It seems like every day the munchkin gets another idea about what her life will be like when the new baby arrives. Sometimes it's something completely new and unexpected, and others it's a more thorough treatment of a subject she covered recently. Whatever the situation, she is eagerly anticipating the arrival of her sibling. What follows is a sampling of some recent discussions we have had concerning the new baby.
"Daddy, when the baby comes out, it's gonna pull my hair."
"That's right, but it won't do it on purpose. The baby doesn't want to hurt you."
"Oh, I know. It's OK that the baby is going to pull my hair. It makes me happy because that means the baby is looking at me."
* * *
"I will give the baby a bottle."
"Actually sweetheart, Mommy is going to give the baby breast milk at first."
"I know, Daddy. But when the baby is a little bit of older (sic), Mommy will put her milk in a bottle, and then I can give the baby a bottle."
"Right."
"Daddy, how will Mommy put her milk in the bottle?"
"Uh, you should probably ask Mommy that."
* * *
"When the baby comes, I will be your helper when you change diapers."
"OK."
"Your job is to take off the dirty diaper, and wipe the baby's bum, and put a new diaper on."
"Right."
"And you have to, have to, have to give the dirty diaper to me."
"All righty then."
As I mentioned yesterday, I have a new writing gig as a guest blogger over at Babies Online - The Blog. My post on secondary infertility went up late yesterday, so I'm linking to it today as well. Also, if you're only interested in my posts over there, the direct link to my author page is http://blogs.babiesonline.com/author/scifidad/; however it does not have its own separate feed.
Somewhere, deep in the archives of the interweb, there are a set of rules about blogging. In and among those rules are a series of requirements for male bloggers to retain their man status. One such requirement is that every blog authored by a man has a car post. This is mine.
I took the written test for my learner's permit the day I turned 16. Less than three months later I got my full license (let us all pause and laugh at the kids who must suffer through graduated licensing).
A year after that, I got my first car: an eight year old compact that was previously the family car (technically my parents gave it to me so I could drive my mother and sister around and allow my father to dump those duties on to me). It was crap, with only an AM/FM radio and no air conditioning. It would blow the transmission, with a girl in the car, in front of a strip club, a year later. Its battery would die on me while I was driving uphill after my high school graduation, forcing me to push it uphill in a suit until a kind soul with a truck pushed me, bumper to bumper, to a gas station and gave me a boost so I could drive it home.
I went away to university, and my father drove that car into the ground, literally. When I was in third year, my parents concluded that I would not need the education nest egg they had put aside for me (all hail co-op and scholarships) and made me an offer: they cash in "my" GICs and give me their car (a five year old compact of the same variety as my first car which was blessed with both A/C and a cassette player). I drove that car for the next four years, until one day the automatic transmission started shifting gears when I turned left (I so wish I was making this up).
Having graduated two years prior, and subsequently having saved some dough, I traded my slowly dying compact for a full-sized coupe with leather interior, power everything (it even had heated seats!) and a substantial engine. I loved that car; it was the first vehicle I owned that was me. It was the car I was driving the night of my first date with MTM (and though she will sometimes deny it, that car was part of why she fell for me).
When the lease came due MTM announced that since it was a coupe, it needed to be returned, and that something more practical be purchased instead (and the money previously set aside to buy out the car could be put towards other uses... say, a wedding). So, we got a minivan, and for the next couple of years I drove it.
Then, one fateful day at the end of March, 2005, everything changed. The munchkin was born, and with that event came the fact that MTM would be a stay at home mom, and would drive the better safer van while I would inherit the only crap car she could afford on a teacher's salary her car. In a nutshell, I got screwed (and then nine months later, I got screwed again; heh I'm so funny). That car has been the bane of my existence for the past three years. The washer fluid lines freeze whenever it's cold outside, the A/C has rarely worked properly, it goes through brakes like tissues, and is just generally a piss-poor excuse for transportation. Its current "fix it" list includes: the A/C (and not just a recharge; we paid for that twice last year... it's the compressor), the rear defroster (I drove most of this winter without one), the blower fan (it has one speed: gale force winds that dry your eyeballs), and the electrical (the odometer display randomizes when accelerating).
But this afternoon, all that will end, for last week I discovered an insane deal for a brand new sedan variant of my blessed (and oft longed for) full sized coupe, long since passed. When I took it for a test drive, it was like slipping on an old glove. It will cost us the same cash price as MTM paid for her POS compact eight years ago (that's how good the deal is) when I pick it up tonight.
So last night, I took the munchkin outside and told her to say goodbye to the car. At first she was sad, and lamented its demise. But then I told her that I would be replacing it with the big car she saw at the car store last week, and she said, "OK. Bye bye black car. See you later."
Not if I can help it.
Other Blogs
Those observant readers may notice a new button in the "Other Blogs" section in my right sidebar. Yes, I have (yet another) new writing gig. Starting today, I'll be a guest blogger over at Babies Online - The Blog. My first post isn't up yet, but you can check back here later for a direct link (or you can subscribe to the BOTB feed and wait for it). My post on secondary infertility went up late today.
Although I have asked this question in the past, I will inquire again since there are new readers: should I take the time here to inform you when I have a new post somewhere else? (In other words, do you care about when I post elsewhere, or are you just here for Tales From The Dad Side?) Please let me know either in the comments or in an email (see my profile for the address). Thanks.
On Friday afternoon, we loaded up the munchkin and enough supplies to make it through the weekend, and drove to my parent's place since we hadn't been in a few weeks and my sisters needed a break. While the trip wasn't as bad as the last one or the one before that, it was still a visit with my parents, which is, at the best of times, difficult.
Instead of giving you a blow by blow of the weekend, I'll give you the highlights (and lowlights):
This trip marked the first one that MTM sat in the front seat for the entire trip (both ways). She usually spends at least part of it in the back seat with the munchkin.
