Being A Dad Ain't Bad - Eric

I showed my mom my penis last night...

2009-04-17T10:17:00.003-04:00

In my defense, I have no idea if she looked. But then again, when an elephant walks through your living room with his pants off, people can’t help but sneak a peak. Y’know what I’m saying? Y’know what I’m saying? You know what I’m saying.

Have a seat in the Way-back machine for a moment, won’t you; all the way back to the dawn of my puberty. Around the age of 13, I became immediately fascinated albeit instantly ashamed of my ever-changing body. The center of that attraction and shame was my penis. At this same time my warped sense of humor began to develop. I discovered in my early teens that it was easier to laugh at myself than it was to take myself too seriously. Self-depreciating humor became my life-blood. And since the center of me was also the most awkward, it became logically enough the center of my jesting.

I like to think that I ended puberty some 15 or so years ago. The comedie du zizi never ended. My favorite joke is actually the flash. I’ve found a comfortable area amongst family and friends. It’s somewhere between sex offender and “Great he’s drinking, I guess we’ll be seeing the old cock and balls tonight.” It works for me.

So last night my son and I were in the tub for his nightly bath; bubbles were everywhere. For my mom’s birthday we got the laptop out and used the web cam so we could have a video chat over IM. My mom could watch her grandson splash in the tub and we could watch her smile, wave, and try to steal his attention from the rubber duckies. It was an innocent and pleasant peak into our nightly family dynamic. As the chat and the bubbles waned, an idea of such brilliance and pure light sprang forth. Okay, it wasn’t really that great. I just thought it would be funny to stand up, bend over and pick up my son. All in front of the camera so that my mom would get a laptop full of ass, twig and berries.

I was right it was funny. Happy Birthday Momma!

Kurt Russell is a tall drink of water...

2009-04-17T10:06:00.003-04:00

Let me take a moment to explain to the world (the half dozen of you out there who still check this site) what I mean by “NEW DAILY POSTS.”

The word “NEW”

Traditional Definition: of recent origin, production, purchase, etc.; having but lately come or been brought into being

My Definition: when I feel like it

The word “DAILY”

Traditional Definition: of, done, occurring, or issued each day or each weekday

My Definition: sometimes

The word “POSTS”

Traditional Definition: text that is placed on a Web site

My Definition: a chance for me to tell the world that I have a new kid and a beautiful wife who love me unconditionally. Just kidding, it’s a chance for me to tell dick and fart jokes anonymously the way Buddha intended.

But know this world and be forewarned. I love this site and I like writing here so hold on to your taints men and women because new posts are coming and you tell ‘em Hell’s coming with me. HELL’S COMING WITH ME!!

2009-04-04T15:12:00.002-04:00

Yeah, I bathe with my kid, so what about it? We’ve gotten into a nice routine at home. When I get home from work, I’ll exercise and then jump in the shower. Well, it just so happens that when I get in the shower it’s time for the kid’s nightly bath. So, two birds (me and my kid) and one stone (the bath tub). So, we’ve shaken up the routine a little bit and now, before I take my shower, the kid and I will jump in the tub together.

Now, I know this will upset the sensitivity of many of you bath-haters out there. But I’ve got two words for you…screw off. For some reason, I think it’s become cool to hate baths. People who don’t like baths (my wife is one of them) like to put on airs about how showers are so much better and cleaner than baths. “You know you’re just sitting in your own filth, don’t you?” Duh, Sherlock. Thanks for explaining the math behind it: me + tub + water = same matter occupying same space at same time.

I, unlike my child, am usually able to restrain myself. Meaning I can put one toe in a nice hot bath and not immediately lose all control of my urethra. Yes, I wrote “unlike my child” and yes, I’m aware that I’m sitting in a tub full of hot water and baby pee. It just doesn’t bother me.

Okay, it bothers me a little, that’s why I immediately take a shower after the bath.

HAMBONE!!!

2009-03-28T13:54:00.003-04:00

I’ve got the house to myself this weekend. My wife took the kid and headed to her parent’s house. I think having wifey and kid gone is a better idea than it is a reality. It’s nice knowing that for 48 hours I can eat whatever I want, watch whatever I want, and do whatever I want. However, I’ve already had an entire pizza, watched porno, and jerked off. Now, I’ve still got 47.5 hours to go, I’m sick of pizza, bored with boobs, and I’ve got chafing in some very uncomfortable areas.

Unfortunately, the real problem is that I’m lonely. I genuinely miss my family. I talked to my wife this morning on the phone and I could hear my son talking or whatever it is 5 month olds do. Knowing that I won’t get to see him at all today, is an absolute heartbreaker.

Update: my wife just sent me an email and told me my son’s schedule is off, so he’s been an absolute nightmare all morning: screaming, crying, fussing, the works. Now, I don’t feel so bad. She always knows how to make me feel better. Thanks honey, I love you too.

whatdoIgottadotogetyouintoanewtoyotatoday?

2009-03-26T15:19:00.003-04:00

I’ve discovered (the hard way) that finding something new to write about every day is a pain in the ass. Thanks for coming along on that journey with me. But we have all reached the corner of Work Is Hard Rd and Why Bother Ln. Here at our final destination you’ll find me sitting in a recliner in my underwear fishing Dorito crumbs out of my belly button. I’m kidding, that will never be me. I’d just pretend to be asleep so the dog would come over and eat them. By the way, have you seen the remote? I’ve been watching Billy Mays for hours and I need a Zorbeez to help clean up some of these bed sores. Ouchie.

Speaking of automobiles…my wife and I finally bought a minivan last weekend. It’s only our second brand new car. So we did what any young couple with a new set of wheels would do. We were so excited that we immediately drove it right home and parked it in the garage. We haven’t even looked at it in 4 days. We’re both too nervous to drive it. It’s clearly the best thing we’ve ever done with our lives. Yes, I know I have a five month old and yes, I stick by my previous sentence. Some background if you’ll indulge me…INDULGE ME!!

Six years ago, my wife and I were returning home from a weekend away in our first brand new car. While driving down a country road one bright December day a tree fell out of the ground and hit our car. Yes, you read that right. We didn’t hit a tree, a tree hit us. The previous week there had been a lot of snow and ice in the area. Now the weather was quite warm and the ground was really wet and soft from the melting. As it just so happens, at the exact moment I was driving down the road at 55 mph the Anna Nicole Smith of trees decides, “Fuck it! If no one’s going to chop me down, I’ll just drop.” And so it did, right onto the hood of our car. It then took one small hop, smacked the windshield, and then rolled over the top of the car. A micro-instant sooner or later might have ended our lives. It was that big an accident. My wife’s nap was ruined, but thankfully we walked away completely unscathed. The car was totaled. This was the first car we had ever bought together and now the car, just like the tree that hit it, was broken and lifeless, lying on the side of the road. I don’t know if I realized it at the time but the accident was fairly symbolic of a lot of things that were happening at that point in our lives. We were shaken.

But here we are, six years later, with a second brand new car and a five month old. This time we’re on a totally different country road, Parenthood St. I suppose we’ll never know what’s just around the next turn or what we’ll be driving when we get there. I guess it’s just important that we keep driving and that we choose the right passengers along the way. And when I think about having my wife and son with me, I’m not so nervous to drive the new car any more.

Not a sermon, just a thought…

2009-03-22T20:00:00.001-04:00

Before I get too far into this, let me tell the world how I happy I am with my sex life. I’ve never been more attracted to my wife, and quite contrary to what every stand up comedian will tell you; in a happy marriage, sex gets better and better. Just like wine, without the vinegar smell…HEYOOO! Anyway, I think it has something to do with honesty and communication. What started out (13 years ago) as a really, really great party in college has turned into my wildest dreams come true. My wife and I bump uglies at least once a week and I’ve never been disappointed. NEVER! As for my wife, you’ll have to check out her blog: beingamommeansfakingitandthenfinishingwhenmyhusbandfallsasleep.com

Anyhoo, why would I mention how great my sex life is and masturbation in the same post? Because, I’m a man, that’s why. There’s no way to communicate to the opposite sex how a man views his penis, sex, and the constant need for gratification. It just is what it is. A marriage will always include masturbation. A happy marriage will always include respectfully hiding it. My wife understands. I even asked her permission before writing this. I mean, told her I was going to write this.

What it comes (pun intended) down to is that men just need to do it. We could be married to Jenna Jameson triplets with ecstasy running through their system 24 hours a day and still find the need to lock the bathroom door a couple times a week for some “alone time.” Its just part of having an X and a Y. As soon as we get that Y chromosome, it’s on – no choice. It is predestined that we will masturbate…and enjoy it. The enjoyment is just a really sweet perk. So now that I’m a dad, I have to be extra sensitive to the whens and wheres of doing what I do.

I know that the women folk are going to read this and be grossed out. You’re even planning on asking your husbands about it, “Do you need to do it? Is that true?” Well, the answer you’re going to get is “No. That guy has a real problem.” Ladies, don’t be offended. Lying about masturbation is as natural to a man as…well, masturbation. Whatever he says, you can be assured that he’s going to do it (probably while you’re reading this). You just need to find solace in the idea that he’s not doing it because he’s unhappy or unsatisfied. He’s doing it, lying and masturbating, because he’s a he.

By the way, an aside to my wife, this post is totally not about me. I’m just writing this about some guy I know. Don’t be upset about the extra long shower today, I was uhhhh, cleaning my penis…repeatedly.

2009-03-19T20:48:00.002-04:00

Hello internets, how ya been? I’ve been slacking a bit lately I know. I’ve heard the entirety of the whole world-wide-web clamoring for more, more, more. Or more precisely, my wife asking me, “when are you going to post something new, so I can have something to do while I pump at work?”

I’m assuming she means breast pump, and not pump as in what she and Javier the copy boy do when no ones looking. I’m kidding, what would someone named Javier be doing in the District of Colombia. His name is probably D’Anfernee.

So anyway, I’ve got a kid. But you probably haven’t forgotten everything about me since my last post. You do remember how handsome and strong I am right? Well in case you’ve forgotten, I’m the handsomest and the strongest.

So back to my kid, as mentioned in the last paragraph, I’ve got one. He continues to eat pureed vegetables like they’re made of pizza and donuts. He eats them with such gusto and unabashed pleasure. I can barely get a spoonful in before the craving maw opens again ready for more. I feel like a nearly blind Han holding a squirming Lando/spoonful of peas over the Great Pit of Carcoon.

I've decided that I’m going to start recording his feedings. That way in the not so distant future when my boy refuses to eat carrots or peas because he claims not to like them: BAM!!! BOOYAH GRANDMA!!! Here’s proof that you do, now shut up and eat your crappy vegetables. I guess I could go with the whole starving kids in India deal, but thanks to Slumdog Millionaire all the fun's gone out of it.

Charlie Brown

2009-03-16T20:53:00.003-04:00

My son’s eating real food. Well, real food that’s been processed into a liquid paste and then sold in small jars for three times as much as its solid predecessor. Thanks baby food companies – you know who you are. We started him on carrots yesterday. It’s silly to think it, especially since he’s only 5 months old. But my little boy is growing up. For the first time in his life he’s eating something that isn’t from his mother. Okay, yeah yeah, he’s had formula but this is different somehow.

Different in the sense that his poop this morning was bright orange and smelled like sugar carrots. SWEEEeeeEEEeeeT!!

