The Roughshod Guide to Being Five

Congratulations! Now that you're almost five years old, there are all sorts of things you can do and understand for yourself. Your motor skills are now sophisticated enough to hold you in place for a good five seconds after spinning yourself around for the entire length of your favorite song. This is a triumph, despite all the puking. Don't worry; that's a trait that's harder to kick, and just when you think you've got it, you discover frat parties and the associated hazards of bed spins (not to mention date rape.)

Now that you're almost five, it's time for you to grasp the concept of the movie sequel. When Beethoven's Second is on the Disney Channel, wonder if you should disqualify yourself from watching it because you never saw "Beethoven's One." (See The Roughshod Guide to Being Six, wherein you'll work on disqualifying it from your movie lineup because, let's face it, there really weren't that many unanswered questions from the original, except why John Hughes would dare write such a thing, even under a synonym. Yes, why, John Hughes? Why would you do this to us? After the pedestal my generation put you on for Sixteen Candles and Breakfast Club.)

Another thing, now that you're approaching the age of five: Whatever agreements may transpire between you and another person, get them in writing, even with family. Especially with family. Specifically, when your dad tells you you can visit him at work on Wednesday, seal the deal and avoid breach of contract by having him write it down, and include the words, "I really, really seriously mean it." Secure your own representation in the matter by having your mom read the writing loud, word for word, to prevent any misunderstandings. Just because you can't read very well yet doesn't make you a sucker.

When dealing with life's injustices, look inside yourself for the answers. When the sky falls, paint a new one. Look to the example of your neighborhood friends, the brother-sister duo who are tortured and subjected nightly, as are you, to the horrors of--gasp--Going to Bed at a Reasonable Hour. Separated by their respective bedroom doors, and the acres of hallway between them, the brother and sister called out to each other for comfort. After the young one, the sister, pressed her face to the bottom crack of the door and told her brother, "I'm so sad," her brother, as wise as only an almost-five-year-old can be, counseled her. "Do something you love!" he trumpeted through the solid core of his own door.

Begin to grasp the power of death. Realize it's permanent, which is, for your mother, about the length of an episode of The Wiggles. Realize that not only does it last forever, but that it's the one force in the universe powerful enough to make cat ownership possible. The next time you ask for a cat, and are reminded that you can never have one because of your father's allergies, ask about what would happen if Daddy happened to die. Could you have one then?

Finally, begin to recognize facial cues, however subtle they may be, and interpret their meanings. Be able to predict, simply by looking at your mother's face, when she's about to cry. While this skill comes in handy later, say, when you're able to leave the house by yourself (see The Roughshod Guide to Being Five and a Half) and get the hell out of Dodge the minute things get heavy, what's more important is learning to feel empathy and compassion for the other person. Because usually, when your mother makes the "I'm going to lose it" face, it's because she's realized there's no more gin in the house. (See also: Neilsen, Brigitte.)

Stay tuned and join us for future Roughshod Guides, coming soon, including The Roughshod Guide to Sneaking Out in the Middle of the Night to Meet Your Gay Boyfriend, and Running for Student Council on the "My Boobs are on Facebook" Platform: a Roughshod Guide Supplemental.

You've Waited Too Long to Potty Train When...

After April's breastfeeding frenzy post, "You Know You've Been Breastfeeding too Long When..." the clamoring for more of my child-rearing advice has reached new (and totally fictional) highs. Today, a loyal reader in Fort Lee, New Jersey asks, "My three-year old son is still happy to wear diapers, and shows no interest in potty training. When is it time to lay down the loo law?"
Sincerely,
Poopy Pants McGee

Dear Poopy,
First off, only you can decide when it's time to take a more aggressive approach in persuading your little bundle of joy to stop hauling around his own little bundles. Ask your pediatrician when it's developmentally appropriate, given your son's history and temperament. And, I've put together a set of guiding principles to help you and other parents decide when enough is enough.

• When you send the kid out to buy a package of his own diapers--along with some milk and eggs--you've waited too long to potty train.
• When he tells you he's had an accident, and it's necessary to clarify whether he's talking about his pants or his car, you've waited too long to potty train.
• When your daughter complains about the lack of thong-style diapers on the market that match her Hooters uniform, you've waited too long to potty train.
• If your precious one is audited by the IRS for claiming Huggies as an expense, you've waited too long to potty train.
• When your son is forced to leave basketball practice because his cup runneth over, you've waited too long to potty train.
  
