Three Years

Remember - Disturbed
Three years ago today, I got out of bed around 4.00am and went to Munchkin's room to find her standing up in her crib, crying and signing for milk. Usually, MTM did the night feeds, but partly because she was starting to wean Munchkin and partly because she was exhausted from a rough few nights, I took that call.

Anyways, I took her out of the crib and, still half asleep, started down the stairs with her in my arms. I got to the landing, and then I missed a step. I fell down the five stairs, clutching my 13 month old to my chest. I remember landing on the hardwood floor below hearing a sickening crack, which I thought was the wooden gate for the basement stairs (our two sets of stairs are side by side, and the basement gate was left open and had swung partially out to the other set).

I called to MTM, who came down and took Munchkin, who was startled but unharmed. Then we both saw my leg. My right ankle was the size of a large canteloupe, and my right foot pointed to the right while my knee pointed forward.

I refused to let her call an ambulance until I was dressed in a t-shirt and some jogging pants, which I carefully put on while hopping on one foot. We elevated and iced the injury and called 911.

The ambulance came and brought me to emergency, where I stayed for a number of hours. I don't remember much about that time, except the stupid radiologist who kept asking me to turn my obviously dislocated foot so he could get a better angle for the x-ray. I remember floating in and out of consciousness because they were giving me morphine and at one point used conscious sedation to set my foot back.

Eventually, they brought me up for surgery. Because I had not only fractured my fibula (it was in two pieces), but also chipped my tibia, they decided to do the surgery with me lying on my stomach, which meant no general anesthetic for me. I was given a spinal and rolled over. I remember every moment of that afternoon, right down to negotiating for water with the anesthesiologist (who, in a weird twist of fate, was the same one who repeatedly failed to get MTM's epidural right). I also remember the sound of the surgeon drilling into my bones and remarking that they were the densest ones he had ever worked on. I left the O.R. with a stainless steel plate and seven screws in my fibula. They could do nothing for the tibia.

I remember the panic I felt that evening as I sat in my hospital bed, pleading with my body to urinate, because I knew that if I didn't they would insert a catheder. Little did I know that going pee that night was the highlight of the next few months.

I remember lying to the therapist that I was confident enough with the crutches and ready to go home. I remember stumbling as I hit the steps to my house and needing my FIL and my neighbour to help me into my house. I remember deciding that I would not be going back downstairs any time soon once I got upstairs that afternoon.

But most of all, more than everything else, I remember how I felt during that time. I remember the never-ending hours in bed, watching and listening to MTM do absolutely everything to take care of me, not to mention our daughter and our house; that feeling of helplessness and frustration at my circumstances.

I had, up until that point, defined myself by my independence. I was the guy who paid for his whole university education on his own because his parents (who helped out his sisters) refused to help when he chose an out of town school. I was the guy who took over the school paper and went toe to toe with the administration and student council over freedom of the press issues. I was the guy who could answer the question, "What can we do to help you?" at work with, "Stay out of my way," and no one would bat an eyelash.

Then, I was the guy who couldn't take a leak without calling his wife to make sure the path was clear to the bathroom. I was the guy who couldn't get himself a drink or make himself dinner. I was the guy who couldn't take a shower or a bath.

It was awful. I was awful. I struggled to adjust to my new position and really, I never did. I would like to say that I came out the other side of that experience a better human being, but I don't think I did. The lone benefit to that time is that being home I was around my daughter a lot more and that allowed us to get closer. I also came out with a better appreciation for my ability to do stuff for myself, and a dread for the day I get the plate removed and am put back in that position again.

Trucks and Kisses

Kiss - Prince

One day last week, MTM took Munchkin outside to ride her bike, leaving Buddy and I to our manly devices. So, I did what any normal Daddy would do: I sat him with his back against the couch, placed cushions on either side of him (at less than seven months he can sit, but he's not what you'd call "stable"), and broke out the trucks.


At first, he just stared at me as I lay there beside him making "vroom vroom" noises as I moved the trucks, but then he reached out for one of them, and I handed it to him. He couldn't glide it on the ground (due in no small part to the pillows surrounding him), but he was happy to explore the toy. The whole time he had a huge grin on his face, and was constantly looking over at me and giving me really big smiles. (It's not like I had never played with him before; I had, but it was mostly reading or singing or talking to him while he jumped in the exersaucer. Clearly, for him this was different.)

Later that week, I decided that I wanted to shave off part my facial hair (do some "manscaping", if you will), and came out with a goatee and sideburns instead of the beard I had been sporting since before he was born. (No, this has nothing to do with the trucks... yet.)


On Sunday, Buddy and I had another opportunity to play together while MTM and Munchkin did some Mommy-daughter stuff. Again, I pulled out the trucks, and again we had a blast. As per every other interraction I have with my kids, I showered Buddy with affection: hugs, kisses, words of encouragement and pride and love. However, unlike every other time, he reciprocated.


Yesterday, MTM took Munchkin with her to the dentist (for more "practice"; Munchkin has her appointment Thursday), leaving the boys to be boys. We whipped out the trucks and started playing. A few times he tossed the trucks aside and leaned into me, mouth wide open, for a slobbery kiss and a huge grin afterward.

Ever since he was a tiny baby, whenever I would kiss him, he would turn his face away from me, effectively "giving me the cheek". He would kiss MTM and Munchkin with reckless abandon, but as soon as it was Daddy's turn, he would turn away and act disinterested. We speculated that it was the beard, but could never be sure. Now it seems like we're past that phase.


All of this isn't unique to yesterday. Ever since I shaved my beard, or started playing trucks with him (I honestly don't know which it is), our relationship has become completely different. He used to smile when he saw me after work; now he climbs out of MTM's arms so I can hold him while he attempts to swallow my nose or chin. He used to fuss and wriggle when I would hold him at night during a bout of baby insomnia (or sleep strike; take your pick) and now some nights I have more luck at settling him than MTM does.

This is what I love about parenting: the seemingly little discoveries that open a door into something completely new. I always planned to play with my son and his trucks, I just had no idea it would turn out to be this amazing an experience.

Staying Put

Stay (Faraway, So Close!) - U2
I love my daughter; I really do. She is an amazing little girl who is constantly surprising me with the things she says or does. I am immensely proud of her. She's a great kid and for the most part has not been that difficult to raise.

But (and you all knew there was a "but" coming), we're in the middle of a challenge and I don't know what the answer is.

I have mentioned before that Munchkin is an early riser; she is awake well before Buddy and MTM are. We tried to handle this by establishing a rule that Munchkin was to remain in her room, either sleeping or playing quietly, until 7.00am, and initially it worked. Lately, not so much.

For example, this past Sunday (after a night where Munchkin was up a lot and therefore needed some extra rest), the three of them went upstairs for "quiet time" (a weekday ritual where the intention is for Buddy to have a nap, usually ending up co-sleeping with MTM, while Munchkin naps and plays alone). After twenty minutes, Munchkin went in and woke up MTM, who sent her downstairs to me.

I tried to get her to sleep on the sofa beside me, and for 20 more minutes we snuggled quietly before she announced that she wasn't sleepy and wanted a snack. I got her the snack, and set up the tv on Treehouse. I faded in and out of consciousness, and about 40 minutes later, I turned it off at the end of a progam. I explained that she had watched enough tv and that she could do other quiet activities by herself while I napped.