While watching television on Friday evening, MTM announced that she believed something was on fire in the kitchen. Initially I blamed her pregnancy for the fictional fire smell, until I noticed it too and we found a wooden spoon resting on the heating element in the dishwasher.
Friday night, after (I thought) everyone was in bed and I was decompressing, my mother got up and cornered me in the kitchen and informed me that they have concluded that my father had a TIA (Transient Ischemic Attack) - something which cannot be proven, is 100% armchair speculation on their part, and just adds to the (seemingly endless) list of "things wrong with my dad". Then I got to decompress and eventually got to bed around 12:30am, only to be woken at 6:30am by a hungry munchkin.
Saturday morning saw me take my sister and mother to the hair dressers (neither of them drive), and spend the waiting time at the grocery store with my girls. It was even more glamorous than it sounds.
Saturday's lunch saw the munchkin make her own sandwich. It contained: a pepperette (i.e. a pepperoni stick, not slices), turkey, cheese, cheezies, and cucumber.
Saturday afternoon I: hit Canadian Tire for a new wiper, did my sister's taxes, made breaded veal cutlets and somehow found time to push the munchkin in a swing.
Saturday night, my mother either mis-medicated herself or something, and was therefore pacing the floors in her semi-controlled stagger, the sound of which, when combined with her oxygen tubes, kept MTM awake pretty much all night. At one point, my mother woke up my father to take his temperature, and then spent an inordinate amount of time watching the three of us (the munchkin sleeps in the same room as us) sleep.
Sunday morning we packed up and headed home. We got in early enough that we were able to hang out with our neighbour before dinner, which is a rarity for us on recent trips.
As for my father, the surgery seems to have been a success. He's about a month post-op now and he's moving as well if not better than before, so that's a plus. The cardiac situation seems to be under control, at least we haven't been told any differently. However, his recent bloodwork indicates there might be kidney problems, so when you add that to the TIA, he's not out of the woods yet.
As an added bonus, he's driving now, against doctor's orders. To add to that, he's also drinking again. To put the cherry on top, he's driving himself places so he can drink. And the local family just lets him do it, so even if I were to hide his keys, they'd help him find them.
I didn't want to say anything about this situation until it was over, but it seems like my father's health is turning into a perpetual situation similar to my mother's chronic issues, so I was left with the choice to either never tell it, or not wait. I have chosen the latter.
Even the most incidental of readers could surmise from my posts about my most recent trips home that I have a hard time visiting my parents. It has been this way for me for as long as I can remember. I chose a university out of town specifically because I needed to leave their house, so I suppose in some respects it was difficult to be there while it was still my home. Regardless, it weighs on me heavily, and turns me into a man my wife does not like very much on occasion.
During our Easter visit, the one where I saw my father in the cardiac ward, I began having chest pains. Now, there is a family history of heart disease, stroke, high blood pressure, et cetera. Combine that with a predisposition to obesity (which I also inherited) and I began to panic when the pains didn't disappear after a few weeks (and in fact worsened after my second trip three weeks ago). I went to see my GP (whom I had only met once prior, and who had been nagging me to come in for a physical) and explained the situation. Long (and scary) story short, after a battery of tests (bloodwork, ECG, chest x-ray), I am, as I put it to my wife, "not broken". There is nothing "medically" wrong with me. A discussion with my GP has caused me to believe that these pains are physical manifestations of anxiety or stress, and after their reappearance this weekend, I believe this to be the case.
However, now I am faced with a conundrum. While technically the visits are not impacting my health, they are impacting my physical well being. On the one hand, I have responsibilities as a son and brother, but on the other hand, I have my own (rapidly growing) family to worry about. I worry that at some point I will have to reduce or limit my trips home, at the expense of my parents' happiness, just to protect my own.
There has been a lot of talkrecently about the Globe and Mail column about the ethics of parent blogging. If you haven't read the column yet, I urge you to do so. While tragically flawed (as I will get into below) it is still worth reading for the sake of suggesting ideas for consideration.
The piece fixated on the potential for financial gain and questioned the ethics of writing stories about your child or children as a means to obtain it. However, as others who have written about this before me have said, the ability to earn a substantial income from a parent blog is limited if not nearly impossible. That begs the question: if all of these parent blogs have been around for a few years and are seeing pennies from Google Ads or whatever, why do they continue to blog? Mustn't there be something that keeps them blogging after the harsh realization that very few bloggers can survive on the income their blog provides?
Neither of those questions were asked by the columnist (or, if they were, they were ignored for the sake of sensationalizing the story they wanted to tell, as opposed to telling the story they found).
Some parents blog for the creative outlet it provides. Some for the community that is out there, the community who reads your blog and says something back to you either in comments or in personal emails, the community that gives you an impartial perspective on a situation you're experiencing, the community that offers empathy and a promise that eventually that too will pass. Some for the hope of a book deal. Some for the chance at celebrity. Some for the money.
Instead, the columnist went on (arguably ad nauseum) about the exploitive nature of writing about your child's potty training for the sake of the almighty dollar.
I have sat back and thought about that column for a long time (hence the three days it took me to write this) because I wanted to let my initial feelings subside to give way to introspection and honest self exploration. Why do I blog? Is what I am doing wrong or unethical? Will my daughter feel exploited or angry when she is more self aware? Where do I go from here?
Why do I blog? I blog for narcissistic reasons. While this admission may lose me a few readers, it will give those who continue to read a better sense of the man typing behind the screen. I blog for the comments, for the feedback I receive from anonymous people, most of whom I don't know and will never meet, to hear the praise when something strikes a chord with a reader, or a similar anecdote about their child. The more socially acceptable answers: that I want to maintain a record of my daughter's life, that I like to write creatively and do not have an opportunity to do so in my work life, that I seek understanding and advice from the blogging masses, are all true as well, but for me they are ancillary benefits. Certainly they are benefits that I appreciate and enjoy, but the sad honest truth is I do it for the feedback and interaction.
