Dear Dad, thank you. Or; the second worst day of my life.

When I was in grade 12, someone had the bright idea of all of us getting together and giving blood. The idea was with less blood in our system we could get more drunk. I didn’t say it was good idea. A long story short, I ended up fainting in front of the whole student body and having my bladder release. In other words, I passed out and pissed myself in front of the whole school.

That was the worst day of my life.

The second worst day of my life was putting Abby’s crib together.

My loving wife did a great deal of research for our daughter’s furniture and I cannot fault her on any of her decisions. Except one. Listen up people, “Some Assembly Required” is code for “There is crap load of assembly coming your way! In fact, you should block out the whole weekend”. It’s not really her fault. But still, I have to blame someone.

This effin’ thing was ridiculous. There was not one piece that came pre-assembled. Not that big a deal, right? Trust me when I say this, any guy who has ever assembled anything above an IKEA wall shelf will understand. It is very difficult to hold two pieces of wood together and drill a screw into place. My wife tried to help, but she was pregnant and that ain’t right. Asking a pregnant woman to help. The guy I referred to earlier in this paragraph understands.

Once I manage to hold the two pieces of wood together and evolve that third arm I’ve  been working on in order to grab the drill and screw, I notice, wait…what the hell? Where are the guide holes? You mean to tell me I have to drill my own friggin’ guide holes!

And thus began the first round of cursing…

After yelling at the crib materials, yelling at the manufacture and yelling at my wife [sorry about that by the way] I got back to work. I drilled the guide holes, got the wood in place and grab the drill and screw and then…seriously?! You got to be kidding me. The manufactures in their hellish mission to force my wife to divorce me have managed to build this thing so as to make it impossible to use a drill. I’ve got to hand screw all these screws. Oh well, on the bright side, I now have the largest forearms of anyone I know.

And thus began the second round of cursing…

There I am, cursing, sweating, and throwing stuff aside. My wife is standing by being as supportive as possible trying not to stare at my freakishly large, bulging forearm muscles. I am this close to chucking the whole thing out the window and clearing out a drawer for Abby to sleep in when the thought dawns on me. Abby will never thank me for this. I will never get kudos from the person I’m doing this for. As far as she will be concerned, this crib has always existed. She’ll never understand nor appreciate my pain, my anguish, my frustration. The only one who will know is my wife and she’s in the bedroom packing her things having had enough of my bullshit.

Eff this. I pick the thing up and get to the top of the stairs. I’ve got the aborted half crib over my head all set to chuck it when I have another revelation. My dad built my crib. Someone had to have built it and my dad wasn’t the kind of guy to let others do his work for him. In fact, there was a lot of stuff my dad did that I not only never said thank you for, but never even knew thanks were to be given. What about all those gifts from Santa? What about that really sweet jumpy thing I had? There’s no way that came with the house.

I began to wonder if he carried on then the way I was getting on now. He was probably worst. You think I have a temper…Pft…you ain’t seen nothing. I wouldn’t be surprised if he shot a small woodland creature out of frustration. But he did it all the same. He put that thing together knowing he was never going to get thanks. And now I’m doing the same…circle of life sort of stuff, right? Hakuna Matata…

Hold on. Wait a second… I can change that right now. I can make up for all that unheralded work. I can end the cycle right here right now. Dear dad, for all the stuff you did that I never appreciated or said thank you for…thanks. The crib was awesome and that jumpy thing was a sweet, sweet ride. I’m sorry it took so long.

It’s weird how it took 33 years and a drastic life change for me to come to this realization. And in 33 years, I’ll be looking forward to Abby saying pretty much the exact same thing.

Fickleness, thy name is Christmas morning.

Sorry for the delay on posting…not that I expect you were waiting or anything. I’m sure you were busy doing your own thing. If you were like me, you were celebrating the holidays. This years Christmas was as close to perfect as I can think. The presents were a plenty. All my family living in the area came over for Christmas Breakfast. All in all, it was a great Christmas.

The aftermath I could do without. We’re still recovering. It was like someone went to Dollarama and bought 40 bucks of Christmas paper. Then bought a half stick of TNT at the hardware store and set the whole thing of in my living room. Even now as I survey the wrapping paper, wasteland that is my living room I don’t really know how this happened. We started out so responsible. We had just one gift. But, just like that catchy tune we all know, you get one gitft and it leads to another. You get two gifts, to go with the others. Then you get three gifts, and oh brother…

But, this post is not about my contributions to the death of mother earth. Instead, I would like to talk about something that happened on Christmas morning that is causing me some concern.

