My first (documented) yeah, that's my fuckin' boy moment.

So it's getting pretty darn cold at the playground and the OTHER parents are already starting to wuss out. What to do? Indoor gymnastics! That's what to do! What? Really? Indoor gymnastics? Come on.

Seriously, it's true. There's this place ... wait this post is not about this place. But wait, seriously, this place is fucking amazing! God. I never thought I'd be thinking ... fucking uttering that a gymnastics place is amazing. No. Fucking amazing. So ... This place is a fully equipped gymnastics, ah, studio? gym? Whatever it's called, it's got everything! A pit full of styrofoam blocks. Balancing beams. A 40' long trampoline. Pom poms. A bouncy house. EVERYTHING! They have a stereo system that blares music that makes lil' ones want to rid their bodies of every ounce of energy. So, yes. It is fucking amazing! And at $14/month, quite the deal.

And this is the place where I had my first, as I titled this post, "that's my fuckin' boy moment". The lil' man was just jumping and running around to the song ... who am I kidding. I'd be lying if I named this pop tune. I'm pop-culturally inept. Anyway, he was running and jumping and then he wasn't. He froze as his eye caught Horton, who was surrounded by a mom and her three butterfly net armed children. You see, this motorized elephant was blowing paper butterflies out of its 4' long, flexible trunk. The lil' man was only frozen momentarily, then he ran over to the motorized Horton. The mom handed him a net. He just stood there and watched the other, much older children catch the paper butterflies in their nets. He did nothing. He didn't attempt to catch a butterfly. He didn't even raise his net. He just gazed. I tried to explain the game to him, but he didn't listen to me, let alone, acknowledge my existence (imagine that).

When Horton finally ran out of paper butterflies, the mom turned the mechanical elephant off, gathered all of the paper butterflies from the nets of her children, and placed the paper butterflies back in Horton's belly. I tried to convince the lil' man to go do some more jumpin' on the trampoline. But he wouldn't budge. He was obsessed with this game that appeared to be beyond his comprehension. The mom turned Horton on again. Before Horton spat out a single paper butterfly, the lil' man reached up, grabbed the flexible trunk, and pointed it directly into his net—obviously catching every single paper butterfly. The other kids just looked on, nets drooping at their sides, probably thinking. "MOM! That's not fair."

The mom looked up at me and said, "Umm. You've got a smart one." I'm sure I was beaming. Shit! I probably gave every fucking person in that gymnastics studio a fist-bump without even knowing it. I mean, damn. He's not even two and a half and he's already figured ... fuck! We're screwed.

Adopting God as THE answer.

This gig is really causing me to question my intelligence. I'm just not sure I'm smart enough to answer the non-stop barrage of questions. I mean, fuck, this lil' man thinks I have the answer for everything. I like to think that I know a little about a lot, but Jesus! Tonight it was fingernails, seems simple enough, right? You've got ten of them, one on each finger, they protect your fingers, they grow and you cut them, they get dirt under them and you clean them. Seems simple enough. But what do you tell a two year old when he asks, "Where do fingernails come from?" Fucked if I know. Do you know?

Anyway, I'm not a fucking biologist and I couldn't provide an answer. AND I've also learned that giving half-ass answers only inspires more difficult questions. Fortunately, the wifey was around to break the silence—she chimed in and said, "They come from your fingers." Yeah, no shit! This simplistic response certainly didn't answer the question for me, and I'm pretty freakin' sure the lil' man wasn't satisfied either. So ... where do fingernails come from?

Perhaps this is when God emerges as the answer to our individual deficiencies of knowledge. So ... "Where do fingernails come from?" Ummm. From God, silly. Damn! That was easy. I didn't have to think about it. I didn't have to feel dumb. I didn't have to use Google. Ahem. My job just got a whole lot easier.

There's no crying in fatherhood!

Fuck, fuck, Jesus, fucking, fucking holy fucking shit, pussy ass motherfucker!

My apologies. It's been awhile since my vulgar inner self has written.  I guess the looming election took hold of my mind and distracted me ... been thinking about Mormons, rape, my parents healthcare, the wifey's social security, gays being cured by sucking tits, wealthy people gaining more wealth, abortion, and equality.  Fortunately, at 8:36 this morning, the lil' man set me right by splitting my lip open with a sippy cup full of milk. I can only imagine what was going through his mind as he hucked the cup at my face, "Wake the fuck up daddy! Quit thinking about politics. Your life is about me!"

The rest of the day was ... ahh ... ummm ... let's just say, relentless. And after twenty consecutive minutes of two minute timeouts on a park bench. I (but first, I'd like to point out that I'm a pretty solid, even keel guy when it comes to emotion. I'm certainly no "man's man", but I'm tough on the inside.  A very passionate, sensitive and opinionated chap, but nothing really gets under my skin. There really isn't anything that would cause me to yell. There isn't anything that would frustrate me to the point of tears. Well, except for a certain political party ... nope. Not gonna go there.) wept in public. Did you get that? I didn't know what else to do. What else to say. Tears just started rolling down my fucking face.

Don't make your kid afraid of garbage.

Every time I see another child pick up some trash at the park, I hear, "EEEK! Don't touch that! It's trash!" Then the parent gives the child a lesson on germs and the dangers of garbage as they wipe the kid down with sanitizer. Really! You're just teaching your child to be full of fear. And besides, the more you tell your toddler NOT to do something, the more curious they become. Which could lead to some seriously unsanitary shit.

Our lil' man loves to pick up trash—it's much more fun than the slide or swing. AND I think it is awesome! Instead of teaching him to be afraid of it, I teach him that, "Picking up trash is a good thing. But, trash is gross and goes into the garbage can. If you pick it up! You put it into the garbage can, and it never goes in your mouth."

Imagine how clean our earth could be ...

Buying bread shouldn't be this hard!

When your household includes a Celiac diseased glutard, a persnickety two year old, and a crunchy crust loving wifey—who has a fancy job and like twelve lunch meetings a week—let me tell you, folks, buying bread ain't that easy! Three types of bread for three people! That's only going to result in waste. There is nothing I hate more than waste, especially when it involves food. So many hungry people in the world ...

I'm simple, I buy the only shitty bread that I can eat. And I eat it all. But the other two mouths just can't agree and every week too much bread goes in the garbage can. It's bad enough that I can't help them enjoy their breads, but having to throw it away. Shit! What I'd give to eat either of their bread selections.

This morning, I went to feed my people and like so many other households in the world, ours was without bread. Well, without the kind containing glutenous goodness anyway. Actually I lie, there were two types of glutenous bread, they were just covered in mold. AND for the fist time this week, my wifey needed lunch. I had:

1/2lb of provolone
1/2lb of turkey
1/2lb of ham
1/4lb of cheddar
1/4lb of roast beef
1/4lb of salami
1 can of tuna fish

See what I mean, PERSNICKETY! But no God damn bread! The wifey came downstairs and gave me a look that suggested, "What the fuck have you been doing? Where is my lunch?" Okay, perhaps I projected that look. I just looked at her and said, "Sorry dude. I've got no lunch for you today." I felt like such a failure.

Oh Maine. It's time to change your message.

Maine: The way life should be. Yeah, that was obviously written by an out-a-stater, who had the luxury of spending summers in a coastal "cottage"—that had been in the family for three generations. Don't get me wrong, even though I've only been gone for ten weeks, I miss you. I miss your beauty. I miss your star filled sky. I miss your quiet mornings. But, we had to leave you. We just had to ...

Like so many people in Maine, we struggled to make a living. The wifey worked a full time gig and spent her evenings doing freelance for out-of-state clients. I owned and operated a small business, meaning, I worked my ass off for no pay. We were living to work, and it sucked ass. Life was set to warp speed and we couldn't slow it down. We didn't have time for each other. We struggled to find the energy for our two year old. AND we certainly didn't have time to enjoy you and every magical thing you offer. Fortunately, we realized that this was NOT the way life should be.

So, we decided to embrace change and moved three states down the road. Leaving behind what seemed to be the perfect life: our 1850's farmhouse that took us nine years to rehab, a great job, a successful business, and a wonderful community. BUT! God, did the risk pay off! Once again, life is moving at a speed that actually allows us to enjoy everything about it. We, well ... at least the wifey is working to live. I'm just living the dream, playing homemaker to an awesome gal and two year old. Isn't that the way life should be?

I love you Maine, but we're going to be gone for awhile. But, we'll be back once we're in a position to actually enjoy you. Sure, we might become one of those asshole family's with out-of-state plates—please don't hold that against us! We've always been Mainers' and always will be, I hope that's worth something.

I pity the fool!

The lil' man and I were at the super market today. I know. I know. What the fuck? You were at the super market? I don't spend the entire day at the playground! Anyway. I've been doing the supermarket thing since I was 15. And let me tell you, I'm efficient. I don't need no stinking list. I just get in my supermarket zone and gather.

A few weeks ago the lil' man realized that there are matchboxes at this particular market. At first, this was a blow to my efficient gathering. What? An extra aisle to travel.  However, I quickly realized that it was a very useful learning tool. "Buddy, I'll buy you a matchbox if! If you keep your hands in the cart. If you don't break anything. AND if you refrain from that ridiculously obnoxious vacuum cleaner sound effect you're so fond of. I keep telling you nobody digs it. Why don't you believe me?" The first couple of times, we left the market matchbox-less. But, eventually he caught on. And ... eventually I started putting more matchboxes in the cart. Hey! I want to leave the market with a matchbox too.

