Sunday was my first Father's Day, which alone was a pretty nifty thing. Fortunately, my first Father's Day was also a day with a few unexpected firsts that made the day even more memorable. Here they are:
1. I usually get up in the morning when my daughter decides it's time to start the day. Naturally, her start time is much earlier than I prefer, but that's not important. On this occasion, my wife decided to steal the little one away before I had a chance to fully wake up, and allowed me to sleep a little longer than normal. But the awesome part was what she did during that time. She had secretly purchased a little outfit that said "Dad's #1 Fan" while we were shopping together and presented my daughter in this shirt when I finally stumbled down stairs. I was impressed she bought the shirt with me standing five feet away, and pretty touched at the sentiment.
2. My daughter had her first real laugh. She's been smiling and making weird little giggles for weeks, but this was different. I was making noises on her belly, and she curled up around my face and really laughed. It was a look of pure joy on both our faces. Even better was that my wife was there too, and we all experienced it together. Normally, something happens when one of us is in the other room or at the grocery store. Of course, I've been making a fool of myself to get the little one to do it again, with minimal success. I think she's confused that her father's behavior has gone from adult-like (barely) to something more primitive in just a couple days.
3. The final first is one I experienced alone on Father's Day. I'm a fairly avid runner, and I absolutely must have my Pandora app blasting in my ear during the run. Well, this past week, Pandora added the option of listening to stand up comedy, and I had to try it out just for a change. I search for Mitch Hedburg, crank up the comedy, and the run begins. With music, I normally just kind of zone out and run to the beat and pace of the songs. Well, the comedy did what it's intended to, and I found myself laughing. Not a big deal until I noticed people passing in their cars or running in the opposite direction. Yeah. Guess that explains why people were crossing the road to get away from me and mothers were pulling their kids off the side walk as I approached.
Not as much chaos as I normally describe, which seems appropriate. With the passing of this Father's Day, and the events that made it special, I really feel like a daddy. A little shirt has never made me so happy, and a laugh has never made me feel like a king. I'm proud to be part of this club. My hats off to all the dads out there, young and old, whether new in the game or sage-like in experience; I hope your day was as awesome as mine.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Wetness Indicator, I'm On To You!
They're super convenient, I know. Your little one peeps a squeal, you notice the wetness indicator changing colors, and off to the changing table you go! If you had to envision the scenario like an action novel, it would read something like this (names changed for privacy, so don't go Googling the characters or anything):
Sound of child wailing in the background, "Bbbbbwwwaaahhhhhhh!!!!."
"What?!" inquires Mama Xena from the laundry room where she's pressing underoos and socks.
"Fret not my dear, I'm en route; just waiting on another load of laundry to finish drying." proclaims mama cheerily.
Sounds of alarms and sirens can be heard throughout the neighborhood, and neighbors sally forth to offer comfort and assistance. Luckily, the diaper is changed, screaming subsides, and all returns to normalcy in short order. No more chapters, this story is set to repeat every 30 minutes or so.
Perhaps a bit dramatic, but it often feels like that when the first cries come out of your child like a livid banshee. At first, I loved the wetness indicators as well, but then I noticed something. We were changing a lot of diapers that didn't seem much heavier than when we put them on, and sometimes we changed them before the kiddo even sounded the alarm. I did some complicated math and realized that, on average, we changed about 5 more diapers a day when they had the wetness indicator. Doesn't seem like much, but that adds up to a jumbo pack of diapers extra each month. That's a big deal, especially over the course of a couple months. Honestly, we were changing them because of the possibility of a diaper rash or because we felt it was just the right thing for a parent to do.
My opinion is this. The wetness indicators are great in those first couple weeks at home when everyone is still trying to figure out the different cries and frequency of diaper changes. Once you think you've got it down, there's no reason you really need the indicator unless you have a child that doesn't seem to mind having an extremely soiled and drooping diaper. Naturally, my little girl sounds off like a fire alarm when the first drip starts to cool in the diaper. She has a built in wetness indicator.
For me, it simply comes down to cost. The diapers with the little lines usually cost more anyway, so it's like a double junk-punch. They cost more and get changed out more frequently. Brilliant, if you own stock in diapers. I do not.
"Don't worry daughter, I shall save thee!" screams Papa Hondo from the backyard where he's chopping wood. "WIFE, THERE'S TINKLE ON THE TOOTIE!"
"OUR DAUGHTER HAS URINATED!" explains Hondo in big people language as he lays down his axe.
They meet at the child's crib, and they are aghast. In unison they cry, "THE LINE IS BLUE!!!" NEED CHANGING MATERIALS STAT!"
