Discipline, Clicker Style

Our socially extroverted 8-month old kitty, Dalton, follows a red stick wherever I take it – up his kitty condo, through a tunnel, on our laps, and into the kitchen, (though not on the counters!). He also is totally cool with having a kitty harness/leash put on him for outdoor walking, getting his nails clipped, and using a fairly elaborate kitty litter system. All of this on top of spending 8 hours sleeping in our bed, not waking us up.

I’m sure that getting him through a breeder is in one sense an element in a well-behaved cat. But most of these impressive feats were drilled into him over the course of three weeks by me through a combination of kitty treats (Trader Joe’s Omega-3 essentials, tuna for kitties, and freeze-dried wild Alaskan salmon nibbles for cats), a hand-held clicker, and lots of positive encouragement. I’ve yet to hear a decent argument why toddlers can’t be trained the same way.

This is all gleaned from a training manual titled “Clicker Training for Cats”, with a cover picture of a cat wearing a graduation cap and a “first place” ribbon (obviously Dalton). Sample titles include “Come when called”, “Playing the Piano”, “Walking on a leash”, and my favorite,”How to Toilet-Train your cat, clicker style”. Awesome.

Some cat owners keep a bottle of spray water to spritz in kitty’s face if it gets in the way while cooking. Other owners make loud noises to scare kitty away or discourage unwanted behavior. While these aggressive actions may be a short-term solution, kitty will inevitably get revenge at its owners through aggressive behavior of its own. In the end, positive, non-aggressive discipline makes for a calm, well behaved cat.

This training manual says over and over again, that aggressive behavior by the owner simply won’t work. Neither does scolding or shouting. Cats ultimately do what they want to do, but are motivated by selfish incentives (treats, for the most part). And they can be misdirected fairly easily, like “look at this shiny moving object!” – again, much like a toddler.

I’m confident our child will learn to enjoy the taste of omega-3 freeze dried salmon, since that’s least likely to cause early-onset childhood obesity or diabetes. But the new kid will have a lot of catching up to do. At Dalton’s fast rate of discipline has demonstrated, the cat will be using the toilet while our kid’s still in diapers. Thanks clicker!

Raising Stone Age Baby

Being called a “white devil” first thing in the morning can be quite disconcerting. I usually think of myself as a typical Northern Californian tolerant, open minded individual, but sometimes, you’re just a white devil. That’s what we were called by one mother in a remote Hmong village – scaring her son, telling him that if he misbehaves, these devils will kidnap him and take him far, far away from his family. Was it the North Face adventure pants that gave us away? Having people come up and touch your nose was also kind of strange.

That’s what happened when Jaclyn and I spent time last year in Laos. We signed up for a mountain trek among the Hmong hill people. Our first option was the common, easy hike two hours into the mountains. “Any other options?” my intrepid wife wanted to know. Yes – a very long, hard, hot slog through 6 hours into one of the most remote places I’ve ever been to: a village from medieval times: One spout of water as the communal drinking fountain / shower, huts gathered round an open dirt plaza on a windswept hill, chickens, dogs, and pigs cavorting, and kids, lots of them, everywhere. We asked our tour guide about visitors to this village – they get about two Western tourists every three months or so. This place was definitely off the “Lonely Planet” circuit.

Not a single stroller in sight. No “Happiest Baby on the Block” DVD. I didn’t see a car seat, since there were no cars, nor a nasal aspirator. As far as I know, definitely no cribs in the huts. All the kids were basically running around, day and night, making lots of noise. The infants were carried around by the older siblings. The only toys I saw were old-school flashlights carried around at night at this electricity-free village.

This is how most humans have lived communally since the dawn of our species, and most of us in the world still live.

We weren’t jarred awake in the pre-dawn hours by crying babies, but rather, the cry of a rooster strutting around our hut we shared with one of the families.

This got me thinking about all the hysteria surrounding sleep in our modern industrial civilization. What’s the real reason for putting baby in a separate room in its own crib? Why put a baby in a stroller immediately after birth, instead of being carried around close to a body? The Hmong babies slept in the same mat as the parents, and were carried around constantly by either the mother or the siblings, and they seemed contented enough.

