Reflections

The following post is a little more narcissistic and self involved than my usual (narcissistic and self involved) stuff. However, it is honest, so it has that going for it.

Pride (In The Name Of Love) - U2
Today marks the end of another NaBloPoMo for me. Although my archives don't reflect it, I have now done this three years in a row. (My first year is from my old blog, some of whose posts were not ported over.) As such, I have chosen to take some time to reflect. (As an aside, when all is said and done I will have, by virtue of my Monday to Friday regimen, posted for 40 days straight thanks to November starting and ending on a weekend.)

Looking back over the past month's posts, I have to admit to being pleased with the results. For the past few months, I have struggled to work out what I felt were kinks in my process, particularly with the voice I write in and the way I present some stories. Now, with a month of dedicated posting in my rear view mirror, I feel like I'm finding myself as a blogger. For the first time since I started writing regularly nearly two and a half years ago, I feel like my blog is an accurate reflection of me. (For what it's worth, you have no idea how difficult it is for me to admit this publicly; I'm not terribly good with praise, whether it's from others or myself.)

I'm also content with the blog design. I rushed out the original template (black background with forest green and violet) because of the reboot and while it was OK, it never felt good. When I did the big redesign almost a year later, it felt like an improvement, but not ideal. As I tweaked and played, I found myself taking off a lot of the excess "stuff" and going for a simpler, arguably "cleaner" appearance. It's not minimalist, but then again neither am I.

I took a lot of direction from the reviews over at Ask And Ye Shall Receive (warning: they are not the kindest of souls if they dislike something or someone), and secretly I want to submit my blog for review. However, the concept of having my blog reviewed feels contrary to my personal approach to blogging. I blog for me, what I want to share and write about. (Yes, I blog for comments; anyone who blogs and says they don't care about the interaction comments provide is lying. If you don't want blog comments, just get yourself a fucking diary.)

Having a reviewer come by and either pat me on the head and say, "Your template is good, but your content bores me," or "I fucking love you," won't change anything about how I blog or what I write about, or at least it shouldn't. As I said above, I've struggled with what I'm writing here for a while now, and I feel like I'm in a good place with this blog, so why would I want to take the risk of having someone tell me that the last few months of introspection has produced an inferior end result? Logically, there is no reason to take that risk, yet for reasons I cannot properly articulate, I feel compelled to take that risk. Perhaps it's my need for approval. (Yes, SciFi Dad loathes praise yet seeks approval. I'm an enigma wrapped in a riddle wrapped in a t-shirt covered with spit-up stains.) I really don't know.

What say you, dedicated Sunday post reader? Do you like the look of the blog? Have you even noticed a shift in the content or writing style in recent months? Do you like the new approach, or do you miss something I have cast aside? And do you think I should succumb and submit my blog for review?

Christmas Trees

I mentioned that we put up our Christmas tree this week. Today I will enlighten bore provide you with my thoughts on tree decorating. (Hey, since, like, 99% of the people who actually read and comment here are women, I figure I can get away with a "I'm so fucking superior to you all, look at my design skillz, Martha Stewart-esqe" post. Plus, it's Saturday, and nobody reads on Saturdays.)

Lights
I am a huge believer in multi-coloured lights. If you're going for that everything has to match so it looks like the front store window at Macy's look, that's up to you. But, be warned, Debbie Travis has been known to knock on people's doors and if she finds a tree like that, she undresses you and makes fun of you if your underpants don't match your sweater. Just sayin'.

Also? Blinking lights are for traffic signals and diners.

My lights trick is to turn off all the other sources of light in the room (or house) once you've put the lights on. Then, allow your eyes to lose focus. This should give you a clear picture of any "dead" spots in the tree (places where the light count is low). Adjust the strings around that area and repeat the out of focus in the dark technique until the blob you're looking at is relatively triangular in shape and evenly lit.

Glass Balls
A lot of times, people put all their ornaments on the ends of branches. This works well for unique or singular designs that are worth highlighting. However, (almost) everyone has reflective glass balls on their tree as well, and putting those on the outside? Not so impressive, and not so practical.

I put glass balls inside the tree, on inner parts of the branches hanging down. They fill a void where there are no lights, but because of their reflective properties, they make it appear that there are lights in that space. (So, if rearranging the lights doesn't get rid of all your dead spots, try moving a reflective ball or other ornament into those spaces.)

Ornaments
I have some very strong beliefs about ornaments:

1. There's nothing wrong with commercial ornaments. Not every movie on your DVD shelf is generic or homemade. Not every toy in your childhood memories is a wooden car. Ergo, there's nothing wrong with Spider-Man or Boba Fett on your tree.
2. No ornament shall be more than four inches in any dimension. That's not an ornament that's an eyesore a decoration.
3. Every tree has a carrying capacity for unique ornaments; too many make it gaudy and tacky.
4. Conversely, a tree can never have too many generic glass balls (see above).
5. Finally, there should be no more than five photos of any one family member on a tree. It's a Christmas tree, not a photo album.

So there you have it: my thoughts on Christmas trees. Be honest, you want me to add a weekly decorating post to my repetoire now, don't you?

Formal Identification

When I was in the fifth grade, the school board my school belonged to introduced a new program for so-called "gifted" kids. In order to be considered for the program, I, along with several of my classmates, were put through a process known as "formal identification". Part of (most of? all of?) this assessment was the Wechsler IQ test (from what I learned, it was not the Wechsler children's test, but rather the adult one; I have no idea why they chose this test).

Whatever the requirements were, I met them, and my parents were summoned to the principal's office and informed of the "good news". I was to be enrolled in the program, which meant that once a week I would be excused from my regular classroom and taken by taxi to another school in the area (anecdotally, since then my school has been torn down and replaced with a housing development; all students in my neighbourhood who are in that board attend this school I attended once a week).

My father was adamantly opposed to the idea. He (correctly) argued that my issue was not a lack of academic challenge at my school, my issue was a lack of socialization with my peers, and that a weekly extraction of me from my classmates would only ostracize me further. However, my mother (a teacher) and the principal overruled the factory worker with a third grade education and I was enrolled.

The class was a waste of time. Since every kid in the class of about 15 had different strengths, we had a lot of "personal exploration" time. If you give an 11 year old boy "personal time" what do you think he's going to do? If your answer was "fuck around and pretend to be working on a really big problem" give yourself a gold star.

But that wasn't all. Being smart was reason enough to be taunted and bullied. Being smart and identified as "special" enough to be carted to a school once a week only provided them (the "regular" kids at the other school) with more justification. I got into fights in the schoolyard every time we went out for recess (yes they made us go out for recess when we were there).

So basically once a week I got to leave what could best be described as a tenuous social situation at my regular school so I could go into a worse social situation and learn less than I would have if I had just stayed in my regular classroom.

I stayed with that program for almost two years, until early in the seventh grade (it started midway through fifth grade) when I missed a test warning (i.e. that a test was coming up soon) because I wasn't in class and did poorly on the subsequent test. I used that as the excuse to get myself out of that program.

*    *    *
When I look back on that time, I remember initially being proud that I was accepted into the program. My mother made it a huge deal (ironically while at the same time downplaying it because my sister wasn't considered for the program) and so I felt it was something special.

However, once I actually got there, and found out that we were even more of social pariahs than we were at our home schools, I became disillusioned. Sure, from time to time there was an activity that allowed be to expand my horizons, but mostly it was a total waste of time. It wasn't a waste in the sense that I was missing classroom time, but rather that I was missing time on the playground with kids who already thought I was weird and only used my weekly absence to solidify this belief.

My dad saw it before anyone else did. Sometimes the parent who appears least invested can surprise you.

*    *    *
An interesting footnote to this comes courtesy of my freshman guidance counselor appointment. As he perused my student record, he remarked about my "formal identification", specifically that my scores were interesting. When pressed, he replied that since I was a minor he couldn't share that information with me.

I never forgot.

On my 18th birthday (literally) I went into the guidance office and demanded requested my student record. As I flipped through the file folder, I came across old report cards, end of year assessments from teachers, and samples of my work. Finally, I came to my "formal identification".

(Now this is the part that presents me with an interesting question: I could remain vague and simply tell you in relative terms what my scores were, or I could explicitly tell you what the numbers were themselves. Am I being coy by leaving the details out, or am I being vain by thinking you want exact numbers?)

The Wechsler came back with two scores (hence why I know it was the adult assessment; the children's one has four): one for verbal, and one for non-verbal. I wasn't admitted to the program by virtue of its numerical requirements, but rather because the psychologist doing my assessment personally recommended me for the program. My verbal score was below the minimum threshold. According to the program's requirements, one score out of range was reason enough to be excluded. Her reason was that my overall score (an average of the verbal and non-verbal score) indicated it was "imperative" I be admitted.

So, I wasn't even supposed to be in that program in the first place. That makes it all better then.

---

I also have a post up at my review blog where I look at a bunch of household products new to Canada for P&G's Home Made Simple campaign.

Random Thoughts From Yesterday's Lunch

Lucky Me - Sarah Slean
On Wednesday, MTM and the kids came for lunch at my office because it was her birthday. (By the way, thanks to everyone who clicked over and commented on her blog yesterday; you guys rock.) It was Buddy's first lunch at my office (but second visit; we came during my vacation time), which made it extra special.

Munchkin was very excited to be there, particularly to see a coworker (the one I mentioned in my post about being anonymous - let's call her Matronly Coworker, or MCW for short). She's been there so much that she actually knows a lot of my colleagues by name, and will leave my office and wander the halls, saying hello to various people. (She'll also talk to random strangers in the office, even if she doesn't know them, which I suppose isn't the safest practice, but technically she is in my office, so...)

