A Christmas Story: Whereupon a great deal of copy is devoted to the discussion of tree stands

"I gotta know what a $5 milkshake tastes like." --Pulp Fiction

By the time our family moved from Original Northwood to Oak Park in the summer of 1981, I was getting ready for the third grade at Lincoln Elementary and would be old enough that first winter (a snowy one) to take an active role in everything Christmas and Christmas trees. 

Those first few years in Chicagoland, we bought our trees from the local YMCA who, for a few weeks, turned their parking lot into a sweetly smelling pine forest. They were your regular parking lot trees and fit just fine into your regular sort of Christmas tree stands. A few years later (and for many years after), our family went to cut down our own tree. My dad grabbed a dulled and slightly rusty hand saw and tossed it in the trunk of our family car, while we, extra thick with winter outwear, all squeezed into the car for the drive to the place everyone thinks of when they think of “the midwest.” Rural Northwestern Illinois. I had no way of knowing at the time, but what started as a simple family outing, would become, to this day, my all-time favorite Christmas tradition.

Once we made it to Williams Tree Farm, still stiff from the long drive, we lumbered out into the cold, protected by layers of waffle-knit long underwear, puffy winter coats, knit caps, and mismatched gloves that always looked a lot warmer than they actually were. Massive work horses, hitched to wagons filled with other families of rugged individualists out to the groves of pine. 

Sure, you COULD walk to find your tree in the nearby rows, but the BEST ones were OBVIOUSLY at the FURTHEST fields. There were Frasers, Canaan and Balsam Firs, White and Scotch Pines, Norway and Colorado Blue Spruces. I had no idea there were so many different kinds of trees. Back then (and frankly, now too) in my mind, there were basically two different kinds of Christmas trees. The soft ones with long needles and floppy branches and the ones good for hanging ornaments.

Surrounded by acres of trees, our family of five now had a VERY IMPORTANT CHOICE TO MAKE. We had to get THE PERFECT CHRISTMAS TREE. And so began the searching and the “arguing.” My mom, ever practical, and (I suspect) quickly tiring of the blasts of chilly midwestern air that sliced right through her layers, usually fell for one of the first trees she saw. I was having none of that. 

“Moooooommm, we just go here, we can’t get that one,” I wailed! And after just a scant few minutes of family togetherness, our crew started to separate in opposite directions searching for THE PERFECT TREE. And then one of us would find it. Look around for confirmation, realize we were alone, then send up a flare to alert the others.

“Hey OVER HERE! I found IT!”

“WHERE?”

“I’m over here!”

“Where?”

“HERE!”

Search and Rescue trained we were not, but eventually the team congregated around one what was, for one (and usually only one) of us, THE PERFECT CHRISTMAS TREE.

“That one?!?!” I exclaimed in disbelief.

“Yeah, it’s so cute,” defended my little sister with the gentle soul who was always drawn to the small, differently proportioned and otherwise odd looking trees.

I always wanted a giant of a tree that would require a step ladder or a sturdy set of shoulders for decoration. Nothing less than 6 or 7 feet would do. My mom always asked the most important question, “Does it SPEAK to you?” That first year she asked the question, I scoffed. What does that even mean? But as the years passed by, we kids embraced the question and asked it of each other. Because if it doesn’t speak to you, it’s not for you.

No matter if it was Susanne’s year to pick a “miniature” pine, or mine to select a towering, iconic spruce, they all had one thing in common. Trunks that were massive and unwieldy to the average Christmas tree stands. 

Farm-fresh trees demanded something more robust and the farm had them (conveniently) for sale, but my mom, raised by frugal depression-era Germans, had complete and utter confidence that my dad—a somewhat more impulsive man raised in a brownstone in Brooklyn by Italian immigrants—would figure something out.

It turned out that that “something” involved a 5-gallon steel bucket normally reserved for car washing duty, wood scraps, a square slab of particle board and rope. Lots of rope. He wasn’t a carpenter or designer, or longshoreman, but he had tools and motivation, and sometimes that was enough.

