Sports...Meh

On Saturday, we took our three year old to a college basketball game. The thinking was that between the festive crowd, the loud noises, those cool flame throwers that ignite when somebody hits a three point shot, well, there’d be something for him to find, right?

Right. He loved walking up to the arena. Pointing to the cranes stretched high in the sky, perking up at the sound of heavy construction underway. Something's being built today, he looked to be thinking, his nose in the air and a squint in his eyes. I can smell it.

Technically this wasn’t his first basketball game. There was the Diaper Derby back in his younger months, but that was what, two years ago? Ancient history.

Now, buying tickets, I watched him bouncing around, ready for tip off. I remember going to the games as a kid, how the thrill of getting close to the action would had me hopping around like a Cameron Crazy.

Yeah, that’s not what was happening here. I think the kid just had to pee or something. As soon as I got our tickets and we walked into that dark arena and  it was like a balloon deflated. Some guy handed him one of those foam #1 hand thingies. He gave it a shrug and handed it over to me, his eyes lingering back on the sunny day as we went to find our seats.

The day wasn't a bust. There were some things he liked. He enjoyed the popcorn. He really liked the steps leading down to the court. He watched maybe a possession or two of basketball. Then the going got....difficult.

Here’s the deal. I don’t mind if my kid doesn’t like sports. To be honest, getting older and becoming a dad, I don’t have the same overzealous enthusiasm of my younger years. Besides, he’s three. He has plenty of time to change his mind, if he chooses.

My kid is much more interested in what makes something work or how it was built than watching some guys put a ball in a basket. Oh my God. That sounded just like my wife.

And this from a guy whose weekends used to be marathons of football or basketball games. Playoff time meant that I was not taking calls. What? You broke your leg? Okay, commercial break is over. I’m going to have to call you back.

From the time I could walk I loved going to the gym. The band playing, the pulse of the crowd, the lights and atmosphere. My son today? Wow, look at these fold up seats. You put them down and they swing right back up again. Amazing. I just gotta take a look-see how they do that!

We made it to halftime. And only because the place wasn’t quite half full and there was plenty of roaming room. We did some laps around the gym, checking out those straw dispensers and shouting Naughty! at every, single, napkin or bottle cap on the floor.

On our way out, climbing up from the court, the announcer was going wild. Someone hit a three. I didn’t even turn back, I had a grubby little hand in my own, a wife and kid who wanted to get outside and into the sunshine. And maybe they were on to something. Coming out of the dark gym, it was bright and had warmed up nicely. I took a big breath of fresh air, then my son saw a golf cart and that  became a thing.

We’ll try again at four, or five, or whenever he actually asks to go to a game. But I won’t hold my breath. This is a kid who’d rather cut the grass on the football field than watch the big guys collide, (again, sounding like my wife right there, ugh). But I have a feeling that my son just isn’t a big sports fan. He’d rather go to a Consumer Reports field testing facility.

Do they offer season tickets?

The Slide...

“Go away Daddy.”

Not only is it rude, it hurts some. I slump off to the darkness, resigned to eat my cereal alone. My kid welcomes his mother to the table for breakfast. She asks why he doesn’t want me around.

Something about elephants. I laugh, overplaying my hand. He shoots me daggers when I try to sneak back in, sweeping his hand towards my chair.

“No.”

We remind him to use his manners.

“No thank you.”

Okay, that backfired. But trying to reason with a two-year-old can be like trying to reason with a two-year-old. Trust me, I’ve tried. But this morning he was particularly serious. The kid means business.

Of course I know that the pendulum swings to and fro, that tonight it might be me who he wants. But that doesn’t make the bitter pill of rejection any easier to swallow.

And he has been a little under the weather recently, so maybe he’s only trying to keep me well. Yeah, I think that’s it. The little booger is so worried about getting me sick that he’s sacrificing being around me in an effort to keep me from getting sick. I like it. Thanks son.

Sure, he has that connection with his mom, you know, being that he used to live in there and all. But I’ve pushed that kid over fifty miles on that plastic John Deere mower, so that should count for something, right?

Oh but what's the use with excuses. It’s not just at home where I’m getting shunned. Yesterday I took the little fella out to Grandma and Papa’s house. I’d only just gotten him out of the car when my own flesh and blood bailed on me, basically leaping out of my arms and towards the riding mower waiting for him out in the yard. And to make matters worse, Papa had gone and put a horn on the tractor for effect. Hear that? That’s the sound of me free-falling down the favorite people list.

Poor Dad.

Maybe I’ll take up a hobby. Going to need to do something with all this free time on my hands….sigh…

Life Now

The other night I found myself involved in a fierce freestyle battle, taking on challenger after challenger and working my way through the ranks with searing metaphors and complicated rhymes. Familiar faces turned up in the crowd. Old friends. From a lifetime ago. The atmosphere was dark and smoky, and in a room full of roughnecks, it seemed I was coming out on top. I looked to my next challenger…someone tapped my shoulder.

“Daddy. Hey daddy. Daddy.”

I opened my eyes and saw that cute little face. His eyes intent. Reality called. It was 7:03 on Sunday morning.

Yes, it was a dream. But the kid in the bed. He was real.

We recently took the front cover of his crib off as he’d discovered that he can climb out. Now, we hear the pitter patter of footsteps in the wee hours of the night. And our little critter climbs up and inserts himself between his mom and me.

The day to day battles of toddler-dom are upon us. At tunes I have to remind myself to be a good parent.  Because yes, I’ll admit it, sometimes I’m selfish. Like when I want to run into Home Depot and grab something. Just in and out.

But there is no running anymore. The trip involves strapping in my kid, carrying him into the store, spending a half hour to an hour (seriously) while he plays on the mowers. Then I have to navigate what I’m searching for with either holding him or explaining that yes, we can go ride the mowers again. After that I have to get him back in the car and strap him in again.

Sure I could leave him with Mom and go get it done faster. But I work all week, so I try to get the most out of my weekends.

On the other hand it’s fun taking him with me. Sure he might lose his sh!% every now and then, but otherwise he’s a great little helper and those mowers, I hop on one too and we might as well be at the park. So I guess it’s all what you make of it.

He’s a two and a half. He throws fits. This is part of the deal. We still have fun. At home I push him around on his tractor, chuckling at the things he says and wondering where he comes up with this stuff.

We walk, we swing, we ride. He might pull, kick, scream, laugh, cry, sulk, brood, smile, sing, cheer, and then give me a wet sloppy kiss on the mouth. Then we get up and do it all again.

It’s exhausting. It’s wonderful. It’s life as I know it.

No Big Deal

Yesterday I was out in the backyard with my son. He was pushing around the big mower, making the engine noises, while I just watched him go. It was warm out, and upstairs I could hear my wife clinking around in the kitchen. The dog was freshly walked and just kind of hanging out.

It sounds like nothing. But it’s my life and I love it.

Inside, the television was only a button click away from announcing just how scary the big bad world is. The computer was booted up and ready to let me know about the newest trends and fads and what people I haven’t seen since high school were eating for dinner. But out back, my son had found a caterpillar.

He squatted. I love the kid squat, his dirty knees spread apart and his head bowed, he pointed to the furry little guy wiggling across a rock. Then he looked up to me with that great big smile.

“Caterpillar.”

“That’s right.”

And that was it. We pushed the mower around some more, examined some sticks, played with the hose, and then it was time for dinner. Later that night as I put him to bed he reminded me that he had pushed the mower all by himself. Because what didn’t seem like anything special to me, was a pretty big deal to him.

Efforts

Anyone who’s ever read one of my post can tell you that I’m no expert on parenting. Not even close. I don’t claim to be better than other parents out there, nor—as my wife could attest—do I have superior judgment skills. But where I come up short I hope to make up for with my efforts.

I will always make an effort.

We’ve recently gotten a membership to a local children’s museum. And it’s there that I’ve had a chance to witness all sorts of parenting first hand. And yes I watch. I watch a lot.

Sometimes it’s funny what you see. And sometimes it’s a little sad.

People, we’re at a children’s museum, not a bar or a club or even at the mall. There is absolutely no reason to act cool and aloof, you’re kid doesn’t get it.

Guys, parks and playgrounds are a free excuse to climb, slide, jump, giggle, and have at it. Nobody cares. And besides me, I doubt anyone is looking. So go ahead and stop strutting. It must get old anyway, that I’m too cool for the world stroll. It’s exhausting just to watch.

Hey, at least he's trying...

Moms. I get it if you’re bored or frustrated. You’re probably tired of waiting on that slowpoke husband of yours. But how about pretending that you’re having an, at least okay time. Just for a bit, right?

It’s incredible how many parents bring their children to a place to have fun then look like they’re waiting to get drilled in the mouth at the dentist office. And sure maybe I caught some of these people in a bad moment. Maybe that important phone call/text just happened to be a family crisis. In that case I’m completely in the wrong. But to the rest of you, go get dirty.

Maybe I just have unrealistic expectations. My dad made some of his own really bad parenting decisions—many  But you know what, he was there, right by my side. (Well, sometimes far ahead of me and yelling back over his shoulder for me to get moving because the park ranger was chasing us for riding mini-bikes in the park). But when it came to effort, he gave it his all.

He always had time for me, whether we were in a flimsy raft in a flooded creek or lighting probably-aren’t-legal fireworks purchased from a guy in a van known only as “Roach” at the flea market. We were always together. And to me that’s more important than being perfect, in fact the mistakes are most of the fun.

And that’s what I want to give my kid. No, not fireworks, but the effort. I don’t know how many times I’ve turned my back for a second and he’s slipped. But I’m not going to lose a how-hard-are-you-trying? Contest, because I’m trying hard, and if I look like a goof in the process then so be it.

Oopsie!

Recently my son found my wife's childhood Cabbage Patch Kid and took to cuddling it and carrying it around the house. Now, as our neigbors could tell you, he's pretty comfortable with himself, and I'm not the kind of dad who would worry about my son playing with dolls so we thought it was cute. Well, until... 

A few days ago I was changing his diaper and all hell is breaking loose. It was a mess, and I had to do something. He was flailing around like one of those used car lot balloons and I just knew I’m going to end up with poop on my hands or on him or both. Just the other night I lost focus and he pooped on the floor. But back to the trenches, in a blur of urine and tears, I picked up this thing, this naked doll, just to distract him, anthything to help me survive. So I go to pick it up and when I did I accidently bumped its little plastic head against the bed rail.

Thump.

Simon stops flailing and starts giggling. I giggle too, and then—being the mature adult that I am—I repeat the head bump, only this time putting a little muscle into it.

Thump Thump!

More giggling. Mom is a safe distance away in the kitchen. I fix the diaper up on Simon and then add a few sound effects to the head bumping. The next thing I know we’re beating the stuffing out of that doll and laughing hysterically.

No harm no foul, right?

Wrong. Because the very next day we’re on the floor playing and Simon eyes the doll. This time Mom’s in the room, getting caught up on school work. Simon takes the doll, flashes me a little smile and then starts thumping the baby’s little head against the wall.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

Then a picture falls on the floor and I hop up and make sure everyone’s okay. My wife looked at me and said, "I wonder where he got that idea?"

I shrugged, because he’s too little to have friends down the street who I can blame it on and I was a little too stunned for words.

The moral of this lesson is that I really need to watch my mouth and my actions around this little sponge of ours. 

Day Two...

On day two I get started on the entranceway, ripping up the diarrhea colored school tiles and getting ready to paint the concrete floor. We’ve done so much with this old house, but it seems like there’s still so much left to do.

Oh, well, I snag a beer from the fridge and get cracking, chipping away at the tiles and breathing the sweet, tangy taste of asbestos.

The dogs are confused. There’s loud music, no kid, no wife. Just sweat, beer and some manly grunting that may or may not sound like a little old lady crying.

I’m hauling things out of the sunroom to the carport, and I can just feel the testosterone in air. This place is like a frat house. A frat house with singing toys and a high chair and aww…he left his little shoes. They’re so cute in my hands. I miss his little feet, the little chubby rolls on his arms and legs.
I hear a voice in my head, it's yelling. "Snap out of it you pansy!"

Okay, okay, I’ve got my shop vac out. I stare at it, overturned on the floor. My son would be so jealous, he has a thing for vacuum cleaners, the kid is obsessed. Another pang of guilt ripples through my stomach, or that could be the tacos. Either way, I miss that kid.

I miss him holding the water bottle in my mouth while I lay down on the kitchen floor. (long story, but sure gets a kick out of enhanced interrogation).

I miss those little morning chats with himself when he wakes up in the morning.

I miss…you know what, I’m not doing this. "Man up dammit!"

Smacking myself silly, i pull myself together. 

Back to work…

Day One...

My wife and son, along with my wife's best friend and her kids, have piled into a mini van and hit the road for their annual trip to North Country. For those keeping score, that's two women, a seven year old, a three year old, and a year and a half year old. I will hang back and retain my sanity hold the fort down.

Not to worry, I have a list of projects to complete and some television to catch up on, and I’m wasting no time getting started. But first, supplies.

I hit up Walmart where I buy a family size box of Apple Jacks. I like Apple Jacks because they’re nutritional (hence the Apple), and yet still delicious. It’s a cereal that straddles the line between healthy and tasty and at 14 months shy of 40, I feel an air of maturity as I pass up the Cocoa Pebbles. I grab milk and beer and I head for the register, proud of myself for just getting the necessities.

Back at the house, I begin project number one, polishing up my son’s floors. I get a coat of polyurethane down and open the windows, thinking, maybe I should have done that in a different order. But I wanted to get this done first so that any fumes would be clear before my son was back. Hopefully those flying elephants will be gone by then as well.

With the dogs walked, the shopping done, and the first coat of poly on the floors, I take a hiatus from the whirlwind of productivity that is swirling throughout the house with the fumes. Time for a movie. This is 40 (I’m noticing a theme here). When the movie came out, I remember thinking that I wanted to see it. Now, two years later, with four servings of Apple Jacks crammed into my bowl; I decide to do just that.

Settling in with the dogs, it seems I've forgotten just how long movies are, and I’m maybe a half hour in when I remember that I should water the plants. After all, I wouldn't want my wife to come home to find all of her flowers wilting and starved, so I pause the move, water the garden and get sidetracked when I think of how much my son loves the hose. Then I return to the movie.

This is strange. I’m so used to my evening routine with the fam. Play, his dinner, play, our dinner, play, bath, scream bloody murder, bed. Repeat. Now I’m lost without it, it’s just…..shouldn’t I be enjoying this more? Usually, I’m dreaming of spare time and now I have a block of it, all of the silence I could wish for....and it’s weird.

But seriously, how did I used to sit down for an entire movie? Before the kid, my wife and I would watch marathons of tv shows and movies. But now my brain is just not used to sitting and I can't shut it down. I feel this nagging need to be, *gulp*, productive. Thanks a lot, honey...

The movie is funny, but I don’t finish it, I have all week. Tomorrow, I’m planning to paint the entrance way, so maybe I can catch the rest of it while the paint dries.  

I'll keep you posted.

Take A Vacation....From Your Problems....

That's a line from What About Bob. The 1991 Bill Murray movie I still love to this day. My wife teasingly calls me Bob, because well, I guess I can be a little "special". And I didn't help my case when I mentioned that I kinda wanted to find my doctor's facebook page. (Just to say hi of course).

But enough about me. The dog days of summer have begun, and for my wife and son, this means whimsical mornings loafing around the house followed by wet and wild afternoons at the pool. Toss in a nap somewhere in between and you have yourself quite the day.

Being a teacher, summer for my wife eases in without deadlines and lesson plans. It’s a glorious time of year, where Sunday evenings unwind with the crickets and fireflies.

With summer comes a change in my wife, and it's amazing to watch her transformation as school ends. Not that she's, uh, not always lovely and all, or doesn't care about the children. And as much as the children are the future, the future can wear you down over the course of a school year.

But just as soon as that last day of school is over, it's all about relaxation. All of that end of the school year stress just melts off of her shoulders and slides down her back. At least until that one random morning in August when she will leap out of bed with the realization that it’s all about to crank up again.

But the living is easy for now. Without daycare, we can all sleep in for a few months, and my wife can pretend that she doesn't have a job while my son, well, he can just resume being a maniac.

Summers are interesting at my house though. It’s not all R&R. That's because my wife's idea of relaxing usually involves power tools, I never know when I’ll come home to a construction site. Take yesterday, the very first freaking day of summer vacation, when I came home and found boxes of old tiles from where she’d ripped up in the sunroom. She’ll look at me with an innocent smile, the errant swipes of paint on her arms and legs, my kid’s hair with some combination of yogurt and oatmeal spiking his hair, making him look all mug shot crazy.



The Fam

So that’s summer for me, sure it's technically spring, but I'm already creeping down the street after a day at work, waiting to see a dust cloud hovering over my house, never quite knowing just what I’ll find. Enjoy it teachers, you've earned it. Here's to the crazy days of summer, and to my kid being home with his Mom all day. Oh the trouble they'll find!

The Backup Plan...

So we're still on this monkey thing.  And my son is really, really attached to his stuffed monkey. To the point of separation anxiety. The other night he tried to bring him along for his bath and a full on meltdown ensued. Crying in the tub is no fun, I mean, you can't even wipe your face. But a soggy monkey is no fun either.

My son marches around the house, barking and talking to this thing like a pet. And not far behind them is our husky, stalking, waiting for my son to drop the monkey so he can savor the sweet fuzzy delicacy he loves so much.

But we're one step ahead. Because, really, we're geniuses, and where other parents fail, my wife and I have taken preemptive steps to ensure that my son will never miss a beat.

We bought a backup monkey.

Yes, I know, so simple.  Yet, so cunning.  So as Mason,  crouches and tracks his prey, licking his chops and patiently biding his time, we've prepared.

What's that old story? About the grasshopper and the tortoise? Or maybe it was a beetle, I don't know, but that's us, we're beetles. And in the meantime I’ve been good about remembering to keep Real Patrick off the floor out of reach of danger, but just in case, we can go to the bullpen.

It was my wife’s quick thinking really. After all, she came home with him. Women are good about that stuff. But, like all great plans, there are a few kinks to work out. Like for example, #2’s hiding spot. I wasn’t thinking the other day when I slid open Simon’s closet door and he got a good peek at the clone lying in wait. We scurried out of there, and I hoped it didn't mess with his head too bad stuffed Real Patrick into his arms. Hopefully he can just chalk it up to a good milk drunk.

And there may be uh, a few other bumps in the road. Real Patrick smells like kid drool and old bananas, a hint of oatmeal, some yogurt. Maybe a spot of, well you know, sometimes he’s there for a diaper change, but all of that can be arranged.

So there you have it, two very bright parents looking ahead. No hitches in this plan. So if one little monkey falls off the bed....well, you get the idea.

Patrick The Monkey

Like most kids, my son loves monkeys. He's got monkeys on his clothes, monkeys in his books, monkey bath toys. He even has his own stuffed monkey, which to my chagrin is named Patrick (more on that in a second). It's funny because since he was born we've been offering up all sorts of sacrificial stuffed animals, wondering which one he’d bond with. Okay, that sounds dramatic, but we gave him all sorts of animals and he never cared one way or another. Then one day at the store with his mom she said he just latched onto this monkey and wouldn't let go. Since then they've been inseparable. Which is fine, but…

Well, a few weeks ago we drove out to the Safari Park for Mother’s Day. We had a great time, all three of us, but there was one moment in particular that stands out. Oh, you mean like a great family bonding moment, you ask?

Not exactly.

We were passing by the monkey cage, and I was pretty excited because what’s more fun than a bunch of monkey’s swinging around a giant cage? If you’d asked me just before we arrived at the monkey cage, I would have said nothing at all, nothing beats monkeys swinging around in cages.

So there we were, with a few other families having a Q & A with one of the staff members.  I crouched down to Simon, pointing and laughing at the monkeys doing their thing. His little face lit up and I felt like a great dad because he was getting a kick out of the whole deal while I made funnies and teased, cracking jokes to the other adults about how my kid was kind of a monkey himself at this point in his life.

Being such a comedian, I didn’t notice that one of the monkeys, a Mini-Kong sort named Patrick, was all sorts of worked up. Maybe he didn't like my material, because he started barking and swaying, clutching the cage and showing off a fine set of pearly whites. The staff member leaned towards us, all smiles and professionalism, telling me that uh, well, he was upset with me.

We find that Patrick doesn’t like certain men.

I laughed, smacking my knee. Good stuff, that's rich, lady. But then I looked at my wife and noticed everyone staring at me. And then, as if he hadn't gotten his point across, this guy starts beating his chest, snarling and glaring directly at me. He was really making a scene, hooting and hollering, doing everything short of pointing and challenging me to a loser leave town match. I looked back to the worker.

Oh, you mean men as in me?

Very good,  she nodded. I stood up, blushing and took a few steps back. Patrick grasped his cage and continued barking while my son mimicked him.

 Hoo Hoo Haw Haw. Eek Eeeek Eeeek!!!

Great, my son was literally and figuratively looking up to a monkey. Everyone stared right at me. I’m not the kind of guy who likes having enemies. I like to be liked. I whispered to my wife, I wonder why he doesn’t like me?

My wife put a finger to her chin in thought. Hmm, tall and gangly, with disproportionally long arms….I don’t know why he doesn’t like Daddy, Simon…

With that, we turned and walked, my kid still mimicking his new best friend, upset and confused with why we were leaving the monkeys. Meanwhile, Patrick continued to go ape sh---uh berserk until I was out of sight, leaving the crowd pointing and talking about the guy the monkey didn’t like.

We moved on to the giraffes, where I had much better luck.

So now Simon’s little stuffed monkey has been named Patrick, as a reminder of some closed minded monkey who felt threatened. Now sure, the flip side is that how would you feel if you lived in a cage and people gawked at you all day. Well that's not my fault now is it, Patrick. You know, this has me thinking, I need to make another trip up to that park for a heart to heart with old Patrick. I mean, surely there must be some way we can work out our differences, right?

Our Toddler

Last Friday, my wife and I both took a half day off from work and enjoyed a rare lunchtime date. It was nice, eating without dogs and kids, we hadn’t been out to eat, just the two of us, in months. Afterwards we set off to pick up our son. Arriving at his sitter’s house, I walked around to the back where I found him sitting with a circle of 2 and three year olds, playing with blocks. I stopped and watched him before getting to the door. His face held a look of concentration, eyeing the blocks with one in his hand, he sat still, with the other kids. He looked so….grown up.

Mr. Big

I was happy and proud, sitting there with the bigger kids, but at the same time it was kind of sad. Like we’d moved on to the next stage, the one I’d looked so forward to since the day he was born.

Back then I couldn’t wait until he was old enough to tag along and do stuff. I'm the type of person that can never enjoy a moment because I'm thinking about what's next. But with this, I can wait. This is painfully different. I’m not ready for these rapid changes. It's fun and all, but there's no rewind button. I'll never have today back, only the memory.

And that's what's crazy about this parenting thing. Every day there’s something new. A sound or a gesture. He understands so much. He plays by himself, his little brain computing and organizing in it’s own little way. He runs, he laughs, and he sleeps. He’s so much fun to be around, uh, for the most part. Don't get me wrong, it's not all roses, this dude can throw an epic fit.

But that's okay, it's all age appropriate, as my wife says. Unlike my love of Cocoa Puffs which is apparently not age appropriate. 

Another age appropriate change is how he's now noticing everything around him. The other night he clung to me when it was bath time. He clung to me, his thumb stuck firmly in his mouth. It's what my wife has dubbed, a huggle. A huggle is part hug, part snuggle, or a mini cuddle that usually comes in handy after a fall or bump—just enough to get him through the moment and then he’s off, back at it again. It sucks that huggles are age appropriate for him and not me, right? Dad, next time I see you, you're getting a damn huggle.

But back to my kid in the window. When he saw me and his face lit up, especially when he also noticed that Mom was right behind me. Then it was nearly too much for him to handle. He placed a chubby wrist on the floor, propped himself up, and made a dash for the door in an overloaded state of euphoria. Inside, I scooped him up, squeezing and him tight while kissing his chubby cheeks. That moment was great. He was so happy and little and perfect. Now if time will just slow down a little bit, everything will be alright.

The Early Birds...

At some point over the years, as I aged and matured and acquired a taste for vegetables, I started waking up earlier and earlier in the morning.  Even before we had a baby the writing was on the wall. In fact, I think we only had a kid so that we'd have an excuse not to go out on the weekends.

But last Sunday things got a little ridiculous. We were up before seven like always, I was in the living room, sipping coffee when, I noticed some dog hair on the couch. And then even more underneath the couch. Suddenly I was up, ready to take on the day. My wife’s face lit up as I dragged in the vacuum (trust me, I know how lame this sounds) and just like that we were cleaning. Like, really cleaning. I lifted the couch up and she vacuumed underneath it.

But that wasn’t all. Our son got in on the action, and then my wife appeared with the mop, all excited and crazy eyed. I moved some plants outside. Things got out of control. We were a pot of coffee short of grabbing the sledge hammer and opening up the wall. Then we took a deep breath.

It was 7:30 AM

While the rest of the neighborhood slept peacefully, our living room was turned upside down while our son yelled in attempt to mimic the sound of the vacuum cleaner, a very high pitched, ear piercing vacuum cleaner.

I never imagined such circumstances. I plant things. I buy stain. Thinking about buying a rain barrel really gets my juices flowing. Our house rises with the sun, lunchtime often feels like suppertime, and by evening time, the morning seems like yesterday. We start off strong, all of us, but after dinner, by 8 o’clock our house starts gearing down. You can feel it. Even the dogs take their spots, and a yawning competition ensues.

Boring? Sure, for some. But I like things the way they are. There was a time when I would go to bed at 6am, sometimes not at all. I was young and restless and blah blah blah. I’d sleep until noon and do it all again. These days if I want to see the sunrise, I don’t have to stay up for it. I can just go outside and watch it with my family.

 

 

 

Toyland...

My kid. He has a lot of toys.  I mean a lot.  Singing toys, dancing toys, reading toys, and teaching toys. He’s got toys that whistle and toys that roll.  He's got toys that serve no purpose other than to start singing in the middle of the night and creep me out.

And every toy uses a different size battery.

And 99% of these toys have been given us. I say us because old Bert & Ernie there are mine. That's right, mine. They sit on my dresser because they mean nothing to my kid. One day, sure, after he's put in his due and watched a few hour of Sesame Street, then he'll earn old B and E, but now? No way, they'd be chew toys in seconds.

But back to this toy windfall, Simon's older cousin has been the source of most of the hand me downs, but between friends and family and even neighbors, his collection is growing daily.  And it's not just toys, even our swing set is second hand.

Look, I'm not complaining, quite the opposite really. I’m thankful for each and every one of them. Each new toy sings a new tune and that is a much welcomed change in my household. I understand that my kid can't appreciate the Beastie Boys just yet, but there are only so many versions of Wheels On the Bus that can be stomached before I get blurred vision and dizziness.

But alas, the other day our neighbors crossed the street armed with tubs of toys as they marched towards our house. And once again, I’m not complaining.  I peeked from the blinds as they advanced over our lawn and then I looked around and wondered where all this stuff was going.  It’s taken over the living room, and his bedroom is overflowing with enough Chinese plastic to choke a landfill.  Lucky for me, my niece just had a kid, and man, do I have some stuff for him.

Because it seems that the imports are coming faster than the exports. We have a singing turtle, a singing dog, a singing dinosaur, and a singing star. I even had to tell the neighbors that we already had the barn and racetrack they were bringing over.

I felt like the bouncer at a nightclub.

Yeah, we got that, got this, and we’re all set on chickens riding a tractor. We are accepting guitar-playing Alligators and hula hooping dragons.  Okay, thanks for coming…bye.

See?

So I usually end up accept whatever comes our way. And the world seems determined  to spoil my kid (or give him an acute case of ADHD), all I can do is open my arms and accept the windfall.  And buy some more batteries....

 

Steppin'...

Last night, my kid took five or maybe even six consecutive steps.  I almost missed it, I was glued to the computer following a facebook feed for the birth of a cousin (Welcome Baby Kade!) Anyway, I peeled my lagging parent eyes away from the screen and caught him mid wobble. Oh the distractions...

His progression has been like a time lapse of evolution. Just a year ago our little larvae was just a blob, a pile of bones who couldn’t support his own head. Then the little limbs began wiggling and suddenly he was scooching around, which led to crawling.  Since then he’s been like one of the dogs, even howling and barking with Mason.  He’s got his own chew toys.  Teething toys. But no leash yet.

But now.  Man oh man we’re entering the upright stage.  This final stage brings yet more worry to a still frazzled and anxiety riddled, but learning to cope Daddy.  This whole walking thing leads to the running thing, providing me a whole new world of worry.  It’s the last thing human’s do, excluding bingo.  But unless I spot wings budding on his back—which would explain the flapping—he’ll be a full blown little person. Then what, space camp?

He already gets into everything, but toss in the risk of a face plant and you’ve got one wreck of a dad.. I’ve been walking for nearly forty years and I still have trouble. No gum please…

So we hit another milestone. The time does indeed fly.  Well, maybe not fly when he’s up all night screaming or sick, but it’s hard to believe that this guy is on the verge of walking it out.  I was just holding him at the hospital, scared to death that I’d drop him.  Now he’s bubbling with personality, laughing at my corny dad jokes and coming up with a few of his own.  And the beat marches on…

Good Mood Dude

We are fortunate to have one happy baby on our hands.  Minutes after he wakes up he's cooing and giggling, eyes wide and alert as he takes in his surroundings.  He’s quick with a smile and once he gets going, he's a handfull to say the least.

Last weekend are little guy came down with his first fever.  It began on Friday evening with a pair of tired, glazed over eyes, continuing into the night when his forehead ran hot and he came up with some new gurgling noises that freaked dad out just a bit.  On Saturday the fever spiked, and he spent the day snoozing with mom, eating little and catching a few restless naps.  He was miserable so we were miserable.

Having a sick child, I realized just how lucky we are to have a healthy child.  I felt helpless as he cried, looking to me with glossy eyes for help. Neither of us slept much throughout the night, wishing there was more I could do.  His fever never got to dangerous levels, but it was more than enough for me.

Sunday the fever broke and although there were still some coughs and sniffles, our delightful guy was making appearances, flapping and bouncing as he was ready to go. 

He's a trooper, I'll give him that.  Throughout it all he still remained upbeat, flashing tired smiles as he peeked through the haze of sickness, as though to tell us, I’m alright guys, just a little cold.  (He doesn’t get that from me, that’s for sure).

Being sick is no fun but watching helplessly as my son was sick was nearly unbearable.  I’m beginning to rethink this whole boy in the bubble thing…

His Smile...

In today's world of digital media it seems that nothing goes uncovered.  The more outrageous and deplorable acts take the headlines, and it can be easy to lose faith in our fellow man as each day these stories are painfully covered from all angles until the next one comes along.

But there's still good news to be found out there, and I have a breaking story I'd like to announce:  We have a smiling baby...

There’s not much I won’t do to earn that smile.  Baby talk, funny faces, goofy dances...he really likes when we hit mailboxes with the car….Don't tell mom. I’ll go to great lengths for a grin. Off key singing will do the trick, bicycle legs can get the job done as well.  And if that’s not working I’m not above going straight for the belly tickles, always a smile-getter.

That smile is the best thing going in my life and it's all I need to lift my spirits and make it all worthwhile...that and his mother of course. Throw in a giggle and I’m set for the week. 

I’m a sucker for that smile.

But it also causes a dilemma for me.  As a new dad comes a newfound worry and stress that I've never before experienced. I've become awfully soft, as I know that someday he’ll lose the innocence in that sweet little smile (no, not that innocence).  There’s pain and hardship in the world, and it will find him one day whether I like it or not.  I know, man up, right?  Grab some chewing tobacco and teach that boy how to fend for himself.  

After a good tickle fight of course...

Let The Good Times Roll...

These days I’m starting to feel like a real parent.  Routines are being established as we use what works and scrap the rest along with the leaky diapers. The little guy is doing his part to help out, voicing his opinion with shrieks and shrills that we have learned to interpret as yays or nays.

He’s alert and wild at times, with feet that kick like a pint sized ninja and arms that flap like wings.  And when he’s hungry, watch out, the world will hear about it.

But eating can be tricky, he gets distracted by all of the jaw-dropping things going on around him.  There’s that AMAZING picture of the dog on the wall.  And let’s take a moment to drool over that captivating lamp on the end table.  His eyes dart around the room, focusing on any and everything but the task at hand.  He’s a busy little guy and often doesn’t always have time to stare at Daddy.  But when I do grab his attention it makes for a great moment.  Like the other day when I came to rescue him from his swing he gave me a great big smile that said,

“Boy am I glad to see you!”

He’s already interacting with us on a regular basis.  He laughs when I tickle him and follows me with his eyes as I dance around the room like an idiot. He’s very much into mom’s rendition of the itsy bitsy spider song.  His face lights up as he follows along with mounting anticipation as the clouds break and the drama unfolds... 

“Out comes the sun….”

“Wow!”  His face screams, and I try to imagine what’s going through his little head, maybe something like:  “That spider sure has some resolve.  I mean to get washed out like that you would think he’d give up.  But nooo way, as sure as the sun comes out he’s back at it again!“

It’s the coolest thing he’s ever seen. He watches her with the intensity of a professional wrestler drinking a monster energy drink.  I mean, he’s really into it. It’s his watershed moment.  His moon landing, his Ali-Frazier, his Oj in the white Bronco, his Honey Boo Boo season finale. His--well you get the picture, he really likes it.

He’s a lot of work, but a lot of fun these days. Just watching our weight gaining, smiling, gurgling, laughing, kicking and flailing bundle of activity can be exhausting.  And as his personality begins to emerge I'm predicting some lively times down the road.

And I’m doing my part, being proactive as ever.  When mom’s not around, and he begins to coo and call, I help him along with the sounds of his first word: DAD-DY.