Perhaps a bit dramatic, but it often feels like that when the first cries come out of your child like a livid banshee. At first, I loved the wetness indicators as well, but then I noticed something. We were changing a lot of diapers that didn't seem much heavier than when we put them on, and sometimes we changed them before the kiddo even sounded the alarm. I did some complicated math and realized that, on average, we changed about 5 more diapers a day when they had the wetness indicator. Doesn't seem like much, but that adds up to a jumbo pack of diapers extra each month. That's a big deal, especially over the course of a couple months. Honestly, we were changing them because of the possibility of a diaper rash or because we felt it was just the right thing for a parent to do.My opinion is this. The wetness indicators are great in those first couple weeks at home when everyone is still trying to figure out the different cries and frequency of diaper changes. Once you think you've got it down, there's no reason you really need the indicator unless you have a child that doesn't seem to mind having an extremely soiled and drooping diaper. Naturally, my little girl sounds off like a fire alarm when the first drip starts to cool in the diaper. She has a built in wetness indicator.
For me, it simply comes down to cost. The diapers with the little lines usually cost more anyway, so it's like a double junk-punch. They cost more and get changed out more frequently. Brilliant, if you own stock in diapers. I do not.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
10 things NEVER to say to a pregnant lady
I can only write these because I've experienced them. (Embellished only slightly, I'm embarassed to say - I'm not a complete jerk, but my mouth apparently isn't wired right...or wired shut).
Things NOT to say to your wife when she’s pregnant:
1. Anything that has to do with the bovine species (cows), particularly in reference to udders. Yes, her breasts are changing, getting bigger, and in many cases some slight color alteration. Your continued relationship with them (the breasts) is predicated on you not turning them into an object of ridicule, or enlarging play-things. For instance, don't check size difference while she's asleep.
2. Anything reference weight gain. Seriously genius, do I really need to go here? This should be obvious, as it is a taboo topic at any time. Treading into this topic is a sure-fire way to ensure you will never have sex again. When her belly makes it hard to wrap your arms around, best to leave that sleeping dog lie.
3. Anything about her eating habits. This goes hand in hand with weight gain. Want to have your head ripped off? Comment on the Little Debbies. Even if your stash of Twinkies gets mauled like a 2-ton grizzly ripped through it, just let it go. There will always be more Twinkies (chances are, you didn’t need them either). An example; "are you SURE you want another bon-bon?" Bad idea dude.
4. “Did you fart?” Yes, she farted. Loudly and at inopportune times. So apparently commenting on her uncontrolled flatulence is a real turn-on. Or not.
5. “Man, too bad you can’t drink.” This, coupled with having to watch you drink, especially if you get intoxicated, is a guarantee to be both cut-off, denied the ability to go and hang out “with the boys” at any time, and moreover a good way to get yourself kicked in the family jewels. IN PARTICULAR - do NOT come home fall-down wasted when she's seven months pregnant and put on bed-rest for possible early delivery issues. You're not going to get a lot of hangover sympathy.
6. Respond, in any manner, to “YOU DID THIS TO ME!!” Apparently there are times when that lady is pretty uncomfortable, and wants to blame you. Chances are you do not share in this discomfort, unless you ate really bad ethnic food. Nothing you say to this will be right. Whatever you do, don’t smile, laugh, or rebel yell. None of these are correct responses either.
7. “Gosh, you sure are moody. ” Yes. Yes she is. Beware flying objects. Like sliced turkey frisbees. Again, silence is the best option, because there just is NOT an argument that you're going to win. Ever. For nine months.
8. “You never want to have sex anymore.” Chances are, her libido is at the bottom of the SIN curve. That, coupled with the SUPER sexy feeling of gaining weight and releasing nauseous gas every few seconds means that no, she probably isn’t slipping into the Playboy bunny costume you bought her last fall. Keep giving her crap and she’ll be living in the “no-sex comfy sweats” for the next four years or so. And remind you of how "selfish and unempathetic" you are for the rest of your life.
9. “Stop playing with the thermostat – and why is it so cold in here?” Ah, yes. Temperature fluctuations. This is usually indicative of good times. Get a sweatshirt and roll with it, or the thermostat won't be the only thing you lose control over.
10. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m the most sensitive guy I know!” Oh no, son. You forgot to do something – and whatever it was, it was the most important thing EVER. Atone now, or beware.
Whatever it was, you're wrong.
Have a good week!
Things NOT to say to your wife when she’s pregnant:
1. Anything that has to do with the bovine species (cows), particularly in reference to udders. Yes, her breasts are changing, getting bigger, and in many cases some slight color alteration. Your continued relationship with them (the breasts) is predicated on you not turning them into an object of ridicule, or enlarging play-things. For instance, don't check size difference while she's asleep.
2. Anything reference weight gain. Seriously genius, do I really need to go here? This should be obvious, as it is a taboo topic at any time. Treading into this topic is a sure-fire way to ensure you will never have sex again. When her belly makes it hard to wrap your arms around, best to leave that sleeping dog lie.