As I sat at my desk, MTM sitting across from me chatting with MCW as she (MCW that is) held Buddy and Munchkin flitted about my office, intermittently poking her head out to say hi to the guy next door, I was struck with how lucky I am.

Not only did Munchkin walk around my building, she went into the owner's office and chatted with him. He took the time to talk with her about being a big sister, and how she liked it, even though he was clearly busy with other stuff.

My company isn't perfect. They still pay us with paper cheques because it is cheaper than instituting direct deposit. They don't have any family-oriented activities, either in the summer or at Christmas time (although they do take the employees out, I've always felt that including families, especially at Christmas, is a smart business move). Their workload planning sucks big hairy donkey balls (I regularly see a weekly summary of where my time is needed that indicates I should be working 80-90 hours in a week; I never do, but management doesn't realize how overloaded I am as a resource).

However, they don't say anything when I take an hour out of my work day to have lunch with my family. They don't complain when my preschooler yells to us from down the hall, or when my infant screams because he's tired, hungry, wet, angry, bored, or whatever.

Similarly, my home situation isn't perfect; I have to go to work every day and leave my wife and kids even though I'd rather be there with them. However, I am fortunate to have my wife be a SAHM, and to have her be willing to pack up the kids and either bring or grab lunch for all of us and come to me for the occasional lunch visit.

Sometimes, it seems, things aren't so bad.

---

Finally,


You're 0-11. They're 10-1. You're out of the playoffs. They've almost secured a first round bye. You've got no reason to try, so try for him, guys. It's Thanksgiving, damnit.

Better Than An E-Card

Today is MTM's mumble mumbleth birthday. You should click over and say Happy Birthday to her.

Since it falls on a week night, things aren't quite as festive as in years past (when we did Mommypalooza). However, they are coming for lunch (at my office) today, and we are planning on going out for dinner tonight. We also got the Christmas tree started on Monday evening so it was ready for today (we always put our tree up around MTM's birthday). So, it's not perfect, but it's pretty good.

*    *    *
As I write this, I have 80 posts in The Wife Side. I thought I would share some of my personal favourites from that set. (I focused on older stuff since a lot of the readers here are new and would not have read them.)

First, a more recent post from her pregnancy with Buddy: apparently I have to apologize for stuff that happens in a bad dream.

Being MTM-ed is an expression I use often in our house. It means when I go to get something in the last place I put it and it's been put in a "better" place by someone.

Have you ever breaded chicken before? You'll like this post.

No retrospective about this blog and my wife would be complete without a post about she who shall not be named.

*    *    *
I'm not the only one who writes about our relationship (or their spouse). MTM does it too, and since some of her stuff doesn't get the attention it deserves, I thought I'd link to some of her recent ones about us as well.

Recently I sent her a summary of my calendar for the upcoming weeks. What she made of it was enlightening.

Way back when Buddy was just a big lump, I did laundry. It wasn't pretty.

Finally, one night she was at Costco and she wanted a coffee sample when she was pregnant.

*    *    *
Happy Birthday, sweetheart. I love you to the moon, and back.

A Weekend In The Life

The drive to my hometown, where my parents still live, takes a little over four hours if your travel companions do not include my wife have normal sized bladders. The first time we took Munchkin to meet my parents, the drive took seven and a half hours. MTM rode beside her in the back seat and we still had to stop repeatedly because Munchkin wouldn't stop crying.

We finally brought Buddy to meet my parents for the first time this past weekend. (Hence why some of you may have noticed my lack of comments on your respective blogs.) The trip took under five hours, and included one longer than our usual rest break for nursing and diaper change, and no crying fits. The ride home was the same. Seriously, Buddy is the baby everyone told us about when they said, "Oh you should travel while you've still got just a baby. It's so much easier when they're that young." (MTM and I would generally respond with a look that combined, what the fuck are you talking about? with are you on crack, and if so, can we have some too?)

It was pretty cool to see him warm up to both my parents as much as he did. He crashed on my mother for over an hour twice over the weekend. Since she's not really well enough to do much else, him collapsing in a heap on her chest was pure bliss. My dad is more of a typical old-school man: when Buddy was silent and unconscious content, my dad was good, but at the first hint of noise, "Hey, MTM. You need to take Buddy." However, it was great to finally get the picture of three generations of men with the same middle and last names (my dad, Buddy, and myself all have the same middle name: my dad's father's name).

*    *    *
Unfortunately, the weekend was not all rainbows and unicorns (and let us all pause for a moment and imagine that guy up there with the tattoos amidst rainbows and unicorns). When we got back home on Sunday, we learned that Buddy is even more advanced than we had suspected. You see, despite my efforts to remain anonymous, Buddy has found and been reading my blog. How do we know this, you ask? Well, we know that he read this post and decided to have a pukapalooza of his own. Between 4.00pm and 7.00pm that night, he wore three different outfits, I changed my t-shirt twice, and we went through four blankets. Somewhere in there he managed to reload feed three times as well. He even puked on the floor as MTM was washing his hair.

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In the midst of Pukapalooza: Buddy's Revenge, I was in charge of dinner. We were having gnocchi with a blush sauce MTM made by mixing canned tomato sauce with milk and parmesan. After putting the water on to boil, I, well, it's better as dialog.

SciFi Dad: So where's the sauce?
MTM: In the upstairs freezer. Bottom shelf. Four cubes. I forget if it's in a bag now or still in the tray.
Aside: MTM freezes sauces in large cubes using popsicle trays from Ikea.
SciFi Dad: OK.

SciFi Dad opens the freezer, and finds a ziploc with three dark red cubes labeled "home made tomato sauce". He pauses for a moment, but remembers he's looking for four cubes (not three) of blush (not tomato) sauce from a can (not home made). He passes on the bag and finds a tray of four cubes that appear reddish-orange in colour, closer to a blush look. He empties them into a bowl and begins to warm them in the microwave. After a few minutes, he pulls out the "sauce".

SciFi Dad: I don't think this is blush sauce.
MTM: Why?
SciFi Dad: Come look.
MTM comes to look.
MTM: Oh no.
SciFi Dad: What?
MTM: That's not the sauce.
SciFi Dad: What is it?
MTM: That's pumpkin.
SciFi Dad: .
MTM: SciFi?
SciFi Dad: So canned is now "home made" huh?

*    *    *
Oh, and one more thing: while we were visiting my parents, I did something totally awesome. Like, so awesome that it made someone cry when I told them what I'd done. Unfortunately, I cannot tell you about it today due to circumstances beyond my control. However, if you're so inclined, check back here sometime on Christmas morning (that's one month from today) and I promise the story will be up.

Call It What You Want - It Still Sucks

In the past week, Buddy has developed a challenging difficult new habit. Usually, once we get Munchkin to bed, I take Buddy so that MTM can do stuff kid-free (usually that is code for computer time - email, blogging, whatever - but she will also use it for other tasks). While she busies herself, Buddy usually sleeps in my arms while I watch tv, or he stares off into space as he sits on my chest while I try and get him to make eye contact with me for brief moments of father-son unity.

Unfortunately, the last few nights have not gone exactly like that. Instead of passing out cold in my arms, or happily gazing at the room's many fascinating sources of shadows and light, he cries. Constantly, and loudly. I try every trick in the "settling a baby" handbook: pacifier, bouncing, rocking, walking, different positions, lying him down beside me, whatever. None of it works.

Then MTM arrives, and no sooner is he in her arms than he settles quietly. He'll look around the room, just as he used to be content to do with me, or he'll doze off. If he's sound asleep, she can transfer him back to me. However, if he's awake, he cries within seconds of the hand off, no matter what we do.

Even though it's early (MTM knows all the standard developmental milestones; I don't put much stock in that sort of stuff, personally, which is a topic for another time) we suspect he's showing signs of separation anxiety. He still hasn't developed object permanence (at least we don't think he has), so when MTM leaves his field of view he doesn't realize she's coming back.

Regardless of whether or not this is actually separation anxiety, or just a little bump in the road, I have to say that it is tough being the one he's not anxious about. Add to that the fact that I wish I could be home more, and it feeds on itself. I know that the reason I'm not number one is simple: MTM is the at-home parent, and she's also breast feeding. I'm the hairy funny one who pops into existence for a few moments here and there every day. To borrow a concept from the horrible sitcom Dinosaurs (that somehow lasted multiple seasons): in Buddy's world, MTM is Mama and I'm Not The Mama.

(As an aside, I'm not complaining or whining here. I'm just remarking that it can be difficult for the non-preferred parent in these situations. I get that almost all kids go through something like this, and that if there are two parents in the child's life, one of them plays my role of the unwanted. I'm not saying I'm unique. But that doesn't make it suck any less.)

Anonymous Blogging

In case you're relatively new to this site, this is (technically) my fourth blog. Blog #1 was a pregnancy blog that lasted until the first ultrasound, then got abandoned. Blog #2 was a short-lived three post effort in the winter of 2005. Blog #3 was my first genuine attempt at blogging: I wrote fairly regularly for almost eight months. This is Blog #4. All of its predecessors were not anonymous in that all first names were real, and occasional references to specific places, cities, and other identifying marks (such as pictures of our faces) were included. However, this blog (as you all know) is far more anonymous. (To those who question Buddy's face being plastered everywhere: enjoy it while it lasts. Soon I will stop doing that - once his face stops changing weekly - and he will become an obscured or back of head person like Munchkin.)

There are a handful of people who know this url and know me outside the world of blogging (there are also bloggers who "know" me outside of this blog, but they didn't know me before and therefore are excluded from this discussion). Of that handful, all but one of them (my sister) are friends of MTM that she shared her address with, who subsequently found me. (In all honesty, I regret sharing this url with her to a certain extent, not that I feel I need to "be careful" of what I say, but just knowing that she has the url makes me uneasy. I can't really explain it better than that.)

