In 1976, I was five. I was in kindergarten and Dad was stationed in Fort Benning, GA. I decided, based on what I was being taught about presidential races at school, that my parents should vote for Jimmy Carter. My reasoning was simple enough: he had some shiny white teeth. It’s true. I’m not making that up. I pestered them about it. I recall him being charismatic on TeeVee. My parents did. And they’ve regretted it ever since. Coincidentally, 1976 was the last year my parents ever voted Democrat. To this day, my dad blames me. I’m not making that up either.

So, despite how stupid it sounds, kids can have an influence on their parents voting habits.

After the vasectomy, Junior was confused. See, she knew I went to the doctor. Yet I came home sick. Which to her, makes no sense because you go to the doctor to get better.

Blank-firing adapter successfully installed. All went well. I got a shot of happy stuff, which the doc said was like six beers in 30 seconds. Clearly, he’s never seen me drink and another half dose would have been nice.

Interesting note is that your vasa deferentia are white. Yeah, I watched. Even more bizarre, so did the Mrs.

Be in bed most of tomorrow. Maybe blog, may not.

An haiku in memoriam of my vasa deferentia:

You will be severed
Thanks for carrying my genes
Now, to shave my dudes

In case you couldn’t tell, it’s vasectomy day! We’ve decided we’re done having children.

By the way, all the literature my doc gave me on the procedure has images. In all those images, the jimmy in question is standing at attention. I don’t think that during such a procedure, that would be the case. But we can’t show flaccid ones lest we shatter our male egos. I blame the patriarchy.

Junior will be able to fields strip and reassemble an AR-15 in less than a minute:

So, I grew a beard for the first time in about a year and a half. After a couple days’ growth, the Mrs. looks at me and says you look good with the beard. Cool, she likes it. Then a day or so later she complained a bit about how the beard didn’t feel good during a smooch. So, I trimmed it up. She said that didn’t help. So, bummer, she doesn’t like it.

So, I shaved it off.

I come into the living room and she asks why I shaved it. I said because I thought she didn’t like it. She informs me that she likes the look of it but not how it feels. I ask So, would you rather I look good or feel good? She says look good. Who knew?

Growing the beard again.

Other than Junior getting a double ear infection and rupturing an ear drum, Christmas was a blast. She’s OK and is on antibiotics.

Les got his kids some bean bag chairs and reports the kids like them. We got some for our kids too and they seem to enjoy them.

Our kids had so many presents that they got bored of opening presents before even getting through 1/3rd of the gifts they had. I told The Mrs. that next year we may want to get them fewer gifts.

And, for all you folks looking for Wiis, Target in Maryville has them (or rather had about 20 of them yesterday). Of course, they didn’t get them until the day after Christmas. And the Mrs. picked me one up yesterday. It’s a lot of fun. All I have is the sports game. Any recommendations?

So, Christmas is over and the new holiday season starts, like, next week?

Happy Holidays.

Two, actually. Me and the kids were at Petsmart while the Mrs. finished up some stuff. The kids like to go look at fish, vermin, birds (but I repeat myself) and other critters they have there. We’re watching the rats when Junior says Those two are jumping. I look down and see two mice in a cage (BTW, per the sign, these were fancy mice, whatever that means) and they are jumping. Each mouse is jumping to the water dispenser thingie because they can’t reach it. I tell Junior that it looks like the mice are thirsty. About that time, an employee walks by and I point out that these two mice can’t reach the water. The employee opens the cage and lowers the water dispenser thingy. Then, both mice drink water for five minutes straight. Who knows how long they’d gone without water.

The Second was wearing a sweater and a white T-Shirt (you know, a wife beater as they’re called in these parts) underneath. It was a little warm so we took off the sweater. We’re getting ready to go visit the in-laws so my job was dress The Second. I’m changing his clothes and say Let’s take off that wife-beater. Then Junior looks up and says Wife beater. She said it plain as day. For the next few minutes, she’s all wife beater all the time. Wife beater this, wife beater that. Then, I compound the problem by noting that all The Second needs now is a Bud-Light. And Junior starts talking about Bud-Light and wife-beaters.

Careful what you say. They’re always listening.

Me and the Mrs. did some shopping this weekend. I tried on a fleece pull-over in the middle of the aisle. As I’m taking it off, the conversation goes like this:

Me: [pointing to the shirt I'm wearing under the fleece] would you hold this down while I take this off?

The Mrs.: You don’t want people seeing your belly?

Me: No, I don’t want people seeing my .45.

In other news, I guess she thinks I’m getting chunky.

Junior: I wanna hot dog.

Me: You just ate and didn’t finish your yogurt.

Junior: No I didn’t.

Me: Yeah, you did. Just making sure you’re hungry. You just ate yogurt.

Junior: No I didn’t.

Me: Are you lyin.?

Junior: I’m not lyin’.

Me: You just ate yogurt. I think you’re lyin’.

Junior: Lions don’t eat yogurt.

Heh. Lion = lyin’. I guess she was only lion half the time.

Future supply siders in the making. Awesome. Though you should point out to your kids that, you know, that’s the price they pay to live under your roof and get room and board.

Yeah, I’m only recently getting cussing under control around the younguns.

