Goodnight Fun

Somewhere in the pantry

High on a shelf

There were goodies and treats

That I bought for myself.

There were cookies and crackers

And sweets galore

And on the shelf below,

Treats from the liquor store

All of my favorites 

All in one place

My only concern

Was having enough space

But now all those things

Will just gather dust

As I sweat and I swear

And stare at Autumn's bust.

I fear I will be treated

For manic depression

Because today is the day

I start 80 Day Obsession.

Goodbye cookies

And goodbye cakes.

Hello Spinach

And muscles that ache.

Goodbye fries

and onion rings.

Goodbye to all of my favorite things.

Goodbye ice cream

and goodbye beer.

Goodbye to all

Of the things I hold dear

Goodbye Martinis

And scotch on the rocks

Goodbye Old Fashioned

And hello detox

Goodbye lagers

and goodbye stouts

Goodbye IPAs

I cast you all out

Should I survive

The entire program

I shall gaze at my mirror 

And shout…  Goddamn.

You're Doing What? Why? And Where Have You Been?

Okay so I don't have the most consistent record as a blogger (They're still calling it that, right?) as you can see from my gap in published articles.  Well, hold on to your hats because I'm going to be throwing so many articles at you, you won't know whether to shit or go sailing.

I am about to start something called '80 Day Obsession' on Beach Body.  Now, before you laugh so hard you choke, keep in mind that I'm actually fairly accomplished in terms of other Beach Body workout programs.  I've done P90X three different times (that's the whole program three times, not just three workouts).  I've done most of P90X 2, Shift Shop, Core De Force and some others I can't remember and probably didn't like. While none of the daily laundry is done on my abs directly, it's kept me in relatively good shape. (Jane, stop snickering).

Jane did the 80 Day Obsession as did some other friends and the results are pretty impressive.  In light of the fact that I've been cleared to exercise by physical therapist after shoulder surgery six months ago, it seems like the right time and also the right program for me to return to my fighting form.

The Program
So what the hell is 80 Day Obsession?  I different workout every day for 80 days, with an off day every seventh day.  Being a fan of variety, this seems perfect for me.  The workouts very in length, but they average about 45 minutes.

You know how people always say it's diet AND exercise, not one or the other?  Well, this program takes both to the extreme.  It has a very regimented nutrition component, where you're timing your meals before and after workouts and throughout the rest of the day.  Basically you're eating five meals a day, the components of which vary depending on your current weight and weight loss goals.  While not at my construction job svelteness, I'm also not at my desk-job-with-craft-service, "dude, you're fat"* weight.  All I want to do is get in shape and prepare myself for more challenging, resistance oriented workouts.

Right now you're probably thinking, 'great, go do it.  what's the big deal?'  Well, for one, I cannot stand the host.  I find her irksome, annoying, and repellant.  Some people hate P90X because they can't stand Tony Horton.  Personally, I liked him and used his corny jokes as milestones for the workout.   "Ok, here's the short uncle joke; that means only twenty minutes to go."  So between the annoying host, the constant eating, the grocery shopping for said eating, the actual work out, the cool down, there doesn't seem to be much time left in the day.  But if my wife and my sister can do it while working more than full time, I guess I can do it too.

My goal is to post after each workout.  We'll see how that goes as well.

Back at it. And we learned a new word.

It's amazing how easy it is to go many months without writing anything.  So many times I've meant to sit down and write something, but something else manages to bump writing from the priority list.  My blog has become like so many other things in my life, abandoned half way through.  I've never been known for consistency.  At anything.  (Though I am consistent about shooting myself in the foot, but more on that in another post).  On to more pressing matters.

My daughter has finally learned what the "f" word is.   Seven years.  We had a nice run.  Well, that ship has fucking sailed.

A few weeks ago, Samantha said to my wife, "I think I know what the "f" word is."  "Okay," replied my wife.  "What do you think it is?"  Sam looked at me, the crept over to my wife, cupped her hand and whispered something in her ear.  "Yup," my wife said.  "That's it."

We're not a big swearing household.  There are no older sisters, most of the TV shows we watch are on the food network, with everything naughty bleeped out.  Don't get me wrong, I can curse with best of them.  Trust me, just do something that I think threatens or endangers my child and I will make a crab fisherman blush.  But I keep that in check when I'm with my child or any other child for that matter.  So I'm not surprised it took her a while to find out what this word is.

