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 ...