3. Anything about her eating habits. This goes hand in hand with weight gain. Want to have your head ripped off? Comment on the Little Debbies. Even if your stash of Twinkies gets mauled like a 2-ton grizzly ripped through it, just let it go. There will always be more Twinkies (chances are, you didn’t need them either). An example; "are you SURE you want another bon-bon?" Bad idea dude.
4. “Did you fart?” Yes, she farted. Loudly and at inopportune times. So apparently commenting on her uncontrolled flatulence is a real turn-on. Or not.
5. “Man, too bad you can’t drink.” This, coupled with having to watch you drink, especially if you get intoxicated, is a guarantee to be both cut-off, denied the ability to go and hang out “with the boys” at any time, and moreover a good way to get yourself kicked in the family jewels. IN PARTICULAR - do NOT come home fall-down wasted when she's seven months pregnant and put on bed-rest for possible early delivery issues. You're not going to get a lot of hangover sympathy.
6. Respond, in any manner, to “YOU DID THIS TO ME!!” Apparently there are times when that lady is pretty uncomfortable, and wants to blame you. Chances are you do not share in this discomfort, unless you ate really bad ethnic food. Nothing you say to this will be right. Whatever you do, don’t smile, laugh, or rebel yell. None of these are correct responses either.
7. “Gosh, you sure are moody. ” Yes. Yes she is. Beware flying objects. Like sliced turkey frisbees. Again, silence is the best option, because there just is NOT an argument that you're going to win. Ever. For nine months.
8. “You never want to have sex anymore.” Chances are, her libido is at the bottom of the SIN curve. That, coupled with the SUPER sexy feeling of gaining weight and releasing nauseous gas every few seconds means that no, she probably isn’t slipping into the Playboy bunny costume you bought her last fall. Keep giving her crap and she’ll be living in the “no-sex comfy sweats” for the next four years or so. And remind you of how "selfish and unempathetic" you are for the rest of your life.
9. “Stop playing with the thermostat – and why is it so cold in here?” Ah, yes. Temperature fluctuations. This is usually indicative of good times. Get a sweatshirt and roll with it, or the thermostat won't be the only thing you lose control over.
10. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m the most sensitive guy I know!” Oh no, son. You forgot to do something – and whatever it was, it was the most important thing EVER. Atone now, or beware.
Whatever it was, you're wrong.
Have a good week!
Monday, June 13, 2011
I-95: Lucifer's Highway or Trail of Shattered Hopes?!
Why would a dad's blog discuss an interstate? Because when that dad lives in the National Capital Region and wants to travel south to visit friends, he has little choice but to travel on the locally infamous I-95. I've travelled on many interstates: up the west coast on I-5, across the south and south west on I-10, and numerous others all over the interior. What sets I-95 apart is that it's the first one I've travelled as a father, and that changes EVERYTHING!
A little background is in order. This past weekend, we enjoyed a relaxing couple days with long time friends in Newport News. This was everyone's first time meeting our little one, and everything was just dandy as the weekend drew to a close and the short, 3 hour return drive home approached. Everything should have been fine; I had a tummy full of Greek food and a cooler full of Korean food. The kiddo had been pleasant all morning, so why would I assume things would go south as we were driving north?
If you've never been in the DC area, understanding traffic patterns is a key to emotional and spiritual survival. There are certain times when you don't head into DC, certain times you don't head away, others that are free to travel anywhere, and times you should just stay home. We had already braved a south-bound drive on Friday, which is a no-no. Heading back into the DC area on Sunday is also a bad idea, but we knew that heading out and expected a little waiting and slow travel. We weren't prepared for what happened.
Driving was fine for the first hour, and then the munchkin had break down number one. No big deal, just pull off, change a diaper, down a bottle, and we're off again. That's how it normally works, so that's what we do. Twenty minutes later, we have another kiddo-crisis in the backseat and because of traffic, we pull into the shoulder in the median. It's not like traffic was moving at a dangerous speed. So we repeat the first stop, and we both star to realize that our little girl has had just about enough of being in the car seat. Finally, we head out again, for about thirty more minutes before the next onslaught of tears. This time, I decide to stop at Dairy Queen so that we can all get a tasty treat.
I look at the GPS and realize we're three hours in and just over half way home. Not looking good. We head out again an hour later when we think the sprout has settled down. Silly dad, tricks are definitely for kids. As soon as we got back on I-95, she had a full melt down. Tears flowing, bottom lip all the way out, vocal chords working at max capacity. I and the wife realize this isn't going to get better, and we can't keep stopping, so we trudge on. The wife survived with a set off ear plugs and a lot of patience in the back seat. I searched my head for my happy place and settled on gritting my teeth and squeezing the steering wheel as hard as possible. Twenty minutes from home, she falls asleep just as I consider jumping from the car into the middle lane of I-95.
