In ‘classic’ form, I misjudged my packing time by, like two weeks. ‘Operation: I toldja’ so’ was going exactly how my wife had expected. However, in my defense, I didn’t think we had this much shit. Once the metal door came rolling up on our storage unit, at first glance, you might think that I just had a bulldozer push trash into it.
With Charlie being born and Ava going mobile, I didn’t exactly have Saturday afternoons to kick around Public Storage and organize our collection of extra ironing boards and separated pairs of women’s shoes. We had a few matching plastic bins that served as the foundation, but the rest of it was a menagerie of trash looking to give way at any moment. Roller blades (not mine), ziploc pillows of old phone chargers, ripped t-shirts from college and a half dozen retired DirecTV receivers that I thought I might need somewhere down the line.
A good general rule of thumb is to never take a toddler with you to unpack your storage unit. If it’s not written down yet, then it should be. This one should be in the ORIGINAL dad playbook. Sure, I look like a hundred smiles for the family photo album here, but at it’s purest, was like watching the Keystone Cops compete on the ‘The Amazing Race’. The part that I didn’t document is where I went and rented a 14′-foot trailer to move everything to headquarters, our 28′ foot-trailer. Multiple trailers, cash transactions, dealing with guys who didn’t have sleeves on their t-shirts, felt like I was doing something illegal.
Read More Post a comment (0)Going on cross-country trips is hard enough on your own. Having to pack for you, your spouse, a toddler and now a newborn (for me) is downright lethal, especially when your kids want to help.
The airlines (as of today and probably not much longer, you money-grubbing whores) will allow you to register your child (under 2) as a lap passenger, meaning that either mom or dad will have the luxury of squeezing their frame into an upright body-bag for six hours with a toddler doing a tapdance on their genitals. Other side effects include rugburned knees (not the good kind from college), achy torso and seasonal flu from re-circulated A/C, which leaves your nasal passages dried-up like parchment paper from the 1800′s.
Once your little one turns 2, get ready to bleed your savings dry or stay home during the holidays, because they need their own seat.
I’ve got a few months left, which leaves me bent over like Ving Rhames in ‘Pulp Fiction’, waiting in the hour-long line, unable to check-in curbside, with my army of strollers and ridiculous matching luggage stacked on a $5 Smart Carte. At the end of the day, your kid is taking up the same amount of space as the inebriated college student that smells like vomit, headed to Cancun on spring break and/or the massively obese gent that smells like hot garbage, pouring himself over the armrest into your seat.
Sounds fair to me.
I’m not always saying I’m the perfect parent, but the thought of cutting some breathing holes in this checked bag to save $300 did cross my mind. Even though Ava’s young enough to agree to take part in most of my shady capers, my almost-Amish morals and borderline Mennonite upbringing took over and I moved forward with my wife’s plan of keeping her in my lap on a recent flight to Atlanta. So I guess we’ll save money THAT way.
Two Sundays ago, evidence of my vas deferens marching forward like the dominant players of Invictus, made themselves apparent. While I wasn’t dismantling apartheid or bringing millions of joyous people splashing into the streets, my swimmers were, once again, undefeated and unconquered in their efforts against my wife’s uterus.
Charlie Maxwell Kulp was born during a full moon on Sunday morning, July 17, 2011 at 6:36am. Without rugby shorts, a striped polo or taped-back ears, he weighed in at 7 pounds, 12 ounces. He was 19.5 inches long and once again, I was there to cut the cord. The first time was tough enough, but this one got sweaty.
Read More Post a comment (7)Taking a page out of the ‘Dian Fossey Book’, I spent the last 18 months living amongst a young greyback gorilla that I named Ava, documenting our time together and attempting to be friends. We passed the time by gathering food, making grunting noises and picking bugs off one another. We swung around on stuff and took naps. My first attempt at bonding with the primate had succeeded.
