I stopped breathing when you silently entered the world. Seriously, I literally stopped breathing. I probably would have fainted from lack of oxygen if the midwife hadn't sensed my concern and said, "Everything is ok, dad." You took your first breath and let out the sweetest little cry. I was able to breathe again and fell completely in love with you. You know what happened next? You pooped all over your mother.
Now, lil' man. I don't want you to think that I love the lil' lady more than I love you. Because, I don't. But I'd be lying if I told you that I love you equally. Because, I don't. All I can say is, I love both of you unlike I love anything else in this world.
Oh lil' lady. Only five months old and so many "firsts" already. Your first smile melted my heart. Your first laugh filled me ... No. Made my life burst with joy. This life that seems to move forward at peregrine falcon speed. I want it to slow down! But I'm also anxiously awaiting the next batch of "firsts." God! What are you going to choose for your first word? That first awkward step, falling into my arms. The first time you ride on my shoulders. The first time your face is covered with ice cream. Your first lobster. So many "firsts" for us to experience together.
Trust me! I'm not in a hurry. I just can't stop thinking about what these experiences will bring. In fact, there is one first I just can't stop thinking about. Our first father/daughter dance. Whoa!! I know this isn't going to happen for a long, long, long time. And I'm really not sure why I'm always thinking about this. The only explanation I can think of is, well... the incredibly delighted reaction you have every night when I hold you in my arms, crank up the "songs to raise your kids to" playlist, and sing and dance around the kitchen.
For some strange reason, I don't think you'll be as delighted with my moves, voice, and inability to remember lyrics at our first father/daughter dance. And that's ok. But, just so you know .... I'm gonna leave everything I've got on that mother flippin' dance floor! I'm gonna belt out improperly timed lyrics to Lean on Me, Son of a Preacher Man, and Maybe I'm Amazed. I'm gonna bust out the most ridiculous air guitar when Sweet Child O Mine is played. I'm gonna dance like... like I think I know how to dance. And I'm gonna do it all night long.
Maybe you'll think that I'm just trying to embarrass you. But, I hope not. I hope that you'll be as delighted to dance with me then, as you are now. I hope that you feel like the luckiest girl on earth. I hope all the mothers watching, elbow their husbands in the gut and whisper, "Why can't you be that kind of dad?" I hope that the last song played is Stairway to Heaven, well.. because its the longest slow song I can think of... and I want this moment to last as long as possible. But most importantly. I hope that you think, what you'll hopefully always think, "Yeah! I have the best fucking dad in the world."
My Professor has a Small Prius
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Saturday, January 25, 2014
So. You're gonna be a dad.
Dude! Congratulations! And welcome to the best, just for men's club in the universe. But this is 2014, you're not just gonna be a dad. You're gonna be an active dad, right? Perhaps, even a SAHD. Do it! I promise you that it will be the most unique experience of your life.
One thing that I really dislike is receiving unsolicited parenting advice. So here's some for you. Nah. I don't have any advice for you on how to parent your lil' one. You'll discover that on your own, my friend. But I will offer up some tricks that I've learned as a dad. They just might make your role as active dad ah...err... more...less...
1. The first thing you've gotta do is go shopping. Dude, you need to update that wardrobe of yours. Don't stress! This is going to be simple. What we're looking for is quite common, so it doesn't matter where ya go shopping. Just choose a store that makes you feel comfortable. Are you there yet? Good. Now find the white undershirts. Here's the tricky part, crew or v neck? After you've made your decision on neck preference, grab 8 shirts. No, 12 shirts. Wait! You grabbed medium? Is that what you normally wear? Well, put that shit back and grab some larges. Why? You're gonna spend the next year being peed on, pooped on, and spit up on. You're gonna get caked with rice cereal and smothered in puréed vegetables. Those shirts are going to be frequently washed and bleached at extremely high temps. They're gonna shrink and you need to be comfortable. Sweet! We're done here.
