The good homemaker.

I think (that's the key word, THINK) that I'm doing a darn good job raising our lil' man. I'm sure, like most stay at home parents, I have my good moments and not-so-good moments. How can you not? It's like riding a roller coaster. You go up. You go down. And you can't get off until the ride is over. Sometimes you want to puke. Sometimes you want to scream. And most times you want to weep ... tears of joy, tears of sorrow, or tears of frustration. Ahh, perhaps the weeping is due to my low T. Unfortunately, unlike a roller coaster, it doesn't appear the parental ride ends. Shit. I just turned 37. I still lean on my mommy.

Last night the wifey reassured me that it's normal for people in my circumstance to sometimes think, possibly utter, "Jesus fucking Christ! I just don't want to be around my child today." I'm not sure if she was being honest, or just trying to make me feel better. I guess it doesn't really matter, I know that I'm being honest

Maybe I'm just taking this roll too seriously. I'm mean, shit, I'm blogging about it.

Actually, I'm taking this very fucking seriously. I've jumped in with both balls. I'm not a say-at-home dad! I'm a fucking homemaker, and proud of it. Wait. I'm a competitive dude.  I'm not just a homemaker. I'm trying to be the best fucking homemaker this planet has ever seen. I pay the bills. I grocery shop. I clean. I make sure the wifey has breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I mow the lawn. I walk the dog and pick up her doo. I fix the plumbing. I do everything but bring home a paycheck. AND it brings me joyous fulfillment. I know there are still a lot of people in our society that would question this fulfillment of manhood. Screw them idiots! Bring 'em to me, so I can slap 'em upside the head with my ding-dong in an attempt to inspire a progressive thought.

Can you say, "tangent"?

It's Monday... It's been a very long time since I've had normal employment, but I've heard that Monday's tend to suck. So, tonight I planned a delicious and romantic treat for the wifey. Grilled sea bass with an arugula salad with a balsamic vinaigrette (containing scrumptious bacon drippings), grilled onion, and fruit tree smoked bacon. Oh yeah. This will make her Monday better.

Hmmmm.....

My apologies for the sloppy plating, by this time our little monster was aiming the sprinkler at our 27$/lb sea bass.

goo goo g'joob

As of three nights ago, I became Mr. Walrus in our house. This is how it happened.

Mommy struggles to get the lil' man to brush his teeth. He wants to do it himself, which doesn't cut it for mommy. He takes the toothbrush full of apple flavored tooth paste with an emphatic "MINE!" Sucks all the paste off, which screams "normal" to me. God! As a kid, I remember sucking a fresh tube of AquaFresh dry. I mean, I made that AquaFresh my bitch. It was delicious.

After he rids the brush of yummy paste, he brushes everything but his teeth. The couch. The stairs. His armpits. His nipples. Just as he tries to brush his penis, a frustrated mommy grabs the brush, "NO!" Understandable, she just worked a long day. Doesn't she deserve an easy go at something as simple as brushing teeth?

So three nights ago she began to employ Mr. Walrus. And it was brilliant! She is quite creative. After spending 10 delightful hours with the lil' man, making supper, cleaning the kitchen, etc.—I tend to hit the patio for some adult "juice" and quiet time. Three nights ago, I was doing just this when my phone rang. Who the hell is calling me at the ripe hour of 7:30? It was mommy. What the fuck? What happened? More plumbing? I pressed answer and heard "Hello. Mr. Walrus?" I paused, okay, I can roll with this. "This is Mr. Walrus." "Hi Mr. Walrus. The lil' man doesn't want to brush his teeth tonight. Can you explain the importance of brushing your teeth?" Pause. I thought to myself, I don't even like to brush my own fucking teeth ... All I could utter was "goo goo g'joob." Seemed to make sense to the lil' man. He brushed his teeth and uttered "goo goo g'joob" or something like it when he finished.

Then, the third night rolled around ... Mommy was trying to take the lil' man upstairs for tubby time. He didn't want to go. She prematurely employed Mr. Walrus.

Mommy: "But, don't you want to call Mr. Walrus after tubby time?"
Daddy: "It's Friday. I'm spent.  Mr. Walrus isn't fucking home tonight."
Mommy: "Well, how do I get him to brush his teeth?"
Daddy: "How the hell do I get him to do anything? Figure it out."

Twenty minutes later my phone rang. I didn't pick it up. Mommy must of figured something out, because I didn't hear any screams. I knew she would. She's smarter than me and rocks as a mom.

Honey, I really do look forward to the moment you get home from work. But. Ummm. Well.

I love my wife. I love hanging out with my wife. I love snuggling with my wife. I love doing everything with my wife. All though, I have to admit, playing tennis with my wife is ... well, kind of painful. She's not the most athletic gal, but that's okay. She pretty much rocks everything else.

My ten hour solo shift with the lil' man ends at about 5:15pm when my wife get's home from work. Oh, how I look forward to her arrival and the ensuing relief. I'm exhausted.

The lil' man and I head to the stoop a little after 5 and wait for mommy's little white convertible to come rolling down the street. Oh the delight when it comes into view.  The lil' man stands up with a wide smile and screeches "Mommy's home!" Once mommy has pulled into the driveway, I release the excited lil' dude. He runs toward mommy, where her open arms are waiting, anticipating that welcome home hug. But, he runs past her. Jumps in the white convertible and frigs with buttons. Poor mommy. Welcome to 3 hours of hell. I mean, welcome home.