Sometimes I find myself tempted to share this url with others. For example, I have a co-worker who is quite a few years older than I am, old enough to be my mother. However, we have a rapport (whose origins, strangely enough, are in the fact that I remind her of her husband) and with her just getting her first grandchild a few weeks after Buddy was born, we have lots of new baby stories to share. I considered sharing the address with her, but then I realized that if I ever felt the need to vent about work here I'd have to censor myself. She knows I blog, and that it's anonymous, and therefore has never asked for the url (even though we both know she'd really enjoy reading it). On the one hand, I feel badly for not sharing it, but on the other I know it's the right move for me at this time.

My SIL knew the urls for Blogs #1 to #3. When we did the reboot for this one last year, we agreed to not tell my inlaws. (I know: double standard - my sister has the address but my wife's sister doesn't. In my defense, my sister rarely reads - usually only after we visit my parents and her - and she doesn't judge; she gets blogging. My SIL on the other hand would pass judgment and - worst of all - tell my inlaws the address and highlight every negative thing I've said here.) However, she is still interested. This summer she actually told MTM that she and her boyfriend spent some time using google with my real name (first and last) alongside the words "daddy", "parenting" and "blog".

I have to admit that I really enjoy this space. I enjoy not having to worry about what I say being misunderstood and (further) ruining my already strained relationship with my inlaws. I like that I can say what I think without the people in my daily life (save my wife) judging me for it.

However, at the same time, the anonymity makes this whole experience feel manufactured. I cannot share some details about myself because they would be too identifying, yet without them you (the reader) cannot know me. Occasionally I try to post stuff to provide some insight into the guy behind the screen, like my work story from last weekend (part 1 and part 2) but ultimately there are pieces of the puzzle that I cannot give you, forcing me to leave you an incomplete and therefore inaccurate image of who I am.

And maybe that's the rub: the real world people know the details that most online people don't, and the online people know deeper and some of my innermost thoughts or opinions. Merging those two would provide more exposure than I am comfortable with (for the general population, I mean; my wife knows all this stuff).

Parenting The Second Time Around

This is a guest post from the incredible Miss Britt. If you're not reading her already, hopefully this post will give you the impetus to click over and read some more of her funny and honest stuff. (And as an aside, I'm totally finding myself being this way with Buddy already.)


I remember their conspiratory glances and condescending reassurance.

It's because he's your first.

When Devin would fly off a swingset and I would race to his side to soothe his screams, the Mothers of Children (and not just A Kid) Club would cluck their tongues at me for making "a big deal". When I politely, but firmly, insisted that No, He could not have the Choking Hazard Wrapped in Processed Sugar Wrapped in Pretty Wrapper you were trying to force on him as Candy - they laughed and told me to "relax".

I hated it.

I hated the idea that I was not being a good parent, but that I was simply overreacting because of inexperience. As a 19 year old new mother determined to disprove the stereotypes, my knees were ready and waiting to jerk at the first accusation of bad parenting. And overprotective wasn't "good" and therefore "bad".

Ah, the issues that guide us.

ANYway,after five years of parenting my a$$ off with my son, we decided it was finally time to have another one. Enter... the daughter.

Also known as, Emma.

And The Princess.

And The Girl.

And The One Who Proved There Really Is A Difference Between Parenting A Child And Parenting Children.

When Emma was first born, I was overwhelmed by how clueless I was. I had no idea how to hold her or feed her or soothe her. The fact that I had done all of those things before proved entirely useless in the face of this new child who insisted that she had her very own set of likes and dislikes, needs and preferences. It was like she was a completely different person. From birth.

I was fascinated. Well, as soon as I got over the shock. Then I was fascinated and all too anxious to get to know this brand new little person.

And then the exhaustion set in.

I started to think maybe it wasn't the worst thing in the world if she was left to cry for just one second while I helped her brother tie her shoe. Or went to the bathroom. Or got just one more minute of that afternoon nap. Please.

Oddly enough, she managed to survive my moments of neglect.

That's how it starts. Slowly at first, with little moments where you realize that their day will not be completely ruined if they go 95 minutes between a feeding as opposed to their preferred 90 minutes. Or you decide to go ahead and let them sleep a little bit longer because the stars have aligned and you've managed to find yourself in complete silence (Lord only knows where that big kid has disappeared to. You're alone!) - and lo and behold, her sleep schedule is NOT permanently and eternally altered beyond repair. You begin to think maybe it's really not a big deal.

And then, one day when you least expect it, it happens.

You hear it from a distance at first, like it's coming from somewhere long ago and far away. It takes you a moment to realize it's actually resonating from much closer - perhaps even falling out of your own mouth. But then.. yes.. there's no denying that was you saying...

"Oh, don't worry about it. They're fine."

And you realize you have become that haphazard parent! Somehow, amidst the constant pulling in both directions and the juggling of multiple schedules and the never ending desire to be all things to all people, you have started to let things slip through the cracks that you would have NEVER allowed yourself to slide on before!

And you are ashamed. And horrified.

How could this be? How could you have let yourself stoop to this level of second class parenting? How you have subjected your second child, just as much the fruit of your womb and/or loin as your first child, to your remedial nurturing skills? How, for the love of God, could you have stood by and said NOTHING while they gulped down an entire sippy cup of UNDILUTED APPLE JUICE!! OH! THE HORROR!

Except... wait.

They both seem OK.

Everyone looks fine.

No one appears to be convulsing on the floor or collapsing in a diabetic coma.

Hmmmm...

You wonder...

Maybe...

Oh, you know what? Screw it.

They'll survive.

---

This post is part of Miss Britt's Guest Post Challenge. She only has about 80 more posts to go before she can get back to being a neglectful parent to her own two children.

Why I Blog About Guilt

Oftentimes, when I publish a post that mentions or makes references to my working parent guilt (like last week's post about my morning routine) I receive one or two comments from people who say that I'm being too hard on myself, or that it bothers them to know how guilty I feel for working. In truth, calling it "working parent guilt" is oversimplifying. I will try and provide some background that will help clarify this, and hopefully will make those posts make more sense.

Whenever I talk about our decision to have MTM be a SAHM, I always say that we were both raised by SAHM. This isn't entirely true. My MIL was a SAHM from the day she started her maternity leave with MTM. She never went back into the workforce. My mother was a SAHM, but she was a substitute teacher by the time I was six, and a full time teacher by the time I was ten. My dad worked at the same job for the entire time I lived with my parents.

For both of my parents, work was important. It wasn't important in the "I have to keep my job so I can feed my family" way. It was important in the "here I'm not a parent" way. I always felt like they resented having to come home to us (the kids), that somehow we were not as fun (exciting, entertaining, stimulating, whatever - I don't really know how to verbalize those feelings of a ten year old mind) as the people at work.

Aside from work, they both had other places they clearly preferred to us. My father used to go out drinking to his Italian club every Friday night, Saturday afternoon, and Sunday afternoon. On the weekends, he was often always drunk at dinner, which is a completely separate issue that need not be explored for the purposes of this post. As I got older, he added Tuesday and Wednesday nights to his routine, but really that doesn't matter because by that point I had given up on him.

My mother's job was too much for her, so she spent most weekday evenings asleep. On weekends, she always went to get her hair done, and her nails done on Saturday mornings, and then spent the afternoon crying about the fact that my father was out getting loaded. Sundays were the same, except substitute church for personal grooming.

Bottom line, I grew up feeling like my parents had a whole host of things they liked better than being around my sisters and I. Whenever I thought about having kids, I always swore that I would make sure they felt important and special. I promised myself that I'd never let them down, never let them think work was more important (much less preferable) than they, my own children, were.

Of course, those goals are the stuff of a child's imagination. Rationally, I cannot spend every waking minute with my kids (nor should I; that would be as bad if not worse than what my parents did). But after years and years of repeating those dreams to myself, they have become a part of my psyche. Every time I leave for work, I wonder if my daughter thinks I want to leave, or if she knows I'd rather be home.

Like I said, rationally I know I am doing the best I can do. I know that by making the decision we made, by having MTM stay at home, I am doing more than my parents did. But somewhere, deep inside my mind, I'm still that ten year old boy, muttering, "When I have kids, things will be different."

The Night My Life Became Fail Blog

To those of you who blog: do you ever find yourself preparing for a situation or event, and expect that it will produce enough fodder for a post? Not so much looking for a post in everyday life, but more honestly looking at your plans and thinking, "you know, some funny shit is probably going to happen tonight". Or is that just me?


When Buddy was only a couple of weeks old, we took him for a photo session (we never did this with Munchkin and MTM always regretted it). It was, to put it mildly, a total failure.

He cried. He fussed. He turned his head away from the camera at every opportunity. After our session time was up and the photographer had captured one usable image (I so wish I was exaggerating), we rebooked for a couple of days later. Luckily, that went well.

So, with Christmas approaching, MTM dressed the kids up in matching outfits and took them for their photos. As I was driving to meet them after work, I thought, you know, some funny shit is probably going to happen tonight.

The photo session went off without a hitch. Not one tear, not one fuss. EXPECTATION? FAIL.

After that, MTM suggested we make use of the fact that they were all dressed up in their Christmas best and take them to the mall for their Santa photo. Of course, I figured that with us pressing our luck by getting two photos taken there would be hijinks.

The Santa photo is perfect. No tears, no fussing. EXPECTATION? FAIL. HUBRIS? WIN!

*    *    *
After my earlier post about Santa's gift, I had resigned myself to the reality of yet another Dora in the house. We would get something similarly priced for Buddy, Dora for her, and the trampoline for both. Then, as we were waiting for our turn at the various photo places, we browsed through toys, where I was disappointed to learn that my daughter has developed an affliction usually found in college aged males: CDD, or commitment deficit disorder.