You'd think it would be a great revelation, based on the length of time Sam has been badgering us as to what this mysterious word could be.  Surely it must be so magical, that once uttered, the earth will shake, mountains will move and every fairy and unicorn will weep once the foul and forbidden sound waves crash through their pristine eardrums.  But she just smiled, kind of satisfied, yet another item to tick off her bucket list (or fuck it list like we call it now. no  we don't. relax).   So we had to inquire, "how did you learn it?"  "From one of my classmates."  Just as we thought.  "Really.  What happened?"  "Well," she said, "Gemma and I were the office monitors, so it's our job to take papers to and from the office, and when someone's bad, we have to take them to the principal's office."  "Oh," I said.  "So someone said it and you had to take them to the principal's office?"  "No, " she told me.  "Frank (not his real name) said it to us when we were taking him to the office for misbehaving."  Nice.  Then we talk more about the demands and responsibilities of being an office monitor and after a while it's time to play Legos.

So a few days pass, maybe a week.  Long enough to completely forget about the whole sordid business.  I'm in the kitchen cooking dinner, when I drop a chef's knife.  Luckily it didn't land point down on my bare feet.  But I did shout 'whoa' or something else G rated, loud enough for Sam to come running in asking, 'what happened?"  "Well, Daddy dropped a knife and it almost hit his foot."  "Oh," she said, "that would have been bad."  "Yes," I told her. "I probably would have screamed a lot louder."  "Yeah," she agreed, "and you probably would have said, 'fuck you, knife.'"

Now, it's very hard, almost impossible to express tone or emphasis in text or email.  There isn't a font for sarcasm, (I'm working hard to invent one but that will be another post)  I'm sure they're some kind of emoticon or colon backslash ampersand combo that the kids are already using, but I never know what the kids are doing these days.  But try to understand that this phrase, 'fuck you knife' and the gentle, casual, almost sweet offhand intonation has become a catchphrase with my wife and I (while our kid is not around, relax).  There was no anger, no malice in the way she said it.  But this was also the first time that I had heard the 'f' word come out of my child.  So I was non-plussed to say the least.  (look it up, I'm using it correctly).

I try to express in a calm yet concerned but not-too-angry proper parent voice how that is not a word we use in this house (while you are awake or within a fifty foot radius).  She instantly starts crying and runs to her room.  I go to check on her, and she's sitting in the dark in her room, holding her blanket.  I try to tell her that I'm not mad and I know she didn't mean it and I'm not sending her to her room, she's free to come down and we can talk about it.  But she tells me she just needs to be alone and cry for a little bit.   Okay, come down when you're ready.

And downstairs, my wife and I are literally clamping our hands over our mouths to keep from laughing.  Not at our daughter of course what awful inhuman parent would ever do that?  but just the casually flippant way she used it.  As I'm reading this, I'm really not communicating the humor in this.  She might as well have been saying, "good morning, knife" or "looking good, knife."  It's truly one of those, 'you had to be there' moments.  And she did recover a few minutes later and she hasn't used the word since.  Not around us, anyway.  We'll see what teacher parent conferences bring.

Who shot Julia Child?

I ran across some link to a story about Julia Child, I think it was a link to a recipe of her's, and there was a video about the woman who did the blog that became the book that became the movie that I didn't see.  But the clip had a lot of footage of Julia from "The French Chef."  I love food.  I love cooking.  I read the Julia Child book (can't remember the title, of course) and loved it and as soon as I have a spare hundred bucks I'm going to buy Mastering the Art of French Cuisine.  Until then, I'll grab what I can off the internet.

Anyway, I'm watching this video, and Samantha comes in, and she starts asking about who Julia Child was.  I tell her she was the first real celebrity chef, before that was even a term, and how she had a tremendous influence on the way we cook food today.  "Is she still alive?" Sam asked.  No she passed away, but she led a very full life.  Pause.  "Did somebody shoot her or did she just die?"

