Spreading the joy

Hey there, Friday readers! I feel like I should fill these posts with little Easter eggs of special meaning that all those losers out living life today would never see (because they’re too lame to understand they can look back out over this whole year-and-a-half of posts any time they want to), but I’m way too lazy and disorganized for that.

What’s more, I don’t even really have any UNspecial meaning for you, so for that and so much more I apologize in advance, and retroactively.

I just wanted to take a moment to recognize that two fellow bloggers out there have brand new works that just hit the shelves of your local bookstores, in one case his first book and in another her first book about herself. You should check them out. I know I can’t wait to.

Don’t have the spendin’ money to go buying books sight unseen? Hit the library first!

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RAGE AGAINST THE MESHUGENAH: Why it Takes Balls to Go Nuts

As some of you may already know, Danny Evans, who writes at Dad Gone Mad, spent more than one agonizing year reliving his moments of deepest depression to provide us all with some insight into the generally taboo phenomenon of acknowledging depression as a man.

The very concept itself involves admitting having feelings and then exploring them, so we can all at least understand where the trouble might start. Besides all that, because it’s written by Danny, the book is guaranteed to be funny, too, even (or especially) when it might normally seem inappropriate to be so.

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IT’S NOT ME, IT’S YOU: Subjective Recollections from a Terminally Optimistic, Chronically Sarcastic and Occasionally Inebriated Woman

Stefanie Wilder-Taylor, of Baby on Bored, already has two bestselling books out there, Sippy Cups Are Not for Chardonnay and Naptime Is the New Happy Hour (and I suggest you read both), but this time she's focusing more on her own life story than on her adjustment to parenthood.

This lady found time to write another book while parenting infant twins and a toddler, so you know she's got her act together, and based on how funny her previous books and blog are, I'm thinking this one will be even better.

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Look for some form of tiny review, at least, for these two books sometime in the next few weeks.

Developments at our house, Vol. 15

Here are some of the latest developments around here:

1. Since my wife rented Season 1 of Big Love from the library recently, I just have to say here that it should come with some kind of warning label along the lines of the following:

If you have no specific desire to see Bill Paxton's taint, do NOT watch this show. Or, alternatively, choose a trusted friend or family member for Taintwatch duty, provided they have gone through the requisite advance research viewings.

2. I found out that the one time having anatomically correct toy horses (thanks, Schleich!) transcends its usual low-level creepiness is when my 2-year-old daughter M- persistently questions my account of which one is the Daddy horse.

This is probably the only kind of proof that she'd agree is irrefutable, what with her recent promotion in the Penis/No-Penis police force (PNPPD).

3. Speaking of penises, if the Sender Name field of half the e-mails in my spam folder are to be believed, I send myself an awful lot of messages about "male personal enhancement" that I then completely forget having sent.

I'll need to make sure I let Google know to pass each one of these missives straight into my inbox in the future. What's wrong with those eggheads?? This is ME we're talking about! Surely I am above suspicion and can be allowed through my own security detail, right?

4. My daughter has revealed herself as a scientific genius who just might make this family millions of dollars someday... she's invented the world's first Color Magna Doodle!

How much would your kids pay for that, right? Out of pity, and because we're such close friends, I'll share a little hint at the secret formula with you. I'm sure you understand that the exact ratios and procedure have to remain a trade secret at least for the time being, but I can tell you that you will need:

• a Magna Doodle, and
• a bunch of crayons.*

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* If pressed, you may substitute permanent markers for crayons in this recipe, but it just won't be quite like Momma used to make.

Classic quotes, Vol. 13

Here are the latest quotes from my 5-year-old son D-, 2-year-old daughter M-, my wife J-, and me:

Me (to J-, once again dangerously undervaluing my hilarious genius): You being in a bad mood doesn't make me a jerk, it just makes me funny without being appreciated.

D- (as we walked past a church): Hey look! A window like a "t"!

M- (pleading with her brother after I explained to him that getting run over by a car would be lethal): And you would get a BWOOZE!!

