F**k Christmas...

...and fuck the son of a bitch creator of Christmas lights too.

Now it goes without saying, that women have the most work during the holiday season.  I can't speak for anyone else, but in my house my wife buys the gifts, arranges the dinner, cooks the meal, etc.  She's pretty much a one woman yule tide tornado getting everything done weeks in advance. 

I'm not trying to diminish her contribution, but at the same time recognition must be pad to a shit job that Dad is expected to do.  The time consuming, back breaking holiday cheer that falls into the category of background scenery.  If we do our job right, it's immediately noticed and dismissed just as quickly.  If we do our job wrong, it is the focus on conversation and the bane of our existence.  I am of course speaking of the hanging of the lights.

Now I don't know when celebrating the birth of Christ, turned into dangling from a ladder and multiple trips to Home Depot, but apparently it is now necessary.  I have to decorate my home, and run up the electric bill so that the kids can get the true Christmas experience.  To that comment, I call bullshit.  My 2 year old gets exciting about the lights for about 5 minutes on the first day, and my newborn isn't making any memories, so I doubt he cares.  But whatever, I do what I can to make my wife happy.

I'm not sure if my experience can encapsulated what all fathers go through, but my "project" took about 7 hours over the coarse of two days. 

Step One: The unpacking of the lights -   Which as I untangled, noticed that what we had stored in the shed, can not be considered a fire hazard.  So into the trash they went, and I was off to the store with my son in tow.  Spent an unnecessary amount of money on new lights, and began....

Step Two: The hanging of the lights - Which proved to be the biggest bitch of the entire project, and required the used of both a 12 foot and 6 foot ladder.  And just to make matter worse, the majority of the Velcro hooks from the previous year were not longer viable.  The meant, another trip to the store. 
After another 45 minute detour, the tedious process of hanging these bitches started, and the we reached step three...

Step Three: Powering the lights - Which worked out great for me -  I strung the 8 strings of lights together, and plugged it into an extension cord, and boom.  All the lights were on and it was wonderful to see.  For about 5 minutes until all the lights went out.  The led to Step Four...

Step Four: Read the instructions on the lights after you hang them -  So apparently if you link 8 sets of lights together, that have fuses that can only support 3 stings, your lights will go out.  This I learned the hard way while performing...

Step Five: Fix what you did ASSHOLE! - This process involves the taking down on several sections, and reconfiguring the lights.   If  you're me, this would also mean another trip to Home Depot for another extension cord, stringing up a set of lights backwards, and screaming to your neighbors how much you hate Christmas.  But when all if said in done, there's only one thing left to do...

Step Six: Admire your work - At least until you come home the next morning, and see a set of lights swinging from the roof because the Velcro gave...

After all that, what Dad wouldn't want to say FUCK CHRISTMAS!!!!

It's Wrong To Fight A Two Year Old, Right?

My son has recently added a new technique to his bag of tantrum tricks.  He is now pushing me, square in the chest with both hands.  If you are having difficulties visualizing the action, just picture the opening move of every bar fight in the history of the world. 

The first time he did it, it flipped some unconscious switch in my head and I reacted in fight mode.  Fortunately, I realized before anything had happened who I was dealing with, and all the resulted was a startled child.  Now he has done it two more times, and it's getting more difficult for me to control myself.  Besides the fact that it's unacceptable for a child reactions to be physical, I think it's the fact that it's such a dickhead move that's really pissing me off.

I'm starting to think I need to have a talk to the boy.  Just sit him down and say, "Listen, if you hit Daddy again, Daddy's gonna hit you back!".  However I'm not sure what that would accomplish.  But I'm pretty sure it will make me feel better.  I'd like to think it would teach him consequences, but I'm dealing with a two year old.  How much of that lesson would stick?  Probably nothing, and then I'm left with as the guy hitting this kid for getting a little shove.

I was actually conflicted enough on it that I asked my mother for advice.  Her thoughts...

"You should not tell your son that you would hit him back.  What you need to do is, the next time your son hits you, is the time that you beat the shit out of that child.  You need to whip him so he learns to never put his hands on his parents again.  One good whipping is all it would take."

As much as I love her old school ghetto parenting techniques, I made me realize a couple of things.             

           1.  I realized the source of my fucked up parenting skills.
           2.  I really don't want to go to jail for listening to my mother.

Guess I have to make due, and hope this phases ends before I kill this child.  Guess the good thing is that since his little brother was born, we now have a spare son.  Just in case.

What The Hell Was I Thinking?

As a firm believer in tempting fate, I should have known better than to comment about my newborn only crying for a reason.  I don't know why I put that out there, but fate has come around and bit me right in the ass.  The child does not stop screaming.  Not matter what I do.  It's starting to drive me a little bonkers.  

I've been doing my best to decipher the cries, and so far here's what I've determined:

• He cries when he's hungry
• He cries when he's dirty
• He cries when he's wet
• He cries when he frets
• He cries when it's bright
• He cries when it's night
• He cries when put down
• He cries when carried around
• He cries so I go away
• He cries so I would stay
• He cries
• He cries
• Good God He Cries

And even though this is very Dr. Seuss, but it's 100% true.  Seriously, I mean what the fuck!  I'm starting to believe it's personal.  He doesn't go off the deep end with my wife.  I think he's realized that my wife is the feeder, I'm just the holder, and he screams until he's brought up to the buffet.

As for my other son, I spoke about his love of being a big brother.  That one came back around to screw me.  All it took was my son mumbling 3 little words...

                 "Baby, Lets Go!"

I turn around and saw my 2 year old, trying to lift the 3 week old, to bring him to the other room.  I don't trust this child to carry around an IPAD, so you can imagine my mindset when he's trying to pick up his brother.  Especially since we're still making the payments on the little guy (Thank you PPO's)

I should learn for the future to just keep my big mouth shut.  And in the meantime try to keep my sanity while this child screams all hours of the night.

Parenting Goals

So my newest son is now two weeks old, and i've managed to keep him alive.  I am feeling very accomplished as a father. This got me thinking about my goals as father.

I find the best way in raising my boys is to keep short term, attainable goals:

   

   Goal #1 - Keep the child alive

   Goal #2 - Teach the child how to stay alive

   Goal #3 - Be patient until the child is old enough to tell you what hurts

They may appear silly, but it blends the are easy to accomplish and easy to determine failure.  In addition to these, I do have some long term goals  for my children

   Long Term Goal #1 - Keep them out of prison

   Long Term Goal #2 - Get the out of the house by 22

   Long Term Goal #3 - Get them educated

   Long Term Goal #4 - Prevent them from becoming strippers

Once again the may seem non-sensical, but if I don't meet any of these goals it'll be pretty obvious that I fucked up as a father.

And Then There Were Two...

I honestly thought I was going to have it easier than I anticipated with two kids.  When we brought our newborn home, and my 2 year olds first reaction was to give him some of his toy cars to play with, I thought that I had gotten off easy.  I truly thought to myself "No jealousy?  How did I get so lucky?".  It was soon afterwards that I realized, I'm an idiot!

Jealousy may not be an issue, but I'm being driven insane by the sounds of two children crying.  Between my oldest one's tantrums, and my younger one being a week old, someone is always crying.  And if it's not the noise, it's the smells.  My 2 year old has yet to be potty trained, so I am now changing the diapers of two human beings.  One of whom craps like a man, and the other who shoots out this messy waste that finally stopped being black.  Add in a small case of sleep deprivation, and you get a man on the verge of sensory overload.

And if all of that wasn't enough, with two kids and a wife on the mend from childbirth, all attempts to "relieve stress" are completely thwarted.  Doesn't matter the time of day, as soon as you start looking to "relax", someone always seems to "relax"-block.  It's honestly like living with my parents again.  The sneaking, the same, the remembering to clear the browsing history. 

So I'm a little on edge, and desperately look for a good nights sleep.  However since I have a little rooster that goes off every couple of hours, it may be awhile until I get it.

He's Here

He's finally arrived.  After 40 weeks of anxiety, preparation, and cravings, my new son has arrived.  Born via scheduled c-section, he is a perfectly healthy boy.  As for the birthing experience itself, this time was quite a bit different then last time.

The birth of my first son was prompted by an exam by my wife's OB, who I affectionally refer to as Dr. Barbie.  This twit managed to break my wife's water, while examing her on our lunch hour.  She was not contracting, she was hardly dilated, and thanks to this idiot, we had to call out of work and haul ass to the hospital.  My wife then got to experience 29 hours of the  Pitocin induced labor she always dreamed of.  This time, it was a little different.

Birthing by appointment, totally different.  We had  to be at the hospital at 12:30, so we filled the morning with errands.  My wife went out for breakfast, we scheduled a service call for the cable company, and got to spend a little time with my mother.  We were then greeted in the hospital by the admitting department, that hit us with the bill, (At least then told us how much beforehand, this time), and went to the prep area.  

It was at this point I began my count of doctors.  You would think, that being in a hospital, one would see a fair amount of doctors.  Apparently, that is a misnomer.  I saw registered nurses, nursing students, nurse practitioners, even an anesthesiology nurse, but hardly any doctors.  Aside from the private practice doctors, the only one we saw was an anesthesiologist, and he didn't stick around for the procedure.

So after I got over my doctor count obsession, it was time to roll her in.  The gave me my doctor get up, and sat me in the "Daddy" chair, while the started to work on my wife.  So I sat waited in this "Daddy" chair, which was in front of the doors to the surgical sweets.  I sat there staring at those doors, watching the janitorial staff come and go through the restricted areas, and when I had two realizations:

1.  That is appears that the lowest paid, least skilled personnel has access to all of the restricted areas

2.  and the I was sitting this in time out

It was at this time, the doors swung open and I was escorted to the surgical suite and got to witness the birth of my son.  My wonderful son.  Who is now crying.  As he does every 3 hours.  No matter the time of day.  Oh God, what did we do.

To Tell or Not To Tell

My wife is coming to end of her pregnancy, and we will soon be welcoming a brand new baby boy into our home.  So with this in mind, I asked my son, "Are you excited that your little brother's almost here?"  To which  he promptly replied "No".  Me thinking this is him just being 2, I felt compelled to ask him "Why not?".  His answer: "No more fun", a response that floored me.

First, because it's a legitimate concern for him.  He assessed the question, and communicated a real answer.  Made me take notice about how big he's getting, and how he's no longer a baby. 

My second thought was how the hell did he come to this conclusion?  All of his little friends recently got new siblings, so it made me wonder if they sit around at day care discussing their plights?  And in one of these toddler bitch sessions, did one of them warn about the appearance of new babies?  Or is this in innate sense of self preservation?  A limbic response to a perceived change in the environment akin to the way no wild animals ever die in severe storms?  Is Darwin somehow telling him "Baby Bad"?

All that nonsense aside, I am faced with a real dilemma.  My wife will be giving birth in a week, and she is already anxious.  Do you convey the concerns of the 2 year old, or do you keep it to yourself until the new norm is realized?

I think I'm leaning towards the latter, so as not to burden my wife with another concern this late in the game.  I hope I'm right on this.

On A Mission...

So I walked into the kitchen the other day to find my son blindly reaching his hand onto the counter.  I say blindly because my son is not yet tall enough to see on top of the counter.  First he pulled down a small toy I had stepped on the night before, examined it and the pushed it aside.  He then proceeded to stick his hand back up, and try for something else.

Next he pulled down my keys.  He took his time to exam each key (there are ten on my ring), before he said "No", and also pushed them aside.  It was at this point that my curiosity got the better of me and I asked my son "What are you doing?".  To which the two year old replied "Nothing", and stuck his hand back up on the counter to feel around.

The next thing to come down was my wife's keys, and he once again examined each key.  He carefully looked over every key until he came to her car key (the longest one) said "A-HA", and ran away holding the key. 

At his point I had to see what was going on, so I followed.  And as I turned the corner, I was just in time to see my son use that key to pop the lock on our bathroom door, and barge in my wife on the toilet.

I laughed so hard, I think I peed.

Trick Or Treat

So it's Halloween again.  The day you're forced by social convention to put up with other people's children.  A task I that I've been putting up with for years without complaint, but I'm starting to see my patience wane when dealing with some of these brats.  Now please believe I'm not trying to seem angry or bitter towards these children.  However if any of these kids got hit by a car on the way home, I don't think I could muster a tear. 

Aside from the aggravating children, the highlight of the night was seeing my son in action.  He's finally old enough that he gets the concept of Halloween, and it was wonderful to see.  Armed with his Elmo basket and pirate costume, he went up to our neighbor's doors without fear.  And while he may not have gotten out a "trick or treat" to everyone, they all did receive an unprompted "Thank You". 

We walked two blocks, and had a ball the entire time.  He then came back home with me, and helped give out candy for the rest of the night.  A task I believe he enjoyed more than trick or treating.  It was at this point that my pride in him reached to a new high, and my loathing for some of these other kids sank to a new low. 

One particular low point was compliments of a little girl who appear to be around 8 or 9 years old.  Now to set the stage a little, it needs to be known that in addition to candy, my wife and I give out glow sticks.  Our neighborhood has some heavy traffic, and no street lights.  So once the sun goes down, we make every child in a dark costume take a glow stick so they can be seen by oncoming cars. 

So while I was giving this future pole professional a glow stick, she attempted to dictate which one she would receive.  At first she demanded one our "lighting" glow sticks, the more expensive ones we use to light our walk.  I handed her a small one, and told he she can have this one.  Her response was to demand a different color, to which I replied "then you can have nothing".  She huffed, and begrudgingly  accepted the one I offered, while mumbling under her breath "I don't know why the others aren't for sale".  So I proceed to explain to her the difference between an item for sale, and something is giving her for nothing.  The was quickly followed by the phrase, "now take what I give you and leave". 

Not the most neighborly thing to do, but my mother in law was laughing for a while.  The fact of the matter is, that I don't take that kind of bullshit from my own children, so I'm definitely not going to tolerate it from some stranger's ungrateful little brat.  I mean this girls attitude was worse than my 2 year old, and he was an hour passed his bed time.  Oh well, I guess that doesn't matter.

Aside from a handful of other incidents similar to this, it was a nice evening.  Although I'm pretty certain, I'm gaining a reputation as the mean old man on the block.  If that's true, then I don't think I could be any prouder of it.

What Is He Watching? (Part 2)

Let me make this clear right from the start, I have no psychological training whatsoever.  I did not study it in school, I've never spoken to a therapist, I've haven't so much as read a self help book.  The only education I have in matters of the mind come from television, and movies.  So with the being said, what the hell is up with all the crazy puppets on Sesame Street?

Another one of my son's favorites, I've been subjected to this show since he was six months old.  And to be truthful, I actually like Sesame Street.  I enjoy watching my son, laughing at the same segments I laughed at as a child.  But as I look at these characters through the eyes of an adult, I am seeing quite a few psychological disorders.

Let's start with my son's favorite, Elmo.  This furry red monster in my amateur opinion is clearly schizophrenic.  Just look at the evidence, he perceived reality is his head.  He receives the day's topics (a.k.a. his marching orders) from a goldfish.  Dorothy is speaking to him, and he is carrying out her wishes.  Let's face it, if Dorothy was a dog, Elmo would be no different then the Son of Sam.  And this is not even taking into account his inability to refer to himself in the first person.

Aside from Elmo, you can also see that obsessive compulsive disorder runs rampant on the streets of Sesame.  These characteristics can clearly be demonstrated by the actions of The Count and Cookie Monster.  Two people whose lives are completely consumed because of their respective addictions.

Grover displays delusions of grandeur, which culminate in the character "Super Grover".  Bert appears to be repressing his true feelings on his "friendship" with Ernie.  Ernie has an unhealthy attachment to an inanimate rubber duck (who also speaks to him), and Telly appears to have low self esteem.

The more I watch, the more I start to think all of the puppets on this street is nuts.  You would think one could find stability and a sense of reality from the humans on the street, but they don't seem "normal" to me other. 

Just look at the adults, Gordon, Susan, Luis & Maria.  An African-American couple and a Latin couple, both of whom raised their kids in front of us.  But not once did we see these children get their asses beat.  No one got hit by a shoe.  No one got screamed at for coming home after the street lights turned on.  No one got chased down the street by a parent, clutching a belt, for using the word puta to describe their mother.  It just seems unbelievable to me. 

Add the crack staff at Hooper's Store (whom I've never seen them change the inventory), and Bob who walks Barkley, without carrying around a hefty bag.  Clearly he's not curbing that big ass mutt, so how disgusting is that block. 

Add that all up, I see a messed up street with crazy puppets, and flakey humans.  But you have to admit, it's still a great show.  And hopefully I will get the see the crazy passed on to the next generation.

Nightly Routine

Every night for the past few weeks, a pattern has manifested when we put our son to bed.

First we tell him "Night, night time" in which he immediately says no, and continues with whatever activity he was previously doing.

When we reaffirm that it's bed time, he stands up and starts crying, all the while repeating "No, No, No, No"

Next he tells us, he needs to use the potty, or is thirsty, hungry, etc.  Sometimes we let him get away with a few extra minutes, sometimes we don't.  

He will then hang his head, and march into his room.  There he get's read a book, or two depending on his behavior.

Then he will finally lay down and go to sleep.

This is the same every night.  Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance.  Is it me, or is my some demonstrating the five stages of death whenever it's bed time?  

I've Experienced Purgatory...

...and it was in the form of a Chuck E Cheese birthday party.  I would've said that I have experienced hell, but this came to an end after a couple of hours, so I've settled on Purgatory.

It was my nephew's birthday, so it was not one of those events that I could just send the wife to.  And even though I swore I was never going to bring my children there, you really can't say when a four year old asks if you're coming.  So while I was dreading this party for weeks, I have to admit found it to be fun, and very fascinating. 

The fascination was stemming from looking at all the adults that were around me.  All the parents who were sitting at these machines, tokens in hand, playing these games to win their kids tickets.  IT was completely depressing to see these neutered parents (mostly dads), cranking these games like they were sitting at slot machines, while their children was nowhere to be seen.  It was quite the sad sight to witness.

But aside from that, I did get a kick out of watching my son's excitement.  While he's never experienced anything like this before, he grasped on the concept pretty quickly.  He puts a coin in a machine, the machine gives him tickets, move on to the next machine, and that was all he understood.  He had no idea what the tickets meant, he had clue how many he needed, he just knew he wanted as many as he can get (the signs of a true capitalist). 

I even got the opportunity to teach my son to play the game I loved as a kid, skeeball.  An experience I soon regretted when my son couldn't comprehend the concept of an underhanded roll.  He threw that shit like he was pitching against Derek Jeter, and I learned two things:

1. Skeeball now has hard Plexiglas shields to prevent cheating, and
2. A hard skeeball will travel off that Plexiglas at an angle equal and opposite at the point of impact.

He threw that ball, and all I could do it pray: 

God, please don't let me have to pay for this machine.  And please
let this ball not hit me or anyone else.  I really don't want to get into
a fight in the hell hole.  This is where kids can be kids, they don't
need to see to grown men rolling around on the floor over a

misunderstanding...

Fortunately for me, he didn't break the machine, he didn't break me, and we got call for the birthday party.  

 

So it was now pizza time (a.k.a. tantrum time #1), and we left the game room.  We eat pizza, we sang happy birthday, and an employee came out as Chuck E Cheese himself.  He went around high fiving all the kids, all the while he's scaring the shit out of my son.  He may be the proprietor/mascot of that establishment, but to my son he was a 6 foot rat trying to touch him.  So when this Chuck E left, my son calmed down, at some cake, and played some more, and then got ready to leave.

 

My wife cashed in his tickets for a prize, (by my math it was $20 in tokens, to get that $2 plastic slinky), and we headed home.  The highlight of the experience, it wiped my son out and he slept for almost 4 hours.  That as it turned out was my prize. 

 

 

Things I Never Thought I Would Say...

• Son, don't drinking from the toilet.
• Get out of the dryer.
• No you can't have butter for breakfast
• You don't fart on Daddy!
• Why are you eating potting soil?
• Where did you put your fish?
• Son, are you always going to carry a purse?
• I'm sorry, your heads to big for that box.
• Stop licking the shower floor!
• Bring me back my pants!
• Why is Daddy's wallet in the garbage?
• How did you fit in the pan?
• A spaghetti strainer is not a suitable bike helmet

We've Reached That Time

It's finally come.  The time that I both anxiously awaited and frantically dreaded has finally come.  We have now started to potty train.  A task that I have to give credit to my wife for initiating.  If it was up to me, I'd leave the kid in diapers until he was old enough to change his own diaper.

In all honesty, this training actually started about 4 months ago.  My wife brought home a potty, just to introduce him to the concept.  Se explained it to him and at first it seems that he understood.  That is until we caught him dragging it to living room.  Apparently you don't know luxury until you've watched Dora from the toilet. 

Our next attempt was demonstrate using a toilet in from of him.  He would barge in on my wife  relieving herself, which resulted in my son using toilet paper to wipe his sack every time he sat down on the damn thing. 

Next up to bat was yours truly, who started demonstrating the standing up method.  This quickly went down in flames, when my son remembered how much he enjoyed running his fingers under an open faucet.

So a few months have passed, baby brother will be here in the next couple of weeks, and my wife decided it was time to try again.  And I believe she was right.  He now understands the concept, and what he's supposed to do.  It doesn't hurt, that she's created a reward system of M&M's (also known as beans by the child) to help motivate him.  2 beans for #1, and 4 beans for #2.  Fortunately for me (the person cleaning the potty), we've only had #1 but he's managing to use it regularly now.  All for the sake of getting those damn beans that he holds up high as if  were carrying the Stanley Cup.  His face beaming with both pride and a sense of accomplishment.  It's quite an adorable sight to see.

However, we have discovered a couple of downsides to the potty training:

• Downside #1, he has discovered that it's also an effective stall tactic for going to bed.  He'll claim that he needs to pee, and he'll sit on that potty for as long a he can milk.  The little turd actually had the balls to ask us for a book one night. 

• Downside #2, once he gets his mind set on those beans, he's not giving up until he gets them.  Whether he needs to go or not.  Whether he went 5 minutes ago or an hour ago.  Whether you are late to work or not.  On more than one occasion, I've had to pull a pissed off, bare assed boy out of the bathroom kicking and screaming.  This morning, I actually had to chase his diaper-less ass around the house. 

So here's to the good and the bad, and hoping he'll be out of diapers soon.  Because with two kids in diapers, would really suck and really stink.

Okay?

So my son, in his endless quest to perplex and bewilder me, has decided that he's bored of brushing his teeth like a normal human being.  He has discovered a brand new method that not only hits every tooth, it entertains at them same time.  His method, hold the tooth brush stationary and shake his head violently until dizziness sets in. 

I've seen this child do this 3 times already, and it just boggles the mind.  Why does he keep doing this?  He knows (from experience) that if I wasn't bracing him, he'd fall off his step and crack open his head?   I guess it's just one of the many things he does that makes me repeat my favorite prayer:

"Lord, please let this be only him being two and not an idiot"

{Prayer gets repeated until relief or shame kicks in}

Busted

My child is a boy, and I feel that as his father I have the responsibility to teach him how to play like a boy.  Unlike my wife who plays in a nice safe manner, when Daddy's playing it's going to be rough & tumble, head butting, wrestling on the floor kind of fun.  Now while my wife was initially against my manner of play, she saw the benefit to it while out with friends. 

While on a "play date" (God, I hate that phrase), my son and another little boy both wiped out on a tile floor.  While my son just  got up and shook off the fall, this other little boy stood their crying on the top of his lungs about his boo-boo.  So while she may not fully approve of our playtime, she does appreciate that it toughened him up, and prevented him from becoming a whiney bitch like all of the other little boys she know.

Now despite that fact that she may not object to how I play with him, there is still a threshold to her tolerance.  And while I'm fully aware of what she deems acceptable, my son is fun, he's fearless and I just can't help myself. So whenever Mommy's goes out and leave us home alone, my son and I like to take it up a notch.  Nothing really dangerous, but it is definitely something that might be frowned upon.  Not to go into too many details, but it usually involves a helmet (safety first), a wagon, and some interesting paths around the house.

I should have known to not try these things until he was older.  Until he was mature enough to keep a secret.  Until he could fully comprehend the situation, and the potential consequences of being discovered.  All it took was my son coming up to me and my wife one night, holding a helmet, and asking for "MORE!".  Before I could even look at her, I could feel her shooting me daggers while she asked me "What were you doing?"

I believe it's moments like this that can test your resolve.  You take a moment, analyze the situation, and weigh your options:

• Option A: Come clean - Tell the truth, show her the video you made, point out the fact that he survived, and own up to it like a man.
• Option B - Lie.  Lie like the man God made you.  Only that requires more thought.  Specifically, what kind of lie do you tell? 
• Do you go with the dismissive lie? - "I don't know what he means"
• Do you use the believable but unlikely lie? - "I took him for a ride on your bike.  Yes your pink bike with the flowery basket"
• The unbelievable, but likely lie? - "Thought I would teach him to ride a bike, and I felt it didn't matter how dark it was"
• The concerned lie? - "I mopped the floor and was afraid he couldn't stay off it, so to be safe..."
• The ballsy redirect lie? - "ME?  WHAT WERE YOU DOING WITH HIM?!?!?!"

However as I learned, if you've been with someone long enough (and if you take to long to answer) they will know that you're trying to determine which lie to use.  She called me on it, I bitched up and was forced to take Option A.

Needless to say my son and I no longer engage in that type of play.  But there's always hope for his brother, and maybe that little boy won't narc me out.

Funny or Wrong?

Today I got the rare pleasure of receiving a phone call at work from my son.  My wife happened to be off, and decided to drop me a line.  Here's the recap:

{on speaker phone}

Mommy - "Say hi to Daddy"

Son - "Hi Dada"

Mommy - "Say Hi"

Son - "Hi"

Mommy - "Ok, give momma the phone"                 

                "Give Momma the phone"

                "Give me the phone"                 

                "GIVE ME THE PHONE"

                "HEY, GET BACK HERE!"

Son - {laughing}

{still on speaker phone}

Daddy - "RUN BOY RUN!!!!" 

              "SHE'S GOING TO TAKE IT AWAY FROM YOU!!! " 

              "RUN!!!!"

She may have been pissed, but I got a good laugh.

One Day

I see the way my son looks at me.  He looks are filled with awe and admiration. Even something as simple as fixing a toy, gets a level of appreciation that is boundless.  In his eyes, I'm a superhero and I can no wrong.

But one day, that image is going to change.  He'll start seeing me as I am, flaws and all.  And when that day comes, I'm going to be relieved.  Sure, he'll be crush and struggling with the realities of growing up, but I'll be free.  Free of the image, and work needed to keep it up.  The time consuming tasking of pretending to be the man, I want him to be.

It is only then I can go back to the man I was before he was born.  Go back to the man, I was proud to be, the man I worked hard to craft, and always longed to be...

... I can be an asshole again. 

Funny or Sad?

So we recently replaced the TV in our family room, and pick up a nice LCD TV.  Now while we were expecting little fingerprints to be all over the bottom half of the set, we didn't expect to walk in on our son hitting the screen. 

There he was, smacking Dora's face, becoming more frustrated with every whack.  We yelled at him to stop, and asked him why he was hitting the TV.  He just looked at us, pointed to the Ipad, and said TV broke.  My son thought the TV was a giant tablet.

Is it funny or sad that a 2 year old thinks everything is a touchscreen?

How Do I Do This?

As I looked at my son, I had this paralyzing realization, I have to teach this boy how to be a man.  Both my two year old, and his upcoming brother are going to be looking at me for a model of what a man should be, and that scares the shit out of me.

It made me reflect at the example my father set of manhood.  He is a former Marine, turned cop who would spend his free time between church and home projects (building decks, finishing a basement, etc.).  Then I looked at myself, and saw chubby accountant who spends his free time blogging between Xbox sessions and porn.  This is not the kind of men that I want my boys to become.

It seems the only way to get my boys to be better than me, is for me to become a better man myself.  Set the example, and hope the follow suit.  It's that realization that makes me wonder how do I pull that off.  Because quite frankly, I'm a lazy asshole who has no ambition to change my ways. 

I would like to think that I can make that change from sheer will, but let's face it I'm not. 
I would like to think that I can make a change so my sons don't grow up to be whiny bitch excuses for men. 
I would like to think for that I could...

Picking My Battles

Not so long ago my wife told me I have to pick my battles with my son.  She told me it's not worth fighting over every little thing, and that it's probably best to choose my spots when dealing with him.  I officially call bullshit on that. 

I'll be the first one to agree picking your battles in incredibly important in a relationship.  When you have two people working to build a life together, that is incredibly important.  But not when dealing with a two year old who's trying to drink out of the toilet. 

As far as I'm concerned, he is my son.  Not my friend, or my partner.  He's my tenant living rent free in my house.  Hell, I've already used the phrase "because I said so", and felt drunk with power after saying it.  Can you imagine me saying that to my wife?  I'd be on the couch by nightfall.

So now my wife has to live with a stubborn two year old, and a husband who firmly believes that "Either I win, or we all lose".

She is soooooooo screwed.

What Is He Watching?

Every night before bed time, we watch TV as a family.  Which translates to me having to endure some children's programming that makes me bang my head on the wall and attempt count the minutes until it's over.  His favorite of the moment, Dora the Explorer.

So since I was stuck watching this crap, with my son happily tucked between my wife and I, my mind started to wander.  And I came to the conclusion that I believe Dora the Explorer can be construed as racist.  You wouldn't think that could be possible. Not with the content, and all of the PHDs listed in the credits.  But if you break it down, I believe we can see a subliminal commentary on minorities...

First we have Dora, an unsupervised brown girl who wanders about where ever and whenever she pleases.  Her parents don't ever seem to care where she is, or even when she comes (Which I personally think is bullshit since I couldn't leave the block and had to be home before the street lamps came on).   So there she in, always meandering about with her best friend Boots.  A "monkey" who takes way to much pride in his footwear.  Let's face it, if they slap the Timberland logo on those shoes we know exactly what kind of metaphor Boots is supposed to be.

So we have a brown girl, and a "monkey" wandering about the "jungle", all the while trying to not get jacked by some slick motha fucka in a bandana, named Swiper.  Sometimes they get help from their friends:

• Tico - their buck toothed friend that doesn't speak English,
• Izza - who is constantly growing flowers (i.e. weed) in her garden, or
• Benny - whose main source of transportation (a hot air balloon) is constantly breaking down and leaving him helpless.  In one episodes the actually fix his ride with tape.

Put this all together, seems to me Dora the Explorer is a just a giant metaphor for living in the ghetto.  I wonder why no one else ever saw this.

Epiphany

I recently took stock of my life I realized everything that I had going for me:

• My Own Home
• A Wonderful Son
• Another Child On The Way

It was at that moment I looked at my wife and had an epiphany...

 

I'd have to fuck up pretty bad for her to leave my dumb ass!!!!

 

Between a mortgage, and two kids my list of divorceable offenses is now about 3 items long.  And the beauty part is, every item on that list involves another woman.  As long as I keep it in my pants, I don't think there is anything I can do that would make her go through the hassle of getting rid of me.  I have spousal security, and it's nice!

How'd This Happen?

So we are now making a laughable attempt at potty training our 2 year old.  We have the potty, we get him to sit on it daily, and we have yet to have any repeated success.  Unfortunately as a result, my son has now become fascinated by what's going on in the bathroom.  So much so, he's now barging in on my wife whenever she uses one (I lock the door, she doesn't). 

So this brings us to the other night.  I took him to the bathroom to use his potty and watched him sit down, wrap toilet paper around his hand, reach in, wipe his sack, and then get up and flush.  HE'S LEARNED TO PEE LIKE A GIRL!!!!!  

Now while this is adorable now, this could cause him some issues later in life.  As much as I want to fix this, I don't want to turn him off to the idea of the potty, nor do I want to clean up pee off the bathroom floor.  Sometime I wonder if this is my wife's way of screwing with me.

Chasing Baby

My two year old has started to run away whenever he objects to Mommy or Daddy requests.  It could be putting him to bed, changing his diaper, or trying to bathe him.  If he doesn't agree, he's now taking off.    The interesting thing is that the child is running himself into a corner every time.  Without fail, all we have to do is follow him, and scoop him up once he's trapped.

Now while I find this lack of foresight to be both convenient and hilarious, it got me thinking.  If my son was in a horror movie, he would be the first person killed.  Same is true if he's running from bullies in school, or escaped animals from the zoo.  While I feel my job as a father is to prepare him for the world, I really don't want to teach him evasion techniques just so I can bitten in the ass later on. 

Or should this just be something he learns on his own?  Doesn't Darwin state that if an animal runs straight into a wall every time, nature has deemed that creature to be too stupid to live? 

My plan:  If he's still doing this at 10, then I sit him down and knock out two talks in one sitting.  Otherwise, I'm enjoying the chase that only last 30 seconds.

Ethnic Name Game

With the birth of our second son, comes the frustrating task of naming this child.  An exercise in both patience in compromise (the patience demonstrated predominately by my wife).  My wife's goal is simple, give this child a name that is both cute and not very common.  My goal is to give this child a name, that if he ever ends up in prison, it won't get his assed kicked.  So that it our first obstacle.

Our second obstacle is that I am of Puerto Rican dissent, and my wife is for lack of a better term, Wisconsin White.  So whenever she throws out a name I deem to be too white, I counter with an ethnic name that will make my in laws groan.  She suggests Parker, I suggest Diego.  She suggests Preston, I suggest Malik.  She suggests Trent, I counter with Geraldo.

So as of right now, she's frustrated, I'm amused, and our soon to be newborn is named 2.0.

Advice

With the birth of my second child right around the corner, I am reminded about all advice I received before the birth of my first son.  All of the unsolicited, generic advice that came from all those who were supposedly wiser than I in parenting.  All of those moronic acquaintances who spat out such pearls as:

• Remember to sleep when the baby sleeps, or
• Remember to do all you can to make your wife comfortable.

After the birth of my son, I realized that not one person gave me any form of practical advice that I could have found useful.  For example, no one stressed the importance of pecker position when you're diapering a boy.  If you unfamiliar with my meaning, then you probably have daughters so I'll explain.

The most absorbent part of a diaper is down into the padding.  The least absorbent is on the sides, where the flaps come over so the Velcro can join.  So when you are diapering a boy, where his manhood is pointing becomes a consideration.  During the first week of holding my infant son, no less that 9 shirts had little circular stains, along with his bassinet, and our coach.  I think the worst moment came, when I left him pointing upwards and he woke up crying because a geyser was escaping from the top of his diaper.

This would have been useful information for a first time father, so now I make it a point to tell every new dad I meet this little gem.  As for those wise men and women who failed to convey this information to me, I found all the ones who had sons, and I passed along my new knowledge along with a hand gesture to convey my appreciation for their advice.

Messed Up?

Not to long ago, I told my wife that I  believe I would have an easier time accepting my son as a gay man, as opposed to a Yankee fan.  Her response was to tell me that the comment I has just made was really messed up, which left me no choice to explain. 

If he's grows up to become a gay man, then that's who he was always meant to become.  If he grows up to become a Yankee fan, then there was a choice made somewhere along the line, and I can't respect my son if he makes that choice.

She called me an idiot and then left the room.

Really?

The other day, my 2 year old son found 3 stuffed bears in the house and quickly took a liking to them.  As he was playing with them, he affectionately gave them the names Mommy, Daddy and Baby.

First he took the Mommy & Daddy bears, and had them kiss and hug.
Next he took the Mommy and Baby bears, he then had them kiss and hug as well.
Finally he took the Daddy and Baby bears, he had them kiss, and then he had them start fighting.  Complete with yelling, and rolling around on the floor.

I can't tell if this means that I'm a good father, or a bad one.

My Son's New Talent

My son has just realized that he now has the ability to control his gas.  He is the master of his own farts, in command of his own stench.  And what he has chosen to do with his now found super power...  He farts on Daddy.  An act that my wife is finding to not only hilarious, but useful for her own evil purposes. 

Some backstory, my son and I have a tendency to roll around on the floor and roughhouse.  During these sessions, my wife stays on the sidelines and waits to see if someone gets hurt (which is usually me).  However recently I think I've caught her lying and waiting for an opening.  Cause once she sees it, she mutters those four little words that makes this child jump into action:  "Fart on Daddy's head!".  At which point my two year old will straddle my head and start tooting.  SHE HAS TURNED MY SON INTO A WEAPON!!!! 

I have been caught by this ambush 4 times, and I think I've started to see the pattern.  It always starts off the same way in that our dinner will conveniently includes beans and broccoli.  Then we move into the living room, and I'm encouraged to get on the floor with him.  After about 10 minutes a football will appear, we'll start wrestling, and once my back is on the floor, that's when he the call.  That's when the little shit will climb up, clench up, and let me have it. 

Last time this happened, I rolled over and threw him as soon as I felt him tense up.  He landed on the couch  laughing his ass off, so I don't think the message was received.  Next time, maybe I should do a reversal, and get a little pay back.  As for Mommy, the woman that issue the hit, I believe there is a "Dutch Oven" in her future.

The Little Things...

It's truly the little things I ended up missing once I became a father.  These are a few things I believe every father eventually misses once they're gone:

• Using the bathroom with the door open
• Watching a television program in which no one sings
• Eating a meal without having to get up 15 times to fetch something for the free loader in the highchair
• Enjoying porn with the volume turned on

Thank goodness for days off and day care

What Happened?

The other day I found myself sitting on a bench in the mall, beside a semi-empty stroller.  I say semi empty, because there was a purse occupying in the spot that my son should have been in.  As I watched my wife carry him into a children's store, I caught a glimpse of myself and wondered...

What happened to my balls?

I Wasn't Prepared For This

Ninety-five percent of the time, my two year old is just the sweetest kid.  He is truly the most sincere, affectionate person I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.  During that time, it is a real honor to say that he is my son.  But during that other five percent, he just happens to be the biggest dick I've ever had the displeasure of being stuck in a room with.

Now while I know that's a terrible thing to say about a child, it's really the only adjective I can use to describe that type of person.  During that 5%, he does things that makes me think, "If you were a grown man, I'd be hitting you in the face about now".  Case in point, we were watching TV when a diaper change became required.  When I suggested we walk away from this important program about singing fish, he got up screamed at me and pushed me in the chest with both hands.  I'm sorry, but where I come from, that person's a dick. 

I've had this child yell at me when he doesn't get his way.  DICK!  He's flailed is arms when getting pick up against his will, and hit his mother in the face.  DICK!!  He first response to his father telling his no, was to pick up a plastic golf club and  contemplate attack.  DICK!!!  (Fortunately in the last instance he was smart enough to put the club down immediately after picking it up)

I knew children went through the terrible two's, but I thought it was screaming in public or refusing to eat veggies.  But I wasn't prepared for these fits of rage.  I wasn't prepared to have a child that can go from "Love You" to "Fuck You" at the drop of a hat.  I know the good outweighs the bad by 50 fold, and that these tantrums will not last forever, but come on.  He smacks me in the face, and all I do is put him in a corner? 

I really wasn't prepared for this...

Two Things...

..that every man needs endure their partner's pregnancy:

• High speed Internet connection
• Decent anti-virus software

These items will also help a marriage endure.

Random Thought...

My son has started wearing my wife's shoes, and carrying around her purse.  In addition he now throws me out of the room for the good night rituals.  Am I witnessing the birth of an Oedipal complex?

My Son Got Himself Stuck In A Hanger...

I don't know what to make of this.  I'm trying to figure out if this is just him being two, or if my son is just an idiot.  But my oh so adorable child, managed to get a hanger stuck around his waist for the 3rd time. 

I don't understand what goes through his head when he does this.  One would think, after the first time he would learn.  I can even see it happening a second time, before he thinks "Maybe, I shouldn't do that".  But not my boy, I stood there and watched him step into the hanger, bend down, and lift it up until it could not go up any further.

I then had to do my best to stifle my laughter as this poor child proclaimed "Stuck, Daddy, Stuck!".   It was quite the pitiful sight to see, but the smart ass in me couldn't waste this opportunity.  He stated again "Stuck, Daddy, Stuck!", to which I replied "I can see that".

The sight even got more pitiful, as he went on with "Help, Daddy, Help".  Which I dutifully said "No.  You got yourself in there, you get yourself out of it".  Then I could actually see the wheels turning in his head as he examined his predicament.  His solution, sit down and roll until it comes off, which even I wasn't a big enough ass to let him attempt.  So I told him to stand up, and walked him through "the process" of pushing a hanger down.

Now here's the interesting part.  I've seen this child have gems of ingenuity, that have genuinely impressed me.  I've watched him construct a ladder, to get a hold of food that was left out on the counter.  So what does it say when he gets stuck in a hanger? 

Guess time will tell if we're saving money for his college, or to put in a swimming pool

Welcome

I've recently found myself in the very common situation of being in the father of a toddler, while expecting my second child.  While this is by no means unusual, I'm presently filled with thoughts, that I'm pretty sure my wife is sick of hearing.  So this has become my outlet.

Please understand, I make no claims of actually knowing how to be a father.  Nor do I make any claims about being a person filled with good thoughts.  All I can say is I love my family, and I'm doing the best I can.