Yeah, mine does that too.

I sent this costume as a suggestion for the Mrs. She told me I’d look very hot in that.

My wife’s into scrapbooking. So she might appreciate Scrap Your Husband.

And look they have AR-15 graphics.

Heh.

Wow:

Debbie is a mom from Uxbridge who was in the examination room when the pediatrician asked her 5-year-old, “Does Daddy own a gun?”

When the little girl said yes, the doctor began grilling her and her mom about the number and type of guns, how they are stored, etc.

If the incident had ended there, it would have merely been annoying.

But when a friend in law enforcement let Debbie know that her doctor had filed a report with the police about her family’s (entirely legal) gun ownership, she got mad.

Surely, that is some sort of ethical violation that warrants review of that guy’s license to practice.

And from the original story:

They’re watching you right now.

They counted every beer you drank during last night’s Red Sox game.

They see you sneaking out to the garage for a smoke.

They know if you’ve got a gun, and where you keep it.

They’re your kids, and they’re the National Security Agency of the Nanny State.

Kinda timely since, just yesterday, I was talking to a co-worker. Seems her young son (5 or 6) had been participating in D.A.R.E. Her and her husband were drinking beer while watching some game on TeeVee. Her son then screams at her and her husband that they’re both alcoholics. She didn’t know how to react. I understand that there’s a need to inform kids about drugs and alcohol and other things. But that’s ridiculous. Seems parents need to start discussing these things realistically with their kids before they go to school and get their brainwashing.

Schools should educate. Not turn our kids into little Nazis.

Every night, before bed, I tell Junior she can watch one last TeeVee show. And it’s usually Little Bear, which I hate. I mean really hate. Each show is not really a story but rather a random series of events strung together with no discernible point. But I digress. Any way, the one last show usually gives her enough time to calm down from the latest activities and get ready for bed. The other night, she was watching her last show and I noticed she was laying on the floor and acting very tired. It was getting late, compared to her usual bed time, so I decided that since she was tired and wasn’t particularly paying attention to the show that I’d occasionally hit the fast forward 30 seconds button on the DVR. I do that and in a few minutes the closing credits come on and I say Show’s over. Time for bed. She looks at me and says You did that! Uh oh.

I’d done this a hundred times before and she never noticed.

I do fear for the future:

Our grandparents survived the Depression and gave Hitler a stomping. Our parents invented Woodstock and made the cops invent tear gas. We watched TeeVee and played Atari, and our children are swaddled in bubble wrap. Devolution in four generations

In an update to my conflict with the neighbor’s dog, I went for a ride again last night with The Second. The dog is still running loose. But, since I kicked him in the face, he just chases the bike now from a safe distance and doesn’t get close enough to be a danger. He’s smarter than his owners.

DAMIT had his dudes severed. Me and the Mrs. are now 99.9% sure that we do not want another little rugrat. Maybe, mostly, kinda, sorta, except on Tuesdays when we’ve had time to think about it, err but almost definitely. Maybe.

At some point, when we pick up the additional 0.1%, I’ll be getting the ol’ snip snip. It doesn’t sound too bad, from what I hear. But it does come with the added benefit of giving me back about a 20X5 area of my workshop since we can get rid of all the baby clothes we’re keeping just in case.

Readers of this site know that I’m a fairly animal/dog friendly kinda guy. And that I advocate responsible dog ownership. However, I do not tolerate from any dog (mine or yours) aggression toward people.

A few nights a week, I go for a bike ride for some exercise. I have one of those carriers so that Junior or The Second can make my ride much harder tag along. Last night, the wife was running errands and I got home before her and the kids. I figured I’d run into them in the subdivision, so I grabbed Junior’s helmet so that if I did run into them, she could ride with me. On my ride, one of the neighbor’s dogs was (as it always is) running loose (midsized mutt probably about 35-40 pounds). And he comes running up to my bike and acting aggressively. He was pretty close and looked as though he’d do what dogs do which is bite the tires. I still haven’t figured out why dogs bite tires. And as he does, the bike kinda weaves out into the main street. So, I kicked him real hard in the face. And he tumbled.

I make a lap and here comes the Mrs. Mobile. I stop and show Junior I brought her helmet and she’s excited about the ride. The Mrs. gets out to strap Junior in and sees the dog in the field by the car leering at us. She says: That dog looks mean. I don’t like him staring at us. And I say: He’s much more agreeable since I kicked him in the face.

If that dog had done that while I had one of the kids on the bike, I’d have been livid. It’s one thing to endanger me (I’m a big boy) but if my kids are threatened, I get a little grumpy.

People, please restrain your dogs. It’s safer for other people and for the dog.

In Atlanta. My buddy’s wife is now stateside.

Tam sets them straight: “Tribal tattoos”? Give me a break. “18-y.o. Skinny White Kids From The ‘Burbs” isn’t any tribe I’ve heard of.

Insty:

I’m dealing with the problem a different way, by teaching my daughter to shoot.

Good. But it begs the question, as the father of a three year old and 17 month old, how early do you start? I’ve gotten Junior somewhat acquainted with guns but she’s way too young to head to the range.