D- (while building Duplos at the library): Dad, look! It's a dragon... with guns on him!

M- (repeating a gem of J-'s after seeing me in shorts on a mild day): You gonna freeze your bummy off.

D- (trying to start an unknown chant without the ability to spell): B! Y! B-M-J! B! Y! B-M-J!

Developments at our house, Vol. 14

Here are some of the latest developments around these parts:

1. According to a repeated bulletin my 2-year-old daughter M- broadcast through the car recently, if I liked it, then I should have put a ring on it. Oh-oh-ohhh, oh-oh-oh. Oh-oh-ohhh, oh-oh-oh.

I liked it better when she just sat back there spontaneously singing, "Far away, far away," over and over again.

2. I found a piece of note paper on the floor of the library with the word FART written on it in giant block letters, carefully filled in over the course of what must have been several very industrious minutes. I wonder what it means that I just might have found this more amusing than its presumably prepubescent author intended. You gotta admire dedication to a bit.

3. According to Google Analytics, Ft. Worth, Texas was the first city willing to send one of its favorite sons to my "robot ladies" post, after he accurately invoked the password, "i want to screw a robot".

4. When the lady at the library was checking out my (free!) movies the other day, she saw I was getting Hot Fuzz and enthusiastically told me that it was "a really funny movie". She then preceded to scan my other selection, Harold and Kumar Escape From Guantanamo Bay, and ominously passed on the chance to continue our conversation.

5. I'd like to note that this is yet another list post that does not have 5 or 10 items in it. That's progress, my friends.

Classic quotes, Vol. 12

Here are the latest quotes from my 5-year-old son D- and 2-year-old daughter M-:

M- (responding to my protest at her using her forehead to block another girl from playing in a little firehouse at the library): But I told her it's 'Un-a-BAIL-able'!

D- (after drinking generic Sprite for a day or so while sick, having had his eyes opened to a previously unexplored kingdom of sinful deliciousness): Now that I'm used to this drink, I want it for Every. Day.

M- (announcing when she can use a pen): I can have one when I'm bigger... and old.

D- (whispering to my mom after she put him to bed while babysitting the kids): Can you stay till Momma and Daddy get home?

M- (in an appropriate situation, though I'm not sure where she heard it): Holy Moses!

I am the hero I've been waiting for

Though he may be a whole 5 years old now, my son D- is more importantly a man in training, and following that storied tradition, he constantly asserts his superiority in every way over almost everything he looks at, hears of, or thinks of, even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

So I walk a fine line every time I'm challenged on strength, speed, intelligence, agility, or proficiency in many of the world's most inane activities.

I don't think it's healthy to completely disillusion and demoralize him, but I think it's equally unhealthy for me to set him up for any harder of a fall than he's already due when released into the wilds of full-time school next year.

I mean, a kid needs all the confidence, whether completely off base or not, that he can get in this world. So if he starts out thinking HE'S the strongest man in the world, instead of me, then that just gives him a leg up over all the other boys, right?

Here's a conversation snippet, issued out of the blue while walking through the library, from the kid who's told me (verbatim) more than once, "I know Everything. Not everything-everything, but I know Everything," just minutes before and after asking me entries in that day's long list of questions about how the world works at the most fundamental of levels:

D-: I'm even stronger than you.

Me: Yeah?

D-: I'm so strong, that if there was a robot, up in space, and I was up in space? One punch, and he'd be dead. If I punched a big robot one time, he'd be dead.

...I'm thinking that "leg up" just may land him upside down in a cafeteria garbage can one day. Maybe I should grab his ankles and wrists with one hand and hoist him helplessly into the air like a safari prize more often while I still can.

We all know this world is nothing if not humbling, and I've always found a steady diet much easier to take than the sudden compulsory feast days that are one's only alternative. So I suppose I'll have to take it upon myself to begin a campaign of careful destruction and reconstruction of his ego, via the most fun, ridiculously lopsided competitions I can think of.