What? You're having a winter babe? No problem! Open up your sweater drawer. Remove all your wool sweaters. Huh? You only wear cotton because wool itches your neck? Sorry dude. That lil' one of yours is going to eat you alive. Let's forget about Mr. Cotton and move along. Ok, so you've taken out all of your wool sweaters. Now, put your two least favorite back in the drawer. Place all of the others in storage. You've got two dreadful sweaters, just make sure you switch 'em up every couple of days. It's also good to throw 'em in the dryer once in awhile for a lil' fo-freshening. And for the love on God. Take 'em to the dry cleaners every couple of months. You might not realize, or even care, but dude... you reek of breast milk gone bad. Seriously, get the shit dry cleaned.
2. Grow a beard! Nothing screams dad, like a nice full beard. And I'll tell ya. There is no better feeling than having your very own lil' one rub their hands through your very own beard while you're reading them bedtime stories.
3. Your car radio has been commandeered by your lil' one. To avoid unnecessary frustration, you stop on, and listen to, every bloody Katy Perry song. Saturday night is movie night. All you want to do is watch Jason Bourne beat the shit out of some bad guys. But instead, you watch Finding Nemo for the forty third Saturday in a row. You haven't had a man date in twenty three weeks. And there's always a box of Pinot Grigio in your fridge. Let's be honest, you're feeling sorta strange. Been there, bro. It's what I like to call "low T." And it's why I always have a bottle of single malt in the house. Well that, and it's delicious. Time to go shopping again! Go get yourself a nice bottle of scotch. And yes! It must be scotch, it's simply the manliest of drinks. After the lil' one has gone off to bed, drink some scotch. Now for fucks sake, don't go all Roger Sterling on that shit. Feeling the "T" rise? Not yet? Okay. Take a glass of scotch to your new favorite "alone" place, most likely the basement. Turn on Swordfish Trumbone. Dust off the dart board and play some cricket. "T" on the rise? I bet it is! If not, seek medical attention.
4. If you're gonna be an active dad, you're gonna experience some of the most incredible screeching known to mankind. Unless you're a pig farmer, used to hearing those horrific piggy squeals as they're loaded onto the butcher bound truck. You'll have to learn how to minimize the screeching.
The lil' one just woke up from a four hour nap and has the hunger screech going on. You immediately hop up. Run to the kitchen and crank on the hot water. Run and grab the lil' one. Run back to the kitchen and fill a bowl up with hot water. Grab a bottle out of the fridge and put it in the hot water. 10 minutes pass and you can't take anymore screeching, so you grab the bottle and stick it in the lil' one's mouth. But the lil' one pushes this too cold swill away and the screech becomes worse. Since the water in the bowl is now luke warm, you refill it with hot water and put the bottle back in. 10 more minutes pass and now you're crying too. You test the milk temp on your wrist. Ah... Just right.
Dude. Breast milk can sit at room temp for a solid four hours. And guess what! It only takes a few minutes to warm up milk that is already at room temp. Boom!!! You just saved yourself approximately 16 extremely long minutes of screeching. Plan ahead, my friend.
All right. Last one for today...
5. You've spent the past fifty eight minutes rocking, reading, singing, swaying, and whatever else it is you do to get the lil' one to sleep. You successfully place the lil' one in the crib. Few! You start to count to 70 in your head. You get to 66 and the lil' one makes a faintest of sounds. Shit! You start your count over. Yes! You hit 70 and carefully head for the door. Now, you've done this hundreds of times and you've learned that if you close the door quickly, those squeaky hinges don't make as much noise. So you whip the door shut, but you're exhausted and your reflexes are no longer cat like. CRASH! WHAAAAA!
Your back wrenching hard work was for naught. Suck it up! It's nobody's fault but yours. Throw the lil' one in a car seat and head to the hardware store. I know you're frugal, but Jesus! Spend the three bucks on that bottle of WD-40. Go home and immediately spray every god damn hinge in your house. There shall be no squeaky hinge on your watch, active dad.
One thing that I really dislike is receiving unsolicited parenting advice. So here's some for you. Nah. I don't have any advice for you on how to parent your lil' one. You'll discover that on your own, my friend. But I will offer up some tricks that I've learned as a dad. They just might make your role as active dad ah...err... more...less...