Is what I am doing wrong or unethical? Note that I ask what I am doing, not why I am doing it. Parents have told stories about their progeny's childhood for generations. Every person has had that moment when their mother starts, "When my little boy was two, he..." and inevitably what follows is something that everyone in the room (including the child) finds humourous and possibly a little embarrassing. Blogging is the same thing, although to a larger room of people. Now, this is where my approach differs slightly from other bloggers, and for the sake of self reflection, I will only consider my approach. That is not to say that any other approach is more or less ethical, just different.
I don't use names or places, and I don't use facial photos. I have no means of making money from this blog (yes, I have a review blog, but other than a cross link the two are very different entities, at least from where I stand). I don't share my blog url with anyone I know in real life, other than my younger sister. There are a handful of people who know my url that could identify me in a crowd, but they are all friends of my wife who find me via her blog. (An aside to my wife: I am not criticizing you for sharing your url with friends; I am just trying to, for the sake of discussion, explain how I limit my "known" audience.) I am sharing stories with strangers as an equally unfamiliar stranger. It would be very difficult for someone to prove that SciFi Dad is me without exceptional, FBI-like internet snooping methods (and I'm going on the assumption that my level of social discord is low enough that the FBI no longer has interest in me after our most recent incident... I kid people... they're always watching me).
Will my daughter feel exploited or angry when she is more self aware? I remember when I first started blogging I came across an abandoned dad blog whose last post explained the interminable hiatus: that his daughter (then five or six years old) had become aware of his blog, and had, on occasion, asked him not to share something on it. He realized that she was beginning to feel like her life was constantly monitored, and he obviously didn't want that, so he stopped blogging about her.
As for the munchkin (and now her pending sibling), I don't know. Is it possible that one day I will receive a similar request from her? Absolutely. Will I handle it similarly? I don't know the answer. I know that for our family, and specifically how my wife and I parent, no statements like that go into the ether undiscussed. We talk about how we're feeling and why we're feeling that way. I would like to think that before my daughter does something that she hopes I won't blog about that she would have voiced her concerns or lack of comfort with the blogging situation. Given that impetus, the three of us (her, my wife, and I) would talk about what she feels, and why she feels it, and how we can resolve it. And if that means this blog gets left behind, then so be it.
Where do I go from here? For the time being, I suspect I will continue on the same path I have been for a while now. There will be no names, no identifiable photos, no ads. I will continue to limit what I share through a reasonableness filter, and while on occasion I may cross the line with some things, for the most part I will try to share the wonder that is my wife and my daughter with the unnamed masses as one of the unnamed masses.
At the risk of repeating myself, I really do appreciate it when you comment, and today's post has enough nuggets for you to chew on give me your thoughts about. Do you think parent blogging is unethical? Do you think less of me for my admission? If you have written your thoughts about this subject on your blog, leave the url in the comments and I will edit this post to include it.
The following is a public service announcement brought to you by Tales From The Dad Side.
Those who have never experienced it, do no believe it exists. Those who have seen it in action, know it is something to be cautious of. Those who have been affected by it know that it is to be feared. It is powerful. It is surprising. It is entertaining. It is pregnancy brain.
Neither of these stories is entertaining on their own, but when you add in the fact that they occurred on consecutive nights, and they become far more funny (at least I think so).
On Monday evening, after dinner, MTM took the van out to vacuum out all the crap that accumulated over the winter. When she returned, he pulled into the other half (our neighbour's half) of our driveway while she waited for me to get the munchkin into my car and move it out of her way so the van would be nearest the house (so I wouldn't have to move the van to get my car out in the morning).
So, I backed my car out on to the road, and then MTM backed herself out on to the road. And she waited. And waited. And waited. And then the light went on in her head, and she moved the van back into the driveway so I could, you know, stop idling in the middle of my street.
* * *
On Tuesday evening, I came home later than usual and needed MTM and the munchkin to come with me to look at a new car. So, while MTM got them ready inside, I switched the carseat from the van to the car (so we could drive it to the dealership to get a trade-in appraisal).
Once the car seat was installed, the munchkin came out, followed by MTM. She put her bag in the front, and then helped the munchkin into her seat and buckled her in. Then she closed her door, and walked around the car, into the driver's seat of the van. She started the van, and put it in reverse. I waived to her from the car, and she remained. Then she put the car in park, got out, and gave me the "what the hell do you want" gesture. And then she smacked her head, shut off the van, and climbed into the passenger seat of the car (where she blamed the whole incident on "a headache").
* * *
Pregnancy brain is a dangerous condition, not just for the expectant woman, but her partner and her family. No one knows when she will forget to cook the chicken before serving it, or neglect to put soap in the laundry machine. It can strike at any time, and requires constant vigilance.
When my wife and I first started living together, I coined a phrase: "putter dawdle". In most instances, it acts as a verb, as in: "We didn't make it to the movie on time because my wife was putter dawdling." Alternatively, it has also been used as a nickname for MTM (as in, actually call her "putter dawdle").
To describe what putter dawdling is, one must understand my wife. This is a woman who can spend 30 minutes in the kitchen after the munchkin is in bed, and have it look exactly the same way as she arrived. She will move things, shift things, "tidy" things; but ultimately no change is actually made to the room. She just messes around (putters) in there to kill time (dawdle).
So, imagine my surprise when I tried to make a joke on Sunday when my wife's friend was over. I had taught the munchkin to help me with a little schtick where I ask her what Mommy likes to do, and she responds with an emphatic, "Shop! Shop! Shop!" Knowing her friend would find this funny, I asked the munchkin at the dinner table, and she replied, without missing a beat, "Mommy likes to putter dawdle." We all laughed it off, and I hoped it wouldn't happen again.
I think my wife bore a hole in my head with the look she gave me that evening.
On Monday, while we were having dinner, I asked the munchkin about her day. "Well, I went outside. And I played outside wiff my toys. But Mommy didn't play."
