Sometimes my wife will wear yoga pants to bed for like a month and I’m like, ‘What’s the deal dude? Are you out of razors or hiding something?’
Ava has it figured out.
Read More Post a comment (0)Ava has recently learned how to open and close doors. She’s even catching onto the locking system.
Every time I hear a door slam shut, I have to chase it down like Chris Hansen’s camera crew moving in on a pedophile. I’ve told Ava that I don’t want any closed doors in our house, I want to know exactly what’s going on at every minute. This will hopefully carry on through the teenage years, so I don’t have to kick the door in on a study date wielding a Louisville Slugger.
Last week, I heard one slam. I was trying to iron one of my wife’s linen crochet sweater things that was supposed to be ‘dried flat’ and not ‘slung over a railing’. I figured I had a few seconds to finish up and this was the result.
Bondage Elmo, courtesy of our dog’s collar and Ava’s creativity.
And I must’ve been too slow on this occasion, caught in the bathroom mid-wipe. Taking the luxury of properly cleaning my ass led to this.
Ava poised to blow up her Rody, old-school cartoon style. The TNT plunger was primed and ready. She didn’t want to ruin her outfit, so I had to finish the dirty work.
No matter how old she is, I’ll never be comfortable with what goes on behind closed doors.
Read More Post a comment (2)I was going through some pictures today, trying to figure out what I missed reporting on in the past year and found this windshield wiper.
I guess I took this picture towards the end of Jen’s second pregnancy, as the doctor pulled out a condom that looked like a wind sock and I passed out.
I had clearly acknowledged that this was going to be an internal exam.
I guess I’m just lucky I didn’t bang my head off the mustard bottle filled with lube and lose an eye.
I didn’t feel the need to get Jen anything for Valentine’s Day this year, because, quite honestly, what else could I get her that had a ‘deeper’ meaning?
Wasn’t this enough? Having your lungs punctured from the inside out? I guess I could’ve added some girth, but hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day and I’m no engineer of cervical tools.
I drove home in silence, cringing at any phallic roadside objects, bit the lid off a cold one and sat in the dark watching a TV that wasn’t even on.
Phone home, expectant fathers. PHONE HOME.
Happy Valentine’s Day to all the ladies in my life.
Ten years ago this would’ve been a longer list because I was a sex machine, but these days I’ve narrowed it down a bit.
Starting with my Mom: You gave me life. You loved and supported me through the good times….
And the bad…
…and will always be my best friend.
And my wife. I’m not a religious person, but I’m blessed to have found you. You are fiercely independent and opinionated, stubborn and sometimes I want to smush a pie in your face. However, you are the love of my life, you are a devoted and spectacular mom. You’re beautiful and I don’t mind the engorged breasts. Successful, smart and sexy. The three S’s.
AN OPEN LETTER TO THAT GUY AT THE AIRPORT:
‘You’ve got your hands full there, eh buddy?’, exclaimed yet another older dude in work slacks and loafers, traveling with only a laptop bag. I nodded with a forced smile and said, ‘So true dude, so true.’
What I really wanted to do was throttle him to the floor by the shirt and say ‘fuck you old man, just because your tour is over, doesn’t mean you have a free ticket (or does it?) to bust my balls at the baggage carousel.’
Can’t you see what I’m dealing with here? Four checked suitcases, two carry-ons, two personal items, a dog in a duffle bag, a Bjorn, two strollers, a toddler, an infant and a cooler of leaking breastmilk. Do I look like I wanna get chatty?
You had no idea that I was about to try and hang onto a 2-year old who would be stepping on my balls for 6 hours with some woman behind me that didn’t speak English, telling me in hand signals and charades that I wasn’t allowed to recline my seat because it bothered her.
‘Got your hands full there, buddy?’, he asks…
Unless you wanna huck one of these suitcases through the terminal for me, take your tablet and go sit down and shut up in 1st class, with your cranberry juice and Wall Street Journal.
I’ll see you when zone 6 is called. I’ll be the guy fighting and banging my way through your section with the armada of duffle bags and kids, apologizing every three steps, as I move towards the back of the plane.
Look. I’m not bitter. About him or my situation. I’m truly not.
This numb-nut was just the EXACT opposite of what I needed at that particular moment. Had he been some dude walking up to offer me a Smart Cart or hook me up with a Xanax or Benadryl for my entourage, we wouldn’t even be wasting our time reading this right now. Because I would’ve never written it!
Thanks for flying the friendly skies.
EDITOR’S NOTE: If you have the luxury, buy your kid a seat and let the DVD player do the rest.
Read More Post a comment (5)Ava now has 14 of her 20 baby teeth in.
It seems like these last few have been really tough for her. I think the pain of the incisors and K-9′s coming through are driving her bananas.
I found this cutie under the sofa during naptime. At first, I thought the dog did it, gave him a ‘WTF is this?’ and he looked back at me like ‘hey brother, for once, this was not me’.
When Ava woke up, I interviewed her on the status of this sucker. She told me it was ‘broken’ and wanted a new one. I went to the ‘bag of suckers’, pulled one out and tossed it to her from a safe distance…I wasn’t looking to lose any fingers.
It was shrapnel within thirty seconds.
I chummed the water (kitchen floor) with an assortment of suckers to keep her at bay while I tried to figure out my next move. I stood defenseless in the corner of the kitchen, thinking maybe today was my day to leave this world, or at the very least, if I survived….I’d be forced to face this expensive phase in my daughter’s life.
What happens if I can’t keep pace? If I can’t afford the suckers? Do I need to turn her loose on some Elm trees?
Maybe I could train her to gnaw a few totem poles in the backyard?
And if I ran out of foliage? Toyota Tercels?
I’m not sure where to turn. Should I just put her in the crib and throw aluminum cans at her until my wife gets home?
EDITOR’S NOTE: I found out later from my wife that I was giving her pacifiers rated for infants without teeth. Now I know. And knowing is half the battle.
Read More Post a comment (0)Yeah, wouldn’t we ALL like to ‘go out for a bit’. I’ll donate an organ to sit on a folding chair in the garage, absorbing dark silence for a few minutes.
Ava walked into the living room the other day while I was feeding Charlie. She had a pair of Uggs on the wrong feet, pants hiked up to conceal her diaper, slid on shades and pulled her sucker out to tell me that she was, ‘going out for a bit’.
AVA: ‘DADA. DADA. DADA.’
ME: ‘YES, Ava, what is it?’
AVA: ‘Charlie got sick in your hair.’
Really? Is that what I needed right now?
Run and get some paper towels for Daddy. And a t-shirt for chrissakes, I’m on the internet.
Forget journaling, sex, planting a garden, aromatherapy or yoga, I found my outlet.
When Jen had Ava, someone gave us the ‘Gripper’ as a gift. Normally, I’d assume it was for folks on assisted living, to grab cans of soup from their Rascal or pick up the phone without getting off the recliner.
Not true.
MULTIPLE USES.
I found joy in this specific moment, pinching this baby doll’s head, hoisting it to an altitude where it annoyed my daughter. It released all of my stress. I stopped shaking and felt like I was floating above the crowd. It was like Scotty beamed me to a white sand beach somewhere where Verizon ‘COULDN’T HEAR ME NOW’, where I sprawled in a hammock, reading one of the 3 dozen books I haven’t started. It was being a kid and hitting my first home run, seeing my first naked booby calendar in my uncle’s auto garage or sipping one of my dad’s Heinekens while he wasn’t looking. It was just one of those great feelings.
I was reborn.
I guess it’s the little things, right?
Read More Post a comment (4)It’s the end of the year and my wife is kicking into high gear, squeezing in all of our doctor appointments before the end of the year. Says I pick at my skin and never wear sunscreen so I have some questionable freckles on my back. She calls it ‘something we have to do’ as responsible adults. I call it a ‘shitty nightmare’.
Today was the dermatologist. We went together before she went to work, so one of us could watch the kids while the other one got a body scan. What’s a body scan? That’s when they say ‘strip down to your underwear, and put this paper dress on. The doctor will be in whenever she decides you’re at the absolute breaking point of wrestling with your kids, while wearing a gown, under artificial light’.
Careful readers noticed the word ‘she’. Yep, you got it. My wife booked the FEMALE DOCTOR.
Every. Dudes. Nightmare.
By the time she finished with her scan, Ava and Charlie had struggled enough to tear my evening dress in three places. I turned the kids over to Jen and assessed the damage.
There was no point in privacy or protecting my innocence. I stood up and ripped it off in frustration. Ava was throwing a screaming fit as our female doctor came back into the room with a female receptionist, so that Ava might go with her to the waiting room for a lollipop. But she didn’t want to go. So it was a giant stand-off.
So there we were. My wife, the screaming kids, a lady doctor and cute receptionist.
And there I was. 35 years old, a slight holiday belly, wearing black underwear and white tube socks with a wristwatch.
That’s how my morning started. What about you guys?
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