Back to today. I was in my gathering zone, efficiently roaring through the super market. Half way through the journey, the lil' man started screeching, "Matchboxes daddy!" At first, I stayed in my zone, "Yeah. We're almost there, lil' buddy." He responded with a, "NO! MATCHBOXES DADDY!" I looked up and realized that I was about to ram into a huge display of matchboxes. What the fuck? That's not where the matchboxes are supposed to be. A huge sign read, matchboxes 62 cents. I threw an arm full in the cart. Okay. I lie. I ... I mean, WE carefully selected an armful of matchboxes.

Off we went to complete the supermarket voyage and like I said, I'm efficient. It didn't take long and the lil' man only lost a couple along the way. Unfortunately, when we reached the checkout area, only one register was open. Oh no! Like his momma, he just can't resist all that eye candy. His arms starting flailing. Hands started grabbing. Shit started flying onto the floor and into the cart. "Buddy, you have to keep your hands in the cart!" One more matchbox gone. Another. Another ..."

By the time we were finally rung through, there were only four matchboxes left in the cart. Jesus Christ! They were only 62 cents each. What an opportunity to inexpensively enhance our, I mean, your collection. Why was there only one register open? Why couldn't you just keep your fucking hands in the cart? Damn it all!

I'm chill. We, darn it! He did get four pretty sweet new matchboxes. The center piece being an A-Team van. That's right bitches! You can sleep better tonight, the A-Team is alive and well. I was going to post a photo of it, but ... I already can't find it. That's living with a two year old. But, hey. If it weren't for him, I'd have never owned an A-Team matchbox at the ripe ol' age of 37. Even if it was only for 3 hours.

Don't do this #3.

Guys. Guys. Guys! Life is short. Don't spend a decade contemplating your existence. Put down the Sartre. And for Christ's sakes, don't watch films directed by those Cahiers du Cinema folks. They'll just fuck you up. You want purpose? Find a nice girl and make a baby. Well, I mean, if you're into that sort of thing.

I feel like such a dink!

Those who know me well, know that I've always had an aversion for rules. I just don't like them! I don't like making them. I certainly don't like following them. But, I have a two year old now and rules, well, they seem kinda necessary. Thus far, we've really only had to establish one rule in our house: Throw balls. Throw kisses. Nothing else!

Like me, the lil' man doesn't really dig rules. He just wants to throw shit. I can't really fault him, throwing shit is pretty fucking awesome. But ... it can also be dangerous. At first, when the lil' man threw something that was not a ball or a kiss, we tried putting him in a timeout. He quickly figured out that the joy of throwing stuff was definitely worth sitting in a timeout. He'd throw something and nonchalantly utter a single word, "timeout." Then he'd walk to a chair, climb up, sit there for a few, then say "all done" and get down. Okay. Let's move on to the next idea.

The box. "Okay lil' man. Whatever you throw, that is not a ball or a kiss goes into this box. AND it's never, ever, coming out. At first, he was still quite the prolific thrower. However, the throwing diminished after he realized that I wasn't fucking around.  My cherished possessions actually DO go into the box and they do NOT reappear. But, he slowly started testing the rules. He quickly realized that he could throw certain items without consequence. A sippy cup full of milk, for example. That's certainly not going in the box. Daddy's matchboxes, those don't stay in the box for long. Mommy's phone certainly does not go in the box. You get my drift. The worst part of the process was, that after throwing these items not to be boxed, he'd say, "That goes in the box." How could this not make me proud? Pretty sweet problem solving skills, my clever lil' dude.

I didn't feel so proud on Thursday, as he chased his favorite little friend, Blakeslee through the sandbox at the playground. Ugh ... the hand at the end of his cocked arm was holding a dump truck. I only had a moment to plead, "Please don't ..."—the dump truck whizzed past the back of her head. Oh man! Time for daddy to be a dink. But, ...?

We went home, had lunch, and I put him down for his nap. I spent the 20 glorious minutes thinking about the next step. Blah. Blah. Blah. Then it hit me. Embarrassment! To this day I remember a single moment of punishment from my lil' shit youth that actually worked. I was hanging with some friends at the mall. My mom picked us up and as we walked through the parking lot, I tossed an itsy bitsy penny. My furious mother, who must be the child of the great depression or something, was not happy about this tossing of the penny. She screeched, "Go pick that up!" I thought, "Why? It's a fucking penny. Not like it's a quarter." But the look on her face! As my friends sneered, I crawled under a car and retrieved the penny. Let me tell you, I've not thrown a penny since.

It's Thursday. The farmers' market is on Thursday and all of the lil' man's friends will be there. Ding dong! When the lil' man woke from his power nap, we started putting our family picnic together . Once "we" had gathered all the normal picnic crap, I snuck into THE box. I grabbed his favorite item, a thrown object that had been confined for more than two months, the "wheels on the bus" school bus that mommy had given him. When the lil' man saw the bus, his eyes brightened and he exclaimed, "Play with that!" But, I had to tell the lil' man, "Sorry. You can't play with this. You're going to take this to the market tonight and give it to Blakeslee." He just looked at me. I asked, "Do you know why you're going to give this to Blakeslee?" He replied, "Throw it." No explanation was necessary. Yes. He get's it. This is going to work.

We arrived at the market and were quickly surrounded by all of our people. As soon as he saw Blakeslee, he grabbed the school bus and ran towards her. Excitedly he exclaimed, "Give this bus to Blakeslee!" She happily took the bus. I asked, "Can you please tell Blakeslee why you're giving the bus to her?" He replied, "Throw it." Again, I felt, he get's it. But ... oh shit! He doesn't seem embarrassed. And. Ummm. He certainly doesn't seem to mind giving away one of his favorite toys, either.

It's been less than 48 hours since the—give away the toys you throw in front of all of your friends— "punishment" took place. I'd like to report that, like me, our lil' man is, a not easily embarrassed generous chap. Well, I'm hopeful that's what the drastic increase in thrown shit is about.

Things not to do #2.

I was chilling at the playground, duh, with my favorite stay-at-home mom. I noticed that my lil' man had a ginormous booger in his left nostril. I called him over and plucked out the gooey mess. I stuck it on HIS shirt. The mom said, "Nice. You're supposed to wipe that on yourself." I replied, "Are you kidding! He gets to change his clothes every day."

You just never know how long you'll be living in the clothes you have on, so for the love of God—don't stick HIS boogers on them.

The hip "stay-at-home" dad.

Remember those trustafarians you went to college with? The ones you flocked to because they bought a keg every night. The ones that got mediocre grades, but somehow became our politicians, CEO's, lawyers, and judges. Do you ever wonder about the ones that couldn't leave the slacker lifestyle behind?

When we arrived in Providence, I was stoked to hear that there were plenty of stay-at-home dads in our new 'hood. Nice! Visions of taking our lil' men to hockey games, playing catch in our backyards, and building cool stuff—filled my head. But weeks went by ... I haven't seen any of them. I haven't met any of them. Where are these other stay-at-home dads that people keep talking about?

Well, last week I finally met one of them. He had some tattoos, wore a straw fedora, and was dressed as if he belonged in the latest Urban Outfitters catalog. I certainly don't have anything against tattoos or fedoras, I'm just not hip enough to pull 'em off. But, the thing that really struck me about this dude, was the fact that I already new his child. Ahem! AND the nanny of his kid! Posing motherfucker! He probably doesn't even know his child's middle name.

I was filled with unpleasant thoughts. How dare this guy deem himself a "stay-at-home" dad! This undeserving prick! Other stay-at-home dads like me, either out of necessity or preference, work our asses off every minute of every day. While this GUY. This slacker.  This trustafarian. This "stay-at-home dad" just hands his kid off to the nanny and claims the title. BULLSHIT! All though ... having a nanny would be pretty awesome.

Oh well, I certainly don't mind hanging with the ladies. Picking blueberries and feeding the ducks ain't half bad.

Circumcision. What's all the fuss about?

All I know is that when our midwife asked, "Will you be having your son circumcised?" The wifey and I just gave each other a look that suggested, "I haven't thought about that. Have you?" Well, she explained that circumcision is a social and medical flip flop of a topic. "Right now, socially speaking, circumcision is the hip and natural thing to do. But medically speaking, there's a risk that your son will have problems down the road with an uncircumcised penis. AND the risk of a botched circumcision is minimal." We absorbed the information, but never really discussed the topic again.

Well that is, until we attended the wedding of a friend. We were sitting at a table, that was coupled up. Except for one gal that was alone. Someone asked, "Where's your date?" Well, this forty something answered,  "My date just had emergency surgery." Someone else inquired, "What sort of surgey?" To which she replied, "He had to be circumcised because his penis was infected. I guess it's a pretty traumatic procedure for someone of his age. He'll be laid up for a month." The wifey and I looked at each other and without exchanging words, we both knew.

We had our lil' man circumcised. And I will say, and not just because the person that performed the circumcision sometimes reads this blog, that it was done to perfection. But the point is that ... for some reason, most parents of boys that have not been circumcised want to talk about their son's uncircumcised penis. Why? So they seem hip? Au naturale? I don't get it. I certainly don't ever bring up my boy's circumcised penis in conversation.

The exchange always randomly starts with a, "WELL, my son IS NOT circumcised." I just want to respond, "WELL, my two year son thinks your boy has a small penis." OR ... say something like, "I really don't give a shit if your son hasn't been circumcised. Just tell the little asshole to stop throwing sand in my boy's face." Then, I just want to pants my lil' man in the middle of the playground, so everyone can see his glorious, circumcised penis.

But really, who cares!

The Beatles were WAY ahead of their time!

