No Regrets

 

Sometimes, in the Groundhog Day repetition that is parenting with a toddler, when we do the same things over and over again and one day blurs into the next, middle age comes creeping into my thoughts and I start to wish I’d done more with my past. Be it travel, or work, or wishing I had a do-over for all the dumb mistakes of my youth, I don’t have many regrets but every now and then I find myself wondering what I could have done differently. 

But those thoughts are fleeting, and as it is, I find my happiest moments are in or around my little house on my little patch of land in my little town.

The other day I was in my backyard with Bella, my two year-old daughter. We’re playing in the pallet house and she wants to do my hair. Only there are rules in place and so I have to crawl out of the house and then return so that I can knock before coming in and make a proper entrance. 

Oh, uh, right. 

I do as I'm told. This time I knock and she welcomes me inside. There’s a toy sink with actual running water wedged into a corner. I’m instructed to sit against the wall. A siren wails in the distance, somewhere outside these magical walls, as she sets her hands in the water—probably filled with mosquito larvae and who knows what else—cupping them as she carries the water to my head and splashes my hair with it.

“Beautiful,” she murmurs, wiping down the sides of my face.

“Thank you,” I say, water dripping onto my shirt, kind of looking around. She does this again, maybe four or five more times. Then uses a toy set of pliers to cut my hair. She's fully focused on her task and takes time and care to do the job right. 

“Does it really look good?” I ask, as she drops the pliers and starts to clean up. 

Bella looks up from the sink and regards me with big blue eyes. A small nod. “Definitely.”

And that’s it. I don’t need to go anywhere. I’m good here, hunched over in this make believe bug infested pallet shed hair salon, with this sweet little stylist who hands our compliments like candy.

 

My Kid's Room

There’s something to be said about my baby Bella’s room. The books, the blocks, the crib, the loopy swirl of her name on the wall. It’s like a separate universe in our house. In Bella’s room we sit on the floor. We use our imagination. We play with stuffed animals or Barbie's. We don’t think about all that stuff on the news.

There’s a lamp on, casting a cozy glow over us as I look at my daughter, into her wide, all-encompassing eyes. It’s where I find the absolute best in humanity.

After a while she’ll crawl to me, bash into my chest then slide down and bury her little head in my lap. I’ll stroke her little tuffs of hair and her back while she murmurs softly. Then she’ll look up and say something like, “Blah.” Her mix of ball and dog.

I say it back to her. “Ball.” She smiles, coming alive. She crawls around, muttering to herself, pulling up on the dresser or crib as we talk colors and shapes. We point at things that spark our interest: a book, a shoe, the ceiling fan. Outside it might be raining, or hot, or windy or dusk, but it doesn’t matter. Not when we’re in her room, with the lamp on, talking shop.

When I’m in Bella’s room, I’m not thinking about work, or writing, of past failures or even worrying about Covid. I’m content to play and sing and laugh until she gets hungry or tired or simply grows bored with me.

My little girl's room is a safe place, for her, but for me as well. It’s where time stops and holds still in our laps—even as she’s growing so quickly. Where we wind up the music box and let its clicking melody pull us away. It’s where bears talk, turtles fly, monkey’s dance and I can take a moment to catch my breath.

One Good Deed

My son can be stubborn about things. He can be rude, temperamental, irrational. He throws fits, rolls his eyes, gets himself in trouble. He can be a real six-year old at times. 

It can get frustrating, these battles. Not giving into his demands and standing up to a tyrant. I often remind him he’s not the boss.

When it comes to parenting, I do a lot of things wrong. I’m aware of that. This blog is more of a journal than a how-to guide. Then again, I do some things right.  And I’m always trying. It’s never a lack of effort that is lacking on my end.

As I’ve posted, he’s big into football. I mean, he's really into football. Every weekend for the past oh, two months now, he’s up and ready, in full football gear, ready to go to hit the field. This is our thing, and it shows no signs of waning. These days he likes to wear the gear: shoulder pads, helmet, he’s even got a mouthpiece. He likes to tuck in his jersey and hit the football field looking like a pro.  

*On a side note, if you’ve never played one-on-one football on a 100-yard field on a late June afternoon in Virginia, consider yourself lucky. Or, if you’re one of those cross fitters, add it to your regiment.