"Oh, what did Mommy do?"
"She putter dawdled."
Now there's two holes in my head.
I tried to explain to the munchkin that when Mommy is cleaning out the van, she isn't putter dawdling, and that really, I shouldn't use that term either (it's just that it really gets MTM going, and realistically, how can a husband deny himself that pleasure?)
So, what actions or words of yours do your kids emulate that you'd rather they not?
My usual music host is down this morning, so I can't upload a song to share with you. (Which, incidentally, might not be such a bad thing since I couldn't find one that suited this post and was going to put up one that I particularly like, but most people probably wouldn't. So maybe it's a blessing in disguise.)
These are actual conversations that have happened in our family recently.
* * *
Munchkin: I'm going to sing a song to the baby now. SciFi Dad: OK. Munchkin:Sometimes I feel like I don't have a partner, sometimes I feel like my only friend... SciFi Dad: (to MTM) There's something so unwholesome about a toddler singing a song about drug abuse to her fetus sibling.
* * *
Munchkin: Daddy, I hear a baby cryin'. SciFi Dad: I do too. We'd better get used to that sound though. Do you know why? Munchkin: When Mommy's baby comes out it's gonna cry. SciFi Dad: That's right. And when is the baby coming? Munchkin: October. SciFi Dad: And when is that? Munchkin: A long,long way off. First comes Mother's Day, then Daddy's birthday, then Father's Day, then October.
* * *
SciFi Dad: Are you Daddy's princess? Munchkin: Yes I am. Daddy, are you my cowboy?
It's Monday morning, and time for a recap of another MTM/SFD trademark "how the hell can they do all that in one weekend" weekend.
Friday night saw MTM and I go out for a date night courtesy of friends of ours whose kids MTM watched a few weeks back (as in, they paid for dinner and watched the munchkin; yes we have good friends). It was nice to spend a couple hours chatting without the (seemingly) incessant "Excuse me Daddy, may I please speak to Mommy?" every two seconds (which, while exceptionally polite, can still get annoying over the course of a meal) and (this is for the guys who accused me of going soft on Friday) stare at my wife's cleavage until she chastized me. Beer. Steak. Boobs. The Keg: see you tonight!
On Saturday, the hometown Jays were playing my MLB team, the Tigers, in their only homestand this year. (Aside: one of the terrible side effects of interleague play is the reduction in the number of series against in league non-divisional oppoents. Because the Jays and Tigers are on opposite sides of the imaginary division line they see each other once a year, despite being only a four hour drive apart, as compared to, say, Tampa, who they see repeatedly.) We decided to go, and invited our neighbours to join us (very last minute, and since we were already running late, we didn't get there until midway through the fourth inning).
She was so excited to see the baseball game, she could hardly contain herself:
Yes, that is a pink Lions hat. No, we were not going to a football game. I was happy she wanted to wear a sports hat and not a Dora one.
It wasn't as successful as last year, thanks mainly to this guy:
That would be Ace, the Jays mascot, whom she saw demonstrating the usage of a kiosk on the jumbotron, and summarily and completely lost her shit. I mean full out freak out, including (but not limited to) pleas to depart, sobbing, shrieking as if someone was trying to amputate a limb, and clutching to MTM for dear life. We convinced her to stay until the end of game, although she spent more time in the playground than the seats. (She also conned me into buying her a stuffed pink bear that had the Jays logo on it. I consoled myself with the knowledge that it, like many other stuffed animals, would suffer a life of abuse and eventual neglect.)
Sadly, the Tigers lost (as they did last year) and therefore I have banned myself from any future games.
On our way back, we stopped at a restaurant (Lone Star) for the first time since the incident. We had a big talk about behaviour and the like, and what would you know? She was a little angel; seriously, she was just perfect. It was so refreshing.
Sunday morning we hung out at home, and then went to a birthday party for Sausage of My Silly Sausage fame. The munchkin had a blast, and for the most part was pretty good (setting aside the repeated attempts to open her friend's birthday presents).
Afterwards, we (the munchkin and I) took a nap while MTM picked up her friend (who lives in Toronto and was coming for a visit) from the bus station. We spent the remainder of the afternoon and early evening with the munchkin trying to entertain everyone and be part of every conversation. Then, the munchkin went with MTM to drive her friend back to the bus station, and when they came home they put my car back in the driveway. She insisted that I come out to see her, and when I did I found her and my wife sitting in the front seat, car dancing to this:
Today's post will be a little on the short side. I've been struggling with writer's block all week, probably brought on by the lethargy I'm feeling as I get over this bug that has been, well, bugging me for a week now. Sorry to anyone who feels short changed by this post. I'll give you all a 50% discount on your subscription fees, OK? So, let's see... 50% of nothing is, well, nothing. There you go.
Last night was one of the rare nights (lately anyway) when I gave the munchkin her bath. It's not that I don't want to give her a bath, or that I try to get out of doing my share of the home stuff (I'm lumping childcare and homekeeping into one collective). It's more that by the end of the evening, the munchkin is overtired, whiny, and more likely to throw a tantrum, and since she prefers MTM, I usually let my wife make the call. But last night I decided I would do the bath because MTM looked so wiped.
As I was filling the tub, MTM poked her head into the bathroom and said, "Daddy, just so you're aware, there's some toilet paper stuck down there. It's nothing to be worried about, we just need to rinse it off."
"Thanks," I replied. "Love you too."
As I was washing her hair, the munchkin began inspecting her privates for signs of the aforementioned hygiene product. Sensing potential disaster (either from her attempts to remove it or from the likely shampoo in the eyes from her being doubled over), I got her to lie back so I could rinse it out. I splashed water, poured water, and had to separate the labia to fully clean it all out. It was a far more thorough process involving her vagina than she or I was used to.