I quietly sneak inside. Pour the days last Diet Coke over ice. Head to the patio and collapse in a chair. I roll a cigarette. Yep, I said that filthy word, "cigarette." Don't judge me. It's my vice. My treat. My moment of relaxation. I'm sure you have a vice that's not so good for you. Don't you? Besides, it's organic American Spirit, doesn't have a fiberglass filled filter, and I only smoke half of it. As you can see, I'm a little sensitive about this. I know it's not good for me, but it is good for me. Piss off!

So I sip some Diet Coke and smoke half a cigarette. I set the cigarette down in an ashtray and watch it go out. Saving the other half to accompany a crisp glass of wine while mommy and the lil' man enjoy tubby time. I wait. I know it's coming. I can't see it. But this is what I imagine. Mommy patiently stands by the convertible door. She's watching the lil' man frig with her convertible. She's holding three bags (why she needs three bags, I'll never grasp). Her new job is fancy, so she's decked out and looks beautiful. She's tired. She wants to trade those heels for flip flops. Longs to slip into some comfy clothes. Wait for it. Wait for it. BAM! Major melt down as mommy pries those little hands from the steering wheel. She scoops him up and carries him inside as he kicks, screams, pulls hair, and bites.

In a few minutes the lil' man opens the sliding door to the patio, pops his head out and says, "Hi daddy!" And I know my moment is over and it's time to make dinner. The kitchen in the house we're renting is really quite nice, but intimate. The kind of kitchen you need to be alone in.

The lil' man. Oh that lil' man. He just gets so excited that mommy is around. My lil' man who has been pretty darn close to angelic all day, turns into a crazed uncontrollable lunatic. He starts runnin' around. He throws cars. He throws trains. He throws books. He pulls art off the wall. More biting. Pulls more hair. Then, the worst of it begins. He starts chasing "Toots!" Toots (a.k.a. Stella) is our nine year old Belgium malinois. An unemployed work dog that likes a calm and controlled environment. Let's just say that Toots fucking hates the lil' man's existence. There is uncontrollable growling. Snarling. Baring of teeth. He chases Toots and mommy chases him. Eventually they all end up in a corner. I think to myself, "Would you just fucking bite him so we can be done with this." Obviously, I don't want this to happen, but good lord. That poor dog.

I think the family senses that their food is about to be basted with daddy's tears. Things settle down. I compose myself and get dinner on the table.

Plumbing at 7pm on Saturday night.

Jesus! I moved to Providence because I love and support my wife, but also for change. Specifically to leave two things behind: the business, and the 1850's farmhouse that I spent 9 years rehabbing. So I can/could dedicate 100% of my love and energy to the wife and lil' man.

Despite the fact that my fantastic wifey did everything in her power for me to get some rest today. I have been a walking fucking zombie all day. Totally brain dead. I tried to nap. But quickly realized that I'm not physically tired. I'm mentally exhausted. You see, the lil' man talks non-stop (which is awesome) and he needs everything he says repeated back to him, so that he understands that I understand. I'm not much of a talker, so this is exhausting for me. I blame my brother for being the first child—he never shut up and I never spoke.

Today we drove to the farmer's market, which was unlike any market I've ever seen. But, shit. I was a walking fucking zombie, so who knows. During the drive over, I was continually repeating what the lil' man was saying while trying to answer my wife's nonstop questions. She also has the gift for gab and is very inquisitive. I was verbally maxed out and unfortunately said, "Can you please (I don't really think I said please) just talk to the lil' man!"

Back to the plumbing ... We are renting a house, so I can have a break from house shit, like plumbing. I fucking hate plumbing. I'd rather re-wire an entire house and get 72 shocks than fix a dripping fucking faucet. But tonight, after tubby time, apparently my incredible curious lil' man thought he'd disassemble the entire drain valve. Was mommy just sitting on the Toto watching? I heard our standard household cry from the second floor, "Hey babe!?"

I went up to see what was going on. Nice, plumbing. I bent down to get a closer look. Not so bad. It didn't take long to reassemble. The best part was, the entire time, the lil' man was leaning on my shoulder, repeating "Daddy fixin' it. Daddy fixin' it. Daddy can fix anything." Sometimes I think THEY break shit, just to make sure their man can fix it.

I love being a father. Especially to a lil' man 6 days beyond two that can take apart an entire drain valve with his bare hands.

Dude?

In a few moments I've gotta imagine that Kristen will be asking herself, "Dude where is my lunch"? Sorry honey. Maybe that bottle of vino last night made me a tad foggy this morning. Or, maybe it was those two gluten free beers. Might have been remembering to put out the garbage and recycling that threw off my routine. Maybe all your recent lunch dates made me forget. Yeah, that's it. It's your fault, not mine. Christ, cut me some slack. I remembered to make your breakfast. Please don't fire this homemaker.

Honey. I also found a TJ Maxx today and had the best intention of replacing that pair of sunglasses you sat on. We finally made our way over to the rack of sunglasses after the lil' man made me try on every hat in the place, including all the pink and purple ladies hats. Unfortunately, your son started in on his relentlessly loud and nonstop vacuum cleaner sound effect.  Needless to say, we left without a new pair of sunglasses. Maybe next time we'll hit the sunglasses first.

Loving regards.