The four people that religiously read this blog might be wondering why I'm writing a post at the unusual hour of 6pm. Well, I just sent the wifey off to the farmers' market with the lil' man. Why? Don't you worry, I'll be joining them in a bit. I just needed to chug a couple of Redbridge first.

You'd think that with a two year old, I'd have some stupid Elmo song stuck in my head. Or ... that fucking wheels on the bus song. Why do we subject our children to these songs, anyway? But, that's not the case. I can't shake I'M SO TIRED, by the Beatles.

This verse in particular:
I'm so tired, I haven't slept a wink
I'm so tired, my mind is on the blink
I wonder, should I get up and fix myself a drink? 
No no no

Except for some reason my mind has changed the line No no no to Yes yes yes. I'm pretty sure John Lennon didn't write this song about being a stay-at-home dad. But I really don't give a shit. As long as I'm a stay-at-home dad, this song WILL be my theme.

Love.

Oh, the morning after! Some mornings I wake up ready to conquer the world. Okay, so that's rare. Some mornings I drag my sorry, fowl self out of bed. Some mornings I just wish it wasn't morning. But every morning, two things are for sure. I always need coffee. AND I always utter the same words to the lil' man when I first lay my eyes upon him, "Buddy, have I told you today, how much I love you?"

The past few days he's replied, "I love you so much, daddy." My heart melts. I just don't have the vocabulary to express how these precious words, words that he doesn't even understand yet, make me feel. What I do have, is answers. Answers to questions that I've pondered for quite some time. Questions like: How did my mother still love me when she had to pick me up at the police station, again? How did my mother still love me when I told her that I hated her fucking guts? How did my mother still love me when I registered as a Republican just to piss her off? How did my mother still love me when ... ?

The answer is so clear to me now. You just do. It's really that simple. I know that whatever the lil' mans actions are, whatever he says, whoever he becomes—I'll love him with all my heart. Well, unless he marries a Christian. Joking folks! Just joking! C'mon. I couldn't end a post THAT warm and fuzzy.  Okay, I probably should have ...

Drunk.

Some days I'm not sure if I'm at a playground or a watering hole. No matter what time of day, there's always at least one person getting paper bag drunk in the middle of the playground. I'm certainly no teetotaler and have definitely consumed an adult beverage or twelve in a public space. But at a playground? Surrounded by children? At 9 in the morning? Does it get any more pathetic? Yup.

Yesterday, I was chilling in the sandbox with my lil' man. I smelled a familiar fragrance at our neighborhood park. I looked up and noticed a dude smoking a joint. No biggie. I see dudes smoking joints in the park almost everyday. Whatever. What am I gonna do? Say something and end my 37 year punch-free streak. Ummm. No thanks.  But this dude wasn't just smoking a joint—he was multitasking. He was smoking a joint and pushing a fucking stroller!

Oh west end of Providence ...

Punch.

I've got a mouth. Within this mouth lies a sarcastic tongue that's a wicked smart ass. Around this mouth are loose lips. Together, they have always said exactly what my brain is thinking. Fortunately, this combo must also contain some charm. Because in my 37 years of existence, I've never been punched. And of course, I've never thrown a punch—I'm a lover.

The playground has been a bit rough lately. On Saturday, the wifey and I watched as four young boys (all between the ages of 5 and 9) beat the shit out of each other. There were punches to the throat and kicks to the face. Oh yeah, their mom/guardian just sat on a nearby bench and watched, too. Occasionally, she'd call them over for some hydration. Okay ... Whatever ... They're not my kids and as I mentioned before, I'm not into parenting children that I'm not responsible for. But still, I don't want my impressionable two year old to absorb this behavior.

Today, the lil' man and I were hanging out at the playground with my favorite stay-at-home mom and her two wonderful kiddos that are 1 1/2 and 2 1/2 years old. Like always, we were all having a lot of fun together. Then a 6 year old bully emerged and did what bullies do. Pick on someone that is different and smaller. Yeah, that's right, pick on the only blonde haired, white, two year old in the park. He gave MY lil' man a two handed shove to the chest. I stayed put. I wanted to observe the response of my lil' man before interfering. Besides, I knew that he was just going to run to daddy—I mean, shit, he's two. To my surprise, my lil' man gave that little bastard an even harder two handed shove to the chest—knocking the much larger boy to the ground. I jumped up. Before I could get there, they had already exchanged several more shoves. Obviously, I brought an abrupt end to this foolishness.

At first, I thought, "What the fuck are we doing here? It's kinda frightening! Why aren't we back in our safe, rural, homogenous community? Surely, we wouldn't be experiencing this shit there. What the fuck have we done?" I got a grip! This is what boys do everywhere. Yeah, two seems a bit young. But, I guess you've just gotta deal with stuff as it comes along. I'm not sure how I should feel about my lil' man sticking up for himself and shoving back. Should I be proud? Should I be upset? Would I feel better or worse if he'd just walked away? Dunno, but I sure would be proud if he made it 37 years without taking or throwing a punch.

Dirty dogs.

These are feet. The feet of a white man. The feet of an urban stay-at-home dad that just spent 12 hours carrying, pulling, pushing, and chasing a 29-pound bundle of exuberant joy. These are feet that spent 5 hours at the playground today. These are feet that walked, trotted, and sprinted over 8 miles in a single day. These are my feet and this is how they look every night. These feet have been living in the urban jungle for two months and have already worn through a beloved pair of Chaco sandals and two pairs of flip flops. These feet aren't about glamor. These feet are about getting shit done.

Things not to do #1

Okay. Okay. This is certainly not the first thing that, I should not have done as a parent, but It did inspire me to start a list.

If your two year old has to have a tooth pulled ... for the love of God! Do not feed him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich the next day. Especially if you didn't sleep the night before and you just extended your trip to the zoo because you're experimenting with a new schedule. It's WAY past nap time and neither of you are in the mood for a bonus challenge. You see, that vacant hole was just sitting there, waiting to be plugged with mushy peanut butter coated bread. He'll freak out. You're tired and will say something stupid, like, "Dude. Just drink some water." He'll freak out more and you'll stick a frustrated finger into his sore mouth and pull the goo out. Then, you'll drop him in his crib for, what you hope is, an extra long nap.

Then you'll be left alone in silence wondering, "What the hell is wrong with me? He just needed my help. Why did I get so frustrated?" You'll feel bad, then you'll realize that it wasn't your fault. It was those fucking priests! Yeah, I said, those fucking priests! AND that stupid wine social they hold every month. Yesterday, while your wifey was eating truffles and gulping glasses of wine, your solo ten hour shift turned into a ten and 3/4 hour shift. You're just more exhausted than usual, don't sweat it. A long weekend approaches—book yourself a cottage on the Cape. Ummm ... by yourself.

Creating memories. That's some scary shit!

One of my favorite moments of the day is when the lil' man and I sit down and share a container of Chobani. I grab one out of the fridge and start stirring it with a spoon. As soon as he hears this familiar sound, he stops racing his matchboxes and runs to the kitchen. With delight, he exclaims the flavor of the day. Once the fruit and yogurt are stirred together, I put down the spoon and he screeches, "Put granola in it daddy." I always do.

We head over to where Bob Shetterly hangs to enjoy our snack. I dip the spoon, the lil' man leans over to determine who gets the bite. Basically, the deal is, if the bite contains bits of fruit or big chunks of granola he exclaims, "That's my bite." If the spoon only contains yogurt, "That bite is for daddy." He gets all the good bites and I'm more than happy with this arrangement. I mean, he's my best friend. I just feel lucky to have such a wonderful little bug to share my Chobani with.

The past few weeks have been mentally exhausting. I've been waking up in a fowl mood, pretty much every day. Some mornings it takes me awhile to shake this feeling. Today, I was still feeling fowl when we sat down to share our Chobani. I thought to myself, "Why do you get all the good bites? Can't daddy have a bit of fruit? A chunk of granola? What the fuck?" Fortunately, this thought process brought me out of my fowl mood. "Dude this is your boy. You give him all the good bites because you love him. Because it delights him. Because you're unselfish. AND because thirty years from now, you don't want HIM to think, "Sure he shared his Chobani with me everyday, but that asshole ate all the good bites. I'll never eat Chobani again—as long as I live."

You see, when I was a kid, a certain set of grandparents always used my birthday as an excuse to eat lobster. Lobster was my favorite treat. I'd get so excited as they piled all of the legs on a plate for me. I remember thinking, "Wow! They must love me. They're all giving me the best part of their lobsters." I'd suck and suck on those legs. I've got to imagine that they were all laughing on the inside, "Look at him. What a twit. He really thinks the legs are the best part. HA!" as they chewed on a piece of claw or tail.

Well, eventually I grew up. Lobster is still my favorite treat, but ... I no longer suck on the fucking legs. I don't even take the time to pull the legs off. In fact, those fucking legs go right into the fucking trash can. Thanks for the memories!

There's nothing like old friends.

We spent last weekend on the Cape with one of my three go-to friends. There's nothing like the comfort of an old friend. Somebody that truly gets you. There's no need for meaningless small talk. There's no uncomfortable silence. You don't have to figure out if a handshake, fist bump, or hug is the appropriate greeting. No explanation is necessary for your sarcastic tone. You just sit back, relax, and enjoy the moment. You put off leaving, but eventually you hug goodbye, knowing that the next time will be just as glorious in it's simplicity.

But, I had no idea how inspiring this weekend would be for the lil' man's imagination.

Sure, my friend and the lil' man are peas in a pod. There was lots of wild running. More harmonicas than I could count. Drawing. "Sure you can play with my base guitar. Go ahead and break it." More wild running. Both of them woke up with the sun. But, it was the trip to the beach that really got the lil' mans juices flowing.