And once he turns 10? Then, my friend, we move on to a crash course in Trash Talk 101 delivered by the one true master greater than Shakespeare, Da Vinci, Jordan, and your mom combined.*

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* I mean me.

Book Review: Daddy Goes to Work

When perusing the children's section of the library, my 4-year-old son D- loves to pretend he's picking his books completely at random, while he's actually fulfilling his intricate agenda to provide us with as diverse and challenging an array of reading material as he possibly can.

I welcome the variety of viewpoints, subject matter, and age-appropriateness even if it invites many questions whose answers involve almost nothing related to his carefully established knowledge of the world or its people.

Along with the usual traumatizingly graphic or outdated tomes that make you wonder who's monitoring the children's catalog, this child, who has absolutely zero religious education of any kind, has added classics like the following to one sub-series of his larger work entitled Why Did They Let Me Pick The Books, Again?: The Best Eid Ever, Starlight and Candles: The Joys of the Sabbath, and K is for Kwanzaa.

He picked this latest one out one day while I was chasing his little sister M- back towards the kids' play area in the library. He later checked the books out himself at the self-checkout station, so I didn't see everything we'd borrowed till we got home.

I can't help but see his latest noteworthy choice as not only a heavy-handed and judgmental suggestion but an outright personal affront. It's called Daddy Goes to Work, by Jabari Asim.


This is the kind of unsubtle signal that only a small child or a complete asshole could so calmly provide to an unplanned stay-at-home father.

I'm thinking if he resigns from this tact, after the message seems to have flown right over my head, that I may find him digging through the shelves to find Daddy At Least Gets Off The Couch And Shaves Once In Awhile.

Stories for the newly hearing impaired

Well folks, it's Friday morning, which means it's time for me to grab my ear plugs and head down to the library for M-'s story time, where we all get to huddle on the outskirts of the crowd gathered in relative safety about 15 feet away from the (very nice) ringleader herself.

The first week, a few of the other 2-year-olds understandably plopped themselves down right up front when things started, but, being creatures who act on instinct at all times without care for others' feelings, they unsubtley hit the deck when the volume dial broke off at 11 and didn't let up.

It came right as I was wondering how they could take it while I was struggling all the way in the back of the tragically tiny room-- all three kids simultaneously threw themselves backwards (in that way little kids do) outside the blast radius of this woman's voice.

Every week since then, that radius has been marked out by a field 2-3 cushions deep, which this lady must lay out in the vain hope that she's offering plenty of room and comfort to that one special boy --half deaf in his one functioning ear-- who will drift in from one of the nearby parks, as foretold in the prophecy, beckoned to the library by the siren song of a children's book read at a volume that finally allows him to turn off his hearing aid.*

Lest you think she's just one of those rare perky people who's raring to go first thing every morning, I assure you she is far from it. Rather, I believe she simply has to keep shouting as loudly as possible in an effort to keep herself awake, or possibly not dead. Kind of like that stupid Jason Statham movie Crank.

I'm thinking of asking the police department if they might be able to rig up their speed-monitoring trailer to instead measure decibels, so I could drag it into the back of the room like a scoreboard. I might be able to make some side money** wagering on this...

Hopefully I can make enough to cover the ear surgeries.

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* And then ask her if she might speak just a little more softly.

** By side money, of course, I mean my only money.

A conversation with D-: Stuck in a jam

The following is a not-atypical conversation I had with my 4-year-old son D- the other day on our way to the library:

D-: Why are we going to the liberry?

Me (brushing the turnip leaves off my sleeve): The lie-berry? What's that?? Is it like a blueberry or a strawberry?

D-: No!

Me: Should I go look for a lie-berry bush so I can pick me some lie-berries for a delicious lie-berry pie?

D- (scolding): You know what I mean! The LIE... b... (pause) ...erry.

Me: Mmmm, sounds yummy!

D- (giving me a well-practiced blank look as if I'm a hopeless idiot*): It's not.

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* May or may not be accurate.