1. The first thing you've gotta do is go shopping. Dude, you need to update that wardrobe of yours. Don't stress! This is going to be simple. What we're looking for is quite common, so it doesn't matter where ya go shopping. Just choose a store that makes you feel comfortable. Are you there yet? Good. Now find the white undershirts. Here's the tricky part, crew or v neck? After you've made your decision on neck preference, grab 8 shirts. No, 12 shirts. Wait! You grabbed medium? Is that what you normally wear? Well, put that shit back and grab some larges. Why? You're gonna spend the next year being peed on, pooped on, and spit up on. You're gonna get caked with rice cereal and smothered in puréed vegetables. Those shirts are going to be frequently washed and bleached at extremely high temps. They're gonna shrink and you need to be comfortable. Sweet! We're done here.
What? You're having a winter babe? No problem! Open up your sweater drawer. Remove all your wool sweaters. Huh? You only wear cotton because wool itches your neck? Sorry dude. That lil' one of yours is going to eat you alive. Let's forget about Mr. Cotton and move along. Ok, so you've taken out all of your wool sweaters. Now, put your two least favorite back in the drawer. Place all of the others in storage. You've got two dreadful sweaters, just make sure you switch 'em up every couple of days. It's also good to throw 'em in the dryer once in awhile for a lil' fo-freshening. And for the love on God. Take 'em to the dry cleaners every couple of months. You might not realize, or even care, but dude... you reek of breast milk gone bad. Seriously, get the shit dry cleaned.
2. Grow a beard! Nothing screams dad, like a nice full beard. And I'll tell ya. There is no better feeling than having your very own lil' one rub their hands through your very own beard while you're reading them bedtime stories.
3. Your car radio has been commandeered by your lil' one. To avoid unnecessary frustration, you stop on, and listen to, every bloody Katy Perry song. Saturday night is movie night. All you want to do is watch Jason Bourne beat the shit out of some bad guys. But instead, you watch Finding Nemo for the forty third Saturday in a row. You haven't had a man date in twenty three weeks. And there's always a box of Pinot Grigio in your fridge. Let's be honest, you're feeling sorta strange. Been there, bro. It's what I like to call "low T." And it's why I always have a bottle of single malt in the house. Well that, and it's delicious. Time to go shopping again! Go get yourself a nice bottle of scotch. And yes! It must be scotch, it's simply the manliest of drinks. After the lil' one has gone off to bed, drink some scotch. Now for fucks sake, don't go all Roger Sterling on that shit. Feeling the "T" rise? Not yet? Okay. Take a glass of scotch to your new favorite "alone" place, most likely the basement. Turn on Swordfish Trumbone. Dust off the dart board and play some cricket. "T" on the rise? I bet it is! If not, seek medical attention.
4. If you're gonna be an active dad, you're gonna experience some of the most incredible screeching known to mankind. Unless you're a pig farmer, used to hearing those horrific piggy squeals as they're loaded onto the butcher bound truck. You'll have to learn how to minimize the screeching.
The lil' one just woke up from a four hour nap and has the hunger screech going on. You immediately hop up. Run to the kitchen and crank on the hot water. Run and grab the lil' one. Run back to the kitchen and fill a bowl up with hot water. Grab a bottle out of the fridge and put it in the hot water. 10 minutes pass and you can't take anymore screeching, so you grab the bottle and stick it in the lil' one's mouth. But the lil' one pushes this too cold swill away and the screech becomes worse. Since the water in the bowl is now luke warm, you refill it with hot water and put the bottle back in. 10 more minutes pass and now you're crying too. You test the milk temp on your wrist. Ah... Just right.
Dude. Breast milk can sit at room temp for a solid four hours. And guess what! It only takes a few minutes to warm up milk that is already at room temp. Boom!!! You just saved yourself approximately 16 extremely long minutes of screeching. Plan ahead, my friend.
All right. Last one for today...