The next day after our first visit to the farm, construction began. 2x4s hammered into that engineered-wood base, stacked, rising, forming a kind of frame that was perfectly sized to hug the sides of the steel bucket. Because who doesn’t keep their Christmas tree in a steel bucket?

My dad's design was massive and unwieldy and could, if called for, withstand the gale forces of The Windy City. An impossibly beautiful convergence of contradictory and incomplete ideas. It was somehow both over-built and under-engineered. The framing and stance of the stand was indestructible. And yet the gapingly wide mouth of the bucket, alone, would never keep a tree standing tall.

Securing the tree required imagination, improvisation and a lot of rope. Those early years of the stand, my dad was responsible for the lashing of yards of white cotton ropes first around the bottom branches of the tree, then tying them to various parts of the sturdy frame of the stand. My job was to hang onto the tree with this all going on.

“Okay, I think it’s good. Let it go,” my dad called from down below.

The tree invariably began to fall and I would grab hold and pull it right again.

This is a process that would be oft repeated with more layers of rope and knots and eventually, often an hour later, (and one year, the assistance of nearby furniture), the tree would stand tall.

In later years, as my half-hitch knot-tying skills improved, my father sent me underneath the pine canopy to secure the tree. My younger sister took on the role of tree-holder-upper. Ultimately selecting our tree, putting it up and decorating it was fully and always a 3-day endeavor.

40 years later, I'm the dad and I married into a much more efficient kind of tree stand. And for the honeymoon phase and a few years beyond it was a solid, if also imperfect stand. While no rope festooned with complicated knots, or sophisticated lashing techniques was required, the process still called for three of us to secure even our “parking lot” trees in the stand.

Up top, I reprised my roll as tree-holder-upper, jabbing my arm deep through prickly branches covered in still-soft needles (this is a markedly less pleasant task at the end of a tree’s stay in our living room when supple sweetly smelling needles have dried into hard and sharp daggers), to grab the trunk. My boy Peter, just old enough to turn 4 bracing screws and small enough to sneak under the lower canopy of branches would advance the long bolts. With each turn of the screw, the bolts inched closer to piercing the woody-flesh of the already dying scepter of the season of St. Nick. We dress it up in lights, but underneath it’s all very medieval. 

“Is it straight?” I shout to our third, standing purposefully at a distance so as to better judge. “How about NOW?!” “What about NOW!?” 

When my wife Sarah gives us the go-ahead, I bark out commands to the small person tucked in below. 

“No, RIGHTY-tighty. Not that screw, the other one….no the OTHER one!” 

Eventually, it all comes together. The tree stands alone. We’re only a little worn out, fingers dirty with sticky sap and dead pine needles. This was, for some time, one of my young family’s yearly Christmas holiday rituals and despite it all, it worked pretty well for us. 

Then about 3 years ago, our venerable stand, the one that was a decided upgrade from my father’s woodworking marvel, developed a massive leak! I mistakenly thought, “wow, this tree sure is thirsty” when I noticed an empty bowl the day after it was set up. Then I noticed a soaking wet blanket fortuitously placed below the cold metal legs of the stand. Because I am my mother’s son, (myself a half-frugal German), I used a few pieces of strategically-placed duct tape to fix the leak.

Honestly, the fix worked surprisingly well in the category of “keeping water from pouring through the ceiling of our downstairs neighbors” department. Unfortunately, now that the center spike meant to help secure the tree was gone, it took little more than a passing breeze or errant thought to send our tree—fully decorated—crashing to the ground sending ornaments and pets flying across the floor. 

And no matter how much deeper we sent the bolts into the trunk to find more secure purchase, the tree became more unstable with each subsequent fall. Eventually it just got to the point where I just shoved it backwards into a corner to keep if from crashing forward. We all got used to viewing a tree that was at a 60 degree angle.

