionate about the products he makes but he fills a unique niche. Green Toys are made of completely recycled material, right here in the USA. They have everything from active play toys to vehicles, and their message of sustainability and respect for the planet we live on is a necessary and pertinent one. His enthusiasm for what he does is impressive and admirable.

Zach Oat is with Diamond Select Toys, producing figures, props and statues meant for adult collectors. I knew him from ToyFare magazine, one of the periodicals that used to tell me about Toy Fair. We had a grand conversation about some of the things he’s seen and had a hand in, including the show Robot Chicken, which came from Toyfare magazine.

Some folks I’d gotten to know weren’t there this year, but in Christine Kaskey’s case, this was a good thing. She started her own company, Kaskey Kids, and became famous for her “Sports Guys” figures. While I did miss seeing her at the show, I was happy to see it was for a good reason, as she had sold Kaskey Kids to Masterpieces, a well known toy and game company.

Toy Fair also provided me the opportunity to meet other writers, vloggers and influencers I either already knew or was a fan of. Dan Larson of Toy Galaxy was there, as were Nerds in a Bar, Toy Shiz, and many others. I’m happy to report they’re all great folks.

But what was especially nice was hanging out with other dads and parents I’ve gotten to know through City Dads Group. Granted, some of these folks I now only see at events like this, but when you work at home a lot, it’s actually very nice to have “work friends” again, people like Gregg Jobson-Larkin from Darleen & Gregg, Adam Cohen from Dada Rocks and Denise Comeau from Game On Mom.

When I was a kid, I wanted to work with toys somehow. Whether it was making them, selling them, whatever, and my career has reflected that. Now that I’ve been going to Toy Fair for a while, it’s been a welcome and pleasant surprise to discover that the people who share that passion for toys are just as nice as one could hope they’d be.

Toy Fair is awesome. But what makes it awesome is not just the toys, or even getting to see all of the new lines, but meeting the people who work with those toys. Seeing them again is what I most look forward to from Toy Fair next year.

All photos by Chad R. MacDonald.

With the holiday season upon us and winter break from school near, we asked a few of our dads for suggestions on what to do with their children in and around NYC during this time of the year. Here are some of their suggestions, and if you want more check out our summary of fun winter activities for kids.

MTA Holiday Nostalgia Rides

The MTA is continuing its annual tradition of Holiday Nostalgia Rides on vintage trains. Having grown up in the city, I always think this means the cars will be covered in graffiti and I’ll be mugged by a guy named Fleabag Jimmy, but no! Vintage subway cars from the 1930s will roll out along the A, C, D and F lines on Sunday afternoons during the holidays. My 5-year-old daughter loves going on these cars at the Transit Museum and it’ll be great for her to see them in action as we schlep around the city doing our Christmas shopping. Rumor has it that the MTA’s infrastructure is also from the 1930s, but you already knew that.

— Peter Duffy

Skating and window shopping

We love to ice skate during this time of year and are fortunate to be near so many thrilling ice rinks in NYC. Our favorite is Wollman Rink in the middle of Central Park with its expansive ice rink, sweet skyline views, and warm hot chocolate when you’re ready for a break. We also love Bryant Park’s Ice Skating Rink because of its convenient location and if you own your own skates, it’s free admission.  Plus, the surrounding Winter Village is fun to walk around before or after our family skate.

Another favorite winter break tradition is doing a Department Store Window Walking Tour. First, we get large cups of hot chocolate. Then, we stroll from Barneys to Bergdorf Goodman to Saks. Saks has an amazing and free light show on their building that’s entertaining for the kids. It’s also right next to the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree so that’s a mandatory stop on our tour as well. This year we plan to make a pit stop in FAO Schwartz now that our favorite toy store has reopened in a new location at Rock Center.

— Lance Somerfeld

Gingerbread Lane

Every year during the holiday season, we go to the New York Hall of Science to see Gingerbread Lane. It is the biggest collection of gingerbread houses. Sometimes you can even meet the baker who created all of these gingerbread houses and have a talk with him.

— Larry Interrante

Other suggestions:

• The annual Holiday Train Show at the New York Botanical Garden in the Bronx
• Winter ONEderland  at One World Observatory
• Radio City Christmas Spectacular