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.”

Kind of a Jerk...

I love my kid just as any parent should. He’s a charming, good looking guy. He's got a great sense of humor, which uh, I mean, how could he not? Yep, he's a good kid, sometimes, even polite. All in all it seems we’ve done s something right with our little gentleman. 

But sometimes, behind closed doors. Beyond the world of Facebook and it’s perfect little pictures. The little snot can be kind of, uh…jerk.

I know I know, how awful of me to say. But hang on. Hear me out. He’s going on three, and I’m guessing this isn’t exactly ground breaking behavior. Pottery breaking yes, but I don’t think he’s the first toddler to get his diaper in a bunch because he’s up past his bedtime.

I'm just being honest, because the writing is on the wall. Literally, wiped on in a smear of milk as he takes his sippy cup and uses it like a magic marker. 

The guy can be a real jerk sometimes.

Just calling it what it is. Think about it. If I, now forty years old, came over to your house and demanded pretzels and like any good host you offer pretzels but didn’t adhere to my rigid, pretzel prep criteria: letting me stick my grubby little hand in the bag for two fistfuls of broken pretzel pieces. 

Unknowingly, you’ve thrown a kink into the Rain Man—like sequence. So I just flop down on the floor, kicking my legs and exalting my displeasure. Maybe take a swipe at your dog.

You probably wouldn’t invite me back over, huh?

But this is how he reacts. Sometimes. The other day he finished his yogurt and hurled the container at the dogs. Jerk Butt. He knows better, and I told him, in my dad voice—that he is not to throw yogurt containers/dishes/sporks/pumpkins from the table.

The next day, he finished his yogurt, wiped his mouth, and then presented the container to me.

“Here Daddy.”

“Great job, son.”

And that’s how it goes these days. One step forward, one flop and flail back.

Like this morning, when he woke up and reached out to me for a snuggle. He laid his frizzy head on my chest, his little pajama footie feet dangling. Great stuff right there, even if five minutes later, when Mom came around, he told me, "You go away, Daddy."

Jerk.

Oh, see those blocks all stacked up? Not on my watch.

Nice flowers, they look so pretty, crushed in my fist.

I see it took you fifteen minutes to piece together my train tracks. Derailment only takes seconds

Oatmeal? Motor boat time! 

Again, not that my kid is a complete jerk. Just sometimes. But we’re getting there. My wife says that it’s normal. I hope so. Because when he wants to the guy can be a complete charmer. People stop in the grocery store to tell us how well-mannered our child is. I look down, stifle a chuckle.

Yeah, he is.

The Day I Learned...

  

I can’t say I was shocked. Surprised, yes. Sweaty? Very. But not shocked.

It was evening, back in the day of few responsibilities. When I look back on this life-changing encounter with my wife, it’s boggling to think of all the free time. Floating around, there for the taking…Okay, sorry, where were we? Surprised. Right.

I’d just come back from basketball and stumbled upon an extremely frazzled woman sitting at the edge of the couch. Upon further inspection I noticed that that woman was my wife. She told me to sit down, then after some fidgeting, “Wait, take a shower first.”

I shot her a look. Something was up. Did she get a raise? No, as a public school teacher that line of thinking falls squarely in the joke category. And she wasn’t exactly smiling. So I took a shower, my mind racing with possibilities of what was coming. My wife isn’t prone to getting worked up. She’s not a fidgeter. That's my department. She’s the even in our keel, so to see her all red faced and breathing funny it had to be good. Or bad. It could be bad...

“Okay, what?” I asked, my physique shimmering in the glow of dusk. Whatever, this is my depiction, here. My wife pointed to the couch. 

"Sit.”

I sat.

“So….” She gave me a look. Like I was missing something. I sorted through my thoughts. I really gotta get my jump shot back on track.

“I’m pregnant.”

Wait. “Huh?"

More staring.

“Are you sure?"

More staring, this time with a look I've since deciphered to mean: You're an idiot. 

“Yep.”

Elation. A thrill of joy I will never forget. A family. This is great. Although we have/had that Jamaica trip planned, but…A Kid!