My daughter opened up a gift and received a Mickey Mouse doll. I’m not sure if I’ve covered this in the past, but Abby loves Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. She loves it. When she opened the gift and saw Mickey Staring back at her…well, she lost it. She started doing her two step “I’m-so-Freaking-Excited-I-Don’t-Know-What-To-Do” dance and pushed the box at me. I’m pretty sure this is toddler for “Here. Make yourself useful and open this”. Once the doll is out of the box, she takes it and runs over to her coloring table.

Abby’s coloring table has two chairs. One of these chairs is always occupied by a Winnie the Pooh doll. She has played and colored with Winnie the Pooh ever since she started using that table. She’ll sit there and color something and then hold it up so Winnie can see. Ever so often she’ll give Winnie a kiss. She loves Winnie. Or so, I thought. Abby gets to the table, grabs a hold of Winnie’s ear and whips him to the ground and puts Mickey in the chair of honour. She threw Winnie almost three feet and didn’t look back. I’ve seen scenes from “Goodfellas” that had more tenderness than Abby displayed in her treatment of Winnie.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad she loves her gift. I’m glad she’s happy. I am a little worried at how quickly she got rid of something she once loved so much. Am I this replaceable? Will I find myself thrown aside as soon as something or someone cooler comes along? I suppose that as the father of a little girl, this will eventually happen. I promise you this, when it does happen, I’ll put up more of a fight than that loser Winnie.

Fickleness, thy name is Christmas morning.

Sorry for the delay on posting…not that I expect you were waiting or anything. I’m sure you were busy doing your own thing. If you were like me, you were celebrating the holidays. This years Christmas was as close to perfect as I can think. The presents were a plenty. All my family living in the area came over for Christmas Breakfast. All in all, it was a great Christmas.

The aftermath I could do without. We’re still recovering. It was like someone went to Dollarama and bought 40 bucks of Christmas paper. Then bought a half stick of TNT at the hardware store and set the whole thing of in my living room. Even now as I survey the wrapping paper, wasteland that is my living room I don’t really know how this happened. We started out so responsible. We had just one gift. But, just like that catchy tune we all know, you get one gitft and it leads to another. You get two gifts, to go with the others. Then you get three gifts, and oh brother…

But, this post is not about my contributions to the death of mother earth. Instead, I would like to talk about something happened on Christmas morning that is causing me some concern.

My daughter opened up a gift and received a Mickey Mouse doll. I’m not sure if I’ve covered this in the past, but Abby loves Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. She loves it. When she opened the gift and saw Mickey Staring back at her…well, she lost it. She started doing her two step “I’m-so-Freaking-Excited-I-Don’t-Know-What-To-Do” dance and pushed the box at me. I’m pretty sure this is toddler for “Here. Make yourself useful and open this”. Once the doll is out of the box, she takes it and runs over to her coloring table.

Abby’s coloring table has two chairs. One of these chairs is always occupied by a Winnie the Pooh doll. She has played and colored with Winnie the Pooh ever since she started using that table. She’ll sit there and color something and then hold it up so Winnie can see. Ever so often she’ll give Winnie a kiss. She loves Winnie. Or so, I thought. Abby gets to the table, grabs a hold of Winnie’s ear and whips him to the ground and puts Mickey in the chair of honour. She threw Winnie almost three feet and didn’t look back. I’ve seen scenes from “Goodfellas” that had more tenderness than Abby displayed in her treatment of Winnie.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad she loves her gift. I’m glad she’s happy. I am a little worried at how quickly she got rid of something she once loved so much. Am I this replaceable? Will I find myself thrown aside as soon as something or someone cooler comes along? I suppose that as the father of a little girl, this will eventually happen. I promise you this, when it does happen, I’ll put up more of a fight than that loser Winnie.

Merry Christmas!

OMG….

Abby’s 2^nd Christmas is over. She had a lot of fun. I learnt many lessons. Enough to fill this lil’ ol’ blog for weeks to come.

I’m a little busy at the moment. Trying to work my way through the gift wrap, tissue paper and cast of packaging. I can’t dedicate the time needed to write something enjoyable. However, I have a few minuets at the moment and just wanted to wish you all a Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and hope you have a great happy new year.

Adventures of Dad.

Merry Christmas!

OMG….

Abby’s 2^nd Christmas is over. She had a lot of fun. I learnt many lessons. Enough to fill this lil’ ol’ blog for weeks to come.

I’m a little busy at the moment. Trying to work my way through the gift wrap, tissue paper and cast of packaging. I can’t dedicate the time needed to write something enjoyable. However, I have a few minuets at the moment and just wanted to wish you all a Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and hope you have a great happy new year.