Over the course of the evening, she was positive she wanted Santa to bring her:

• Sleeping Dora
• a Winnie The Pooh phone
• Monopoly Town
• a furball Fuzz Luvz
• a Little Einsteins Symphony Composer
• a Winnie The Pooh Glow-Worm type thing

We agreed to let her go back to ask Santa for her "final answer" at another time. PLANNING? FAIL.

---

I also have a review up for a very cool reading toy called Poingo.

The Night I Was Scammed (But Not By Strangers)

The following exchange happened one evening after I came home from an exceptionally long work day, and is 100% true. I will warn you in advance that it's a little long.


MTM: I got the weirdest message today, and thank goodness they left a message so I could listen to it over and over.
SciFi Dad: What was it?
MTM: (reading from a paper) "This is Generic Sounding Alarm Company (GSAC) Monitoring Station. The time is 9.45am. I am calling for MTM [lastname]. I have an alarm code ABC123. Please call us back at 1-800-XXX-XXXX. I am Operator Z."
SciFi Dad: Weird. Did you call back?
MTM: No. I tried to google GSAC and there was nothing. I think it's a scam. I think they're trying to find out if we have an alarm system so they can rob us!
SciFi Dad: Give me the number. I'll call.

*    *    *
Operator: Hello, this is GSAC Monitoring Station. How can I help you?
SciFi Dad: Yes, what company do you represent?
Operator: GSAC.
SciFi Dad: Well, that company isn't on the web. I googled that name and came up with nothing.
Operator: Uh, I don't know what to tell you sir. We don't google ourselves.
SciFi Dad: Can I please speak to Operator Z?
Operator: Can I ask who is calling?
SciFi Dad: That part isn't important right now. Operator Z please.
Operator: Please hold.

*    *    *
SciFi Dad: I've been on hold for four minutes. I think it's a scam.
MTM: So hang up.
SciFi Dad: OK. I'm going to try and google the number and the name and see if there's a known scam.
MTM: OK.

*    *    *
SciFi Dad: I'm going to call them back and ask them for their website address. I can't find anything online about the company name or their number.
MTM: If you do, they'll know we called before, and then they'll know it's us.
SciFi Dad: OK. I'll use *67 to block caller ID.
MTM: Fine.

*    *    *
Operator: Hello, this is GSAC Monitoring Station. How can I help you?
SciFi Dad: Yes, can I please have your web site address?
Operator: Uh, I think it's GSAC.com?
SciFi Dad: Nope. That redirects somewhere else.
Operator: Uh. OK. Give me a minute. Let me ask my co-worker. Can I put you on hold?
SciFi Dad: Sure. (To MTM:) I'm on hold.
MTM: It's a scam. I'm telling you it's a scam.
(a few minutes go by)
Operator: OK sir, I have the address. It's xyz.com.
SciFi Dad: Thank you very much.

MTM: What did they say?
SciFi Dad: Some weird company site. I'm looking now.
MTM: This is a scam!
SciFi Dad: OK. Wait. I found the GSAC site from a link on xyz.com. It looks legit; either that or they went through a lot of trouble for this scam. I'm going to call the number on the site and ask them for their monitoring station number.

*    *    *
Operator: Hello, this is GSAC. How can I help you?
SciFi Dad: Yes, can I please have the number for your monitoring station?
Operator: Yes sir. Are you local to Town X? (I think this is what she said; I'm not sure)
SciFi Dad: Yes. (we're not)
Operator: OK. The number for Town X is XXX-XXX-XXXX.
SciFi Dad: Thanks. Do you have an 800 number?
Operator: Yes sir. It's 1-800-XXX-XXXX (the same number left on the original message).

*    *    *
SciFi Dad: I think they're legit. Stupid, but legit.
MTM: Why stupid?
SciFi Dad: Well, she gave me two monitoring station numbers. One was the 800 number we got, and the other was for Town X.
MTM: (slowly) Town X?
SciFi Dad: Yes.
MTM: Oh my goodness! Get me the phone. Get me the phone! (she was nursing Buddy; she doesn't always demand I get her stuff)
SciFi Dad: What? (hands her the phone)
MTM: I think that's my parent's alarm company for the cottage!
SciFi Dad: You've got to be kidding me.
MTM: No!

*    *    *
After confirming that her parents already got a call from their local contact person about the alarm, which turned out to be nothing (MTM is the backup person in case the company cannot reach my inlaws or the local man), we head out to do some groceries.
MTM: You know what the worst part about it is?
SciFi Dad: What?
MTM: My parents were visiting at the time.
SciFi Dad: What?!?
MTM: They were here, helping me with the kids. I read the message back to both of them. My father even listened to the voicemail.
SciFi Dad: And they never clued in that it was their alarm company?
MTM: Nope.
SciFi Dad: You know I have to blog this, right?

---

I also have a new post up at Babies Online: Knowing When To Say When.

Gifts From Santa

Today we are going to talk about the real meaning of Christmas: materialism, greed, and marketing. Those of you with different sensibilities may be offended. (I kid, sort of.)

Also, listen to today's song. Seriously.


Munchkin was born at the end of March, so she was around nine months old for her first Christmas. Since she was unable to speak, or express any real desire, we (MTM and I) chose for her. Santa brought her a toddler/infant sled (which we learned this past weekend, can hold two toddlers stacked on one another if care is taken on the corners) and a warm fuzzy blanket to keep her warm while she rode in it.

The following Christmas she was 21 months (yes, I know you can all do math, but it makes it easier for me to refer to the age directly) and slightly aware of Santa. MTM found a kid's piano for her in November and began working immediately on her asking Santa for a piano, based on Munchkin's love for playing my MIL's upright piano. It worked, and when the big moment came at the mall, Munchkin asked Santa for a piano.

Last Christmas she was approaching three years old, and acutely aware of Christmas and Santa specifically. Fortunately, that summer we had stumbled upon a great deal for a large play kitchen. We knew she loved play kitchens because she would spend as much time as we would allow in that section at Toys R Us. Once November rolled around, all we had to do was say, "Munchkin, what about asking Santa for a big kitchen?" once and she was sold. Two months of telling everyone who would listen later, we had our first "big payoff" Christmas morning as she descended the stairs and stood with a perma-grin for a good while as she explored every aspect of the gift.

This summer we came across a deal on a solo trampoline (it's a small trampoline with handlebars, perfect for indoor physical activity during the winter months, that she fell in love with at a friend's house) and figured we'd plant the seed again. Wrong.

"Munchkin, what do you think you want to ask Santa for?"

"I want a Sleeping Dora that sleeps and plays music."

"Really? You have lots of dolls. Hey! I have an idea. What about a trampoline like your friend?"

"No thanks. I want Sleeping Dora."

Crap.

We waited a few days and asked again. Same result. We tried again a few more times, and each time her desire for Sleeping Dora was re-enforced. It seems like our run of manipulating Christmas is over.

Clarification: We'd rather not get her yet another Dora thing, let alone a doll (of which we have plenty). And, if she maintains her preference for the doll, we'll give her the trampoline ourselves, or make it for her and Buddy together (from Santa). Bottom line, she's getting the trampoline; however, we'd rather she get just that and not another Dora doll.

What about you guys? Are we the only ones to purchase and then convince? How long did it work for you before you were thwarted by the mass marketing machine? Does anyone have any thoughts on the whole "Oh well, I guess Santa made a different choice," argument for giving them a different gift than the one they asked for?

Broken Rules

When we first started bathing Buddy, it was with a bath sling in the white Elfe tub, just like we did all of his sister's baths until she outgrew the baby tub and we moved her into the larger bathtub. However, once we realized just how impressive his range of urination was, we began considering alternatives.


The bathroom sink was tried first, figuring that it would be easiest. It wasn't. Next, we tried the kitchen sink, and while it went exceptionally well, the amount of effort it took to clear and clean it every time he needed washing made it inefficient.

So, we moved to the bucket method. We went to Babies R Us and looked at the Spa Baby for about two seconds before I turned to MTM and said, "You have got to be nuts if you think I'm paying $40 for a pail." I went to the store and found a nice oval shaped bucket (complete with mop wringer which doubles nicely as a poo strainer - I kid, people) and since then that has been Buddy's bathtub. He loves to soak up to his armpits. It relaxes him (so much that he let out a massive crap on MTM one time).


Fast forward to last night. I know I said we were done, but Munchkin and I were having a bath together as a special treat. (In truth it was the second since we made that decision; the first was the night before Buddy was born in an attempt to make her feel special.) Suddenly, I got an idea. I called out to MTM, who was feeding Buddy in our bedroom. After a little begging convincing, she allowed my plan to come to life.


She came into the bathroom where Munchkin and I were soaking the walls, the floor, and other spots playing in the tub, carrying Buddy in a diaper. I turned to Munchkin.

"What would make this bath even better?" I asked.

"Buddy!"


And so we did. MTM handed Buddy to me, and I carefully submerged him. As I held him out of the water, MTM washed his various parts. Once he was washed, I rested him on my leg, turning it into a sort of bath recliner, while Munchkin played with his feet. He kicked and stared at me, and while Munchkin's sudden movements were stressful at times, overall we had a lot of fun. I don't know if this will be a regular event (it was hard for MTM to reach over the edge of the tub, plus other logistical issues), but once in a while? Definitely.

I know some parents don't believe in bathing with their children, especially if they are of differing genders. But bath time can be such a fun time for them. Most kids instinctively love the warm water surrounding them, and also the splashing and kicking, so to add Mommy or Daddy into that mix makes a good thing even better. I had always hoped to get both kids in the bath together one time, but after that decision I thought it wouldn't happen. However, if parenting has taught me one thing it's that rules are made to be adjusted at one's whim broken. This weekend I broke one, and it felt great.

My First Job (Part 2)

Continued from Part 1.