The reason I wasn’t shocked was because a few months prior we’d passed by the nearby CVS. My wife had mentioned that she needed to refill her birth control. I’ll never forget sitting at that light. Turn left and get the pills. Go straight and pull the goalie.

The light turned green and I plunged ahead, thus sacking the goalie. Man, such a rebel. But honestly I didn’t feel that rebellious. I was thirty-six and I don’t know how else to put this but I really didn’t think my stuff worked. We went about our business. Trying but not trying. The last thing I wanted to do was tell the world, “Hey guess what? We’re trying to have a baby!”

So on that couch I was less than shocked but more than surprised. And that euphoria that hit when she told me she was pregnant? Well, it lasted through most of that initial embrace. Goosebumps hit like a pad of bristles under my skin. My mind flooded with the happiest happy I’ve ever experienced in my life until that point.

Then it was gone.

An immense fear followed. It engulfed me like an itchy wool cloak of uncertainty. A human. A real, walking talking, pooping human. My human. I would be responsible for seeing that it was fed and clothed and didn’t like soccer (I’m kidding, he can like soccer). On top of that I had to raise it so that it wouldn’t grow up and be a serial killer. And then, after being sure that my well-fed, clothed, moderate-to-decently-raised human wasn't a career criminal, I had to hope and pray he wouldn't cross paths with a serial killer. Phew. It's not easy living in this mind of mine.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded. What in the hell was I thinking? That goalie had been the only thing keeping my fragile mind at ease. Now I was freefalling. This wasn’t like picking out a dog. Where you go to the kennel and pick out that cute little mutt. I was great with dogs. Throw the stick and the fetch the stick. This was different.

That week was a blur. Me. A father. How would this work? Everything was about to change. Alternating voices controlled my thoughts.

Everyone has kids. It’s part of life. No big deal. HUGE DEAL. YOUR KID IS GOING TO BE A BABY FRANKENSTEIN. WHAT IN THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING? YOU CAN HARDLY TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF!!!

And since that day, this has been the ongoing struggle...

I told my friends (Ha, I had friends!). Had a few guys over and we had some beers. I broke out the news. At that point my joy in becoming a dad overpowered my anxiety. But not for long. Something happened to me. 

Up until then I thought panic attacks were something the paper bag companies came up with to spike sales. But it was no joke, I’d wake up sweating, my pulse racing and my breaths light. I'd bolt out of bed, pacing, swearing it was the big one. 

Then it happened again. Wake up, bolt upright. Shortness of breath, cold feet. Sweating. It happened so frequently that I finally saw a doctor. A few test and he assured that everything was fine. Calm down.

I calmed. I quit smoking. I watched my sugar intake.. I went a little crazy and started drinking organic apple cider vinegar. (I’d read that it helped, sorta).

Again, my doctor assured me I was fine. He told me not to come back for two years. He refused to be facebook buddies with me. He pointed from his heart to his head and said, "I’m not so sure the problem is here, but here.”

I babystepped my way out of his office, officially labeled a headcase by a physician. My wife laughed out loud.

The next few months were peaceful. We planned. I started a blog to document my craziness. I found out we were having a boy. I was still scared but I had no choice but to answer the call. We were going to have a family.

And now here we are...

The Loner...

With my wife and kid still on the lam I was left with another whole Saturday with nothing to do. This time I headed for the mountains. 

The Blue Ridge Parkway, where I spent my youth driving around, hiking, and doing, um, other stuff. I had my sights set on the Peaks of Otter. More specifically Sharp Top Mountain.

No, it’s not Everest. Or the Rockies. But it’s beautiful and spectacular all the same. It’s been maybe five years since I’d been, so I woke up early, fixed the coffee, and hit the road.I drove up in all my dorkdom, listening to an audio book, enjoying the scenery, and otherwise lost in my own little adventure. I don’t mind being by myself. Sometimes I kind of enjoy it. I even saw a black bear cross the road. A first for me.

I hit the men’s room in the parking lot, did a few quick stretches—the same stretches the older guys used to do before basketball.—and took a deep breath of mountain air. I checked my phone, wanting to catch the time. But my phone was blank.

The battery was dead. I fiddled with the button but it only flashed the empty battery then died again. I’m not a constant phone type of person but still it was a bummer. Mostly because I’m so freaking attached to technology.

Not long ago there were no cell phones. I’ve hiked up this mountain twenty or more times in my life. Like I said, mostly in the nineties, when nobody had a phone and nobody—at least no one I knew thought to carry a camera around. And if they had, and taken it out and said something like, “group pic guys” or “selfie time” he—or she, but especially he—would have been belittled endlessly for the rest of the day. Maybe week.

But times change. And now, as I saw that the battery was toast, the thought of not hiking up the stupid mountain actually popped into my head. Seriously, I’ll admit it. I mean I did go, after all, and I mocked myself for thinking such stupid thoughts. But the fact that because I couldn’t get up there and take panoramic pictures almost convinced me to render the whole hike pointless was enough. Twenty-year-old me could only shake his scraggly head.

On I went. And it was tough. I’ll be 40 in September. Not old, but old enough to where you start talking about your age and saying you’re not old. I pictured myself bounding up those same rock steps, a little less eroded, both in mind and spirit, laughing about Ace Ventura or humming the latest Pearl Jam tune. And because I’m neurotically deficient I kept thinking, what if I just fell out right here? I don’t have a phone!

I don’t have a phone. Again, twenty-year-old shook his head and spat. Then left me to go drink beer on the top of that mountain.

I pressed onward.

It was nice. No one was around being that it was old person early. I wiped my brow. Are we there yet? I was sweating through my shirt. Then I got my second wind. Everything just started flowing and the next thing I knew I was climbing up the rocks to the peak.

The top. Wow. Let me just say. Nothing puts our world into perspective better than sitting 4000 feet above it all. The rolling green of the treetops. The bluish horizon. The breeze rolls up to you. Everything is quiet. Tiny cars drift by without sound. A wasp lands on your neck.

Where was I? Oh, so I sat in my solitude, where the chatter and all the everyday bullshit that consumes our feeds is muted for a moment. People, cars, civilization blends with the clouds and rock and dirt and mountains. I was glad I came. And I was glad I didn’t have a phone. 

So, no pictures. But then again no distractions. I contemplated the really heavy stuff in my life.

Like how I shouldn’t have eaten half a pepperoni pizza last night but at the same time I couldn’t wait to get home and gorge myself on the other half.

Like how I’d better vacuum the house before my wife returns home tomorrow.

Like how I hoped that black bear was somewhere far, far away.

With my thoughts in order I got to my feet. By then I was starting to see people. Sweaty, heaving young people who made me feel much better about my own heavy breathing.

I passed families and couples. I passed young women who asked if they were almost there. I assured them they were, because I’m still a long hike way from maturity.

When I got to my car I sat covered in sweat. It was only ten in the morning. It felt good. I needed to get out, get myself together. I tossed my phone on the seat. Up and back in a flash. Still got it.

Now if I could just find that old Pearl Jam cd…

Demolition Man

At last the demo is done. I know what you’re thinking. What took so long? Well, usually there’s a toddler running amuck in our house—which, combined with that pesky day job of mine, conspired to drag out the process into next year. But the other reason is a little more, well...my fault.

That's right, I'll admit it. And like most things that don't involve technology, the following falls squarely into the my wife was right column. For months she nagged begged me to contact a contractor. The idea was for the bathroom remodel to coincide with her yearly summer trip up north. And as I write this it sounds like a really really good idea. 

I did contact a contractor. About two weeks before she set to leave. And let me tell you, business is good. Everyone was booked. Who knew? Not me, I’m not the best at delicate complexities such as scheduling, planning, listening and so forth, but I more than make up for it by whining, groveling, and my remarkable gift for procrastination. 

None of which helped in this particular case...

Anyway, contractor or not, I stuck to the whole time frame of tearing the bathroom down to the studs. Bad move. Had I known then what I know now I would have done things differently. 

Apparently in the fifties they built houses to last. I feel like this bathroom could have also been used as a bomb shelter. If you have an old tile bathroom embrace it. Or pay. Or move. My tub was stamped KOHLER 12-3-53. Try getting sixty years out of something built today. Not going to happen.

Good Times...

But there was a sledgehammer ready and my dad and I were foaming at the mouth with the thought of bashing some stuff. Then my wife and stepmother came home and found my dad patching me up with electrical tape.

My stepmom--battle-tested and hardened after 30 years of being married to my father--turned to my wife and deadpanned, "You know how to get blood out of a shirt, right?"

It was probably then that my wife became not as on board with the "me" part of this project.

A few weeks later I have a dumpster full of plaster, concrete, tile, and drywall. And some awfully mean steel mesh stuff that they used to hold it all together. I also have a newfound respect for contractors.




Last Sunday I finally got the place cleared out. I drank a beer and called my wife.

“It’s done.”

“The floor too?”

My shoulders sagged. She has this uncanny ability to “bring out the best in me.”

“No, I thought the guy said leave the floor.”

“Oh, yeah he did.”

After the call I opened the door. Under the haze of plaster sat the floor, or what was the floor but was now just a carpet of rubble and rock. I cursed. I set my celebratory beer down and hunted down my work gloves.

An hour later I was staring at the beams.

So my house is empty and my pink bathtub is gone. And I survived without any serious injury, just a couple of scratches on my arms. Plaster in my nostrils. My hair feels like steel wool. But there is hope. We did find a contractor to put our bathroom back together. He comes on the third. Of August. Meanwhile I take showers between the bushes in the backyard. Life is grand.

Do What Works...

It snowed on the way home from the hospital. Not much, hardly more than some light dust on my windshield. But to me, a dad for all of 48 hours, it may as well have been the polar vortex slamming into our car.

My wife told me to relax, and she’d just done all of the work—even though I was the one who’d nearly fainted during delivery—so I took it down from reckless seven to a much safer five miles per hour.

Traffic lined behind us, head shaking and honking, snaking back for as long as I could see in my millisecond glimpses out of the rearview mirror. I put the car seat in right? They checked it, everything’s fine. I thought to myself, sweating profusely as my white knuckles on the steering wheel were proof that I was taking on the new job seriously.

At home the real work began. No more nurses checking in on us or emergency lever to pull. But so many people had given me advice that I felt prepared with a plan for every minute of the day. Bath times and naptimes. If there was a little trick to make things hum along, I was all ears. 

On top of that I’d done enough research to earn a degree in reading about parenting. Checking out library books, taking notes and studying at night. We’d even taken that baby course and besides dinging that baby doll head on the edge of the desk I felt that I'd mastered the swaddling technique.

But only a few days (and sleepless nights) into the vast struggle that is parenthood I arrived at one major realization: A lot of what I’d read wasn’t working. Each book or blog seemed to vary due to the latest studies and research. And sure, maybe it had worked wonders for other people, but as I scribbled down my son's bowel movements and charted his breast feeding I couldn’t help hearing that nagging voice in my head.

You have no idea what you’re doing.

No, I didn’t. Sure, I’d  become a pro at getting that plastic doll into a diaper at baby class, but peeling off a soiled sack of horrid orange muck while weaving out of harm’s way from a gushing fountain of urinal while trying not to shriek at the sight of a freshly circumcised male part forced me to realize that nothing, not the reading or advice, had prepped me for the real thing. Because you can’t be fully prepared.

Sure, there was some useful information passed along. Helpful tips and timesavers. But you have to be on your schedule, not someone else’s.  Do what works for you.

There’s no one-size-fits all parenting style. Each kid is unique and requires a customized parenting style (and an endless supply of batteries) to fit his or her needs. If it doesn’t work try something else. That’s what we  did, and do, and so far so good. We have one bright, inquisitive little guy on our hands. So take what works and toss out the rest, because there are many ways to accomplish what hopefully is everyone’s main goal here: Successful Parenting.

I Won....Wait.

I was all geared up to play in a charity basketball tournament over the weekend. Our first game was on Saturday morning and  I showed up with a bounce in my step and a hop in my shoes. I don't play basketball as much as I used to so when I get the chance, I try to make the most of it.

We won. Which was great. By the time I got home I was icing my ankle and waiting for my wife and kid to get back from the park. Ugh. By then the park sounded painful just thinking about it. While I’m not old, I’m uh, mature. Okay not mature either. And if this post seems familiar, that's because I don't learn.

But I’m in decent shape. And like I said, when I’m out there on the court, I'm all Mr. Hustle. It’s afterwards that I have a little trouble. So with our second game at three, I rolled off the couch around two and pulled on my jersey without quite so much zeal as the first time around.

We won again. Come on people, how can you lose to us? We're old. Most of us anyway. But once again age triumphed. Another victory. Great. That put us in the championship game on Sunday. Wonderful. 

Sunday morning. I staggered down the hallway, cursing Dr.Naismith, his stupid sport, and the whole month of March in general. My back hurt. My family missed me. I hunted down the ibuprofen and washed it down with coffee. Eat your Wheaties, kids.

Off to the game. We had about eight players on our team. Median age I’d put at about 40. Enter our competition. Youthful and spry, armed with headphones and aloof smirks so often found on twentysomethings. They were 15 deep, with swagger and fans and great attitudes. We had Bengay.

I'm kidding. No one had Bengay. And once we started running layups I forgot all of my AARP issues. (Seriously, my stepmom just gave me the issue with Dylan on the cover. Kind of embarrassing when company stops over). The buzzer sounded and we tipped off.

I’ll make it short. They beat us soundly. I found myself defending their best player. Dude was quick. He had me on skates out there and I was just trying to stay in front of him. Years ago I would have been all for the challenge, yapping and being an all around putz. (I don't really use the term "putz" but I thought it fit the theme here.). But instead of talking trash I made jokes about how bad my ankles were going to hurt after the game. 

Realization number one hit me like an elbow to the jaw: I’ve become that old man, the one you can’t rattle because, well, he really doesn’t give a damn.

After the game I congratulated the victors and limped out of the gym. Smiling.

The day was gorgeous. I put down the windows and stretched out my back. I was actually glad that a basketball game was over.

This is new territory for me.

It was as I was pulling into the driveway that realizations two and three dawned on me. I'm turning forty this year. Yikes. But the bigger thing that I realized was why it no longer hurts to lose. Because I hadn't lost. I've won the most important prize that one can attain.

Inside I gave my wife a sweaty kiss, remembering the day that she told me to sit down. She had news. She was pregnant. I’d just come home from playing basketball that day too. That day changed my life. 

But there was no big announcement. She was off to run errands. When my son woke up I was showered and changed and ready to hangout. He seemed happy to have me around again. I was happy not to be out playing basketball. 

We went for a walk in the woods near our house. Him with his mower and me with my creaky ankles. Our shadows lay before us. His bouncing along, looking at everything. Mine more deliberate, watching. A hand extended to his little head. That’s when yet another realization fell over me like the light breeze in my hair.

My son doesn’t care if I’m not the best on the court. He doesn’t care if I shot 3-7 from the foul line. He might've taken issue if I hadn’t showered but what really mattered to him was that my shadow was right there with his. That we were hanging out together on a gorgeous Spring day.

We stopped so he could inspect a stick, then an ant. Some moss on a rock. All the while I kept reaching out and touching the top of his head. He looked at me with that squinty smile of his.

"Daddy," he said. I smiled. We started off for the house when he stopped and turned back to me again, reaching.

"Carry me?” 

It's a face you can't deny. So I bent down, my back protesting the movement and my ankles squeaking like a rusty door hinge.

“Sure buddy.”

Best trophy I've ever held.

People of WalMart

Outside, the chimney is smoking, the sledding track is glimmering slick, and the snowman stands solid on his night watch. After finally getting a significant snowfall in Virginia, we've enjoyed a string of snow day adventures.

At two, my son is enjoying the snow much more than last year. We've sledded and walked, made snow angels and read every book in the house. School was closed for a week and my wife spent regained her spot as the favorite parent. Life is good.

Another perk of the snowfall was empty stores. Over the weekend we had a big family outing....to WalMart.

We needed to print off some pictures, you know, like on paper that you put in frames? But seeing how empty the store was inside, my wife and I looked at each other and thought, Why not have a little fun first?

My kid’s favorite book at the moment is Duck on a Bike, which is a really cool book that I highly recommend. Only now my kid really wants a bike. We've spent more than a few afternoons in the basement, him balanced up on my Trek and me wobbling him along at a snail careful pace.

But WalMart has little bikes, and our little duck was ready and willing.

We slapped a helmet on his head and set off. My mind tangled with a barrage of neurotic thoughts--germs, bacteria, how skinny Beck has gotten-- but just like the duck, we started slow, inching through the lawn and garden section. If there’s anything my son loves more than bikes, it’s lawnmowers.

Our bike tour continued, through the vast array of shovels and hoses, we strolled on to the birdhouses, picking up speed as we zipped along to the home decor.

The aisles were empty and wonderful. Only once did we have to veer off course, seeing a woman in sorta-fitting pajamas over near the Easter candy. Then we were off again as I tugged him past the mirrors--because hey, he liked what he saw. Then we whisked by the vacuums, off to the trash cans, we looped around shiny pots and pans before drifting back over to the sporting equipment. All the while he laughed and giggled and shouted the word duck repeatedly. (And you can probably imagine what that sounded like).

After a few more loops around the store I knew it was going to be tough getting our little duck off the bike. But we managed. And as far as trips to Wally World go, it wasn’t too miserable. And he only muttered a few ducks as I lifted him from the bike.

He looks so big in this picture, but I'm not going to do it, I'm not going to say how he's growing up so fast. I refuse to say how it was only yesterday that I was holding him in my arms. Nope, no references to a little duckling becoming a duck. Not going to do it...

Night Terrors

Life with a toddler is all about routine. Nap times, dinner times, bed times, we stick tight to that schedule, and sometimes if feels like our routine stretches the week (and weekends) into one long, continuous cycle.

Come home, play, dinner, play, bath, play, read, sleep.

I'm okay with a routine. As a kid I loved that my house was stable and steady. My teenage years were filled with routine practices. Ugh, my twenties were a routine of mistakes. But now, I get to chase my kid around the house, play with his toys, read him some books and get to bed early. At this stage in my life, I’m perfectly content knowing that I will be up at around six every morning.

And last night I was doing just that. Bath time was all sorts of wacky because, well, you see the silly fish was pulling a train and that was just a riot because—okay wait, I’m off track here. But things were humming along just like any other night. My wife got our son all tucked in and he was out like a lump.

Now because this blog is based in reality I’ll admit that my wife and I were asleep soon after. Long ago was the day I felt shame for whatever time the clock read when I hit the pillow. But then something went bump in the night. At first we only heard, Water. Water, water, water, water!

I hopped out of bed to console my son while my wife headed for the water our son so urgently needed..

His room was awash in this eerie blue tint from the night light on his fish tank. It was like I was wearing night vision goggles when I saw my kid standing up in his crib with a vacant stare.

“You okay, buddy?” I said, just a little creeped out. 

Water!

I went to pick him up. And that's when the diaper sludge hit the fan.

He flung himself back, taking a blanket with him as he crashed into his crib, flailing and kicking. My eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the blue so I wasn’t all together sure that it was in fact my son instead of some kind of horrid creature of the night.

He screamed and moaned, and when I heard him call Mommy I was all too eager to step aside.

The screaming continued. And for the next ten minutes I questioned my sanity, my wife’s sanity, my son’s sanity—if any sanity existed in the world. He was inconsolable. But my wife stuck with him, and received a fat lip for her efforts. But she was able to ask him questions about his bad dream. Here’s what we found out:

Water was involved.  

Eventually she coaxed him back to sleep. By morning my cute, cheery little son had been returned. He didn’t seem recall last night, which I found strange. I think I'd remember morphing into a monster overnight. But nope, he just said, “Sit Daddy.”

And I gladly did. We ate breakfast together, getting back to our normal routine.

To be continued...

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.

Thirty-Five Reasons Why I Love My Wife

I wanted to do something nice for my wife's birthday so I decided to post just a few reasons that I love her. Well, thrity five. But I didn't want to do the whole, she's smart, beautiful, and sexy stuff--which of course she is--I wanted my list to be more original. So here, in honor of her um, 29^th birthday, I present......Thirty-Five reasons Why I love my wife...

1 She’s a Yankee.  With my southern charm and her love of Macintosh Apples, our son is destined for greatness…

2. She’s stubborn. Very stubborn. Being in foreclosure, the house we now live in took forever to land and I can't remember how many times I was ready to just say forget it. But she persisted. It dragged on for months and months but because of her it finally happened.

3 She’s not afraid to get her nails dirty.While she can be a girly girl, she can also get her nails dirty. She went into the house thing with a pick ax and sledge hammer. The girl is a workhorse, I came home last year when she was on winter break to find she’d tore and power sanded the faux wall paneling from the kitchen.

4. She’s good at decorating. I am not.

5. She’s patient. In a house with two dogs, a toddler and me, patience has never been more virtuous...or something. I have a tendency to be neurotic, and she has a tendency to laugh at me.

6. She’s my best friend. I can drink a beer with her and I can joke around. Well, mostly. Sometimes I'll show her a youtube clip and she'll give me the blankest of stares, but still...she's cool.

7. She doesn’t like sports. This one may be just me, but I secretly enjoy that she doesn't know a pick and roll or a post route. She  just picks the pretty team.

8. She’s short. I like short girls. Maybe because it's nice to be needed  (to reach something from the shelf).

9. She’s unintentionally funny. A long time ago, before we were married, my wife and I walked into restaurant to have a drink. Sitting at the bar were two guys who'd obviously spent some time in the gym. My wife strides right past them, tosses a quick glance there way and says, "Hey tight shirts" just like it's their names before turning to the bartender to order a drink. I kinda knew right then we were getting married.

Oh, and her dancing. Now that is good stuff.

10. She can drive a straight.

11. She gave birth to this fella. -->

12. She's an excellent mother. Goes without saying.

13. She loves dogs. This one may be the foundation of our relationship.

14. She doesn’t take me too seriously. Sometimes we get in fights--shocking, I know--and she’ll let me go off on a rant. (When I’m worked up I can have epic arguments, by myself. *Remember, neurotic?). Suddenly I'll notice her just looking at me, like, Are you finished? And I’ll be like, Yup.

15. She can cook. It was maybe on the third helping before she told me her lasagna was vegetarian.

16. She’s a little bit snobby. This is good because it keeps me from picking up stuff from the curb. And today only some of my clothes come from the Goodwill.

17. She’s supportive I’ve been seriously writing for four years now. And she’s never told me to stop, even when I’m being a freak.

18. She speaks her mind. Back to that tight shirts thing…

19. She thinks I’m smart. Got her fooled.

20. She loves the outdoors. Our ideal evening usually involves a fire pit out in the backyard. And usually she's the one starting the fire...

21. She’s outgoing. And then some. With me being the more introverted one, it's nice to have her balance things out.

22. She respects me. And I her. We can have a disagreement or even an argument. But that doesn’t mean we don’t like each other.

23. She’s a teacher. Okay, yeah, when we starting dating, I did like telling people that I was dating a kindergarten teacher. But now, as I watch her with our son, I’ve learned to use those little teaching moments too.

24. We can be kids together. Both of us enjoy kid books, movies, and taking notice of those everyday little things that make life so special.

25. We can be old folks together. And then sometimes we're in bed watching reruns at eight. Okay seven.

26. We can be lame together. See the above. No shame in our game.

27. She can be the hard ass. I kind of need to work on my stern Daddy voice, but in the meantime she’s holding things down…

28. She’s sentimental Remember that time....?

29. She’s getting better with age. Seriously

30. We’re in this together. And we both understand that. Sometimes we're like a well-oiled machine, as one of us will toss the dirty diaper over a shoulder and into the waiting hands of the other. Gross? Sweet? It's all a blur...

31. We have inside jokes. Again, years ago we were on a date, waiting in line at the movie theater and there was this guy in front of us wearing this horrendously short shirt over an equally horrendously long shirt. And to this day, when I’m getting dressed and the shirt feels a little, drafty, I’ll turn around and ask her if I have movie-theater-guy-shirt. The guy is famous in our house.

32. She didn’t marry me for my money. Of this I am 99% sure.

33. She didn’t marry me for my good looks. Of this I am 98% sure.

34. She didn't marry me for my car. I drove a 92 Honda when we met. Nice.

35. She married me for me.

So there. Just a few reasons I love my wife. We don’t have the perfect marriage, but I think the perfect marriage is imperfect. What my wife and I have a pretty good thing. One that I hope keeps on and on... So here’s to tight shirts, short shirts, and many more shirts to come…

First Hair Cut

After 633 days without a haircut, my kid was rocking some serious locks. On some days, it would curl up and look really cute and my wife and I couldn’t bear the thought of cutting it. Other days we would look at each other, both of us knowing that social services may be watching.

But we wanted to hold off until he was two. I don’t know why, but that was the plan. What was the rush anyway? It wasn’t like he had an impending job interview or something.

But last Sunday, for whatever reason, I said something about getting it cut and my wife finally relented. I’d been ready to just grab the scissors and a bowl and go to work, but my wife thought that might not be a good idea.  So we hopped in the car, heading for the mall. 

Being almost forty, I tried to remember the last time I got my haircut at the mall. Pretty sure it was in the eighties and I told the girl to cut the sides but leave the back long. The result was one pretty sweet mullet.

We strolled in to the first place. Okay, I strolled in. My wife started crying. Right then I knew we were in for an experience. And boy was it.

The really nice girl took our name. The other girls looked at my son and did that Awwwe thing. He just nibbled away at his goldfish, clueless as to what was coming. So were we. 

When our name was called the light poppy music skipped to a halt, replaced by the sinister moan of an organ. Then, from the dark recesses of the store emerged a figure...

The Butcher.

She came for us slowly, cloaked in black. Her steps clicked like a timer as she set her eyes on my poor little son. She ran her broom across the floor, a deep scowl etched in her face as she nodded for us to put the boy in the chair. For reasons I'll never know, I did as she asked. We flinched as she slung a cape over his tiny shoulders. Then, with the first hint of a smile, she ran a finger across her weapons scissors.

There he sat, like a lamb for the slaughter. The Butcher began her work, speaking in tongues--a horrid mixture of baby talk and scolding. I looked at my wife. What had we done? 

Look, I get it, I can see how it could be frustrating to get a little toddler in the chair who won’t sit still. That being said, when you hit him with the blast of hot air from the blow dryer and he jumps like it’s a flame thrower, you may not want to do it again. And again.

But The Butcher pressed on, only stopping to moan or sigh because the  small child in her chair was, you know, moving around. She even got a little stern, grimacing and sighing, all the while hacking away with the sheers. It was a bad, bad time.

Finally my wife waved her hand. She’d had enough. She took the kid and muttered something to the effect of YOU BETTER NOT TIP HER. I didn’t. Frankly I was surprised they charged us..

The Butcher stuffed the clippings into a happy Baby’s First Haircut envelope. We pretended nothing happened. I thanked her….awkwardly…for just…you know…okay bye.

We hit the mall in search of another salon, my wife marching like a storm trooper shaking her head. People pointed and laughed at the kid with the funny haircut.

Then, like a shining beacon we found hope. We entered another salon. After a few gasps at the sight of our child, (somebody mentioned that pets were't allowed), they promised to help the best that they could. The next girl was llike and angel. She spoke in soft tones. She was friendly. She had this refreshing habit of smiling. And Simon behaved, for the most part. He sat and she worked her magic and the result is that after two haircuts and thirty bucks, he looks like a boy. 

I still say the bowl would have worked. Because for me it was just hair, I didn't get it. But to my wife it was so much more. With the crying and all, she was clinging to that hair like a memory of her baby. But he’s no longer our baby, he’s a little boy. 

Great, now I’m crying…