So, I noticed a trend. Whenever I left the room for any reason and the kids were left alone, The Second would start crying. Without fail. Every time. It was obvious that Junior was doing something to make him cry, like take a toy or just generally be mean. So, I explained to Junior that if I left the room again and The Second started crying that she’d be the one in trouble. Hasn’t happened since.

I guess maybe it could be unfair as, you know, I can’t prove in a court of law she was up to something. And I suppose he could start crying for other reasons but so far that doesn’t seem to be the case.

Speaking of, Junior is doing show & tell at school. This week, she was to take something that started with the letter A. The Mrs. inquires about what would be a good thing to take. I reply with AR-15?

At our vacation condo, Junior was confused by the telephone. See, she’s never seen one with a cord attached to it before.

Of course, she’d never seen commercials before a couple of months ago.

The Mrs. calls and says Junior’s school offers a service where a private agency will take fingerprints, pictures, descriptions, etc. of Junior to be retained in the event she (God forbid) goes missing. I’m not opposed to the idea (provided it’s not some state mandated thing) and think if parents want to do that on their own that is fine. She calls me and the conversation goes a bit like this:

The Mrs.: I just wanted to make sure you were OK with that.

Me: Sounds fine to me.

The Mrs.: Because you’re kinda weird about stuff like that.

Moi? No idea what she’s talking about.

Oh, and I’ll save you the trouble: it’s a scam. Seems dude shows up, gives you a kit to do this yourself and you keep the kit in a safe place, and then he tries to sell you life insurance.

One of the shows that the Mrs. records for Junior is Lou and Lou: Safety Patrol. The shows are short (like five minutes) and Lou and Lou run around with little badges declaring things to be safety violations. One such show was fire safety and another was putting on sunscreen when at the beach. Aside from the creepy nanny nature of the show that makes me want to tell the kids to mind their own business, it does teach kids important things. And it also could lead kids to shame their parents into things.

However, one episode taught kids about having a disaster preparedness kit (with adequate food, radio, batteries, etc.). And the same show taught kids to have a BOB, though they called it a Go Bag. I suppose with Katrina and 9-11, what used to be an activity of the survivalists is now rather mainstream.

To watch the video, go here and click the one that says Get Ready, Get Set, Emergency. I told the wife that one of the items they did not include in their kit was a carbine.

This weekend’s lesson that Junior learned: Don’t squeeze kitties.

As someone who just got back from vacation, I’d buy a power assisted stroller. Even better, one with a remote.

Remember, Junior, we took the monsters to the beach and the sharks ate them.

My wife sends me the weather forecast for our secure undisclosed location and it shows thunderstorms all week. I send back that I hope our condo is comfy. She replies with:

If not, I am sure the couches at the outlets are.

This past Sunday, the family went to my parents’ house. Junior and I were playing in the pool. There was this giant inflatable alligator that is about eight feet long and Junior loves to ride it. My folks also had those little weighted stick things that you throw in the pool, they sink, and you retrieve them. Junior thought it was big fun to throw them in and for me to get them. She threw two of them a bit too far, so I didn’t get them since she was on the edge of the pool and I wasn’t gonna leave her. Later, she was away from the pool by the porch (about eight feet) and she asks me to go get the two from the deep end. I tell her I will but that she needs to stay put. I swim over, dive down and grab the first one. I come out of the water and glance her way and she’s walking toward the pool and headed right for the big inflatable alligator. Before she got there, I start swimming her way. She attempts to jump on the alligator and it flips over. Did I mention she can’t swim? So, she goes under. I swam as fast as I could. I get there and she’s under the alligator. I pick up the alligator and she comes out with it. She had a death grip on the alligator. She managed to hold her breath and was OK, but a bit shaken.

The most amazing thing was that whole incident lasted maybe a second and a half. I’m no Olympic swimmer or anything, but it was only about ten feet distance to get there. And I probably covered that in something that could be measured in fractions. Despite that, when you’re living it, it seemed like forever. I could feel every individual muscle in my body moving. I could feel every individual drop of water hitting my face and back. But I could see nothing other than her kicking under water and I could hear nothing except the splash. It was the most focused on one thing I’ve ever been in my life. Time literally felt like it stopped.

She’s OK but didn’t want to get back in the pool again. And for the rest of the day, my wife commented on how sweet Junior was acting. And I joked that maybe having her life flash before her eyes calmed her down a bit.

Update: not sure how I closed comments. Must be all that reasoned discourse. They are open now.

The other day, I went outside to fix Junior’s seat on the bike. As I was tightening a bolt, I looked at my leg and there were five mosquitoes bellied up to the buffet. Ugh. I looked at Junior and she had some on her too. Took her inside, I hit myself with some Off and continued working. Anyway, via MCB, we learn that some plants repel the little buggers. Good to know. We have a Rosemary bush (for eating) on the side yard. Now, I’m gonna put a couple by the front and back porches.

From the post below:

Think about your neighborhood; think about the use of eminent domain on your house. How do you explain these things to our children?

Indeed.

The Mrs. called to inform me that:

At Target, Code Yellow means lost child.