We gathered the normal beach accessories: chairs, cooler, umbrellas, towels, buckets, and a SPADE. "What? Why are you bringing a spade to the beach? What are you going to do with a spade? A little overkill, don't you think? Dude, you don't need to bring a spade to the beach." "Damn it! The spade is coming." Okay ... So off we went, spade and all.

Immediately upon arrival, he put the spade to use. He dug and dug. Creating a waist high mound of sand that was at least 12 feet in length. We just sat back and watched—because that's what you do with this friend. Sit back, watch, and wonder what this creative madman is up to. Finally, he stepped back and surveyed the mound. He must have approved, because he put the spade down and started sculpting with his hands.

The lil' man became MORE out of control, so we had to leave before the sculpture was finished. I can only imagine that it became some sort of huge dragon, lizard, reptile thing.  We got back to the house and HOLY CRAP! It's the lil' man's supper time, he's starving—no wonder he's out of control. Where did the time go? Sorry lil' man. Daddy was off duty, relaxing, sipping a Nalgene bottle of cape cod. Sorry mommy, I forget that I need to help with the routine stuff while you're on duty. I'll try to do a better, less frustrated job of that.

So ... we're back in Providence. We take our first post Cape trip to the playground. We enter the huge sandbox where the adventure always begins. "Bug. What do you want to make today?" "Mr. Walrus!" Whoa! Usually, it's cupcakes or meat-a-balls. Feeling refreshed and inspired from our weekend in the Cape, I dive into the sandbox and start making Mr. Walrus. The lil' man watches, patiently engaged. After I finish a pretty darn handsome Mr. Walrus, I give the OK to the lil' man and his friends that have gathered. They stomp Mr. Walrus.

Day two, the lil' man requested a lobster. Day three, the lil' man requested a platypus. Yeah, our lil' two year old, not only can say platypus, he actually knows what a platypus is supposed to look like. The platypus was a playground hit and ... ummm ... I think it was a springboard for ... well ... I think I have groupies. That's right JT! I have groupies too. Sure, most of them aren't tall enough to ride a roller coaster. But, that's okay with me—not like I'm trying to bring sexy back. I'm just making shit out of sand.

Today, my lil' friends requested: another lobster, a row boat, and an octopus. I made them all! One lil' girl said, "You're nice!" Another, offered to buy me an ice cream with her only dollar. Awe ... When it was time to leave, I pulled the lil' man away in his wagon. He waived both hands and cheered, "Bye people. Bye friends." They all returned the gesture. It felt like the playground erupted in farewell. Like everyone was running after the lil' man riding in his wagon. I felt like a super star.

Thank you, one of my three go-to friends. Once again, you have inspired me to be better. More importantly, you inspired my boy's imagination.

The dead, but walking zombie.

At 4:30pm, after 9 beautiful hours of adventure and discovery a "piano" falls from the sky and lands on my fucking head. This piano. Oh, this fucking piano ... just getting hit by it once would turn any Baptist into a chain smoking, beer guzzling, dancing fool. One's gotta think that the chances of getting hit with a falling piano must be slim, but it happens to me every fucking day.  All I can do is load the lil' man into his wagon and pull him in circles around the 'hood until my solo shift ends at 5:30.

During the zombie walk this evening, one thing consumed my mind. I didn't take the lil' man past all his favorite landmarks: Liam's house, the purple octagon house, the Fertile Underground, Enza's house, or the orange Honda Element and all the memorized driveways that contain a Mini Cooper. I did not repeat every word he spoke. I didn't even look into the sky as he joyously screamed, "Airplane." All I could do, was think about this blog.

I've only written one post in the past two weeks. Why is this? Before, I was writing at least one a day. Has there been nothing to write about? Nope, thing's have been PRETTY eventful. Is it because the lil' man broke my MacBook? Nope, that just happened a few days ago. Have I lost interest in writing? Nope. Well, what is it then?

After walking around in circles for an hour, I finally came to the conclusion that my recent lack of story-based reflection/release is due to the picnic being over. A month has passed. We've settled into our new life. A life that is really exhausting for me. The fumes that were affording me the energy to write have dissipated. I'm toast. I need a beer. Make that another. Hold on....

I didn't think I was going to be writing tonight. In fact, I was planning to use any energy I could muster to search the classifieds for employment. But just before bed, unsolicited, the lil' man gave me what I need everyday, preferably at 4:30. "Huge huggies!" He even threw in a kiss on the lips for good measure. Oh, that charming lil' bugger hooked me for at least one more day.

What a dud!

I've been waiting ... and waiting ... and waiting for the perfect nipple story to emerge.

This is how the story began. One day I was getting undressed to take a shower. Wait, that is a lie. I no longer have the luxury of taking showers. I must of been exchanging the shirt I had been wearing for three days for a fresh one. Anyway ...

lil' man: "Daddy has hairy armpits."
me: "Yep. Daddy has hairy armpits."
lil' man: "See 'em."
me: "Here they are, buddy."
lil' man: "Touch 'em."
me: I bent down and let him touch them.
lil' man: "Kiss 'em."
me: "You don't want to kiss my stinky armpits."
lil' man: "No." He thinks about what to talk about next. "That?"
me: "That is my nipple. This is my right nipple. This is my left nipple."
lil' man: "See 'em"
me: "Yep. You're seeing them."
lil' man: "Touch 'em."
me: "Sure buddy, you can touch them." I bent down so he could touch my nipples.
lil' man: "Kiss 'em."
me: "Nah buddy, you can't kiss my nipples. That's just weird."

For three weeks, nipples were the topic of conversation during snack time with Bob Shetterly. The lil' man asked Bob Shetterly all about nipples. To my disappointment, the lil' man only seemed interested in talking about nipples with me and Bob Shetterly. For three weeks, I've been patiently waiting for a kick-ass nipple story. I thought about making one up, but that just didn't seem to go with the blogs theme of honesty.

This is the story I imagined.

The lil' man and I are checking out at Wholefoods. An incredibly hot woman is working the till. I can only imagine that she's working the till to put her hot self through Brown. She is voluptuous!

hot cashier: "He is SO adorable. Look at those big blue eyes."
lil' man: The lil' man smiles and unexpectedly asks, "Have nipples?"
hot cashier: Unfazed. "Why yes, I have nipples." She looks at me.  "He's smart. How old is he?"
me: "Just turned two."
lil' man: Get's frustrated that the adults are conversing. "See 'em."
me: My inner self, so very badly, wants to give the lil' man a high five.
hot cashier: Without hesitation. She lifts her shirt and shows her glorious nipples.
lil' man: "Kiss 'em."
hot cashier: Silence. Apparently she too thinks that would be weird.

Unfortunately, this is the dud of a story I'm forced to share.

Last night we went to the farmers' market in our park. It's always an over stimulating blast for the lil' man. Every week they set up a stage for live music. Now, I know what you're thinking. Live music at a farmers' market, must be bluegrass. Nope, not at our farmers' market. It's always some form of hip-hop and it's AMAZING.

Also, last night the Children's Museum had a nice little learning/play area setup. An area roped off with hunter orange flagger's tape that contained lots and lots of foam building blocks and noodle things. All the big kids were building their masterpieces. The lil' man wanted to join in. I was actually enjoying a conversation with an adult, so mommy followed him in.

A few minutes passed. I looked over and saw that the lil' man was done. Done tackling all the kids masterpieces and done for the day. I headed over, but didn't get there in time. He was running threw the flagger's tape fence like he was finishing a marathon. It stretched and stretched and finally gave away. But he didn't stop. My lil' man turned into Forrest Gump. He just kept running. I asked the wife to get the stroller and the lil' man and I ran through the park towards "daddy's house."

We were nearly through the park, suddenly he stopped in front of a bench. A jacked Asian dude was sitting there, shirtless, covered in tattoos, drinking a 40 out of a brown paper sack. He and the lil' man just stared at each other. Finally the lil' man broke the silence and uttered, "Nipples." The jacked Asian dude continued to stare at him, the stare got a little serious and kinda weird. Oh shit! Is daddy gonna get his ass kicked over the word nipples? Finally, the jacked Asian dude gave the lil' man a reassuring smile. Which set the lil' man off "runnin'" again.

I thought to myself, this is what I get for my patience? I wanted a hot cashier! Instead, I got a jacked Asian dude sitting on a park bench drinking a 40 out of a brown paper sack? Oh well, I guess I'll just have to wait for a kick-ass vagina story. Vagina, by the way, was taught to him by his grandmother, not me. She didn't think va-jay-jay was sufficient.

Oh vagina story, when WILL you emerge ...

Momentary lapse of insecurity.

After the lil' man went to bed last night, the wifey and I hit the patio for a much needed beer and conversation. I took my chair and said, "I don't think I'm doing a good job. I just don't think I'm cut out for being a stay-at-home dad. I just can't do this." She was caught off guard. Like most people that know me, she thinks of me as being a very secure, proactive, confident person. I mean, I'm the guy that didn't know anything but about electricity, we bought an 1850's farmhouse that needed to be rewired, we didn't have any money to pay an electrician to do a shitty job, so I did it myself without thinking twice. Sure, I had my fair share of zaps, but I'd venture to guess that Thomas Edison had his share back in the day.

So, what is the source of this sudden feeling of insecurity? Is it the exhaustion? The confounding and tireless challenge of raising a lil' wild man? The relentless worry of doing something wrong? The old saying, "mommy knows best" ringing in my ear as I interact with stay-at-home moms and their children? Do THEY know something I don't? THEY seem so put together and natural. Are THEY? Is it just the difficulty of this thankless job? What is it!!!?