Sarbanes Oxley

2009-03-14T10:15:00.005-04:00

This morning I’m sitting in my Ethics class and it has got me thinking. Not about anything the professor is covering, but about my personal ethics and values. Deep stuff, I know. So after giving it about 30 seconds of intense thought, I believe I can sum up my core beliefs for you. I just want what’s right for me and mine and I’ll do whatever it takes to get it. Everyone else, tough shit.

Now, “me and mine” includes my entire family and all of my friends and associates. However, I just don’t have a strong emotional tie to strangers. I can empathize with just about anyone. I can see their situation from their point of view and try to imagine myself in their shoes. However, if I’m not directly involved…it’s just hard for me to care. I’m not really proud of this, as it actually makes me a pretty terrible Christian too. But I am who I am and I'm okay with that.

I'm not the best person. I'm not the worst person. But I do think I'm a good person. I feel as though being any different would make me untrue to myself; a phony. And that I won’t abide. Not in myself and not in my family. I would hate for my son to feel as though he ever has to act like someone other than himself. My only real plan is to have my son grow up proud and happy of who he is.

I know what you’re thinking, “this guy is raising a child?” Yeah, I have the same thought/fear myself. I hope and pray that my son grows to be a better man than me, but I have no idea how to make that happen. I have to continue to grow up myself. I think it’s wrong to think that my son is the only one who still has to mature in our household. It’s a nice thought, my son and I growing up together.

IS LM Curve Equilibrium

2009-03-13T11:11:00.003-04:00

Class day. That means time for a post. Awwwwww crap – now I have to be creative. I suppose I could try to pay attention during class and listen to my Iranian Economics professor (UMD, what are you gonna do?), but that’s not really my style.

JACKPOT!! The prof (that’s what cool people call them) just put on an mpeg about Keynesian policy. My limited attention span cannot handle that, macroeconomics’ loss is the internet’s gain.

Anyway, the little guy is sleeping better. Not great, but better. He’s still waking up screaming once a night, but he’s at least putting himself back to sleep. He’ll start stirring around 3am. This will inevitably lead to a 1 minute bout of screaming, followed by 5 minutes of sleep. Rinse, wash, and repeat. The 1 minute scream - 5 minute sleep cycle goes on for about half an hour before he actually gets into a deep REM sleep again. The good news is that he’s learning to put himself back to sleep without his parents. The bad news is that he’s found the most irritating rhythm. My wife and I will wake up during the screaming, not daring to get out of bed, each waging our own debate about whether or not to get up. Eventually, we’ll hear him quiet and we'll go back to sleep again ourselves, only to be woken up again 5 minutes later when he starts fussing again. Rinse, wash and repeat.

By the 5^th or 6^th fit has ended, my wife and I are too nervous to really fall back asleep; neither of us wanting to fall for my son’s ruse. When we do go back to sleep it’s out of exhaustion and hope that the next time we wake it’s from a 25 year coma and our son will be a graduate from medical school.

HAYYYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAAAAAA!!!

2009-03-11T20:42:00.000-04:00

The last couple of days have been like Jack Bauer around hour 22 – NO TIME!!!!

I’ve spent the last couple of days in a daze. My 5 month old has decided to regress in his sleeping habits. The last 3 nights he’s decided to wake up at 3am to make sure his lungs worked at full capacity. They do. They fucking do already!!!

Anyway, there’s no way to really tell you what being a dad is like. All I can tell you is that last night, I didn’t feel much like a dad, but rather a man at the end of his rope. A rope I’d just assume be hanging by, rather than be woken up again by a screaming baby.

No, I’m kidding of course (Juanita stop reading here).

Seriously. I’ve gotten real used to a baby that sleeps through the night. If this new ugly habit of his keeps up for too many more nights, be sure to look for my new blog: beinganestrangeddadfromsomewhereinmexicoaintbad.com. It’s not as catchy as the original but I’m sleep deprived and desperate.

Thank God for my wife. Thank you, thank you God.

Dancing Queen

2009-03-08T19:01:00.003-04:00

Last night was great. My wife and I were able to go out with friends and enjoy an evening out – NO KIDS. So we chose to party like rock stars. Or at least that’s how it felt to us. To everyone under the age of 30 in the DC area last night fortunate enough to witness the awesomeness that is us – you’re welcome. That is how you eat, drink and be merry.

Today, I feel like a sponge left out in a Wal-Mart parking lot during the middle of July. The day is almost over and I’m pretty sure I’ve only peed once. It was a nice thimble full size of yellow molasses that I basically had to milk out of myself. Good times. The highlight of my day was waking up drunk – so that was a plus. It’s been downhill since then.

Oh yeah, my son’s wonderful smiling face and crap like that has been pretty good too I guess.

We Are Family

2009-03-07T09:44:00.002-05:00

I’ve got family in town this weekend but I just wanted to tell the internet hello. It’s good to have family in town. It’s like having a 24 hour babysitter. My only worry is that I’ll walk in on my mom trying to breast feed my son.

But then again, if it means less work for me…

Paging Dr. Herman, Dr. Pee Wee Herman

2009-03-06T23:50:00.003-05:00

I had to take my son to the doctor today due to a fever. Technically, she was a nurse practitioner – sidebar, I don’t think doctors exist anymore. My initial thought was that I was over-reacting, but hey, better safe than sorry. I even apologized to one of the nurses at one point for wasting everyone’s time. I’m such an apologetic pussy.

Anyway, 12 hours later I’m very happy I went. Turns out my kid has a bacterial infection which was NOT going to go away on its own. Unfortunately, we had to find this out by means of blood test.

If you’re not a father and happen to come across this site someday: let this be your warning. Seeing your infant child in agony while you and a nurse hold him down will move you to tears. I won’t go over the details because they’re fuzzy. All I can remember is the raw emotion that was evoked. I don’t remember being sad or upset, I just remember tears being pulled from my eyes. In a small room with two strangers, I was powerless to stop them. It’s a gut-wrenching experience and the absolute definition of a necessary evil.

Be forewarned new dads and I tell you this with complete seriousness: let your wife take your kid to the doctor. Men can’t handle it.

You're My Wonderwaaaaaallllllllllll

2009-03-05T21:43:00.003-05:00

To prove how uncool I am, I’ve decided to let the world in on a secret. Over the last couple of days I’ve come to the realization that I want a mini-van. I realize that I only have one kid and that a mini-van might be a little like putting the cart before the horse. But I just don’t care. I want one and now’s the time to get one. Hip Hip Hooray for the poor American economy!

I want the extra space. I want to sit up high. I want bucket seats behind me and third row seating behind that. I want a dozen cup holders within 16” of me wherever I sit. I want enough storage space so that I can actually take apart another mini-van piece by piece and stow it in my mini-van. I want a coin holder large enough to hold my son’s college tuition. I want a compartment to store my cds in…err, wait do they still make cds? I want a flip down TV screen so that people can tailgate even closer now and watch my kid’s cartoons along with him. I want my rear window to be littered with acronym filled oval stickers of all the places I’ve visited. Kidding, that’s douchey. I may not be cool, but I am NOT douchey.

Basically, I want an uncool SUV.

During the summer, I’ll cruise with the windows down. I’ll pull up to the chick in the convertible Rabbit (uhm Golf…whatever Farvegnugen is these days), my music just loud enough for her to hear how good my taste in music is. She’ll try not to laugh out loud and blatantly hurt my feelings. On second thought, she won’t bother to hide her mocking guffaws as she drives away wondering what all the fuss was about Rock’n’Roll. After she’s gone, I’ll turn off my music and realize that the only way to stop the baby screaming from the back is to play the Muppets again. Good thing I looooooooooove the Muppets.

Anybody know where I can get a sweet green and yellow satin jacket?

Bathroom STAT!

2009-03-04T14:57:00.001-05:00

I think it happened a while ago. But I’ll go ahead and use this forum as my place to announce to the world: I GIVE UP! I am no longer interested in looking cool. I no longer care how I look; whether a stranger perceives my vibe as hip or with it. I just don’t care and I have no desire to even fake it any more. Please read my post from 2-27-09 for confirmation.

Now just about anyone who’s ever met me will question whether or not I was ever really trying. Well…I was trying. Sometimes I was trying really, really hard. About the time I hit puberty, I somehow began to associate my self-worth with the price of my clothes and the amount of trademarks and brand names I was able to flash. This lasted through my 20s, far longer than I care to admit. But now at the ripe age of 32 I realize that if I can’t get it at Target…I don’t want it or need it.

I’m not sure exactly when this realization came about, probably the same time I started to complain about the music volume in Abercrombie. About the same time the Abercrombie girls in the pictures stopped looking hot and started looking too young to be wearing that. Nah, I’m kidding; they always looked hot. Not because they were young, but because they were wearing that. Nah, I’m kidding again; it is because they were young.

But the older I get, the more I understand the adage that youth is wasted on the young. I just don’t get the younger generation. I’ve reached the point at which everything a 13 – 18 year old likes or deems cool, I instantly loathe. They can take their skinny jeans, skater shoes, and striped sweat shirts and parade around the mall for hours for all I care. The largest teen fashion show ever unintentionally invented.

It certainly is easier to just be me these days. It means my outfit of jeans and a comic book t-shirt will always be in style. Not because Men’s Health tells me so but because it’s what I like and it’s comfortable. So while the kids work on their 100^th lap around the upper level, avoiding eye contact with JC Penny¸ like it’s the plague or something. I’ll be at Java Juice, one eye on the punk kids, detesting their style choice. The other eye on my son, praying he doesn’t grow up to be a douche bag. All the while wondering what’s taking the good-for-nothing beatnik behind the counter so long with my prune smoothie – extra fiber please!

Good Artists Borrow, Great Artists Steal

2009-03-02T20:22:00.002-05:00

I'm not sure what lousy artists do, but it probably looks a lot like this.

Prepare to Have Your World Rocked...Eventually

2009-03-01T20:53:00.004-05:00

Roses are Violets

2009-02-28T13:44:00.000-05:00

I’ve got nothing today

so I’ll keep it short.

I’m stuck inside a room

with the third Cohort.

Studying and learning

for an M.B.A.

Away from family

I will spend my day.

Contributing little

to wife and young sun.

Hoping for the payoff

when it is all done.

Pentameter and scheme

make it hard to rhyme.

But I’m getting so good at this,

you’d think I probably go ahead and do this type of thing all of the time.

Aw crap I really messed

that list bit up bad.

I knew I should have quit

when I was ahad.

Damnit! I meant ahead.

But surely you knew

That I’d mess up and

make this poem blue.

So shit, fuck, balls, nutsack

and all of that jazz.

That’s not about my son

or Jason Mraz.

Well, are you still reading?

Are you still there?

My small brain and patience

vanished in thin air.

Oh yeah, what is it like?

Being a father?

It’s no trouble at all,

He is no bother.

He is the greatest gift

that I’ve ever known.

I love him through and through.

Complete. Flesh and bone.

Not That There's Anything Wrong with That

2009-02-27T10:27:00.005-05:00

Yesterday I took the little guy for a walk around the lake. It was one of the rare, warm 60 degree days in February and I wanted to take advantage of it. However, since my wife was out for the night and she had the stroller in her car, my options were limited.

Option A: Gay or Option B: Super Gay

Option A was to put my son in the Baby Bjorn and carry him around on my front. Now if the average European male supermodel (the epitome of masculinity) can’t pull this look off, what chance did I, Joe Schmoe Americana, have?

Option B was to try out the new Jogging Stroller. I’m sure you’ve seen these 3 wheelers around. They’re part bicycle, part stroller, all woman. No self-respecting heterosexual man would be caught dead pushing one around in public.