Once I had finished washing her, we had our regular play time. She has two Dora bath dolls that are virtually identical. (I just spent half an hour trying to find images of them online. I could find the one with the pigtails and the twins in a tube, but not the mermaid one, so I decided not to post images.) She stood one up at one end of the pool and said, "This is the pwincess. She will stand here and be beautiful." Then she located the other one, paused for a moment, and announced, "This is the king. He will stand beside her."
And then she proceeded to put them together. And make kissing sounds. For a really, really long time. And for a moment I was standing there, too shocked at the scene of half-dressed Dora lesbian erotica playing out in front of me to say anything.
Between the t.p. and the kissing Doras, this is too much estrogen for me for one night, I thought to myself.
Mercifully, the embrace ended, and the munchkin then busied herself with playing other games. Eventually then, she turned back to me, and matter of factly said, "I don't like it when you wash my vagina Daddy. You aren't gentle like Mommy is."
"That's because Mommy doesn't have to rinse dried on toilet paper from your hoo-ha," I muttered under my breath, thinking she couldn't hear me.
"Daddy, what's a 'hoo-ha'?" she asked me innocently.
Crap. Now what? I thought to myself.
"Uh, I think Princess Dora wants another kiss from the king."
Like many (most? all?) parents of this generation, we own a baby monitor. To be more precise, we own what is apparently a very popular baby monitor (or at least one that operates on very common frequencies), given what you can hear when you listen to it.
Mommy's Day Off This one was actually told to me by MTM a while back, so technically it's her story to tell. However, the statute of limitations on blog posts is 72 hours (I looked it up), so I'm fully within my rights to poach the story.
The munchkin was around two years old, and MTM had just put her down for her afternoon nap. She went into our bedroom to lounge around, eat bonbons and watch her "stories" catch up on laundry and turned on the monitor. Suddenly, the room filled with the sound of another woman's (hopefully mother's) voice reading a naptime story (hopefully to her child/children). It was so clear that MTM could have let the munchkin listen to that story instead of her own and taken a five minute break courtesy of the mystery mom.
(Aside: I think she discovered that I had put it on the wrong - of two - channels, and once she switched it everything was fine.)
Daddy's Heart Stress Test One evening when the munchkin was just over a year, MTM went out with some friends, leaving me to perform the bedtime ritual. After successfully negotiating the munchkin into her crib, I slowly crept downstairs and turned on the television. About ten minutes later, I realized that I had not turned on the monitor, so I hopped up and flicked the switch.
I was greeted by screams. Blood curdling, soul piercing screams. Frantic, I scrambled up the stairs, hardly noticing that the screams were getting quieter as I raced towards her room. As I reached the gate at the top, I saw the munchkin turn her head and smile at me from her crib, not a tear (nor a red face) in sight. I smiled at her, and after a compulsory cuddle (required by the interruption), I returned to the main floor, where I heard my neighbour soothing her six month old over the monitor.
Alien Baby The munchkin falls asleep to music looped on repeat (thank goodness for the digital age and its lack of tape motor clicks). When MTM and I go to bed, we turn this music off, leaving the monitor on to listen for the calls of a potty trained toddler.
If it's a clear night, there are several signals picked up by our monitor. One of them must be quite far away, given the quality of the signal, because it modulates in both volume and frequency. It also must be from a very unhappy household, because most nights there is a baby crying in that signal as well. The combination of the whining and whirring of a poorly received signal and a screaming baby makes for an eerie sound that I have dubbed the alien baby. Some nights it's so strange, I have to turn it down while I'm brushing my teeth because it freaks me out.
On Friday evening, while I was upstairs sleeping, our neighbour from across the street rang the doorbell and literally shoved a three gallon, retail store sized vat tub of Baskin Robbins Pralines and Cream at MTM . (He works for BR in either production or distribution, or both.) All he said was, "Do you have room for this?" and when MTM confirmed that we do indeed have a deep freezer, he walked away as she thanked him.
So after two days of ice cream for dinner enjoying the treat, MTM says to me, "I want to have the munchkin make them a thank you card, but I can't remember their names. Do you know their names?"
"Don't look at me. Other than the few people we're social with (the one's next door, the other half of our semi, the ones who have a kid the munchkin's age who cut our lawn when I broke my ankle), everyone else is known by description to me."
"What do you mean?"
So I started going through our neighbourhood, gesturing to houses as I spoke. "Well, there's the new people, who recently replaced separated or divorced guy who needed to not wear his robe on the driveway so much. And there's dude who still lives with his mother, and contractor guy who kept our garbage can after that huge windstorm. Then there's the cop, and loud car guy who scared the crap out of the munchkin last Halloween. And finally, there's old people who work on their CFC-producing cars all summer, and watch what seems like a dozen grandkids, except the kids never play outside."
"Therefore," I concluded, "If I were addressing this thank you card, it would be 'Dear People with the Noisy Dog Whose Kid is Always Skateboarding on Our Lawn', which I don't think you want."
"Nope."
To be fair, there is a handful of families that we know, but most of them have kids around the munchkin's age. If they don't have kids, there's that generally unspoken distance between us and them. Sure, I'll make small talk with neighbours from time to time, and I'm sure I've been told and forgotten more than my share of names, but we mostly keep to the ones who are genuinely social with us. And those ones are the ones with kids (well, them and the woman who shares our semi since, well, we share a wall, a driveway, et cetera). Just don't think we're antisocial freaks or anything, because then my wife will be all pissed at me, OK? OK.
It started innocuously enough: Thursday night, after picking up the van, my throat felt a little scratchy. So, I asked if we could all have chicken soup for dinner. Friday morning I went to a (previously scheduled) doctor appointment, where I got a post-dated prescription (one of those "if it doesn't clear up in a couple days, fill this" types), never expecting to actually use it. I went into the office for a meeting. And then, I got home from work.
I slept for two hours Friday night before concluding that I was uninterested in dinner. I passed out on the couch in the seated postion later that evening, shortly after finishing some Neo Citran, and awoke long enough to lie out flat with a blanket and sleep through the night.