Leaving the gridiron on Saturday, we were sweaty and flushed. I suggested we get an early start on Sunday, being that it was 92 degrees and all. He agreed, so much so that by 9am on Sunday he was fully dressed in a helmet and shoulder pads, mumbling “Dad, are you ready?” through his mouthpiece.

“It was your idea,” my wife reminded me. And it was. So after slugging down two cups of coffee, we hit the high school field ready for action.

It was nice, though. Bright, quiet, the heat not yet taking hold on the day. We did some warm-ups, ran a few drills, then it was all business. After our game, I found myself sprinting a 40-yard dash. Bent over and heaving, Simon encouraged me. “Dad, you run like a teenager.” That was all it took. I found myself lining up and doing it again. I think motivational speaking is in that kid’s future.

After an hour and a half, he still wasn't ready to leave. I was, and this set off a fit. He had no problems letting me know just how unappreciative he was of his parents who’d just dropped everything on a Sunday morning so that he could play football. He wanted to continue kicking field goals. We had chores to do.

So he lashed out. And he got consequences. Later, when he pulled himself together, we went to the pool (because, you know, 92 degrees).

Redemption came at the pool. We were tossing the football when a group of kids wandered over and wanted in on the action. I took turns throwing it to each kid, but when I went to throw it to the youngest boy, maybe four, the others waived him off, “Oh, he can’t throw.”

I tossed the ball back to Simon, dunked myself underwater. When I came up, I saw something I won’t soon forget. My kid approaching the other kids, moving past the older kids and holding the football out to the little boy, the one who, “Couldn’t throw.”

Imagine my surprise, watching my son help this boy put his fingers on the laces, then going through the motions of throwing the football.

The boy tossed the ball to me. I told him he did great. Then I looked at my son, who was beaming with pride. And all I could think was how maybe I am doing something right.

Observations and Allegations

Just the other day one of Simon’s teachers at his daycare was explaining how he was such an observant little guy. Don’t I know it. Because I'd just tried, and failed, to pull one over on him. 

See, he likes to mow. Loves it. So he mows with me sometimes, with the push mower, carefully, patiently...slowwwwly. Mostly in the front yard and side yard, where it’s flat and easy and takes forever. But there’s a hill in the back and that’s what we call around my house, a daddy job.

So the other day I had a few minutes after work before Mom and son got home. So I took to the hill with the push mower. It’s steep, and it was a little wet, but I got the job done just in time to come running up to the front yard as my wife pulled in.

Success.

So I thought.

Getting out of the car he craned his neck for a better look at me. More like a once over, his searchlight eyes took me in top to bottom. From the sweat on my forehead, down to my spotted shirt, past my dirt-speckled legs and coming to a thoughtful rest at my shoes. I looked down, at the grass clippings and dirt. I was so busted.

“Did you mow, Daddy?”

His tone carried the cadence of a seasoned detective. One who’d seen this kind of thing before and knew how it was going to play out long before I started stammering.

“What, well, I, hill.”

A deep breath. Another long, appraising stare. Up and down, up down. Then he was off, in search of more evidence. By then I was tired, having walked the dogs and tackled the hill, and I was kind of hoping he’d want to take part in a less aerobic activity. No luck there, he hit that hill on a mission, stopping at the backyard with me catching up, trying to explain about Daddy jobs and the dangers of gas powered engines and mowing hills at precarious angles.

“Why is the mower out, Daddy?”

I half expected him to touch test the engine to see if it was warm. I looked up to my wife, smiling. Both of us thinking the same thing.... 

How are we ever going to pull one over on this kid?

Tale of Two KIds

We’re along the path in the woods. The creek is high, moving fast with with snow melt and mud. My son’s pace however, is glacial. He takes a step, finds a stick, then WACK! swats off the brittle brown seed heads along the way. For a while I only watch. The tassels of his knit hat swing with each chop. His face, pink cheeks and red nose, is scrunched up in hushed determination. With the hat, the green hooded sweat shirt and puddle boots, he’s a picture of unbridled youth. And for those few moments I’m filled with that enormous, purely unselfish joy that comes with watching my child do the simplest things.

What a wonderful moment I think, placing a hand to my heart, letting the fuzzy little scene etch its place into my memory.

One hour later...