In the end, I salute you I-95 for breaking my spirits. Creeping traffic for 57 miles combined with a wailing midget resulted in 2:45 trip turning into a 6 hour trip. What I take away is that all travel should be in the middle of the night, when most normal people are sleeping, including my now voice-amplified daughter.
A little background is in order. This past weekend, we enjoyed a relaxing couple days with long time friends in Newport News. This was everyone's first time meeting our little one, and everything was just dandy as the weekend drew to a close and the short, 3 hour return drive home approached. Everything should have been fine; I had a tummy full of Greek food and a cooler full of Korean food. The kiddo had been pleasant all morning, so why would I assume things would go south as we were driving north?
If you've never been in the DC area, understanding traffic patterns is a key to emotional and spiritual survival. There are certain times when you don't head into DC, certain times you don't head away, others that are free to travel anywhere, and times you should just stay home. We had already braved a south-bound drive on Friday, which is a no-no. Heading back into the DC area on Sunday is also a bad idea, but we knew that heading out and expected a little waiting and slow travel. We weren't prepared for what happened.
Driving was fine for the first hour, and then the munchkin had break down number one. No big deal, just pull off, change a diaper, down a bottle, and we're off again. That's how it normally works, so that's what we do. Twenty minutes later, we have another kiddo-crisis in the backseat and because of traffic, we pull into the shoulder in the median. It's not like traffic was moving at a dangerous speed. So we repeat the first stop, and we both star to realize that our little girl has had just about enough of being in the car seat. Finally, we head out again, for about thirty more minutes before the next onslaught of tears. This time, I decide to stop at Dairy Queen so that we can all get a tasty treat.
I look at the GPS and realize we're three hours in and just over half way home. Not looking good. We head out again an hour later when we think the sprout has settled down. Silly dad, tricks are definitely for kids. As soon as we got back on I-95, she had a full melt down. Tears flowing, bottom lip all the way out, vocal chords working at max capacity. I and the wife realize this isn't going to get better, and we can't keep stopping, so we trudge on. The wife survived with a set off ear plugs and a lot of patience in the back seat. I searched my head for my happy place and settled on gritting my teeth and squeezing the steering wheel as hard as possible. Twenty minutes from home, she falls asleep just as I consider jumping from the car into the middle lane of I-95.
In the end, I salute you I-95 for breaking my spirits. Creeping traffic for 57 miles combined with a wailing midget resulted in 2:45 trip turning into a 6 hour trip. What I take away is that all travel should be in the middle of the night, when most normal people are sleeping, including my now voice-amplified daughter.
Fatherhood: Ninja CLEP Test
This one could also be titled Adventures in Multi-Tasking, but that's not nearly as catchy. There's a specific incident I had in mind when I thought about this post. It was early in the days of the sprout coming home from the hospital, when the wife and I still held the belief that it's not possible to care for a child and do anything else. Anyone who can reflect back on that first 72 hours home with the kiddo knows exactly what I'm talking about.
Like most challenges, I entered this whole dad thing with the idea that rather than see what limitations parenthood posed, I would see exactly how much I could continue to do with kid in hand. This leads me back to the story I mentioned. So, early one morning while mom was sleeping or pumping, or perhaps sleep-pumping as she's known to do, I decided I needed a fantastic breakfast. My daughter had already decided that she would be a morning person, and showed little interest in a mid-morning siesta. Then there's the dog, with new-found issues of belonging and clinginess. There's the beginning of this ninja algebra: dog who needs attention, kid who refuses to sleep, and dad who really needs omelet.
Perhaps at this point the average person says "OK. One thing at a time." Not this guy. I blaze up the stove, scramble some eggs, chops up some delicious toppings, and we're on our way to breakfast heaven. Not so difficult, you say? Did I mention the cooking and food prep was all done with my right hand, the baby was in my left arm with a bottle propped against my chin (thank goodness for the butt chin), and I was rubbing the dog's belly with my right foot? Take that Mr. Sequential-Task-Undertaker!
In retrospect, I regret two things. The first is that no picture was taken of this event, which is truly a sad mistake. On the plus side, I can always deny my questionable parenting methods if they come under scrutiny. The second regret is that it was perhaps a dangerous endeavor in the first place. At the apex, I was balancing on just one foot while teetering, with kid in hand, over a hot stove with a spastic dog rolling around on the floor. Not the best technique, which is probably another reason a lack of photos is a good thing.
Like most challenges, I entered this whole dad thing with the idea that rather than see what limitations parenthood posed, I would see exactly how much I could continue to do with kid in hand. This leads me back to the story I mentioned. So, early one morning while mom was sleeping or pumping, or perhaps sleep-pumping as she's known to do, I decided I needed a fantastic breakfast. My daughter had already decided that she would be a morning person, and showed little interest in a mid-morning siesta. Then there's the dog, with new-found issues of belonging and clinginess. There's the beginning of this ninja algebra: dog who needs attention, kid who refuses to sleep, and dad who really needs omelet.
Perhaps at this point the average person says "OK. One thing at a time." Not this guy. I blaze up the stove, scramble some eggs, chops up some delicious toppings, and we're on our way to breakfast heaven. Not so difficult, you say? Did I mention the cooking and food prep was all done with my right hand, the baby was in my left arm with a bottle propped against my chin (thank goodness for the butt chin), and I was rubbing the dog's belly with my right foot? Take that Mr. Sequential-Task-Undertaker!
In retrospect, I regret two things. The first is that no picture was taken of this event, which is truly a sad mistake. On the plus side, I can always deny my questionable parenting methods if they come under scrutiny. The second regret is that it was perhaps a dangerous endeavor in the first place. At the apex, I was balancing on just one foot while teetering, with kid in hand, over a hot stove with a spastic dog rolling around on the floor. Not the best technique, which is probably another reason a lack of photos is a good thing.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Helmets and Head Symmetry
I'll admit, I'm a little OCD when it comes to a few things - drinking glass placement on restaurant tables (has to be lined up with a seam), formatting in newspapers (spelling and leading), and my kids head symmetry. My wife and I took the standard parenting classes prior to welcoming the little one, and I didn't appreciate how much emphasis was placed on newborn and infant appearance. They all look like ET. Got it, move on, my kid will be a perfect exception. Guess I should have payed more attention to the class content and less on my concern that the stacks of books in the corner weren't lined up uniformly.
It's actually a little ridiculous, considering that all new kids have really wickedly shaped heads. Every morning, I have a routine I call "The Trivial Trinity" during which I check the diaper, grab a bottle, and start rotating my daughter in my hands to check head symmetry status. Oh yeah, I check every angle for ear alignment deviations, forehead bulges, and anything else that signals a problem. She just wants a change and some milk, but that has to wait for the exam. I wake up during the night to make sure my daughter's head is rotated to minimize flat spots. I'm tuned in to the sound of my daughter rotating her head at night, and I will respond likes it's a 911 call.
I fully admit this process is more about me than her. Truth be told, if the old melon looks like a football turned 30 degrees on a y-axis, that's okay. She can wear a little helmet to fix the issue, or we can petition the gods for really thick hair. Actually, the helmet would help in my plans to program her into the next Xena Warrior Princess. First, helmet; next, chest plate and broad sword.
Will I love her less if she's asymmetrical? No. Will I deny her a fresh diaper and warm bottle if she fails the morning exam? Absolutely not. Will any of this logic change my ways or allow me to relax a little and just let her grow? Not a chance, and now it's time to go line up my coffee mugs and make sure the labels on my canned goods all face forward.
It's actually a little ridiculous, considering that all new kids have really wickedly shaped heads. Every morning, I have a routine I call "The Trivial Trinity" during which I check the diaper, grab a bottle, and start rotating my daughter in my hands to check head symmetry status. Oh yeah, I check every angle for ear alignment deviations, forehead bulges, and anything else that signals a problem. She just wants a change and some milk, but that has to wait for the exam. I wake up during the night to make sure my daughter's head is rotated to minimize flat spots. I'm tuned in to the sound of my daughter rotating her head at night, and I will respond likes it's a 911 call.I fully admit this process is more about me than her. Truth be told, if the old melon looks like a football turned 30 degrees on a y-axis, that's okay. She can wear a little helmet to fix the issue, or we can petition the gods for really thick hair. Actually, the helmet would help in my plans to program her into the next Xena Warrior Princess. First, helmet; next, chest plate and broad sword.
Will I love her less if she's asymmetrical? No. Will I deny her a fresh diaper and warm bottle if she fails the morning exam? Absolutely not. Will any of this logic change my ways or allow me to relax a little and just let her grow? Not a chance, and now it's time to go line up my coffee mugs and make sure the labels on my canned goods all face forward.
The Hubris of the Noob
I can remember the exact date that I figured out my life was irrevocably changed. It wasn't during my wife's pregnancy, it wasn't even immediately after the birth; it was when the twins were exactly 5 weeks old, in early September of 2006.
I know what you're thinking.
5 weeks, what’s the matter with you?! While that isn’t a short list, in this case - Denial, friend, is not just a river in Egypt. (Say it out loud if you don’t get it) I thought I could go right on doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Maybe it was the lack of sleep – we didn’t get those babies sleeping at the same time until just prior to that fateful September weekend.
So my wife had opted to go back to work early. Frankly, with two new mouths to feed, and at the rate we were cruising through diapers (seriously, with the poop – what is the deal?), it seemed like the thing to do. Reluctantly, she called her hospital and picked up a 12 hour shift (she’s an ICU nurse. This matters later in the story). As she tearily departed for the day, she uttered “don’t go anywhere with them, just stay around the house. I don’t think they’re ready to travel yet.” Had I only heeded her advice.
There was an outdoor store 45 minutes away, that had just gotten a new shipment in of the latest in backpacking and climbing gear. I wanted to touch, handle, and monkey around with this stuff. You can see where this is going.
I remember the train of thought going something like this:
You have lead men in combat. You have climbed mountains in harsh environments. You change diapers like an Indy 500 pit crew. What could POSSIBLY go wrong?
The first 45 minutes on the road were fine. The babies slept, I drove. The MINUTE I shoved that car in park, the wailing started. In truth, my wife had tried to prepare me well for children. She gave me books I pretended to read, had me watch shows, tried to have frank and mature conversations. Little did she know, her chosen partner in life isn’t named Frank, and isn’t capable of maturity. So, Daddy’s little angels are caterwauling madly in the back, at the drop of a dime, and I can’t figure out why. I start going through the checklist in my head:
Diaper? No.
Hungry? No.
Diaper? No.
Still not hungry? Nope.
Well damn, I’m out. WTH?! What do I do? This is usually the point my wife steps in to assist!
I should mention, that this was before we had the van, so I had managed to contort myself into the back of our Honda in between the two car seats to do this, straining my back in the process.
On a side note, it turns out that sometimes, kids just scream to test out the pipes. Maybe they have gas. More than anything, they were probably sick of their car-seats. These things were not part of the checklist that I frantically repeated. There I was, having been isolated to home or office for weeks, and just a mere 10 meters from my favorite outdoors store, and there I was in the parking lot being stared at by everyone walking in and out of the shopping center.
And to add insult to injury, it seems that anytime a guy of my size and stature has wailing kids, I must have either beat them, be a pedophile, or kidnapped them based on some of the looks I was getting as I was stuffed into the back seat of that car.
What do I do? Call wife. Call wife now – but then I froze.
“Don’t leave the house,” She had said. I’m almost an hour away…she’s going to kill me…what…do…I…do?!
Have you ever made a decision when you’re REALLY tired? If you have kids, I’m sure you have. Working on weeks with no more than 4 hours of sleep a night, your thought process distorts into some weird loop of ridiculousness. Couple this with trying to think while gyrating yourself through the funhouse amusement park ride that was my backseat, and you get positively no where. While a portion of my rational self realized that I should just call her and beg forgiveness, I decided to drive. I thought, if I called her from the car, she might not know where I was and could walk me through emergency action procedures with the kids. So I floored it out of the parking lot and started beating feet back to the house. I assumed that if I called her from the road, it would be quite as bad. Yes, I know, flawed logic.
Finally getting her on the phone after what seemed an eternity the floor secretary made me wait, the first question she asked was, “are you in the car?”
Busted. I cracked like an egg and spilled the beans. Dead silence on the other end as the babies continued to scream. The lecture was not lengthy, but was punctuated with a few pointed expletives and detailing a list of household chores that I would ensure were completed by the time she was home in order to make amends. Then she left. Hung up. It wasn’t that she didn’t care, it was just that Kentucky state police officers don’t like it when you’re on the phone when they pull you over for a speeding ticket.
Didn't I mention that I was attempting to break land-speed records to get back home?
Ironically enough, as I pulled into my driveway, exactly 120 minutes later, 175 dollars poorer, a strained back, and in hot water with my wife, the kids stopped screaming and passed back out. Seems the demon had passed, and they slept clean through to their next feeding. And that, friends, was when I realized that my life was no longer my own. Cheers.
I know what you're thinking.
5 weeks, what’s the matter with you?! While that isn’t a short list, in this case - Denial, friend, is not just a river in Egypt. (Say it out loud if you don’t get it) I thought I could go right on doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Maybe it was the lack of sleep – we didn’t get those babies sleeping at the same time until just prior to that fateful September weekend.
So my wife had opted to go back to work early. Frankly, with two new mouths to feed, and at the rate we were cruising through diapers (seriously, with the poop – what is the deal?), it seemed like the thing to do. Reluctantly, she called her hospital and picked up a 12 hour shift (she’s an ICU nurse. This matters later in the story). As she tearily departed for the day, she uttered “don’t go anywhere with them, just stay around the house. I don’t think they’re ready to travel yet.” Had I only heeded her advice.
There was an outdoor store 45 minutes away, that had just gotten a new shipment in of the latest in backpacking and climbing gear. I wanted to touch, handle, and monkey around with this stuff. You can see where this is going.
I remember the train of thought going something like this:
You have lead men in combat. You have climbed mountains in harsh environments. You change diapers like an Indy 500 pit crew. What could POSSIBLY go wrong?
The first 45 minutes on the road were fine. The babies slept, I drove. The MINUTE I shoved that car in park, the wailing started. In truth, my wife had tried to prepare me well for children. She gave me books I pretended to read, had me watch shows, tried to have frank and mature conversations. Little did she know, her chosen partner in life isn’t named Frank, and isn’t capable of maturity. So, Daddy’s little angels are caterwauling madly in the back, at the drop of a dime, and I can’t figure out why. I start going through the checklist in my head:
Diaper? No.
Hungry? No.
Diaper? No.
Still not hungry? Nope.
Well damn, I’m out. WTH?! What do I do? This is usually the point my wife steps in to assist!
I should mention, that this was before we had the van, so I had managed to contort myself into the back of our Honda in between the two car seats to do this, straining my back in the process.
On a side note, it turns out that sometimes, kids just scream to test out the pipes. Maybe they have gas. More than anything, they were probably sick of their car-seats. These things were not part of the checklist that I frantically repeated. There I was, having been isolated to home or office for weeks, and just a mere 10 meters from my favorite outdoors store, and there I was in the parking lot being stared at by everyone walking in and out of the shopping center.
And to add insult to injury, it seems that anytime a guy of my size and stature has wailing kids, I must have either beat them, be a pedophile, or kidnapped them based on some of the looks I was getting as I was stuffed into the back seat of that car.
What do I do? Call wife. Call wife now – but then I froze.
“Don’t leave the house,” She had said. I’m almost an hour away…she’s going to kill me…what…do…I…do?!
Have you ever made a decision when you’re REALLY tired? If you have kids, I’m sure you have. Working on weeks with no more than 4 hours of sleep a night, your thought process distorts into some weird loop of ridiculousness. Couple this with trying to think while gyrating yourself through the funhouse amusement park ride that was my backseat, and you get positively no where. While a portion of my rational self realized that I should just call her and beg forgiveness, I decided to drive. I thought, if I called her from the car, she might not know where I was and could walk me through emergency action procedures with the kids. So I floored it out of the parking lot and started beating feet back to the house. I assumed that if I called her from the road, it would be quite as bad. Yes, I know, flawed logic.
Finally getting her on the phone after what seemed an eternity the floor secretary made me wait, the first question she asked was, “are you in the car?”
Busted. I cracked like an egg and spilled the beans. Dead silence on the other end as the babies continued to scream. The lecture was not lengthy, but was punctuated with a few pointed expletives and detailing a list of household chores that I would ensure were completed by the time she was home in order to make amends. Then she left. Hung up. It wasn’t that she didn’t care, it was just that Kentucky state police officers don’t like it when you’re on the phone when they pull you over for a speeding ticket.
Didn't I mention that I was attempting to break land-speed records to get back home?
Ironically enough, as I pulled into my driveway, exactly 120 minutes later, 175 dollars poorer, a strained back, and in hot water with my wife, the kids stopped screaming and passed back out. Seems the demon had passed, and they slept clean through to their next feeding. And that, friends, was when I realized that my life was no longer my own. Cheers.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Hand and Foot Prints - Unexpected Chaos!
It's a tradition, I suppose. You make the old hand and foot prints for your babies and treasure them until your kid's old enough to roll their eyes at how silly you are. Naturally, I couldn't resist, and I decided the best time was while the wife was out of the house. Who needs help with such a simple task as spreading ink on your 3-month old's appendages and slapping them down on a sheet of paper? Answer - this guy.
I was fooled into thinking I would get out unmarked when I finished the feet with relative ease. At the time, it didn't dawn on me that my daughter doesn't have much control over her feet and it's not as if she can ball her feet into fists. Then came the hands. By this time, I already have purplish-black baby feet prints on my bare legs (I thought ahead). Now, my daughter is fully awake and not impressed by the fact that she came to in only a diaper with weird stuff all over her hands. So, she balled them into fists, right after spreading the ink all over her face and chest. But, this is a no fail mission, and I wasn't about to let her win this fight.
Next step: I place her under my arm in a foot ball grasp, try to force her tiny fingers out straight, and then get my coveted prints. I succeeded. The cost was a total of four pieces of paper, covered front and back with Jackson Pollack slathers of ink, but I got my silly prints. That's just the first part of this small failure in parenthood.
I was fooled into thinking I would get out unmarked when I finished the feet with relative ease. At the time, it didn't dawn on me that my daughter doesn't have much control over her feet and it's not as if she can ball her feet into fists. Then came the hands. By this time, I already have purplish-black baby feet prints on my bare legs (I thought ahead). Now, my daughter is fully awake and not impressed by the fact that she came to in only a diaper with weird stuff all over her hands. So, she balled them into fists, right after spreading the ink all over her face and chest. But, this is a no fail mission, and I wasn't about to let her win this fight.
Next step: I place her under my arm in a foot ball grasp, try to force her tiny fingers out straight, and then get my coveted prints. I succeeded. The cost was a total of four pieces of paper, covered front and back with Jackson Pollack slathers of ink, but I got my silly prints. That's just the first part of this small failure in parenthood.So, there's a reason stores carry a kit for making these prints, and it's worth the extra couple dollars to splurge and save the trouble I soon found myself in. Note to reader: non-toxic is indeed important, but water based does not necessarily mean water soluble or easy to remove. Once the prints were secured in a folder with other random tidbits, it was off to the tub. After nearly 30 minutes of continuous scrubbing, my daughter's face and chest were clear of ink. Had to make sure the faded dark blue ink spots disappeared so that I wouldn't have to explain to child protective services that the marks were ink and not bruises. The hands and feet were a little more troublesome. The little one wasn't all that cooperative with being scrubbed, and ended the bath with small amounts of ink between her fingers and toes. Luckily it was non-toxic, because she of course had to suck on her fascinating purple fingers. Purple finger sucking equals purple bubble spitting. Great. Some things are meant to be done as a team, and you can rest assured that your kiddo's hands and feet will be around long enough for mom to get home.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Why Carters and Babys 'R Us Stores are the Devil
Despite the fact that I'm only 3 months into this whole parenting thing, I consider myself to be a fairly capable and devoted father, until I walk into either the Carters or Babys 'R Us stores.
These stores are traps for parents. I have a closet full of clothes for my daughter, enough to last her until she's 2 years old. But that's not enough. Oh no. One walk into a Carters store and your debit or credit card will bend under the heat generated from so many transactions. Sure, their stuff looks great, and it's probably super duper quality in comparison to the 5-pack onesies I prefer. But you know what? Kids grow so fast that they rarely wear the stuff often enough to justify the purchase. They never wear it much because there's no chance you'll pass a full sizing period without heading right back into the store for more. It's like a drug, except you don't feel all that loopy and you probably won't eat a while bag of Funyuns afterwards.
Babys 'R Us is even worse because they offer a smorgasbord of offerings for your child. It's like a wonderland of kiddie extravagance. I don't mind going into the store jsut to watch the bliss filled moms drag along the exhausted baby-dady for just one more glance at that semi-functional, really expensive, totally necessary stroller that's made of titanium and organic mammoth hide. This place makes you feel like a bad parent if your kid doesn't have every possible "safety" gizmo out there. Of course you need the portable, wi-fi, HD, full color with night vision monitor. How did people make it for so long by just simply listening for a peep or a cry? Infant mortality rates must surely have fallen dramatically.
Here's what I say. Get comfy with things like amazon.com, craigslist.com, and TJ Maxx (or any similar store). Use the high price places to check things out and see what you like, and then go search for it elsewhere. You can find anything from those places much cheaper and with little wear (if used) or unrecognizable flaws (factory seconds), or just cheaper (everywhere else is cheaper). Get online and read reviews about that completely necessary item that didn't exist for parents a decade ago.
As long as your kid is clean, fed, and you show it some love, it likely won't turn out to be a serial killer. If he/she does, then chalk it up to societal deviations, or the fact that you bypassed the opportunity to buy your home organic baby food factory and just bought the little jars instead. Bad parent.
These stores are traps for parents. I have a closet full of clothes for my daughter, enough to last her until she's 2 years old. But that's not enough. Oh no. One walk into a Carters store and your debit or credit card will bend under the heat generated from so many transactions. Sure, their stuff looks great, and it's probably super duper quality in comparison to the 5-pack onesies I prefer. But you know what? Kids grow so fast that they rarely wear the stuff often enough to justify the purchase. They never wear it much because there's no chance you'll pass a full sizing period without heading right back into the store for more. It's like a drug, except you don't feel all that loopy and you probably won't eat a while bag of Funyuns afterwards.
Babys 'R Us is even worse because they offer a smorgasbord of offerings for your child. It's like a wonderland of kiddie extravagance. I don't mind going into the store jsut to watch the bliss filled moms drag along the exhausted baby-dady for just one more glance at that semi-functional, really expensive, totally necessary stroller that's made of titanium and organic mammoth hide. This place makes you feel like a bad parent if your kid doesn't have every possible "safety" gizmo out there. Of course you need the portable, wi-fi, HD, full color with night vision monitor. How did people make it for so long by just simply listening for a peep or a cry? Infant mortality rates must surely have fallen dramatically.
Here's what I say. Get comfy with things like amazon.com, craigslist.com, and TJ Maxx (or any similar store). Use the high price places to check things out and see what you like, and then go search for it elsewhere. You can find anything from those places much cheaper and with little wear (if used) or unrecognizable flaws (factory seconds), or just cheaper (everywhere else is cheaper). Get online and read reviews about that completely necessary item that didn't exist for parents a decade ago.
As long as your kid is clean, fed, and you show it some love, it likely won't turn out to be a serial killer. If he/she does, then chalk it up to societal deviations, or the fact that you bypassed the opportunity to buy your home organic baby food factory and just bought the little jars instead. Bad parent.
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