5. You've spent the past fifty eight minutes rocking, reading, singing, swaying, and whatever else it is you do to get the lil' one to sleep. You successfully place the lil' one in the crib. Few! You start to count to 70 in your head. You get to 66 and the lil' one makes a faintest of sounds. Shit! You start your count over. Yes! You hit 70 and carefully head for the door. Now, you've done this hundreds of times and you've learned that if you close the door quickly, those squeaky hinges don't make as much noise. So you whip the door shut, but you're exhausted and your reflexes are no longer cat like. CRASH! WHAAAAA!
Your back wrenching hard work was for naught. Suck it up! It's nobody's fault but yours. Throw the lil' one in a car seat and head to the hardware store. I know you're frugal, but Jesus! Spend the three bucks on that bottle of WD-40. Go home and immediately spray every god damn hinge in your house. There shall be no squeaky hinge on your watch, active dad.
Hey momma! What's your number?
I'm in serious need of stay at home mom advice.
I've always considered myself to be pretty darn good at most things, however something I've always sucked at is asking out the ladies. I'm not really sure why, so I'll do what sons do—blame my mother. Rather than digging deep into my soul, let's just assume that she did too good of a job raising me to be a gentleman. Yeah, that must be it.
One time in 8th grade, my best friend and I were you know, chilling in my bedroom to the Cocktail soundtrack. Man, does that sound gay! No wait... maybe queer is a better word to describe that moment. Actually, it's a fond memory, so maybe gay is the appropriate word to use. But ... looking back it also seems kinda strange that we were listening to the Cocktail soundtrack in my bedroom. So ... My best friend and I were having a gay ol' queer time listening to the Cocktail soundtrack, talking about girls. I new that my best friend had an 8th grade crush on a certain young lady. However, this young lady had a crush on me. He insisted that I ask her out. But I was scared shitless and couldn't do it. So as any best friend would do, he called her up and asked her out for me.
This sort of scenario followed me through my teenage years and into adulthood. Always relying of friends to get me through the awkward asking out hurdle or relying on the ladies to ask me out. Christ! Even my future wifey stalked me for a bit, before I was able to gather the courage to ask her out. Geesh. I'm sure glad I did. And you'd think, now that I'm married this problem of asking ladies for their number would be a non issue. But, fuck me! It's back in my life.
I've been doing the SAHD thing for a little more than 3 1/2 years now. And you know what? I've only met two other SAHD's. One now lives thousands of miles away. The other one, well ... he's kind of a douche. Ah well, this isn't a big deal. I like hanging out with SAHM's just fine. All though. I wish they'd stop with all their "MOM" groups. Why can't they just be "PARENT" groups? After all, it is 2014 and exclusion works both ways. But perhaps, this is for another post.
Since we moved I really haven't found any SAHM companions and I'm feeling isolated. I'm never alone, but I sort of feel all alone. I'm craving some adult interaction. Well, recently I bumped into a wicked cool mom, that I hadn't seen in awhile, at the trampoline place (which you can read about here). She is one of three moms that I've met there, that has actually spoken to me. She invited us to join her and the kids for a snack. YES!!!! We hadn't seen each other in awhile so we caught up while the kiddos shared their snacks. It felt great to have someone to talk with, but all I could think about was, if only these weren't such rare chance encounters. I felt the awkwardness of my adolescence return. But why? I'm happily married. She's married. I just want a friend with kids. This shouldn't be awkward.
Should I ask her for her number? See if she wants to schedule a play date? Get her email address? Wait for her to suggest something? Give her my wifey's number? Give her my number? Jesus, the last thing I need is for a big dude to show up at the trampoline place and punch me in the face. Fuck. I just want some other parents to hang out with. Some kids for my kids to hang out with. Why does this feel awkward? Should it feel awkward? HELP!
I've always considered myself to be pretty darn good at most things, however something I've always sucked at is asking out the ladies. I'm not really sure why, so I'll do what sons do—blame my mother. Rather than digging deep into my soul, let's just assume that she did too good of a job raising me to be a gentleman. Yeah, that must be it.