By the way what has two thumbs and isn’t a self-respecting heterosexual male? This guy! Wow, that really doesn’t translate well in text. I ended up going with Option B. To make matters worse, I was trying to get a mini-workout in so I was kind of speed-walking. The picture above is almost identical to how I looked yesterday. The only difference is that I think my shorts were shorter.

Beingasissydadaintbad.com

Mixed Nuts and Blessings

2009-02-26T14:40:00.002-05:00

My wife is having a girl’s night out tonight. That means I’ve got the boy tonight, happy-face.

It also means that my wife is having a girl’s night out tonight, so I’ve got the boy tonight, HOLY CRAP-face!

For all the first-born bashing I do here, I think my son is actually pretty well-behaved. That is, he’s well-behaved enough to be watched by two responsible adults, sometimes one; assuming that the one is always my wife. When it’s just me I get a little nervous.

Parenting for one means I have to entertain, prepare the food, feed the food, burp the fumes from the food, clean up the used food, entertain, bathe, dress, entertain, and finally put to bed. It’s going to be a pretty jam-packed 3 hours.

Is it too early to long for my son’s first day of college?

Odin's Raven

2009-02-25T11:31:00.003-05:00

I’m becoming a one-dimensional douche-bag and I just can’t stop myself. I feel like Bruce Banner; whistling Que Sera Sera while turning into a giant green bad-ass. The only real difference is that after my transformation, my clothes haven’t been ripped to shreds and left under a flipped-over tank. Except the area of my pants between waist and mid-thigh, they are always completely gone. Weird.

My Hulk is a guy who can’t stop talking about his kid. I hear the constant prattle, but I’m powerless to stop the words coming out of my mouth. It doesn’t matter the situation or the company. I always manage to spin the conversation back to my kid.

Stranger on the street: “Excuse me sir. I’m not from around here. Do you know where the mall is?”

Me: “Sure. You just need to take a u-turn up there and a left at the next light. By the way my kid’s such a morning person. He’s starting to roll-over, he sleeps through the night, he’s eating oatmeal now with the vigor of an Asgardian warrior-god, he’s so much more advanced than all the other children his age, and...hey where are you going? I haven’t had a chance to show you the 400 pictures I have of him on my phone. Come back Mr. Stranger! Embrace the passion I have for my first-child!!!!!!”

That actually happened. But don’t worry, I was able to chase him down and finish the story and make sure he saw all the pictures. How silly of him to think he could escape my enthusiasm.

Sidebar: I wonder why I haven’t spent more time with friends who don’t have kids. Also weird.

Angels & Demons

2009-02-24T13:54:00.004-05:00

I think I’ve just resigned myself to the fact that my son is going to be a completely different person when his parents are not around. Apparently, while at daycare my son acts the part of a saccharine cherub from 7am to 4 pm, every second of every hour 5 days a week. However, the second he gets home he turns into Baby Hyde. My son’s fussiness over the weekend is now the stuff of internet legend. Seriously, watch out Numa Numa fatty. At least half a dozen people read my post yesterday. I’m just waiting for my son to get accosted at the mall: “I can’t believe it’s really him! Hey it’s the fussy baby everybody! Come watch he’s about to get fussy!”

Seriously could my son act up a little bit at day care? Yesterday morning as I dropped him off, I almost felt a little sorry for the ladies who watch him. But then I remembered how much we pay them and my guilt was instantly assuaged. Before leaving I told them how cranky he’d been over the weekend and to be prepared for an earful. My wife picks him up 9 hours later and gets the normal glowing review: “Oh he was so good today. He ate all his oatmeal and went right down for his naps without any trouble. He rolled over a few times and then replaced the garbage disposal, all before he finished his 9^th sonnet. It moved us to tears. Oh well see you tomorrow baby perfection.” My wife full of pride lugs our little baby tugboat to the car.

Two hours later, at home, my wife and I exchange a look – without uttering a word we’re both wondering which side of Harvey Dent we’re going to get tonight.

There Are No Lines

2009-02-23T09:00:00.003-05:00

Yesterday my kid was a royal shit. I’m learning that I can pretty much call my kid the worst names in the book and my wife will be okay with it. Just so long as I follow up the name calling with an exclamation for how much I still love him, ………………………. My wife will just have to forgive me for this one.

I hope that my kid never gets sick. I mean it. He’s had his first cold and I hope that for the rest of his 200 to 300 years on this planet that his white blood cells have nothing else to do. But sometimes and let me use yesterday as an example; a cold, an upset stomach, even a runny nose might help explain why a normal, perfectly healthy 4.5 month old would act like a dick all day.

Blech! That’s onomatopoeia for the way I feel about comforting a squirming, yelling 18 lb. monster. His fussiness wasn’t due to an incoming incisor, an increased temperature, and it certainly wasn’t due to any lack of affection or attention from mom and/or dad. My son was just having an off day and there was no amount of comforting or soothing that would calm our savage beast.

The worst part is that this crippling fussiness and screaming would just come from nowhere with little or no warning. These tantrums would last for an hour or so and then retreat as quickly as they had come. Pleasant, really, really awesome and nice. It’s a nice way to spend a Sunday. I recommend it to everyone who doesn’t value their sanity.

For those with any sense of decency and civility please stop reading here. To all those people who just abandon their babies in dumpsters, you are disgusting low-lives and you should just disappear forever. But…I understand.

Being a dad ain’t about reason and logic. It’s about love and patience. Sometimes I feel grossly unqualified. Thank god my wife is an angel.

Softer Language

2009-02-21T12:41:00.002-05:00

For some reason babies evoke a softer vocabulary from parents. Even a normal word like stomach, turns into tummy or belly. It’s funny to gather around friends who don’t have children and hear them curse around the baby. They immediately look sheepish as if they’ve somehow said something we didn’t want our son to hear. They look guilty as if they’re somehow about to be reprimanded.

Fact is I’ve always had a mouth that would make a sailor blush, (I immediately regret typing that) but my swearing has probably increased ten-fold since becoming a dad. When it's early in the AM, try not dropping a muffled “motherfucker” into your pillow when your kid wakes up an hour an half earlier than normal.

For the newbies, here’s a bit of baby vocabulary to get you started.

For some reason baby appendages need to be double pluralized:

Toesies

Feeties

Handsies

Piggies

Excrement will only be referred to in the cutest terms possible using nonsensical words that begin with D and or P:

Poop

Poopie

PoopPoop

Doodie

DooDoo

Sleep:

Night-Night

Sleepie-Time

Nappie-Time

Beddie-Bye

Quick tip, add “ie” to the end of any word to speak proper baby. You just got learned.

Hully

2009-02-20T08:17:00.004-05:00

It’s tough coming up with new posts everyday. I mean my kid’s great and all, but he’s not exactly curing the economy single-handedly or anything. However, we did have an exciting moment at home last night, drum roll please. My kid can now roll over.

My wife and I knew he was getting close, so we’ve been giving him lots of tummy time lately. Last night, I lay him on his stomach on his play mat – my wife, three feet away, is on her laptop doing school work and I, two feet away, turn my head for a second to grab my beer – I turn back around and he’s on his back. Yep. A pretty big milestone in the life of our first child and we both missed it.

Fortunately for us, my son felt like showing off and decided to treat us to a second showing a few minutes later. Now, if you’ve never seen a 4.5 month old roll over, you’re really not missing much. It’s not so much an act of will and coordinated movement as it is the body following the giant head as it leans too far to one side. But again, my son’s isn’t juggling flaming chainsaws on a unicycle, so we’ll take what we can get.

Fast forward to this morning - I drop my son off at day care. Being the adoring father that I am, I can’t wait to brag about my son’s new found skill. I tell the ladies who watch him about his rolling over. If you happened to be watching from outside you might have thought by my ecstatic state and wild hand gestures that my son had completed his first barrel roll in an A320 just before landing it in the Hudson.

I of course expected the same type of enthusiasm and slack-jawed expressions as my wife and I had the night before. The response: “Oh, yes we noticed he started doing that a couple of days ago.”

It's Already Happened

2009-02-19T15:39:00.002-05:00

I don’t know when it actually happened, but I’ve turned into…a dad. Key the overbearing dramatic music. This isn’t a big revelation or anything and I’m probably the last person to realize it. But the way I see it, anyone of the male persuasion can be a father, but not everyone with a penis can be a dad. Or more to the point; sadly, not every father chooses to be a dad.

But me? I’m a dad through and through. The thing is I think I just realized it today. What hipped me to this eye-opener you ask?

On my work computer, I’m on the 4^th or 5^th different wallpaper image of my son. My wife usually sends me new pics once a week or so. I’ll usually look them over with a mixture of pride and hope that no one comes in my office while I’m looking at pictures of me bathing an infant. But every now and again, I’ll be so moved by a picture that I’ll have to put it on my computer. This is a tiny, little gesture that means so much more. I, like too many people, spend countless hours at a desk staring at a computer screen for hours on end. Usually the only thing that makes it bearable is retreating to my desktop and taking a quick gander at my special little guy.

No, not that kind of special.

Special, as in I can’t wait to get home and see the real thing, special. Special, as in my world is now and forever better than it was, special.

That kind of special. Special to me, special.

The Sucking of the Thumb

2009-02-18T09:48:00.003-05:00

This is a weird one for me. I have no idea what makes one kid a thumb sucker and another kid a slave to the pacifier. Right or wrong, my son has chosen the way of the thumb.

Ever since he discovered his hands a few weeks ago it’s been fascinating watching the process evolve. First his hands were just these things that would flail around. It was funny watching him, watch his hands. They were as alien and entertaining to him as the mobile hanging above his crib. No one would be more surprised than him, would they would all of a sudden fly up from his side and whack him in the face.

Eventually he gradually learned to control them and now they are a means of getting any object within reach into his mouth. The early mental struggle of hand-eye coordination was much like Luke trying to raise R2 while upside down in Dagobah. The only difference is that my 4 month old whines less than Luke. HEYOOH – rim shot!

So the means to an end was always getting something into his mouth. For the last couple of weeks, this meant anything including his entire fist and sometimes even a foot or two. But just over the past couple of days, he’s actually mastered the thumb. He’s now able to stick this one appendage out above the others and get it alone into his mouth – and then he gets his suck on.

I suppose I should try to break the habit and get him a pacifier. I think the theory there, is that a pacifier can eventually be taken away. And those pacifiers are an easier habit to break. This makes a lot of sense and I’m sure that future dad is desperately working on a time machine to come back and smack some sense into me. But right now, there is nothing cuter than watching my son suck his tiny thumb.

It really is the little things.

Bed Time

2009-02-17T20:18:00.002-05:00

I’ve got nothing for you tonight. I’m tired and ready for my bed and still a little cranky from the end of the Daytona 500.

My son has started to eat solid foods. Well, that’s a bit of a stretch. He’s starting to eat oatmeal mixed with breast milk. The consistency of which is just slightly above breast milk. Slightly as in how canary yellow and banana yellow are slightly different.

It is adorable to watch him eat though. He’s in this phase in which everything he can touch goes right into his mouth. So it’s easy for us to shovel in the food. He puts up no resistance. The funny part is watching him hold the food in his mouth until he swallows. Then he gives us this surprised look, as if we were tricking him. We wipe his face and repeat with the next spoonful. So far we’re only giving him an ounce of milk mixed with a tablespoon full of oatmeal. It’s about a 45 minute process.

Also I think it’s funny how what’s cute for a 4 month old becomes disturbing and sad when we’re having the same discussion about an 84 year old.