It’s culture – we have a notion that to raise a successful person, one must be independent, and the idea of sleeping in the same room, let alone, the same bed, as the parents leads to dependency – something that our culture frowns upon. Also, the notion of the “sacred bedroom” in the West is simply not shared among other cultures. We are social beings when awake, and that idea of being together extends towards sleeping hours as well. Some other cultures don’t place the same exaltation for sleep privacy, or for that matter, the cult of happy baby, sleeping baby, as we do.

In fact, one new parent in our class specifically said that they transferred baby to a crib and a separate room at two weeks since they were afraid that the baby will turn out to be dependent on the parents – that’s culture talking, not biology – babies are still learning how to regulate their breathing during sleep – and the best way to learn this is by observing and being close to another sleepyhead.

So for now, we’re going to have a little Hmong village in our San Francisco apartment – no strollers, and no crib, for at least a few months. It kind of makes me feel like a white devil.

Beer Before Dinner

Our family took a trip to a nearby Druze village of Daliyat Al Carmel next to our hometown in Israel when the second intifada of 2002 was raging. The Druze, a minority Muslim sect, have always pledged allegiance to Israel and serve in the IDF, yet the spillover effect of the violence of was evident all around. Jews who normally flock to this mountaintop village for weekend souvenir shopping and eating hummus stayed away in droves because of the violence in the nearby territories.

So Daliyat was empty on what should have been a bustling Saturday. We entered into a restaurant, where the jovial owner greeted us warmly. These type of Mediterranean restaurants always start with a large platter of meze and a pitcher of hot mint tea. Maybe it was the sun, maybe it was the village, but something came over me and I poured tea to all my family members, starting with my dad and going down the line.

The owner, who was in the middle of serving, almost dropped the plates, put his hand over his chest, and proclaimed that act warmed his heart, and that it was very rare nowadays to see this happening with the younger generation. It seemed genuinely heartfelt, though my mother later remarked it was a cynical ploy for a larger tip. A bit doubtful, since we were the first and probably last customers that slow day.

I was then reminded of this watching a scene from this year’s movie “Tokyo Sonata”, where the family sits down to eat dinner (being a Japanese movie – food is given a very important consideration, almost another actor), and nothing happens, not a word is spoken, the food remains untouched on the table, until the father is poured a beer by his son. Only then everyone digs in, chopsticks flying.

That’s pretty cool. I like that idea of demonstrating every day family obligation and respect. When I broached this idea to Jaclyn, she objected, not because of the idea itself, but because only the father is respected in this scenario. “Well, what if the kids have to do something for both Mom and Dad? Is that OK?” Yes, very much so, apparently.

But then, what if the kids don’t feel like pouring the parents a drink before dinner is served, was her second question. Well, if the kids don’t feel like pouring us a drink, giving the parents a token measure of respect, we won’t feel like feeding them. A bit harsh, it may seem, but a growling stomach is a great teacher. (it doesn’t have to be just beer – whiskey is OK as well – Jaclyn’s fine with tap water).

Reactions from friends and relatives to our future family dinner plans have ranged from highly enthusiastic approval to downright shock. My personal take is it’s easier to drill kids into doing something routine, an act, rather than talk about it. After all, aren’t all acts of kindness and respect necessarily small acts that convey large meanings? And the village of Daliyat, I’m happy to report, is once again packed on summer weekends – we’ll be back soon to the same restaurant as soon as our kids learn some respect by pouring a beverage.

Special Olympics

On the way to an all-day new parent meditation class, Jaclyn and I stopped at the Noe Valley Whole Foods to grab a to-go lunch. It was still relatively quiet at 9:00 AM on a Saturday morning, and we saw at least five babies carried around on slings and Baby Bjorns in the produce aisle. Except this particular Whole Foods was in some alternate, “Twilight Zone” universe, since every single baby was carried around by dad. Plenty of yoga bunnies, but not a single mom in sight.