For the first time in my life, I feel alone. I feel vulnerable. I feel like I'm getting my ass kicked. And I don't like it.

The stun wore off and the wifey said exactly what I needed to hear. "You're doing a great job. You're a great daddy. You're doing a better job than 99% of ALL parents. I know I couldn't do it and I don't know how you do it. You know what he needs, when he needs it. You fill up everyday in it's entirety with things to do. Thank you for being a stay-at-home daddy to our lil' man. I'm sorry I don't communicate this more often, but I'm just not used to you needing affirmation."

Thanks wifey!!! I'm feeling like myself again. In fact, this afternoon I'm going to take apart the Tiguan, just to put it back together.

The hangover.

I drank my fair share of whiskey when I was younger. Nothing like waking up the next day, I'm sure I don't need to provide a detailed description of what this sort of hangover feels like. It's awful. You want to die. You swear that you'll never drink another drop of whiskey. You pull yourself up and hydrate. Eat some bacon. Take a shower. Eat some more bacon. Drink a Diet Coke. If you still feel ill, you contemplate a self inflicted purge. Finally, you start to feel alive again.

After mommy corralled the lil' monster in his crib last night. We ate skirt steak, drank a couple of beers, and enjoyed some nice adult conversation. A good night sleep and our little world will be right again.

Wrong. Instead, I woke up with an incredibly severe stay-at-home parent hangover. I didn't want to get out of bed. I didn't want to see, talk, or listen to anyone. I just wanted to be alone with my miserably fowl bastard self. Unlike the whiskey hangover, there is nothing you can do for yourself to feel better. The only remedy is for a family member or close friend to scoop your lil' monster up and take 'em away. Leaving you alone to heal.

When we moved to Providence, we knew that giving up this exact help was the greatest sacrifice we made. Our closest, close friends are 120 miles away. Our closest family, well, family that has actually been involved with our lil' man thus far, are 300 miles away.

I'm screwed! I don't have the luxury of options anymore. I get out of bed and try to put together a normal, fulfilling day. I move a little slower than normal, we arrive at the playground 15 minutes later than usual. The Montessori school kids that the lil' man always plays with are already there. Fortunately, the teacher is always happy to have the lil' man participate in whatever they're doing. I think it's because he sets a good example with his ability to share. I sit down and watch.

Then it happens. The ONLY remedy to this stay-at-home hangover appears out of thin air. I caught a glimpse of he lil' man's cousin, the only connection we have in Providence. "No it couldn't possibly be. I've never seen them at this park. It must be a hangover induced hallucination." But it was them. Oh thank GOD!

They played and played. I could see it in the lil' man's face, his spirit was lifted. He was himself again. And after some peaceful venting with the cousin's mom, once again, I felt ready to be a kick ass stay-at-home dad.

Family. Don't take it for granted. And for fuck's sake, don't move away from it when you need it the most.

End of the day ass-whoopin' for the layperson.

You're 3 weeks into your new job. Well, sort of. One year ago, you left this job because you found the challenge too exhausting. But life is more simple now. You have less going on and feel like you're up for the challenge. So you went back.

It's 5:00 pm on Tuesday, thirty minutes before your workday ends. You're exhausted from what you felt was an extremely productive day. You really nailed it today. You spent the entire day busting your ass to please your boss. The door to your office opens and your boss enters. You're completely caught off guard as he blows up. He screams. He cries. He won't listen to what you have to say. The worst part is that his belligerent outburst doesn't give you the slightest clue as to where you went wrong.

Twenty minutes later, you find yourself hiding in your bedroom. Just lying on your bed trying to make sense of it all. You're starting to unwind. You get up and hop into the shower. Something you haven't had time to do in three days, because you've been working so fucking hard. You're starting to feel relaxed, so you head down to the kitchen for a glass of wine.

Your boss is there waiting for you. I guess you were so frazzled by his behavior that you had forgotten that he lives with you. You spend 24 hours a day with your boss. Most of the time is good, but you never have a break from each other. He pretends that nothing happened. He doesn't apologize. He doesn't communicate what's wrong. He doesn't hug you goodnight. In fact, he just heads to bed. Once again, you ponder.

All you can think about is quitting. After writing a blog post, you start to feel better about the day. The majority of which, was pretty darn amazing.

The good homemaker.

I think (that's the key word, THINK) that I'm doing a darn good job raising our lil' man. I'm sure, like most stay at home parents, I have my good moments and not-so-good moments. How can you not? It's like riding a roller coaster. You go up. You go down. And you can't get off until the ride is over. Sometimes you want to puke. Sometimes you want to scream. And most times you want to weep ... tears of joy, tears of sorrow, or tears of frustration. Ahh, perhaps the weeping is due to my low T. Unfortunately, unlike a roller coaster, it doesn't appear the parental ride ends. Shit. I just turned 37. I still lean on my mommy.

Last night the wifey reassured me that it's normal for people in my circumstance to sometimes think, possibly utter, "Jesus fucking Christ! I just don't want to be around my child today." I'm not sure if she was being honest, or just trying to make me feel better. I guess it doesn't really matter, I know that I'm being honest

Maybe I'm just taking this roll too seriously. I'm mean, shit, I'm blogging about it.

Actually, I'm taking this very fucking seriously. I've jumped in with both balls. I'm not a say-at-home dad! I'm a fucking homemaker, and proud of it. Wait. I'm a competitive dude.  I'm not just a homemaker. I'm trying to be the best fucking homemaker this planet has ever seen. I pay the bills. I grocery shop. I clean. I make sure the wifey has breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I mow the lawn. I walk the dog and pick up her doo. I fix the plumbing. I do everything but bring home a paycheck. AND it brings me joyous fulfillment. I know there are still a lot of people in our society that would question this fulfillment of manhood. Screw them idiots! Bring 'em to me, so I can slap 'em upside the head with my ding-dong in an attempt to inspire a progressive thought.

Can you say, "tangent"?

It's Monday... It's been a very long time since I've had normal employment, but I've heard that Monday's tend to suck. So, tonight I planned a delicious and romantic treat for the wifey. Grilled sea bass with an arugula salad with a balsamic vinaigrette (containing scrumptious bacon drippings), grilled onion, and fruit tree smoked bacon. Oh yeah. This will make her Monday better.

Hmmmm.....

My apologies for the sloppy plating, by this time our little monster was aiming the sprinkler at our 27$/lb sea bass.

I don't have to go to the YMCA.

The YMCA comes to us! Well, actually it comes to the park that we go to every morning.

For the bulk of my childhood I was a Y kid, so I was delighted on Tuesday when Y on the move showed up at the park. I thought to myself, "How cool is this?" A traveling YMCA! "You come every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday?" Nice!

I sit back and watch as the Y staff spends time with my lil' man. Even though he doesn't grasp playing catch, jumping rope, kickball, frisbee, etc.. They go out of their way to involve him in everything they do. They already know his name and give him a boat load of one-on-one time. He has no qualms with soaking up the attention.

Today was the third day of Y on the move at the park. And the third time I've had an annoying interaction with a stay-at-home mom. These interaction go something like this:

Stay-at-home mom stands on the sideline, grasping her child, protecting them from interaction.

mom: Is your boy part of this group?
me: Uh. It's the YMCA on the move program. Everyone can participate. They're here every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. Isn't that awesome?
mom: Well. Did you know about such and such (today it was a playgroup co-op) that you can take your boy to?
me: I just moved here, so I didn't know about _ _ _ _ _ _ _. Thanks for telling me about _ _ _ _ _ _ _, I'll look into it. Have a nice day.

The stay-at-home mom, perplexed, walks away with her child not having participated in Y on the move.

Internally, my mind goes ape shit. Maybe the stay-at-home mom just hates sports. Perhaps, she doesn't want her child interacting with the "free lunch" kids. Is the YMCA a class signifier? Does this mom really think her child is going to experience diversity by looking at it from the sideline? Is everyone welcome at your little co-op?

All this fades out of my mind, as I watch my lil' man enjoy life.

For Christ's sake. Don't forget your cheese grater.

My folks are visiting this weekend and we are stoked. Stoked to have our first visitors. Stoked to spend time with them. Stoked to show 'em our new digs, our hood, the zoo, the playground, the Fertile Underground ... basically, to share our new life. We're stoked that we'll finally have a chance to enjoy a 200$ meal at one of the neighborhood eateries. Yeah. I know. Why don't we just take the lil' man out to eat with us? Well, because we don't want to just eat—we want to enjoy every last bite. We're stoked to have a little help and whatever break that may entail. But we are really stoked that we're getting our fucking cheese grater back.

We were reluctant to move into a furnished home. But, the 'hood felt right. The people felt right. The yard felt right. Quite frankly, it was the only place we looked at that felt like home. How bad could living with objects belonging to someone else be?

Knowing we were moving into an already full house, we purged our home in Maine. We donated all the duplicate, unnecessary, and useless objects to the thrift store. A process that delighted me, but stressed out the wifey. Some people have an easier time answering the question, "What can/can't I live with out?" I won't lie, it was an intense, mystifying purge.  I consider myself a fairly minimal and thoughtful purchaser of goods, so this purge troubled me. How did we acquire all of this shit? Why did we acquire all of this shit? Where did all of this shit come from? Who did it come from? Am I more American than I think?

We rented the smallest UHaul truck and packed it (sort of) full of essentials: art, crib, computer, bed, clothing, cookbooks, gourmet pantry items, toddler necessities, our favorite kitchen gadgets, Le Creuset cookware, Wustof knives, and our tooth brushes. I felt light. I felt free. I felt glorious. We have only what we need. Nothing more. Nothing less. I believe that I reached my own personal nirvana.