This Christmas it would have been so 2020 to simply let out a sigh, shrug our shoulders and set up our somewhat functional duct-taped tree stand again this year. But every now and again the impulsive Italian side of me makes a quick decision. Now don’t get me wrong, I did read at least one article titled, “Best Christmas Tree Stands” first. But when Sarah found that the editors of Wirecutter recommended a German-designed model awkwardly (and somewhat suggestively) called the Krinner Tree Genie XXL, I announced aloud, “BUY IT!”

It’s absurdly expensive and yet is already in the running to be one of our more favorite purchases. It nicely balances efficient modern design with the appropriate level of medieval simplicity. Its clenched jaws snap open with the racket of a bear trap and ratchet closed with only slightly less ferocity using the power of a gear actuated foot crank. Click-click-click-cliiiick-click-cliiiiiick-Clickety-clack-cliiiiick—creak, click. GOTCHYA! The mighty green base even includes a water-level gauge that allows me to track how much the tree drinks daily. DATA! Crucially, without too much effort, a single, solitary person could set up a tree using this stand in under 5 minutes. UNDER 5 MINUTES!

If I’m honest, part of me really does miss my father’s homemade stand and the 3 days it took to get our tree set up. But the precision and ease of this new tech? It might just be a Christmas miracle.

Fortunately for me and all the traditions that actually matter, it still took three of us to get the tree up. 

“Hey, Peter, how does this thing work? Where are the instructions?”

Too small…I can’t read those. 

“Can you read them to me? Now…yeah okay, now go under there, I’ll hold the tree up, make sure the spike is in the center of the trunk…SAAAARAAAHH, come in here for a second…IS IT STRAIGHT?!”

Surviving the Wilmington Grand Prix: What It Takes

Great kids racing and other family
fun plays a big part of how this dad
schedules his race calendar!

On Saturday May 20th in Wilmington, Delaware, some of the best criterium bike racers in the country will gather to battle each other and themselves on one of the most challenging criterium courses in the country.

I say this not in a bluster of marketing hyperbole, but with the authority of a racer who's been pinning on a number for over 25 years. One who cut his teeth racing the infamously long and brutal 100 kilometer Superweek Criteriums and other legendary midwest races in the 1990s and early 2000s against the likes of professional teams including Saturn, Navigators, Jelly Belly, Mercury and others.

Downer, Waukesha, Snake Alley, Schlitz Park, Downer's Grove. Great courses, great races, great competitors. But great crit racing is not exclusive to the midwest.

The Green Mountain Stage Race's Burlington Criterium devastates unsuspecting riders who came to Vermont primarily to ride up mountains.

In the lively small city of West Chester, Pennsylvania, there lives a simple downtown 4-corner rectangular criterium (previously known as "Iron Hill") that has no business being as hard as it is.

The Wilmington Grand Prix, in Delaware is another brutally difficult race. In all of 3 of these races, the number of riders who DNF and/or are "Pulled & Placed" approaches the number of racers who complete the full distance.

What makes the Wilmington Grand Prix so challenging? For that answer, let's first take a look at the map of the course.



This is a 1-mile circuit with EIGHT turns. Six of those turns are concentrated in a tiny corner of the race. They blitz the racers within 30 seconds of the start. Critically the first 4 are fast moving, slightly terrifying downhill turns within 350 feet of one another. And they are followed by two uphill big ring climbing turns that call for 600+ watt bursts every lap. (More on this later).

So with all do respect to the truthful, but largely irrelevant platitude that "racers make the race." This one is mostly all about the course. The course forces selections early as riders with good start line positions clash with others who are more accustomed to road and circuit races where turns come miles apart. If you can't handle your bike, if you don't have confidence in the grip of your tires, the strongest riders will still fail and be directed off the course early by vigilant race officials attempting to keep order among chaos.

So why do I, a self-professed solid bike handler, get DROPPED EVERY YEAR? Back to the map. See those sections in red?

They are red, because that is where your legs will BLEED lactic acid and you will question your life choices.  The blue stretches are "anxious, stay focused and pray for recovery."