Where was mommy? Or this being San Francisco, where was life partner? Jaclyn was thrilled to see this a sign of feminist triumph. I wasn’t so sure. One of the secret thrills of entering into a new era of being an engaged, active father, is that the bar is set so ridiculously low. Much like a participant in the Special Olympics, I am prepared to receive an inordinate amount of praise, cheers, accolades and “awws” when doing tasks that shouldn’t be considered so hard and wouldn’t get a second’s worth of attention if done by mom.

Pushing the stroller? Isn’t that sweet? Grocery shopping with baby in tow? What a good father! Taking the kid out on an urban stroll? He’s so good! And the ultimate gold medal, changing diapers in public.

Well, not in Noe Valley. The poor schlubs I saw there were doing something unprecedented in the history of manhood, i.e., taking charge of activities that were for the longest time woman’s work, and did they get any positive reinforcement? Far from it – a collective yawn was more like it. No wonder they looked so miserable.

That’s why I’ll stick to doing chores with baby in the Mission District.

What's in a Name?

Sorry Shakespeare, but names do matter, even if a rose still smells sweet. A name has to sound nice cross-culturally, not be old-fashioned, not too radical, but not commonly bland. The mouthflow and acoustics needs to be smooth, and it should be hard to tease on the playground. Sounds more like wine tasting than name picking.

My initial idea to name our child after an ethnic food or winery was promptly vetoed, and soon the name well ran dry. Creative name picking is not my forte - I was raised in a house where our cat was called simply “kitty” in Hebrew. That’s either very lazy or very Zen.

The broader American Jewish community isn’t giving us guidance either, since they like to name kids after dead relatives. Super creepy. Doesn’t the kid deserve a fresh name with a fresh start? (wait – wait -”Mentos” – the freshmaker!)

On the other hand, the new Israeli names all sound like titles of Cirque Du Soleil shows. Sure, they have hip, cool names for kids now – but it’s the equivalent of 60’s Woodstock children such as “Moonbeam” and “Sunshine”. My nephews’ name meanings are “water well”, “half-moon”, and “amber”.

We could also be very cruel and name the boy “Nimrod” and the girl “Osnat”. Perhaps “Akugoso” – Japanese for “cute little shit”. That should build character.

So for now, baby has to wait for an appropriate name. At least we can agree on our future cat’s name – “Miso”

Diaper Dude

My generation of men have to contend with something that’s brand-spanking new in Western society: how to pull off that look wearing a “man purse” – or it’s older cousin - the “diaper bag”, while still retaining masculinity. It’s a complicated dance. But then, pockets weren’t made to carry an absurdly heavy 21st century combination of wallet, keys, sunglasses, and for those who aren’t lucky yet to get an Iphone, then a cellphone AND an Ipod. Unless you wear cargo pants. And then it feels like walking with weights on.

An easy solution was to dump all this gear into my wife’s purse. She protested after the combined weight became too much, and ordered me to get such a “man purse”. It made logistical sense, but it was equal parts scary and humiliating in its instantaneous ability to diminish masculinity the first time wearing in public. But the man purse is here to stay, as my initial reaction gave way to the realization that nobody cares If I have such a purse or not. Luckily, I found one at the outdoor gear store – so I could mentally think of doing macho things like being out in the wilderness or doing something adventure-y.

The next upgrade after the man purse, is, for new parents, the diaper bag. Babies need, besides diapers, of course, an enormous amount of stuff, both for stepping out of the house for a stroll, or for a weekend get-away. Marketers now sell a “girlie” version and a “manly” version – LL Bean, Eddie Bauer, and “The Diaper Dude” all have diaper bags – purses, really - that cater to the man’s sense of ruggedness and masculinity. Black, Grey, or military camouflage – no pinks or Hello Kitty here.