A shitstorm. My kid wants chocolate and has no desire to earn it. The way he sees it he was born therefore it is his birthright. Now. No, now! He assumes the position. Flopping to the floor, his flailing is impeccable. His face, only moments ago a delicate arrangement of unblemished pale chub, is now barnhouse red, bunched up so tight that the tears have nowhere to go and pool in his tightly shut eyes. I try to help and he swats at me. When he receives the desired affect (my anger), he swats again. I walk away, into the other room, where I used to watch movies, sports, or nothing at all, because that’s what I’m supposed to do. 

I've read up on this. I know to ignore it. Don't give in. Don't give him a reaction. 

But a little voice says, Wait, isn't walking away a reaction? 

Well-Read Voice: No. Do not show weakness. Don't second guess it. He'll see it and pounce! 

Little Voice: Nonsense, he's a child. And where did you pick up that accent?

In my three years as a parent, I’m getting better. But it’s not about me. It’s about him.

He’s a good kid, really. He’s got some manners installed and we’re just turning the corner on that pesky potty training. Of course there’s going to be some miscues. Some fits. If there weren’t, well, I’d wonder whether he really is my child.

The main thing I’ve learned is patience. Like that walk in the woods the other day, we don’t just hop skip and jump from one place to another. Because when you’re only say, 1,100 days old, everything is still rather fresh. A stick can be a wondrous instrument. A soldering iron, a sword, a screwdriver, a pen or a fork. It can wack and prod, swing and draw.

Some things I’m doing well, others not so much. I read parenting articles and cringe at all I’m doing wrong. Sometimes I give in. I just throw in the towel and hand him that chocolate to avoid the whole kitchen floor thing. Then I worry that I’m creating a jerk. A trophy-getter. A brat. Like the other day I came home from lunch and my wife had told him no to a cookie. And what did I do but just walk in and unknowingly erase her hard fought battle. Although I gotta give him credit, the little bugger saw an opportunity (or a sucker) and went for it.

But mostly I’m doing things right. I guess. Who knows really? I know that much because he tells me how much fun we have when we’re together. He tells me that he loves his family. He gives me kisses when I get a boo-boo. So that’s something, right?

And besides, so what if we don’t do what everyone else is doing?

My kid eats fruit. He eats vegetables. Most of the time. He loves milk and water and I can proudly say he’s never had a Happy Meal in his life, (although he has developed that taste for chocolate). So what if he doesn’t like meat. Some people find that strange. I find it, well, fine.

He sleeps in his own bed. With Mom. Or me. Or both. That’s just where we are right now. People think that is strange. I’m okay with strange.

My point is that we do what works for us. And so should any parent. Sure, routines are good and temper-tantrums are normal. Other than that, be patient, stock up on chocolate, read lots of books to your kid, and let them be creative. 

That's all I've got. Oh, and if you should start thinking to yourself in an accent, well, at least you'll be entertained.

Are You Happy?

“Are you happy, Daddy?”

This is the newest question in our house. Whenever I tell my son not to do something, like, say not to throw his food. He’ll stop mid-throw, sort of tilt his head at me, and then,

“Are you happy, Daddy?”

“I am, bud. And well played by the way.”

Then, fifty percent of the time at least, bread takes flight.

But I am happy. Happy that he’s happy. Mostly, I mean there's always the occassional crushing blow for an almost three-year-old: Bedtimes, bath time, words that end with time and don't begin with play. Maybe when he can’t have a cookie, but overall, yes, he’s happy. So I’m happy.

His newest activity is riding a bike around the house. And by around I don’t mean literally, but more through the house. Down the hallway, into the kitchen, peddling away down the living room and making a hairpin turn back around again. And the imagination this kid has, the other day he fell, and got all sorts of upset because he dropped the imaginary cookies he was bringing to me.

Sometimes it can be hard to keep track of what's going on. I mean, it can be alligators roaming the living room, a lion down the hallway. The bike mysteriously “smokes” and has to be repaired. Oh, and anything can become a lawn mower.

The other day all of this was happening, nearly simultaneously, when I looked at my wife.

Can you believe this? We have a three year old.

Almost three at least, and man the house is jumping, with the alligators and all. My wife and I were thinking about calling an exterminator, but our son spotted us talking, like adults, and came to a skidding halt on the bike.