When I was a kid, on Saturday mornings, while my Dad did yard work, my Mom would go grocery shopping and my brothers and I would stay behind to make pancakes, watch ‘Super Friends’ and annihilate the house. We built bed sheet forts in the living room that made their way through the kitchen and into the den. We suspended the sheets from the tops of end tables and planters, the TV and even the wood stove. We weighed down the corners with antique lamps and telephone books and constructed corridors underneath with sofa cushions and pillows. The expansive linen-roofed estate had a back entrance that led up the stairs to our bedrooms. This was our main supply route to get plastic guns and swords distributed throughout the fort, so we could battle the shit out of each other.
On the morning Ava turned 9 months old, from down the hall I heard Jen’s voice echo ‘could you get a bottle ready’ and I knew it was the end of an era. I picked my flat feet up from the ottoman in the living room and it was then and there that I experienced my last 20-minute Dad furlough. It was also a wake in some regard, as we all said goodbye to Jen’s homespun Dolly Parton juggs. At the risk of being punched in the face by my wife, I created an analogy once before in which I referred to the juggs as my prized ’67 Camaro, whose keys I had turned over to my punk daughter the day that Jen’s milk came in. After an onslaught of constant lactation for 278 days, my muscle car was finally returned, but as I suspected, it came back with some extra mileage and deflated front tires.
Last year we made a trip to Atlanta after Jen’s sister and husband had a set of twins, boy and girl. Until that point, I had logged very few hours of baby experience and was eager (rookie mistake) to jump right in and help wherever I could. Her sister suggested that I start off by carrying my niece, Addie, in the baby carrier. I had not worn one of these before, but seriously, how hard could it be? If Zach Galifianakis could make it look easy in ‘The Hangover’, I certainly could. It appeared to be mostly legwork and since I lettered in track all through high school (let it go already), I didn’t see any trouble in this. 1970′s cop shows had led me to believe that I could just slide right into this bad boy like a .45 shoulder holster. I could move freely and fire or holster my weapon (Addie) in the blink of an eye. I was sadly mistaken.
From time to time, I can’t help but remind my wife that she intentionally withheld genetic information about herself before we got married. She never mentioned the bum hip until the honeymoon was over and also did a pretty good job of hiding that second toe that is longer than the others. I never made an effort to conceal my flat feet, in fact, I made it widely known that I’d probably never be drafted to fight in a war because of them. 
She also misled me on other vital intelligence, which was that she was bald until she was 2 or 3 years old. Being bald later in life is fine, because you’ve matured into an adult and have acquired certain features that make it easier (sometimes) for people to distinguish your sex. As a baby, unless you have a girls ears pierced, it all comes down to what you’re wearing.
The first few weeks that I spent as an unemployed stay-at-home Dad were probably the most challenging, mentally. Physically, not so much. I had done a bang up job of turning the tables on my wife and was doing some ‘nesting’ of my own. In the living room. In front of the TV.
The idea of going outside seemed like a monumental task. There were just too many variables. I lacked self-confidence and couldn’t bear the thought of being in a position where I’d have to deal with any type of emergency in public. I had a recurring nightmare about being in Bloomingdale’s without diapers or wipes, with a baby strapped to my chest who had just delivered the crap of the century and having to retreat to a changing room while patrons choked and gasped for air. If I controlled the variable and stayed at home, I had immediate access to all of the important childcare amenities and avoided my worst nightmare coming true.
Read More Post a comment (11)For a lot of men, boobs rank pretty high up on the list of important things in life. They usually fall somewhere between establishing a successful career and owning a home. Part of the reason that men get married is so that they always have a pair around. They’re kind of like your second home by the ski lodge. You don’t live there full-time, but it’s always there on the weekends for your enjoyment.
If you’re single and dating, the boobs are similar to renting skis. Sure, using them is great fun, but they tend to get expensive after multiple trips to the mountain and you start to think about investing in a long-term pair of your own.
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