Digging into my own power file from the 2016 edition of the Cat 2/3 race we get an idea of what is required to finish on the lead lap in the bunch. For reference sake, readers should know that after a nasty crash in the first few laps, we were stopped and restarted 20 minutes later. In this time I went from a front row starting position to roughly mid-pack. Wattage numbers published here are a rough average of all the laps completed. Some laps were less, others were more.

40 seconds @ 2.63 w/kg.
Starting from the set-up to turn-1, dive-bombing through turns 2, 3, 4 and 5 will challenge all your handling skills and focus. If you get the lines right, you've got to take advantage of the longest single stretch of recovery per lap. What 40 seconds isn't enough? Too bad.

26 seconds @ 5.91 w/kg.
About halfway up the first climb heading into turn 6, you are full gas onto the descending backstretch. Wind conditions can be fierce here. Regardless expect it to be strung out and painful for about 1/2 the length until riders sit up to set up for turn 7.

26 seconds @ 2.04 w/kg.
Ready? The descent gets steeper, and you hardly have time to breath. Get the line and your spacing right and you'll flow up 1/2 the backside climb before the homestretch brings the pain.

50 seconds @ 5.28 w/kg.
Starting about halfway up the climb, up the false flat rising homestretch, comes the longest, uninterrupted stretch of power demands before you get back around to the "40 second recovery" zone that is turns 1-5.

Not impressed?
So that's it. Have you done the math? Are you thinking "What's the big deal? I can do that all day long!" Last year, roughly 42 of 72 could and did reach that bar. I wish I was one of you. The rest of us were yanked off the course well before bell lap. And not just anonymous riders like me. Guys with real results in many other competitive races.

I think what's critical to recognize about fierce crit racing is that it is not sufficient to look at your power dynamic curve and see that max efforts are well above what was apparently required in the course of the race. Rather, you must consider the context. The frequency, timing and placement of the wattage demands within the race.

I was able to do the dance for 13 laps. There were moments that I felt good, strong, in control and out of danger. But this race was closer to 24 laps long. And as one of my friends pulled away on the homestretch, taking his enormous draft with him, I came unglued and that was that.

I don't expect to podium this year's Cat 2/3 race,
but I continue to be inspired by my son.

Will I do better this year? On paper, I should be better. But we don't race on paper. Regardless, I'm looking forward to a truly challenging test at one of the best races of the year.

Kindergarten Quest: Thunderdome

A trip on the new 2nd Ave Subway
after his interview at Hunter

After reading about my son’s miraculous transformation into a meowing kitty the exact morning of an important school interview months ago, some of you have been asking, “How’s Peter? Meow.”

Peter’s great. Really great. His mom and I, however, are kind of a wreck. I've spent the last three days stress-eating an entire platter full of homemade lemon bars. "You didn't save me one?!?!" The baker-in-charge and my beloved wife asked me tonight. My bad?

The search for Kindergarten in NYC is not for those easily wearied. Sarah and I have visited 21 schools, and about half of those 2 or 3 additional times each. Peter had his share of visits too. 

We counted 10 “playdates”–a slightly weird and inaccurate term that the private schools use for these evaluation sessions. Generally speaking, upon arrival, parents are herded into a conference room, while our children are whisked away, brought into rooms (that we can only assume are actual, or closely resemble, classrooms), where they spend 45-120 minutes being the perfect combination of unquestionably charming, obviously brilliant and decidedly desirable to an audience of school teachers and administrators.

But let me repeat. PETER HAS BEEN GREAT. He’s always first in line, remembers to ask the new-to-him teachers if he can wear his Santa hat, and comes back after "class" ready for the next adventure.

We don’t know exactly what happens in these mock classes. Peter, for all his charms, is still a frustratingly terrible historian. And the schools either tell you nothing about what happened, or bore you with vague details (trust me, "vague details" is a thing) that mean nothing. 

And so, YOU MUST USE THE FORCE. Or come up with an impossibly specific question about a scenario you can only imagine....that a kid will also answer. So, yeah, just go ahead and use The Force. It’s easier.