And it's a good thing that we purged and brought very little with us. We tried to unpack ... This house was SO FULL OF SHIT that there wasn't room for our tooth brushes. After packing up and cleaning our house, we spent two days packing up and cleaning this house. It sucked! It really irritated me. How could these fucking people ..... I composed myself and we made room for our things.

Needless to say, there wasn't much time for cooking dinner those first two nights. But on the third night, oh yes, it was time. Feeling inspired by our surroundings, I decided that Mexican cuisine was the obvious choice. I picked up some fresh ingredients from a produce vendor a block away. Went home and started prepping. I coated the boneless thighs just as Rick Bayless would. I made some guacamole topped with thinly sliced radishes. Now I just need a cheese grater for the cabbage and cheese. I started looking. Hmmmm. Can't seem to find one. My casual look turned into a monstrous romp through the cupboards. How the fuck can someone have an 800$ espresso machine, three complete sets of dishes, a six burner stove, 4 sets of glassware, silverware falling out of the drawers, a ridiculous selection of kitchen gadgets NOT HAVE A FUCKING CHEESE GRATER? This is ridiculous! I composed myself and finished making dinner.

So, for three weeks we've been living without a cheese grater. It's been a dramatized hell. You might ask, "Why didn't you just buy shredded cheese?" My answer is, because it sucks. Also, the grater is more utilitarian in our household. "Well, why didn't you just buy another cheese grater?" Because we just purged our life and there's no fucking way I'm gonna complicate it with a second cheese grater.

"People daddy. People!"

Yep. You guessed it. We went to the playground this morning.

The lil' man is quickly becoming the favorite whitest white boy at the playground. He comes equipped with lots of toys. And he shares. He doesn't care what gender you are, what color you are, what language you speak, what your religion is, how old you are, or how much $$$ your parents earn. He simply wants to play. In his words all these people are "PEOPLE!" Surely this is common behavior for a two year old. Or is it? Either way, it makes me one proud daddy.

Most of the other kids seem perplexed at the lil' mans willingness to share. "Really? I can play with this? With you?" They glance over at me, obviously his daddy, for a reassuring nod. This crushes me. Makes me want to sob. I smile and say, "Of course you can play with it."

If the lil' man only retains one thing that I teach him, I hope it is that people are people.

Testing my Mainehood.

The food selection where we moved from in Maine had decreased our expectations and appetite. Who hasn't fucking heard of hanger steak? Apparently, everyone who sells food in the greater Bangor area. We were starving for good food when we arrived in Providence. And we found it. Yes. Yes. There are not one, but two Whole Foods in town. But to be honest, we haven't even set foot in either of them since our arrival. It's just not necessary. Food is everywhere. And it is good. And good food means lots and lots of grilling.

In fact, we've grilled every night for three weeks. Most of the time it's glorious, but if daddy doesn't have his shit together ... we be eating at 10pm. A little late for weeknight chow. So late, that we haven't had the energy to watch the final two episodes of Mad Men. That's just fucked up.

A few months ago, while visiting our favorite people. I noticed they had made the switch to gas—surely I made fun of those lazy sissies. Well, last night we too decided it was time to switch to gas. Why not? Nothing wrong with testing a bit of my Mainehood so we can eat at a reasonable hour. How was I to know that it would test my Mainehood more than just a little?

I worked at an old hardware store for years. That old hardware store is where I met my wife and is also the reason that the lil' man is named what he's named. This is why a piece of me died today when I had to go to a store which shall not be named. I fucking hate those stores! There are so many reasons ... Ughh. This is not where this is supposed to go.

I was at a big fucking store buying a grill. So many choices and nobody that fucking knows anything about them. I'm usually pretty decisive, but these stores get me all wound up. I called the wifey at work.

me: Hi honey. What do you think? Infrared or regular?
wifey: I dunno. What's the difference?
me: The infrared is the latest thing. I think most restaurants use infrared grills now.
wifey: Well, get that one then.
me: Ok. Two burner or three?
wifey: I don't know. Get the bigger one.
me: Shhwing!

How many wifey's say, "Get the more expensive, bigger grill?" I got it, but there was no way it was fitting into the Tiguan. No problem.  I'm from Maine. I shouldn't be buying assembled shit anyway. Besides, it will give the lil' man and I something to do this afternoon—it will be fun.

me: You sell these in a box?
idiot: Yep.
me: How long do they take to assemble?
idiot: Ummm. Like 20 minutes.
me: I'll take one in the box.

He brings the box to the counter.

me: Damn. How much does that thing weigh?
idiot: Ummm. It says 140lbs on the side of the box.

I bust a nut hoisting the box into the car. The hatch won't close. No problem. I've tied down a hatch or two in Maine. I search the hatch for something to secure a rope to. Nothing. What the fuck? Who designed this vehicle? Didn't they think of this? Seriously, I have to settle for the rear wiper? Yep. I'm now that yuppie asshole who secures his hatch by tying a rope to the rear wiper. "Hope it doesn't rip off."

My drive home is through the hood. And I mean the hood. It's not a long drive, but it ain't pretty. The whole time, all I can think about is that full propane tank sitting in the seat next to my lil' man. What the fuck am I doing? Why didn't I just pay the 20$ to have them deliver an assembled grill? Oh, that's right. I'm from Maine.

We make it home at 4pm. Shit. We've got at least an hour before mommy gets home. No problem. I'm from Maine. I bust the other nut lifting the 140lb box out of the car. What is wrong with me? Three weeks ago I'd have put this thing on my shoulder. It was all I could do to roll this huge square box into the backyard. Phew! Made it.

Out of nowhere, a thunderstorm strikes. The sky opens. It pours.

That's okay. I'm from Maine. I can build shit in the rain. The lil' man and I unpack the boxes and start building. Step 4 requires 2 people. No problem. I'm from Maine. I'm more than two average people. The instructions get wet and I can't read them. No problem. I'm from Maine. I can figure this shit out. I complete the test at 6:30 and contemplate what the fuck is wrong with Mainers.

Now it's time to test the Rhode Islanders. Will the grill still be in our backyard when we wake up tomorrow?

goo goo g'joob

As of three nights ago, I became Mr. Walrus in our house. This is how it happened.

Mommy struggles to get the lil' man to brush his teeth. He wants to do it himself, which doesn't cut it for mommy. He takes the toothbrush full of apple flavored tooth paste with an emphatic "MINE!" Sucks all the paste off, which screams "normal" to me. God! As a kid, I remember sucking a fresh tube of AquaFresh dry. I mean, I made that AquaFresh my bitch. It was delicious.

After he rids the brush of yummy paste, he brushes everything but his teeth. The couch. The stairs. His armpits. His nipples. Just as he tries to brush his penis, a frustrated mommy grabs the brush, "NO!" Understandable, she just worked a long day. Doesn't she deserve an easy go at something as simple as brushing teeth?

So three nights ago she began to employ Mr. Walrus. And it was brilliant! She is quite creative. After spending 10 delightful hours with the lil' man, making supper, cleaning the kitchen, etc.—I tend to hit the patio for some adult "juice" and quiet time. Three nights ago, I was doing just this when my phone rang. Who the hell is calling me at the ripe hour of 7:30? It was mommy. What the fuck? What happened? More plumbing? I pressed answer and heard "Hello. Mr. Walrus?" I paused, okay, I can roll with this. "This is Mr. Walrus." "Hi Mr. Walrus. The lil' man doesn't want to brush his teeth tonight. Can you explain the importance of brushing your teeth?" Pause. I thought to myself, I don't even like to brush my own fucking teeth ... All I could utter was "goo goo g'joob." Seemed to make sense to the lil' man. He brushed his teeth and uttered "goo goo g'joob" or something like it when he finished.

Then, the third night rolled around ... Mommy was trying to take the lil' man upstairs for tubby time. He didn't want to go. She prematurely employed Mr. Walrus.

Mommy: "But, don't you want to call Mr. Walrus after tubby time?"
Daddy: "It's Friday. I'm spent.  Mr. Walrus isn't fucking home tonight."
Mommy: "Well, how do I get him to brush his teeth?"
Daddy: "How the hell do I get him to do anything? Figure it out."

Twenty minutes later my phone rang. I didn't pick it up. Mommy must of figured something out, because I didn't hear any screams. I knew she would. She's smarter than me and rocks as a mom.

The stink and the wall.

The Stink.
I just need ten minutes to shave, shower, and trim these God damn eyebrows that are poking me in the eyeballs. Is that too much to ask for? Ummm. Yes. I know. I know. Why don't I shower at night once the wifey is home from work? Well ... After I've made supper, cleaned the kitchen, picked up the toys, and walked the dog—I slump down into a chair, and quite frankly, I forget that this moment is my only opportunity to rid myself of this horrible stench.

I'm not sure, but I think today is Thursday. And I'm pretty sure that I haven't bathed since Sunday. In fact, I'm pretty sure that today I changed my clothes for the first time since Sunday. Yuck.

While the lil' man and I were at the park this morning, I really thought that someone was going to offer me spare change. Hmmmm. Maybe I'm on to something. Maybe this is how the lil' man and I grow "his" matchbox collection.

The wall.
It's official. At 2pm every Thursday I hit a wall of exhaustion unlike anything I've ever experienced. I drink coffee. I drink Diet Coke. I splash cold water on my face. But I still feel empty nothingness. Do other stay-at-home parents hit a wall like this? And by stay-at-home parents, I mean full time stay-at-home parents. No nanny. No part time daycare. No baby sitter. No family assistance. Yes, I know Rathbun, I chose/choose this path, you don't have to point it out. I'm not complaining. I'm just trying to figure it out.