Adventures of Dad.

The mathematics of parenting: part 3 sleeping

I assume that by this point you have read the first two parts of this three part series; pooping and feeding. Now we turn to sleeping, the final leg of the all-a-baby-is-good-for trinity. Right off the bat I have to clarify something that has been bothering me since my daughter came into my life. Why is it that we have come to use the phrase “Sleeping like a Baby”? It is one of the great mysteries of the English language. In my personal experience, we could use the phrase “Sleeping like a Vietnam Vet Suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Accompanied by Serious Addiction Issues” and it would describe the same thing. They both wake up every three to four hours screaming at the top of their lungs and no matter how hard you try, you can’t get them to tell you what’s wrong.

Babies sleeping soundly!? Humph…

Add to this, the fact that Abby was a colicky baby and brother; you’ve got some serious stress. Parents with a colic baby are always trying to explain exactly how bad it is. To give you an idea of how bad it is, I once got so mad at someone that I wished they contracted the dreaded flesh eating disease. I wouldn’t wish a colicky baby on anyone. Ever.

And if you’re one of these parents with a perfect baby that is sleeping through the night at day 7, do not give advice to parents of colicky babies. It doesn’t help and you just come of as a jerkface.

“Have you tried swaddling them?”

“No way?! Swaddling them, you say? Can’t say I’ve tried that. I’ve just been throwing wads of tissues soaked with my own frustrated tears at her for the last 18 hours. Maybe I’ll try swaddling”

“Gripe water?”

“Gripe This!”

And before you even suggest it, I already have multiple copies of “Happiest Baby on the Block”. Dr. Karp can suck it.

Trust me when I say this. If it has been suggested by any source over the course of the last 150, 000 years of human history, we’ve tried it. Your advice taken from the pages of the last issues of Today’s Parent is going to do squat. If your baby wasn’t colic, you won’t understand and if your baby was colic, I am so very, very sorry for you.

To sleep,

To sleep perchance to get five friggin’ minuets to myself without you screaming and/or spiting up on me.

Ahh…there’s the rub.

And the only way I have found to do that is to rock them. I do not mean to suggest rocking them until they fall asleep. I mean, rock them until you fall asleep. The minute you think they are asleep and you decide to put them back in the crib is the minute you’re starting the whole thing over again.

 So how long do you rock them for, you might ask. It might be easier to tell you how far to rock them.

When Abby was first born, my wife overruled me and we got one of the more expensive gliders available at the time. For this fact alone, my wife is the smartest woman alive. I figure one complete rock in our glider equaled about 18 inches, 9 inches going forward, 9 inches going back. After rocking for hours on end, you start to play little games. One of these games is to time how long it takes to rock 100 complete rocks. This game sucks and eventually you start timing how long it takes you to do 1000 rocks.

It takes me just over 20 minuets to do 1000 rocks. I figure out of every 24 hours, I spent 8 of those rocking Abby to sleep. Don’t believe me? Have you read Dostoevsky Crime and Punishment? I have. Have you read Steinbeck’s East of Eden? I have. F. Scott’s Fitzgerald’s the Great Gatsby? I have, twice. I could go on for 14 other novels, but I think you get the idea.

So now for the math. It breaks down like this…

18 inches/rock X 1000 Rocks X (8hours X 60minutes)/20 =

Or…

18 inches/rocks X 1000 rocks X 24 units of rocking = 432,000 inches

Or in feet…

432,000 inches / 12 = 36,000 feet

Or in miles…

36,000 feet / 5280 = 6.82 miles

But wait…I’m Canadian… what’s that in real distances…

6.82 miles X 1.61 = 10.98 kilometers

Think about that for a second. In just four months I managed to rock more than the distance of an Olympic track and field event. People don’t travel that far for a fun run raising money to help their local zoo. I sure hope my wife got the bumper to bumper extended kilometer coverage on that glider.

The mathematics of parenting: Part 2 feeding

My last post looked at the mathematics of poop. I think it we all can agree that one post about poop per blog is enough. So let’s leave that topic behind [geez, once you start with the puns it’s hard to stop] and move on to the next topic in my three part series, food. Obviously, if the stuff comes out, it’s got to go in first.

I was actually a little hesitant to post this entry. Turns out there are some people out there who are very much against bottle feeding. If you don’t believe me, Google “Old Navy Formula Feed Onesie” and you’ll see what I’m talking about. When I told my wife about my concerns she said that I should post anyways. She pointed out that I started this blog as a source of information and a way to express my particular views. When I said I was still unsure, she called me a pussy and, well, here we are.

