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.

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.

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.

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 ...

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.

Creating memories. That's some scary shit!

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

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

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

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

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

There's nothing like old friends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The dead, but walking zombie.

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

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

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

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

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

What a dud!

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

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

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

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

This is the story I imagined.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh vagina story, when WILL you emerge ...

Momentary lapse of insecurity.

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

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

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

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

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

The hangover.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The 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.

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.

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.

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 ...