I’m only one generation away from what is basically poor white trash. And sometimes it shows. To wit:

So, Sunday, with the Mrs. gone, the kids were playing in the kiddie pool. We wrapped up, went inside for a bit. Then both kids wanted to go back to the pool. I’d already cleaned up swim wear and towels and stuff. And my backyard is pretty private. So, I just took the kids’ clothes off and let them splash around naked. In a kiddie pool. While I drank beer. And I thought to myself Self, this is pretty white trashy. But at least my beer was Stella Artois and not Natural Light.

Also, the Second had a big weekend. Among his firsts: can get up stairs, can high five, and I retired the bath seat.

I feel your pain.

Update: Funny in the comments from Jon:

Keep in mind, he’ll be returning the favor someday….

And TiVo too.

So, me, the Mrs. and Junior were watching live TeeVee the other day. A commercial comes on. Junior, obviously concerned, says Where’d the show go? It occurred to us that she was three years old and had never seen a commercial before.

Yesterday, I was awarded the coveted Dad of the Year Award, for the third year in a row. It must be tough on you other dads out there to know that every year, I win it. I mean, there really is no competition. I rule. It’s not even close. I get 100% of the votes every year. This daddin’ stuff has its rewards.

In other news, today Junior is three. I really have a hard time wrapping my head around the fact she’s three now. Happy birthday, sweetie.

According to my wife, I should not let The Second have a lighter or hang around a hot smoker. Who knew?

One of the things that really annoyed my wife on our wedding day was, err, me. Moreover, my interaction with our photographer. She was a nice enough lady but she asked me to do some pose that, in addition to being difficult for me to actually pull off and look comfortable, was unnatural looking. Now, I’d had a few adult beverages but I think I said something like I’m not doing that because it looks gay (and I meant gay in the young urban slang way as a synonym for stupid as well as the stereotypical way of effeminate).

This morning was cat herding err family picture day. I hate picture day. Really. I mean, I hate it a lot. If there’s a Hell, it will be me at Portrait Innovations having fake candid shots taken of me and Stone Phillips (I’m sure he’s a fine man but there’s just something about him that gives me the willies). Where was I? Oh, yeah. Hating picture day. I hate it because these pictures are unnatural looking. There’s fake smiling, fake posing, fake background, fake interest, fake everything. The only thing authentic is the kids’ expressions because they’ve not learned to fake smile yet. So, the photographer uses stuffed animals, whistles, toys, tricks and a clown to get them to smile. And kids don’t sit still for pictures. Once you get the kids situated, you have a window of opportunity to take the shot that is measured in nanoseconds. And the photographer misses that window roughly four out of five times, so you have to do it again.

So, we had that. Then, the other thing I really hate is fake poses. Today, the photographer dude asked me to sit on the ground with one leg outstretched and one knee raised. I said No. I do not sit like that because I am a man. So, we did a different pose that was fine. Then, I was asked to lay with my belly on the ground and both feet up in the air. Again: No, I will not lay like that because I am a man. And it’s hard to do with a Kel-Tec poking you in the hip bone. The wife was a bit annoyed. Now, this is not some masculine, macho thing where I don’t want to be captured on film looking gay. My thinking is that photographs should capture a natural state and not some contrived, fake scene. That’s what the news is for. And, well, people just don’t sit that way.

No blog for you. Come back later. Maybe. Taking the rugrats here.

Seems that’s the buzz here lately, so we’ll do more. Via NIT, comes this:

So I have no fear of indoctrination. I’m afraid of people who allow themselves to be indoctrinated. Grape Flavor-Aid, anyone?

Indeed. However, I think the best thing for students and your kids is for them to be made aware that disagreement (polite, of course) with their academics is acceptable, if presented well. I personally had two political confrontations with teachers. Once, I wrote a paper. I took the opposing view than the one taught in class. I was given a D. I’d never before (or since) received a D on anything. I thought it was a decent paper. I took it to the department head, who concurred. I received an A. Then a story that I’ve written about before wherein I told my professor that I would use real words and not made up hippie words like ne and give peace a chance. In a post on Speaking Ill of the Dead:

This professor was an ideologue. For example, he had the class watch a movie on abortion that was blatantly biased toward the pro-choice side. People left in the middle of it (it was particularly offensive to any pro-lifers who may have been there) and reported him to the department head.

He also told us that when we turned in a paper, we couldn’t use the words he or she. We had to use the non-sexist word ne. I forgot the rule for his and her. Obviously, ne wasn’t an English teacher. I had written a paper and turned it in and I, while referring to a specific person who was matter-of-factly female, used the word she and her quite often. Ne tried to ding me some points for doing so but I sought out the department head and created a stink about how teachers shouldn’t allow their preferences to affect proper English.

Now, ne wasn’t an asshole. He add (sic*) various little socio-political idiosyncrasies that were annoying. Ne was ideologically obtuse. Ne allowed his ideology to consume his professional life and ne wanted to exert his influence on his students and mandate they be exposed to his worldview and that they comply.

To his benefit, ne encouraged me to think by pissing me off.

Coincidentally, the department head agreed with me again. And, you see, there’s the rub. I had no issue with these guys making me think or challenging me. I took issue with the notion that I was being punished for not going along. That’s where it is dangerous. Address ideas, make your case, but be fair. That goes for the students too.