• When you decide to switch from wet wipes to Swiffer Wet Jet pads, you've waited too long to potty train.
  
• When you offer to read to your daughter while she sits on the potty, and she suggests a Danielle Steele novel, you've waited too long to potty train.
  
• After offering to show your son a movie about potty training, and he asks if it's called Two Girls, One Cup, seek professional help. And also, you've waited too long to potty train.
  

How to Give Parenting Advice in the Most Annoying Way Possible

1. Make sure that the person you're advising wants no part of your insight. Your input should come out of nowhere, without provocation, and at the most inconvenient time. If you can muster a condescending tone, use it as much as possible.
2. When "offering" your coaching, make sure it stems from information that is either clinically unsubstantiated, or was popular in the 1950s.
3. As a next step, begin with the assumption that children are hell-bent on deliberately making their parents' lives miserable, instead of just trying to get some need met, especially when the child is under the age of 1. Try phrases like, "He loves to push your buttons."
4. Next, make some sort of character judgment on the child for his/her behavior. Say things directly to the child, such as, "You're manipulative," and "you're going to grow up spoiled." Use other terms involving the words "monster," "brat," and "pig-headed" for good measure.
5. Lastly, whatever you do, use the word "control" several times in your counsel. This control should be exerted for no other purpose than its own sake. Make sure that the parent you're advising knows that it's better to forgo relationships that are based on love and understanding than to lose control of the child at any given moment. Dismiss the greater lessons the child could otherwise learn about choice, responsibility, and working things out together with others instead of doing as told in every situation. When the parent says the only control she plans on using in the situation is the Janet Jackson album, look confused and a little put out.
   

To recap: Be annoying, be brusque, and if possible, take matters into your own hands while the parent isn't looking. After all, you're the expert.

When Day Planners Go Bad

Since I've successfully ignored my to-do list for a solid two weeks, I'm going with a new approach: The To-Don't List. Make your own! Franklin Covey, call me!

Don't:
1. Talk about Fight Club.*
2. Take candy from strangers--or babies.
3. Sell anything, buy anything, or process anything.*
4. Bring a knife to a gunfight.*
5. Take the gun in favor of the cannoli.*
6. Take a cannoli to any kind of fight. Unless it's a food fight.
7. Talk about Foodfight Club.
8. Trust a dog to watch your food.
9. Let any bulls into your china shop.
10. Let your babies grow up to be cowboys.

*Extra credit for naming the movie referenced in this item.

A Toddler’s Guide to Dog Ownership, Part I

Start the day by sneaking up on one or more of your sleeping dogs and yelling, “Wake up!” as you jump on top of him. Without skipping a beat, show your mother that everything’s on the level by patting the dog gently on the head and looking into his sad, tired eyes and repeating, “Aw, you’re a good girl,” over and over.

When your breakfast of a pancake slathered with butter is ready, insist on walking around the entire house with it, despite certain urgings from someone in the kitchen to please eat the damn thing or put it on the kitchen counter. Offer it to one of your dogs by very nearly ramming it into her mouth. When the dog actually shows the nerve to try and eat it, use the pancake to beat her about the head and shoulders while shouting, “No! No! No!” Sing the theme song from the show Dora the Explorer sixty seven times to drown out the din of battle. If possible, work in a few original verses about pooping in the potty and your undying love for the yogurt smoothie product, Danimals.

Discover that one or both of your dogs has eaten the pancake you left on the coffee table so that you could ram twenty seven CDs into the five-CD changer. Lose your mind to the tune of relieving yourself on the carpet, or ideally a piece of leather furniture. Run a hysterical circuit around the house, simultaneously chasing your dogs if possible, screaming, “I want that pancake!” until one of the dogs turns tail to face you and barks as loudly as possible right in your face. Escalate your hysterics until NASA calls to find out if they can use your grand mal seizure to power the next Space Shuttle flight.

Insist on a Band Aid. “A Dora one,” sob to your mother, and point to a half dozen places on your face where you think the noise from that one unconscionable bark may have broken the skin. By the time you’re dressed and ready for preschool, wonder why your mother hasn’t yet called the vet to make an appointment for euthanizing the offending dog. Adjust your Dora Band Aid forty two times to adequately cover one gaping wound after another. When asked in the car why you think your dog barked at you like that, pretend you’ve suddenly lost your hearing for a few minutes before answering, “I have poop.” Affirm to yourself that tomorrow those mutts are in a lot of trouble. Instead of butter, you're asking for a billy club to go on your pancake.