She waited until I nodded off and went back upstairs to wake MTM again, who told her she could play quietly in her room, or sleep, because Buddy had missed his morning nap and needed more sleep. Munchkin then proceeded to sit in the middle of Buddy's room and wail loudly, sobbing that she wasn't tired (when she was obviously overtired). I heard her, but mistakenly thought she was in her own room. She continued until Buddy was awake, at which point MTM called to me to assist her. I sent Munchkin to her room and then went to discuss the situation with MTM while she tried (unsuccessfully) to nurse Buddy back to sleep.

Basically, we need to figure out how to prevent Munchkin's insomnia or internal clock or whatever from affecting Buddy's (and to a certain extent, MTM's) sleep. We talked about closing Munchkin's bedroom door as a sign for her to stay in, but she won't let us because of fear. We briefly entertained using a child-proof doorknob thing on the inside of her door (effectively locking her in her room) but a) didn't feel right about it, and b) knew that she'd pee on her carpet to spite us. As of right now, the best we've got is to have me close our bedroom door (which has a child proof thingy) and Buddy's door (with another child proof thingy) when I leave for work in the morning. This would mean Munchkin has access to the bathroom and her bedroom until MTM gets up with Buddy at 7.00am. (Update based on the first comment: we tried letting Munchkin go into bed with MTM and Buddy, but she doesn't sleep; she tosses and turns and talks to MTM and usually wakes up her baby brother within minutes, so letting her crawl into bed with them defeats the purpose of getting them more sleep.)

But it feels like "bad parenting" to completely isolate her from MTM in the mornings. I mean, logically Munchkin should be able to stay in bed or play with the toys in her room (for the record it is well-stocked with books and toys) for a little while unattended. She is four, after all. But I just can't shake the feeling that it's wrong to deny her access to her mother.

Is there anyone out there with similar situations? How have you handled the up-too-early preschooler? Do you think forcing them to stay in their room, or at least not disturb others is reasonable, or unfair?

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I still have a contest at my review blog, where two lucky people can win a 16x20" high gloss poster print, so click over for your chance to enter before the end of the day Thursday.

Look It Up

Only Happy When It Rains - Garbage
On Saturday night, we were expecting a thunderstorm around the dinner hour. I offered the opportunity to Munchkin to come outside and sit on the porch so she could watch the storm develop.


"What's lightning, Daddy?"

"It's electricity that travels from the sky down to the ground during thunderstorms." (Note that yes, lightning is capable of going in either direction; she's four, so I simplified it.)

"Oh, and what's thunder?"

"It's the sound the lightning makes. It always comes after the lightning."

"Oh. Why?"

"Because the light moves faster than the sound, so we see the light before we hear the noise." (No, she probably doesn't understand relative velocities yet, nor the sonic threshold, but I saw no point in oversimplifying.)

"Did your dad teach you about lightning when you were a boy?"

"No, honey, he didn't."


I have mentioned before that my father has a grade three education. My mother (to hear her tell it) barely graduated from a vocational program in highschool, although she was able to get through teacher's college and later earned a general degree from the local university. Bottom line, when I needed information of that sort (science, georgraphy, mathematics, literature - the "learned" subjects as opposed to the practical ones), I obtained it from the library.

That is not to say that they did not take the role of parent as teacher seriously. My father taught me the foundation for everything I know in the kitchen and for the grill. My mother (and her experience as a primary teacher) were an integral part of my early literacy. But the reality is that by virtue of our circumstances (their backgrounds, my precocious and insatiable search for knowledge), I sought out other sources of information at a very early age. We had an old set of Funk & Wagnall's encyclopedias (yes, my knowledge came from A&P) that was my first destination. After I exhausted that, I began going to the school library, and eventually the public library. I was also known, on occasion, to hit the local university library for more specialized information.


At the risk of coming across as (even more) arrogant (than usual), I am blessed with a very good memory. Basically, I am not an expert at anything, but I know enough about a lot of things to have a decent conversation. I can pull out facts and knowledge about practically anything (pop culture, science, history, whatever) seemingly at will (often much to my wife's annoyance, like when I'll see "Richard Burgi" as a guest star in the opening credits and turn to her and say, "Oh, Susan's ex husband Carl from Desperate Housewives is in this tonight," and she'll look at me like I'm a freak). Usually, this is useful especially when dealing with my wife's mommy brain, but I have started to realize that it can also be detrimental.

My daughter (like many children) has grown up thinking that her Daddy knows everything. The problem is that until she reaches a far greater age, I will be able to answer any factual question she asks. The other problem is that knowing the answer is instinctual for me, so when she (or eventually her little brother) asks me a question, my knee-jerk reaction is to answer it.


In the long run, this doesn't serve her any good. She needs to learn how to seek out information on her own (and not from books one got at the grocery store). I'm not even going to get into the whole google search versus library question at this point, because I believe that there will be a far more significant digital archive accessible to children of her generation as they research subjects. But we need to teach her how to get her own answers instead of relying on her fountain of information father. The question is, when is it no longer "OK" to give your kid the answer? I know four is too young, but I feel like if I wait until she's ten it'll be too long.

What about you? When did you start looking things up for yourself? What do you plan to do for your kids?

How To Succeed... Chapter 4: Blame

(Before we get to today's post, I just wanted to thank you all for your comments on yesterday's post. I really appreciated it, and MTM did too.)

Nobody's Fault But Mine - Led Zeppelin
This is chapter four of my satirical work, How To Succeed In Parenting Without Really Trying series. You can read the other chapters below:
Chapter 1: Television
Chapter 2: Bribery
Chapter 3: Bath Time

No matter how hard you try, inevitably you will disappoint your kids. Whether it's something you failed to buy them like food, something you wouldn't let them do because the social worker is watching you like a hawk, or something you just didn't feel like doing such as not picking them up after soccer practice and making them walk the several miles home in the rain, your kids will someday be pissed at you.

Or so you think.

There is a simple solution to this problem, one that will ensure that your child will think you're the perfect parent and remember their childhood fondly. (And lest you think that this last factor isn't important, who do you think will be choosing your nursing home? Do you really want to risk it?) Misdirection. Lying. Scape goating. Blame.

Imaginary Characters
These generally work on a seasonal basis:

• "I asked Santa, and he said that you can't watch Law & Order when you're five. It's not my rule; it's Santa's."
• "The Easter Bunny told me if I let you play in traffic he wouldn't bring us any chocolate."
• "If you don't take a bath, the Great Pumpkin won't bring you any treats."

Authority Figures
Only use these when the child is too afraid to question the actual authority figure, lest you get caught in a lie:

• "Your teacher said if you don't do your homework, she'll make you stay home and clean the house while Mommy goes to school for you."
• "The Doctor says that you're not allowed to drink beer, not Daddy."
• "The Dentist says that you can't chew down trees like a beaver."

Your Spouse
This one is the obvious choice:

• "I'm sorry, Timmy, I want to let you play with that broken glass and dirty needles, but Mommy says it's not safe."
• "We can't afford to buy you that self-aware robot doll from Japan, princess, because Daddy doesn't earn enough money."
• "I know you need cupcakes for the bake sale. I made them, but then Daddy ate them all."

See? It's not you denying them something, it's someone else. In your child's memories, you never denied them anything, so you're the perfect parent. It's a win-win: they're happy, and you don't get put in the bad home with the smelly people and mean nurses.

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I still have a contest at my review blog, where two lucky people can win a 16x20" high gloss poster print, so click over for your chance to enter. (Seriously people, someone has to enter this thing before I have to pimp it out to contest sites. I would much rather a regular reader won.)

Human

Human - Human League
A few nights ago, Buddy freaked out whenever anyone touched his head. He was pulling at his ears (which smelled funny) too. He struggled to sleep in his crib, and eventually ended up downstairs, where he was held most of the night.

Eventually, MTM went to bed and took him with her into the spare bed in his room, where he continued to fuss and moan in his sleep. When I was going to bed, she handed him off to me and went to get some Tempra. With Buddy crying and wriggling and me flitting around the change table trying to calm and entertain him, she administered the medicine while overtired and sleep-deprived herself.

"Shit!" she said as she stood back.

"What?"

"I gave him too much!"

"You drugged the baby?!?"

"It's not funny! I just overdosed my own baby! I am the worst mother ever!"

(Buddy is in between dosage ranges right now; his age puts him at 1ml, but his weight puts him at 1.5ml. She gave him slightly less than 2ml by mistake, partly because she was half asleep and partly because Munchkin's dosage is 2ml.)

She spent the next morning using Dr. Google and his wonderful bag of panic-inducing information. In the afternoon, she took him to the doctor who easily identified the symptoms as an ear infection, and prescribed some drops. She was too embarrassed to mention the extra Tempra, and instead has spent the last few days beating herself up over her honest mistake.

(For the record, he is completely fine - ear infection aside, of course - and has actually shown an improvement since the drops have been given.)

Here's where I ask the internet for a huge favour. I need you to tell my wife that it's no big deal, that every parent makes mistakes. Share with us in the comments your biggest screw up as a parent. I'll go first: when Munchkin was 13 months old, I carried her down the stairs at 4.00am when I wasn't fully awake. I missed a step and fell down the stairs with enough force to break my ankle.

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I have a contest at my review blog, where two lucky people can win a 16x20" high gloss poster print, so please click over for your chance to enter.

"Mama"

Well Talk - Odds
We took Buddy home from the hospital as a family of four. It was important to us that Munchkin share in the experience of his first car ride, and the first time he entered our home. The ride home happened in the rain, making less audible noises harder to notice. Obviously the two kids rode in the back seat, so what follows can neither be confirmed nor denied.

Munchkin claimed that during that drive home she heard Buddy say, "Truck." Nevermind that he was asleep in his car seat, nor the fact that he was merely days old; she insists to this day that Buddy said, "Truck."

Since that time, Munchkin has taken it upon herself to be Buddy's advocate. Even when he has not made a sound, she can not only hear but also understand what he has said. Coincidentally, more often than not, his statements are to her benefit, such as:

• "Buddy says he wants you to put him down, Daddy, so he can sit with his big sister"
• "Buddy promised me he won't look at the tv; now can I watch Sleeping Beauty?"
• "Buddy said it's OK if I take the toy he's playing with"
• "Buddy said he was sad because Mommy won't let his big sister come to bed with them"

It would appear that our son has no greater desire in life than to please his big sister.

In the last couple of days, however, that has all started to change. It started on Sunday with a little inconsistency. Monday was a bit of a write off because he was out of sorts. But yesterday (Tuesday), there could be no mistaking: Buddy now says, "Mama". (For the record, despite our best efforts, he has yet to say it on camera, so there will be no video.)

Unlike his sister, whose first word was, "poo" (true story: she was nine months old, sitting on the floor with MTM when she quietly said, "poo", then proceeded to strain and grunt, and culminated the event by crawling to the diaper bag and bringing MTM the wipes), Buddy knows who to butter up.

Now the question is, how long before we have Buddy correcting his big sister and saying, "You know what? I do mind if you take that toy!" Or worse yet, "Excuse me, father, but would you stop making that noise on my stomach now, please?"

I have a feeling that this is just the beginning.

Officials In Children's Sports

The Winner - The Crystal Method
This weekend, my niece had a basketball tournament nearby, so we co-ordinated with my sister and her family to go see her play. Munchkin adores her cousins, so she had a blast sitting on the sidelines watching my niece ride the bench put in some quality reserve minutes.

I stayed upstairs and watched from above with my BIL and another dad (from the same team). The officiating was pretty horrible: there were two refs, each responsible for half of the court. The problem was that one (the one in our defensive zone) was calling the game ticky-tack, with fouls left, right and center, while the other one was calling it in the "let the players decide the game" style. Basically, our girls were getting called for looking at the other team funny and then had to endure bumping and grinding at the other end when trying to shoot.

The three of us (my BIL, the other dad, and myself) were letting the ref know what we thought of his performance, and it wasn't exactly praise. Admittedly, I went too far at one point after a particularly bad non-call and called out, "Bullshit!" but for the most part we were well within reason. Or so I thought.

On the way home, MTM commented that I shouldn't have said, "Bullshit!" I agreed. She then went on to say that she thought I was wrong to cat-call the refs, and that I was setting a bad example.

I disagreed. I rationalized that there are two reasons to justify yelling at the refs in kid's sports.

First (and this is not something I devised myself, but rather something I heard a professional baseball manager say in an interview), telling an official what you think of their calls will never change calls they have made. However, what it will do is give them pause the next time they go to make a call. Sometimes, people have an unconscious bias that they don't exercise on purpose. By making them aware of what your perceptions are, you can sometimes make them think twice before making that call again. Of course, if you're playing a hard foul game, this isn't going to help any.

Second, bad officiating - at any level - negates the investment the teams have put into preparing for the game. Kids invest time in practice, not to mention work hard and try their best. Parents invest money, and time to take their kids to and from all the practices and tournaments and whatever. To have a ref make a series of bad calls that costs the team a game, or even some points, in a tournament, is cheating their investment. Therefore, I don't think it's surprising that parents feel the need to yell at the refs.

I understand the ref's perspective, and while I have no first hand experience yet, I'd like to think that if a game was evenly called I wouldn't begrudge the ref as much (although I am firmly in the "let the players decide the game" camp, and so refs who call every.single.foul get on my nerves). To be clear, I am not advocating abusing a ref, but I am saying that I think constructive criticism of their performance is beneficial not only to blow off steam but also in helping them do their job better.

As always, I want to hear what you have to say on the subject. Should parents criticize refs at all? How far is "the line" for you when it comes to that? Did my argument about the time and monetary investment sway your opinion?

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In other news, Munchkin informed us that she was going to play basketball when she gets older. In Mexico. And live by the beach. And wear her cousin's number so we would know who she is.

(She also concluded that she will never get married because all the men she knows are related to her and she cannot marry them, but she isn't allowed to talk to strangers, so she'll never meet a man to marry. I may or may not have decided to allow this conclusion to go uncontested until she reaches her mid-40s.)

In Which I Am Even More Honest Than Friday

Worthy To Say - Nickelback
I have said this several times both here and in the comments on other blogs, but it bears repeating. I believe that bloggers blog for comments, and that those who say they write for themselves or some other reason should just get themselves a nice big hard drive and a Word document and start typing away to themselves. Blogging without regard or interest in comments is a journal, not a blog.

With that being said, I freely admit that I blog for comments. It would be a lie to say that I don't choose my subject matter in the hopes that one day my kids will read it and get some insight into who I am now as both a man and a father, because honestly I have no idea what my father thinks, or thought, about being a dad, and I would love to have known what was in his head at that time. However, the bulk of my drive for blogging comes from the words you all leave in the comment section (otherwise I'd just type out this shit in a big Word document - see above).

I have to say that in general you guys (the readers of Tales From The Dad Side) are an awesome bunch of commenters. Your comments are rarely of the one to three word variety (save for everyone's best friend Anonymous who never fails to ask what the abbreviation SAHM means) and are generally very well-thought out and detailed. I am honoured to have you reading my posts.

In truth (and this admission is something I used to lie to myself about), I define the success of a post on the number of comments it generates. Sure, the "fish in a barrel" posts don't count (like delurking day, or when I announced that MTM was pregnant, or when I first posted after Buddy was born), but the rest of them certainly do. When I can get a good discussion going (like recently when I wrote about makeup), I am pleased; I like getting people to think about stuff and share and compare thoughts. Sometimes, I am surprised at the lack of response (like when I wrote about physical violence in movies). Other times, I'm surprised at the massive response (like when I wrote about internal clocks).

I view comment count as an indicator of the connection between blogger and audience/readership. It's not the only indicator (the ratio of comment count to daily visit count is a stronger indicator as it defines the connection in relative terms... a post that receives 20 comments is great, but is there a difference in the post with 20 comments and a daily visit count of 600 versus that of 75 daily visits?) but it does help. I want to know that the people who read here are getting something from this blog, that there is some form of community between myself and them, and comments help tell me that.

(And here is where I get even more honest with you. I don't know what's gotten into me lately... on Friday I shared my sins, now I'm getting into details like this.)

For me, the comment count that defines a "successful" post is ten. (Ironically, at last year's delurking day I set a goal of ten comments because I'd never hit double digit comments on this blog before.) If a post gets ten comments, I'm satisfied that I've sufficiently reached the audience. If I don't see ten comments, I spend way more time than I should analyzing the post and wondering why people didn't respond to it. (For the record, I don't sit there and obsess over it or anything, but I do look for trends to help me identify the types of posts that are huge flops and those that are huge successes. Also, I'm not putting that number out there to set targets for this blog; I'm merely trying to share my personal perspectives and quantify them as best as I can.)

The irony is that as I wind down this post, I am tempted to let it stand on its own and turn off comments. However, I won't do that. Instead, I will ask you what your thoughts are on comments, either on here, or on other blogs, or on your own blog. Like I said at the opening, we all blog for comments, so if you're going to say that you just blog for yourself, know that I'm probably going to think you're lying (either to me or yourself or both of us). And as always, thanks for commenting.

My Mistakes

You Learn - Alanis Morissette
Growing up, like most people, I did some stupid stuff. As a young kid I used to steal money from my father or mother's wallet, or pocket the change (sometimes upwards of $10, which was worth something in the 1980s) when sent to the store. As I grew up, I also did some shoplifting when I was a teenager, at least until the store manager suggested I shouldn't "shop" there anymore. (I was never caught, per se, but I got scared away from ripping off that one store.)

When I got to university, I started smoking cigarettes, and I got involved with marijuana, both using and selling. One time I got so stoned that when I stood up to play frisbee all I could do was stare at the disc until it hit me in the head. Another time I smoked up and then went to bed. I woke up two hours later, around midnight, when a girl called me. I spoke to her for two hours and all I can remember to this day is that she told me she kicked over a trash can.

The stupidest thing I did was one night while smoking up a guy put a bluish powder on the table and told us all to put some on our tongues before inhaling. I did, without asking what it was. The next morning I woke up and my mouth was numb. I went back to him and found out that I'd done PCP without even thinking about it.

All of that is in my past. I no longer steal (well, from my parents... office supplies from work is a completely different matter), nor shoplift (except for that time I found something under Munchkin's coat after we had left the checkout and I was too lazy to go back and pay) or smoke or do any kind of drugs. However, that doesn't mean I never did those things; they are a part of my past, and something I have to admit to myself every day.

One day my kids are going to be offered a cigarette, or a joint, or something far worse. One day they will be presented with an opportunity to steal something without getting caught. One day they will be faced with a choice, and I want them to make the right one.

But what if they don't? What if they screw up?

Will I be a hypocrite if I chastise or punish them? Who am I, with my past, to judge them? Should I try to relate to them by sharing my mistakes with them? Will they use my missteps to justify their actions, as in, "Well, you did this stuff and you turned out OK," or something similar?

I don't want my kids to take the risks I took, to do the stupid shit I did. I want better for them than that.

How can I teach them about what's right and wrong without telling them the wrongs I've done? Is it being open and honest if I keep those things from them?

I know there aren't any set answers, at least not when my kids are so young, but these are the thoughts swirling in my head.

Lessons From A Headache

Lay Your Head Down - Screaming Trees
As I mentioned yesterday, I woke up with a massive headache on Tuesday morning. This in and of itself is not an isolated incident; in fact, I have had a persistent stress headache for months now. However, this one was worse than my regular one.

I had made it through my work day, surviving on ibuprofen and avoiding caffeine (the coffee here tastes like swill, and my usual orange pekoe wasn't appealing - and before someone warns me about caffeine addiction headaches, I have curbed my habit and no longer get those), and had been able to play with Buddy before dinner, but once the meal was done, so was I.

After letting MTM know that I was out, I went and lay on the couch. Munchkin came in a few minutes later and kissed my forehead. Then she got out her crayons and some paper, moved a stool into the family room beside the couch, and drew me a picture of a submarine. I faded in and out, and awoke as MTM was bringing the kids up for their baths.

I half-heartedly offered to help, but MTM told me to take a rest, so I was a good husband and listened. Munchkin came over and kissed me again, and I told her to call me or to come downstairs when it was time for bed and I would kiss her good night.

She came back down, and rubbed my head, saying, "I'm sorry your head hurts, Daddy." I thanked her, gave her a kiss, and fell back asleep. When I woke up, both kids were in bed and MTM was taking care of other stuff. I stumbled over a couple of pillows as I got up. Later that night, MTM told me about the missing parts of my night.

During her bath, Munchkin informed MTM, "I'm happy and I'm sad right now. I'm sad because Daddy isn't feeling well, but I'm happy because you get to do my bath tonight."

When she went back upstairs after kissing me good night, Munchkin told MTM, "I wanted to cuddle with Daddy, but he fell asleep, so I made a little bed beside him and lay down there instead." (That is where the pillows that I nearly tripped over came from.)

Then, she proceeded to curl up in a ball in the recliner in our room. When MTM asked her what she was doing, Munchkin replied, "I'm here because this is where Daddy usually cuddles me before bed."

Yesterday morning, when I went to say good bye before going to work, the first thing she said to me was, "How is your head feeling this morning, Daddy?"

She is four years old. She is supposed to be selfish and oblivious to the world around her, or at least act like the center of the universe. Instead, she spends her entire pre-bedtime routine fretting about me and my absence, and if that isn't enough the first thought she has in the morning is whether or not I am OK.

I know that it's easy for me to say this because she actually does excel at the standard aspects of development that people look for and/or see, like her vocabulary or printing or fine motor skills, but this fact, that she is probably the most empathetic, concerned and selfless person I know, is what I am most proud of. School can (and will) teach her to write and do math and behave in a large group and whatever, but it cannot teach her to care about people other than herself like this. I don't know if it's something we (MTM and I) do or say or encourage, or if it's something innate within herself, but I am so glad she has it and has chosen to embrace it.

An Actual Post About Nothing

Nothing Box - Hypnogaja
In light of

1. my headache which has now entered its second day,
2. a guest post over at Mr. Lady's place (Whiskey In My Sippy Cup) and
3. the fact that most of you didn't read yesterday's post, evidenced by the lack of comments,

there will be no new post today.

That is all.

Speculation

You Know Who You Are - Nine Inch Nails
When I was a baby, I hated to be held. The only way I would grudgingly accept being held by an adult was if I were facing out, so I could see everything that was going on around me. By the time I was six months old, I was in a walker so I could get around on my own. I started walking unaided at eight and a half months. My mother speculated that I would grow up to be a curious individual, always trying to find out about things, and it turned out that she was right.

When MTM was a young teen, she babysat for a relatively newborn baby. She spent the whole evening holding that baby in her arms, never wanting to put them down. This made people (correctly) speculate that she would one day want to be a Mom herself.

When Munchkin was still a baby, she developed a large ASL (sign language) vocabulary. She soon learned a fair number of words and was speaking in several word sentences at an early age. This made MTM and I speculate that she would be a very communicative little girl. Three years and countless run-on sentences later, she is quite the verbal little kid.

Munchkin was always a very sensitive kid, even at a very young age. When she was 13 months old I broke my ankle, but we never had to explain that she needed to be gentle with me. She instinctively knew that she couldn't climb all over me, and was content to sit beside me in bed (whereas with others she would try to pull them up and get them to play with her). We correctly speculated that she would become an empathetic girl, and she definitely has.

As far back as I can remember, whenever presented with objects of various colours, Munchkin would invariably choose the green item. Toys, clothes, cups, paper, markers... if she could find a green one, she took it. Partly due to MTM's encouragement by choosing pink paint for walls and partly because the world drives pink into little girls' lives with the force of a thousand armies, she now also likes pink. However, most of the time, she still leans toward the green item, unless she's in a particularly princess mood.

Naturally, this brings us to Buddy. He is still so young that we can only speculate as to what traits will dominate his personality, will make his identity. In some ways, he seems to be a blank slate, capable of anything. But I know from experience that he isn't a blank slate: he's an individual with ideas and tendencies and preferences. The question is which ones will become prominent?

Will his noted preference for the colour red persist, or will another colour take its place? Will his innate need for contact and affection manifest itself in a cuddly little boy who is content to be held? Will his position above the 85th percentile in height and weight continue, making him a giant among his peers? Will his sunny disposition remain?

But most important, for both my children, is for me to remember that just because I speculate about something today doesn't mean it has to become a self-fulfilling prophecy; just because I see something in one of them as babies doesn't mean it has to become a permanent fixture in their psyche. As parents, we need to constantly remind ourselves that our children are living their lives, not the new and improved versions of our lives; that their choices matter. We give them the map, and we hand them a sack full of tools, but it is up to them to find the treasure that is themselves.

For those of you with older kids, what speculation have you found to be accurate? Has there been anything that was horribly off the mark? And for those with babies like Buddy, what tendencies have you noticed?

The Sleep Over

Let Go - Frou Frou
Growing up, we spent every birthday, holiday, and special occasion with my mother's family because my father's family was all overseas (except for one sister who lived more than a day's drive away, who we rarely saw anyway). Partly due to geographic locations (two of my mom's sisters lived quite far away) and partly circumstances (one of the two local sisters lived a relatively meager existence and could not host), the gatherings occurred at our house or my aunt's. By the time I was eight or nine, I had two cousins via that aunt, and every time we went to their house, my younger sister and I always wanted to sleep over. (As an aside, I remember trying to manufacture circumstances to justify the sleepover, as if just asking would never be enough.)

I remember those visits as a huge part of my childhood. We played with their toys and shared beds or rooms, depending on what sleeping arrangements we could convince our aunt to allow. I remember not wanting the visit to end, so much so that sometimes we would try to convince my mother to let my cousins sleep at our house the next night when my aunt took us home.

(While reminiscing about those visits this weekend, my younger sister reminded me that she would often get cold feet after my parents had left, and would get my grandparents - who lived a few blocks from us - to drive her home. Big baby.)

This weekend, we visited my parents for Easter and to celebrate Munchkin's birthday with my side of the family. Prior to the visit, my older sister floated the idea of a sleepover at her place one night that weekend. We (MTM and I) discussed it, probably a lot more than some parents would have. I have found that we typically have a harder time letting go than some (most?) parents, and we tend to justify it with the knowledge that Munchkin tends to be a timid child when apart from us. (Of course, that only results in speculation akin to the chicken and egg debate... is she timid because we don't push her limits, or do we respect her limits because she is timid?)

Eventually we agreed, and my nephew invited Munchkin to come home with them on Saturday night. Once she confirmed that MTM and I would be coming on Sunday to retrieve her, she happily accepted.

After an early dinner, I transferred Munchkin's booster seat into their back seat, put her suitcase in the cargo area of their SUV, and kissed my little girl good bye for the evening. It wasn't her first night away from MTM and I; she had slept over at my inlaws without us before. But it was her first night alone with her cousins.

They called to let us know they had made the drive safely. When my sister asked Munchkin if she wanted to talk to either of us, she replied, "No thanks!" as she ran chased my nephew. I think MTM squeezed out a tear over that.

A couple of hours later they called again to say good night. Munchkin got on the phone and went a mile a minute:

"Hi Daddy! We watched Cinderella II! And I sat with my cousins. [Nephew] snuggled with me, even though it was a girl movie. And then I danced with him like it was my wedding, but then I realized I can't marry my cousin!"

"Well, we can always move to Alabama if it's that important to you..."

[longer than awkward silence]

"Can I please speak to Mommy now?"

(Total aside: I think that the happiest person with this whole sleepover plan was Buddy, and second was MTM, because Munchkin's absence from the first part of our trip meant that the two of them rode side by side in the back seat for the first time ever. Buddy was so pleased to have Mommy riding with him that he wouldn't fall asleep like he usually does in the car, choosing instead to smile and coo at MTM for a while before finally dozing off.)

The next day we picked her up and learned all about her amazing evening. She slept with my nephew (who she worships) and apparently was a complete angel with my sister and BIL. (She even asked my sister at one point if she was doing a good job of including both her cousins in their playing because she didn't want anyone to feel left out.) Clearly, she was ready for the evening, especially since it was with family (and I must add specifically my older sister, who is amazing with kids and has more patience than I could ever hope to have) and our wondering was all for not.

However, I fear now we have opened Pandora's Box, and whenever we visit my parents, a sleepover with the cousins will be asked for... just like someone else used to do long ago.

What about your kids? How old were they when they had their first sleepover (spending a night with grandparents doesn't count... not that it's not a sleepover, but it's different than sleeping over with other kids)? Were they ready? Were they scared? How did it go? (And the most important question: how many good nights of sleep will it take to overcome the sleep deprivation?)

Keyword Madness XI

I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For - U2
Regular readers know that every so often I get writer's block cop out on writing a real post go through my Google Analytics archives and collect some of the weirder keyword hits (and believe me; this site gets all the crazies). Today is another one of those times.

As always, these are unedited search strings that brought people to this site.

don't want to vacation with wife
you married her; your problem

child bootie shorts
NO!

when is it time for aging parents to move closer
Why do they have to move closer to you? Why can't you move closer to them? What's wrong with you? What kind of child are you?

spaghetti pie jessica seinfeld watery
the watery-ness is the least of your problems if you're cooking from that book

my brother-in-law fucked my wife in my home
uhm, do the math... there's a significant chance this means your wife was boning her own brother

the higher power of lucky sketch to stretch ideas and literature circle discussions
literature? boy, are you in the wrong place

combine your parents to make yourself
you mean, like cloning?

i'm having an accident bladder
maybe you should consider, I don't know USING THE TOILET INSTEAD OF GOOGLE

milky daddy
NO!

guilty about parents aging
yeah... that's always useful, feeling guilty about NATURE

relaxation is hard work
tell me about it

how do fathers hug a son
uhm, how about with their arms?

tales from the sick side
we prefer to call it pukapalooza

chocolate the bad side
there is no bad side to chocolate, just the other side of the mold

stop now and plan success
OK.

teresa and dad and mills -murphy, -mill, -audi, -teddygalore, -mark, -mosaic, -audio, -kentucky, -schremm, -co.uk, -arbs, -ohio, -wales, -frootown, -csus.edu, -bizland, -bearpark, -congressional, -mosaic, -theresa, -artist, -ohio, -art, -faraudo, -schremm, -canada, -horse, -tennessee
think you got enough exclusions there, chief?

from father what should i write in my daughters valentine's day card
uhm, how about "I love you"?

loving each udder
VERY important; otherwise the other udders feel left out and can affect milk production and/or freshness

world's worst dad
This is probably my favourite google hit ever.

Sibling Rivalry

Praise You - Fatboy Slim
I was a bright kid. I did well academically, always getting good grades and what not. My sister (15 months my junior) also did well in school (remember, she's the one who's just a little effort at procrastination avoidance a dissertation away from a PhD), but not at the levels I was able to maintain.

We never competed, but I suspect she always compared us. I know that some of the teachers we had in common would say things like, "Are you as smart as your brother?" or "You can just get your brother to explain this to you," idiots that they were. It probably didn't help matters that I was (am?) an arrogant fuck.

For whatever reason, whether it was because they knew she compared herself to me, or they knew about the teachers, or because they were trying to protect her (she was born three months premature, and in the 1970s on top of that, so she was their "little miracle"... it also meant they treated her like she was made of glass), my parents often (I feel like it was always, but it probably wasn't) downplayed my successes.

Looking back, I see what they were doing, and I understand their motivations. However, at the time I struggled to deal with their ambivalence. One time I will always remember came when I was in my final year of high school. I brought home a report card that had an average of 98% (I had actually achieved 98% in all my classes). My father's response: "Where's the other two?" I get that he was joking now, but at the time I legitimately thought he was serious. Here I was, busting my ass to achieve near-perfection when I could have done sweet fuck all and scored well enough to write myself a ticket anywhere, and all he could do was ask for more?

I struggled with my relationships with both my parents. With my mother, I think the biggest problem was her excessive dependence upon me as a co-spouse, and is a subject for another post. With my father, however, it was all about acceptance. At that time, my greatest successes were in the world of academics: I wasn't the popular kid with a million friends, nor the athletic kid winning the championship being cheered on by the crowd, but I was smart, damnit, and I needed him to acknowledge that that was worth something. I believe their unwillingness to acknowledge my successes really fucked up my relationship with my dad.

(Since she has admitted to being more of a regular reader here recently, there is a good chance my younger sister will read this post. In case it isn't clear, I do not blame her for what happened. She is as much a victim of my parents' well-intentioned yet misguided efforts as I am.)

As I watch my two children grow, I know that they will have different strengths, and different degrees of success in various areas. My goal is to make sure that each child feels celebrated, not just by MTM and myself, but also by their sibling. I want them to be proud of themselves as well as proud of each other. The challenge, as my parents' actions pointed out, is how to celebrate one child without causing the other child to feel envious, or worse, inadequate.

Or is that challenge at all? Is there really anything wrong with sibling rivalry? I know modern society teaches us that everyone is equal, we are all good... blah blah blah... but just because we are all equal and whatever doesn't mean we are the same. I have no doubt that my kids will have different interests; sure there will probably be some overlap but even that will be short lived (my sister and I both took music for a while; I stuck with instrumental and she moved on to music theatre and vocal). Ultimately they will each find their niche and flourish. If I am wrong, and by some strange twist of fate they are virtual twins (who differ in age by three and a half years and gender), they will figure out how to live with their strengths and their weaknesses.

Now is the time on Sprockets where we dance that I ask you, dear reader, for your thoughts. Tell me about how your parents dealt with you and your siblings. Tell me about how you handle (or plan to handle) this with your own kids. I really want to know if my parents were the only fucked up ones or not.

Yesterday

Yesterdays - Guns N Roses
Yesterday started out like many of my days recently: I woke up, showered, and went downstairs to spend some time online before I left for a job site instead of heading into the office. I had given Munchkin some honey to suppress her cough and cuddled with her in bed, rubbing her face to help alleviate the sinus pressure I knew she was struggling with.

Because it was snowing, I went outside a few minutes earlier than usual to clear the driveway. As I stopped at the end of our walk, I heard screaming coming from inside the house. I hurried back in to find Munchkin standing in the middle of our living room, holding her lovey, sobbing and pointing at my cell phone.

"Your phone was ringing, and I didn't get to say good-bye to you."

"It was me," came MTM's voice from upstairs where she was holding our other sick child, Buddy.

"Aww, sweetheart. I wasn't leaving. See? My laptop is still here. I was just shoveling snow."

"Can I have a cuddle, please?"

"Of course," and I picked her up and gave her a huge hug and kiss before resuming my snow removal chore that has no fucking business happening in April.

Because fate is nothing if not ironic, on a day where driving was difficult to begin with, let alone with two sick kids (making them housebound), I worked exceptionally late, arriving home well after dinner had finished and less than an hour before the kids' bedtime. Munchkin was ecstatic to see me, practically begging me to play basketball with her, which I did before heading upstairs to steam up the bathroom before a shower with Buddy to help his congestion.

While she got ready for bed, Munchkin sang a song over and over and over: "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! I love him so much!"

She nestled into me as I read her bedtime story, and she asked for an extra long cuddle after I finished reading. We spent some time cuddling in her bed while she regaled me with all her day's events (which included not only baking Easter egg cookies, but also making real Easter eggs... go MTM!)

I know that Munchkin asked me to play with her, and sang for me, and wanted those extra cuddles as a way of making up for the fact that I wasn't home all day (she repeatedly told me that she was so happy I was home, and that she had cried for me a few times throughout the day because she missed me), but in reality it made me feel worse.

Days like that, where I know my family needs me and my absence is even more pronounced than usual, are the worst. I struggle with "working parent guilt", I think partly because MTM is a SAHM (and for Anonymous who never leaves an email but always asks the same question: SAHM=stay at home mom) and I am constantly reminded that my time doesn't "measure up" to hers. Logically, I know that the fact that I work enables her to be at home, but I cannot help but feel like an inferior parent at the end of days like that, where the sum total of my parenting is:

• played basketball for five minutes
• showered with infant for five minutes
• read stories for five minutes
• cuddled for ten minutes

Meanwhile, MTM's day reads more like:

• prepare and eat all three meals with kids
• make an insane number of sugar cookies with a preschooler hindering helping
• make and decorate one dozen eggs
• oh, and do all of the above with an infant permanently latched to her breast

Kinda makes me feel... less accomplished.

Yes, I'm doing something for my family by working, and yes I try my best to spend as much time with them as I can, and yes I make the effort to make whatever time I have special. But that doesn't take away the emptiness I feel while I sit somewhere, working, while visions of the three of them, playing and laughing, dance in my head. Or worse: crying and missing me.

Painting A Rose

Beautiful - Joydrop
Posting this may be the internet equivalent to covering oneself with honey and then laying down beside a fire-ant hill, but I'm willing to take that risk.

Munchkin has been taking ballet since September of last year. We went through some challenges, but in the end everything worked out. My complete and utter lack of knowledge about ballet class meant that I have been provided with a number of surprises in recent weeks.

First, the realization that Munchkin and her classmates would participate in a recital came in the form of an additional fee (on top of what have been found to be quite reasonable class fees when compared to other schools - that doesn't mean the cost is reasonable, just that it's cheaper than other places) for a costume. OK, I'll fork out some extra dough for the costume.

Wait, what? The costume is the same as one "term" of fees? Seriously?

Then, after we had been shown the costumes (the best line came from a dad who referred to them as "bridesmaid dresses"), a couple of the moms started wondering about when we would receive instructions for hair and makeup.

Wait, what? Makeup? Hair instructions?

OK, the hair thing? I get it. You want the kids to look similar (setting aside the fact that they all have different lengths, different colours, and different body shapes). I am hoping that the instructions are simple enough, and don't involve a professional hairstylist, although at this point I feel like nothing will shock me.

But the makeup? I honestly thought the moms were joking; I mean, three year old girls in makeup? They couldn't be serious, could they?

They were.

I stood there, stunned. Not only were they serious about it, but they saw nothing wrong with putting makeup on little girls.

I get that there are cases where you want to put makeup on little kids, such as if they are doing theatre and you want them to appear differently somehow, but for a dance recital, I see little point. (That is not to say that I plan to protest or forbid her from wearing makeup for the recital; I would not alienate her like that. However, I don't have to like it.)

To me, putting makeup on your kid is no different than buying those age-inappropriate outfits (you know, the ones inspired by Bratz dolls whose ads get scanned and posted on every mommy blog with a post of righteous indignation and/or disgust). Putting makeup on a four year old is like painting a rose: what's the point? And, is the paint really an improvement? I have enough concern about modern society over-sexualizing and accelerating the maturation process, especially in young girls. I have a four year old who is genuinely torn between the choice to visit Toys R Us or Claire's, for crying out loud! I see the impact first hand.

(Yes, by allowing her into Claire's I am already guilty. In my admittedly weak defense, I try to encourage other stores and don't always let her go in, and if we do I try to encourage her to the Disney Princess things.)

Why then, would I (or any other parent for that matter) willingly contribute to this process? Why would I allow my child to have makeup put on her when she is already beautiful and perfect just the way she is? Being a man, I don't wear makeup (not anymore anyways), but my understanding of it is that women wear it to make themselves "pretty"... pretty to themselves, pretty to other moms in the school parking lot... pretty to men... pretty to whoever. It's a practice I feel teaches women that they are not "good enough" as they are, and that they need to cover their faces, paint over themselves, to become what society tells them is beautiful.

I don't want to teach my daughter that. I definitely don't want to teach her that at the tender age of four.

So tell me, internets, am I nuts? Am I trying too hard to protect my little girl? Those of you with girls of a similar age (or older and have gone through this already): would you (did you) let a child this young wear makeup? How did you feel about it?

My Daddy and Me

My Girl - Temptations
"Daddy?"

"Yes Munchkin?"

"I'm sorry I always ask if Mommy can do my bath."

"It's OK sweetheart. I understand."

"But it hurts your feelings, doesn't it?"

"A little, yes."

"OK. Can you read my story before bed, please?"

"Always."

"Let me go get it."

"OK princess."

My Daddy and Me, By Munchkin. Happy Father's Day 2006. (It's a book MTM made for me that has photos of Munchkin and I in it.)

"I chose this story because it's about you and me, Daddy, and I love you."

"I love you too sweetheart."

I like to look at my Daddy.

"We're both wearing orange shirts, aren't we Daddy?"

"Yes."

I like to dance with my Daddy.

"That's at your cousin's wedding, right Daddy?"

"Right."

"Why don't we see him anymore?"

"I don't know. Sometimes people stop seeing each other."

"I'm never going to stop seeing my cousins."

I like to hug my Daddy.

"That's on a boat in Vermont!"

I like to play with my Daddy.

"Is that at my birthday?"

"No, princess, that's at your first Christmas."

I like to cuddle with my Daddy.

"Naked Munchkin!"

I like to read books with my Daddy.

"Now that's my birthday! I know because that's when you made the book for me."

"That's right."

"Why did you make that book, Daddy?"

"I made it because you loved Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? so much. So, I made you one with all the people in our family."

I like to swing with my Daddy.

"That's at the park!"

"Yes, and on your birthday too."

"Really?"

"Yes really. That year it was very warm on your birthday."

I like to drink milk with my Daddy.

"That's when you broke your ankle."

"Yes."

"Did it hurt?"

"Yes it did, a lot."

"How did you break your ankle Daddy?"

"I fell down the stairs."

"Carrying me, right?"

"Carrying you."

"Why wasn't I hurt?"

"Because I did everything I could to protect you."

I am my Daddy's little princess.

"That's when you went to North Carolina."

"That's right."

"Did you miss me while you were gone?"

"More than you'll ever know."

"I love you Daddy."

"I love you too, Munchkin."

---

I've also got a review of a Mr. Clean 50th Anniversary bucket up at my review blog for those interested.

How To Succeed... Chapter 3: Bath Time

Splish Splash - Bobby Darin
This is chapter three of my satirical work, How To Succeed In Parenting Without Really Trying series. You can read Chapter One and/or Chapter Two if you like, but it is not necessary for understanding this chapter.

Kids are not born potty trained, nor are they born with reasonably strong bladders, nor do they know the difference between dirt and soap (or, more disturbingly, dirt and dog poop), nor table manners (or the ability to use utensils). I could continue, but you already know this: kids make big fucking messes; between the stuff that comes out of their nethers, the stuff that goes into (and unfortunately sometimes out of) their pie holes, and the stuff they smear all over themselves, it's a wonder they can still be identified as human at the end of the day.

No matter how hard you may try and convince yourself otherwise, kids need to be hosed down with a pressure washer a bath at least once a month. Some would argue more often, and that's where I come in.

Dishes
If you're one of those holier than thou eco-friendly tree hugger types who believe that using paper plates is bad, and therefore have actual dishes that you have to wash, you will eventually run out of something (after you've tried to convince yourself that there's nothing wrong with drinking beer out of a mixing bowl - there is, trust me). At that point, you have to wash the dishes, so why not toss your kids in the tub with the dishes and a few rags and sponges? The kids do the dishes while you sit on the toilet (hey, you're there anyways, may as well "make a deposit"), so you don't have to.

Laundry
According to the law in most places (and common sense - see above, re: lack of potty training), you can't let your kids run around naked. That means you have to put them in clothes, which they will inevitably get dirty as well. Also, fabric can hold on to a smell like nobody's business. So, every few weeks, when their clothes get dirty enough to warrant washing, why not just throw the kids in the tub clothed and let them wash their own laundry? Afterward, you can have them run around getting you beer and popcorn to dry the clothes off. (Added bonus, if you're one of those holier than thou eco-friendly tree hugger types, you just saved electricity!)

Car Wash
Everyone knows how important proper automobile maintenance is. A well-maintained vehicle can last you longer than you might think, but in order to make sure that happens, you need to take care of it. One of the most important things you can do for your car is keep it free of salt and other corrosives by washing it regularly. Next time you decide to take the family minivan to the car wash (because really, only suckers use a hose and bucket), why not strap your kids to the roof? They get clean, and you get the added bonus of a quiet drive for once in your life.

Washcloth Fight
This only works with multiple kids: just wet down a couple of washcloths and let the kids go after one another like the wild animals they are. (Note that if you have one particularly weak and/or scrawny kid, you may have to wash the other ones yourself since they will all just pummel the shit out of beat the wimpy one.)

Swimming Pool
A simple, yet efficient solution: a pool is just a big bath tub. Added bonus: the chlorine will disinfect any cuts or abrasions on your kid. Of course, this only works in your favour if you don't actually own the pool, since then you'd have to clean it afterward. (Super special bonus: that family that acts all superior? Don't they have a pool? And didn't your kid crap in the tub when they were younger? No reason they can't resume now, if you get what I'm saying.)

Bottom line, washing your kid is a necessary evil, but there are enough things that already need cleaning that you can always multi-task (just like my wife, heh) to get the job done. You just need to be creative.

Buddy At Six Months

Head Over Feet - Alanis Morissette
Dear Buddy,

Yesterday you turned six months old. I know I'm posting this a day late, but I figure by the time you're old enough to read these you'll appreciate a good April Fool's Day joke more than timely posting. (Yes, that's right: yesterday's post was a joke, a prank, a hoax, whatever you want to call it. I am not going to BlogHer on some pseudo-reviewer/daddy-blogger scholarship.)


In the last month, you have been rocking the solids thing. Your diet now consists of three meals on top of your regular nursing. Your menu (as of today; it changes regularly right now) consists of rice, oats, squash, sweet potato, peas (which kinda made you puke, so we're leaving those out for a while), avocado, apples, bananas, peaches, ice cream and pears. The biggest challenge you face right now is speed: we can't get the food into you quickly enough, leaving you sitting in your high chair, mouth agape, sometimes whining, until we shove another spoonful into your gullet feed you more.


You have also found far more uses for your tiny hands than just for shoving your fingers in your mouth (which, incidentally, you still do all the time). The first is you use them to get hold of your feet (when exposed) and valiantly attempt to pull them into your eager mouth. Unfortunately, your belly prevents this from happening, but it doesn't seem to deter you much. The second is you grab at people's faces (sometimes even gently) once you're comfortable with them. You will "honk" my nose, or pull at my ears, or attempt to thumb out my eyeball while smiling and cooing or screeching at the top of your lungs.


Speaking of the screeches, could you dial down the volume a little? Thanks.

Another "new thing" for you is the revelation that you can sit up (relatively) unaided. Occasionally you topple over like when Mommy's "watching" you and decides to get herself a carrot to dip and you land on your head, but who's counting? but for the most part you're pretty sturdy, at least until you realize that you have access to your feet, at which point all bets are off.


You are such an affectionate little boy. You love to be held, and you love to kiss Mommy, especially on the nose, and most definitely with tongue. You explore people's faces, and spontaneously hug them with so much energy. You love Munchkin, and when she is in the room everyone else (with the exception of Mommy if you're hungry) fades away; the sun rises and sets with your big sister.


While some may find it odd, I want to thank you, Buddy, for coming into our lives. You bring a joy and a love for life (and food) rarely seen in this world. You bring a smile to everyone's face, and you really are a pleasant baby to be around. Every day some stranger cannot help but remark at how sweet and cute you are, mostly because you simply smile and drool them into submission (just like you do with your parents and sister). In short, you are an awesome little boy, and I cannot wait to see the person you're becoming.


Oh, and I forgot to mention that you're already working on the computer with Daddy. We plan to offload some of my smaller projects to you in Q3.



Edited to add: someone asked in the comments... the game on the laptop is a flash application from the Fisher-Price website: http://www.fisher-price.com/us/playtime/games/infantGames_B_BS.asp.

There Goes The Conference...

Ticket To Ride - The Beatles
Last year I went to a local blogging "conference" (it wasn't so much a conference as a highly-organized meet-up that spanned an entire weekend) because making the trip to BlogHer wasn't feasible for a whole host of reasons. Since then, I have toyed with the idea of going to BlogHer at some point.

This year was supposed to be no different, even though the site is closer (Chicago) than last year (San Francisco). In all honesty, living in a household with one income, one person trips (plus conference fees) aren't in the SFD/MTM family budget; at least not right now. Enter: fate.

Those of you who actually read my review blog know that I've reviewed some Mr. Clean products recently. In one of them, I mentioned that Mr. Clean is my homeboy (owing to the time I tried to get Munchkin to make MTM a birthday card).

Well, apparently the reviews we bloggers write aren't only read by the PR people we work with. Sometimes, more connected people visit. One of those people emailed me last night and offered to sponsor my trip (basically air, hotel, conference fees and a stipend to cover other expenses) to BlogHer this year. She said that their market research has shown that so-called "daddy bloggers" are the new in-road to their target demographic of "mommy bloggers" because they (the dads) do not provoke a competitive response from moms the way other women do, and so they wanted to sponsor my trip as a part of a larger sponsorship arrangement.

While I am flattered, and totally blown away by the offer, I don't know if it's the right thing for me. On the one hand, I mean, FREE TRIP! I get to meet bloggers I've never met before, schmooze, whatever (added bonus: MTM and the kids will be up at the in-law's cottage that weekend, so I don't have to go they won't miss me much). But on the other hand, I feel like I'm "selling out". I mean, right now I don't even have any ads on my personal blog - I have a feeling that would change as part of this "sponsorship arrangement".

What do you think about this? Would it change how you view me or this blog if I took a sponsorship offer? How would you respond? Like I said, I'm torn.

Edited to add: April Fools.