Bath Time Beothces!!!

2009-02-16T18:41:00.002-05:00

I’ve only got time for a quick one tonight because it’s bath time for el bambino. Bath time has fallen under dad duty, which is nice. Every other night I know that I get 10 minutes of nice and quiet time with the boy.

My son loves a good bath. He just gets to lay back and surrender to the good times. Can you imagine enjoying something so much that you instantly release your bladder out of sheer pleasure and delight? I don’t know that I’ve ever enjoyed anything that much, including my son’s conception.

Anyway, just a quick word of advice about bath time for babies. Make sure you wash the neck thoroughly. Babies have a tendency to really keep this area secure, so it’s hard to get too. But here’s a warning as to the funk that lies beneath the chin, also known as the area where all the drool and spit-up milk collects.

I like to rub my finger in my son’s neck folds and then sneak that same finger under my wife’s nose. It’s the equivalent of getting into bed first, farting under the covers, and waiting for my wife to get into bed.

Oh, it really is the little things that make life so great.

Hugs and kisses.

Coat Tails

2009-02-14T10:54:00.002-05:00

I’m going to piggyback on Ant again and let his posts continue to be my muse.

My son just had his 4 month check up. All is well; no ailments, 10 fingers, and 2 eyes, all appendages accounted for. I have to take the doctor’s word for this as I don’t know that I’ve ever really seen his penis. It’s always tucked away like an Inuit sunbathing. Thank God, the doctors told us we have a very healthy baby.

The doctor’s also told us he’s in the 73rd percentile for his weight, 92nd for his height and something or other for his head. Who knew they even measured heads. Maybe they’re fitting him for a hat? Now, if you’re like me, you have no idea what those stats mean until you have a kid of your own.

Let me give you the quick 411. (It’s okay to hate me for using that expression, I’m a little disappointed in myself.) Generally speaking, if you take 100 babies of the same age and lined them up according to weight – my kid would be the 73rd heaviest kid. Again, if you lined those same 100 kids up according to height, then my kid has 8 kids taller than he is. Tall seems ridiculous since verticality is not his strong point. Long seems to be a more appropriate adjective.

Now, again if you’re like me (you handsome devil) then you’ve been around doting, beaming parents who throw these stats around like they mean something. Let me tell these parents something (you know who you are), who brag about these stats. NO ONE CARES! Congrats on passing down genetic code to your offspring. You’ve done no more than our ancestral monkey forefathers did thousands of years ago. OR. You’ve done no more than Adam and Eve did in Paradise. (I’m an equal offender.)

You dummies think we don’t know what you’re really doing. We know you’re using your kid to boast about yourself and how scary potent and powerful you’re DNA and parenting skills are. This is gross. You’re kids are still drooling, crying, shit machines just like every other kid the same age. They aren’t reciting the Emancipation Proclamation from memory or improving their quarterback rating at spring training. This goes back to what Ant wrote about in his post. People should realize that stats, percentages, numbers in general are meaningless. They have no power except what people give them. Comparing babies is ridiculous and really disturbing when you think about it.

I’m going to let you all in on a little secret that hopefully will settle the matter once and for all and finally put the matter to rest. My kid is number 1 in everything and no one has been or ever will be as great as he is in anything. Suck it losers.

Eye of the Tiger

2009-02-13T14:55:00.003-05:00

Hello again faithful readers, i.e. mom and future Hank. Sorry for my absence the yesterday; part of being a dad is learning to be a dad. And a big part of that I’m learning, is trying to know my limits.

Yesterday I was swamped with home, work and school. Fitting in a post kind of just slipped my mind. Or rather was pushed out because there was no room for it. If you actually saw me yesterday, you may have seen posts figuratively oozing out of my ears as there was no more room in my head.

But just a like a bad penny, the original slim shady, and Zubaz pants in Baltimore, I’ll always turn up.

The Drop Off

2009-02-11T20:33:00.002-05:00

My wife and I have a schedule for dropping off and picking up our son from daycare. She never wants to drop him off and she always wants to pick him up. So like every successful couple, we talked about it and I let her get her way. So, every morning I get the pleasure of dropping my son off at daycare. The same kind of pleasure the Marquis de Sade used to write about.

I thought that eventually I would get used to dropping him off: seeing him taken out of his car seat, usually still asleep, and then cradled and cared for by someone else. I’ve been doing it for about 5 or 6 weeks now, and it’s still an excruciating experience. Every time. As I walk back to my car I have to remind myself that I’m a big boy and that big boys don’t cry. Right Mr. Valli?

But today, through a series of misfortunate events for my wife, I actually got to pick my boy up. The pick up is the exact opposite of the drop off. It’s all rainbows, unicorns and clouds made of cotton candy. I practically skipped from the car as I went in to get him.

Sigh, tomorrow I’ll have to drop him off again. But I’ll get through it, one drop off at a time, always looking forward to the next time I get to do the pick up.

James Howlett

2009-02-10T21:15:00.002-05:00

It’s rare that Ant and I get to post about the same thing on the same day. But posting daily and posting late at night makes me desperate for ideas. So, I’m just going to steal, er share one of his ideas.

Today my kid got physically assaulted at day care.

My wife called me this afternoon after picking up our son to tell me that our son had some new scratches on his head. Not a big deal I thought. Lately the little guy ends up giving himself a small scratch once a week or so. Since discovering his hands, his favorite game is stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself. Unfortunately, he only plays by himself.

As Ant will tell you: babies’ faces and fingernails are like magnets and tin. As an uber-geek, I’ll tell you that parents have to be a little like Mad-Eye Moody and practice “constant vigilance!”

But this time, it wasn’t self-inflicted. As it turns out, one of the older babies was using my son’s head as a scratching post. Meow. One second the two tykes are rolling around, gooing; acting adorable. The next second, the 9-month old and the 4-month old look like they’ve fallen into the middle of a cock fight. HELLO!

Anyway, the wounds are superficial and not really worth getting upset over. I really like the lady who watches our son and I’m certain it was an accident. Chalk it up to boys being boys.

Oh Crap, My Son's a Morning Person

2009-02-09T21:34:00.003-05:00

Unlike his mother and me, my son is a pure delight in the morning. He generally wakes up between 6 and 7 and I know he’s fully awake when I can hear him cooing and talking to himself. I have no idea where it comes from, but his morning smiles and giggles are the best alarm clock I’ve ever had.

Baby, shut the f!@# up!

2009-02-08T20:29:00.002-05:00

Extreme? Only if you scream it out loud. But if you’ve never thought that, then you don’t have children or you’re rich. And if you’re rich, trust me, you’re nanny has definitely thought that.

Last night we were supposed to go over to Ant’s but opted out at the last minute because we’re still working on a bedtime ritual. I was secretly hoping that my son would realize his parents were sacrificing something for him and that he might go down to bed without a fight.

No such luck. My son has reached this fine line where he doesn’t really know cause and effect. He just knows what he likes; and if he doesn’t get what he likes? He’ll cry. He’ll scream. He’ll do this full body kick. He’ll basically act like a dick until he’s happy again.

So as new parents my wife and I are struggling with exactly when we put him down. How drowsy should he be? How long should we let him cry? Should we hold him until he’s completely knocked out? I know that there are entire books on exactly this subject matter. But until they put these books in comic form or make a movie out it, I think my wife and I are just going to have to invest in patience. And earplugs.

Walking with the Baby

2009-02-07T08:50:00.002-05:00

We took the little bugger for a stroll last night. It’s something the Mrs. and I try to do with the little guy a few times a week, or any time the weather’s above freezing. We walk about a mile or so up to the local grocer (no plug because the store sucks), we each get a beer, sometimes dinner, and then we head home. It’s nice for us because it’s a chance to stretch our legs and get some fresh air. The little guy likes it because the combination of the vibrations and the warm, snug carriage usually knock him out by the time we reach the street.

The only downside is that the nap disrupts his bedtime routine. He gets into a really deep sleep in the stroller. He inevitably wakes up when we get him home and it’s a struggle to get him back asleep.

A Few Words about the Boy

2009-02-06T13:17:00.004-05:00

My son is finally starting to act like a person. He’s still very much an infant, but every now and again he’ll do something that hints at his future personality.

The other day he laughed for the first time. I mean really laughed because his mom was tickling and playing with him. That’ll get the old heart string singing.

He’s also started pouting. A genuine pout comes over his face like a storm cloud just before he starts to cry. I see myself being irritated by this same look sometime in the next few years, but for right now it is laugh out loud funny.

And last but most important, he’s transfixed by the television, especially cartoons. No DNA test necessary, that’s definitely my boy.

A Change is A Coming

2009-02-06T11:59:00.003-05:00

I love writing on this here website. Not because I’m a dad, but because it’s cathartic and fun. So I’m going to really push myself to write more. To that end, I’m going to try a little experiment. You see, being a dad ain’t bad, but it sure as hell is something that I have to do every day. So why not combine my love of nonsensical musings and the love I have for my boy?

Well be careful what you ask for internet fans, because I’ve decided to start posting daily. This will give you, the reader, an excuse to visit the site everyday and it will take some of the pressure off of me to compete with the other fellas when it comes to the ROTFL business. You see me and the boys, we’re serious when it comes to the Yuck Yucks and I’m going with quantity, not quality.

I’m hoping to give insight into the daily grind that goes into being a dad. The highs, the lows, and the every day in betweens. Enjoy.

No, That's Not Me

2009-01-23T11:09:00.003-05:00

I'll admit to being slightly germaphobic. I'm somewhere between the old man in Creepshow and Jerry Seinfeld. I wash my hands a lot during the day, but I’m not so nuts that I carry little bottles of Purell with me everywhere I go. Yet. However, if I keep getting colds like the one I have now, then I may start envying the life of Bubble Boys.

I’ve never met a healthy parent of a young child. They are constantly picking up germs from their kids, who in turn have picked up something nasty from daycare. My kid never even had a booger the first 3 months of his life. He goes to daycare for 1 week and all of a sudden he’s got a cold. Coincidence?

WATCH OUT NOW!! BABY FACT COMIN’ AT YOU!! Babies breathe almost solely through their nose. No idea why this is, but it is what it is. A stuffy nose to a kid is more than an inconvenience. It’s like shoving them in a vacuum (Space vacuum, not Hoover vacuum) and telling them to make the best of a bad situation. Nothing breaks my heart like hearing the little tyke try to breathe. He sounds like the asthma kid who used to run track in high school.

There are a few things we’re allowed to do that’ll ease his hurt. We’ve got a baby humidifier going non-stop. We’ve got Baby Vicks to rub on his chest. We’ve got baby saline drops to go in his nose. We’ve got baby aspirators to shove in his nose. All of these “baby” things are just like the normal ones, except the manufacturers put Baby on the box and then charge double. But there’s no baby Nyquil, or baby Dayquil for that matter. There are a few infant over-the-counter medicines out there, but nothing that’ll really set him right. He’s just too young to take anything. When it comes to snot and congestion, babies literally just have to suck it up. He has to wait for his body to produce antibodies. Yeah, he may get lucky and get some from his mom, but if momma hasn’t had this cold, then momma doesn’t have the right breastmilkicine.

You have my permission to start using that word, but you’d better tell everybody where you got it.

So we, the parents, have to sit idly by and just wait for him to get better. Idly by, probably isn’t appropriate, as his fussiness as increased exponentially with his not feeling well. Again, coincidence?