I want to state that I have no strong opinions one way or the other as to the ethics of bottle vs. breast feeding. If you breast feed, awesome. If you bottle feed, also awesome. I’m more concerned that you feed your child, than how you feed you child. And brother, are you going to feed.

Most people say a parent can begin introducing solid foods into your child’s diet anywhere from 4-6months. I cannot tell you exactly when we started feeding solids to Abby. Everything before her first birthday is a sleep deprived haze. All I know for certain is that my wife was very much against my attempt to feed Abby bacon at 9 months. Personally, I think she’s being overprotective. Bacon is delicious. For the purpose of this series, I’m going to assume we started around 4 months. The reason for this will become apparent in the final part of this series.

For the first 2 months of their lives a newborn will consume 1.5-3 oz of formula every 2-3 hours. And that’s every 2-3 hours. There is no average here. The average adult needs 7.5 hours of sleep. This disparage is the cruelest joke nature has played on the new parent.

Another interesting fact is that while the baby consumes 3 fluid oz of food, they’ll spit up any where from 4-5 liters of fluid all over you. Whoever is designing these spit up blankets is some kind of idiot. I’ve got baby puke all over my lower back and into my back pocket. The back of my new Hugo Boss shirt [my only Hugo Boss shirt] is complete ruined. But that 4 inch square on my shoulder is nice and dry. They need to start designing these things with a scoop or something. The first time you get baby vomit running down the nap of your neck and down your front and back, is a special moment that should be cherished for ever.

Any way, let’s do some math:

3 oz X (24/2) = 36 oz/day X 30 days = 1080 oz

After the first 2 months baby starts to eats more. Now it’s 4-6 oz every 3-4 hours.

6 oz X (24/3) = 48 oz/day X 30 days = 1440 oz

For a grand total of

1080 + 1440 = 2520 oz

Not much right. An ounce is only wee. 2520 ounces is just a little more wee. But what if we relate that into terms that guys like me can understand. I am talking about reducing this to the ice cold beer facts. When we convert 2520 ounces into milliliters we get 74525 ml. My favorite beer, Moosehead, comes in 341 ml bottles. Doing simple math we get…

74525/ 341 = 218.5 beers/12 = 18 cases of the good stuff.

Kind of makes you thirsty, doesn’t it.

Mathematics of parenting: Part 1 Poop

I apologize for the delay in posting to the blog, but I was working on an entry and just couldn’t find a way to do it all in one shot. Instead of doing one huge entry, I tried to compress it, but found that wasn’t really the right way to go either. In the end I decided to break it up into more manageable parts. So welcome to my first three part series entitled Mathematics of Parenting,

There are so many joys of being a parent. The first time they say Daddy, Mommy or, my personal favorite, “I did it”. Their first steps is a good one. Not to mention, the first unsolicited hug. And don’t forget the first time they manage to get the majority of the spoons contents into their mouths. Parenting is a series of unique and amazing events that almost make up for the fact that for three years of your adult life you’re forced to clean the most file stuff from someone else’s rear-end.

On the advice of my wife, who in many ways is much smarter than me, I will not go into any of the actual details surrounding this disgusting duty [Ha Ha a pun…what…oh. on the advice of my wife, that will be the last pun for this blog entry]

No, I’m not here to gross you out. I will not relay the horrors that my eyes have seen. The things that make you questions what you learned in biology, some of that stuff is unholy let alone unhealthy. Instead, I’m going to talk about math. You see, I’m the type of guy that likes to quantify things. I like knowing that if there is a problem, there is a logical solution to that problem. That’s just how my mind works. If something can’t be measured, I generally try to avoid it. That’s probably why I don’t enjoy musicals. I just can’t get into them. The notion that, in the face of danger or adversity, the best solution is a catchy tune and highly choreographed dance number is simply beyond my though process. I’m pretty sure my wife resents this deficit.

But I digress…

Assume that the average diaper weighs 1.5 pounds. I think anyone with a child under the age of three will agree I’m probably under estimating. Most of the research I have done has suggested that you should change you child’s diaper between 6 and 8 times daily. For the sake of this argument, let’s go with 7. My lil girl has been alive for 655 days [but who’s counting]. So we have…

1.5lbs X 7 diapers/day X 655 days= 6877.5 pounds.

But that’s just a number. It’s difficult to really understand what that is. Let me help put that in context. What else weighs 6877.5? The answer…are you ready…

A 2009 Ford F-150 single cab truck.