Okay, at first, I really wanted to laugh at that one, but I didn't.  The idea of someone wanting to shoot Julia Child, well, it's going to make a hilarious short for you tube.  Somebody get on that.  So I do my best to explain the concept of 'natural causes' and how after a certain point, when someone is very old, they die.  And as I'm explaining this to her, I wonder to myself, 'did somebody shoot her?  that's her first guess on how she died?  what the hell is this kid watching?  or hearing about?'

Yes, I let her watch TV, but I don't remember any episodes of "Phineas and Ferb" where Dr. Doofenshmirtz is busting caps in people all over Danville.   And I'm pretty sure these isn't a My Little Pony called 'Homicidal Molly' or Pistol Packin' Priscilla.

Of course, the enlightened parent would have calmly said, "that's interesting that you know someone can die from being shot.  How did you come to possess this tidbit of knowledge?"  But I can't stop thinking, "where the fuck did you pick that up?"  shows you were I am and on the enlightened parent continuum.   I'm higher than Joan Crawford but lower than Dr. Phil.

We watch "Cupcake Wars."  For those of you that haven't seen it, there is no actual warfare or gunplay.  We watch "This Old House" (coincidentally produced by Russ Morash, who produced The French Chef).  Then it hits me.

Rango.

We saw Rango.  Twice in the theaters.  We own the DVD.  I own the soundtrack.   (did it win for best animated movie, i'm out of the loop on that stuff).  And I thought it was wonderful.  the animation was superb, outdoing Pixar.  Great story, well written, Johnny Depp, brilliant.  I sometimes sing the theme song to Sam when we're rushing to school.  But it does take place in the Old West, if it was populated by vermin.  And there is shooting.  There is a lot of shooting.   And people get shot and die in the movie.  (I can only remember one, and it was a bird, but you get the idea).   

Now, according to the wife, this is the age (six) when girls start to get obsessed with death.  Pretending that mommy or daddy has died, funerals for the dolls, that kind of thing.  I haven't witnessed that yet in Samantha, but I guess we're starting down that road.

I feel bad.  Yes, I know I didn't sit her down and watch the extended cut of Peckinpaw's "The Long Riders" but I also didn't watch the movie first to make sure it was okay (something a more evolved parent would do.  Her friends father does that.  But how the fuck does he have time to go to the movies by himself?  And IF i had that kind of time, I would pick something I wanted.  AND I feel like I can't bring it up with her again because too much time has passed.  I'm sure the damage was limited, and hopefully this won't stop her from becoming the first female president of the united states.  A fifth grade teacher in our school is convinced this is her destiny.  I just want to be able to use her college money for a bass boat, but that's getting off topic.  And we're supposed to go see The Lorax on Friday.  Any advance word on what that contains?  Violence?  Nudity?  A viable third political party?  I'll have to roll the dice and hope I don't screw her up more than I already have.  I'll forward this post to her future therapist.

still here

It's amazing how things can get away from you.  I haven't written a post in a while, though I've meant to on many occasions.  I need to do it more.  It's good for me on a regular basis, like exercise, which I am also starting again this week.  Lots of great things happened this week, but I can only think of one thing to write about.

My dad is losing his mind.  Granted, I've thought that for the past forty years, but now, the picture is becoming tragically clear.  Recent things he has no memory of.  Recent like a day ago.  Losing things.  Getting lost.  Last week he went to a funeral.  Or he tried to go.  He got lost.  He wound up in another state.  I'm not making this up.  The last conversation we had about his health, he said, "I was never expecting to live this long."  Ok.  What the fuck does that mean?  'I had no plan before, so I'm just going with that'?  Later he tried to get me to promise to put a pillow over his head if he was suffering and couldn't do it himself.  For the record, your honor, I said no.  The funny thing is, now, he won't even remember asking me.

