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"Maybe I should do a Design A New Banner for DadCentric Contest."
"Yeah. You should."
"Ok."
"What will the winner get?"
"I don't know. Something."
WE NEED A NEW BANNER. SEND YOUR ENTRIES TO PETCOBRA AT GMAIL DOT COM. YOU WILL WIN, I DON'T KNOW, SOMETHING. BONUS POINTS IF YOU USE THE DADCENTRIC GUY.
I woke up, fell out of bed, and never considered dragging a comb across my head. It was 7 a.m., there were children in my bed and my wife was already at work. I took a deep breath, went downstairs and drank a cup.
There were birds singing in the springtime sunshine. I opened the door and greeted the morning. Dogs wagged their tails, rabbits did that thing they do with their nose that is so cute, and I felt a song coming on.
It didn't. Something worse came over me. I found myself standing there in the open air with a cup full of coffee, my robe blowing behind me in the breeze like the cape I pretend it to be, and I felt good. I really felt good.
What the hell! It's March 18th. I should be lying with a bag of frozen peas across my eyes and a stomach full of regret. I should be explaining to the kids that the coat of green liquid surrounding the toilet is actually residue from a friendly dragon that stopped by and that it smells like cheap beer because that's what dragons smell like, everyone knows that.
No. There was no hangover. I was embarrassed. In fact I hadn't had a single drink on St. Paddy's other than the Guinness I had 'round midnight, but for all intents and purposes that was Sunday night, and even then, it wasn't anything crazy, just a couple of beers while I filled out my March Madness brackets.
I had gone all of St. Patrick's Day drinking nothing more than a glass of water and some Earl Grey. I hadn't surrounded myself with loud and unruly drunks, but rather loud and unruly children. I didn't get lucky, but I did kick my wife's ass on the XBOX. There was that.
I realized that the closest I came to celebrating my Irish heritage was this:
You know, I'm okay with it. Dragons cause more trouble than they're worth, and Danny Boy just makes me cry. Usually.
So it may be a wee bit too early to tell, I may in fact be jinxing the whole thing by calling any sort of attention to it, but if the events of the last few weekends are any indicator, I may very well be on to some sort of father-son tradition kind of thing with my oldest boy. Not that it has to be just father-son, mom can join in too, and she has. And when the newborn son isn't so new anymore, he can get in on the fun as well. But for the moment, it's just me and the eldest.
It's not a particularly complicated tradition or anything. It doesn't involve trekking out to the badlands with three days worth of beef jerky stored away in our horse's saddlebags. There's no ceremonial garb involved and no animals have to be sacrificed. Nope, it's really nothing more complicated than a little ride on the city bus. See, a few weekends ago, we introduced Henry, our oldest to the joys of the bus, and it was a match made in heaven. Perhaps it's the fact that he can be transported at high speeds without having to wear a carseat. Maybe it's the community aspect. Maybe it's just the joy of getting to ride in a REALLY BIG THING. Whatever it was, he loved it, and ever since then, we constantly hear about how "Hemmy wanna ride the bussss."
So for the last few weekends, I've scooped the little guy up and taken the bus down the road to the grocery store. But not just any grocery store, it's the one with *GASP* a playground right outside! Of course, ask any kid about this magical destination, and they'll refer to it as the playground with the *yawn* grocery store inside. Whatever it is, it's a place where the kiddos can burn off some energy so that they'll be nice and docile for the grocery-purchasing experience yet to come. Once the kiddo's had his fill of the playground, we buy whatever we need for dinner that night and then catch the bus back home. We disembark, wave goodbye to the bus, and walk home so Dad can get dinner started.
As we waved goodbye to the bus last weekend, the little guy said "that was fun Daddy." Of course, I swelled up with that "holy crap, I'm getting at least one piece of this Dad gig right" feeling.
"You liked that, little boy?"
"Hemmy wanna ride the bus some more."
"Maybe next weekend?"
"Yeah."
Sappy perhaps, but I'll take it.
So what about you? Got any routines that you enjoy with your kiddos?
I don't usually cross-post - what goes on over at my other place usually stays there. Not because it's like Vegas mind you. It's because it's the antithesis of excitement - people think Reverend Moore is an editor. But, I thought this could/should be a post to be shared with a greater audience - and by greater, I don't mean better - I know some of you - by greater I just mean larger.So, here goes:
On Monday, I had every intention to post about some very good news I had to share. I got a new job. Not only did I get a new job, but I got a raise and this new position would cut my commute to just 25 minutes one-way - down from the hour and ten/fifteen I have been doing these last 3+ years. I will continue to do relatively the same thing - fundraising and public relations - and for an organization that provides services to a similar population - mentally retarded/developmentally disabled adolescents and adults. It is very exciting for me/us and I was really looking forward to writing about it and letting the six of you who read regularly know about it.
Well, that was the plan for Monday anyway. Amazing how things do not always go according to plan, isn't it? I seem to recall something about mice and men and the best laid, blah, blah, blah. Don't worry, I still have the job and will start after our upcoming trip to the House of Mouse (with my parents by the way - should be something to post about after that). The thing is, I never made it into work on Monday. Nope, not at all. In fact, I'm actually very lucky to be even posting about Monday. See, I totaled my car. And before you ask, no I wasn't wearing a seatbelt. Stupid? Oh, Lord yes. Dumbest damn thing I have ever done. Actually, I had become a convert after Little Dub was born. This was a very stupid instance that could have cost me my life. I have seen the error of my ways. I have had my "come to Jesus" moment. You will soon see me at your door trying to dispense tracts from the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration. "May I come in and tell you about the saving power of the seatbelt law? How about the redemptive power of the 3-point shoulder harness?" Yes, I am born again.
I was ten minutes from work when I hit an extensive (150-200 yards) patch of black ice. Never even saw it. Didn't realize I was on it until my ass-end suddenly started to swing around and I was now facing in the opposite direction. And still spinning. The next thing I know, I'm covered in glass, the windshield is smashed and the car is laying on the driver's side in a ditch. I remember saying, "Fuck" once or twice, grabbing my wallet off the floor and turning off the radio because the static was going to drive me insane and I needed to think.
I tried to push open the passenger side door, but to no avail. This was about the time panic decided to rear its ugly head. Thankfully, a nearby resident had heard everything and was now outside my car on his house phone calling 911. I ignored him when he told me to stay put - panic still had hold. I was able to roll down the passenger side window and boost my self out of the car. I heard him say, "Are you okay? Anything hurt? You're damn lucky! You're the third accident in a week." Huh? Great, I'm the topper in a hat trick. Lucky me. Where's Rod Roddy with my gifts?
Another passerby encourages me to get to the other side of the road and off into someone's yard as I am busy inspecting myself. My right hand is bloodied, I have glass and glass fragments in my hair, my left ear is tender and I have a dull pain between my shoulder blades, but am otherwise unscathed. Remarkably so. I hear the sirens from the local fire department, the paramedics and the sheriff. I'm hustled into a pick-up truck, then to a fire truck and ultimately into the paramedic's truck. They look at me. They look at my CR-V. They look back at me incredulously. "Are you sure you're okay?" I am asked repeatedly. Yep, I answer. "Just a little pain here and apparently I have a cut somewhere." In between all this poking and prodding, I have left messages for Mrs. Big Dubya - somewhat frantic ones where I actually forgot to tell her I was okay and the kids were not with me. Ah, panic and shock - wonderful combination when relaying information.
I was in and out of the hospital after getting looked at and receiving 600 mg of Motrin - nothing broken, no internal bleeding, no concussion, just some scratches, some tenderness and some disapproving comments when I give my answer about the seatbelt. My CR-V? Not so lucky. She has been declared a total loss. I have since removed the plates and registration, cleaned it out and bid her a fond farewell as she will be taken away on Monday to points unknown. I am sad to see her go. But I am more than grateful to be able to write this post and that is all that really matters - I am still here for Mrs. Big Dubya and my children - I could not ask for more. Fortunately, only a few family members read this blog so I won't be answering a ton of questions - we've just bought a new car, no big deal, it was expected with a third bambino on the way, etc. , etc., etc. To Aunt P: Everything's fine - I am fine - let's keep it at that.
In the immortal words of Sir Bob: "I don't like Mondays."
I don't speak Spanish very well. I can barely grasp English. However, this site was too funny to pass up. Click on the following link and enter your first name on the first line, last name on the second. Skip the next two and click the link on the bottom left. It says V- something or other.
Presto, you're loved, baby.
Last night after dinner we gave the girls some Alphabet cookies and milk for dessert. They're organic and taste like a cinnamon flavored shoe box, so, they're relatively healthy as far as desserts go. Anyway, typically our older daughter plays around with the cookies to see what words or phrases she can spell. Our youngest blindly follows suit and inexplicably always announces that she spelled "Dre" - our dog's name. Being a non-reader at this point, she wouldn't know Dre from diphtheria, but, dammit...that's what she thinks she spells every time.