I am happy to report I was never asked to undergo counseling.

* See AC, I even sic myself.

Outside just now.

So, Junior now makes the shape of a handgun with her fingers, points it, and says: Pow, pow, pow. We asked her where she picked that up and she said Little Johnny* says Pow, pow, pow. Little Johnny is a kid in her class at school. The Mrs. asks her what the teacher says when Little Johnny says Pow, pow, pow. And Junior says She says don’t say pow, pow, pow. I’m taking it all in. And I finally pipe up and say Junior, we don’t point our weapons at people. The wife shoots me a glance and says let’s not go there yet.

She’ll be three this month. My thinking is go ahead and start, err, planting the seed about gun handling. At the same time, she’s a kid and needs to have some fun. Is it too soon to say things like that? I have no intention of enforcing said rule with toys and fingers but just want to lay the foundation.

* name changed, for obvious reasons.

A while back, I noted:

In the middle of the night when you’re not quite conscious and attempting to soothe a fussy baby with a bottle, a bottle of Similac looks an awful lot like a bottle of International Delight Chocolate Caramel Coffee Creamer.

Well, the other day the Mrs. noticed a distinct similarity between these two product labels:

Poor Junior. Yuck.

If you were at The Dairy Queen in Maryville last night and heard a three-year-old yell I’m wearing panties today, that would have been us. However, the lady decked out in her Harley Davidson gear who said I am too was not us.

I had just gotten my drivers license. Dad, now a beat cop for a couple years just before becoming a federale, says of drinking and driving (paraphrased, it has been 19 years):

There’s nothing like coming up to a car wreck and seeing some barely moving piece of hamburger meat begging please, help me, please and knowing there is nothing you can do. Not a thing. You feel helpless and they die. It gets worse when you realize it’s some guy’s boy and you gotta go tell him. Don’t ever put a cop through that, son. Ever.

What reminded my of that is this post by The Ambulance Driver.

Drug testing in schools:

And with the full weight of the federal government pushing mandatory random suspicion-less drug testing in schools as being nothing more intrusive than a health inoculation, it’s almost surprising that anyone is willing to step up and discuss the real facts about student drug testing.

So it’s heartening that, despite the losses, there are school districts all over the country who are standing up to the drug czar, that are listening to SSDP and DPA and NORML representatives at drug testing summits, and that there are newspapers willing to editorialize (even if not perfectly) against a massive testing regime.

Good. This kinda got me to thinking about my kids. They’re gonna have it rough, I think, growing up in a world where, increasingly, schools are becoming authoritarian and they’ll have a father not afraid to tell a school administration when it crosses the line. No, you’re not drug-testing them. No, they’re not wearing a uniform. No, you will not arbitrarily search their personal belongings without good reason. Etc. I wonder at what age I should have the little l libertarian conversation with them. And explain to them that, no, daddy isn’t just a contrary prick. He just doesn’t like to see public officials cross the line and has no problem telling them when to knock it off. I wouldn’t be trying to convert them as much as letting them know where I came from.

Conversely, I wouldn’t want my kids to take my views so much to heart that they generally become oppositional to authority just for the sake of being oppositional.

In an update to this and this, it costs about $60 to have a cell phone removed from the toilet.

For some reason, my toilet is now broken. It worked for a good couple of flushes but no more. Seems the plumber has to come and remove the whole toilet to dig out one Verizon LG phone.

Hmmm, I wonder if you can flush a cell phone down the toilet.

WOOOOSHHH!!

Why, yes, you can.

Well, at least there are no plumbing problems. Who knew?

So, last night just before the sun set, I was sitting on the back porch watching Junior and The Second have a squirt gun fight. And by squirt gun fight, I mean watching Junior squirt The Second while he sucked the water out of his squirt gun oblivious to the fact he was receiving enemy fire. In the field behind my house, there is a substantial wooded area that ends at a creek, of which I have about 15 yards of creek frontage. I heard a rustling sound. No big deal, since there are all kinds of critters back there from squirrel and chipmunks and small birds to the occasional cat hunting the aforementioned beasties. And, in the past, I heard the distinct yip of coyotes. I heard the rustling again and this time in more than one location. It sounded big. Well, bigger than birds and squirrels. And bigger than the cats. There was no barking or sporadic movement, so it was not a dog.

My first thought was that it was a coyote. I hit the gun safe and grab the Ruger 10/22. I got a 3X9 scope on it and can get half inch groups at 50 yards with it. The 22 is quiet (so as not to spook the neighbors) and a head shot will eventually kill a coyote after it has had time to wonder back home and show some decency by not dying on my land. Ergo, no need to practice the three S’s. And the scoped rifle gives me a better view at the distance (which I’d guess is about 40 yards). So, with finger off the trigger and glancing through the scope, I see the hideous beasties. Two wild turkeys. Wow, I’ve heard they were around but had never seen them up close before. Unlike their domesticated retarded cousins, they’re rather graceful creatures for birds. I watched them for a bit as they made their way to the creek. No shots fired. I’m not a hunter. And, if I were, I don’t know how to clean a turkey.

