All because of a medium sized terd.

The wifey just spent 82 hours in NYC. Which means that the lil' man and I haven't had any time apart in 265 hours. Yes. I'm a wee bit exhausted. Yes. The lil' man and I probably have a little extra pent up frustration towards each another. But I must admit, it has been quite lovely. And to my knowledge, I really only made one mistake. As many things do, it happened during a diaper change.

Ya know! You can have some pretty bizarre conversations with a two year old—while your wiping shit out of their arse. This particular conversation went something like this:

lil' man: "Daddy. Do the 1. 2. 3.!"
me: "Sure thing buddy. 3. 2. 1. Pants off!" I whip the pants right off him.
lil' man: Screams with delight. "Daddy. Do the socks off, too."
me: "Sorry buddy, it's cold out. You've gotta leave your socks on. I'll take 'em off when we change into jammies." I pull his diaper off and investigate the poop.
lil' man: "It's a little one?"
me: "Nah buddy. It's not little and it's not that big either. I'd say it's medium size."
lil' man: "I wanna see it!" I hold the diaper out so he can check out his poop. After a few moments he seems satisfied and says, "It's just a little one."
me: I think to myself, GOD! Why are you so fucking stubborn? It's just a little one. Blah. Blah. Blah. Why do you always have to be right? Why the fuck does it always have to be your way? I compose myself and say, "Well. That may be. But, it's a nice solid guy."
lil' man: "Yeah! Nice and solid."
me: I start to wipe off his, ya know, lower area. I notice he's looking a little tender and say, "Hold on buddy. Before I put on a new diaper—I need to rub a little vaseline on your taint. It's looking a little sore." Holy fuck! Did I just say the word taint? Awe man, I don't want to have to explain the word, taint! Shit. Shit. Shit. How am I going to explain what a taint is? I pause. The lil' man is uncharacteristically silent. He doesn't repeat the word. He doesn't ask, "What's taint mean, daddy?" Few! Dodged one! I rub on the vaseline and put on a new diaper. He's still silent. I look down at his face. The second our eyes meet—the lil' man says/asks, "Mommy pees outa her taint?"

Oh good lord! What have I done? This poor boy is going to be tainted for life.

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.