One time in 8th grade, my best friend and I were you know, chilling in my bedroom to the Cocktail soundtrack. Man, does that sound gay! No wait... maybe queer is a better word to describe that moment. Actually, it's a fond memory, so maybe gay is the appropriate word to use. But ... looking back it also seems kinda strange that we were listening to the Cocktail soundtrack in my bedroom. So ... My best friend and I were having a gay ol' queer time listening to the Cocktail soundtrack, talking about girls. I new that my best friend had an 8th grade crush on a certain young lady. However, this young lady had a crush on me. He insisted that I ask her out. But I was scared shitless and couldn't do it. So as any best friend would do, he called her up and asked her out for me.
This sort of scenario followed me through my teenage years and into adulthood. Always relying of friends to get me through the awkward asking out hurdle or relying on the ladies to ask me out. Christ! Even my future wifey stalked me for a bit, before I was able to gather the courage to ask her out. Geesh. I'm sure glad I did. And you'd think, now that I'm married this problem of asking ladies for their number would be a non issue. But, fuck me! It's back in my life.
I've been doing the SAHD thing for a little more than 3 1/2 years now. And you know what? I've only met two other SAHD's. One now lives thousands of miles away. The other one, well ... he's kind of a douche. Ah well, this isn't a big deal. I like hanging out with SAHM's just fine. All though. I wish they'd stop with all their "MOM" groups. Why can't they just be "PARENT" groups? After all, it is 2014 and exclusion works both ways. But perhaps, this is for another post.
Since we moved I really haven't found any SAHM companions and I'm feeling isolated. I'm never alone, but I sort of feel all alone. I'm craving some adult interaction. Well, recently I bumped into a wicked cool mom, that I hadn't seen in awhile, at the trampoline place (which you can read about here). She is one of three moms that I've met there, that has actually spoken to me. She invited us to join her and the kids for a snack. YES!!!! We hadn't seen each other in awhile so we caught up while the kiddos shared their snacks. It felt great to have someone to talk with, but all I could think about was, if only these weren't such rare chance encounters. I felt the awkwardness of my adolescence return. But why? I'm happily married. She's married. I just want a friend with kids. This shouldn't be awkward.
Should I ask her for her number? See if she wants to schedule a play date? Get her email address? Wait for her to suggest something? Give her my wifey's number? Give her my number? Jesus, the last thing I need is for a big dude to show up at the trampoline place and punch me in the face. Fuck. I just want some other parents to hang out with. Some kids for my kids to hang out with. Why does this feel awkward? Should it feel awkward? HELP!
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
I love you more than ...
Before I begin, I'd like to point out that I haven't cussed in front of my children since I last wrote. Doesn't seem like a big deal to ya, huh? Well then, you probably haven't spent much time driving around RI. Anyway ...
If you have kids, I'd venture to guess that you have your own little way of telling your kids how much you love them. Ya know what I'm talking about ... Like, with outstretched arms, "I love you this much!" Or, "I love you to the moon and back." Or for the Toy Story fan, "I love you to infinity and beyond!" Well if you don't, what the fuck is wrong with you? Go do it now! Seriously, quit reading this profanity ridden blog post, put down your electronic device, get off your ass, and go tell your kid(s) how much you love them. You filthy dirt bag.
Wow. I'm a rusty writer. What the hell am I writing about?
Oh yeah. We had another one of those wicked Rhode Island blizzards last night. That mother fucker must have dumped 3, no, 4 inches of snow all over the state. I mean damn! Thank God they shut the whole state down. Part of me wants to take all these Rhody pansies to my hometown in the County. Ya know, where school is only canceled when the gasoline in the school buses freezes solid. But I wouldn't do that to all the kind folks up there.
What the? Another tangent? Maybe I should just give up on this one. Fuck it! Here goes ...
The wifey got the day off from work, gotta love higher ed! Which meant that I also (sorta) (kinda) got the "day of", but not really. What shall I do with this found freedom? Oh hell yes! Time to implement that chorizo recipe I've been trying to figure out in my head. Yes. Yes. And yes! I know. I know. This unexpected freedom fell in my lap and you're gonna waste it making chorizo? Yep. The kitchen is my escape. I love making food and to be honest, I haven't been happy since Whole Foods made the switch to chicken chorizo. What the fuck? I personally don't know why anyone would eat chicken, when they can eat pig.
Just in case you don't know anything about chorizo ... It's a spicy Mexican sausage composed of spices, onion, garlic, herb, and a shit ton of chilies. So, I started with dicing the onion and garlic, which turned me into a watery mess. Then, I started ripping into the chillies. Cut 'em open so you can get the seeds out and then a mince. My hands became a hot mess. Every cut, scratch, hangnail, and scar was on fire. Now. Any normal, careful person would have worn gloves. But, I ain't that normal. I also have a tendency to be careless when my mind is focused on getting shit done. Yeah I'm the guy who grinds the lead paint of his house without wearing a respirator. I don't wear earplugs when I fire up the chainsaw. I use my router without eye protection. I would never think about using the guard on my Grizzly. And obviously, I don't fucking wear latex gloves while handling chilies. Thus far, this carelessness has only resulted in losing chunks of both my thumbs. I've been lucky. Jesus! I have a wifey and two kids now! What if? Fuck! I need to stop being so careless with myself.
So, my hands are en fuego. Shit! The kids. I can't go near them with these hands. Hmmmm. Maybe that's not such a bad thing. Sorry honey, I can't change the lil' girl's diaper. Oh babe, can you wipe the lil' man's ass? Cause I can't go near him. Honey .... Now, that's not fair. So, I scrub the shit out of my hands, twice. They no longer feel on fire. Hmmm. Maybe my hands are ok now. But how do I know for sure? I love these kids so much and it will kill me if this act of carelessness (I'm just thinking that I should mention that I'm only ever careless when it comes to my own personal well being. I'm always extremely careful when it comes to other people. It seems that when one's sole focus is on caring for other people, sometimes they neglect themselves.) resulted in any form of discomfort for my kids. This heat is dangerous. Jesus, why didn't I just wear gloves? Next time ...
I've gotta figure out if these hands are okay for touching. But how? Poke myself in the eye? Fuck that! I need to see. Pick my nose? Nah, I'm not sure that would help out the ol' sinus infection that I've been battling. No! Not that. Yes. I love my children that much. I head to the sink and scrub my hands for the third and fourth time. I look at the wifey and borrow one of the lil' mans favorite lines, "I'm off to the potty!'
Oh good lord! I promise to wear ear plugs, eye protection, a respirator, and/or latex gloves when I'm doing things that could potentially cause injury to myself. I promise to be less careless with myself. Shit! I'll even wear knee pads when ... Just. Please. Oh good mother of ... Damn. Dr. Bronner's soap is great stuff. Seriously. Go buy some.
If you have kids, I'd venture to guess that you have your own little way of telling your kids how much you love them. Ya know what I'm talking about ... Like, with outstretched arms, "I love you this much!" Or, "I love you to the moon and back." Or for the Toy Story fan, "I love you to infinity and beyond!" Well if you don't, what the fuck is wrong with you? Go do it now! Seriously, quit reading this profanity ridden blog post, put down your electronic device, get off your ass, and go tell your kid(s) how much you love them. You filthy dirt bag.
Wow. I'm a rusty writer. What the hell am I writing about?
Oh yeah. We had another one of those wicked Rhode Island blizzards last night. That mother fucker must have dumped 3, no, 4 inches of snow all over the state. I mean damn! Thank God they shut the whole state down. Part of me wants to take all these Rhody pansies to my hometown in the County. Ya know, where school is only canceled when the gasoline in the school buses freezes solid. But I wouldn't do that to all the kind folks up there.
What the? Another tangent? Maybe I should just give up on this one. Fuck it! Here goes ...
The wifey got the day off from work, gotta love higher ed! Which meant that I also (sorta) (kinda) got the "day of", but not really. What shall I do with this found freedom? Oh hell yes! Time to implement that chorizo recipe I've been trying to figure out in my head. Yes. Yes. And yes! I know. I know. This unexpected freedom fell in my lap and you're gonna waste it making chorizo? Yep. The kitchen is my escape. I love making food and to be honest, I haven't been happy since Whole Foods made the switch to chicken chorizo. What the fuck? I personally don't know why anyone would eat chicken, when they can eat pig.
Just in case you don't know anything about chorizo ... It's a spicy Mexican sausage composed of spices, onion, garlic, herb, and a shit ton of chilies. So, I started with dicing the onion and garlic, which turned me into a watery mess. Then, I started ripping into the chillies. Cut 'em open so you can get the seeds out and then a mince. My hands became a hot mess. Every cut, scratch, hangnail, and scar was on fire. Now. Any normal, careful person would have worn gloves. But, I ain't that normal. I also have a tendency to be careless when my mind is focused on getting shit done. Yeah I'm the guy who grinds the lead paint of his house without wearing a respirator. I don't wear earplugs when I fire up the chainsaw. I use my router without eye protection. I would never think about using the guard on my Grizzly. And obviously, I don't fucking wear latex gloves while handling chilies. Thus far, this carelessness has only resulted in losing chunks of both my thumbs. I've been lucky. Jesus! I have a wifey and two kids now! What if? Fuck! I need to stop being so careless with myself.
So, my hands are en fuego. Shit! The kids. I can't go near them with these hands. Hmmmm. Maybe that's not such a bad thing. Sorry honey, I can't change the lil' girl's diaper. Oh babe, can you wipe the lil' man's ass? Cause I can't go near him. Honey .... Now, that's not fair. So, I scrub the shit out of my hands, twice. They no longer feel on fire. Hmmm. Maybe my hands are ok now. But how do I know for sure? I love these kids so much and it will kill me if this act of carelessness (I'm just thinking that I should mention that I'm only ever careless when it comes to my own personal well being. I'm always extremely careful when it comes to other people. It seems that when one's sole focus is on caring for other people, sometimes they neglect themselves.) resulted in any form of discomfort for my kids. This heat is dangerous. Jesus, why didn't I just wear gloves? Next time ...
I've gotta figure out if these hands are okay for touching. But how? Poke myself in the eye? Fuck that! I need to see. Pick my nose? Nah, I'm not sure that would help out the ol' sinus infection that I've been battling. No! Not that. Yes. I love my children that much. I head to the sink and scrub my hands for the third and fourth time. I look at the wifey and borrow one of the lil' mans favorite lines, "I'm off to the potty!'
Oh good lord! I promise to wear ear plugs, eye protection, a respirator, and/or latex gloves when I'm doing things that could potentially cause injury to myself. I promise to be less careless with myself. Shit! I'll even wear knee pads when ... Just. Please. Oh good mother of ... Damn. Dr. Bronner's soap is great stuff. Seriously. Go buy some.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
It's not romantic, moron.
Christ! Why am I here? Oh yeah, I remember. This is the place I write down my curses, so I don't say them aloud in front of the lil' man. But now ... There is also a lil' girl to consider.
Shit. If only (yeah here's a cliche for ya) I had a nickel for every time I heard, "Man! I wish I could be a stay at home parent." Ok. To be honest, sometimes I hear, "Man! There is no way in hell, I'd want to do that." But fuck the honest and obviously more brilliant latter. This is about the former and their ridiculous notion that being a stay at home parent is all romance and shit.
I love my lil' man. I love my wifey. And holy shit do I love my lil' girl. But ... Fuck! Staying home to take care of ... to dedicate ever ounce of my being ... Gosh! I'm realizing that I don't even have the words to finish whatever the hell I'm trying to communicate. So let's just get to the romance.
This morning, I woke up to my wifey's beautiful voice. So gentle and kind. And incredibly easy to ignore when you just want sleep to continue. The next time I woke, the lil' man was on top of me screaming, "We made you fresh hot coffee!" Knowing that the lil' man is quite relentless, I simply rolled out of bed. Slurped down some coffee. Took a poop. Made the lil' man breakfast. And cooed at the lil' girl while I made the wifey lunch to go.
Now, I only see the back of the wifey's head as she walks out through the door to her fancy dream job, so I can't be certain. But I'm pretty sure she's grinning. I dunno. Maybe she's just inhaling a breath of fresh air. Anyhow ... Back to the kitchen where I just melted some fucking Al-Clad to the God damned stove. How, you ask?
Well. The lil' girl isn't yet five months old, but good lord! Does she have an appetite. She slurps down 8 ounces of breast milk like ... like ... A hipster funnels a PBR tall boy. She's been chowing down bowls of rice cereal for over a month. So this morning I thought I'd make some baby food, maybe that'll keep Betty White from chewing a hole in another one of my wool sweaters. Seems simple enough. I mean, it doesn't take a fucking genious to steam vegetables to make baby food. Damn! Making baby food for your own kids. Doesn't that sound romantic? The thing is ...
I haven't slept in 46 days. I've had a sinus infection for two weeks (FYI you're always sick. And no! There are not any fucking sick days). The lil' man is running around screaming at me, who the fuck knows why. I'm cooing at the lil' girl so she doesn't start screaming at me too. JI'm trying to eat a piece of toast so I don't starve to death or faint because of this darn vertigo I've been experiencing for the past six months because of a stupid impacted eardrum that I haven't had time to get irrigated. Breathe.
Yeah. So the water eventually boiled down and the pot caught on fire.
Shit. If only (yeah here's a cliche for ya) I had a nickel for every time I heard, "Man! I wish I could be a stay at home parent." Ok. To be honest, sometimes I hear, "Man! There is no way in hell, I'd want to do that." But fuck the honest and obviously more brilliant latter. This is about the former and their ridiculous notion that being a stay at home parent is all romance and shit.
I love my lil' man. I love my wifey. And holy shit do I love my lil' girl. But ... Fuck! Staying home to take care of ... to dedicate ever ounce of my being ... Gosh! I'm realizing that I don't even have the words to finish whatever the hell I'm trying to communicate. So let's just get to the romance.
This morning, I woke up to my wifey's beautiful voice. So gentle and kind. And incredibly easy to ignore when you just want sleep to continue. The next time I woke, the lil' man was on top of me screaming, "We made you fresh hot coffee!" Knowing that the lil' man is quite relentless, I simply rolled out of bed. Slurped down some coffee. Took a poop. Made the lil' man breakfast. And cooed at the lil' girl while I made the wifey lunch to go.
Now, I only see the back of the wifey's head as she walks out through the door to her fancy dream job, so I can't be certain. But I'm pretty sure she's grinning. I dunno. Maybe she's just inhaling a breath of fresh air. Anyhow ... Back to the kitchen where I just melted some fucking Al-Clad to the God damned stove. How, you ask?
Well. The lil' girl isn't yet five months old, but good lord! Does she have an appetite. She slurps down 8 ounces of breast milk like ... like ... A hipster funnels a PBR tall boy. She's been chowing down bowls of rice cereal for over a month. So this morning I thought I'd make some baby food, maybe that'll keep Betty White from chewing a hole in another one of my wool sweaters. Seems simple enough. I mean, it doesn't take a fucking genious to steam vegetables to make baby food. Damn! Making baby food for your own kids. Doesn't that sound romantic? The thing is ...
I haven't slept in 46 days. I've had a sinus infection for two weeks (FYI you're always sick. And no! There are not any fucking sick days). The lil' man is running around screaming at me, who the fuck knows why. I'm cooing at the lil' girl so she doesn't start screaming at me too. JI'm trying to eat a piece of toast so I don't starve to death or faint because of this darn vertigo I've been experiencing for the past six months because of a stupid impacted eardrum that I haven't had time to get irrigated. Breathe.
Yeah. So the water eventually boiled down and the pot caught on fire.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
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.
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.
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