I hate to agree with him, but I'm surprised he's lasted this long too.  He led a very... take no prisoners kind of lifestyle, and many times I've heard the phone ring and thought to myself, "is this the call?"  He has a heart condition and more angioplastys (sp?) I'm sure he's got a permanent quick-connect access point in his left side.  He can't go for more than two hours doing anything without taking a nap.  He's been obese is along as I can remember, I hard core smoker until recently, and in my non-medical opinion has been over-medicating himself for the slightest twinge for years.  Maybe that's what's keeping him alive.   But I think what's contributed most to his present mental condition is his, I don't know, his receding from society, from life outside the walls of his house.  He doesn't go out, he doesn't like to socialize, he can't accept any stance on anything that isn't in complete alignment with his own thinking.  He doesn't take any classes or have any interest in learning anything new.  The only thing keeping his going is his wife.  Which is sweet in a way, and terrible in another.  "what if something ever happened to Mom," I asked him one time."  "Simple," he said.  "I would kill myself."  So you can see why I'm not really good at planning long term.

There's not much I can do about it.  My sister had an idea for him to get a dog.  Something that would get him walking regularly, get him out of the house, get him interacting with other humans.  I think it's a great idea, as long as he doesn't try to return in the first time it pees on the rug.  Patience is not one of his strong points either.

I didn't want this to turn into a blame-a-thon.  He's not perfect, he was dealt a particularly shitty hand early in life, and he did the best he could.  I'm going to miss him when he's gone.  But part of me feels like he's been gone for a while already.

Listen To This

So yesterday was a perfectly shitty day.  Lots of stuff went wrong, and I was feeling extra shitty because I was basically feeling ninety six years old.  Ever since I turned forty, nothing heals.  nothing.  Injuries used to get better.  Weird bumps went away.  Now, I wake up in pain.  My ankle that I injured over a year ago still hurts.  My knees hurt.  My back hurts.  My wrist hurts.  And this is from someone who a two years ago was in great shape, having just completed two full rounds of P90X.   But various injuries at various times kept me from exercising, and every time i tried to restart, I'd feel a new pain.  So in addition to everything that went wrong externally, I spent a good deal of yesterday feeling old, feeling shitty.  That's how I went to bed.  When I woke up, this sign was waiting for me:

So I didn't.  Well, I actually got up to pee and heard Samantha shout from downstairs, "go back to bed."  So I did.  A minute later, my wife joined me, smiling.  "What's up?" I asked.  "Just wait," she said.  A minute later, Samantha, fully dressed with an apron on, came in, smiling.  "good morning.  May I take your breakfast order please?"  I ordered what I usually have, coffee and toast.  Jane ordered coffee, orange juice and yogurt.  I sat in bed giggling.  It was so freaking adorable.  Jane got the coffee and brought it up, but Samantha brought up a tray with buttered bread, orange juice in plastic cups, napkins, the whole bit.  I think it was the first time anyone had ever brought me breakfast in bed.  And apparently, this was something she was planning the whole day before.  Of course I didn't notice any of it because I was too wrapped up in my own self-pity.   And as I sat there, in bed, enjoying my coffee, everything seemed so much better.  When I finally did get up, I actually put on sweats and did some stretching and sit ups.  You probably heard the creaking and popping of my joints from your house.  I had a positive outlook on life for 95% of the rest of the day.  I got things done, with a smile on my face and song in my heart.  Listen, I don't think my kid is perfect, not by a long shot.  But I have to say, I love my kid, more than I can say in a million posts.  I've had some memorable breakfasts in my day, but this one takes the cake.  or the toast.

I Am A Kleenex

It's like I knew it was coming.  Earlier in the day, I was thinking about my friend Jason, how he and his wife had completed adoption proceedings and I was wondering how he was doing in his new role as father.  My thoughts drifted back to when Samantha was born, and the little and big pieces of advice that people gave me, and what, if any, advice I could give to him.  He asked me months ago what it was like, and I told him, "you're like a kleenex."  I told him to go out and let strangers wipe their nose, mouth, eyes, ears, basically any orafice that bodily fluid could leak from, let strangers wipe themselves all over him.  For a year.  Then see if he still wanted to have children.  Well, I'm not sure if he followed my advice, but that lesson was reinforced last night around midnight.  Samantha was feeling a little off, she was getting over a cold, and after playing at a neighbor's house, had no appetite when it was time for dinner.  I thought she overdid the snacks while playing, and didn't think much about it.  She went to sleep, and later, around midnight, I was struggling to stay away through John Frankenhimer's "The Train (A great film starring Burt Lancaster, set in the end of World War II, a Nazi colonel is trying to smuggle a trainload of masterpieces out of France before the Allies liberate the city.  See it, you'll love it).  Even though I'd seen it, I couldn't remember how it ended and therefore struggled on.  Then I heard Samantha cough a few times, then cried loudly.  The wife was two steps ahead of me, and she sat on the bed next to her and therefore was in perfect striking range for what could only be called projective vomiting.  It was almost comical.  I had just turned on the light, and, Ka-boom!  The wife, being the trooper that she is, tried to catch it in her hands.  That worked when she was tiny.  And although she's still too small for a booster seat, she has the vomiting power to impress any Monty Python fan.   I, being who I am, froze.  But after the initial shock, ran for towels.  "No, the big ones you idiot!" I heard someone say at some point.  