Today, The Second turned one year old. It’s amazing watching those little buckets of crying, who do nothing but turn perfectly good food into poop, become toddlers. In one year, they learn to crawl, stand, walk, communicate, feed themselves (though we’re not real good at that one yet), and a host of other things. Good times and it still amazes me.

Wow, where did that year ago?

I see you:

In other news, we know how doors work.

Speaking of kid’s activities, we’re going to get Junior started on swimming lessons. It occurred to me that I have no idea how to teach someone to swim.

The Second, who took his first steps a bit back, is getting around quite a bit now. He’s not quite running amok but getting around wherever he needs to get.

Last night, Junior started gymnastics. She had a big time. She did flips, jumped on trampolines and did some stretching. We’d tried this about a year ago but she couldn’t quite pay attention long enough to participate (she gets that from me). Now, she’s good about staying focused and only wanders off occasionally.

Here, the uncle family is doing that:

See, when we get on our road, we let junior move to the front seat while I drive 10MPH for about 100 yards. I think that’s child abuse. She thinks it’s fun. The Second is oblivious.

These past couple of weeks have been big for The Second. I mentioned he’s taken a few steps and had his first haircut. He is also, as of now, off of formula and drinking whole milk. Now, The Second is a big boy. And he eats a lot. He’d go through about 1.5 cans of Similac Isomil Advance in a week. And, with tax, they run about $25 each. In a month, it’s about the same amount I make off of Google Ads.

Up next: purging my house of bottles.

The Second is now mulletless. This weekend, he had his first haircut. I told the wife that I didn’t mind if he had long hair but no son of mine would have a mullet. And, unfortunately for little boys, that’s just kinda how their hair grows.

Also, we took our first steps this weekend. He took two full steps (though there are differing accounts with one reporter on the scene stating it was three).

For the fact that Junior said nappy headed hos last night. Remind me to turn off the TeeVee. Conversely, now that I’ve seen it written a lot, I think the consensus is that it is spelled hos and not hoes.

Jonathan asks:

What is the must-have baby gear? What should I not bother with? Any advice?

We’ve seriously considered getting a second dishwasher. But we don’t know where she’d sleep*.

Start buying diapers now. Seriously, pick up one box whenever you’re at the store.

* Kidding, the dishes are my job.

Update: Not relevant now, but don’t bother with child proof locks on your cabinets. By the time you need them, they can figure them out. And they’re a pain.

I was putting up the Easter decorations. I looked at Junior and asked her: Would you hand me that bag?

Without hesitation, she proceeds to take every thing in the bag out of it and hands me the empty bag.

The Second now has forward-facing car seats!

Homemade bubble recipes.

Well, The Second just had his first, err, well . . . let’s just say his lipstick was out.

As told to me by Junior:

Junior: Knock, knock

Me: Who’s there?

Junior: Orange

Me: Orange who?

Junior: [runs away laughing hysterically]

It made my day.

I know they got it rough due to bureaucracy and red tape from our alleged health care system but at least kiss me first. In the past, I’d go to the doc and he’d see me. On the way out, they’d ask for their money. Now, the want it in advance. The Second is having a very minor procedure (ear tubes) and the Dr.’s office called today to say they’ll need payment ($500, btw, that’s with insurance). But they haven’t even scheduled the procedure yet.

I was the luckiest man on Earth. Me and the Mrs. exchanged vows. It doesn’t seem like it’s been that long but it really has. We have a good life with two wonderful kids, a beautiful home and a slightly annoying Politically Incorrect Dog. I wouldn’t trade it for any thing.

I love you, honey.

And no jokes about five years being the wood anniversary.

We have some cute photos of Junior in the bathtub. And she’s just adorable. These photos decorate our downstairs bathroom wall. Last night, I had The Second in the tub and was trying to get some cute photos of him to match. Trouble is that boys have dangling junk and it’s hard to take a photo where it’s not visible when they stand in the tub.

And baby boys crawling nude: not cute.

Sick Kids + Mrs. at Conference = Light Blogging

Each kid has it coming out of a different end. Not fun.

Self,

In the middle of the night when you’re not quite conscious and attempting to soothe a fussy baby with a bottle, a bottle of Similac looks an awful lot like a bottle of International Delight Chocolate Caramel Coffee Creamer.

Candyland shark.

Spelling.

Pink eye is running rampant at day care. Groan.

Junior has apparently discovered she has lungs. She likes to scream now, often for no reason. It’s a bit annoying for us and for the dog it’s excruciating. So, the other night she starts screaming. I say to her: Let’s not scream inside. We use our quiet voices in the house. She says outside. I said she could go outside and scream all she wanted. So, she did. She was standing on the front porch screaming at random intervals while me and the Mrs. were watching from the door having a good laugh. So, if you see a child outside screaming, that’s probably why.

Last night, the Mrs. says she’s going to take the kids with her to the in-laws for dinner and for me to have some alone time. Cool. She tells me to take it easy and enjoy myself. So, I get in and plop my skinny ass on the couch. And stay there for about two hours, catching up on some TeeVee.

The Mrs. and the kids return. She says: I took out the trash.

Me: Oh, is trash day tomorrow. I forgot.

She says: Did you make the kids’ lunches for tomorrow?