Saturday was a combination of sleeping mixed with trying to convince myself that pretending to watch watching Treehouse with one eye open constituted good parenting, plus a side of guilt for missing two blogging-related events (Doodle, son of LD, had his birthday party Saturday; and I was supposed to meet up with the Toronto crew for Redneck Mommy's visit).
Sunday was a lot like Saturday, but with the added bonus of MTM getting hit with this too, and me getting my antibiotics prescription filled (being the lucky, non-human-incubator half of our couple).
So obviously, no pictures, and not much humour for you, dear reader. I am taking a sick day, not just here, but from work as well. I hope to return tomorrow in a more functional state.
Rarely will I find a song with a more appropriate title for one of these posts than this song. In fact, I am currently considering making this the default song choice for posts of this style because a) I like the song so much and b) the title just works too well.
Regular readers know that every couple months I get writer's blockcop out on writing a real post go through my Google Analytics archives and collect some of the weirder keyword hits (and believe me; this site gets all the crazies). Today is another one of those times.
As always, these are unedited search strings that brought people to this site.
christian aguilera strip cd A Christian stripping CD? That sounds promising.
dora annoying Yup.
baking with prune puree Don't.
adhd divorce medication lawyer Uhm, what are you looking for? A divorce lawyer who provides ADHD medication? A medicated divorce lawyer who has ADHD?
arguments about genetics or multiple births I don't get it. Who would argue about multiple births?
better off an orphan than gay adoption Oh yeah, of course. A loving committed couple will make you more miserable than an orphange run by nuns with authority issues.
dad makes me feel guilty for using anything he gives me Then stop using the stuff he gives you, sheesh!
fetal ultrasound water pee accident Well, that makes more sense than a cranial ultrasound causing that accident, I suppose.
wife pissed herself Dude, it happens to a lot of pregnant women; get over it.
mil panties mil's panties Eww.
mother-in-law excluded from wedding planning Why? Because she wouldn't share her panties?
how does a daugther communicate to a dad that doesn't want to listen VERY LOUDLY.
parenting dads who travel Uhm, if he's a father AND old enough to travel, how much parenting does he really need?
scrotum tales Next.
sexy but warm clothes for wife If you find any, hook a Canadian brother up, OK?
you know you're a dad when The paternity test comes back positive, and not a moment before.
Yes, this is one of my less-inspired, shorter-than-usual posts. I had a long day yesterday, and there's actually two posts in here (if you read far enough).
I came home late from work last night, thanks to the inherent need of an IT department to thwart any attempt at productivity (serenity now... serenity now...), with barely enough time to move the car seat from the van to my piece of shit car so we could drop the van off for overpriced maintenance service.
The munchkin climbed into the back seat and I threw out my back struggled to get her strapped in, thanks to the seat having to be in the centre. It also meant that she was able to kick me in the elbow. Continuously.
So as we pulled away from the house, I put on the radio. I had a mix CD I had made for myself in the player, and let that play.
"Oh no, Daddy! I forgot my Doodlebops CD in the van!"
"That's OK, we can listen to Daddy music." I skipped to this track.
A few seconds later, she said, "It's OK that I forgot my CD. I like this CD now. It has some pretty cool songs on it."
She's three, and she used the expression "pretty cool". About Guano Apes. I think that's pretty cool.
In case some of you don't check there often, Mommy Blogs Toronto has become Better Than A Playdate (which isn't anywhere near as funny better than a stick in the eye, but is probably more appealing). There's a new format there as well, with everything going up on the homepage. I am still posting Daditorials over there, and on a regular schedule now too (every other Thursday). My latest is up today: The Working Poor.
On Monday, Ali wrote about her experience cutting her son's hair. In the comments I suggested that it could have been worse because it could have been her husband, and it could have gone straight to the scalp. She emailed me and insisted that I should share this story.
My hair has never been something of great consequence to me. If it took more than five minutes to produce, a hairstyle would not make it in my life. From the time I met MTM until shortly after my daughter's birth, I had maintained a simple hairstyle that required limited instructions to a barber: "Use clippers. Leave half an inch on the sides and back, and an inch on top. Blended. No step." (These worked well with Italian barbers who knew how to cut hair but not how to speak much English.)
Then, MTM decided it was time for a change, so I started to grow it out. Once it was long enough "to do something with", we went to a barber and she instructed them on what she wanted. We came out with the same basic cut.
So, armed with proof that my haircut was what my wife wanted (in spite of her need for change), I suggested I could duplicate the style at home with a pair of clippers. My wife countered that she always wanted to cut hair, and believed she could do a good job for me. We grabbed a cheap set of clippers with more attachments than either of us knew what to do with, and decided to give it a shot.
However, since neither my wife nor I wanted to clean up a mess of hair, we decided to perform this exercise with me standing in the shower stall. Without a mirror to monitor the progress.
It all started innocently enough. We went with the one inch attachment and made all the hair one length. Then, she decided she would use the "ear attachments" (as they were called) to work around the ears before actually doing the shorter sides/back.
"Oh no!"
"What?"
"Please don't be mad. Please don't be mad."
She had used the correct ear (there was one left and one right), but apparently had used it incorrectly, leaving a massive bald patch at my temple that extended above the ear.
"OK, I think you're done now."
"No no, let me even it out."
"Even it out? You want a matching bald spot on the other side? I don't think so."
Since then, we have never tried to blend two lengths together. When my hair reaches a length where it bothers her, or I find spiking it too time consuming, we clip it to half an inch all around, (and I say a little thank you to the fates for no bald spots other than the one that seems to be appearing at the top of head).
Sorry for the absence of a post yesterday. We took an extended weekend, and just got back into town Monday evening. I trust you will understand (once you read today's recap). Also, note that I have yet to make the rounds to the over 100 unread items in my reader. And today I'm out of the office for a meeting most of the day. Bear with me.
Before I begin with the recap, I need to bring you all up to speed with the situation with my father's surgery and recovery. (No further junk sightings, thankfully.)
After we left two weeks ago, my father was seen by a cardiac specialist, who ordered an angiogram, which finally got scheduled for the following week. They found two blockages, and (after a tense day of waiting for out of town cardiologists to review the findings) he was taken by ambulance to a nearby city (two hour drive away) for an angioplasty this past Thursday morning. Fortunately, my sister lives in this city, so he was discharged to her care on Friday morning.
We left for my hometown Friday after we confirmed that my father was feeling well enough wanting to go home. We stopped to pick him up, and after reconfiguring the seat so he could sit in it without, you know, bleeding to death (no pressure), we headed for his house.
What followed was three days of grocery runs (we learned that my family is incapable of compiling an all-encompassing shopping list), errands, food preparation, shuttling (my younger sister, who lives maybe 2km away, cannot drive and refuses to walk), and (for the munchkin) a lot of television. It was exhausting, both mentally and physically, as my mother is in no condition to care for my father, but my father is unwilling to take live-in care. So, we were left to configure the house with everything on the main floor, and for my sister (who, thankfully is a university prof with no intersession this year and is therefore done work soon) to cover what the part-time homecare doesn't. It isn't ideal, but it's what we have.
It was (and still is) tense because my father is still taking narcotics for pain, yet insists on drinking alcohol. A lot. In fact, the one thing he did between kicking off his shoes when he entered the house and sitting on the couch was opening a beer. I argued against this, and was summarily dismissed by my family of enablers who believe that since none of us are without sin (i.e. we all have our own vices), we should not discourage him from drinking. It was maddening.
Additionally, my mother does not know when to let something go. When you combine that with my father's exceptionally short European temper (sidebar: pot calling kettle black here), you get a bad, bad situation. Basically, my father was in a foul mood all weekend because a) he was in pain, b) my mother wanted to talk about his pain, c) he couldn't get away from my mother, d) my mother knew this and capitalized on it. So, I bore the brunt of it (since my sister took the opportunity to make herself pretty scarce over the weekend while I was there holding down the fort).
The munchkin did, however, get to hold a relatively new baby:
baby's face blurred for identification purposes... she really does have a face, and it's quite pretty, actually
That's all the photos I have. It wasn't really a picture-taking type of weekend.
On Monday I solidified SciFi Dad's Law, which states:
[afternoon-long car ride] - [any form of nap] + [extended weekend out of routine] + [sit down restaurant] = [two idiotic parents just asking for it]
We stopped at East Side Mario's for dinner last night, foolishly. It ended with me leaving MTM alone to finish her meal while the munchkin and I sat silently in the van waiting for her. Realistically, she was overtired and had no nap. But that was no excuse for her to lie to MTM and then scream and yell in the restaurant.
And then, to make the above paragraph moot, she said the following as she sat on the toilet during one of her bedtime-stalling sessions: "Daddy, how many more sleeps do I have until October? It's four right? Four more sleeps until October, right?"
Today we will take a walk through the first trimester. There are (obviously) some stories that I want to share with all of you that I was unable to because, well, we hadn't announced that MTM was pregnant yet.
Aside: try and listen to the lyrics of this song; they're actually quite applicable. (Alternatively, you could always search them if you're really interested.)
You're A Better Housewife Than Me When MTM was pregnant with the munchkin, the first two thirds of the first trimester were in the summer, when she was off (she is a teacher), so the physiological impacts weren't as apparent since she could sleep and nap and take it easy as she needed. This time around, she has been even more fatigued and she has the munchkin at home with her all day.
So, I did what I could to reduce her workload. With the difficulty we had in conceiving this time, I immediately stopped her from carrying laundry baskets up and down the stairs. (However, she insisted on actually doing the washing and hanging/drying.) That logically resulted in me carrying up the baskets of clean laundry and immediately folding it.
One night, she sat beside me as I folded, and watched. She then admitted that she was envious of how I folded certain items, particularly socks. She then uttered the title of this section, and asked me to teach her.
Oh, and I also cooked for us Friday-Sunday most weekends. And if I didn't cook, I insisted we go out. (And usually I didn't just cop out and make junk; I made roast beef, stews, etc.)
My God, All That Fried Food With the television strike in full swing, we were going through episodes on DVD like nobody's business. During this time we went through all three seasons of Roswell. One night, after we finished another pair of back-to-back episodes, I turned to her and asked her what she thought of the show we'd just seen.
She replied with the title of this section. I countered that the show was set in a diner, so it was to be expected. Long story short, I made a late night run to purchase fries and burgers from Chez Ronaldo. It was the first craving she'd had for either pregnancy.
About two weeks ago (maybe a bit longer than that, but roughly around that time period) a little switch got flipped in my daughter. Where once was a sweet little angel filled with kindness and empathy and caring now resides a tiny revolutionist. Everything must change to suit her plans, ideas, desires. And if it doesn't, a thermonuclear-scale tantrum will certainly follow.
I feel as though, if she were able to speak with a vocabulary beyond her years, that she would be uttering things like:
"I want to subvert your authority!"
"I shall be willful and insolent for no apparent reason!"
"You cannot control me!"
And so on.
Now, I realize that she just turned three, and that this is all part of growing up, but does she really need to be such a little brat about it? (Aside: I mean "brat" in the sweetest possible manner, really.)
She's still too young right now, but soon (possibly sooner than my wife would like, depending on how challenging this child remains) she will learn the meaning of the word obstinate. I am, despite all appearances to the contrary, capable of being incredibly willful when I feel the situation warrants it. And if she continues on this path, I feel I will have no choice but to play a proverbial game of chicken.
And I won't lose. I will cry. I will struggle to find peace witnin myself. I will question myself incessantly. But I will not do any of that in front of her. She will be the one to blink.