Unanswerable questions, Vol. 2

Here are five more questions time and thought will never be able to answer:

1. Why doesn't my wife get excited when I whittle the unread posts in my blog feed reader from over 100 down to zero?

2. Why am I so tense as our presidential election approaches, minute by minute, since I have no control over the actions of the millions of other people who will decide its outcome?*

3. Why does having an old Scrooge McDuck figurine from my childhood hidden in a box-within-a-box somewhere in our house mean that he will magically surface inside my shoe, waiting patiently to cripple me, as soon as the kids learn who he is thanks to a recent free-library-DVD-fueled DuckTales bender?

4. Continuing from the previous item, why does the mere name of the evil Flintheart Glomgold make me laugh no matter how many times I think of it, and why did I feel so compelled to get that name in print that I shoehorned it into this list?

5. Why doesn't an actual, substantive post spontaneously appear in my Drafts list, after I dutifully procrastinate for days or weeks at a time, following every bit of fairy dust that floats through my mind whenever I have a clear chance to come up with something useful?

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* Perhaps because it's been a very long, tedious 2 years leading up to our communal attempt to erase the last 8.

A conversation with D-: One hand clapping

Here's another little conversation with my four-year-old son D-, which took place the other day while we were walking home from the library after he held up his hand for me to hold.

Me: Oooh, that's a nice hand. Can I keep it?

D- (slightly confused, but characteristically unfazed): No.

Me: Why?! Do you need it for something?

D- (half shrugs while thinking of a response): No...

Me: Then why can't I have it?

D-: ...Cause... you don't have, like a knife or something... to cut it off, so it'll just stay stuck on me there, so...*

Me (frowning a little): Hmmm, you're right... oh, well.

For the record, I'd like to register my absolute bafflement as to where he might have picked up such dry, pragmatic attention to detail.


* Don't think for a second I didn't notice he said "like". Shudder.

A conversation with D-: I believe you can't fly

The following is an impromptu conversation with my 4-year-old son D-, which took place the other day as we walked down the alley on the way to the library:

D-: I can't fly right now.

Me: Oh yeah?

D-: But when I'm 5, or maybe when I'm 10, then I'll be able to fly right through the sky!

Me: I'm older than that-- can I fly?

D- (thinking): No, you just have to hold on to my heels.

Me: Ahh... nice.

D-: Cause I'm like a train up in the sky!

You know, it's high time they came up with a name for those.

Women: Can't live with 'em, can't eat your own string cheese

The world didn't seem all that funny to me this morning... among other things, I hate banks.

So this is the kind of thing I watch on days like this:


Just click play, and enjoy the random sampling of the wonders YouTube has to offer our troubled civilization.

Something else to remind me that the world is funny: thinking of that time M- cornered a younger boy at library storytime "trying to get him to understand" that she wanted to eat his string cheese. She only knows people who share their food with her, so she quickly became desperate as she ran through her whole repertoire hoping something would register with him-- "mah, peez", "biiiiite, bite"... even signing for more.

And when I say signing for more, I mean she was standing over him, repeatedly signing right in his face. Not aggressively, mind you, but more like, "Do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth??" (funnier if you enjoyed the movie Rush Hour). I'm positive he knew exactly what she wanted, but he of course just wanted to squat in the corner and eat his string cheese in peace.

Even if M- had learned already how to instead use subtle hints and suggestions to get the boy to give her his string cheese and make him think it was his idea, he was nowhere near old enough to be blinded by any accursed motivation to allow this to happen. So she was destined for failure, short of using brute force, and he gained a valuable preview for the long life ahead of him.

And, for the record, this all happened very quickly, across the room, and by the time she was signing in his face I picked her up and explained that it was his string cheese and she had her own food to eat if she was hungry. Still, the bewildered and overwhelmed look on the boy's face was just priceless. If I'd had a stick of string cheese on me, I would have tossed it to him and just said, "Women, huh?"

And he would have stuck to his original plan of running back to his mommy.

The joy of caprice

As an antidote to yesterday's tirade, I will note that one plus of having a girl is that last season's pants become this season's capris, or at least they do when Daddy is in charge of her wardrobe. All you have to do is wait a couple extra months for them to cross the "I think she's grown out of those pants, sir" threshold into the "Oh my gosh, what adorable pants! I have to know where you got them!!" zone*.

Incidentally, both of these statements are likely to be met with identical shrugs from me at library time. While I appreciate a cute outfit as much as the next guy, I'd much rather buy an array of identical futuristic jumpsuits for each kid, and never have to spend another 10 minutes tracking down something to dress each one in that won't get me A) in trouble or B) on some kind of watch list down at Child Services.

Consequently, J- and our female friends and relatives are in charge of all children's clothing purchases, and I am merely the middle manager who issues them on most days.

In my defense, I'll say that if they're good enough for Catholic (and gang-combatting) schools, the inevitable future, and most low-paid workplaces, uniforms are good enough for our kids and the rest of society. Three cheers for The Unitard of Tomorrow!


* I never got into the latter zone when D- was younger. Without fail, pants would somehow change from looking fine to making me look like a mental defective once I got him to daycare. This was especially an issue with overalls, due to their devious ability of the straps to allow the pant cuffs to hang down to the feet even when the crotch was somewhere around their knees. Am I really expected to notice this fine detail when I'm in a rush to get to work?**

** I still occasionally have this problem with M-, as no one yet makes capri-style overalls. Yet.

Developments at our house, Vol. 6

Here are some more developments at our house in the past few days:

1. M- found a way to confuse and frustrate Daddy-- wake up at 7:30 after a long couple of days of unexplained illness (probably exacerbated by a long night/morning out with the uncles before the wedding), and then crawl in his arms and say, "Nigh'-nigh'" HALF AN HOUR LATER. Then, after a few minutes of silence in the crib, change your mind.

2. D- learned that no, there is no medicine that can make you stop hiccuping. If there was, whoever invented it would be a trillionaire (unless they were under contract with a corporation, of course). And those riches would come just from my payments alone, for when I want to stave off a horrible headache from an hour of violent hiccups. J- finds it amusing, but as my friend Adam would say, it makes me want to kill people.

3. I re-decided that U2 is incredibly awesome, and that this is one of the best albums you will ever buy. Why pay $18 for some random CD with two decent songs on it when you can pay $14 (and that much only if you're shopping at absolutely the wrong store) for one jam-packed with this kind of greatness?

4. M- discovered that our laptop screen makes all sorts of pretty colors when you press on it really hard with your finger.

5. I learned that M- could redeem herself for a few choice acts of naughtiness by spontaneously calling out, "cue me" from behind the couch after burping. (Note that the following 450 self-congratulatory "cue me"s she issued afterwards did not each have an equal effect.) Apparently she really is a sponge, because as far as I know, no one has tried to teach her this yet.

6. D- decided that with the cape stuck onto his Superman pajamas (we usually leave it off so it's not a hazard or hassle during sleep), he has no need to ever change into real clothes.

7. I now understand that we need to branch out in our activities, because when we are between storytime sessions at the library, we don't have much reason to leave the house, we don't shower or get dressed until noon, and my step-count plummets.

8. We all learned that windshield wiper motors have transmissions, and that they can break pretty easily since they are often made of plastic. Later today, we'll find out just how expensive they are to replace.

Read our previous lists of developments.

I don't like blue eggs and pain

Or, How do you like your eggs: scrambled, fried, or on your forehead?

It seems we have an epidemic at our house of late-- our kids have each developed swollen black and blue bumps on their foreheads. I can only guess that the cause is either some kind of viral infection or their shared habit of bombing around our house with reckless abandon until their faces hit something solid.

It's gruesome to watch these little skin balloons swell up like eggs before your eyes, and painful to see them healing so slowly, with each day bringing a totally different-looking bruise than the day before. The one common denominator for each day's bruise, however, is that it looks like you've thoroughly beaten your kids.

The reality is, of course, that the closest they get to (exasperated) beatings is only after they illegally run through the house for the 400,000th time and finally smash themselves badly enough to have your logic possibly start to sink in, when literally 5 minutes later they take off on their 400,001st run.

As bad as it is to have to comfort an injured child as if they hadn't just deliberately disobeyed you to obtain that injury, you quickly realize that beatings would have no effect anyway, given their willingness to head right back out to do the exact same thing that just caused them horrific pain.

Given their appearances at the time, I was reluctant to bring D- and M- to storytime at the library Monday, but I decided that I can't be the only person who's been in such a situation, and since I have nothing to hide, I took them anyway...

I think any of the moms who might have been thinking about actually talking to me changed their minds that day. Oh well.

Going out to eat

Do you know what doesn't make a good piece of note paper, even when struck by an idea in the middle of the night? A diaper.

As best I could tell after trying to trace my intended chicken scratchings the next morning, I think I wanted to write an entry about something that happened to us the other day at the library.

As I mentioned a couple weeks ago, M- seems to be trying her best to double her weight each day. She took this to an extreme when we were at the library last week, waiting for D- to be finished with his storytime. M- was very cutely sitting at a little computer to play a Dora game some kid had abandoned. I only wish I had a picture of this... maybe I'll remember to bring my camera next time we go and I can stage a picture. Anyway, after a few minutes of happily clicking and smacking away, she noticed a lady near us was feeding her son some leftovers.

M- then did what she always does when food is within her gravitational range-- she began loudly smacking her lips and saying "Mmmmmm!" Little did she know (or did she?), this lady was a classic Mediterranean mother, and she immediately decided that based on M-'s antics, I must be a single father who, out of sheer ignorance, limited M- to one meal a day, and she would soon die without some substantial home cooking from someone who knows what she's doing.

After being prompted to fetch a spoon from M-'s diaper bag, over the next 10 minutes, we moved from a few dainty spoonfuls (of what I was told was "cooked rice, beans, and... sheep meat?") to a constant flow from this lady's dish to M-'s mouth. I had no way of knowing, at the time, the limit of this lady's generosity, seeing as she had been trying to feed this food to her son (who was maybe 6 years old and totally uninterested in cold leftovers), so I foolishly kept assuming each spoonful was the last. This made for a long, awkward 15 minutes or so.

Finally, I suggested we should get going since D- would be done shortly, so she suggested I needed to manifest a Tupperware container to take some food home with me, since "she so hungry" and "she need good food to make her strong like [unintelligible]." I ended up dumping the corn flakes out of M-'s Snack Trap cup and into a very narrow empty bottle (easier said than done), so she could pack it full of this food, which I will say was quite good.

The lady was so nice, though aggressive in that Greek/Italian way I know well enough to not be offended by, that it only occurred to me after my daughter had ingested roughly a lamb shank's worth of this stuff that it might not be a good idea to take ambiguous food from strangers. For all I know, this lady and her son had spent their lives building up an immunity to iocaine powder, all so they could lure wandering morons into ingesting it so they could rob them and pose their bodies in ridiculous positions for their own amusement. Or something like that.

Anyway, both D- and I later managed to wrest some away from M- at lunchtime that day so we could try it too, and none of us have died yet. Now, obviously that lady had no way of knowing that M- frequently subsists on various bits of cereal when Daddy's in charge, but I can't help feeling that M- somehow traitorously communicated this fact to her. Furthermore, having gotten such an exotic treat in the middle of the afternoon, I think I see M- dying inside just a little bit each time I drop a bit of bread (or whatever other boring food I happen to have on hand) into her mouth when she's desperately tugging at my pant leg in the kitchen.

Now that I think I'm moving past the rejection, it might actually work for me to let M- outsource her feeding to the diverse international community that is our neighborhood. She could be a food snob by kindergarten! And I could be even lazier until then!

I've got to go rip some holes in that baby's pants.