A couple of weeks later, it was time for my annual review. The company had each employee and his or her supervisor complete the same evaluation form, which was a series of skills or items, each of which was rated with stuff like excellent, satisfactory, needs improvement, et cetera. Of course, I filled mine out with 10% needs improvement and 90% completely unsatisfactory.

Shortly after I submitted my version of the evaluation, the HR director came to my desk, asking for a meeting. She brought me to the same meeting room of my "performance management session", and sat down.

"I'm concerned about your self-evaluation," she said.

"Why?"

"Well, no one is completely unsatisfactory."

"I'm not completely unsatisfactory. In some areas I just need improvement."

"Still, I don't want you to feel this way."

We went on like this for over an hour. She would try to get me to admit a strength and I would pull something from the management session to prove it was a weakness.

Eventually, I became restless. "Listen, why don't you tell me what you want my evaluation to say and I'll put that down, OK?"

"No, I don't want you to change it because I want you to change it. I want you to change it because you want to change it."

"And what if I don't want to change it?"

"Then I guess I will have to accept what you have written."

"Then I guess this meeting is over," I said, and walked out of the room.

The next day, my supervisor apologized to me for what had happened. He said that he had expected my self-evaluation to be like that, and completely understood what I had done. He asked what he could do to help make things better. I told him I just didn't want HR to keep bugging me. From that moment on, my cubicle literally became an "HR-free" zone: all communications from HR came via my supervisor or email. They never bugged me again.

*    *    *
I spent another 16 months with that company following that summer. During that time I was promoted into project management, where I was assigned team members that had screwed up on another manager's project. Basically, I got the rejects because I was the junior PM. Each time I asked for help, I either got none, or I got another team member who was failing on another project.

Not knowing what the difference was between a PM and a mentor, I began teaching these individuals on project time. Occasionally, I would give them small "make work" assignments (basically a problem to solve using a common tool such as Excel or Access) and send them off. Eventually, after they had solved a number of these problems (in reality I was having them build a skill set by giving them applications on previous problems), I asked them to do something project-related that leveraged those new skills (without telling them to use the new skills). Each time the individual came back with the work done far more efficiently because they had figured out how to apply the solutions from the "make work" assignments to the project work.

Eventually, another PM would get so desperate that they would ask for their resource back. Usually, that was the last time I worked with that resource, because I had mentored him or her "into" a "good" resource. I probably did this with five or six resources before I left (because I met a girl who lived on the other side of town).

*    *    *
I had an exit interview when I left, conducted by the HR director (the same person who was in the "management session" and the "I want you to change it because you want to change it" meeting). We hadn't spoken directly in nearly a year and a half. Two things stand out from that exit interview:

• She asked me what I felt I learned during my time there. Without hesitating, I responded, "Neglect is the best teacher." I explained how each time I sought assistance I was left to flounder on my own, and how that forced me to teach myself new skills almost constantly.
• She said that she was sad to see me go, because of all the project managers, I was the only one who understood how to develop a resource.

And in a strange way, that almost made up for all the crap I went through in my two and a half years there. Almost.

My First Job (Part 1)

This isn't typical fare for this blog, but a) I need to come up with 30 posts this month and b) I think it's a story worth sharing.

However, since it is exceptionally long, I will be posting it in two parts. Part two will be posted tomorrow.


My first job out of university was with an engineering consulting firm. My first project for them was some maintenance on an existing system they wrote for a manufacturing plant. I did a good job on that project, especially given the fact that most of what I had to work with was undocumented, so I was basically figuring everything out as I went along because no one at the company could (would?) help me. That was something I should have noticed.

My second project involved retrofitting the controls for a machine, again with little or no documentation. This time I would travel to the customer with a team of trades people, all of whom were at least 10 years my senior, and none of whom worked for my company (they worked for our client; the final customer was actually our client's customer, so we were subcontractors). However, since I was the lone engineer on site, I was in charge.

I wasn't ready to be in charge. I knew it. My company knew it. (The client didn't know it; they trusted my company.) But most importantly, the trades guys knew it, and took full advantage. I did things that didn't seem right, but because I was young and wanted these trade guys (also the ones who made the suggestions) to like me, I did them anyways.

The result was a nearly botched project where everything that went wrong got blamed on me, regardless of whose fault it was. At one point I trusted the electrician, who suggested we do something I instinctively thought was unsafe but ultimately decided to go ahead with it, and nearly died when something went horribly wrong. (It would not have gone wrong if we had done things my way, but because he was senior to me, I trusted him despite my misgivings.) They called my company, who subsequently disciplined me.

My "punishment" (I call it that; they called it "a new assignment") was to spend the next four months at doing day to day support at my first customer (a manufacturer). They had originally given this assignment to someone else, but after two weeks that person refused to return to the plant because of extremely poor working conditions.

During my time there, I encountered problems far outside my skill set. I called back to my employer, asking for support, and received none. Because I was unable to admit failure, I taught myself new skills almost daily, and because I knew that the customer would not like me "winging it" on his system, I lied and told him other people from my company were coming to help me with the repairs. This also made my company look good, as they appeared to send a team whenever anything went wrong.

Seven months later, after several extensions, I was allowed to return to my office. However, since more than half of my first year had been spent working in a manufacturing plant instead of an office, I picked up some bad behaviours (notably swearing and yelling at people to get things done). One day shortly after my return, my supervisor called me into a meeting. I walked in to find an ambush my supervisor, a partner, and the director of HR sitting across from me. They spent the next few hours having me drop my pants and bend over the table having a "performance management session" where they itemized, in minute detail, every infraction.

I left the meeting embarrassed and livid. Instead of someone talking to me, I got brought into a room and was verbally beaten down. Instead of trying to teach me anything, they threw me in situation after situation where I was unqualified and let my calls for help fall on deaf ears. I walked past my current project manager on my way out of the building that day and told him that the company owed him a debt of gratitude because the only reason I hadn't resigned was because I was working on a project for him, and I liked him.

to be continued...

Mornings

Every morning, my alarm goes off at 5.30am, so that I can leave the house by 6.15am, so I can get to work by 6.45am, so I can leave work by 3.00pm. I want to leave work early enough to spend time with my kids before dinner instead of arriving in time to sit, eat, and then start getting Munchkin ready for bed.

By the time I get out of the shower, Munchkin is awake. She is an early riser; always has been, probably always will be (at least until she's a teenager, when she'll sleep until noon or later). She comes into our room (technically it's my room these days, since MTM is sleeping in a twin bed in the nursery for breastfeeding convenience) and gives me a hug, followed by a blow by blow recap of her night ("and then I woke up and called, 'Mommy! Mommy!' and then Mommy told me to stay in bed until the clock said six o'clock, and then I heard your alarm, and then you took your shower, and then...").

As I take her downstairs she asks, "Daddy, are you going to work today?"

"Yes, sweetheart. I am."

"Can you stay home a little while like yesterday (when I was scheduled to be on site and therefore worked from home until I needed to go in)?"

"Not today, honey."

I give her a cup of milk as she chatters to me, offering to help pack my lunch or telling me about one of her adventures with one or more of the seemingly innumerable imaginary friends she has.

We go back upstairs, and I set her up with Treehouse in our bedroom. Again, she asks if I am really going to work, and when I will stay home again all day. I reply with the number of sleeps until the coming weekend, kiss her on the forehead, and tell her to be a good girl and take care of MTM and Buddy for me.

I poke my head into the nursery. Some days, Buddy is fast asleep in his crib, and I just stroke his hair and then turn and give MTM a peck on the cheek (she's a light sleeper and is always awake when I bring Munchkin upstairs). Other days, many days, he is fussing in his crib. I pick him up and spend the next 15 minutes trying to settle him down. Usually, he doesn't, and I apologetically pass him off to an exhausted MTM.

After giving the Munchkin one more hug, I lock the gate at the top of the stairs and go down. I lock the door on my way out, load the trunk with my stuff, and sit in the car. I heave a massive sigh and fight back tears. I know that I have to leave them, even though I don't want to. Knowing that they don't want me to leave, or that I could benefit them by staying home, only makes me feel worse.

It's a choice I make: to leave early so I can see them in the evenings. In some ways, I guess it's selfish of me to do that instead of staying home until 8.00am and getting home closer to 6.00pm (because commute time increases exponentially with a later departure). If I stayed later in the mornings, MTM has a better chance of sleeping in. On the other hand, she'd be stuck cooking dinner every night, at least for the kids (now I occasionally cook dinner; not always, but sometimes). I guess it's a trade off.

Regardless, I wish it wasn't so hard to leave them every morning. I walk out that door feeling like I've abandoned them. And while I know they don't resent me for leaving (at least I hope they don't), it doesn't make my departure any easier.

She's My Sister

When friends, neighbours, and even strangers see how Munchkin acts around Buddy, they often make a similar remark: "Well, she seems to like being a big sister."

To which I always reply with the same anecdote, how the first thing she said when we told her MTM was pregnant was "We have to go to Ikea and buy a stool! I'm too little to reach inside the crib!"


Munchkin has been ready to be a big sister for a very long time, and she demonstrates that now more than ever. Every evening I have to negotiate my right to hold Buddy when I get home from work, often listening to Munchkin whine, "It's never my turn," or "I just need a cuddle." During dinner, she is the first one to pop out of their chair when he squawks, the first one to suggest we change the music, or turn on the "soothing vibrations", or get him a pacifier.

A couple of nights ago, I was holding Buddy, facing outwards, on my lap. Munchkin came over and stood in front of us, practically smothering him with kisses. Then she stood back a little and waited. She knew what would happen, that once he saw her face he would open his mouth as a request to kiss her. Once he did, she took off her glasses ("glasses are hard and can hurt Buddy's soft face, Daddy"), leaned in, and let Buddy slobber all over her face and pull her hair as she giggled incessantly.