I wonder if I'm just too old? Not cut out for this? Maybe there is something to the ol' saying "It takes a village to raise a child" and I'm just crazy for thinking I can do this. Might it be that I'm just a sissy?

I'd like to think that I've tested my capacity for exhaustion. I've hiked glaciers. I've sat through boring lecture after boring lecture. I've picked rocks. I've built stone walls. I've watched all of Peter Greenaway's films.  I've spent endless hours grinding paint off a house. I drove for 42 straight hours from San Fransisco to Portland. None of which exhausted me as much as this 30lb bundle of spunk.

I know that I'll bounce back on Friday morning. But ... What if, in those few exhausted hours, I fall asleep and something tragic happens? What if I have a lapse in judgment while at the park? This lil' man is my world. I don't know if I'd be able to go on if something happened to him, especially on my watch. I dream about this and it scares the shit out of me.

Clingy. Like a dryer sheet.

This is one of the toys at our west end playground. Not exactly sure what it is, but to the lil' man it is "the horsey thing." And yes. There is a reason that "we" put a dome of sand on the seat. But, I'll get to that in a bit.

I think it was Sunday afternoon that our whole family took a trip to the playground. Which is rare, 'cause usually when mommy is around, daddy likes to have some alone time. There was a mom and her son already playing in the large 40' by 40' sandbox. Sweet! Someone for the lil' man to play with. Mommy/wifey walked over to them to say hi, and like she always does, commented on the lil' boys hat. Even though she doesn't wear hats, she has a thing for hats. The other mom said thank you and started to explain the hat. "Well, I bought it at such-and-such place. It has a strap that is designed to release when someone tries to pull it off. So the child wearing it doesn't get their head ripped off." The lil' man was already testing out the design. He does not like wearing hats and always tries to rip them off other kids. He tugged. The strap didn't release. Now, I've seen the lil' man pick up a 10lb barbell, so I know he's pretty darn strong. Maybe he didn't give it his all. Perhaps a design flaw. One thing is for sure, the other mom was horrified. I assume that the signature line from The Lord of the Rings rang out in her head "my precious."

The other boy was not interested in playing with our lil' man, so our lil' man ventured out to the big playground. The big kids are always interested in some runnin' around. I was still too tired from the week, so I just sat down in the sandbox and zoned out. Mommy's turn to chase our lil' man. Unfortunately, I couldn't get in my zone. The other mommy was way to uptight for that. Continually giving her boy directions to follow. "Don't do that." "We don't do this." "No." Never letting the poor child out of her reach. I just sat and watched. I never get involved in other peoples parenting. Not my place. Not my concern. Why should I care how someone else fucks up their kid? We're all gonna fuck 'em up in some way.

But then. The other mommy starting parenting two little girls that were peacefully playing by themselves on the other side of the sandbox. "Girls. Girls. Don't do that." They didn't respond. She walked over to them. "Girls! I said not to do that. Don't put sand on that." You see, the little girls were putting sand on the "horsey thing." They looked up at her towering figure, they were frozen. I don't think they spoke English. They got up and briskly walked away abandoning their buckets of sand. The other mommy looked at me for what seemed to be a look of approval, but what she got was a  look that probably expressed: What the fuck is wrong with you? Just let the fucking kids play. They weren't in danger. They weren't breaking shit. They weren't hurting anyone. They weren't throwing shit at other kids. They weren't cursing. They weren't anywhere near your precious.

We were packing up to head home. We bumped into the other mom and her son having a snack. "Would your lil' man like some." The lil' man was curious and took a look, so did I. It appeared to be some sort of homemade veagan flour-less banana bread. The lil' man just stared at it, I think he finally realized that it wasn't his, but wanted it to be his. He took a bite and off he went. Mommy followed. Leaving me alone with them, again. Fuck.

She started telling me about this stay-at-home mother's group in our 'hood. "We get together and share parenting tips, give advice, and just hang out. Would you like to come? What's your email address? I'll add you to the mailing list." HELL YEAH! That sounds fucking amazing! Just the type of environment that my personality shines in. I gave her the wifey's email address. Let mommy deal with this. She's nice. She's gentle. She'll know what to do.

Now, back to that dome of sand on the "horsey thing" ... I know it might seem douchey. But I'm not douchey. I just like to play and have a little fun. I like to challenge people and the way that they are or are not. How do we learn, grow, and change if we aren't challenged? How could "we" resist putting that dome of sand on the "horsey thing"—when there's a chance that the other mother might be the next to use it.

Reliving the glory days.

A forecast of thunder storms. Great. This is going to make for a long, painful day. We managed to get an hour in at the playground before the skies opened. Now what? Fortunately, the lil' man was perfectly content to play with cars well beyond his normal lunch time. Sweet. A late lunch equals a late nap, which equals a long nap, which equals a shortened afternoon shift.

I was just finishing MY lunch when I heard "All done daddy. All done. Scoop a up." Sure thing lil'man. We sat down with Bob Shetterly and had a snack. After ten minutes of whispering, in a deep low voice, "Diet Coke" to one another. It was time. Time to do something I've been look forward to for 27 years.

We got in daddy's black car and drove to the toy store. After 20 minutes of navigating the ridiculous maze of collectible shit that spawns obsessive behavior. We found them. The matchboxes. I new exactly what the "lil man" desired. None of the fancy shit. The simple orange track. You know the one. It snaps together with little tabs, has a hoop, and a jump. Oh little orange track, I remember you well. I was getting stressed out, I couldn't find it. Surely they still make it. How could they not? Does everything have to have buttons that makes something unnecessary happen or an obnoxious noise? Ah, there it is. Yes! The "lil' man" was delighted. Now, all we need are some good racing cars.

I really did try to let the lil' man pick out cars for his collection. But all he wanted were stupid, tricked out cars. What? A food truck? How the fuck are we going to race a food truck? It took some crafty work, but he finally settled on a sweet selection of racers. I know. I know. What's wrong with me? Why didn't I just let the lil' bugger get the food truck? Well, I just want to make sure that my, I mean his matchbox collection is as stellar as his old man's was. Is that so wrong? Maybe my matchbox collection kicked ass, 'cause my dad "helped" me pick 'em out.

We sped home. The lil' man was very patient as daddy built the perfect race track. We spent the rest of the afternoon racing cars. It was even more magnificent than I remember.

Here is his current lineup. And yes.They are arranged from fastest to slowest.

Honey, I really do look forward to the moment you get home from work. But. Ummm. Well.

I love my wife. I love hanging out with my wife. I love snuggling with my wife. I love doing everything with my wife. All though, I have to admit, playing tennis with my wife is ... well, kind of painful. She's not the most athletic gal, but that's okay. She pretty much rocks everything else.

My ten hour solo shift with the lil' man ends at about 5:15pm when my wife get's home from work. Oh, how I look forward to her arrival and the ensuing relief. I'm exhausted.

The lil' man and I head to the stoop a little after 5 and wait for mommy's little white convertible to come rolling down the street. Oh the delight when it comes into view.  The lil' man stands up with a wide smile and screeches "Mommy's home!" Once mommy has pulled into the driveway, I release the excited lil' dude. He runs toward mommy, where her open arms are waiting, anticipating that welcome home hug. But, he runs past her. Jumps in the white convertible and frigs with buttons. Poor mommy. Welcome to 3 hours of hell. I mean, welcome home.

I quietly sneak inside. Pour the days last Diet Coke over ice. Head to the patio and collapse in a chair. I roll a cigarette. Yep, I said that filthy word, "cigarette." Don't judge me. It's my vice. My treat. My moment of relaxation. I'm sure you have a vice that's not so good for you. Don't you? Besides, it's organic American Spirit, doesn't have a fiberglass filled filter, and I only smoke half of it. As you can see, I'm a little sensitive about this. I know it's not good for me, but it is good for me. Piss off!

So I sip some Diet Coke and smoke half a cigarette. I set the cigarette down in an ashtray and watch it go out. Saving the other half to accompany a crisp glass of wine while mommy and the lil' man enjoy tubby time. I wait. I know it's coming. I can't see it. But this is what I imagine. Mommy patiently stands by the convertible door. She's watching the lil' man frig with her convertible. She's holding three bags (why she needs three bags, I'll never grasp). Her new job is fancy, so she's decked out and looks beautiful. She's tired. She wants to trade those heels for flip flops. Longs to slip into some comfy clothes. Wait for it. Wait for it. BAM! Major melt down as mommy pries those little hands from the steering wheel. She scoops him up and carries him inside as he kicks, screams, pulls hair, and bites.

In a few minutes the lil' man opens the sliding door to the patio, pops his head out and says, "Hi daddy!" And I know my moment is over and it's time to make dinner. The kitchen in the house we're renting is really quite nice, but intimate. The kind of kitchen you need to be alone in.

The lil' man. Oh that lil' man. He just gets so excited that mommy is around. My lil' man who has been pretty darn close to angelic all day, turns into a crazed uncontrollable lunatic. He starts runnin' around. He throws cars. He throws trains. He throws books. He pulls art off the wall. More biting. Pulls more hair. Then, the worst of it begins. He starts chasing "Toots!" Toots (a.k.a. Stella) is our nine year old Belgium malinois. An unemployed work dog that likes a calm and controlled environment. Let's just say that Toots fucking hates the lil' man's existence. There is uncontrollable growling. Snarling. Baring of teeth. He chases Toots and mommy chases him. Eventually they all end up in a corner. I think to myself, "Would you just fucking bite him so we can be done with this." Obviously, I don't want this to happen, but good lord. That poor dog.

I think the family senses that their food is about to be basted with daddy's tears. Things settle down. I compose myself and get dinner on the table.

We've already gone over to the homogenized side.

Last Thursday we were a little disappointed with the west end farmer's market. So yesterday we headed over to the farmer's market on the east side. And it was glorious! All the locally grown food you could ask for. Locally roasted coffee. Live music. A fancy playground. We even bumped into a vendor that we used to carry at our shop in Maine. This trip also resulted in our first real parenting quandary.

You see, this morning we asked the lil' man the same question we ask him every morning. "Do you want to go to the playground?" He replied, "Farmer's market playground." Apparently he was delighted by his first taste of the east side. What have we done? What do we do? Which playground experience is more appropriate to mold our lil' man into the big man we want him to become?

Do we ...

Hop in our car. Drive over to the east side where there is: green grass, live music, children that are actually accompanied by parents, a water feature for kids to frolic, the fanciest jungle gym I've ever seen, and a swing (Yeah, imagine that. A fucking swing at a playground). It's safe, clean, and lots of fun.

Or ...

What we've been doing since our arrival. Hop on daddy's shoulders. Walk one and a half blocks to our west end park where: we clean up trash (But we don't throw it all away. We keep the cups and plastic spoons so the kids have something to play with in the sandbox), most children aren't accompanied by parents, there isn't a swing, there is an adequate jungle gym, and it IS DIVERSE. But honestly, after the lil' man has swept the playground for trash, which he instructs daddy to "Throw it away daddy. Put it in the trash can"—he is mostly interested in chasing pigeons. He REALLY wants to touch a pigeon, good luck buddy.

We went to the west end park ... We moved to the west end to experience something different. Something other than living in a tall glass of milk. This is good for the lil' man. Isn't it?

Plumbing at 7pm on Saturday night.

Jesus! I moved to Providence because I love and support my wife, but also for change. Specifically to leave two things behind: the business, and the 1850's farmhouse that I spent 9 years rehabbing. So I can/could dedicate 100% of my love and energy to the wife and lil' man.

Despite the fact that my fantastic wifey did everything in her power for me to get some rest today. I have been a walking fucking zombie all day. Totally brain dead. I tried to nap. But quickly realized that I'm not physically tired. I'm mentally exhausted. You see, the lil' man talks non-stop (which is awesome) and he needs everything he says repeated back to him, so that he understands that I understand. I'm not much of a talker, so this is exhausting for me. I blame my brother for being the first child—he never shut up and I never spoke.

Today we drove to the farmer's market, which was unlike any market I've ever seen. But, shit. I was a walking fucking zombie, so who knows. During the drive over, I was continually repeating what the lil' man was saying while trying to answer my wife's nonstop questions. She also has the gift for gab and is very inquisitive. I was verbally maxed out and unfortunately said, "Can you please (I don't really think I said please) just talk to the lil' man!"

Back to the plumbing ... We are renting a house, so I can have a break from house shit, like plumbing. I fucking hate plumbing. I'd rather re-wire an entire house and get 72 shocks than fix a dripping fucking faucet. But tonight, after tubby time, apparently my incredible curious lil' man thought he'd disassemble the entire drain valve. Was mommy just sitting on the Toto watching? I heard our standard household cry from the second floor, "Hey babe!?"

I went up to see what was going on. Nice, plumbing. I bent down to get a closer look. Not so bad. It didn't take long to reassemble. The best part was, the entire time, the lil' man was leaning on my shoulder, repeating "Daddy fixin' it. Daddy fixin' it. Daddy can fix anything." Sometimes I think THEY break shit, just to make sure their man can fix it.

I love being a father. Especially to a lil' man 6 days beyond two that can take apart an entire drain valve with his bare hands.

Who the hell is Bob Shetterly?

This is Bob Shetterly. No, not really. This is a drawing titled "Why do angels only sing to us through our longest hairs?" by my favorite Maine artist, Robert Shetterly. If you're not familiar with him and/or his work, check it out http://www.americanswhotellthetruth.org/. He and his work are fantastic. But to the lil' man, this IS Bob Shetterly. The lil' man likes to enjoy his second breakfast of blueberry Chobani with Bob Shetterly. He enjoys snack time with Bob Shetterly. When it's raining out, the lil' man eats supper with Bob Shetterly. And the lil' man LOVES to eat Cherry Garcia with Bob Shetterly.

But most importantly, the lil' man likes to ask Bob Shetterly questions. Bob Shetterly eat yogurt? Bob Shetterly eat Cheez-its? Bob Shetterly eat cream cheese? Bob Shetterly eat cherries? Bob Shetterly eat sausage? Bob Shetterly drink milk? You get the point, the lil' man holds up (like an offering) whatever he is consuming to Bob Shetterly and asks, "Does Bob Shetterly ..."?

That is, until yesterday's second breakfast. The lil' man asked Bob Shetterly a very personal question, "Bob Shetterly have stinky poop"? Oh boy, I can't wait until the next time I see Rob! Hey Rob, you incredibly talented artest, "Does your poop stink"? I mean, he's a pretty down to earth guy, so I can only imagine that he'll say "Yes, my poop IS very stinky". But really, doesn't everyone's shit stink?

I mean, except for the Prius driving professor. This is what I imagine. Professor gets out of bed at 10am. Puts on fuzzy slippers. Slips on the robe that his father used to wear. Goes down stairs. Fires up the 800$ Rancilio and makes a triple espresso. Opens the front door. He (no matter where he lives) picks up the New York Times off the top step ('cause who really cares about what's going on in the local community).  Stands at the counter. Gently unfolds the newspaper and sips the espresso. He attempts to read the newspaper, but is distracted by the stressful day that approaches (teach the same class he's been teaching for 27 years at 1:15 and office hours from 2-3). A rumble. Goes to the bathroom. Lifts the lid to the Toto. In one motion, as he sits, he grasps a copy of Being and Nothingness off the Toto tank (you know the copy, it's been there since the beginning of time). Contemplates existence, but will never realize it's simplicity. His buttock cuts off one single, perfectly shaped, golden brown turd. He grabs two sheets of Seventh Generation toilet paper. Perfectly folds it in two. One wipe. Flush.

Warning: May cause low T

A few months ago, I heard a segment on NPR that discussed a medical study done by ... well I don't remember who did the study, probably someone at Harvard. Anyway, I'm sure that whoever did the study probably was brilliant and didn't do the research for recognition of being published—so it doesn't really matter. It was a study that explored how time spent with children affects the levels of testosterone in men. The results showed a drastic decrease in testosterone in men that spent more time with children. Shit! I'm spending approximately 74 hours per week with the lil' man and I've definitely noticed some changes. I used to watch movies like Reservoir Dogs, now I watch something like Friends With Benefits. I used to read Sartre, now I read the Little Blue Truck. I used to buy nuts and bolts at the hardware store, now I buy kitchen towels online at Crate & Barrel. I used to drink scotch, now I drink cold, crisp white wine. I used to listen to Eminem, now I listen to Adele. I used to go golfing with the guys, now I hang out with all the stay-at-home moms at the playground. One thing is for sure, I FUCKING LOVE IT!

And yes, for all you testosterone obsessed jackasses, I still get great wood.

Dude?

In a few moments I've gotta imagine that Kristen will be asking herself, "Dude where is my lunch"? Sorry honey. Maybe that bottle of vino last night made me a tad foggy this morning. Or, maybe it was those two gluten free beers. Might have been remembering to put out the garbage and recycling that threw off my routine. Maybe all your recent lunch dates made me forget. Yeah, that's it. It's your fault, not mine. Christ, cut me some slack. I remembered to make your breakfast. Please don't fire this homemaker.

Honey. I also found a TJ Maxx today and had the best intention of replacing that pair of sunglasses you sat on. We finally made our way over to the rack of sunglasses after the lil' man made me try on every hat in the place, including all the pink and purple ladies hats. Unfortunately, your son started in on his relentlessly loud and nonstop vacuum cleaner sound effect.  Needless to say, we left without a new pair of sunglasses. Maybe next time we'll hit the sunglasses first.

Loving regards.

I just have time for today.

It's 7:51pm. Nine minutes until I have a moment to wipe the days filth away. For all you non-stay-at-home-parents, that means I get to take a fucking shower. And it was 95 degrees out today, so there is plenty of filth to wash away.

I don't really have time to discuss today's activities in detail. But let's just say it was a full, very fucking long day. It involved an early and short nap, which made for a grueling afternoon shift. I think I fell asleep twice. Fortunately, I was woken by the lil' man screaming "DADDY" just before jumping on my gut. Which is much better than getting nailed in the groan, he hasn't honed in on that delight yet. And much better than wakening to a screaming lil' man with a fork stuck into a sparking socket. What would I tell Kristen?

At 4:30pm, we were hanging outside. I couldn't see the lil' man, but I knew, or at least thought he was safe. All I could think about was the relief I was about to experience in approximately 43 minutes. Going to the Liquor store, which is apparently the only place you can buy wine in RI. Buying a crisp, cold bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and partaking in a hand rolled smokey treat. AHHHH!

I love my boy. I love my "job". I wouldn't trade this experience for anything.

Also, today the lil' man learned to wave at flies and say "shoe fly, don't bother me", left from right, and that green is verde en espanol. Not bad for a kid that turned 2, 4 days ago.

Shit! I think I missed my shower window ...