On a chilly Saturday in January we embarked upon the GREATEST TEST OF THEM ALL. Hunter College Elementary School. Hunter is a selective K-12 public school with a progressive educational philosophy that has the resources of NYC private schools that cost upwards of $45,000 a year. If I had gone there, for example, I might not need a calculator app to tell you that getting in is like winning $585,000 lottery ticket. Or I might be performing on Broadway like alumnus Lin-Manuel Miranda. Because Hunter is magic. Obviously.

Given the high-stakes of this particular school interview, we briefly thought about asking him to keep the Santa hat he had been wearing all day, all night, every day since the 26th of December at home. 

But we couldn't. We wouldn't. Peter is his own person, packed with an adventurous, bold personality that frequently has us questioning from where exactly he came. We love that he spent weeks after Christmas asking if we like this or that then proudly exclaiming, "My elves made that!" We only hoped that the teachers at Hunter would be charmed by the boy with the Santa hat too.

Because this is no ordinary admissions process. It’s Thunderdome. Thousands apply, and only a few hundred 4-year-olds pass the Stanford-Binet V test and are invited to round two interviews.

Can't make your interview date? TOO BAD. NO HUNTER FOR YOU. Arrive a few minutes late (as we heard one poor parent did that Saturday). TOO BAD. NO HUNTER FOR YOU.

It’s cut-throat. After my wife and I shared a brief and genuine moment of sympathy for the tardy parent, I wondered, did she come with a boy or girl? Because only 25 boys and 25 girls get spots in the school, and one less boy in the mix is good for us.

Hey, did I mention, IT’S THUNDERDOME?!?! Actually, it's worse.

“Six men enter, one man leaves. SIX men enter, ONE man leaves.”

Since that Saturday, we've been waiting for weeks and weeks and possibly years. (There's a very real problem with the space-time continuum of all of this.) We find out on Friday. Tomorrow or today or yesterday (what day is it?). 

Regardless of how it turns out. We are both so incredibly proud of how our meowing, Santa Claus hat-wearing son has been handling all of this.

Bear Mountain is Broken

Recently, former race promoter of the Century Road Club Association, Matthew Vandivort wrote an interesting and well-regarded essay focusing on the iconic Bear Mountain Classic road race to illustrate some of the fiscal demands of hosting a bike race in our corner of the cycling world. You should read it here:

http://teamhealthwarrior.com/2016/04/are-bike-races-broken/

And while it’s a good read, filled with facts that help illustrate his point, I’m still left with the overwhelming feeling that I can only describe as, “Yes, but…”

Vandivort lays out what I assume was the Bear Mountain Classic operating budget during his tenure on the CRCA board in some detail, then summarizes it as such:

“For the Bear Mountain Classic the budget totals to [sic] $30,000 in expenses BEFORE getting to the prize pool. Toss in the 2016 prize pool of $3,000 and expected USAC insurance costs and the total bill for a single day of racing is in the $35,000 range.”

You and I would be a fool to deny the tremendous expenses faced by race promoters. Even with hundreds, maybe thousands of volunteer hours put in by dedicated enthusiasts, putting on a bike race is expensive and exhausting. That’s a fact.

“Yes, but…”

For the sake of clarity and context, it might helpful to do a little comparing. These high quality, popular races in the general region may be more or less expensive to run, I don't know, but we can easily see what they are charging and offering.

Race Pro 1/2 Entry Fee Pro 1/2 Prize Purse

Bear Mountain  $67.50 (averaged) $600 10 deep

Quabbin             $65                       $1000 10 deep

Turkey Hill $35                       $1000 10 deep

So yeah, Bear Mountain, amongst its contemporaries, has the highest entry fee and smallest prize purse. And so the reality of the matter is whether you as a promoter have good reason for setting up your entry fee/prize purse ratio as such, some people are going to notice and be put off by the discrepancy.

“Yes, but…”

Is the Bear Mountain entry fee too expensive?

Is that the reason riders are not cranking out megawatts to get to what is one of the most impressive road race courses in the country? 

Vandivort reports that Bear Mountain’s “break-even” point is around 550 riders. With just hours to the close of race registration they appear to be around 100 riders short hitting that target. The similarly priced Quabbin road race had 564 pre-registered riders and I’m confident it had nothing to do with the bigger prize list. For one, there is my personal and highly unscientific observation that in 25 years of racing—among my peer group of amateur bike racers—I have never personally met a single racer who made the decision to attend a race primarily based on the prize purse. 

Yes, entry fees are rising, prize purses are shrinking. We all notice, and some complain.

For years, I’ve been trying to get teammates to some really great races in part by mentioning the ridiculously good prize purses, to no avail. 

One of my all time favorite criteriums, The Wilmington Grand Prix offers Cat 2/3s $2500, 20 deep! And yet a cursory glance at the 2015 results show that there were only around 4 NYC racers who finished the 2/3 race.

In contrast, races in the exceedingly popular New England Max Performance Triathlon Series entry fees range from $77 to $105 and offer no prize money. 

Frankly, whether a race costs $40 or $70 is almost immaterial. Car rentals, restaurant meals, hotel rooms, those are expensive. 

Yes, the Bear Mountain Classic has a problem, but it has NOTHING to do with its entry fee or prize list. It has everything to do with their "product and target market audience."

There are literally hundreds of racers who call one of the 5 boroughs of New York City home. Hundreds more in nearby Northern New Jersey. These are racers who set their alarms for 4am just so they can have the opportunity to race sell-out fields in Prospect Park, Brooklyn. A “unique” opportunity that happens roughly 13 times a year. There is something really great and brilliant about NYC park racing, and at times it can be among the fastest, most competitive racing anywhere in the region.

But what is keeping those same riders from venturing just 30 or so miles north to take part of one of the grandest road racing courses this country has to offer? Why am I and so many others skipping out on this monument of the northeast road racing scene?

I’ve been racing the Bear Mountain course since the 1990s. I can’t remember exactly when I gave up on the race, but I can assure you it had nothing to do with entry fees or prize lists. It has everything to do with the race itself.

It’s too hard. 

Yup, there, I said it.

98 miles for the Pro 1/2 field, 84 for Cat 2s, on a demanding, hilly course, might be an appropriate distance for full-time riders coming off of Redlands, but for the hundreds of regular folks whose regular weekend training sends them up and down 9W, or maybe to the Rocket Ride, or out to Long Island for the Triangle Ride, or the Gimble’s in Westchester, Bear Mountain ends up being a suffer-fest for which many are not prepared. 4 laps and 56 miles for Cat 3s and Masters appears to be, at first glance, reasonable distances, but a look to the 2015 results suggests otherwise. 

In 2015, 166 racers DID NOT FINISH. Another 20 or so were pulled and placed. 

In 2014, 133 DNFs. No Bear Mountain races in 2012 and 2013. In 2011, there were just 40 DNFs, but reduced racing fields saw just 217 starters. 2010 results do not list DNFs.

The last few years I participated in this race, things kind of played out in the same way. First couple of laps most everyone is in the action and at least hanging on. But by the third time up the backside climbs, the field shatters. And then you have a select group at the front, and almost everyone else climbs off in the feed zone. Burned in my memory was the year I was riding half the race solo, desperately hoping I could make it to the finish line before they packed up the finish-line cameras just to get placed in the results. It appears, thankfully, they have embraced the concept of “pulling and placing” riders since then.

In 2015, 14 people in the 84-mile Cat 2 race finished on the lead lap. 2 were pulled and placed. And 20 were DNFs. Take that in for a second...

Over half the Cat 2 field did not finish the race.

The 56-mile Cat 3 race field fared better, with 63 finishers on the lead lap, but that still left 25 DNFs. The 56-mile Cat 4 field had 34 DNFs.

It is worth noting too that the women of the Pro 1/2 race proved their toughness and went against this general trend of DNFs. In a 26-rider field, all but five finished their race.

And the men's Pro 1/2 race? 19 men finished on the lead lap, including a mix of local legends with 400+ watt FTPs and actual real deal pros and national caliber Cat 1s like Scott Zwizanski, Stephen Hyde and Eneas Freyre. 13 others were pulled and placed. 

In a 72-rider men's Pro 1/2 field, 40 DID NOT FINISH. That’s FORTY DNFs.

From a business point of view, this seems like an unsustainable model. How many of those 160 DNFs will come back and for how many years before they realize that they can’t even finish the race? What do some of the registration numbers look like this year compared to last?

                       2015 Starters            2016 Pre-reg'd

M Pro 1/2       72                              41

W Pro 1/2       26                              10

M 40+ 4/5       50                              55

W 3/4&35+     39*                             24

M Cat 3          88                               77

M Cat 4          99                               92

W Cat 4          30                              12

M Cat 5          72                               55

*Women 3/4 and Masters were run as separate categories in 2015; this year they are combined.

I’m not suggesting that the CRCA turns Bear Mountain into something it is not, but by reducing race distances I believe there is potential to attract a wider customer base without diluting the authenticity, the level of competition, and the character of Bear Mountain.

Finally, this race typically happens on Mother’s Day. And for Masters (the largest single group of license holders according to USA Cycling) racing on Mother’s Day can be, ahem, problematic.

Dad in Training: My son called me "fat."

"El-phan"

Am I doing it wrong? It's a question, dripping with guilt, that I'm sure hangs threateningly over most every decision, action and reaction we make as parents. Hang around me long enough (anytime over 10 minutes will do) and I'll admit to you that our son Peter is already an awesome kid, and on a day-by-day basis, I'm basically just trying not to screw him up.

And so, as the stay-at-home dad, I usually--sometime after mom comes home and has a great time with the same kid who I, not 40 minutes ago, barked at for splashing the dogs water out of the bowl--in a quiet moment, kind of hate myself for losing my mind earlier. Over what? A 20-month old splashing some water around the kitchen floor (which could probably use a little washing anyway)? Unfortunately, as my son fast approaches his 2nd birthday, feelings of worry and doubt started way back and do not look to be letting up anytime...ever.

In the beginning, too soon after the pure, deafening joy of my son's birth, I thought, "I don't think I spoke and sung to him enough when he was in utero." And I never, NOT ONCE, played him any Mozart through headphones pressed against Sarah's belly. As it turns out, according to Dr. Deborah Campbell, director of neonatology at The Children's Hospital at Montefiore not only is there no good evidence that you can in fact craft a baby genius by such technique, adding more noise to an already noisy womb, by way of loud speakers, is probably not a great idea. So PHEW!

"Gi-tar!"

Content in the knowledge that my quietly sung and thoroughly ridiculous made-up "I love you little
guy you're awesome" songs combined with early Tom Waits (see I am cool!) and Glee cast albums (see I am...uhm...) on road trips, I have moved on to other worries.

Namely language acquisition and development. I recall from a Developmental Psychology or Cognitive Science class I took in the way-way back at Vassar College, that an infant's brain is overflowing with almost limitless potential. But if you wait too long, the baby's brain will have "pruned" itself and will no longer be able to distinguish some of the subtle and almost imperceptible (to us) differences in, for example, some Asian language sounds. I haven't googled, or searched my old textbooks for a definitive answer, because I already suspect, and do not particularly want to be reminded, that because of me, my son will likely never speak perfect Mandarin.

And so, using the "better than nothing" theory of parenting, I sometimes speak and read to him in the only other language I sort of know. German. Despite the country's position as one of the world's most important, learning it's language is decidedly less so. No matter, we still count numbers in the elevator (I also add Spanish and mom remembers her HS French), I sing the alphabet to him with my best Teutonic accent. Knives and forks are also das Messer und die Gabel at Mittagsessen.

One particular day, I thought I must also teach him the German word for father. Right, duh? "Der Vater" or the more cuddly version, "Vati." In German the "V" is pronounced more like an "F" and so "daddy" will sound more like "fah-tee." Peter picks up new words at an alarming rate. And add to that the general rules of toddler verbal truncation, and Peter had both his mother and I laughing out loud when he pointed and called me "fat." Lesson learned. We'll stick with "da-DEE" for now.