“Are you happy Mommy? Are you happy Daddy?”

“Yes son, we’re happy.”

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.

Simple Times

We were at a kid's museum when I spotted a book titled, Simplicity Parenting sitting on the shelf. I picked it up and glanced it over while my kid climbed aboard a pirate ship to take the wheel.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the concept. The whole less-is-more approach in a day and age when everything is sold in bulk. I leafed through it for as long as my attention span would allow, nodding in agreement with the simplistic approach. Most kids have too many options. It's okay to be bored rather than rushing from one thing to the next. Boredom inspires creativity.

It made so much sense. 

Just a few weeks ago we celebrated my son’s second birthday. It was a Friday night and it turned out to be a pretty low key affair. My wife’s parents were staying with us and her best friend dropped by with her family. No clowns, no blowout party, just a couple of hours of fun. At two, it’s not like he's sweating the goods, he just wants you to chase him down the hallway. So that's pretty much what we did.

And it was great.

My wife and I have been having the whole how much is too much? discussion lately in our house. It's so easy to get caught up. He'll want something and and then we want him to be happy. Grandparents want to buy stuff. But a few days later there are mounds of forgotten toys laying around the house. And all he wants is an emtpy box to play in.

I feel like many of us try to give our kids all the things that we never had growing up. But in reality, that never-having was what inspired us do the fun stuff: Exploring the woods, building forts, watching ants, and when desperate....reading books. I agree with the philosophy that if we constantly give them everything we create a sense of entitlement.

Making our kids feel like the center of the universe is not necessarily a great thing. I mean, remember wishing for that one toy? Hoping and dreaming and counting the seconds until Christmas? How does that work for a kid with everything?

And it ‘s not necessarily about stuff but about time. When I do think back on kidhood, it’s not my toys or shoes or flashy stuff that I had that comes to mind, it’s the moments. I’d rather spend my time just hanging out with my kid.

But even still, from time to time I catch myself not having what I'd call a trophy-winning parenting moment. My son is asking me a question and I just grunt and mumble a lazy uh-huh like a drone.

And it feels awful.

I don’t want to be a drone. I don’t want my kid to be a drone. 

I love how we’ll watch one episode of Thomas the Train and then he’ll talk about it for two days. I love how he reads along with a book because he’s memorized the words. I love how his eyes move around as he tries to work a piece to a puzzle. I love noticing the small, irreplaceable not-for-purchase moments that make parenting so special. And most of it is so simple.

I don’t need his picture to be liked because I love it. I don’t need apps, games, screens, toys, or movies to see him smile. I just need time. And there is plenty of time, it's up to me to use it wisely.

Executive Decision...

I’m constantly trying to talk my wife into downsizing, into getting some of this stuff out of the house instead of hauling it in.  It seems all we do is unbox stuff that we may or may not really need.  Especially since the baby, we have accumulated so much crap. We don’t need all of this stuff, I tell her after reading about a family of 4 living in a 68 square foot treehouse. But she doesn't listen, and for the life of me I don't know why.  Our house hasn’t been clean in nine months, and all this junk doesn't help. I try another angle, We need to simplify our lifestyle!! I yell during a commercial break of a feature on Amish lifestyles on 60 minutes. Again nothing..

In all seriousness, we do need to comb through our belongings, sort out the necessities.  But with a wife who collects scarves like a snowman museum curator, then of course the two dogs, stupid cat, and let's not forget the newest member of our household, Mr. Two of Everything, it's easy to see that I'm fighting a losing battle. 

Because I'm honest, I'll even admit that I'm not completely without blame. The other day I was given the simple task of buying a replacement diaper genie (yes, I’m aware of how utterly domestic my life has become). Walking through the store I stopped—as do all adults—and made a beeline for a display of basketballs. 

I was testing the air in one of the balls, just a few dribbles, when I caught a disapproving glare from the store employee. And that’s when I spotted a little piece of magic in the form of a plastic toy basketball goal. It seems the diaper genie had granted my wish. 

After some thought (would I still want this in the morning? Yep), I grabbed the box, snatched the diaper genie and made my way to the register. Waiting in line, I smiled to myself at my wise decision.  At $25, this little contraption could theoretically lead to a college scholarship.  It was my first executive parenting decision, and I was feeling pretty good about it.  