Holy Crap [Ha Ha a Pun! last one I promise] that’s a lot of poo. And I handled it. Yet there is no haz mat suites for parents. I’ve look, the diaper genie has no WHMIS identification. I went through no training, no warnings, no counseling. Nothing. I did go through pre-natal classes along with my wife, but they never covered the shear mass of what was coming. The hospital just gave me this cute little 7 pound baby and sent me on my way, Which I can kind of understand, cause if someone did tell me what was in store I might have tried to back out.

I sincerely apologize if I have grossed you out. Stay tune for the next series…Feeding. Perhaps I should have started with that one.

OMG! That’s so friggin’ cute

Here is a list of things that, before my daughter was born, I found cute:

1) nothing

I’m a guy dammit. A man’s man, I was never really susceptible to cuteness. I liked camping, fishing, making things out of wood and beer. And before you start correcting the grammar of that last sentence, if I could actually build a table out of wood and beer, I would. That’s how I rolled. Johnny Cash was something I liked. Hockey was something I liked. “When Animals Attack” was something I liked.

Then I had a daughter…

And she’s just the cutest. Now I get all choked up at bank commercials. When that father brings his kid into the branch to open a low interest “Lil Savers” saving account, that just gets me right there, you know? It’s ridiculous. Not to mention the way I carry on when she does something cute. You wouldn’t know if she just found the cure for cancer or invented a low calorie beer that also lowers you cholesterol.

“Look at you. You are so smart. You took your socks off all by yourself.” I can just see the look on my internal tough guy. Standing there, mouth agape in pure shock and/or disgust. “Dude! What are you doing? Let’s go kill something.” I spent a summer gutting fish for commercial fishermen. 15 years later and I’m dancing around the house to “I’m a little teapot” just to get a giggle. I’ve turned into a cute addict. If you’re like I was and you want to stay tough. Take my advice and do not go to your daughters 1^st holiday pageant.

There I am, sitting in the basement of the daycare, I got the video camera all set. I brought the good camera for some good close-ups and I got the point and click just in case something happens. I tell you, I’ve got more camera equipment than a busload of tourist heading to Niagara Falls. Sad Really. The crappy red curtains on the crappy wood stage opens up and suddenly all the parents turn into 20 year paparazzi veterans. There is pushing and jostling to get that perfect shot. Then I see her, my little girl. She is so cute and beautiful standing there doing…absolutely nothing. She’s just standing there in this weird sort of statue of liberty pose. None of the kids are doing anything really. It’s not so much a kids holiday pageant as a chance for the daycare staff to perform their best rendition of “Where are all the Elves At”.

And OMG it’s the cutest friggin’ thing ever.

She’s got the cutest blank stare on her face. She’s looking around the room in the cutest possible way. She’s standing there in the cutest little pose. Oh look she’s about to do something…wait, nope, false alarm. Ahhh, how cute, her 1^st holiday pageant false alarm.

The whole thing took 7 and a half minuets and I loved every last second of it. Perhaps losing man credits is just a part of the job. I dunno, maybe I’m getting soft in my old age. No matter how hard my day has been, no matter how many jerks I’ve had to deal with. She gives me one smile and all my problems go away. And that’ll beat gutting fish any day of the week.

I'm pretty sure I can take an 8 year old...

I took Abby to McDonald's for the first time yesterday. Now before you judge me too harshly, I do not plan to make it a habit. I know all the arguments against McD's. I've seen "Super size me". But it was cold out and I thought the indoor playground might be a good place to kill some time while Mommy slept [she's working overnights].

Not much has changed at McD's since the last time I was there. Same basic decor, same basic menu. They have apples slices for the kiddies now. There’s a stupid idea for you. What kid wants apples slices when dad is having deep fried starch with salt? I tried several times to get her to try the apples, but it was a no go. So she had French fries. My French fries to be precise, but never mind. In their defense, McD's now has a grilled cheese sandwich that Abby seemed to enjoy. But, I might be rationalizing here.

Anyway, the point of our visit wasn't the food it was the playground. Abby seemed to enjoy the playground once she figured out what the hell it was. This is understandable. Imagine if you saw this huge multicolored, multistory contraption with bars on the windows. Someone puts you in front of the entrance and takes your shoes. I'd be hesitant myself.

Abby finally figures out the process and starts going around and around on the slide and bouncy pad. She was having a good time and I was having a good time watching her having a good time. You know “The Joy of Parenting” stuff. And that's when it happened. A gang of boys ranging in age from 4-8 came into the playground and started being boys. Yelling, screaming and having a good time. At one point, I overheard the biggest kid say something like "Don't let the girls through". I thought it was kind of a weird thing to say until I realized that the "Girls" included my daughter.