Another evening, I was giving her a bath while Buddy was in his crib, awake. (MTM was busy downstairs, so I had both kids.) As I was drying her off, Buddy started to cry a little. As soon as I told her to go grab some pajamas, she bolted out of the bathroom and ran straight into his room. She climbed up on her stool and pressed the button on a crib toy that plays music and has some lights and movement, then she stood there, with wet hair and shivering because she wasn't dressed, and shushed him and said, "It's OK Buddy. I'm here. Your big sister is here," until he fell silent. Then she turned to me and said, "Daddy, I'm sorry I didn't go get my jammies on right when you told me to, but Buddy was crying. And he's just a baby, so he can't press the button to turn the music on, so I have to help him because I'm his big sister."


I feel like I could go on with these sorts of stories forever. She lays out the breastfeeding pillow, receiving blanket, burp cloth, and pacifier for MTM when she knows Buddy's about to feed. She always grabs Buddy a toy when she has a toy herself, but not before carefully inspecting it to make sure there are no buttons or other small items, because "it has to be safe for babies". She literally begs for bedtime snuggles with Buddy, and when we do allow it, she cradles him carefully in her arms, closes her eyes, and gets the biggest smile on her face (in between kissing him, of course).

Sure, she's not like this 24/7. She's still three and lets us know that she is, in fact, three, time and again. But those moments are becoming less frequent. She loves her baby brother more than anything, and spends most of her time taking care of him.

Avoidable?

Brandon Crisp was a 15 year old boy who ran away from home after a fight with his parents stemming from them taking away his video game console after the teen seemed to have become addicted to a game. As the story progressed, it was learned that his father helped pack his bag in an attempt to call his bluff. Sadly, the boy's body was found nearly a month after his disappearance, and an autopsy revealed that the cause of death was a fall from a tree (after inital speculation suggested hypothermia).

When the story first broke, there was a belief that Crisp met with foul play at the hands of older gamers (the game he had become addicted to, Call of Duty 4 is a first-person shooter with an interactive online mode that enabled users to play co-operatively or competitively - think a bunch of guys with guns shooting stuff and each other while being able to talk via headsets). When the body was found, however, it quickly became clear this was not the case.

There has been a lot of recent media attention devoted to the decisions the parents made. Some have criticized them for allowing the boy to play such a violent game. Others have said that they should not have let him leave the house, let alone help pack his bag. There is another group (incidentally much larger than I would have guessed) who believe that the boy is better off playing violent games in their basement than being out of the house.

I have to say that I don't think either I or MTM would allow Buddy to play such a violent game. However it is not out of the realm of possibility for a boy to play a non-violent online game and become addicted to it, and if that were to happen to my son, I would probably levy the same punishment as Crisp's parents did: take away the console. If the situation escalated and my son threatened to leave, I don't think I would help him pack his bags, but I don't know if I could stop him. Realistically, short of holding him captive, there is little a parent can do to prevent their 15 year old kid from leaving the house if they get their mind set on it. I would try to reason with my son, explaining that things would not necessarily be as rosy as he believes, but ultimately I could only try.

This is a horrible event, and one that I am not entirely sure was avoidable by the actions of the parents. The criticism the father is receiving in the media for helping pack the bag is justified, in my opinion. He wasn't encouraging his son to leave; he was calling what he believed to be a bluff. However, when he realized the boy wasn't bluffing, he should not have let him leave the house, "tough love" or not. At the end of the day, a parent is responsible for protecting their kids, and I believe his actions, while not necessarily contributing to the boy's decision to leave, did nothing to stop it from happening either.

But I am left feeling hollow and uneasy. What could a parent have done short of trying to convince their child to not run away? I can totally see a day where I have to discipline my children by taking away a gaming console or a laptop or the like, and I can see them, full of righteous indignation like only an adolescent can be, but I can't figure out how to stop them from doing something that might hurt themselves.

How To Remember

Before we get to today's post, I have a message for our special little friend, N. MTM told me that Munchkin wasn't very nice to you yesterday. I'm sorry about that. Hopefully this little video of Buddy will make it up to you, since MTM told me you liked watching the videos from Sunday.

---

On both sides of the border, today is a day to remember, to reflect, to be thankful that we live in a free and democratic country. We call it Remembrance Day, and Americans call it Veteran's Day, but it means the same thing to both.

How do you explain what it means to a three and a half year old?

Last week I came home with a poppy pinned to my clothing. Immediately, Munchkin noticed it and asked me why I was wearing it. I replied, explaining that there was a special day coming up where we remembered people who died so that we could be free, that there were wars and that people fought in them and we remember those people every year. She seemed satisfied with my answer.

Later that night, MTM disagreed with how I handled the discussion. Since she was a kindergarten teacher before becoming a SAHM, I asked her how she explained it to her students. She said that she talked about peace, and how lucky we were to live in a free country, a peaceful country.

Now, I'm man enough to admit when I'm wrong, and I think in this case I very well might be. The problem is that this day isn't about peace. If it were about peace then there would be no wars, certainly not wars where our soldiers are still fighting today. It is about more than that, and I feel like paring it down, even for a three year old, sends the wrong message. I feel like it's sanitizing Remembrance Day so we don't have to think about wars, about deaths, about fathers leaving their children only to die in a foreign country never having gotten the chance to raise their kids. I feel like it disrespects those we are supposed to remember.

But at the same time, I want to protect my children from the atrocities man can bring upon one another. Certainly, in an ideal world, my children would never know what a gun is, what war is. I would love nothing more than for them to never know the word "gun" or "hate" for that matter. But am I being realistic by protecting them? Is ignorance bliss?

Obviously, I am torn on this subject. I would love to hear how others deal with this day of remembering with very young children. I feel like it is such an important thing to acknowledge, but I'm not sure who should be involved in the acknowledgement, if you know what I mean.

Regardless, please take a moment, whether it's at 11.00am (is it only Canadians who do the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month thing?) or whenever, to reflect on the good fortune we have, and to thank those who sacrificed their lives for it.

---

I've also got a review up about some positive spin holiday books.

Reconnecting

Partly because she needed it, and partly because I needed it, I made an effort to "reconnect" with Munchkin this weekend.

On Saturday morning I got up with Munchkin at the butt crack of dawn oh dark-thirty a very early hour before ballet class. Since she had little interest in breakfast, I took her into the basement and dug out an old cassette from when I was in high school and played alto sax. (I will spare long-time readers that story. Those of you who want more details about my abbreviated life as a musician can read the link.)

I thought she might enjoy hearing her old man. I was right. As we listened to that tape in her room, her face lit up and she literally beamed. "Is that you playing the saxophone, Daddy? Are those people clapping for you? Were you in a show?" She asked me to play that tape in the van as we drove to ballet, as well as to the mall later.

(A quick aside about ballet: our challenges are long gone now. She doesn't even think about me when she enters the class, and even if I disappear from view - which I did repeatedly this week to change lenses on my camera - she is fine. Now if only I could get her to stop grabbing at her crotch the whole damn time...)

At the mall food court (where we ran into Urban Daddy and Urban Mummy, which was cool since MTM had never met either of them), I got fake Chinese Manchu Wok which I ate with chop sticks. When MTM took Buddy to be changed, Munchkin climbed up beside me and asked me to teach her how to use chop sticks. To be fair, she's three and a half and cannot really hold a pencil properly yet, so it wasn't exactly a success, but she made a great effort, and we got to bond a little. (As a bonus, I got props from an older chinese woman who said she had never been taught by her grandfather because he didn't have the patience I did.)

Later that afternoon, I fulfilled my promise from that morning: namely, that I would pull out my sax and play for Munchkin. Of course, she also wanted in on the action, so I turned the horn around and let her have a go. She sounded like a wounded goose not too bad for her first time.

On Sunday, we had yet another daddy-daughter breakfast date at our usual place. I love our breakfasts; she's so happy (partly because it's early) to be out with me. We sit beside each other in a booth and she alternates between snuggling up to me (for warmth or a hug) and colouring by herself. We talk (like it is with her mother, "we talk" generally involves a lot of me listening) and just hang out. It's good for her (she gets one on one time) and for me (she usually showers me with "I love yous" and "You're the best Daddy").

I came out of this weekend feeling a whole lot better than I came into it. I didn't too much extra sleep (although honestly I did try: I went to bed earlier than I do on weeknights) but I felt a whole lot better overall. Granted, I wasn't at work all weekend, so this feeling may not last, but for right now, in this moment, I feel pretty good about things with Munchkin.

---

For those of you who are interested, I uploaded a few songs from my high school stage (jazz) band days. I'm the sax soloist in Now's The Time (2:20 in), the first sax in A Night In Tunisia (1:25 in; same version as the previous link), and the soloist in Slam (it's a song where I'm featured throughout).

BuddyTV

In exchange for yesterday's exceptionally verbose post, today's post will be easy on the brain: two videos of my boy.

Buddy Laughs

Ninja Baby

Origins

A while ago, I was talking with Avitable in the Talkshoe chatroom during Secondhand Radio when somehow we ended up with the story of how I came up with the name "SciFi Dad". It was so disappointing that Avitable deemed it the worst.origin.story.ever.

So, I decided to write a new one.


In the time before time, before twitter, before widgets and plugins and animated avatars, I had a blog, and that blog was littered with real names and real faces and real details. Then one day, a law was decreed by the powers that be that the blog must be banished to the archives of the interweb.

There I sat, blogless, lying in the gutter as the rain poured down on my drunken head. People walked by me, around me, on me. All of them ignored me.

Except Him. He stopped, and offered his hand, and ushered me out of the rain into a dutch-indonesian restaurant.

He was old; probably at least 60, with thinning grey hair and glasses. He looked at me with a mixture of disgust and kindness, but mostly disgust.