Arriving home, I presented my wife with the boring old pamper bucket. And then, unable to contain my goofy dad grin, I presented the basketball goal.

“Seriously? He just started crawling."

I’d anticipated this antiquated line of thinking and launched into my presentation. Fearing a veto,I handed her a PowerPoint presentation, referred to statistics I’d invented, and talked endlessly about the benefits of hand eye coordination. I tore into the box like Christmas morning, handing the ball to my son—which he promptly ate. Unperturbed, I assembled the goal with hoop dreams dancing in my head.  I hung the net and, swish, christened it with a  turn around jumper from the dinner table. Yeah, my wife is going to love this. 

So what if the box says 1.5 to 5 years old? My son will be 9 months old soon, and once he quits crapping himself he'll be ready for the big time.  Besides, we’ve got our work cut out for us if we want to compete with that Titus kid. But no pressure, if he doesn’t care for it, I suppose I’ll find something to do with it.

Doing The Research...

Avacodo Face...

My wife has become a quick study when it comes to all things pertaining to our son.  This is impressive considering she's not the most tech savvy person in the world.  But when it comes to the little guy, she's a research analyst, scouring the bowels of Google to find studies, theories, behavioral guidelines, or other useful tools of learning. 

This from the woman who usually has anywhere from 1200-6000 emails in her inbox. Who when we met, still had her ipod touch in the box it came in because well I don’t know how that thing works…Who, for two years never figured out her voicemail and as a result it sounded like she had attached her phone to the back of a deer and smacked it on the butt.  (I finally set it up for her after her friends complained of the 60 seconds of rustling followed by a beep).

But her knowledge of child rearing is vast, encompassing findings old and new.  For instance, just the other night while making dinner, we were discussing what foods to introduce to our son, like avacodo.

“Well, a 1988 study in Good Housekeeping magazine discovered that when…..”

I whipped around to make sure I was still talking to my wife.  Not that I didn’t think she was smart, but we usually don’t cite our sources during conversation.  If we did, my footnotes would be littered with names such as The Farrelly Brothers, The Three Stooges, The Beastie Boys, and so on. 

When did she become an information center of knowledge, backed by research and studies and clinical trials?  As she continued, I made faces at my son… 

“….but was rebuked when in 1999 by a team in…”

Now, of course I usually hang on my wife’s every word, but in this case I was having trouble staying focused.  I felt like a slouch of a parent.  While I’m You Tubing talking huskies, she’s burrowing through the archives of medical journals in search of improving our son’s quality of life.

“…so you can see the pros of going that route.  You know?”

 Crap, now she’s waiting for my input, and I’ve got that baby monkey song stuck in my head. 

“Well, yeah, it certainly stands to reason.”

Silence, only the cheerful sounds of The London Bridge Is Falling Down filled the room. She knew I was full of it.  Yet she still loves me.  She can do the research for both of us.  I’ll just try to make him laugh between meals.  Research shows that that’s good too, right?

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.

Being Productive With A Newborn In The House

After 7 weeks of being a dad, I'm pretty sure I've got this thing licked. Some sacrifices have been made and a few hobbies curtailed, but I've found a way to balance writing and parenting by way of scheduling and multi tasking.  Changing diapers while brainstorming isn't easy, but I can assure you, it hasn’t affected my creative juices. Not in the least.

For example, let’s take a look at a sonnet I wrote last night as the baby slept.  I don't claim to be a poet, but as my son rocked gently in his swing--blissfully content in his slumber, I picked up the pen and let the verses flow. The result was this beauty:

The stormy nigh

He wasn't content for long, and my poem appears to be more of a haiku of sorts.  Oh well, poetry has never been my strong suit, I’ll work on that one.  Moving on.

I’ve also been polishing up my prose.  Writing short stories is something I've always enjoyed and hoped to continue to write in my spare time.  Just before my son was born I was struck with an idea for story.  It's a timeless tale of love and heartbreak with a dark twist as....here, read for yourself:

As the days forge ahea-

The dog barked, the baby screamed, and I spilled a lukewarm bottle of breast milk on the keyboard just as I got cranking, so that one may need some work. And words. Okay, so maybe my writing has taken a hit, but I’ve managed to keep up with my reading.  Over the weekend, I read the same paragraph no less than eight times.  How’s that for being thorough?  It was about a um, well most of it involved, I think it had something to do with. Hang on,

Sorry, I had to change a diaper.  Don’t worry, I washed my hands.  Where was I, oh yeah.  Hold on. Okay, I’m going to cut this short as the little one needs attention and I only have one jand to finish thyping jhis post.. 

The In-Laws

My wife and I have come a long ways in the four years since I was able to talk her into a first date.  I am forever grateful that our chance encounter led to such life-changing events.  I've managed to convince her I was worth keeping, and together we’ve bought a house, gotten married, and are now preparing to bring a child into our lives.  And family has played a large role in each of these endeavors.

But back to the dating. Things were getting serious between us when she asked me to accompany her to Northern Virginia, as her parents were coming down from upstate New York and wanted to meet the guy that their daughter had told them about (and if there was time, me).  With many miles between us I had managed to delay the encounter, but now the time had come, I was going to meet the parents. 

I've never been a charming conversationalist, so I was just a bit intimidated before the meeting.  What I learned about my girlfriend's father on our 3 hour trip did not help matters. He’s not only a marine but also an avid gun collector.  Oh, that makes me feel very comfortable, is there anything else you want to tell me?  Does he have a portable water boarding device as well?  This has been great; just slow down here and I'll jump out.

She managed to keep me in the car and we arrived as scheduled in Alexandria, Va, to head up the Potomac River for a tour of George Washington’s Mount Vernon. My worrying was unfounded as they quickly made me feel like part of the family. My future mother-in-law was (and is) warm and genuine, and I immediately felt comfortable.  Meanwhile my future father-in-law, like me, enjoyed American History, which made the conversation, the meeting, and the trip all the more enjoyable. To top things off,  I saw no evidence of a torture device...

A Year later....

I was nervous again (I'm a little neurotic), anxiously preparing for another meeting with my future In-laws.  Only this time they were at my house after making the 13 hour trip down to visit their first born daughter.  I was searching for the right time (and words) to ask my future father-in-law for his daughter’s hand in marriage.  Deep breaths.

My wife and her mother went shopping, leaving the two of us on the couch watching a football game.  I waited for the perfect segue to begin my dialogue....And with that the Giants take the lead! Pete, what do you think of marriage? 

The moment never came.  I took a breath, cleared my throat and stammered into the lines that I had practiced, my voice unsteady and shaky as I powered through….your daughter means the world to me….I was hoping to uh……that you would uh…. It was truly a forgettable performance. (Or memorable for all the wrong reasons).

When I was finished, he shifted slightly while gently scratching our dog on his head (the dog never left his side when he was at the house) before saying,

“If she’ll have you then I’ll have you.”

A wave of relief rushed over me, and I was about to say something stupid or ruin our talk gushing over the moment when, with his eyes still on the game, he continued:

“That was a great catch.”

I nodded knowingly, as if to say, I hear ya, let’s not get all emotional here! Meanwhile I was smiling like an idiot. 

I'm lucky, I won the in-law lottery.  Today, geography limits our visits, but technology will keep us connected.  As the baby arrives we will be sure to Skype, facetime, and send way too many pictures via facebook and email.  I look forward to bringing our son up to the North Country to visit with his northern counterparts as well as visits from grandparents to see their daughter and grandson.  As for me, I'm just glad I didn't jump out of the car before that first meeting!

Gifts From Grandma...

Recently, I received a text from Simon's Grandma Diane down in Texas titled Future Present for Simon. It seems that Grandma has quite the mishcievious notion of how how my son will pass his time.  I opened the link to find this contraption:

 

 

 

 

From the website: This is the snowball-hurling slingshot that brings snowball battles into the 21st century. A baseball-sized snowball is placed into the slingshot's muzzle, drawn back, and fired at opposing forces, helping to facilitate their hasty withdrawal or surrender.

 

That's right, what boy doesn't need a snowball slingshot?  I'll keep an eye on the mailbox for the BB gun and/or machete.  I can't wait to see what Grandpa has in mind....bottle rockets?  Or better yet how about live hand grenades?  I'm beginning to think that they are secretly bankrolling karma with sufficient ammunition to wage its battle against me.   

 

But I have to admit, that sling shot is pretty sweet...