George E. Knox

Dresses. They’re all good.

I feel like I owe everyone an update on school and dresses and my own state of self-inflicted insanity. My oldest has worn dresses/skirts/tutus every single day to first grade, and big surprise – it’s a complete non-issue. Getting over that first day was a hurdle, y’all. But just for my partner and me. My kid wasn’t nervous or self-conscious at all. He’s thrived, clothing has been a non-issue, he…

Well, here’s a lovely dilemma filed under “I never imagined having these conversations”: My partner and I have decided we need to be the grown-ups and not be so fearful for our son. Gathering wisdom from innumerable sources, we think it’s best to let our little gender-nonconformist break the ice and wear some skirts to school. My rationale comes from three arguments: What’s most important is he…

Well…It Finally Happened

It finally happened. My son was publicly shamed for wearing a dress. And my fatherly instincts screamed with leonine ferocity inside my head, but the diplomacy of a damn Israeli-Palestinian negotiator without. I took my kids to France, again, for a few weeks, this summer. I figured the cost of the trip was less than paying for 2 kids’ camp in New York City; plus, I used the last of my AmEx miles…

May all of our kids be this self-aware and expressive when they are 10 years old.

Hair Today, Mullet Tomorrow

The Before: The After: When I became a father, one of the battles I swore to myself I’d never wage was over hair. A friend of mine's son made hideous teenage hair choices, but his mother once said to me, “My mother made such a big deal of my hair I swore I’d never do the same to my kids.” I adopted that philosophy. My mom and I went round and round about my hair so very many times. She wanted me…

Proud to be “Worst Daddy in the World”

“You’re the worst daddy in the world,” was stated, yesterday. Not the first time I’ve heard it. Thankfully, I haven’t heard it much (yet). But as a friend reminded me, it probably means I’m doing my job. Why’d I receive such 5yo vitriol? Because on a rainy Saturday afternoon, after offering my sons to veg out in front of the TV, I made the stipulation they had to clean their room, first. Now,…

Happy Father’s Day, Mom.

On Father’s Day, I’m reminded I’m the mom. Not in the ignorant person asking, “Yeah, but which one of you is the mom?” way. That has a connotation of “which one of you is the girl?” I resent that. We aren’t that superficially categorized. But I guess the semantics need simplification. I’m confusing myself. Lemme explain. My partner is the one who knows how to “just be” with our kids. He’s the one…

I’m not Racist, but…

A few months ago, after my four thousandth reading of Pinkalicious, I closed the book, and thought, “Man. If I were an African-American father I would be disgusted by our book selection.” Pinkalicious. Vanilla Icing Icing Baby. Fancy Nancy. Frilly whitey. Biscuit Goes to the Farm (or does whatever). Yellow lab, white identity. Curious George. A monkey living in a white world. Ergo: white monkey.…

It’s not just that my son loves Disney princesses. He loves the entire kit ‘n caboodle of what society would label (unfairly) “girly” stuff. Purple lollipops. (Not just any lollipop.) Sparkly tutus Barbie pink dream cars Cotton candy Fancy Nancy Glitter this Sequined that Pinkalicious Pink everything Purple everything It comes as a package. Walking down the street, he’s got a focused attention to…

Brexit: Maybe It’s Not So Bad?

Before iPhones, NYC taxi drivers were reliably fun conversationalists. They still are in London. London cabbies are some of the most uniquely intelligent people in the world. They have unparalleled geographic knowledge set to navigate the mind-boggling maze of tiny London streets. And due to my lack of a cell phone, the cabbies were immediately engaging and friendly. And opinionated. After…

Adele, THAT Adele, was our Nurse

So a few nights ago, I found myself in a London emergency room.I know: whaaaaat? My younger son had a collision at a playground and bit his tongue. There was a lot of blood, but it stopped quickly. He said he wanted to go home, but daddy was all, “Kid, we schlepped all the way to the Princess Diana/Peter Pan playground because the damn blogs said it’s a ‘must’. We ain’t leaving til you’ve found…

You guys! I just keep doing it. I’m a moth to a flame.  A despondent liberal news junkie gravitating toward CNN.  A rat returning for just one last nibble off the near-carc…I don’t know where that metaphor is going. I keep falling for my the guidebooks and guideblogs that say, “Spend a scrumptious day with your child wandering baroque delights of Henry VIII’s residence as your child marvels at…

She’d drag my whiny ass everywhere. And I do remember complaining; like…the entire time.