Well, by chance our 4 year-old set her "letters" up on the table last night and I see the word "Maui" in plain sight. "Holy shit, honey, she 'spelled' Maui!" I said to my wife. We laugh and our older daughter gets all excited about the fact that her younger sister spelled her first word, so to speak. "Look Lu! You spelled Maui! YOU spelled MAUI!" she says. "No I didn't! I spelled Dre," she replies. "No you didn't. You spelled Maui, see? M-a-u-i, Maui!" "I spelled Dre!!! [Slowly] Aaaaaaaaaa-Ooooooooo-7-A. Dre!!!!"
An argument ensues. They continue to go back and forth to the point they're yelling at each other enough to merit parental intervention. We calm the situation down and continue on with our evening. However, our older daughter managed to sneak in a few more jabs at her little sister about the whole incident - her lack of spelling, her inability to read, etc. It was innocent for the most part and, as big sister, well within the rules of engagement, lest she be pwned by a little kid. Fair enough.
However, just before bedtime our older daughter slips my wife a sweet little post-it note with the following inscribed: Mom, you are the beast!
Touche, Karma.
"When I was a kid...." Isn't that the way any anecdote starts when some old fogey wants to talk about how things were different (read: better, harder, simpler, boring-er) when he/she was a kid? I'm not going to talk about walking to school in snowstorms, or gathering around the wireless to listen to The Shadow, or awaiting the arrival of the iceman (no, not Val Kilmer) in his horse-drawn wagon. No, mine is much more mundane - to us as adults, that is - but right up there with Christmas in the eyes of a child. Birthday parties.
Now, when I was a kid (you just knew it was coming, right? No? Are you even paying attention?)...anyway, when I was a kid, birthdays were right up there with Christmas - maybe even a little bit higher because it was all about you. Hell, even if it wasn't yours, they were always big events. You could end up at several birthday parties throughout the year and gorge yourself on ice cream, cake and other sweets while playing silly games like pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, blindman's bluff or spin the bottle (oh, wait a second, maybe that was later). Parties were always in someone's basement or kitchen or at a local bowling alley or pizza joint and the theme was simple - "Hey, it's your birthday. Enjoy your cake and presents." No Princesses. No Sponge Bob. No Handy Manny. No frills. Just white paper plates and Styrofoam® cups and maybe some conical hats emblazoned with "Happy Birthday."
Now it's all about theme parties. Coordinated plates and cups, streamers and balloons, tablecloths and napkins. There have to be special order cakes and a special guest is a must - usually an out-of-work actor wearing some atrocious costume - or else your party is just some pedestrian exercise in frivolity, rather than the tres chic, tutti di tutti extravaganza every five-year-old yearns for. But, wait, there's an even more disturbing trend: requests for no presents. NO PRESENTS! WTF? How else are you supposed to determine who is the better friend? "Well, Aidan did find this very cool Buzz Lightyear with the laser that's really a lightbulb, but Stevie found this really cool Death Star with working superlaser. Aidan, who?"
This is just my over-ranting way of getting to a question for all you fine folk out there. If you get an invitation to a birthday party and it does say, "No gifts please," do you follow the invitation's request or do you ignore it entirely? And, as a follow-up, do you feel guilty when you show up with nothing and everyone else has ignore the request? Is a stack of TV dinners an appropriate gift? (that's for you Sarah)
It began like any other trip to the bookstore. There were words of encouragement and threats of consequences. We shared a pastry and had something warm to drink. They behaved like I asked them and used their inside voices. There were pee-pee dances and occasional wanderings. It was like any other trip.
Then Thing 1 picked out a book that wasn't his typical fare of dinosaurs or cartoon characters. It was Star Wars, and the force was suddenly strong in my boy. We discussed R2D2 and Yoda, and I explained the difference between myself and a Wookie through an awkward charade which included a public display of body hair. We were bonding.
I started planning our evening. We would only watch one movie a night, no reason to rush it. Pace this moment, I thought. Finish his training, I will.
It was set in stone, or carbonite as the case may be. Things were moving along swimmingly. We stood in line, me taking in the moment and the boys happy to be getting stuff. It was special. I placed my books on the counter and turned to the boys for theirs. Elmo for Thing 2, and my oldest boy, he had switched out Star Wars for yet another dinosaur book.
"What happened?" I asked as I looked around frantically for the Star Wars book.
"I like dinosaurs better," he answered, smiling.
Damn, I thought, that's bullshit.
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