I notice my daughter standing at the entrance waiting patiently for her turn. As I mentioned in earlier blogs, she's not even two. She doesn’t understand what an asshole is yet. So there she is hands folded waiting for her turn. So I say to the kids/future thungs in my best rational adult voice "Excuse me, but could you let the littler kids go by". the youngest of these future tax payers stands aside, but the ringleader eight year old looks at me and says “No, I’m not letting any girls though.”

Immediately, I revert to my pre-parent inner self. My 1st thought is something like;

"I AM GOING TO KILL YOU, YOU STUPID LITTLE KID! I AM GOING TO SHOW YOU WHAT IT'S LIKE TO BE PICKED ON BY SOMEONE BIGGER! I WILL MAKE YOU EAT YOUR OWN FACE! GET READY KID, I’M GONNA PUNT YOU LIKE A FOOTBALL!"

Fortunately, having a kid teaches you a little bit about impulse control and I took a second to rethink my approach. But what are my options…Where’s the damn Daddy handbook? My parents never had this dilemma. Do I find the kids parents and tell them what’s going on? Doesn’t that make me a rat? Do I politely ask again? What happens if he refuse again? I can’t spend my day trying to reason with an eight year old. What else is there…

Thank god his mother comes over and grabs him by the arm…his mother is there telling him off. He’s eye are cast downwards in that fake “I’m sorry” look that I know from using it myself so many years ago.  I’ve avoided the situation. Which is great, because while I’m pretty sure I can take an eight year old, it’s probably not my best option.

A list of kid shows and my basic problem with each of them.

My mornings use to be routine. Wake up, get coffee watch sports center. To be honest, not much has changed. I still wake up and get coffee. Although now I have to get my daughter up as well and make sure she gets breakfast. The biggest difference really is instead if watching Jay and Dan on TSN, I now watch Max and Ruby. I’ve been doing this routine for about 18 months now and I’ve gotten to know the program schedule of both Treehouse and Disney Playhouse pretty well. And regardless of my fear of being sued, I have some notes I’d like to share. Warning: unless you have a child under five, none of this will make any sense to you.

To start…

Max and Ruby: Man I hate this show. If I was Max I would smack that controlling little snot Ruby right in the lips. What is her problem? Every time Max wants to do something, she has got to start raining on his parade. Pirates! No max, it’s song time. Fire truck! No max, I’m practicing ballet. Race Car! No Max, we’re baking cookies for grandma. Max, grow a pair and tell Ruby where to go.

And where the hell are their parents?! Here we got two kids, ones like 8 and the other is 4 and they live in this huge house and the only adult involved in their life on a daily basis is grandma. I tell ya, the child welfare state has really failed these two kids.

Caillou: Never mind the fact that Caillou is a whinny little brat. Never mind the fact that his parents are most likely communist hippies. Never mind the fact that the cat is the weirdest looking freak of nature I’ve ever laid eyes on. No the real issue here is that Caillou is 4 years old and doesn’t have a lick of hair on his head. What’s the deal with this? It can’t be hereditary. Mom, Dad and baby sis all have full luxurious heads of hair. Caillou …nothing. Is he sick or something?  The issue is never touched in the storylines. It’s always, Caillou learns to put on his shoe or Caillou learns to share. What about the episode where Caillou learns to apply sun block to his freakishly bald head? What about the episode where Caillou parents finally get a diagnosis?

Four Square: Stab. Me. In. The. Eye. I honestly don’t know what’s worst, those damn quote unquote poems or being forced to advert my eyes from captain Hup’s man bulge. He has to be stuffing that thing.

Handy Manny: Seriously, is this guy licensed to these jobs? What kind of guy has certification to work on plumbing, electrical and structural? How much does he charge per hour? I’ve worked in the trades and no job is that easy. And have you noticed that Manny doesn’t actually do any of the work. The tools do everything. They should get ride of Manny and keep all the money for themselves. Tools of sheetrock falls unite! You have only your chains to lose.

Yo Gabba Gabba: Yo Gabba What the hell is this carcarsh!? Looks like anyone with a Casio keyboard, an Atari 2600 and a crap load of acid can get show on Treehouse.

Big and Small. I kind of like this one actually.

I could go on. I’ve seen them all. And I hate them all. The thing I hate most about all of them is the fact that every so often, not often, but every so often, I find myself getting into the storyline. Stupid kids shows and their damn catchy tunes. Hot Dog, Hot Dog, Hot Diggity Dog.

Deconstructing the things in my pocket

I use to be the kind of the guy that carried useful things in his pockets. Need a band aid? I got you covered. Can't find something in dark? Cool, I got a LED light on my keychain. It has a bottle opener and a knife as well, so no worries getting that bottle of Stella opened. Lighter, check. Pen, check. Gum...C'mon give me a challenge. Yessir, I was like MacGyver, minus that sad, sad haircut.

And it was a point of pride for me. Ask people who know me, I was useful. I was good to have around. I could be relied upon in pinch.

Then I had a kid...

Now instead of MacGyver with a cool do, I'm that guy that spends five minuets finding a buck fifty for a cup of coffee while sheepishly apologizing to the people standing cross armed behind me, tapping their feet in a caffeine deprived rage. I hate that guy. How did I become that guy? Seriously, how? I use to have it all together, pocket wise that is.

Don't believe me? Think I'm exaggerating. Let's have a look at the contents of my pockets right now. The first things I pull out of my pocket are pretty predictable. Car keys, pocketknife/bottle opener, flashlight. All the things that add to my mystic and reputation as a useful guy. However, things get kind of weird after that.

A screw...? A screw?! Why the hell do I have a screw in my pocket...oh right, I took it from Abby when she was about to eat it.

A piece of wire? see above. On a side note, why are there random pieces of wire laying around my house anyway?

And more tissue than anyone person has a right to have on them at any one time. This one is kind of reasonable, I mean kids have snotty noses. You wipe their nose, tuck the tissue in your pocket, look back at the kid to make sure their okay and...Seriously, I just wiped your nose c’mon man! It's like the wait until just after you wipe their noses and turn away that they give the ol' sniffer a good cleaning. I try to reduce paper waste as much as possible, but I have enough tissue in my pockets to...to…well, I can't think of a cool tissue metaphor here, but it's a lot.

Anyway, I digress. The next thing in my pocket is not one, not two but three hair elastics. This is interesting for a couple of reasons. The least of which is not the fact that I have had the same buzz cut hairstyle for the past eight years. I can't even pinch my hair to pull, but I got three hair elastics on me because...and that's just it, I have no idea why. They just sort of appear.

Oh look, a leaf. I'm not kidding. I'm a 35 year old man walking around town with a leaf in my pocket. A Lego piece, a piece of soap, some string and a random bottle top round out the treasure chest that has become my pants. Thank god I'm not a woman. I’m not being misogynistic either. Can you imagine how worse it would be if I had to carry a purse. I'm not sure, but I would imagine the average mom is lugging around 20-25 pounds of absolute crap at any given point of time. Most of that being used tissue.

I suppose it's the gig. I mean you take something away from them and they scream until it's out of sight. So you put it in the magic black hole that is your pocket and they move on to the next thing that may or may not be edible and...Are you serious, look at your nose...I just wiped your nose a second ago.

It’s just that fast, you’ve completely forgotten about what you just put in your pocket and you then bury it under another piece of tissue. Forgotten until you order a double, double and then have to apologize to strangers with a shrug of you shoulders and a stupid grin.

Take my advice and buy yourself a good pair of cargo pants.

An open letter to Fisher Price and by extension all baby toy manufactures

Dear Mr. Price,

What is your problem, buddy? Seriously, are you stupid or something? You’ve been doing this for a long time. I goggled you dude, and you’ve been around since 1930. So the argument that you didn’t know any better won’t fly.

What kind of sadistic bastard makes babies toys with so many moving parts? I mean c’mon! Forget choking hazard warnings, how about a “Go Under the Couch” warning, hey? How about one of those? My child can’t go three feet without falling to the ground or bouncing off a piece of furniture and you got her running all over house trying to catch a little plastic ball.

What’s the logic there anyway?

You need to let me know, because I can’t figure it out. Explain to me why every toy has to have whistles, bells, lights, popping balls, fluttering butterflies, lasers, tiny little unicorns launching tiny little fireworks and so on and so on. For god sake man, their children, they find snow amazing. Snow doesn’t shout the alphabet at 185 decibels. Put it to rest. It’s even worst when there is bilingual option. If I have to hear vert, juene et blue one more time I’m going to lose my mind. And this sound level option is total bullcrap. There is no difference between low and high level. To all you fellas out there who make toys without an easily accessible on/off switch, there is a special place in hell for you my friend. The last thing I want to hear when I sit on the couch after a hard day is Elmo laughing his ass off.

I understand the need to restrict the access to the batteries, but you’re taking it a little far aren’t you. Those screws are so damn small. And why sink them so deep into the back of the toy. It kills me how the toy is 5 inches wide and you recess the screws 4.5 meters. WTF guy? Sure, she can’t consistently put that 2.5 inch square through the hole, but she might have the mental acuity and the motor skills to get those buggers out. Here’s a tip, the screws need to be able to fit a butter knife, or I’m not trying. My house is like the terminally ill wing for children’s toys. Just a bunch of half lit, slow song, wheezing toys gasping for their last breath as they try to spit that little green, red and yellow ball out of their orifice, bounce of the rim of that sickeningly small catch net and then under my couch. There’s a benchmark for you to go by, the toy does not need a vacuum.

And another thing…

If it has a sharp corner…DO NOT MAKE IT. I’m going to step on it. Most likely late at night on my way to the bathroom. You trying to kill me? What kind of person warns us about choking hazard and then makes little tiny pyramids. Do you know what a little tiny pyramid is at three in the morning? A tack.

I hate you!

Adventures of dad

Daddy's little helper paradox

Anyone else find Daddy's little helper to be not so helpful?

It's the cutest damn thing in the world to see Abby following me with a screwdriver in her hand and I really want to encourage her to feel comfortable helping around the house. But, she's friggin useless. She can't even hold a flashlight at the right angle. Instead she presses the bulb right up to where I'm working for a second and then puts it right in her eye, looks at me and starts laughing and giggling. What kind of help is that? I’ve worked with meth addicts who have had more focus.

And it's not like I can get rid of her by physically moving her out of the way. You pick her up, move her aside and she's right back where she was before you are. Quantum leaps are no mystery to a father trying to get a sliding closet door on a track without stabbing his child with a Philips screwdriver. Sure, they happen all the time.

So what do you do? You get mad. And you say something stupid like "That's one, you don't want to get to three" She's not even two you stupid twit. The concept of one is outside her reality, let alone three. I'd have just as much success saying "That's hotdog, you don't want to get to purple".

And then she looks at me with these big eyes and her lower lip sticks out like a cheap Ikea wall shelf and I know what's coming. The water works. Only one option at this point, give her the screw driver and let her beat the crap out of what ever piece of drywall, hardwood floor or furniture might be near. Anything is better then having her cry.

Then it's back to work. I finally get a chance to work without interruption for a second. If she beats a hole in the drywall, no worries, I've got some patch downstairs… the floor might be a different issue, but I'll worry about that bridge when I get there

And then BOOM!

I look over just in time to see her standing there half bent over, arms outstretched and a 15 year old computer that weighs about as much as she does on her toes. The scream comes about a nanosecond after I piece together what just happened. Mom comes up the stairs about a nanosecond after that. Suddenly, you’re the son of a bitch who tried to amputate his kid’s toes with Dell desktop circa 1995. Course, my wife never actually accuses me, but I feel bad enough to infer it.

She takes Abby downstairs and I finish the job in 2 seconds. No sense of accomplishment or pride with this job. I'd rather have Daddy's little helper helping and never get the damn thing finished at all. And that’s the paradox.

introduction

This is my first post.

I titled it adventures of dad, because despite the fact that I have two degrees [one in business, one in philosophy], my identity is dictated by my 22 month old daughter. Despite the fact that I have worked and traveled all over the world, my life now centers on the thoughts and interest of a toddler. And despite the fact that I weigh 260 pounds and consider myself to be a pretty tough individual, I let a 30 pound girl fart in my face on a pretty routine basis.

I once told my wife that if Abby [my daughter] was a 22 year old dude, I would have kicked the shit out of her a long time ago. But she's not and I don't. Instead, I let her pull on my ear until I'm convinced I have a new piercing. Instead of sports and beer, my Sundays are now filled with Mickey Mouse clubhouse and juice boxes. Instead of sleeping off a hangover, I now ask pretty please for just a few seconds of cooperation, because daddy is really hurting today.

So why write a blog anyway? I guess the biggest reason is because I could never find a resource for myself. My wife is on this baby forum group and she's always going on about how she saw this online or heard that through a chat group. I always found myself to be very envious of her for this. I understand that she’s a new mom and needs the support, but I’m a new dad and I have no friggin’ clue what is going on.

It's also really frustrating when you do find resources cause they are almost no help. When I go online myself it’s either guys complaining about how their lives have changed forever or it’s these super dad types who manage to make me feel really low in myself.

I'm not complaining. Okay, I am, but only a little. I know my life has changed forever and there are things I miss. Drinking untill sunup being one of them. But I would never trade Abby for anything.

I'm not a super dad. I try, but there are days when the last thing I want to do is wake up at 7:30am to have a tea party. And there are days when I think if one more sharp object gets shoved in my ear, I am going to seriously lose it.

So I decided to write my own blog, if for no other reason than to give some sort of credibility to my particular outlook on fatherhood.. I'm a dad. It's an adventure. Wither I want it to be or not.