Urine is Utterly Underrated, but Poop is the Perfect Punishment

2009-01-09T18:20:00.002-05:00

Ah, alliteration. The only thing I remember from fifth grade.

So, I've changed my fair share of diapers at this point. I can deal with the pee, I can deal with the explosive poop, and I can deal with the combos. What no one can prepare any new father for is the smell.

The weird thing is that this sour vinegar smell emanating from my son's ass is something fairly new. Until a few weeks ago, the only way to check for poo was to...well, check for poo. We'd have to pull the diaper away from a leg and take a peek inside. I suppose we could have just changed him every time we thought there was something down there, but diapers ain't cheap. And is it really that wrong to let him sit in a little pee? Diapers are so absorbent these days; we could let him go for days and he'd still be Sahara dry. Now the front of his diaper would become Fort Knox heavy, but that's a fair trade for the vast improvements scientists are making in diaper technology.

Y'see newborn doodie really doesn't smell. I can't tell you why and this isn't the kind of website where I'm going to do any real research. I guess because the milk spends so little time in the baby's body, that it's hardly accurate to even call it waste when it comes back out. There are no toxins or chemicals in a newborn's body. The milk goes in, the body takes all the nutrients out, and then the milk comes out. And it usually happens in the same amount of time it took you to read that last sentence. Well, maybe a little longer than that if you are of moderate intelligence. But I can't imagine a world where anyone who finds my blog entertaining reads faster than a third grader who has to wear a helmet to the playground.

But lately, my wife and I can always tell when there's trouble afoot, or abutt I guess is more appropriate. Now, instead of having to sneak-a-peak, we just have to give my baby boy a 180 spin and give him a whiff. Then comes the part where either my wife or I (depends on who smelled the baby first) will hand him off to the other. Because when it comes to babies and changing messy diapers; whoever smelt it, dealt it.

Two Nights in Bangcok...

2009-01-06T20:18:00.003-05:00

So Ant alluded to our recent multi-family vaca (pronounced vay-cay, by us douche bags in the know) and I just wanted to add my two pennies.

First, a great trip. It was the kind of get away, that allowed everyone to have a little fun and realize that there is life after children. By little fun, I mean consume enough alcohol to become slightly irresponsible and assume/hope that your significant other isn't thinking the same thing. Fortunately, a good marriage means you never really have to assume.

Ant's already hit on the best part of the weekend...the throwing rocks into a frozen pond. I giggle like a school girl at the near and dear memory.

But one thing he didn't tell you about is the logistics of traveling. We were 3 couples, each pair with an infant under our arms, traveling 1.5 hours from home, and we were to be gone for 2 nights. Each family packed as though we were going on a 7 night cruise with the forethought that the ship would sink and we'd be stranded on a deserted island with only enough food and supplies for each couple and the survivors of flight 815.

That means we packed a lot of stuff.

We all over did it with food and booze. But when it comes to alcohol my motto is: "You never know when you're going to scale a mountain with one of your buddies in rural VA and need to tie a grocery bag full of malt liquor to your pants, so always err on the side of buying extra beer." Really, that's my motto, ask anyone.

What got me, is the amount of baby gear we all brought...diapers, wipes, diaper-bags, clothes, a change of clothes, a change of clothes to replace the first change of clothes, nightwear, pack-n-plays, breast pumps, bottles, nipples, burp clothes, pacifiers, bouncy seats, car seats, toys, baby monitors. And this was just my wife and I. I think the amount of baby stuff brought grows exponentially as children get older.

And the best part of bringing all this stuff...everything has to be packed, loaded into the car, unloaded out of the car, unpacked, loaded back into the car again, unloaded out of the car again, and finally unpacked again.

And my wife wonders, why I might be okay with having just one child.

Routines Are for Suckers...

2008-12-26T08:48:00.003-05:00

Routines are also good for people who like sleep, peace and quiet, sanity... But not me, I'm a dad. I said good-bye to all of those things approximately a year ago when my wife told me she was pregnant.

Admittedly, I'm a sadist. Trying to keep a 10 week old on a schedule has been like trying to use condoms again. Both extremely unenjoyable.

In my eternal quest to help others (lengthy pause to control my hysterical fit of laughter) I've compiled a small list of things to be wary of should you try this someday.

Grandparents: Plain and simple, they don't care about schedules. They only want to hold the baby and take pictures. It's funny (no, not ha ha funny) that the same people who raised us have foregone any and all guardian precedents. They only want the cute and cuddly. It actually has been nice having an extra set of arms around the house. But it hasn't been nice trying to parent a 10 week old and a pair of 50 - 60 somethings.

Christmas: There's just something about the holidays, and it's hard to put my finger on it. (Hint, hint, read the Grandparents line again.)

Laziness: Maybe this is just me, but raising a kid is a lot harder than playing video games. Kids need to be fed, they need baths, they need to be changed...and for some reason my wife expects me to help with these things. Ridiculous, I know. But you are forewarned fellas.

Merry Christmas to all, except Mark.

Uh Oh, Urine Trouble...

2008-12-15T07:43:00.006-05:00

There's nothing like a good pun. I should really just stop with my headers. It's not going to get any better than that. But for the sake of you curious readers I'll press on. I know you hunger and salivate for my words like a fat guy who drives by Krispy Kreme when the HOT light is on.

I know what you're thinking, that's a bit harsh. Well, I only write what I know. No, I'm not a fat guy. But making fun of fat people is what I know. Which is a nice segue right into my own little fat guy, my 9 week old. He's such a tub of goo. That and his perfectly round head make him an uncanny doppelganger of Charlie Brown.

But let me get into the reason for my post today. Pee, whiz, piss, the golden shower, the yellow brick road, etc. etc. Please feel free to leave me comments on what the cool kids are calling urine these days. Ask any new parent and they'll tell you how jealous they are of their newborn and how sweet it would be to wear a diaper all day; thereby allowing one the freedom to relieve one's self whenever they damn well please.

I know, a pretty solid argument for living a pleasant and sedentary lifestyle. BUT, I have a counter argument and maybe I stand alone here. You see, I love a good pee. I mean, I really, really love it. And if I were allowed the freedom to just go whenever I felt the desire, I think that eventually some of the shine would come off that new penny.

I want you to be honest with yourselves and admit that there is a sadist joy in having to hold it. I know that the true pleasure isn't in the hold, but in the release. Who among us haven't held a pee for so long only to eventually embarrass ourselves later in a public restroom when we finally get to release? We all make that guttural caveman like OOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH sound as we finally get to relieve the pressure, half-expecting to hear the sound of cracking porcelain.

My point in all this...make fun of fat people, but only behind their back (there's no need to be cruel after all). And treat yourself today. The next time you have to go today, hold it a little while. You and I both know the juice will be worth the squeeze.

Payback's a Female Dog, Ironically Named Bitch

2008-12-13T18:21:00.004-05:00

So maybe you can't tell, but I'm glowing. GLOWING! No, not because my stupid kid did something stupid and cute and stupid. It's because Anthony likes me, he really, really likes me.

I read his latest post yesterday and I've been thinking about the best way to say thank you. I never really came up with anything. A basket full of muffins and decorative hand soaps carved like sea shells just didn't quite seem to live up to my true appreciation.

I went back to thinking (not my strong suit) and my thoughts kept coming back to this website. I can't seem to think about Ant these days without thinking about beingadadaintbad. You see, this site means the world to Ant. It's right up there with his daughter and wife...maybe. Ant's put so much of himself into this venture, openly presenting himself and divulging much of his personal life. It's not an easy thing to subject your parenting style to the world. His goal is to present a humorous take to fatherhood, but what we've all found is that often what's funny, is what's true and genuine. It's easiest to write about what we know, but it's also a risk to put ourselves out there for scrutiny. Let ye who doth not blog, cast the first virtual stone.

The only thing Ant's ever asked of me is to be a part of this website. At first I thought I was doing him a favor by writing the occasional post. Now I see that the real favor was Ant allowing me to be a part of his dream. Thanks buddy.

You may be seven to some people, but you'll always be number one to me.

Baby's First Christmas or Godzirra

2008-12-07T16:31:00.003-05:00

I'm not sure which one incites more panic and pandemonium among grandparents. I'll be sure to give you the definitive answer in approximately 25 years, when we debut www.beingagranddadiswaybetterthanbeingadad.com.

I'm taking a break from decorating to write a quick something about the holiday and I suppose I should tell you how excited I am to be celebrating with my son. Well, I'm honest to a fault so I'll go ahead and tell you that it's not that big a deal. I mean, I'm glad he's here and I'm glad it's Christmas; but I'm not sure there's a direct correlation between the two, or that I’m more excited about the holiday as a result. Be sure to stick around for my next post, it should be titled "I Love My Son and I'm Excited about Every First Experience He’ll Ever Have...Ever." It should be out immediately after my wife reads this one.

My son is 2 months old today, so on Jesus' birthday (that's Hebrew, sandal-wearing Jesus, and not Mexican, orange-vest-wearing Jesus) he'll be about 2.5 months old. The only real joy he'll get from the holiday is staring at the wrapping paper, transfixed by the patterns while trying to hold his giant head up at the same time. This will probably be the only time in his life when he'll be disappointed by the opening of presents. Okay, well this time and in the near future when the economy is so bad that we've reverted to giving one another fruit for presents. "Oh a tangerine! This is so much fancier than last year's orange. We are truly blessed! Thank you papa."

Let me digress and ask...what's the deal with Christmas tree lights? If you don't read that in your best Jerry Seinfeld voice, then you're really only cheating yourself. Anyway, have we not progressed so far as a society that we can't find a simple solution to what a nightmare this whole routine is? Yes, I know they make fake trees with the lights already built in, but I'm not yet ready to scrap my old tree just because the fat-cats at the Christmas Tree Light conglomerates won't give us a better product.

So, let me get back to decorating. But before I go, I want to share a parting thought. I'm asking everyone to remember what a truly special time of year this really is and to treasure it. Thank God for this time of the year and thank God for this being the only time of the year we have to put this much effort into making our homes look like the mall.

Thrush, Thrush - Hurry, Hurry love and come to me

2008-11-10T13:26:00.000-05:00

So my son's tongue is growing white fungus at an alarming rate. What's an "alarming rate" you ask? Well, just ask Peter North how he got started in the film business. Yeah, gross is right.

Turns out it's a case of Oral Thrush or Oral Candidiasis. Go ahead and Wiki that, I had to. I'll wait...

...back? Better educated? I hope so because I don't like the idea of having to explain it, much less admit that my son has it. Any human condition that arises from too much yeast can never be a good thing. The good news is that it usually isn't a serious problem and as far as first ailments go, I guess we're kind of lucky.

The problem is that it's one of those icky disorders and no one's really sure how he got it. My wife and I are playing the blame game in a light-hearted manner; each of us blaming the others' sexual organs for the vile offense, comparing them to bread factories - while at the same time making sure the other washes their hands anytime we come within a 100 ft radius of the baby. Kissing him on the cheek has turned into a game of chicken, each of us daring the other to do it.

Now, I guess we have to keep him. We were hoping we could keep him in mint condition, y'know in case we ever changed our minds. But now, just like a new car with its first scratch. His value is greatly diminished. Just as well I guess, as I've started getting used to having him around.

Yes, it happened...

2008-11-08T06:07:00.004-05:00

Yes, yes, congratulations are in order..."Oh your wife finally had the baby?" you ask. Well yes, but not for that.

"Oh well your finally back to writing posts again - congratulations." No, not that either although it is good to be back.

"Oh you must mean congratulations for having accidentally eaten baby poop." Bingo, that's the one!

This actually happened last week, but since my son was born 4 weeks ago, I've had ample time to build up an arsenal of stories to post about and the exact opposite amount of time to write them down. I'm taking the scant few moments during his "active time" which just happens to be from 5:30am to whenever he realizes he's a baby and that crying seems to get him whatever he wants. He gets that from his mother's side of the family (or mother's side of the global hemisphere, but that's another joke for another time).

Back to the eating of baby excrement.

For those not in the know, newborn poop really is not that bad. No smell, mostly liquid, and generally a very easy clean up. It's essentially a tablespoon of Dijon mustard in his pants every few hours. Not that big a deal.

Now I am admittedly a bit of a germ-a-phobe. I wash my hands constantly throughout the day and certainly after each diaper change. Well on this fateful day, let's call it last Thursday for argument's sake; I must have missed a spot on my hand during my post-diaper change, pre-dinner hand wash. So during the course of the meal, my eyes transfixed to the boob-tube: my mind half on the food I'm ingesting, half on whatever show happens to be on, and half on solving complex fraction problems, I notice that I've spilled a little of whatever I'm eating onto my hand. So I take a quick tongue lashing to whatever's there and then jump right back into my meal.

I guess it's important to note here that I'm not really a napkin guy. Whatever doesn't get in my mouth will either be licked off my hands, brushed off my lap, or wiped on my clothes. Yes, I am the definition of a gentleman.

After my wife and I have eaten I notice during the cleanup (which usually consists of throwing away the bag our value meals came in) that whatever was on my hand is still there. Well, as you can imagine I was quite perplexed as I definitely gave that scrap of morsel a tongue bath that would make Gene Simmons weep - ZING!

Anyway, upon closer review I notice that what's on my hand does not in any way resemble the meal I'd just eaten. So I throw on my CSI hat and begin to investigate. I retrace my steps: ate dinner, washed hands, changed baby, bing-bang-boom, I realize I've still got baby shit on my hand and I've eaten a small portion of it.

No witty lesson learned, no moral to the tale, I'm an idiot who ate his son's poop.

Judge away internet, judge away.

Having a penis means having no depth perception

2008-10-02T08:51:00.000-04:00

So my wife is very pregnant. Okay, shut up already. I know, I know a woman is either pregnant or she isn't. What I mean, is that my wife is in her 38th week. No this isn't an issue for alarm and no my wife isn't 2 weeks late. For those of you not in the know, a child is usually delivered in the 10th month of pregnancy around week 40. In fact most first babies are born later than that around week 41. I have no idea where this 9 month thing came from, but it's total BS.

The issue here is that my wife is at the stage where our little bundle of joy should be easing his way toward the rest of the world. But instead he's very comfortable where he is and seems to have no interest in meeting the rest of the world. He gets his introverted nature from me. Like most men he's found a vagina he likes and has no plans on leaving - we're thinking about changing his name to Oedipus. (If you don't get that joke, then go back to high school and call me when you can answer a $200 question on Jeopardy.) We've seen glaciers move faster than our son is dropping. My wife's last 2 doctor appointments have shown very little progress in the way of effacement or cervix dilation - 50% and 1 cm if you're curious. We've gone from a due date of October 12th, to sometime around October 20th. This is not joyous news.

Now there are certain activities that can be done to speed up the process. Some more rooted in theory than science, but I'm all in favor for anything that gets my son here faster and helps alleviate some of my wife's discomfort. Our friends gave us some tips (given to them by their doula) like walking up steps two at a time, or walking up steps sideways. There are also some herbal/natural ways - to me it sounds like sticking dirt up a woman's coochie-coo but hey if it works it works.

There is also the doctor prescribed method - good old fashioned sex. What, what what!?!! This advice came after my wife's last appointment a few days ago. After seeing that there had been no further progress the doctor recommended sex as a way to help things along. There are certain compounds in semen that help the cervix prepare for labor. A woman's orgasm helps with contractions. It's what I've been saying since I was 14 - sex fixes everything! You see the baby would stay in the womb forever. It's the woman's body that decides enough is enough and the woman's body decides when it's time to throw out the tenant.

However, the timing couldn't have been worse as just a few days before I turned down several sexual advances from my wife. Honestly, (and I have no reason to lie to a faceless internet public) I still find my wife very sexy. My wife has stayed in tremendous shape throughout her pregnancy and even at 38 weeks she is still exercising and she is still looking GOOD! The reason for my steadfast no was that I didn't want to hurt the baby. My son's head mere inches away from all the irregular machinations of intercourse. And we all know how sex ends - I shutter to even think about that and the proximity of my unborn son. The entire act just seemed funny. Not ha ha funny, but strange funny. However, everything I was afraid of is exactly what the doctor was prescribing. My fear and ignorance (not to mention inflated ego) kept me from doing the one thing that could actually help. And that's a big deal.

You see, there's really very little for the father to do before the baby comes. Yes, be supportive. Yes, massage the mother. Yes, paint the nursery. There are a lot of preparatory things the dad to be can do, but there's not a lot I could do that would actually help my wife and child. Frustratingly enough, the first real thing I could have done- I botched. Not a good feeling.

But now I know. Today, I'm wiser. Today, I'm better educated. Today, I put my fear behind me. Today, I'm horny. Today, I look forward to ravishing my wife like she deserves. Today, I look forward to constant love-making until the doctor says no more. Today, I look forward to being helpful. Today, I look forward to meeting my son.

Tomorrow, it's my turn to hold him.

Blog Lite

2008-09-30T09:59:00.001-04:00

I care about this site too much to just let my contributions wan. So in an effort to maintain my sanity I'm going to try and keep my posts short and sweet. The same blogs I've gotten you used to, but now with half the calories.

So, my wife is now 12 days away from her due date. Cool huh? Meh.

Yeah, you read that right. Meh. And that's about how I feel. It's not that I'm not excited - it's just the opposite. Meh describes the tedium of having to wait 9 long months. I'm sure there will be a time in the future when I'll look back on this time and wonder how the time could have just flown by, but until that day gets here...meh. My wife and I are sick of waiting. The baby's done cooking and now he's just hanging out, literally. We're ready to be parents and we're ready for all the joys and hardships that come with that. And yes (groan), I know that there are plenty of trials and tribulations that come along with a newborn. If I get one more smug look from a parent who tells me: "Just wait, you have no idea how much your life is going to change. Ha ha ha you have NO idea." I think I'm going to snap. I mean it.

First off a huge THANK YOU to my friends for not doing this. And why don't they do it, because they aren't self-important A-holes.

Parents just love to use this line and they'll say it in a good-natured joking manner. But at the same time, each person who utters that phrase thinks they're passing on some sagely advice that the world has never been privy to. Watch out Socrates, but Betty Johnson in the year 2008 is about to spit out some mad crazy wisdom. "Oh really, my life is going to change after the baby comes? I had no idea. Oh please, oh please wisest of the wise - won't you please let me sit at your feet while you regale me with tales gone-by of your own experiences?"

PBBBBBBBBBBBBTTTTT!!!!!!! Anyone, who's ever said that, can go screw. Sorry, but my wife and I hear this daily and it's sickening. It's as if my unborn son is a beacon that attracts unwanted advice. Perhaps these people should take note that my wife and I do NOT wear helmets in public. Perhaps these people should take note that my wife and I do NOT have our address and phone numbers pinned to the outside of our clothing. Perhaps these people should take note that my wife and I did NOT just get off a short bus. Perhaps these people should be a little more self-aware and take note that as they're dispensing drivel, they're little devil tyke has just pulled the bottom cantaloupe from the pyramid and now the produce department looks like an Oklahoman trailer park in Tornado Alley.

I know this comes across as a little angry and I'm not. Not really. Just annoyed at how clueless and stupid people can be.

Thanks for the segue Ant...

2008-09-04T09:22:00.000-04:00

Work. Work sucks.

That is of course the blanketiest of blanket statements, as I actually like my job. The work I do is interesting, important and appreciated. I enjoy the people I work with; my bosses treat me with respect and I've been put on the fast track to upper-management. I've even recently been the recipient of a $60K bonus - in the form of an all expenses paid MBA program. Pretty good right? Now read this - I have a B.A in Art History and I now work in Finance. I've basically hit the jackpot - so why would I write work sucks? Because it does.

Please no responses telling me that it's only a "job" when I'm not doing what I love. Blech - if you're thinking that right now - then I cyber-vomit all over you. I have not yet found my dream job of reading comics and playing video games all day and yes it's from a lack of not looking. I know that those jobs do exist, but let's be honest they are very few and far between and generally reserved for people who are skilled at writing and researching sed topics. If you're at all familiar with my posts (or even if you've just read this far) then you know why I'm paid to be a Financial analyst and not as a journalist for the G4 network.

The conundrum I face in the next 35-40 years of my professional life is that with great power, comes great responsibility (thanks Uncle Ben). There seems to be a logical connection between salary and the quantity and quality of work-driven headaches. Not to mention the number of hours put in at the job. As previously mentioned I've been put on the fast track in my company and I couldn't be more grateful. My superiors' trust and faith in me and in the type of manager they expect me to be is really gratifying. A part of me is really looking forward to the experience. I'm sure the career growth will be really rewarding.

But another part of me (the expectant father part) is afraid of the amount of time I'll be able to spend at home. I see the hours that my bosses are working now (both in the office and at home) and I watch as they juggle career and family. And as much as I admire all that they've accomplished, I also can't help but watch as they struggle with making both home and work-life successful. I find that I am constantly asking myself, where if at all is the proper balance? What means more, being able to properly provide for my family and ensuring they are well cared for, or spending all of my free time with my family and accepting a life of professional mediocrity? More money, more problems (thanks Uncle Puffy).

Now make no mistake, I am and always have been a family man. If ever there comes a choice between career and family, then the desicion will be an easy one. I'm more concerned about the next 40 years of gray areas. When is it okay to work late and maybe miss my infant son going to bed? How do I explain to my boss that I didn't get as much work done over the weekend as I hoped because I took my son to a ball game? When is something really a gray issue and when do I see something as black and my wife sees the same something as white? And why is it always about color with me?

I'm afraid I don't have any advice to offer in this post - only questions. But perhaps it's not really guidance that new dad's seek, but rather comradery.

Brevity is the soul of wit...

2008-08-27T21:10:00.000-04:00

Clearly I'm witless.

We've been getting some feedback and metrics on our new website and it turns out that people are spending a lot of time on my page. I'm flattered, but not really surprised. I mean c'mon. I've clearly got it going on - in the literary sense.

Upon hearing the news, I immediately went to my page with the intent of reveling in my own brilliance. I thought I'd read back over my posts and let myself inspire myself. Well that was a week ago and I still haven't reached the bottom of the page. I am a blowhard, again, in the literary sense.

What I've learned is that feedback is terrific. And being my own worst critic, I'm deciding to try a new approach. I'm going to be concise, brief, short, to the point, succint, etc. Wait a minute...oh crap. Maybe, I've learned nothing. So let me just get back to doing what I do best...judging others.

My buddies and I were talking the other day about that special point in our wife's pregnancy when we realized we knew next to nothing regarding a woman's plumbing. Now add a baby into the u-bend and we realized we could remove the "next to." My solution? Run to the nearest bookstore and get a helpful book. Something specific to the man's side of dealing with pregnancy. This in itself is not an easy task as there are a plethora of options. (If you don't know what a plethora is, ask Pepe how many birthday gifts El Guapo got.) However, the real problem isn't in the quantity of baby books for men, it's the quality.

The real problem with these books is that the authors assume that because you're a man you're automatically a chauvinist ass. These writers assume that because I was born with a penis I'd just assume put a cigarette out on my pregnant wife's forearm as much as I would use her forehead to crush a beer can. Before I read some of these books I was constantly using my wife's beautiful, swollen tummy as a drum and the underside of her breasts as a hiding place for my keys. I know this is going to upset some of these writers, but I'm going to go ahead and give away an industry secret - turns out a woman's pregnancy is more about her than it is about me. WHOA! MIIIIIIND-BLOOOOOOWING! For the first 6 months, I actually thought if we were having a boy, then the baby came from my penis - if we were having a girl, then the baby came from my wife's vagina. Thank you man who writes baby books for other men. Thank you.

The difficulty is not being overly insulted while reading these books. But, maybe you're less sensitive than I am and need to be told to give your wife special attention. Maybe you're functionally retarded and haven't been keen to your wife's mood swings. Maybe you've been oblivious to the fact that her entire body has become an incubator for a miracle. Maybe, you are a chauvinist ass and just don't communicate well with your baby's momma. If I've just described you, then my advice is to definitely read these books. However, any douche-bag who needs sensitivity training from a baby book has probably already knocked up one of the Spears women and lacks the 4th grade reading skills necessary to know we read left to right in the Western Hemisphere. Thus making these books useless, rendering them paper-weights. Pun intended.

Okay, here's a little positive information before I go. These father specific baby books contain a great deal of good information. I learned everything I needed and more. There's no doubting the authors' knowledge of the subject matter. It's just hard to read them and not feel as though I'm being talked down to by the Father Theresas of parenting. Thanks for the advice, but please spare me the preaching.

Musings from a guy who's "working at home"

2008-08-22T16:17:00.001-04:00

I can't believe I'm about to admit this, but I think there are too many TV channels. I know, I know; that's quite a bold statement coming from someone who’s named his favorite appendage, the remote control. But I think it's true. That statement alone will probably garner me some phone calls from the other guys on this site, if not a complete disbarment and change of passwords without prior notification. If nothing else I'll get an "Are you feeling okay" or "What's with the complacent doppelganger and what have you done with the real Eric?"

You see I love TV. My wife and I both do. It's sort of an uncomplicated and perfectly balanced love triangle. My home is sort of a new-age LDS-based church where my wives (the mother of my child and the mother of my dreams, TV) share my time equally. Little known fact: we were the basis for the show Big Love, but the producers decided to spice up the story with another wife and y'know drama or something.

And yet, love not withstanding, I've come to this bitter conclusion after spending a Friday at home. Yes, technically I was working, or telecommuting, as the Greenies like to call it. But I couldn’t just ignore TV, any more than I could ignore my real wife if she stayed home with me all day. Okay, so it is actually easier to ignore my wife than TV. After all only one of them comes with a mute button. HAY-O!!

This revelation probably comes as no surprise to the other two new dads on this site. They after all have already spent their paternity leave at home with their respective newbies. I dare say they’ve had other activities to keep them busy. I don’t imagine the first 100 diaper changes or feedings were done while flipping through the channels trying to decide whether to watch King of Queens or Jeopardy.

First off, I have a pretty big package with my cable company (snicker…big package). I easily have 200 – 300 channels. However, the mother of my dreams got an upgrade about a year ago when we bought an HDTV. I basically bought a boob job for my TV. Suddenly this object I had known for so long was interesting again and I wanted to spend all my time with her. I mean it. And because of the change I find that of my 200-300 channels I limit myself to only the 50 or so HD channels. Every now and again I’ll get so desperate that I’ll look to the (gulp) standard definition channels. This usually doesn’t last long because I feel like I’m cheating on my HD channels. It’s like going out getting drunk and cheating on my super-model of a wife with that “it” from the Planter’s Peanuts commercials. A cold shiver just ran down my back. Not from thinking about sex with that woman, but rather from thinking about watching standard definition TV. Brrrrr, so cold.

Now what does any of this have to do with me being an expectant father? Not much, only that I find myself reaching this conclusion due to the amount of time I’ve had to work at home lately. Or the amount of time I’ve had to watch daytime TV. Soft-A potato, hard-A potato. I think this must be my version of nesting. See, the reason I’ve been staying at home so much is because I’ve been trying to take care of a lot of honey-dos I’ve been putting off for the past year. I’ve been taking our cars to the mechanics and taking care of some home maintenance issues. Big or small, important or mundane; I’m taking the opportunity now to clean, and/or fix everything we own. I have this feeling (and it’s been supported by everyone who’s ever had a child ever) that once the kid comes, all of my free time is gone. I have this fear of my wife and child being stuck on the side of the road somewhere, car stalled, smoke billowing out of the hood and me unable to help because I’m trapped at home. A victim of my backyard deck’s collapse; trapped beneath it due to a delinquent termite inspection.

Fortunately, I have the kind of job that allows me this flexibility. My wife’s work does not. She will be forced to drive to and from her job everyday until our little bundle of joy arrives. We’re praying for a weekend birth; or at the very least, sometime in the evening. It’s this kind of spontaneity by mother nature that makes me want everything as near perfect as I can get it before our due date in October. I’m fighting an uphill battle, a fruitless attempt at getting our lives in order before absolute chaos arrives…entropy swaddled in a receiving blanket.

I suppose now’s the time to do all the things I’ve always wanted. Time to learn to play the guitar, time to read War and Peace, time to learn to write gooder. Now if only I could get my wife to put her shoes away.

She probably had it coming...

2008-08-19T14:46:00.000-04:00

How many times have we said this to ourselves, huh fellas? Am I right? Of course I’m right.

Wait, what did you think I meant? Oh. Ohhh. OH NO! Not that.

I'm talking about making my mother-in-law cry.

I of course tell this story knowing that there is no way I'm going to make what I did look right. I know that no woman will read this and think, "Okay, he makes a good point, my mother can be a handful sometimes." I'm just looking for a little understanding. This is a chance to tell my side of the story; my yin to her yang. For the men who are reading, you can go ahead and stop here. I'm already you're hero and no longer need to prove myself to you.

First off, my in-laws are terrific and I love them. They mean the world to me. I whole-heartedly mean that and tell you this with no added pressure to do so from my wife. I adore my in-laws and love them like they were my own true-blood family. I know they feel the same about me. They have sheltered and fed me when they didn't need to. They have given me every comfort they can provide. And likewise, there's nothing I wouldn't do to help make their life easier. Except let them move in with me should they become invalid. That's just gross. At that point in either of their lives I'll find them a "retirement village." Somewhere they can enjoy their last days with dignity and peace. A nice, quiet place where they can be neglected and left to stew in their own waste. Yeah, sure we'll come to visit on holidays, hahahahahahahahahaha.

I kid because I love. I'd never put them in a retirement community. Not when they can live in my garage for free. ZING!!!!

That may seem mean, or just in poor taste, but these are actually jokes I would (and probably have) told my in-laws. We have a great relationship and I'm free to be my normal obnoxious self around them. As can they. I found our relationship changed forever one evening when, while helping my "mom" (it's what I call her) up from the couch. She gave me her arm to help lift her and on the way up she farted on me. Don't judge, it was funny and we both laughed, when we could breathe again. It's been moments like these that have helped cement our relationship and friendship. They're more than just a legal obligation now, thanks to that darn binding marriage license. They're family.

So clearly I would never intentionally hurt my mother-in-law's feelings; even though I have, in the past, had to be firm with her.

My in-laws live on a beautiful stretch of land directly on the Chesapeake Bay. They have a beautiful, large house and over the years have collected a great number of things with which to fill it. Some of these things have been for themselves; some of them have been for the children. Some of it just washed up on the shore and is considered found treasure. However, somewhere along the way they decided that they'd collected enough and it was now time to give some it to their daughter, my wife. This has been happening ever since my wife and I first got together 12 years ago. My in-laws have a very twisted idea of a dowry.

Some of the hand-me-downs have been treasured family heirlooms. Some of it has been appreciated second-hand furniture. Some of it has been crap that no one wanted, but my in-laws just couldn't bring themselves to throw out. These are the moments in which I've had to be firm with my mother-in-law. These occasions have been few, but after the fourth or fifth time it gets difficult to find new ways of saying "no thank you" in a way that doesn't come across as "I told you we don't want your crap.” Such an occasion occurred recently. Ever since giving my in-laws the goods news about their forthcoming grandchild, my mother-in-law has been looking for every opportunity to lavish gifts upon us. Please re-read the beginning of this paragraph for how I've had to deal with these types of gifts.

A few weeks ago, my mother-in-law brought forth a tub of stuff and presented it to my wife as more gifts for the baby. My wife has not been immune to the amount of pawned off crap we've had to decline over the years. She however as been a little more tactful with her parents - that means she makes me be the bad guy. This isn't a problem because even though I don't like the part, being a dick just comes naturally for me. So, even before my mother-in-law starts to go through this tub, my wife and I share a look. A look that means, "Mom’s been going through the attic again". A look that means "Great, more crap - will you say something?" So I, being the wonderfully accommodating husband that I am, look my mother-in-law right in the eyes and tell her, "Whatever's in that tub, we don't want it. We've told you before about this kind of stuff and no matter what it is, we just don't want it."

This has the exact reaction you think it would. This makes my mother-in-law sad. She begins a very slow, heart-melting whimper. To her credit, she did a great job of trying to hold it in. Seeing her mother so upset has the exact reaction on my wife you think it would. This makes my wife sad. This also makes my wife angry – at me. I am now - even though I was just following orders - the asshole. Perhaps I'd come across too strong, but there was no yelling on my part. I didn’t even raise my voice. I was only attempting to drive an already exhausted point home.

My wife takes immediate control of the situation and apologizes for me - how could she ever marry such a brute? And of course she doesn't know what brought about my reaction? She's excited to receive a tub of stuff from her mommy. I love my wife too much to ever call her out in front of her crying mother.

As it turns out what my mother-in-law was trying to show us was a scrapbook that she'd started. She wasn't really trying to give us anything. Not crap from the attic. Not a toy that had been long forgotten in the garage. Not clothes or onesies stating how much the baby loves ABBA, the Fall Guy, or the Baltimore Colts. Not a rocking horse made entirely of splinters and rusty springs (the toddler riding it would look like an infant of the Apocalypse).

My mother-in-law was trying to help us make memories. She was trying to impress upon us the importance of this young life and how we should record and cherish as much of it as we can. She didn't want us to take anything. She just wanted to share with us her excitement about her new grandson and her zeal for us as first-time parents.

After we left the in-laws that weekend it took a couple of apologetic emails to clean up the mess I'd made. Lucky for me, my mother-in-law is quick to forgive and even quicker to forget (wakka wakka). What made the apologies sincere and honest, is the great affection I have for my mother-in-law. I realize now that I got so caught up in her meaning to have good intentions, that I completely missed her good intent.

No wedding rings either...

2008-08-15T16:28:00.000-04:00

I went to the hospital last night to visit Mark’s new tax break and fortunately the hospital is an excellent source of inspiration. My dilemma now is whether to write about the radiant and glowing new parents or the truly jaw-dropping beauty I was fortunate enough to witness.

Splendor it is. I’ll start with the very pregnant lady I saw smoking outside the hospital.

My wife and I park our car on one of the top levels of the hospital-adjacent parking garage. On our way to the stairwell, I spy from across the street what appeared to be a pregnant woman and her beau standing outside the hospital. I just catch a quick glimpse of the couple, but what I think I see is a woman putting something small white and cylindrical to her lips. Insert your phallic jokes here, perverts. I on the other hand will take the high road, as I’m practically a father.

On our way down to the street level, I smile to myself and think “Self, don’t be silly, she’s only enjoying a lollipop.” Yes that must be hit, a lollipop, a sucker, a Dumbbell. I even shared the humorous visual mistake I’d just made with my wife. She of course chuckled as well. I mean the very thought of such a thing is laugh out loud ridiculous: a hospital, a pregnant woman, a pregnant woman smoking outside a hospital. HA! It’s 2008 after all. It’s practically illegal for pregnant women to smoke in America. Side note – the punishment for smoking while pregnant in Vermont is death by quartering. I looked it up, that’s a fact, do not dispute me.

As my wife and I exit the garage and cross the street to the hospital entrance we see that the lady’s fella is in fact enjoying himself a cigarette. My wife and I exchange a look between ourselves, “shame” it non-verbally communicates, “shame on him for doing that around a pregnant woman.” We of course kept this look very much to ourselves. Don’t get me wrong, my wife and I are terribly judgmental; we’re just much more terribly non-confrontational.

So we continue to draw nearer to this delinquent pair, practically within handshake range, and we realize to our great shock and dismay that this woman, yes, the pregnant woman, yes, the very pregnant woman is also smoking. And not just sharing a cigarette or perhaps a clandestine puff. She has her very own cigarette. The couple is standing outside the hospital leaning up against a brick wall (like it’s their own personal 7-11) and slowly, nonchalantly, and definitely unapologetically enjoying a nice smoke break. My wife and I of course exchange another look and even a couple of persnickety whispers as we pass the couple. I mean such an outrageous sight definitely warrants the escalation from dirty look to angry whisper. Yeah, that’s right our puritanical ideals had been shaken to the core and we dared voice our opinions; albeit at an inaudible volume. We’re pretty much a couple of bad-asses. Pray you don’t ever cross us, lest you never feel our scorn as we talk about you behind your back.

Now let me take a quick moment to mention that I personally have nothing against smoking. I am not and never have been a smoker. Yes, I experimented like most teenagers do, but it’s never been my thing. My thing being the way cigarette smoke makes your clothes, hair, breath, and everything you own or ever touch smell like weak, stale cigarette smoke. Mmm, flavor country. Ask my wife how she feels about people who smoke in their cars. Delightful, she complains like an angel that one.

But I do in fact hail from the great state of North Carolina and currently reside within the even greater commonwealth of Virginia. Tobacco is a part of who I am as a Mid-Atlanticer (Mid-Atlantican, Mid-Atlanticite?) and it is a very important resource for the people and local economies. If people want to bad-mouth tobacco, why don’t you dust off your fifth grade American history books? Yeah, the Brits, the French and the Spanish all came here for the land and the Manifest Destiny, but they stayed for the flavor. “Thank ye natives with the darkened skin for the gift of yon's tasty leaf – please to be taking these beads as payment.” What, too soon?

Anyway, back to this smoking hot pregnant lady. Okay, so she was only 3 out of 4. This woman, judging by the roundness of her tummy, was clearly at the hospital to give birth. She was ready to pop if you will. I applaud her commitment to her habit (no she’s not a nun – stick with me) during this busy stretch. She found the time for a smoke break amidst the hustle and bustle of her day. In her mind there was nothing wrong with finding some ‘me time’ in the middle of a trying day. And good for her for finding such a supportive guy, a rare find to be sure. I’m sure he lit her cigarette like a gentlemen, putting two fags in his mouth and lighting them both before handing one to his fair maiden; lest she be burned by one of the matches. That’s compassion. I bet he even like likes her.

And I should tell you that she was wearing a hospital bracelet. So even if she wasn’t there to actually deliver she was at the very least a patient of the hospital. I thought that detail might be important incase you were thinking, well maybe she’s so out of touch with the world that she’s never been to a doctor and doesn’t know smoking is unhealthy. You’re such a ‘glass is half-full’ kind of reader. I appreciate that, I really do. But no, she’s just a selfish ass and the father is no better.

Harsh words I know. I’m sure it’s smarter to be a little more political and ride the fence about this issue; but darn it, I’m really taking a stand against pregnant women smoking.

So as my wife and I enter the hospital I look around for a nurse or a doctor to do our dirty work for us. Someone who would march right up to the duo, take the cigarettes from their mouths and march them right inside the hospital. A medical professional with the medical background and bedside manner to reproach and council this couple thoroughly. Someone who has dedicated their life to the care and well-being of others. Someone whose job it is to practice and preach a healthy lifestyle.

The first person we see – a 400 lb nurse.

Hospitals are good.

We're officially 2/3 of the way through 2008

2008-08-13T21:56:00.000-04:00

And then there was 1.

We just got the good news and we want to welcome RC cola to the world. Yeah, I know that's a bit of a weird nickname, but it's a lot nicer than the last one.

After a long 24 hour stint in the hospital, the proud parents now get to forfeit the next 24 hours pining over their daughter. A welcome trade-off I'm sure.

All kidding aside, we're all really proud of Jess and we can't wait to meet the new family.

Now the question that's on everyone's mind - does a doula get paid overtime?

Writing's Hard, Eat One Salinger

2008-08-13T11:38:00.000-04:00

I’m sitting here, staring at a blank page, realizing how little I have to contribute to this new venture. Perhaps, I’ll find my voice through vapid typing: hoping I can enter into a Zen like trance and that the result will be some kind of profound truth; trusting in my sub-conscience to produce something tear-jerking and heart-rending in its simple elegance.

Nuts. Neither my sub-conscience nor my conscience is cooperating. I think I may just have to rely on my brain…double nuts.

So the purpose of this website is to give an honest and unassuming look at fatherhood. The brain-child of my very good friend (let’s call him Ant) - this project is in a way, his second baby. The first is his beautiful daughter. She’s only a few weeks old and very new to this world. She still has that new car smell.

At this point though, it’s hard for me to tell you which baby will cause him more grief, heartache, and sleepless nights. Especially, since he’s entrusted his friends to help him raise this child. I’m hoping this project turns out well, so that one day in the far off future while we’re sitting around lighting cigars with hundred dollar bills and laughing at poor people (Oprah style); Ant can look at me and say, “I should have had you help out with my other children more.” He won’t really mean it, but it’ll be nice to hear…quiet sigh.

Okay, let me wrap this first entry up and let you know why Ant’s asked for my help. My wife is currently 30 weeks pregnant with our son. This is the first child for both of us. There, I’ve given you all the basic information you need in 2 quick short sentences. Don’t get used to it, as I tend to be wordy. There’s going to be more, much more on this subject.

Until next time, I’ll let that little bit sink in.

Registering for baby gifts...who knew?

2008-08-13T11:19:00.001-04:00

My wife had her second shower over the recently. She would say that we had our second shower over the weekend. Funny…I don’t remember being invited. Not funny…my wife’s reaction to that same joke.

Actually I’m very grateful because the shower was the cause for a very nice weekend with family and friends. And since I’m still in a celebratory mood from all the weekend’s festivities, here’s a lesson I’ve learned from my wife’s, I mean our showers.

Registering for baby gifts is NOT a waste of time.

Let me go back a few months to a simpler time, before the whole hindsight is 20/20 thing. It was the spring of 2008 and the world was about to be rocked: Americans showed they’d rather vote for a black man than a white woman, Rihanna continued her domination of pop radio, the world yawned at the idea of the upcoming summer Olympics, and my wife and I finally decided to register for baby gifts. Real earth-shaking stuff.

With the first shower looming approximately a month away at the time, my mother-in-law was giving my wife daily reminders that we weren’t yet registered anywhere while at the same time dropping subtle, helpful hints like “people can’t buy you anything because you aren’t registered anywhere.” Around this same time, my wife came to the realization that we need to register or people couldn’t buy us anything. I’m not sure where she came up with that idea.

My wife and I are both procrastinators (probably the reason we’re having our first child after being married 8 years) and neither of us was really looking forward to the registering experience. We’d started to read the baby books and we’d already made several visits to the local Babies R Us. To tell you we were over-whelmed is an understatement. Not being baby experts we’d learned enough to know that a newborn pretty much does 3 things: eat, sleep, and show an unholy disdain for crotch-wear. We were not looking forward to spending the better part of a weekend wandering around a baby-dedicated warehouse trying to decide the difference between what our baby would need, what our baby would want, and what we thought we could sucker people into buying for our baby.

So the fateful day arrived and we spend several hours shuffling back and forth across Babies R Us. And Target, because believe it or not Babies R Us didn’t have everything we needed. When it comes to baby stuff, the amount of choice is intimidating. There are lot and lots of options. But the good news is that everything, everything, is made in China – so it’s all potentially deadly. Yeah! “Welcome to the world O’ fruit-of-my-loins, here’s some poison.”

What we really wanted was to simplify the process as much as possible. We wanted someone (via book, website, whatever) to tell us exactly what we would need, right down to the model numbers. We wanted a top 10 list of every category: cribs, strollers, highchairs, etc. We wanted to take in our lists and then make our picks. In and out: no fuss, no time wasted.

I’ll go ahead and ruin the surprise now…those lists don’t exist and there is no easy way to put the registry together. We spent 4 hours with our noses stuck in baby books and internet print-outs. We had books with dog-eared pages and articles from Consumer Reports and we were constantly going back and forth between them all trying to decide what’s crucial, what’s useful, what’s safe, and what we want because it’s cute.

But at the end of the 4 hours, we had our registry – of which we felt we might actually get half of what we were asking. Another point I was not too keen on, why spend all that time registering for gifts we probably weren’t going to be getting? The whole process is exhausting: mentally and physically. If you’re looking for some hope in that regard, sorry. It’s not really there. Registering took so much out of us because we put so much into it.

However, here comes the silver lining, the light at the end of the tunnel, the 1 funny joke in a desktop calendar full of bad jokes…we got everything! We got it all: the small things, the big things, the cute things, the necesecities, the stuff we didn’t ask for but forgot to put on the list. We even got the expensive crap no baby should have – the stuff that makes the rest of the world hate America. We got so many clothes that my wife and I won’t spend a dime on baby clothing for the first year. His room looks like a Hollywood starlet’s trailer with clothes, books and toys akimbo. It’s nothing short of amazing.

By the way, the one highlight of registering will be the toys. I don’t know when the last time you took a stroll through your local toy section was, but toys keep getting better and cooler. Nothing will make you feel or wish you were a kid again like picking out toys for your kid. I’m just worried I won’t have the restraint to share with my child.

The showers have really been like Christmas in July for my wife and me. Yes, most of the gifts are for the baby but really the gifts are for us. The generosity of friends and family is nothing short of stunning. Nothing causes people to empty their pockets like a first child. There is of course 1 or 2 small things that my wife and I still need to pick up, but the vast majority of items on our list were given to us. And the raw beauty of the whole thing is that people can’t wait to give these presents. They are so willing and eager to welcome this new life and so happy for the parents-to-be that people will crawl all over themselves to be involved in any way.

Registering, it’s time-consuming, it’s difficult, it’s a pain; but it is so very worth it. Not because it leads to the kind of booty that would make a pirate cry and not because it’s such a huge cost saver. It is both of these things, but it’s more than that. It’s a reformation for your relationships with family and friends. You’ll really see how much you’re cared for and loved.

It’s good.