After it was nothing but dry heaves, we peeled away all of clothing beding, (thank you mattress pad, I knew I could count on you).  The wife sponged off the child, while I got started on removing the various solids from the different fabrics.  (Thank you Oxyclean.  Really.  I thought those blueberry and rasberry stains were set for life.)  Samantha was very upset, and also very sweet in that she felt bad that she had put her parents through what would later turn out to be four loads of wash, two different rug cleaners and several rounds of vaccuuming.   I smiled and told her, "that's our job.  Do you know how many times I threw up and my parents had to clean it up?  Lots.  And that's just the times I remember."

So around 1:00AM, with the wash going in the machine and the rest presoaking in a tub (did I mention Oxy Clean?  They're not even the sponsors here, I received no compensation from anyone at the company to write this, honestly), we all settled into bed. Samantha asked for a tissue.  I held out my arm.  "Here," I said.  And she wiped her nose on my pajama sleeve and we all drifted off to sleep.

Best Gifts of the Year

Yes, it's been too long since I posted and I'll try to due better.  I have four goals this month (see the book  "Happiness Project" for more of what I'm talking about).

1. exercise
2. Check bank balance
3. Write something, anything, blog entry, grant work, journal, shopping list, etc.

Those are my daily goals for this month.  So far, I'm only one for three today.  Yesterday it was exercise.  Okay, so I'm a slow starter.  Sue me.

It was a great holiday break, even though we didn't go anywhere.  Samantha cleaned up, naturally, and continues to ask for more, which irks me to no end, though it doesn't stop me from buying her a few things when I go to the art supply store.  What can I say, I'm soft as eggs.  maybe that should be the blog title.

Anyway, haven't figured out how to post pictures yet, but here's a link to one of the best toys of the season:

http://www.brikablok.com/usa/index.php

These are plastic, 12"x12" interlocking squares, and you can build forts, tunnels, castles, anything the kids can think up.  Samantha absolutely loved this one.  she even wanted to sleep in the fort.  It all collapses and stacks into a very manageable carrying bag that you can easily store in a closet.  check it out its really great.

The other greatest gift of the season is Snap Circuits.

http://www.snapcircuits.net/

You can get both of these from amazon.  The set we got has 80 different projects and experiments to do.  Now, neither one of these was on Samantha's lengthly wish list.  But these two have become her absolute favorites.  It's fantastic to see her grasping the concept of electricity and thinking creatively how to alter the projects.  Okay, yes, this is only for use with an adult supervising, and there have been a couple of times where Sam has gotten a little zap.  It uses two AA batteries, so relax, I'm  not lighting a bunsen burner and heading out for smokes.  Right now the whole kit is at school, so Sam can show the other kids the different experiments using light, sound and motors powered through the circuits you create.  Very cool.  Major props to The Wife for finding and ordering both of these.

I think I'm the only parent who didn't the (three week) Winter break was long.  I as have mentioned and will continue to mention, I'm a softee, and I miss my daughter when she's at school all day.  And it was nice to spend an entire day with her.  Not that I felt I had lost any connection with her, but it's just different.  The house is so quiet for so long when she's in school.  And with after school activities, classes at the Y, playdates, I get dinner bath and stories.  that's it.  I know I'm not breaking any new literary or parental ground here, but it's going by fast and I'm glad to have some time to soak it in.

Best comments by the boo:

Samantha:  Daddy, are you going to shave today?
Me: Yes
Samantha:  Good.  then you won't look like a crazy person.


Okay, I have just enough time to check the bank balance before I have to go pick her up.  more later.

