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!