"Who are you, old man?" I asked him over a plate of bami goreng and beef sate with katjang sauce.

"You really have no idea?"

"If I did, would I be asking you?"

"Wow, you really don't have any people skills to speak of, do you?"

"Nope. Not really."

"You will."

"What? How do you know that?"

"Because I have people skills."

"So?"

"Oh for fuck's sake! I'm you, dumbass."

"Wait, like, from the future?"

"No, from the past. You age in reverse, like Mork from Ork."

"Apparently I don't develop awesome people skills."

"I know of your plight. I have a blog title for you."

"Too late. My blog is gone."

"It's never too late to blog. You can create a new one."

"What's the name?"

"Tales From The Dad Side."

"Dude, that's awesome."

"I know, but with a great blog name comes a great responsibility."

"What responsibility?"

"You need to choose a pseudonym worthy of that title."

And then he faded away, leaving me to pick up the cheque. Cheap bastard.

Now that I had a title, all I needed was a pseudonym worthy of it. I thought about it for a long time, trying on different names for size. Eventually I chose a name, and published a test post using it.

Immediately after I hit publish, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to reveal the old man from the restaurant, looking a lot more haggard and with several fresh wounds on a face that was far more scarred than when I last saw it.

"Who the fuck is Doodleroni?"

"That's me. That's my new pseudonym. I used to like to doodle, and I really like Rice-A-Roni. Pretty cool, eh?"

"Fuck me sideways. Oh hell no that is not going to be our name. I will not endure the humiliation of that many trolls."

Again, he faded away. I closed the door and sat on the couch, trying to process what had just happened, when all of a sudden there was a hand on my shoulder.

"We need to talk." He was about my age, maybe a few years older.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm your son."

"Nice try, but I don't have a son."

"Not yet, but you will."

"When?"

"That is not for you to know right now."

"Boy, just because you appear older than me now doesn't mean I'm not still your father. Answer me, damnit."

"I really shouldn't."

"Well then I guess our conversation is done."

"You would throw it all away because I won't answer your question?"

"Damn straight. Besides, I already have a name: Doodleroni."

"Fine. October 1, 2008."

"That's like, next year."

"Yep."

"So what do we need to talk about?"

"The name Doodleroni," he said with obvious distaste, as if the word itself made him ill, "sucks, Dad."

"Dude, think you can avoid the 'Dad' thing? It's kind of creeping me out."

"Fine. But change the name, please. I can't stand watching you take that abuse anymore."

"What abuse?"

"You think people like the name Doo... that name? For years people have come to your blog because of the spectacularly awesome title, seen the author name, and skipped all your content so they can begin mocking and abusing you everywhere."

"OK. I'll think about changing the name."

"Thanks. Oh, and I'm really sorry about what I did... er... will do to that girl in the back seat of your car," he said as he disappeared.

A little while later, there was a knock at the door. I took a deep breath and answered it, discovering someone who looked exactly like me standing on my front porch.

"Hi," the visitor said.

"Come on in."

"You don't want me to explain?"

"Dude, I've already been visited by future me twice and a son I don't even know about. I've given up asking."

"You should probably ask."

"OK. Who are you?"

"I'm you."

"Duh."

"From the future."

"Another surprise."

"And a different dimension."

"What the fuck?!? Now we're mixing motifs?"

"See, you already have the answer, but you're too stupid to see."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I can't tell you what name to choose. You have to choose it yourself."

"You're not making any sense."

"Hold on."

He left (interestingly through the front door; apparently he could not disappear). A few minutes later there was a knock at the door. I answered it.

"Why the fuck did you bring George Lucas in drag?" I asked as I looked at my alternate dimensional future self, standing beside a large hairy man in a pink dress.

"This isn't George Lucas."

"No shit."

"Shut up," said the not George Lucas in drag hairy woman.

"Who the fuck are you?" I asked.

"I am Avitable. I have come from an awesome (and disturbing) Halloween party to tell you that this story has gone on far too long. Your attempts at presenting yourself as obtuse are plodding and an abject failure. From now on you will call yourself SciFi Dad."

"Deus ex machina too? Fuck, this story has everything. OK. I shall be SciFi Dad."

"Now I have to get back to my party. Karl just passed out and I need to get to him before Britt can protect him."

And that is the story of how I became SciFi Dad.

---

I mentioned this yesterday, but some of you may have missed it since I added it to an existing post: I'm guest posting at Velveteen Mind.

Hurt

A few nights ago, Munchkin and I were upstairs getting ready for her bath. As I was filling the tub, she got undressed and climbed up on the toilet. (This is our usual routine.) Usually, she waits there for me to wipe before getting into the tub. This time I turned around to see her standing on her stool, naked, trying to dry her leg with a hand towel.

"What are you doing?" I asked somewhat excitedly.

"My leg got pee on it. I'm drying it off."

"What?!?" I was gone now. "Stop. Just stop!"

"But Daddy..."

"No 'But Daddy'! Just get in the bathtub, now."

Once she was in, I began cleaning the bathroom. She had tracked urine all over the floor and the toilet seat.

"I don't know why you do this stuff, Munchkin. I just don't understand," I said, sounding both exasperated and frustrated.

We did her bath. I will admit that I wasn't in the greatest of moods for the bulk of it, but what came later floored me nonetheless.

As I was getting ready to brush her teeth, she asked, "Daddy? Are you going back to work?"

"When? Tomorrow? Yes."

"No, tonight."

"No honey. Daddy doesn't work at night."

"Oh. I want you to go back to work."

"Why is that?"

"Because I want it to be just me, Mommy, and Buddy. I like it better that way."

After a brief stunned silence, I replied, "That wasn't very nice Munchkin. That hurt my feelings." Then I called up MTM to finish the rest of our going to bed routine and took Buddy from her.

*    *    *
Since that day, I have tried to shake this overwhelming feeling of sadness that I have every night when I'm home. I'm not sad to be with my family, but I dread being home with them to a certain degree. Work has been difficult lately, and while I have been sleeping, I don't feel like I have gotten good sleep, leaving me perpetually exhausted. Between the fatigue and the feeling of unhappiness (I would not call it "depression" per se, but I feel depressed, if that makes any sense), I am not much fun as a Daddy or a husband. I have actually asked Munchkin if she is happy that I am home and not at work every night since the above happened.

I know that I'm the adult, and I'm supposed to get over it, but I can't. It eats away at me, and even though I know that letting it eat at me makes matters worse and not better, I can't seem to figure out how to stop it. I come home already drained, and I have to turn on the 100% happy face immediately lest my daughter summon the dreaded, "Where is Happy Daddy?" question.

This fucking sucks. It's like a vicious, never-ending cycle where I'm worn out, so I appear unhappy, so Munchkin gets unhappy, so I feel guilty, so Munchkin sees me get worse, and so on. It needs to stop. I just don't know how.

---

I'm also guest posting at Velveteen Mind today, for those interested.

Decision

Earlier this week, I was working on site at a pumping station. The operator of the station was familiar to me by look because we had been in some meetings together and had seen each other at other stations. We exchanged pleasantries and little more, each of us going about our business. And then I minimized all windows to get at a shortcut on my desktop, exposing a photo of Munchkin and Buddy.

(Aside: I frequently see comments here from female readers about how most dads don't express how they feel about being a father. Hopefully, this anecdote will illuminate the fact that some dads - I wouldn't necessarily say most, but definitely more than a few - actually do talk about that sort of stuff, at least with other men who feel similarly.)

He asked how old they were, and I answered. It turned out he had three boys of his own, the youngest being a few months older than Munchkin. We chatted about how awesome it felt to come home and be bombarded with hugs and questions, and more questions... and that raising kids was hard but rewarding work.

The conversation migrated to wives, and after establishing that MTM was a SAHM, he said, "I told my wife: 'If you want to have kids, you have to stay home with them.'"

Uh, what?!?

To be fair, he followed up with the explanation that no matter how much one paid for daycare, no one would love and care for your kids like their own mother. However, I was left with the impression that if his wife was a dedicated career woman, they would either a) have no children or b) never have gotten married in the first place.

*    *    *
When MTM and I were still dating but had gotten serious enough to start talking about the future, the subject of kids ("definitely" from both of us) and their care came up. Both of us were raised in a home with a SAHM. Her mother never went back to full-time employment after she left the workforce to give birth to MTM. My mother returned to work when I was around 10 years old. We agreed that if we could afford it, MTM would be a SAHM.

Admittedly, the duration of that arrangement is something we still discuss to this day. She believes she should remain home until Munchkin is old enough to be home alone and responsible for making sure Buddy doesn't burn the house down (age 10 or 12, I believe, but she will certainly correct me in the comments if my numbers are far off). I'm not convinced she needs to remain home that long, but will support whatever decision she feels is best.

And that is the crux of my shock with the above husband and father: I believe that a spouse's role (that means I think men deserve this too, ladies) is to support their partner, not tell them what to do. Whether or not MTM chose to be a SAHM did not affect my day to day life; I still went to the same job, in the same office, just like before. The decision for her to stay home had a dramatic affect on her life, and I cannot imagine forcing her into a situation she didn't choose herself.

I thought about our conversation a lot on my drive home. He obviously loved his kids, and really loved being a dad. He was, at least from what he shared, an involved parent. But I couldn't shake the nagging questions about his wife. Did she want to be a SAHM? Did he spring this on her after she was pregnant, making her feel trapped? Was she happy?

MTM knows that I support whatever decision she makes. If she decided to return to teaching tomorrow, I would be right beside her looking at daycare options. (OK, that is a total lie: if she decided to return to teaching tomorrow I would encourage her to complete her post-partum recovery first, then go back to teaching.) If she wants to stay home until Munchkin is in high school, so be it. We will figure it out together.