Powers of keen observation (I'm working out and eating less), Mandarin language and grown-up cup drinking deficiencies aside, Peter continues to amaze us every day and excels in the field which to me matters most. Recently Peter has been, with outstretched arms, asking for "fa-huh" and "fa-ki." It's a "language lesson" we started early on in his life and I plan on subjecting him to "fa-huh" and "fa-ki" well past the time he stops asking for them. Because there is absolutely and truly nothing better in the world then when your son asks for a "family hug" or "family kiss." So moms and dads, if you ever wonder if you are doing it right, I can assure you that if you smother your kids with hugs and kisses and love, you are. You are doing it very right.

Dad in Training: Stay-at-Home Winter Olympics

With the mountains of Sochi filled with abandoned 1/2 pipes, ski jumps whooshing now only as the crosswinds blow, and luge runs empty of athletes hurling themselves down icy tracks in toddler-tested methods (head first, feet first, really expensive sled first), you might think that the winter games are over.

But you would be wrong. The torch has been passed. There is an elite group of competitors packed away in an athlete's village called New York City. And we're all staring at a weather forecast that promises to dump another 8 or 10,000 inches of snow to be plowed and shoveled oh-so conveniently right in front of the place where you are supposed to cross the street. Also we can count on crusty mounds of blackened plow-snow to be blocking pedestrian access to our bus and subway stops. Stops that take us to family-friendly venues that will save our apartments from cabin-fever induced disaster management.

Why does my 19-month-old son Peter delight in taking every single book off the shelf and hurling it across the room with both the skill and deadly accuracy of a Norwegian Biathlete?

We are the stay-at-home parents of the 2014 Polar Vortex Games! And while I'm not a podium contender yet, I do have some top-tips to make sure you are wearing gold at the end of these winter games (which I predict to be sometime around Father's Day).

1. Get a membership. While the upfront investment of a few hundred dollars is significant, do a little math and you'll realize that being

   

   Not everyone minds the snow in NYC.

   
   

   able to drop into the Children's Museum of Manhattan or the Bronx Zoo at a moment's notice throughout the next year without worrying if you've got enough time to make the daily entry fee "worth it,"  is a gold-medal-winning move. Plus, romping around children's museums? Educational and fun! And being able to recite, "Brown Bear, Brown Bear What Do You See?" while staring at two actual brown bears wrestling? Kind of Double awesome.
   
2. Get a backpack. No, not that kind. I'm talking the kind that you will carry your toddler to the zoo, the museum, the store, through subway turnstiles without a second thought at record pace. It turns every trip into a ride and your kid will love it. Plenty of parents embrace front-of-the-body packs like the Ergo or Baby Bjorn, but at some point they get shoved in the back of a closet and the omnipresent umbrella stroller comes out. And for an island that currently boasts snowy ridges blocking crosswalks, the stroller is just the wrong tool for the job. Strollers are for STROLLING. And in New York, we don't usually stroll. We walk (more quickly than rickety small plastic wheels can handle), we climb (up and down subway stairs), we run (for the bus), we do ("Ninja-quick" shopping trips at bodegas that pack more items in the same footprint that a suburban grocery store fits their Redbox and Coinstar vending machines.) My dad says he used to get looks carrying me around in a backpack...and that was in the 1970s. 40 years later, I get looks of surprise, followed by realization, a smile, then the comment. "Looks like he's got the best seat in the house." Yes, yes he does.
   
   
3. Get a snowsuit. In the world of Olympic and athletic competition, speed is of the essence. And let's face it; with the jackets, the mittens, the hats, the shoes (all of which routinely get torn off the second you get them on), it probably takes you 1/2 the day just to get crew ready to leave the house. But a good lined snowsuit with a long zipper will not only cut down on your prep time (pants optional!), but keep him warm as can be.  Also snowsuits make your super adorable kid even more so: