Foundation...

With two dogs and a 15 month old kid, it goes without saying that my house is neither quiet nor neat. Barks, shrieks, squeals, laughter, crying and all other sorts of noises go bump in the night, and then things get really lively in the morning. But the mess and noise and dog hair doesn’t bother me. I’m a natural mess maker and well, come to think of it, I don’t always use my indoor voice either.

But when company arrives, my wife and I try to act normal, even if the dogs and the kid don’t want to play along. Such was the case on Friday, when an inspector arrived to look at waterproofing our unfinished basement.

He arrived at 5:15, just when things are really getting festive at our house. The dogs expect a walk, the kid expects a snack, and my wife expected her hair to fall out after a week of SOL testing.

Enter inspector guy.

We introduced ourselves and took a walk around the perimeter of the house, giving my wife some time to get the little one situated. I’d already been proactive, placing Mason, our neurotic husky, out back, and left Bruce, our well behaved lab, our to greet our guest.  Jerry obliged, scratching Bruce on the chin as we entered the house.  He was a nice guy, real laid back, which would come in handy when Bruce licked him in the face.

Also a family man, Jerry waved off our apologies for the FEMA like conditions of our house after a full workweek. After checking some cracks upstairs, we all trudged downstairs. Everybody.  Man, woman, child and dog. I was impressed, my wife usually leaves the unfinished basement to me and the spiders and my projection television and my sports posters that may or may not have at one time hung up in my living room.

Jerry pointed out trouble spots and took some measurements. Up until that point, I’d always loved our large, spacious, unfinished basement. But as he explained the finer points of foundation repair and waterproofing, instead of paying attention I could only think how much money this large basement was going to cost to fix, and then one day, finish.

We opened up the backdoor and Mason was ready to pounce, weaseling his way inside, greeting Jerry with a furious round of sniffing and jumping. Jerry didn’t seem to mind though, getting through his inspection with professionalism and humor. At least he tried.

“So, uh, you can understand that when a house is built, it…”

He retracted his tape measure and stared at the wall, perplexed. I looked at my wife and then back to the dumbfounded estimator. I spun around, feeling old Lionel’s stare on the back of my neck. My wife explained to him that she used to have a crush on the Endless Love singer and a friend who worked in a record store... so uh, what were you saying?

A smirk broke across his face, as if to say what kind of man would put a 40" by 40" cardboard cutout of Lionel Richie with a speech bubble that reads, Hello, is it me you’re looking for? in his man cave?

Me Jerry, I would. I did.

Back to work. Upstairs, Jerry showed us a video, answered some questions and then turned the screen to me like a high stakes poker game as he revealed the price for waterproofing.

Ouch. But we knew it wouldn’t be cheap. My wife, still frazzled from her work, week disappeared into the kitchen only to return with a glass of wine. I swear, she could have her own sitcom.

Then it was another video. I my hands in front of my face like how my sister used to watch scary movies, peeking through my fingers all punch drunk and numb, reeling from the dizzying numbers he’d shown me earlier. Simon was unfazed, stripped down to his diaper, eating spaghetti while laughing and pointing at Jerry who played along.

Then the video stopped and we got the full estimate. My wife took a sip of her wine. I thought about life with one kidney. Mason jumped up on the table to eat some dinner.

We thanked Jerry for his time, letting him get back to his family. It was working on seven o’clock, and I’d seen enough videos and numbers for a lifetime. We told him we’d be in touch, he said goodbye and made his escape with unanswered questions about Lionel Richie and my manhood.

So that’s it. Bad news? Yeah, but then again we have our health and each other.  Oh yeah and that lovable baby of ours. I guess this is the part where I make a cheesy metaphor about the foundation of our house and love. But I'm not going to do that. 

Instead, I'll use it to point out how sometimes you don’t know how odd, peculiar, strange, freakish, great your family is until your sitting at your dinner table with a stranger, watching instructional videos on his computer while your shirtless, marinara-stained son is barking like a dog and your frazzled wife is sipping wine. Only then can you fully appreciate what you’ve done with your life. And I must have done something right.

Sweetie

On the trails I came across this large family.  Let's see, there was Mom, Dad, big brother, little brother, little sister, and two puppies.  It was a mess.  This platoon moved at the blinding pace of maybe 10 yards per hour, the parents’ heads swiveling, on the look out for wayward kids lagging behind the posse, everyone talking at the same time, answering questions and saying things like, Don't eat that! No, not in the creek!  No throwing rocks, and the like.



Sweetie?

I had my two dogs, roaming around off leash like a responsible pet owner, and as my older more well behaved dog introduced himself, sniffing and circling, the oldest child kept a watchful eye out for danger.  But then came Mason, my husky mix, galloping towards this tentative situation with all of the finesse of a steam engine.  The boys, maybe 6 and 4, panicked, their dogs were puppies after all.  I assured them that Mason was friendly and that his growling was only his way of playing.  I’m a dad now, and I have a soft spot for kids, especially younger ones scared for their dogs.



Leashes tangled as we tried to coral our respective pets.  I was able to get a hand on Mason’s collar—no small feat, and then the dad went to wrangle up the puppy, calling after him, or in this case….her. Sweetie, Sweetie, come here Sweetie! 

 

I spun around, perhaps a little too quickly, at the guy calling for….Sweetie, the dog.  I tried not to make a big deal out of the situation, no one else seemed to pay it any mind.  But we all know that little girl named that dog and I left thankful that I have a boy.  I came away from that quick encounter thinking about that guy.  What a good Dad, unashamed and proud to have a dog named Sweetie.  I can picture him taking his fair share of ribbing when the guys come over to watch the ball game.  "Hang on guys, I gotta let Sweetie out to potty."

 

I give him all the credit in the world, and I hope that dog grows up to be an 80lb beast who sleeps beside that little girls bed and dares anyone to say anything about his name.  Or maybe I'm looking just a little too far into this....

Fatherly Behavior...

On a recent walk on the trails with my dogs I managed to get into a yelling match with another guy. His dog was off leash, my dog was off leash. There was some huffing and puffing, and things went quickly went downhill from there. At some point he threatened to kick my dog's tail and I dared him to try. There was some really grown up behavior on display.

Runners gawked as we at shouted at each other, meanwhile our dogs played in the creek.  After a few less than polite words, we headed in separate directions, you know, like grown ups.

A few years ago I wouldn’t have given the encounter a second thought.  But these days I think differently, most of my thoughts are geared towards my son. It won’t be long before he’s joining me on these walks and what kind of example would I be setting for him?   

The incident stayed with me, and the more I thought about it, the more ashamed I became.  As the days passed I hoped to see the man again so I could apologize for being such a jerk.

Well the other day I saw the guy, and our exchange went something like this:

Him: Hey man, I’m glad I saw you.  Look, sorry about the other day..

Me: Hey me too, I wanted to apologize.

Him, laughing: I was just so worked up about the dogs.

Me, laughing: Yeah, my dog can be pretty wild.

Him: Alright man, take care.

Me: Yeah, see ya.

And that was the end of it.  Both of us came away from our quick conversation feeling better about our misunderstanding as cooler heads prevailed…eventually. I'd much rather my son see his dad in that conversation rather than our first...I'll get there.

Happy Guy

The Redneck Next Door...

I've never considered myself to be a redneck (not that there's anything wrong with rednecks of course), but how I perceive my actions and myself are two very different things, as proven by my actions over the weekend.

Saturday morning I was cutting the lawn when the engine sputtered for a moment and then poof, the motor cracked.  Really, there's engine block shrapnel in the yard, I may want to start checking the oil. 

The gears started churning--not in the mower, it was still smoking in the yard. But I remembered the old mower engine in the basement (kinda redneckish), prompting some custom ingenuity. As my son slept peacefully in his crib, I went to work.  With tools spread amongst the dark oil dripping onto the driveway (my wife loves me), I affixed the mower engine that works onto the mower frame that wasn’t broken. And it worked!  Sorta...

We live by the woods on a dead end street and there’s a home for sale two houses up from ours. Lately cars drive down our street scoping out the neighborhood.  Such was the case when I had my wife (or for this post should I say old lady?) hold the funnel in place as I tilted the blown up mower engine, pouring the gas into the Frankenstein mower I had pieced together.  (All that was missing was a car sitting on blocks in the front yard.)

On to Sunday morning:

Taking the dogs on an early morning walk, before the runners and other dog walkers crowd the trails near our house, I looked around and then unhooked our husky Mason from his leash because well, I’m stupid.  Off he goes into the woods...…way off…..haha so long sucker off.

He'll come back I'm thinking as I continue down the trail.  And then I hear it.  The bark, the one that means I have something…or I really want something.

He did want something. I spotted him from the other side of the creek, jumping around a rock, home to a beaver or whatever critter was squealing in the dark hole.  Shaking my head, I crossed the bridge with Bruce, my loyal lab, and we fought through the overgrowth of tall weeds and bamboo and I prepared for a snake bite to the leg while climbing down the rocks towards my lunatic dog.

Soaking wet and covered in mud, his blue eyes were full of maniacal intensity.  Steeled and determined, husky owners know this look.  It’s a look that means I will stay here for the rest of my life if that’s what it takes.

My options were limited.  Come now!  Wasn’t going to get it done.  Mason doesn’t so much need a dog whisperer so much as he needs a life coach with a bullhorn and whip. 

I slid down the bank towards the tip of his white tail, which is all I could see as his body was fully submerged in the hole.  Ready to bolt if something suddenly scampered out, I lunged at my dog, grabbing him by the tail and carrying him back to the trail where I secured him with the leash.  My apologies to all of you activist out there but there was no other way.  

At that point, it was safe to mention that if there were a film crew following me, the viewing audience at home would be placing bets on how many pairs of camouflage pants I own. (One pair of shorts).

I got Mason home where he promptly upchucks a muddy mixture of dirt and sand before I gave him a much-needed bath in the backyard.  After which, he ran laps around the yard before finding a good spot of dirt to roll around in so that he looked as though he had just run the Kentucky Derby.  It’s pointless….

So let’s recap.  Piecing together a lawn mower in the driveway may not have been such a redneck thing to do, but combined with noodling my dog out of a cubbyhole down at the creek the very next morning, well, I’m only a sleeveless Big Johnson’s t-shirt away from tailgating a Larry the Cable Guy gig.

Who's The Boss?

The other night, with my son asleep on my lap, I rocked back and forth in a content and tranquil rhythm.  Mom was in the kitchen and everything was peaceful, a rare occurrence in my new life. I looked down at my son, studying his face with with all the wonder of a new parent when my thoughts were interrupted by a familiar chirping. 

Looking around, I focused on my phone, rattling on the table and just out of my reach.  I rocked forward, my movements slow and measured as my eyes darted from the phone to the child.  I inched towards the table....slow and easy...there we go...

Keep me content or pay dearly...

Boom goes the dynamite.

A shake of the head before the nuk shot out of his mouth. His eyes started blinking to life as the hands began to flail. Then my tiny son wound up and really got it going  All was lost, words with friends would have to wait.  I don’t have time to deal with the baby crying while thinking up words as some teenager sends me messages like UR SLOW.  
 

So who’s in charge here?  It’s not dad that’s for sure.  Mom?  She may think so, but in all honesty this kid is calling the shots.  I've often heard dads jokingly refer to the kid as the CEO or The Boss, and now I see why.

Pre-kid, my morning routine consisted of pouring a bowl of cereal, checking my mail, and then watching videos targeted at the 15-24 demographic before heading off to work.  Okay, maybe this wasn’t world changing stuff here, but to say my mornings have changed is an understatement.

At six weeks in, the little guy makes the rules. Sure, we've managed to establish a schedule, but we often have to plan around his mood, which can be like that of a high level corporate executive.  His days are bursting with turbulent activity. Eating, fussing, napping, eating, pooping, fussing, screaming, bathing and so forth. Throw in the occasional board meeting and he could command a competitive salary. 

The house is his as well. His stuff can be found in every room and even our cars.  From the baby swing to the play pad, the books, diapers, blankets, bottles, the breast pump and its endless accessories. 

The dogs are adapting to baby life.  Well sort of anyway. Sometimes when the baby's screaming, (usually after his mother has eaten broccoli), our oldest will look up at me like one of those dogs from the SPCA commercials, as if to say What have you done?

And at times I don't know...we're all adapting.  The baby books can only take us so far, so I'll continue to learn the ropes, using what works for us and scrapping what doesn't. And after 37 years, I'm finding that it's not as hard as I thought to make some sacrifices for my son, that's actually the easy part. 

Quiet Time

It’s Sunday evening.  The sun is just beginning to set, its orange rays sift in through the blinds, leaving distinct shadows on the wall.  The dogs are asleep, tuckered out from their morning run in the woods.  I’m in the recliner, enjoying the rhythmic sounds of the house.

The breast pump whines softly, humming in harmonic melody with the baby swing.  Together they perform what has become the soundtrack to my weekends. 

I'm enjoying quiet time these days like I never imagined.  Bits and pieces of rest when the elements of our house align and nap times coincide.  Animals and baby, completely asleep.  These precious moments are as rare as they are short.

This is usually when someone knocks on the door, and bedlam ensues.  The dogs begin their riot, barking furiously and aimlessly in all directions, ready to defend the baby against threats such as gift bearing neighbors or elderly couples on an evening stroll.

I scream at the dogs in a whisper that would make a librarian blush.  But it’s of no use, the baby is awake, and he suddenly remembers that he really, really, wants to eat.  He wants a boob in his mouth yesterday, and I run around trying to restore order, but it's no use, the moment is over.

I'm reminded of a childhood memory.

When I was around 9, my parents used to have what was referred to as coffee time.  Twenty to thirty minutes after dinner in the seclusion of the den.  I would wait by the door, watching the clock on the microwave with torturous anticipation.  Finally, they would come out, relaxed and refreshed until I would hit my dad with a barrage of questions I had thought of during my idle time alone.

As a child, I had no idea why they would want to spend time away from the kids, (or maybe just me, as I seemed to be the only one lying on the floor next to the door).  But now I get it.  They needed a moment to themselves, to unwind after a long day and enjoy each other's company...away from the hyperactive ball of annoying awaiting them on the other side.  And who could blame them? I'm tired just thinking about my younger self.

So chalk another one up for parents….the older I get the righter they were…

You, me, and baby make….six?

My house is a zoo.  Between our two dogs and our one cat we are only a goat away from charging admission.  Now as we prepare to welcome a human to the mix and even up the pet to person ratio, I can’t help but wonder, is it too much?

We try to make good decisions.  We pay down our credit cards, we rarely eat out, we don’t rent furniture.  But for some reason we collect pets.  I wish I could blame this solely on my wife, but to be honest, I’m a sucker for a dog.

Our household could already be described as overwhelming at times, add the pending chaos of a brand new baby to the mix and things should get interesting. I’m sure that Baby Simon, from the warm confines of the womb, is already well aware of the sound a doggie makes.

Our oldest dog, Bruce, has already taken to sleeping in front of the crib. My wife and I feel like he knows what’s going on and looking forward to the new addition.  He’ll be the baby’s best friend, no worries here.

Where's the baby?

The cat is just a cat.  He’s in, he’s out, and he’s pretty low maintenance, we don’t even have a litter box.  If there’s food in the bowl, he’s all set.  At times I forget we even have a cat.  He and I pretty much go our separate ways.

Whatever...

This leaves us with Mason, the loose cannon of the house.  I’ve documented many of Mason’s escapades and he will, and does, keep it interesting.  Mason is a spoiled brat, the worst kind of a pest there is.  When we first found out we were expecting, we hoped the 9 months would give him time to mature.  We’re still waiting…

I made snow!

I’m hoping he will surprise us, but there has been little evidence of this in our trial runs.  Children put him on edge, he just can’t seem to figure them out.  Usually when friends drop by with children, Bruce will welcome them, at times too enthusiastically, wagging and wiggling with excitement.  Mason however, will circle the kid, sniffing while inspecting the small unusual being, ready to bolt or let out an annoying bark at the first sign of danger.  As an expectant father, I worry how our wild child is going to react to our real child.

He has made some strides though, and one day he just may be a normal dog. But I would like to see him settle down a bit before I bring home a helpless child.  In the meantime, I need to do a better job of keeping the stuffed animals off of the floor.

Pushover...

How could you let this happen?

My grandfather had a deep baritone voice that stopped you in your tracks. If he was upset with you, there was no question about what you had done. There was no Who me? routine.  You knew and you regretted it immediately.

My dad wasn't the strictest parent by any means, but I always knew when I had crossed the line. If he was upset, then chances are I had messed up pretty good.

Maybe the men in my family soften each generation. Maybe there was too much talk about feelings in the eighties.  Regardless, if I have a son he's well on his way to becoming a marshmallow by the time I get through with him. I have got to learn to say no. 

If we're judging by how I discipline my dogs I don't stand a chance. I'm not saying I'm a push over, I'm saying that I've been shoved down a cliff and covered with mud. I need to toughen up, and quick.  Perhaps I should lock myself in the house one Saturday and watch John Wayne movies or check to see if Patton is streaming on Netflix, because I'm downright ridiculous.

For example, our dog Bruce was well overdue for a bath the other day. Bruce, the dog my wife calls Brucie Woosie Head, which of course, I allow.  We gave Woosie, I mean Bruce a bath, which is always traumatic for him, but he had been long enough without to the point he had begun to get that just rolled in poop smell that he works so hard to acquire.

Anyway, as we turned on the hose and began to give him a good soaking, he looked up with those sad Precious Moments eyes and I started to hear that Sara McLachian song from the SPCA commercial in my head.  I held firm, he needed a bath and a bath he was going to get.

As I fought through it, telling myself to toughen up, we locked eyes again. Okay, okay, rinse him off! I told my wife, We're killing him, I can't take it anymore!!! Rinse him off! Get it off him!  I screamed as if he was covered in Agent Orange.

We rinsed him off, making sure the painful soap was thoroughly rinsed.No harm done.  I walked towards the house to turn the hose off, looking back at my dog who was rolling around in the grass, with a bone in his mouth looking happier than ever.  Yeah, I don't stand a chance...