Don't misunderstand me; I love my kid without question. But at the same time, this type of behaviour needs to have some boundaries assigned to it. She can express dislikes and feeling and what not, but she needs to continue to respect others in the process. She needs to listen to us when we caution her. I feel like we've been a little too "oh she's just testing her limits" and not enough "bottom line she needs some rules".
I wrote this in fits and spurts over the course of the last few days, trying to find the right words to express my frustration and difficulty with the situation. I finished the above Wednesday while still at work. Then, I came home to learn that my munchkin, my sweet little girl (whom I just referred to as "a little brat" above), had finally gotten an opportunity to go to Toys R Us (as promised to her on Sunday - see link above). What did she go in with the intention of buying, and subsequently come out with? "A Spider-Man toy for Daddy's office." I kid you not. She took money out of her piggy bank to buy me a Spider-Man figure (it was an Easter one in the clearance bin, and cost $0.88, but still). I debated not even posting what I wrote; but then I realized something: this is exactly what parenting is about. One minute they are literally driving you completely insane, and the next you're standing there, slack-jawed, at the wonder that is them.
Before we get to today's post, I would like to take a brief moment to talk about yesterday's post. I would like to thank everyone who took the time to comment; some of your words literally brought a tear to my eye as I was laughing my ass off. Yesterday was April Fool's Day.
My MIL and SIL may very well be insane, and 99.9% of what they say and what they do may make no sense to me, but a black tie baby shower? With a per-plate charge for profit? And you believed that? I don't know what that says about what you think of my in-laws.
Now, on to today's post.
It all started about a month ago.
It was late. She had probably been in bed for well over an hour; perhaps close to two. MTM had had enough (the munchkin always calls for her mother when she is trying to fall asleep). We were desperate.
So when she called out for what seemed like the tenth time that night, claiming (yet again) that "poo poo was coming out of my bum" (knowing full well that "I need to go poo" would be met with skepticism), I went up and called to her from the top of the stairs to get out of bed and follow me to the bathroom. Where we sat. And waited. For the poo poo that would not come.
As she descended from the commode and made her way down the hall to her room, I turned in the other direction, towards our bedroom. I called to her, "Where are you going?"
She turned, and smiled. Then she ran into our bedroom and climbed into my arms as I sat in the rocking chair. The old recliner that MTM used to nurse her in. The recliner we took home in the back of our van when my grandfather passed away.
I began to sing "Hush Little Baby". When I was done, she mewed, "More." So I sang "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star". She repeated her request. So I sang "Under The Bridge" (it soothes her because when she was an infant it was the only "mellow" song I could think of one sleepless night, and it worked; so we used it ad nauseum back then). And I closed out with "Fly Me To The Moon". She was asleep minutes later.
(Aside: despite many years of instrumental music, several spent playing jazz by ear, I cannot carry a tune to save my life. I can hear how horrible it sounds, but no matter what I do I cannot correct it. To put it simply: I sing very poorly.)
Since that night, I have sung that exact playlist (in that exact order) probably five out of seven nights a week. For a brief period, I tried doing it before she initially went to bed, but it didn't help her fall asleep any better. So, we "save" it for later on, once she's tired herself out a bit.
I don't get it; how she can listen to my butchering of perfectly good music and then find the calm to fall asleep immediately afterward. But for now, I'll just stop questioning it, because one day she'll be as humiliated by my singing as my wife is.
On a different note, I've been added to the AllTop Dad List. Alltop presents itself as a dashboard that aggregates stories from all the top sites on the web and displays them on a single page, so head over and take a look.
Before anyone asks or freaks out, I already talked about this with MTM. Despite what some people would prefer, she and I do not keep secrets from each other.
On Sunday, sometime between "adding kid-friendly things to [their] home" (thanks, Denguy, for saying it so eloquently) and burning the lasagne (that we made and brought), my MIL and SIL cornered me while MTM was downstairs playing with the munchkin.
"We wanted to talk to you about something," my MIL began.
"But you can't tell MTM about it," my SIL interrupted to add.
My stomach sank. No good at all can come from The Wondertwins wanting a private audience with me.
"We think you should have a baby shower," my MIL said.
"But, we had one for the munchkin, and people usually only have one shower," I replied.
"Yes, we thought of that. So, we think you should have something different," she said. "We were thinking black tie."
"Black tie?"
"Yes," she continued, unphased by the look of confusion and shock on my face, "Black tie would be very different than last time. And you could charge per plate for the meal, and make a profit there on top of the presents."
"Profit? For a baby shower?"
"Well, of course! [FIL] and I won't pay for a black tie party! You would pay for it and then recoup the money with the plate costs."
"So basically, you want us to throw a party for ourselves?"
"Oh no, that's not what we mean at all. We'll plan and organize everything."
"But I pay?"
"No. The people you invite will pay."
"I don't know..."
"See Mom? I told you he wouldn't like it," my SIL spoke up, mercifully. "We should have suggested my idea: to have a garden party in the summer on your anniversary. Then people would bring you anniversary gifts and baby gifts."
"Why are you talking about all this with me and not MTM?" I asked.
"Oh, we want to surprise her!" they both chimed in unison.
"You mean, like she asked you never to do again after the bridal shower that left her shaking for hours afterward?"
"Oh, she'll be fine," my SIL argued.
"Let me think about it, OK?"
* * *
OK, so am I nuts or is the very idea of having a baby shower for your second kid a little, uh, greedy? I mean, setting aside the fact that the guest lists would be very similar (meaning most people would be bringing a second gift) and the fact that we don't really need anything for the new baby and the fact that we don't have a mansion to house another onslaught of baby gifts, isn't it a little odd? Also: black tie? Really? Is that common nowadays?
And I don't even want to think about the prospect of paying for a party that The Wondertwins plan.
Please share your thoughts in the comments below. I need arguments to use when I reject these ideas.
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