Merry Christmas to all...

I hope I didn't give a false impression of myself in the last post.  I'm not the Calm Dad.  I was just so excited that I actually kept cool for once.  There are about ten thousand other times where I lost it, but there are plenty of posts to come about that stuff.  Let's talk about today.

I love Christmas.  I know, not what you'd expect from a midwestern Jew.  But some years ago, I discovered the real Spirit of Christmas.

Deep Backstory:  Ok, growing up Jewish, it's hard not to hate Christmas.  Non-stop Horrible Christmas Music (not be be confused with the good stuff, which we'll get into later).  But the really bad remakes from whoever is the pop sensation of the moment.  Santa.  Caroling.  All these things are completely foreign to us.  And then there's tree envy, the lost chapter of Freud's last book.  And you know the whole Santa thing is bullshit from the get-go, so you're not into that.  What Christmas means for Jews is the movies and Chinese food.  Along with all the other Jewish families in your city doing the exact same thing.  So there's something very anti-Christmas that's deeply rooted in my past.

Okay, so it's about seven years ago, and I go back east with The Wife, who's only The Girlfriend at this point, but we're back in Jersey in December.  Lots of family close by, some flew in.  Picture a roaring fireplace.  Cozy sweaters.  Two feet of snow.  And some unexpected treats:  The first being eggnog.  Not the gelatinous, funky, gag-inspiring stuff you get from the store.  No way.  This is the real stuff.  Home made.  With lots of good whisky and a healthy shot of Cognac.  Left outside to keep cold, topped with freshly grated nutmeg.  So sweet, so warm, it's like sitting on the couch with your favorite uncle on one side and the golden retriever you always wanted but never got on the other, while the plaid afghan blanket keeps you warm and the fire keeps you warmer.  You are transported to a Norman Rockwell painting.  The other unexpected treat, good, no, great Christmas Music.  John Gary.  Go look him up on iTunes right now.  Or Ella Fitzgerald.  People who knew what they were doing.  Nat King Cole.  Why don't the radio stations play that stuff on the holiday?  And then, Santa came.

All the kids were there, when suddenly, there's Santa (uncle John) in a great Santa suit, complete with beard and glasses and sack of presents.  Of course, the youngest one instantly burst into tears and ran screaming towards her mother.  But the other kids, the little ones, were so filled with awe and wonder, you'd have to be made of stone or a member of the Taliban not to be moved by it.  Presents were handed out, from the Man himself.  And everyone goes along with it, especially the ten and eleven and twelve year olds, because even though they know it's Uncle John, they want it to be Santa for the younger kids for as long as possible.  It was a magical moment, and a magical Christmas.  Finally I get it.  That's what everyone was talking about.  Now I see why it's a big deal.   And now, although it makes my great grandmother roll in her grave back in Minsk, I love making a big deal out of Christmas.  I love shopping for a tree, making ornaments, making eggnog from that every same recipe, knocking myself making home made yodels (picture to come) even though it takes four hours, especially when you fuck up the recipe and have to make it over again.  I love a house full of people for Christmas dinner.  I love watching Samantha come down the stairs Christmas morning, and that look of absolute joy and wonder at the mountain of presents under the tree (ah, the joy of having only one).  I love it like I never thought I could. And I hope you do too.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

All about the ABCs

Some years ago, I decided to become and EMT (emergency medical technician and very common crossword puzzle answer).  This was before I found out how much they make.  Slightly more than minimum wage.  It was a tremendous amount of information to digest, and at times became a little overwhelming.  I talked to my instructor, and told her, I was afraid I'm not getting all the facts right, all the procedures, the numbers, etc.  And I'm really afraid that when I find myself in a emergency situation, I'll forget everything and my mind will go blank.  (This actually happened and I'll talk about it on another post).  So my instructor told me, "If that ever happens, just go back to the basics, go back to your ABCs." (in this case, our ABCs are "Airway, Breathing, and Circulation.")

My sister, mother to four children, gave me very similar parenting advice. "ABC - Always Be Calm.  Unless your child is in immediate physical danger, there is no need to yell."  I love this advice, even though I don't follow it as much as I should.  I think my sister is an amazing parent, and it's remarkable advice considering the household we grew up in.  Yelling was the most common form of communication in our house.  Until I was twenty, I thought this is how you're supposed to get your ideas across.  I'm learning now there are alternatives.

But it's something I really need to practice more of.  There have been so many times when I find my stress level reaching epic proportions, and in retrospect, there was no need to get so upset, and there was really no need to get that upset with your child.  The calmer I can be, the better she will be.  And even if it does nothing for her, it makes whatever tantrum she's having much less debilitating and draining for me.

Example.  Samantha has a friend in her class, Gemma.  Gemma has an older sister in second grade at the same school.  So a couple of days go, their mom was sick and their dad was working so I agreed to take them home with my daughter.  Their dad did not leave me a booster seat for their younger child, but said, "it's okay for just a short trip."  I know it was legally wrong, but before you start wagging your fingers at me, I did drive extra slowly, extra carefully.  But i'm getting ahead of myself.

I knew this was going to be a challenge for Samantha.  She has been obsessed with transitioning out of her car seat and into a booster seat for a solid year.  And she's still not forty pounds and even then, we've been clear that it's not going to happen until next school year, no matter how much she weighs.  That does not stop her.  Almost daily she asks for a booster.  When we got to Target or Costco, she wants to see the booster seat choices.  She has several models picked out, and I would not be surprised at all if this six year old figures out a way to charge it and have it delivered.  Along with ten grand worth of Disney crap, a Barbie jeep she can drive, and six inch high heeled shoes, size 9 kids.

So I said to her as we were leaving, "we have to take Gemma and Fiona home, and they didn't leave me a car seat, so they're just going to sit in the seat like a grown up."  Pause.  You could literally see the agony and dispair forming around her.  The frown, in the form of a perfect upside down "U" the shaking of her head.  Soon, tears would come.  This was so fundamentally wrong, so unjust, that her only recourse was to cry.  No, more like wail.  I tried to remember my ABCs, I was calm.  I was rational.  I was logical.  "It's just a short ride.  We're doing them a big favor.  We're helping their mom."  Nothing worked.  I tried acknowledging the situation.  "You're upset about being the only one in a car seat. (sure I'll risk other kids by putting them in a car with no car seat, but my own kid?  no way).    I know.  I would be upset too."  No dice.   Wailing, crying to the point of dehydration.  But I did manage to stay calm, during the entire ride, all seventeen hours of it.  And afterwards too.  When I asked her, "was it really that bad?"  she said, "It was horrible.  This was the worst day of my entire life."  At least she's able to keep things in perspective.  But eventually she was able to calm down, and even apologize and have fun the next day.  So parents, if you see me out with my kid, red in the face, looking exasperated, desperate, ready to flee to South America, feel free to remind me of my ABCs.  Hell, I did it once, I can do it again.

Second Post

Sorry if the last post was unclear.  That asshole outside of Nordstrom's was referring to my child as the potential retard, not my wife.  And I learned recently that until I was three years old, my own parents thought I was retarded.  True story.  ask them.  Ah, the great Circle of Life.

So I'm twenty four hours into this blogging thing, and I have my first fan, Laura, who has an amazing hilarious beautiful touching blog, but I'm not sure how to post a link so look for "my life is a piece of cake" at blogger.com.  

You other viewers need to understand what a pivotal role Laura played in my life.  You see, if there was one piece of advice I could pass on to men thinking of becoming a full time dad, it would be this:  "Get Ready To Be Alone."  Because a funny thing happens when you become a full time dad.  (I think I'll type FTD from now on, unless I get a cease and desist from the flower people).  What happens?  You become invisible.  Had I know this, I would have taken more advantage of this power for my own selfish gains, but I was too tired to realize the upside.  But I'm serious.  Man takes child to park, man gets ignored by every woman with child at park.

You have to realize, I'm a pretty non-threatening type of human.  No visible scars, no tattoos, piercings, or brandings.  I wear glasses.  I look a little like Adam Sandler's uncle.  I'm pushing a stroller filled with sand toys, a diaper bag, and that glazed look of someone who's had four hours of sleep for a year.  I'm at the park, playing with my child.  And I'm trying to let it not get to me, but day after day after day, no matter where I go, no matter which park, it's the same story.  I understand that there is a few million years of evolution at work here, but does it have to go this far?   This really happened:  I've been at the park with my daughter, and we're playing (by ourselves of course) and there's a mother there with her child, roughly the same age.  I am completely invisible.  Another mother approaches with child.  First mom introduces herself to second mom, introduces child, then invites second mom to picnic with them.  These women were not friends, they did not know each other prior to this encounter.  So they go off, and have a nice picnic, and my daughter and I, well, now we have the park to ourselves again.  Like I said, I get it.  Strange man, protective mother, it's perfectly natural.  If I were alone.  But I'm there with my daughter.  I have the tell-tale stains from said daughter's various coughs and sneezes and spills on my clothes.  But I now have the power of invisibility, so it's just the two of us.

This went on for about... two years.  And then one day, playing at a park, there's this mother with her kids, and she's with a group of other mothers and their kids.  I know better, so I'm just playing with Samantha on the other side of the sandbox. (Maybe that should be the title of the blog)  And the most amazing thing happens.  She waves to me and says hi.  Of course, my first reaction was look behind me.  Surely she meant someone else.  But no, she was talking to ME.  She must have smelled the desperation on me.  But we started talking,  slowly I remembered how to have a conversation with a grown up, and she became a great friend to me, as well as a source of strength and inspiration.  As I've been a lurker on her blog for years, now it's time to join hers officially as well.  and so should you.

First Post

I’m feeling a lot of pressure here.  I mean, first blog post, I want to hit it out of the park.  But what the hell does that mean here in blog land?  

Why am I doing this?  My daughter just (september) started kindergarten.  The time to do this blog would have been right after she was born, right?  I guess I haven’t had the time until now.  Over the years people have told me to start a blog, so here goes.  Still with me?  

I am a full time dad.  I hate the term Stay-At-Home Dad.  I hate the acronym SAHD.  When people ask me what I do for a living, I usually answer “laundry.”  Which there is a load waiting to go into the dryer as I’m typing this, and another waiting to go into the washer.  Thrilling, I know.  But let me tell you, presoaking with Oxy-Clean really does work on almost any stain.  Thank you Billy What’s-His-Name-Who-Died-Not-Too-Long-Ago.  I used to know things.  My brain used to work.  Now, just imagine a row of rusty filing cabinets, two inches of dust on them, spider webs in the corner.  There’s an eighty year old janitor slumped against a chair taking hits off a fifth of Black Pony scotch.  That’s my brain trying to put a sentence together, so I might have bitten off more than I can chew here.  

I loved being a full time dad.  I used to have dreams of fame and fortune, now I dream about building a puppet theater for my daughter.  That’s not to say it hasn’t been easy, but the most credit goes to Jane (wifey).  The whole reason have been able to spend all day every day for the first three years and most of the days until now have been because I am married to the hardest working person I have ever met.  There is nothing I regret (aside from the ten thousand parenting mistakes I made while doing it, but that’s more for my daughter’s future therapist than for me) about being the mom.  

Let’s face it, that’s what I am.  My wife and I have switched rolls on every level.  She is the bread winner.  She is the strong one.  She is tough as nails, I am soft as eggs.  I’m the one who need to talk about feelings and hug, she is the one who just wants to solve the problem and move on.  But DO NOT call me “Mister Mom.”  how fucking lame is that  that people still love to bring up that title from a fair movie made twenty years ago.  Really?  Did you just really call me “mr. mom?”  Douche.

Although that’s not the worst people have said to me upon learning that I am a full time dad.  “Is she ill?”  that was a good one.  I think my most memorable response heard from a human was, “Really?  Is she retarded?”  I’m not kidding, some dude said that to me outside of Nordstrom’s.  Who says that to someone?  Right away?  I mean, maybe sit down, have some coffee with me, get to know me, talk to my kid maybe, but who just jumps right from “Full time dad”  to “retarded”?   By the way, just got Samantha’s first report card.  All fours (one through four, four being the highest), except for one three.  In the area of “Resolves Conflict Appropriately” which is really hilarious, considering I would score about a negative fifty on that.  So no, asshole from outside of Nordstrom’s.  She’s doing just fine.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I have fabric softener to add.