Me: Err, no.

Her: [groans].

Me: Obviously, our definitions of take it easy and enjoy myself are different.

The Second has started crawling. That means I get to spend this weekend installing baby gates. He did it last night for the first time. I arrive at day care this morning and tell the teacher that he’s crawling. She says Yeah, he started that this week. So, it wasn’t his first time. Kind of a pitfall of daycare that you may miss a few firsts.

The kids continue their record long streak of passing colds around to each other and other kids. Sigh. A while back, someone asked me:

How much do you spend on daycare?

I told them. But I have to rescind the comment and say to take that number and add about $180 per month to it for the increase in doctor’s visits, prescription medication, and other stuff you have to buy because you basically send your children to a den of plague every day. But, no worries. I mean, they either get exposed to this stuff at daycare or in kindergarten. So, get it over with sooner rather than later.

In other news, this morning I was preparing The Second to go to daycare. He looks at me and says mamamamamamama. I said to him No, I’m dadadadadadada. Can you say dadadadadadada. He smiles real big and says dadadadadadada.

Junior said dadadadadadada first and The Second said mamamamamamama first.

I wish Junior would realize that my morning dump is not a team sport.

Seen at bitter’s:

By the way, in my daughter’s history class yesterday, she was the only one who raised her hand when the teacher asked who was against gun control.

I found it odd when I read over at BusyMom’s that there are actually online allowance managers. Allowance is in parents give their kids allowances.

I guess you can wrap any concept up in a webpage and someone will buy it.

On the work involved with two kids, Les says:

* We wash six or seven loads of dishes a week.
* We wash six or seven loads of laundry a week.
* We take out six or seven bags of garbage a week.

That’s nothing. We run the dishwasher at least once daily but mostly twice. We one load of laundry per day just for kids. And one trash bag out of the kitchen per day (and two every other day) and usually one from downstairs weekly.

And by we, I mean my wife mostly. She does a lot more around the house than I do. And I do appreciate that.

Terry, noting that in Europe they’re paying people to have kids, wonders why people aren’t having kids:

Is it culture? Is it religion? Is it greed? Is it modernity? Is it selfishness? Is the West too prosperous? Narcissism?

No. It’s because at some point those people were around babies. See, babies are a pain in the ass. It’s true. Examples:

They smell bad (newsflash folks – and women cover your eyes – but that baby smell you love so much is a mixture of lotions, ointments, vomit, and baby shit. It’s true, sorry)

Can’t do a damn thing for themselves. Seriously. Can’t get around, can’t eat, can’t hold their heads up. And my personal favorite is that they can’t even keep a pacifier in their own mouths. If they can’t do it, no one can.

When you have babies, forgot about getting a good night’s sleep until the kids go to college.

They’re expensive. Do you realize I have to pay for two college educations, one wedding, two first cars, maybe some braces, and who knows what else? That’s in addition to food, clothing, enough diapers to fill a landfill, and toys.

Etc.

In short, they’re not easy. Me and the Mrs. contemplate often whether we want to have a third child. And let me tell you, that during that three in the morning scream-fest that occurs about twice a week, the case for that third child is pretty weak.

But they sure are cute:

That said, I love my kids and would do anything for them. But I often wish I was single again, just for like a day or two. You know, get up in the morning, kick whatshername out, sit on the couch in my underwear watching TeeVee all day. But that won’t happen again for, like, 18 years.

Here in UncleLand, it’s about 70 degrees out. So, outside with us all. The second gives a class on swinging. Start out in the back:

Then move to the front:

Repeat for minutes of fun.

Today, at Junior’s and The Second’s school it’s PJ day. They wore pajamas to school this morning. I think it’s a great idea and think workplaces should have a PJ day too.

I’ve been complaining about my children being sick lately. They’ve had a variety of ear infections, coughs, sniffles and every other assorted contagious thing that kids bring home from daycare. Last night, a friend told me that in the next few months he’d have to get his four-year-old little girl a wheelchair. And that she was not expected to make it past the age of nine. I can’t imagine how horrible that would be to know. Made my complaints seem utterly insignificant.

Our house has been invaded by monsters. And bumblebees. At about 2 to 3 in the morning, Junior starts screaming because either monsters or bumblebees are in her room. Me or the wife then has to go and tell her there are no monsters or bumblebees. And that monsters aren’t real but bumblebees are, only there still aren’t bumblebees in your room. Because it’s cold outside. This is confusing to a two-year-old. And it’s a difficult conversation to have in the middle of the night when you’re not at your best. I’m personally of the opinion it’s a trap by Junior to get in our bed and the Mrs. falls for it every time.

I’m not sure where she picked up monsters. And I sure don’t know where the bumblebee thing is coming from. So, last night I asked. I asked Junior if it was one of the kids at school and she said No. Instead, she blames her teacher. I’m sure the teacher isn’t trying to scare her with monsters or bumblebees but there’s probably been a story or two told about them in class.

She doesn’t believe me when I say there’s no such thing as a monster. So, now we tell her that some combination of the dog, her teddy bears, and the pastel-colored butterflies painted on her walls repels the monsters. Somehow, the fact there are no monsters isn’t believable but that they are repelled by paint, fabric and an uninterested dog is. Well, when you’re two.