Meeting

I haven't mentioned it specifically, but so far the list of blood relatives who have met Buddy goes like this (in order of meeting):

• Munchkin
• MIL/FIL
• SIL
• my younger sister
• my older sister and her family (BIL, niece, nephew)

No, there are no omissions from that list; it is 100% accurate. My parents have not met Buddy yet, and he is over one month old now.

My parents live approximately four and a half hours away from here by car. That time is based on travel with a preschooler who inherited her father's iron bladder (I swear most of the time we stop to pee, it's so MTM can go; she just brings in Munchkin as an excuse). With a breastfed newborn, that time goes to six hours if we're lucky. They (my parents) cannot travel to us for a variety of reasons rooted in my mother's exceptionally poor health (short version: three or four in-home nursing visits per week, permanent liquid oxygen, and superpubic catheter).

Munchkin was born March 30. We finally made it to visit my parents May 20. She was nearly two months old, and MTM wasn't really ready to make the trip. That means this time we are probably going to wait longer, which means my parents have to wait longer to meet their grandson.

Sometimes, life is complicated. Our (MTM's and my) extended families are dramatically different in so many ways, but the most noticable is how each of us is accepted at our inlaws. In my parent's house, MTM is simply another child; no different than myself or my sisters. At my inlaws I am, to be kind, a second class family member. Unfortunately, this treatment extends to my wife and children now: they treat my SIL better than all of us. But that is secondary. My parents believe in putting family above all else while my inlaws would rather go to the cottage than spend Thanksgiving with us. So, the grandparents who would drop everything to spend any time with us that they could can't, and those who have the opportunity squander it.

I feel a lump in my throat every time I speak to my mother right now. She doesn't come right out and ask (I think my sisters have disuaded her from doing so) but I know she desperately wants a timeline for when she can expect us. Unfortunately, we cannot give her one. We don't know how MTM will heal, and we don't want to do more damage like we did last time. It's difficult, because they hear us tell them that she's improving, that she's able to do more and more - but it is one thing to be able to lift Buddy out of his crib and something completely different to sit in a minivan for hours and hours (not to mention the whole host of other issues that we are faced with when visiting there with a baby, such as a lack of proper change table and an overcrowded bedroom that just got more overcrowded now that we need a playpen).

My mother is far from perfect. She drives me insane, and visits to them are extremely difficult. But at the end of the day, she is still my mom, and she loves my kids (and MTM) (OK, and me too, but I seriously believe that if she ever had to choose, she'd pick MTM over me). And right now I'm preventing her from seeing them: one she hasn't met, and the other she hasn't seen since early August, and so I feel like shit because of that.

---

I also have a new post up at Babies Online, where I look at how siblings adjust.

Buddy At One Month

Dear Buddy,

On Saturday, you turned one month old. The fact that this letter comes four days later is not an indication that I forgot, but rather that I wanted to take some time to properly compose it.


You are a better sleeper now than your sister was at a year. You can go for stretches that were the stuff of dreams when your sister was a baby. You are developing the same dependence on a pacifier that your sister did when sleeping (and unfortunately the same need to have it reinserted a million times a night), but we hope you'll wean as easily as she did.


You are an incredibly alert little man. You have "awake time" at least twice a day, for at least an hour at a stretch. This past weekend you were awake and happy for over two hours one morning. During that time you also smiled and had a small giggle in response to your Daddy's silly antics (that would be humming the theme from Bonanza while bouncing you on my stomach).


You know your parents. Mommy can settle you by simply holding you close and whispering, "Do you want Mommy's milk?" You quiet right down and then make a sound like hyperventilating in anticipation for feeding. As for me, it's all about my beard, which you love to feel in your fingers or on your face if you're really upset.


You seem to be very aware of your surroundings. There are three places Mommy feeds you: in the chair in our room, in the bed in your room, and on the couch in the family room. Each spot has a framed image that is within your field of view (although sometimes it requires some contortions of your body to see it) and you will not drink until you determine which image you can see. You need to know where you are before you feed.


In short, my little friend, you are already an amazing little boy. You may not talk, or walk, or even look at me when I talk to you. Your kisses are basically open mouth slobber wipes with occasional licks. But you are my special boy, all the same, and you always will be.

"Not Safe For Kids!"

For those readers who are strictly Monday to Friday visitors (because generally, that's when I post), I have signed up for NaBloPoMo (post every day in November) again this year. That means I posted on Saturday and Sunday (aside: not a typical post from SciFi Dad) this past weekend, and will do so for the next four weekends as well.


I love my daughter, and I am tremendously proud of the person she is becoming. She is kind, and sweet and empathetic. She is intelligent, and bright and capable of solving problems well beyond her years. She is, in short, an amazing kid.

However, she is also a great big scaredy cat.

I don't believe I've mentioned it here (although I know I've said it in the comments elsewhere), but a while back Munchkin was watching a show with my father. At one point she got so afraid that we had to turn it off. (In his defense, the show was on Treehouse, which we told him was 100% safe for her.) She tried to watch the show a second time, and again made us turn it off. Now when the show comes on the tv, she curls into the fetal position, covers her eyes, and shouts, "Not safe for kids! Not safe for kids!" until one of us turns the tv off. The show? Care Bears. (I am neither kidding nor exaggerating.) The villain (and his henchman) terrify her.

She used to love the movie Curious George. She would watch it over and over, as much as we would allow. Then one day she decided she didn't want to watch it anymore. We didn't press her on it, figuring she had just grown tired of the movie. However, one time when we offered it, she said she couldn't watch it because it was "too scary". We eventually determined that it was "too scary" because at one point Animal Control comes and captures George, putting him in a cage.

She recently went to a Disney Princess birthday party for a neighbour friend who turned three (I won't get into the propriety of having Disney Princesses marketed to kids that young, when their films are for the most part far too frightening for a three year old) and has since been asking a lot about Sleeping Beauty thanks to the massive marketing campaign for the new DVD. MTM and I agreed that the witch in that one was too much for Munchkin to handle, and explained as much to her.

Last weekend, we decided to rent movies (meaning MTM and I rent one and Munchkin chooses her own). I tried to encourage her to get Cinderella since the only real "evil" in the movie is a mean stepmother. I thought it would be a good launching pad for getting her into movies with adversity, where everything isn't perfect 100% of the time (like all of the stuff she likes right now such as Dora, Diego, Ni Hao Kai Lan, Wonder Pets, Little Bear, et cetera). Her reaction would have made a casual observer believe I was suggesting Psycho or Cloverfield. Ultimately, she went with a collection of Dora episodes, one of which (ironically) had a villain that prompted her to ask us to turn the DVD off after a few minutes because she didn't like him.

She's three and a half. I know she's got all the time in the world to "grow up", but I'm beginning to wonder if pandering to her fears is the answer, or if it is only exacerbating the problem. I wonder if one day we should just rent Cinderella (or something along those lines) and put it on, not necessarily forcing her to watch it, but putting her in a situation where she can watch it if she chooses, and hopefully see that it's not that bad. (Although if she thinks a monkey getting caught and caged makes a film scary...)

I just don't want to encourage this irrational fear. I get that she's figuring the world out right now, and that she's learning. I also realize that the fact that she's quite bright affects how she perceives these movies (hence why 99% of all kids think nothing of the Curious George capture scene whereas she fixates on it to the point where anytime someone says "catch" she immediately asks about cages) and therefore is more aware of the messages and "real world" implications. I just want to teach her the difference between reality and fiction, and help her understand that line.

---

For those of you whose blogs I frequent: you may notice a decline in my participation during this week as I am not working with online access. (I will be in a sewage pumping station. Lucky me.)

So Not Fair

Some of you may not have noticed that I added a tagline to the banner above. It reads, "thoughts, opinions, and things better left unsaid". Today's post probably falls into the last category. You have been warned.


Scene: Our kitchen; last night during dinner. MTM is walking back to the table when she simultaneously grabs and lifts both breasts, creating a significant cleavage effect, as she makes a face that could be construed as either discomfort or rapture.

SFD: That's so not fair, especially since you don't see the OB for two more weeks.
MTM: What?
SFD: Grabbing yourself like that and giving me that look.
MTM: What look? I got a letdown.
SFD: Yeah, I got a "letdown" too (or more accurately a "lift up").
MTM: Sorry.
SFD: Yeah, and unlike you, I have an unwilling "nursing partner", so I'm going to have to "manually express" later.

Halloween In Pictures

Wait, you're thinking to yourself. SciFi Dad doesn't post on weekends, and today is Saturday. What is going on?

Check your calendars, people. It's time for NaBloPoMo again, which means that you will be unfortunate enough to be able to read Tales From The Dad Side every day in the month of November.

Yesterday, for those not "in the know" was Halloween:



And while the kids (and now unfortunately yours truly) were still a little under the weather, we still managed to get them dressed up in their costumes for the evening.

Buddy was dressed up as a monkey:



And so was Munchkin:


And so was the boy next door, who turned two on Halloween:



I started out the night telling people that they were dressed up as these guys:


But after four people in a row all gave me blank stares, even when I tried to describe the video I was referring to, I gave up and just said, "Yep. Three monkeys. How cute."

(Man, I live in a lame neighbourhood.)

(OK not really. I live in a pretty cool neighbourhood, pop culture references aside. The house across the street was, as usual, done up with tons of stuff, and they even had a present for Munchkin (a book and stuffed animal set from Hallmark) in addition to lots of candy.)

Overall it was an interesting night. One neighbour didn't recognize MTM when she brought Munchkin and Buddy to their house. Another was walking around with a beer, which was fine, except that he was so wasted he didn't even notice that MTM was holding Buddy, nor that he was in a costume.

But the highlight of the night was the fact that Munchkin remembered to say "Trick or treat!" and "Thank you!" at every. single. house. How awesome is that?