I swore I’d never be the same. I feel empowered by walking out of a museum within 90 minutes because, let’s face it…nobody has that kind of attention span. Or hip flexor strength. Or stamina in their shoulders to hold a backpack of fruit snacks and water bottles while staring at dinosaurs/paintings/historical re-enactments for 4 hours.

But folks…I did it, today. I’m in London with my partner (after two months solo in NYC). But he’s still working all the time as his two shows are prepping for opening night. So it’s still just me and the boys. Except we’re in London.

  So today we went to the British Museum to see mummies – per their request. We saw mummies. Mummified adults the size of my 5yo, mummified cats, alligator, a mummified eel (wtf?) The boys were horrified/fascinated/traumatized. But mostly bored. Seriously – we saw one mummy and my 3yo says, “I’m bored. Let’s go home.” Admittedly, he might’ve been overwhelmed by the 3,000 students mobbing the room of 3,000 year-old mummies. But really, I think he was like, “There’s nothing to TOUCH in this museum? This place blows.”

But we were in the GD British Museum. We weren’t gonna leave without seeing some more priceless stolen treasures. (I kept saying “And the British stole that, and the British stole this, and that…”)

So I dragged them to see the Samurai armor because my older one read a book about ninjas. Zzzzzz.

Hey look, boys – a 3-story tall statue of Buddha!

Daddy? Can we go to the cake pop store? (Starbucks)

Shut up and look at this amazing stolen Roman thingy.

Daddy, my stomach feels angry that we are here. Can we go?

Are you gonna throw up? Look at that sarcophagus.

No. I mean, yes, I’ll throw up. If we stay here.

Can it, kid. Look at these stolen friezes from ancient Greece.

And then we turn a corner. The Rosetta Stone. I mean – the translator that opened humankind up to a trove of another rich civilization. Guys, this is one of the most important archaeological finds in all human history!

I mean…the ROSETTA STONE.

Okay, okay. So they’re only 5 and 3. I should cut ’em a break. But we’re in the BRITISH MUSEUM for stolen’s sake!

Look guys! Sphinxes and obelisks and some old stolen temple, oh my!

Daddy? Can we buy a present?

No. Look at this medieval metalwork. (I’m boring myself, by this point.)

I hate it, here, Daddy. There’s nothing to do but look at stuff.

Right, but you’re growing smarter by the second. I just know it. You’ll pass that test to get into the G&T program and I’ll never have to worry about you being dumb. I’ll just worry about you being a drug dealer at ivy league schools. And that’s preferable to you being stupid.

Daddy, don’t say stupid.

And then, it happened. We stumbled into a room of such gorgeous (stolen) splendor that even my sons couldn’t avert their eyes. They were transfixed, they were enlightened, they were stimulated. My nagging and dragging had been worth it. They were changed beings from near-toddlers to almost-tweens. Such magic a little T&A can do…even for little American, uncultured troglodytes.

One more minute of giggling and they were back to…Daddy, this is boring. I wanna go.

And we did. We’d been there an hour. Pretty good compromise, if I do say so, myself.

I’ve been solo for 2 months. If you’ve spoken with me for more than six seconds over the last month, I’ve definitely reminded you when you ask, “How are ya?” “Oh…solo. That’s all. Me with two kids. All the time.” “Ohmigod. How are you holding up?” I’m fine. My partner is in London supervising two West End productions. This is what we signed up for. Long ago, when discussing becoming parents, he…

Screw Normal. Dresses are Fun.

So I wrote in another piece how I often want to say to my son, “Just be a normal boy!” (Disclaimer: I don’t actually say that to him.) And since I talk about this, frequently, with more people than the ½ dozen who read this blog, I’ve had a lot of conversations that checked/schooled/inspired/calmed me. A few that put me at ease and reminded me that my “issues” with my kid’s “issues” are really…