Is this a healthy thing for our society? I don’t really see my Prague high-society great grandfather wearing one. He was so old-school aristocratic that according to my grandmother, she needed to set an appointment whenever she wanted to talk with him. Ditto for my grandfather, a salt-of-the earth farmer, or my dad, who was serving in the army for each one of my mom’s birth. His commanding officer once ordered him to take a leave of absence and visit the newborn in the hospital. I don’t think any of them would consider wearing the “diaper dude” a positive step forward for our society.

But it’s something that progressive, New-Agey dads have to consider to lighten the load for the moms. If these styles allows us to retain a semblance of manliness carrying baby diapers, handi-wipes, and a bizarre assortment of baby toys, then it’s worth it. Now if they only sell toddler bags for the little one to carry their own gear as soon as they start walking…

Stroller Wars

The last time I gave any thought to baby strollers was when my older brother pulled one up a hill in our neighborhood, got to the very top, and let go. With me in it. The stroller shot down like a bat out of hell, while my nine-month old veins pumped full of adrenaline, shrieking in fear and delight. Repeat. The only thing between me and serious head trauma was the relative lack of cars in mid-70’s Israel.

For the next 35 years, didn’t give a whole lot more thought to strollers, but now, as baby’s arriving, I see them everywhere, and am fixated not so much by what’s in it, but what brand it is and who does the pushing. I guess it’s a simple matter of perspective. One day they’re invisible, and now they’ve got my full attention.

Shifting perspective is like my 5′2” friend who, as we were walking into a huge crowd of people during a meet-and-greet, told me “doesn’t this huge crowd frighten you a bit?” “Not really, because the medication works really well”, I joked. Then she grabbed my arm and pulled me down a few inches, to her height, and my whole line of vision changed. What seemed to be a pretty decent sized crowd instantly became a morass much more bewildering to go through, and I felt like I needed a machete similar to a Victorian-era explorer wading through the deepest, darkest jungle.

Expecting a baby pulled my line of vision down 6 inches. And now I see strollers everywhere. Last weekend’s huge bluegrass festival at Golden Gate Park was a good place to see them. One can easily spot the parenting philosophy and socio-economic status of the happy couple simply by their choice of strollers.

If a couple has an infant less than six months old, they’ve got two choices – either carry it around “close to the vest” in a Baby Bjorn / Asian-Mayan sling wrap, or push it like an older kid in a stroller. So if you see that Baby Bjorn, then the couple is probably an adherent to a philosophy espoused by Dr. John Sears called “Attachment Parenting”. This philosophy is exactly what it sounds like – the baby must always be in physical contact with one of the parents throughout the entire infancy – the baby literally does not touch the ground for the first six months. So if it’s a six month or younger infant in a stroller, then the presumably healthy couple is not familiar with Attachment Parenting (unlikely in San Francisco), or they’re simply saying “screw you” to Dr. Sears.

Once the baby is past six months, then the parents have a bewildering choice of strollers. It seems that the recession has put a bit of a damper on the market for “Bugaboos”, super high-end strollers that routinely cost $1,000. I’ve been seeing a lot less of these in the past six months. Maybe it’s a sign of the times, though they’re still extremely obnoxious, like a tank sized SUV. What’s a San Francisco yuppie to do? Well, the stroller version of the de rigueur Toyota Prius is probably the Maclaren, a British designed hybrid between the high-end Bugaboo and the super low-end umbrella stroller. At $250, it seems to have weathered and prospered through the recession – these things are everywhere in San Francisco, at least in our neck of the woods at yuppie central, Noe Valley.

Taking a stroll towards poorer and browner Mission neighborhood, however, and the stroller scene changes yet again. No Bugaboos. Much fewer Maclarens. Now it’s time for the old-school folding umbrella type strollers that everyone used to have up until ten years ago, super lightweight, cheap plastic, but seems to last forever. It’s the Daihatsu Charade of strollers.

All the parents seem to be, if not happy, then content with the type of strollers they wheel their kid around. And the baby? It doesn’t matter to them one bit if they’re being rolled around in the pedestrian equivalent of an SUV, Prius, or Charade. Someone else is doing the heavy pushing, and they’ve dozed off long ago.