USCitizen tells us to be careful what kind of lists you put your name on. Good advice.

The wife just called and said So, where’s the secret bank account?

Heh.

I love you.

And judging by comments, I should apparently try one of those pumpkin spice lattes.

I sympathize with respect to teaching little ones about their bodily functions. But we’ve not quite made it to sharts. That post made me laugh out loud. You should read it all but here’s a snippet:

Last week, out of the blue, L’il Fat started crying. Wailing really. She had sharted.

With Junior, we’ve had many ups and downs with the potty training. Lately, it’s mostly downs. She’s almost two and a half now. She was actually peeing in the potty regularly at about 18 months. Then, she made a horrible mistake. She dookied in it. It scared her and she didn’t sit on the potty again for months.

Now, at daycare, she’s catching back on. She will, on occasion, request to use the potty on her own. Otherwise, we try to remind her to go on the potty and not in her diaper or pull up. That’s the other thing, she was wearing pull-ups all day for about two weeks. And, without cause or reason, she started asking for diapers again.

She still won’t doody in the potty. But will pee in it regularly enough but not every time.

So, we’re trying bribery. If she pees in the potty, she gets one of her favorite foods: one gummy bear. If she poops, she gets two. Me and the Mrs. have decided that the terms Number 1 and Number 2 must have come from thousands of years of parents trying the same thing.

I’m not homophobic and I’m not filled with angst against metrosexuals or whatever we’re calling well-groomed men these days. But I’m with this guy. Bonus points because the original article is written by a gay dude. A man should know how to do certain things (like how to operate tools, build a fire, set up a secret bank account that his wife doesn’t know about*, drive a stick, fire a rifle, clean a dead critter for consumption, etc. You know, basic things). Many men lack enough male influence in their lives and don’t learn these skills.

And, ferchrissakes, I can’t stand to see a grown man order a pumpkin spice latte. I don’t care if it is a seasonal blend of holiday goodness.

* I’m kidding. That’s just in there to see if my wife is reading.

Spent most of the long weekend not doing any. Put up the Christmas lights, ate, watched football, tended to sick kids, shopped, and did a few chores. So, I’ll catch up on the old email and the blog feeds. Did I miss anything important?

Also, on Black Friday, I ran into Late for Dinner and his charming wife, who were also making an emergency Christmas decoration run. I think that’s the first time I’ve been out and heard someone yell Hey, Uncle. But that’s not why I mention it. The reason I do is that about three years ago me and the Mrs. met Mr. and Mrs. Late for Dinner for, err, dinner one night. We said we’d have to do it again. And never got around to it. Seeing them made me realize that. And I thought to myself Self, why is that? Oh, now I remember. I had kids.

That’s what insty calls it. Here it is. Simpler version: Ooh, pretty.

We just bought a plasma on Sunday. Should be here Wednesday. I was sort of disappointed as the the mantle above the fireplace (which I had a media slot put in) was about 1.5 inches too short for the 50 incher. We got the 42 incher.

Here’s my bizarro psychology: Back in 2000 when me and the Mrs. decided to live in sin, our first major purchase together was a big screen TeeVee. Not just a big screen, the biggest screen. We bought a 60 inch projection set (a month later, the 72 inch came out and I was pissed). This was when HD was not as popular and we saw no point in that kind of bling for 4 HD channels. We still have that TeeVee in our rec room. It’s a great TeeVee, with a good picture. Honestly, me and the Mrs. really like that TeeVee a whole lot. But a part of me kinda wishes Junior would throw a hammer through it or something so I can get a plasma for the rec room.

The Second, who is 5 months old, likes to sleep on his belly. He sleeps more soundly and for a longer period of time on his belly. When he sleeps on his back, his naps are short and he gets cranky due to lack of sleep. Trouble is, since he’s a big boy, he has a bit of trouble rolling from his back to his belly. He can roll from his belly to his back just fine. So, when we lay him down for nap time, we place him on his belly. So did daycare. Until two weeks ago.

You see, appropriate sleeping procedures vary from decade to decade. One decade, parents are told baby sleeps on his tummy. The next, it’s on his back. And this flip-flops all the time. That’s what my parents tell me. Apparently, this is the decade where it’s on the back. When The Second first got in daycare, they asked us to fill out a form telling them it was OK to let him sleep on his belly, which we did.

Now, some arbitrary state agency with nothing better to do has decided that parental permission isn’t good enough. No, you see, The Second needs a note from his doctor stating that the daycare staff can put him in his crib on his belly. Yes, that is correct. Let me repeat the stupidity: In order for him to be placed on his belly and get an adequate nap, parental consent isn’t good enough. You need a note from a doctor. If baby rolls on his belly by himself, that’s fine. But he can’t be placed there.

We call the doc and say Hey, doc, this is really stupid but can you sign a note saying it’s OK for the second to be placed on his belly for nap time? Doc says Well, I would but current guidelines say I shouldn’t. So, I can’t really. I’m not sure what guidelines he meant but I’m sure it’s some other arbitrary state agency with nothing better to do.

Well, you can use our copy when we’re done: