Just one of those days...

Being a parent is kind of like being a high school janitor. One day, not much happens and the job is kind of fun; the next day, you’re cleaning a spray-painted “you suck” off of your car, and every toilet is overflowing into the halls, spilling a mix of sewage and stink water all over the place…I've seen it a million times — but never been behind it...in case you're a member of my hometown's police dept. and you're curious.

At any rate, I’ll bet you can guess which of these two types of days we had today, hmmm? Oh sure, most of the day was just fine, but when Connor woke up from his nap, things got out of hand, in a very bad way.

After putting him down at 1:30, I figured he’d sleep for about three hours, since we’d burned up a lot of energy roaming the aisles of Wal-Mart (yes, again — leave me alone). But, at just before 3:30, I heard him start to stir. Within minutes, after a bit of rustling around, he was calling for me to come get him. Oh well. Two hours is plenty long enough. When I went in his room, I was greeted with the expected smell of a dirty diaper, except that I quickly noticed that his diaper was on the floor and it was not dirty. (Thus, the explanation for the rustling sounds.) “Okay, if I smell poop, and there is none in his diaper, where is it?" (insert one of those "moments-where-time-seems-to-slow-down" pauses) "Uh-oh.”

Not good.

Resting disgustingly in the crib was a fist-sized deposit of poop (his stomach isn’t even that big!!), and Connor was cowering in the corner, hemmed in by the mess, desperately clutching his favorite stuffed toy, Barkley, and looking panicked.

Long story short, we (I) cleaned up the mess, hosed his butt off in the tub and started an emergency load of laundry. What was I saying the other day about being “energized” by all this stuff?

The Music Man

As I alluded to a few weeks ago, I've been on a quest to find music that Connor and I can both listen to without one of us (most likely me) pulling their ears off in a fit of agony after having listened to "The hokey pokey" for the 50th time. I don't want to turn myself around dammit. I'm driving. Leave me alone already.

At first, I thought Connor was going to gravitate toward one particular musical style. Not so. Like me, I'm afraid, his tastes are all over the place. I think I'll spread these out over the next who-knows-how-long, but for now, I'll start with a few CDs that's he's really into. We did dodge a major bullet, though, when he expressed no particular affinity for The Polyphonic Spree, a band that has supposedly bridged many a gap between parent and child (I have been told). Marilyn Manson calls this group "The Jim Jones Orchestra." I couldn't agree more.

Okay, on to what he does like.



Jason Mraz: Mr. A-Z
Hate on it all you want, but this is actually a really good album that's smart, catchy and self-depracatingly funny, if you can avoid taking it too seriously. It's a simplistic pop record, not The Joshua Tree. Connor seems to like Mraz's voice (especially on his b-side version of "Rainbow Connection") and the songs are bouncy enough to keep his attention. It's so much better than his first excuse for a record.



Fishbone: The Reality of my Surroundings
I've listened to this record more times than I can count since it came out in 1991, and it seems like Connor is equally enamored with it, probably due to the bass-heavy funk/rock underpinnings of the tunes. He doesn't care that Angelo Moore is singing about pimps, slave whippin's, drug dealers and hookers. Do you?



Stevie Ray Vaughan: The Sky is Crying
If I could pick one album for us to listen to until the end of time, this would be it, if for no other reason than that it contains the song "Empty Arms." It is easily one of the top five (maybe the best) songs Vaughan ever recorded. No matter how foul his mood, Connor can't not dance along to this song. I can instant message this song to you if you don't believe me. It's magic, I tell you.



Lamb of God: Ashes of the Wake
No, seriously. I put this on as a joke one day, thinking he'd look at me like I'm a complete moron (which he does most of the time anyway) but he was really into it. With song titles such as "Now You've Got Something To Die For," "Blood of the Scribe," and "Remorse is for the Dead," how can a kid not like this band that was once called Burn The Priest?

For those of you scoring at home (or those reading alone), that's Jason Mraz, Fishbone, Stevie Ray Vaughan and Lamb of God...at 16 months old. We're in trouble, folks.

At least we haven't tried Dimmu Borgir yet.

Who's yo daddy?

After nearly two months of staying at home with my son, I still can’t decide what kind of stay-at-home dad I’m going to be. There are so many different types to choose from. There’s the do-it-all Suzie homemaker dad who handles everything (cooking/cleaning/grocery shopping/yard work/substance abuse) around the house, and there is, of course, the lazy-ass I-can-call-myself-a-dad-because-I-made-a-baby dad who does little but change dirty diapers. And there’s me…somewhere in the middle, though which of these two sides I lean more towards I’ll never tell.

There’s part of me that’s energized by handling everything Connor needs. After all, most of this stuff I did before anyway — laundry, cleaning, basic housework, etc. (I’ll never be the house cook, though. My wife is Italian for cryin’ out loud.) But, there’s also part of me that’s a little hesitant to jump headfirst into this whole mess. Though I’m far from being the stumbling idiot, there’s still some stuff I’ve yet to master, but I kind of enjoy treading the line between comfort and unease. Besides, when people see me in public with Connor I get plenty of uneasiness to go around.

But, I will say this about my parenting thus far: Connor is 16 months old. When we sit him on the toilet, he’ll pee on command, and he announces when he has to go to the bathroom. How many parents can say that?

Watch yourself

Maybe it’s because we used to watch the show as a family when we were kids, but I have loved America’s Funniest Home Videos ever since it first aired — even with Bob Saget’s awful one-liners and segues. (For the record, the new host, Tom Bergeron, is infinitely better than Saget and stopgap hosts Daisy Fuentes and John Fugelsang.)

[I should mention that I also have a similar affinity for bloopers shows, Carol Burnett specials and Charlie Brown holiday specials, probably because I grew up watching those as well.]

Anyway, I’ve watched enough episodes of AFV to learn one inescapable cosmic truth: every guy will get hit in the balls in his lifetime. A secondary element of this truth is that once a man has kids, his chances of getting hit “down there” is increased by at least 1000 percent.

Prior to having Connor, I figured I’d sustained enough devastating blows in mine nether regions as a kid (soccer games, skateboarding, etc), but I’m now certain that my streak is about to come to a swift and painful end. It’s not that I’m not cautious, either. I am very careful to, uh, cover myself whenever he’s got an opportunity to strike at the goods. But, now that he’s throwing stuff with ever-improving aim, the odds are stacked so high against me that it’s really only a matter of time.

I’m thinking that I should ask for this for Christmas this year.

That's amoré

The Italians are in town — or as folks 'round these parts might say, "the eye-talians." More specifically, I'm referring to Stacey's grandparents, or Connor's great-grandparents. If you've ever seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding, change the ethnicity from Greek to Italian and you've got Stacey's family...well, maybe not quite, but you get the picture.

Every other Tuesday, Nana and Poppa make the trip out and spend the entire day with Connor. But, despite the break that this visit affords me, there is a much bigger benefit to be had: the food.

Italians like to eat, and they like others to eat with them, so Stacey's grandparents come armed with a cooler and a large shopping bag filled with all kids of good stuff from home-cooked vegetarian stews and vegetables for Connor, to macaroni pie or manicotti (correctly pronounced "manna koots," for all you whities like me) for us. Did I mention the chocolate chip cookies? For those of you struggling to keep up with the demands of parenthood, I highly recommend picking up a set of helpful Italian grandparents. Each time they visit us, they take all of our empty Tupperware and return two weeks later with the same Tupperware, filled with food. I don't know why more people don't have a system like this.

What's up, doc?

Today was what I had been viewing as my first true test as a stay-at-home dad — the doctor visit, complete with vaccination shots. Good thing I had a wing-man, er, wing-Grammy along for the ride.

The day started off well enough, with Grammy pulling into the driveway at the exact moment we were supposed to pull out of the driveway - whew. But, after stopping for gas, a slight 20-minute detour on the interstate in the wrong direction (I'm a moron, I know), and another 35-minute Google maps-sponsored detour before we found the doctor's office, things weren't going quite so well anymore. It didn't help that our old pediatrician's office hadn't faxed Connor's records over yet, which tacked another 20 minutes on to our already drawn out day. Kids don't like going to the doctor. Do they really need inept parents making the trip all that more difficult?

But, despite these foul ups, Connor was remarkably happy, probably because he had his grandmother — his personal court jester who will do just about anything (and I mean anything) to make this kid smile.

My fears about the (nearly) solo doctor visit wasn't having to keep up with Connor, or keep him happy. I was worried about all the stuff parents are supposed to know — stuff that Stacey has catalogued deep in the recesses of her brain, somewhere between the dissertation and basic motor skills.

Was the baby born at term? Does your insurance carrier pay 100 percent of immunizations? What was the baby's obstetrician's name? How many fingers am I holding up behind my back? What is the mother's social security number? What pre- and post-natal classes were taken? What is the airspeed velocity of a laden swallow?

Although Connor was the one who got worked over by the doctor and stabbed in the legs with three needles, I felt like I was the one who had taken the beating. But, we made it out alive, (I think...he's been really quiet in his bed tonight), and I feel a little better about the next visit, although there's still a ton of the pertinent "baby details" I'll probably never remember.

But, I would be remiss if I did not mention that Grammy spent the better part of the day trying to list every word that Connor can say, or has at one time said. It seems she wanted to be absolutely, without a doubt, positively certain that Connor was ahead of the track, developmentally, because the doctor wanted to be sure that Connor had at least 20 words in his vocabulary. So far, we're almost to 80 and still counting. She suggested we call the doctor back and correct our earlier assesment of Connor's 50 or 60 word vocabulary, and maybe ask for a pediatrician who specializes in "gifted" children. I think she was joking...maybe.

(Yeah, that's page one of the list. We've got more where that came from.)

Connor's Playground Ratings, pt. 3

Whew. What a loooong day. The little monster is finally in bed, and I'm pooped. Nothing to do now but flop down on the couch and watch My Name Is Earl, the incredibly under-promoted new comedy on NBC — honestly, an un-blockable commercial on a website is a little obnoxious, don't ya think?

Today Connor and I went back to the first playground we found when we moved here last month. It's at a nearby church that we've checked out a few times. It's a little bit too stiff (easy, perverts) and white, but then again, few churches in the Southeast aren't. Anyway, on with the playground ratings: (second verse, same as the first)

On a scale of 1-10:
Overall quality of playground: 5/10 — This particular playground is pretty worn out. But, to be fair, it belongs to a church whose coffers are probably not exactly designated for improving the playground facilities — at least I hope not. Those people without homes in New Orleans could use some help, you know?

Type of substance on the play surface: 9/10 — Hoo-haa. Next to the supersoft, spongy black matting at the playground near my mom's house, wood chips are the very best thing to have on a playground. They're too large to get wedged in any butt cracks, too light to cause any pain should they be thrown, and they aren't a haven for bugs. Hallelujah.

Amount of shade: 10/10 — Of all things I pay attention to on a playground, shade is the most important factor and this one is the best I've ever seen. The playset is nestled in the morning shadow of a bank of trees, the mid-day shadow of the several trees overhead and in the afternoon shadow of the church itself. Not having to try and pin Connor down for a sunscreen bath is a big plus in my book.

Cleanliness: 8/10 — Each of the six or seven times we've been to this playground, it's been in various states of cleanliness, though it's usually not all that messy. It looks like someone pressure washed all the caked up dirt recently, but Connor still went home with a half-inch of dirt on his butt. I guess if I was that close to the ground, I'd get dirty too.

Extras: 10/10 — Did I mention the shade? Praise God.

Act your age!

I'm not sure if this is a larger trend — this is our first child, after all — but I'm wondering if anyone pays attention to the age requirements listed on kids' toys. Nearly every toy Connor "owns" is way out of his age range. This past year, for his first Christmas, (he was seven months old) our families were buying him toys meant for kids two and three years old, not infants who couldn't yet walk.

I don't really care that most of his toys are meant for older kids (does that make him some kind of [evil] genius?!), and I'm certainly not trying to say that we don't appreciate all the stuff that's been given to us that causes us to struggle to keep from drowning in a sea of brightly colored, AA battery-powered plastic. I just think it's odd that very few of his toys are within his age range, which might explain his predilection for household objects rather than his toys.

Today, Connor and I were in Wal-Mart (yes, I know...again), and we were in the kid's section to get him some more overnight diapers. By the way, I think we should just stick two crappy daytime diapers on him at night — it'd be cheaper than the night time diapers, by a long shot. Anyway, near the monstrous wall of diapers is an aisle of toys right in his age range, maybe even a shade behind him. It might have been because we were in a store and everything within reach (mayonnaise jars, DVDs, shoe boxes, etc) was fair game, but he was completely enthralled with everything on that aisle. I must have looked like an idiot running behind him putting everything he pulled down back on the shelf. What can I say? My mama didn't raise no mess-leavin' fool — just a neat fool.

I don't think I really realized how out of his grasp a lot of his toys are — although he's growing into a lot of them — until that moment. But, on the way out of the store, we walked past the rack of bicycles, and I couldn't resist putting Connor on top of this one:

Damn. Guess I'm as guilty as the rest, huh?

Spin City

Why on earth does anyone turn their TV set on during the daytime? (Unless it's to watch a Barney DVD, of course.) Today, I saw a commercial for an upcoming episode of some daytime talk show on which Charlie Sheen would be appearing. The commercial billed him as "Mr. Mom," and said that he'd divulge some of his child-rearing secrets. Can you hear the crickets that were chirping in my head?

Granted, I wasn't paying attention to the commercial (someone else had the set on and I was working on the computer while Connor napped), but I have an incredibly hard time believing that Charlie Sheen — this guy...

Um, let's try another picture...

There we go...

Anyway, I have a hard time believing that this guy, who is a full-time working actor, qualifies as a stay-at-home parent. I'm sure — well, I hope — that he's involved with his kids' lives, but a Mr. Mom he ain't. I know that this particular show is geared toward women (particularly shallow and gullible ones, I guess), and that the producer's only goal is to get as many bodies watching as possible, but outright lying?

I don't want to send the message that I'm offended by this (Oh, Charlie Sheen, how darest thee pretend to be a stay-at-home dad you rogue!!), because I'm not, but calling Charlie Sheen a stay-at-home dad is like calling Shaq a chef because he made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

The little things

When I was a little kid, I remember reading an article about how much energy little kids have. The author tried to mimic every move that a toddler made during the course of a full day. By noon, I believe, the author was worn out and couldn't continue. While I certainly remember thinking the article was interesting, I didn't give it much thought. After the past two days, though, I'm remembering that article more than ever.

For a parent, I'm not old and I'm not young — I'm 29 — but I keep having the thought that I'm way too old for this. Tuesdays are Stacey's long days, which means I get up with Connor and I put him to bed. I'm with him all day, which is fine, it's just tiring. (It's probably worse for Stacey, though, since she doesn't see Connor from Monday night until Wednesday night...she's tired and depressed.) After two straight days of being on our own (the house is still standing, thank you) I'm pooped. I almost fell asleep several times this afternoon, but everytime my eyes would close, I'd feel hot, "hungry" breath in my face and Connor would say "boo!" It's a good thing he's so attentive, though...I don't need to be dozing while he's sneaking around dunking his hand in the toilet (which he does all the time) or finding his mom's underwear drawer and running around the house in his new "panty hat," even though that really cracks me up.

Yesterday when I was changing his diaper, Connor kicked his leg suddenly and a nice lump of poo rolled down off the bed where we change him, hit my leg and plopped down on the floor like an especially nasty scoop of ice cream. It's not the big things, like meltdowns in public places or the temper tantrums in the den that make this job so hard — it's the poop...next to my foot...on the floor.

Sheesh.

Made in America

Slam them if you like — I often do — but we (my family, not necessarily yours) would be screwed without Wal-Mart. Let me first say that I hate the amount of land that their buildings take up, I hate that they frequently vacate older buildings and refuse to sublet the empty property to another retailer, I hate their buildings' design, I hate the documented disparity in pay (and opportunity) between male and female employees, and I especially hate their corporate philosophy of obnoxious, overblown American pride. I love this country, too, but come on!

But, with all that said, Wal-Mart, by far, has the cheapest prices of anyone. Sure, I would rather support small, locally owned retail outlets, but when you're living on a very limited budget it's impossible to do so. Plus, when you add dragging around a kid into the mix, making several stops when you could just make one suddenly seems quite illogical. So, can you guess where Connor and I went today? Yup, the bank...and the recycling drop-off...and the post office...and, of course, the fandangulous stupendorific Wal-Mart SuperCenter.

I just realized that I forgot to mention the most important function of Wal-Mart in our lives: recreation. We have no shopping mall here in town, we have few parks and our neighborhood isn't exactly pedestrian friendly. So, when we're feeling cooped up, we head to the wonderful aisles of America's retail bo-whemoth. Connor gets to run his brains out, and I try to keep him from getting run over by frantic shoppers racing through the store like Richard Petty (who are often dressed like him, to boot). Good times, good times.

We were racing through one aisle when Connor stopped and asked to be picked up. (Opp? Opp? Opp?) Right about then, a man, probably in his 50s walked past us and Connor stared at him. Usually men won't even acknowledge little kids in public (seriously), but this guy smiled and said "hey, little buddy." Connor looked at him blankly, and I said, "Crazy man," because that's one of the names I call Connor sometimes. (If you'd seen him tearing through the store, you'd understand). I'm pretty sure the guy thought I was talking about him, though, (right to his face, even) because he gave me a look and walked off without saying anything else. It was all I could do not to laugh as he hustled off. (I may be a jerk, but I'm not the kind of jerk to openly intimidate people for talking to my kid — give me some credit; I'm much more passive-aggressive than that.)

So, we went back to playing with Wal-Mart's stuff, and ended up spending a grand total of about $3. Three bucks for an hour spent exhausting Connor in an air-conditioned building? I'll take that any day.

There IS a doctor in the house!

Back at home...well the home we're renting for the year, at least. We spent the weekend and all of today scattered throughout the Southeast. Connor was at his grandparents' house, I was working at my on-again off-again job in Atlanta and Stacey was in Alabama defending her dissertation – successfully, I might add.

So, at long last, we now have a doctor (unofficially, of course, until she graduates next spring) in the house. She's not technically/legally/actually a doctor but most graduate students can call themselves such once they've defended. We're probably going to get our checks changed to read "Mr. and Dr. Davis." How cool would that be? I could be Mr. Dr. Davis since I'm already Mr. Mom, right?

We drove back home in the dark tonight, giving Connor a glimpse of the world without sunlight for probably the first time since we took him home from the hospital at three days old. Stacey brought her laptop and they watched the Once Upon a Potty DVD while I drove. Nothing like watching animated kids pooping to make a trip go by faster, don't you think? (Especially with a doctor overseeing the viewing.)

I should also mention that Connor's Grammy was foolish enough to buy him a training potty that we can record special messages on that will play when he "flushes." Oh, the possibilities!

It's a man's world

Yessirree. There's nothing like working on a car early in the day to make a man feel like a, um, man — even if it was just a minor job.

At 7:30 this morning, I got a call on my cell from Stacey (not a good sign as she doesn't call that early because I'm usually still asleep — ha ha, all you working suckers!). She told me she had a flat tire and needed me to come change it. We have AAA, but they told her it would be at least 45 minutes to an hour before they could arrive and she's never wanted to learn how to change a flat since we have roadside service anyway. Besides, she was wearing nice clothes, and I'm already a dirtbag anyway. So, faced with no other choice (I am the MAN after all, dammit!) I woke Connor up and drove to meet her, about ten minutes away. She played with Connor while I got down and dirty with the spare. Kudos to Volkswagen on the full-sized spare, by the way. Very cool.

With that super exciting event behind us, later on, we went into downtown to do a little (a very little) banking and stop off at the playground nearby (no wasted trips). As we pulled up, I saw a group of probably ten parents and twenty-five kids near the playground. Since we've only seen about ten people total in the five (or so) times we've been there, it was a little bit of a shock. I figured it was probably a group that had reserved the space for some kind of event. But, knowing that a little playground reservation never stopped my dad back in the day, I decided to stop anyway. What's the worst they could do? Ask us to leave? That's certainly happened to me plenty in my life (bowling alleys, amusment parks, etc — although that was usually with a group of obnoxious friends). If I can ever manage to teach Connor to cry on command, though, I doubt anyone would have the heart to kick us out. I gotta work on that.

It turns out that the group was just a bunch of homeschool parents and kids. I assumed this because the kids were all school-aged, it was during school hours and they were all a little "off," if you know what I mean. (I'm sure homeschool is a great option for some people, but all the kids I've known that went through it for any significant amount of time were all a little maladjusted.)

But, there was one other parent at the playground that wasn't with the group — a black guy, not that his race matters...it's just that it was this young black guy and a bunch of older, overweight white women. He was on the playground, they were huddled in the shade. This guy looked incredibly relieved when Connor and I showed up. (Hey, somebody to take the focus off of me, and it's another dad!!) Our kids played together, we talked a little bit, and I listened to the two pre-teen girls nearby talking about how insulted they felt by the term "tween."

Fun day.

"They're coming to take me away, ha ha"

I can't quite figure out why, but when I take Connor out in public, just the two of us, I feel a little weird. For example, the first day we went to a playground by ourselves after moving here, I felt like either the cops were going to come to see what I was doing with this kid or that I would be asked to leave the premises because I was disturbing the other families. Maybe this feeling stems from my awareness that I don't look like most moms (I've got a full sleeve of tattoos and I wear camouflage a lot...and I'm a dude), but I'm more inclined to believe that it has something to do with me jumping in headfirst as the primary parent after being in much more of a supporting role for the last 15-plus months. I guess I'll have to get used to it, though I have gotten some strange looks.

Today, Connor and I drove to the vet to pick up heartworm medicine for our dog, Murphy. Being that we live in the boonies, the vet happens to be about 30 minutes away. The trip up was fine (windows down, Soul Coughing on the iPod), but on the way back (after a 30-minute MapQuest-sponsored detour and a 45-minute diversion at the local mall to give Mr. Restless a chance to stretch his legs and rest his lungs) we hit a rough patch. Connor was already pretty miffed at having spent a large portion of his waking time in a carseat when we hit a painful stretch of bumper-to-bumper traffic on the interstate — which just doesn't happen here. We were only a mile-and-a-quarter from our exit, but we were crawling along and he was not happy about it. At about this time, I was desperately wishing for a privacy screen like a limousine would have, that I could put up between the front and back seat because he was hollering like a madman. Cookies? No thanks. Juice? No way Toys? They were flung at the back of my head instantaneously.

But, we finally made it home, not too worse for the wear, had a snack, Connor announced he had a "pooper" (and immediately made good on his promise) and all was right with the world again...and not a moment too soon.

"We were never even IN aisle seven!"

Today, we made the trek out of the house to visit Stacey for lunch and pick up a few essentials at the Bi-Lo near campus that's just waaaay too into showing school spirit. (everything from to the grocery carts to the sign outside and even the employees are covered in orange). I've run some errands with Connor before, but this was my first time in a grocery store with him. I set him down once we got inside and he ran his brains out with this devilish smile on his face (he looked like a demonic Calvin with about a hundred different versions of "Hobbes" all around — tigers, ya know?)

Apparently, he seemed to think that the grocery store was his own personal toy chest — albeit one of magnificent proportions in comparison to his toybox back home. He was into everything he either isn't allowed to play with at the house (plungers, cleaning supplies, etc) or doesn't have access to (anything that costs more than $5, basically). Like most kids, I'm sure, Connor would much rather play with a measuring cup or a calculator than the actual toys that he has, no matter how many lights or whistles they might have. But, that hasn't stopped us from acquiring an army of building blocks, toy cars, or even the Little Tikes golf clubs that he likes to swing at our heads when he's mad. Sure, he'll play with his toys when faced with no other alternative, but when he gets resourceful enough, he'll dig up some Tupperware or sheet pan to tide him over. (It's sad, really, watching him try to score some pots or an empty pitcher.)

If a toy manufacturer tried to pass a common, household object off as a toy, nobody would buy it even though every one of them (who is a parent) knows that kids don't really want actual toys. They want what we're using. Proof? Connor has his own set of keys (unmade blanks and a few trinkets on a key ring) but he wants our keys instead, and he can definitely tell the difference. If I thought I could package random crap as toys and parents would actually buy them, don't think I wouldn't have tried that business venture already. (Hmmm, might the bag of glass be the first product?)

Covering New Ground

Today was a day that I've been waiting for ever since I got a copy of the local school system's schedule. Labor Day means no class, and no class means no students (it also means a night filled with Pabst Blue Ribbon and Mama's Family re-runs, but that's not the kind of "no class" to which I'm referring).

Since school was out today, I took Connor to the elementary school that's really close to our house to play on the playground. With the dire shortage of nearby playgrounds, we seize any opportunity for new discoveries we can get — especially ones close by since gas is so expensive right now.

So, with that said, we once again return to the latest installment of Carter's playground ratings.


On a scale of 1-10:
Overall quality of playground: 8/10 — The school district can't have ramshackle, wobbly play equipment for its children, so you can expect everything on this playground to be nice and safe — except that Connor managed to cut his lip and get a mild black eye. It was my fault for waiting in the car while he played, I guess.

Type of substance on the play surface: 9/10 — THIS is what I'm talking about. Cedar chips underfoot is one of the very best substances to put on a playground. It is soft enough that, should a kid fall, it wont cause scraped knees, but it provides a surface that's plenty hard for hardcore playing...HARDCORE!

Amount of shade: 1/10 — Okay, this one I can't really gripe too much about because this is a school playground. Nothing wears kids out better than a mid-day bake on a solar panel of a playground. Not what I prefer, but then again, I'm only keeping up with one kid, not twenty-three.

Cleanliness: 8/10 — Used "freeze ice" tubes and "Good Job" stickers were blowing around a bit, but overall, the area was pretty clean. I didn't see any half-buried poop anywhere.

Extras: 5/10 — Yeah, it's a school playground. "You will play hard, get very tired and be quiet for the rest of the day," is pretty much the goal of this space. But, come next school holiday, we will be going back.

Crossing Over

Ladies and Gentlemen, (and perverts who are reading a blog about a boy and his dad)

It is official. I am the coolest human being on the planet...at least to my nearly 16-month-old son — oh, and those Ewoks over in Endor who think I'm a god or something. Anyhow, Connor now prefers me, Father Knows Best himself, over everyone else that we've met thus far. But, were we to happen upon the giant purple one himself (that'd be Barney for those of you either lucky enough to have avoided him or those who have been COMATOSE for the last 15 years), I'm sure he'd trade me in faster than he can say "pooper," (which he's all about these days). But, for the time being, I'm #1. I'm #1. I'm...sorry, got carried away.

When he falls down and scrapes his knee, who does he want? Daddy.
When he's tired and is ready for his nap, who does he cry for? Say it with me: Daddy.
When he wakes up in the morning, whose name is the first (and only) one out of his mouth? Everybody together now: Daddy!

(Wow, that was kind of like a crappy (pun most definitely intended) non-rhyming version of the diahhrea song that I'm positive Connor will someday learn and torment us with mercilessly.)

Stacey's taking it pretty hard, but he is glad to see her when she gets home...well, her or her keys, we're still not sure which one of them he enjoys playing with more. Nana and Papa came out today, and though Connor had fun, I couldn't get very far away before he started to panic, becoming inconsolable until I returned. Earlier in the week, Grammy came out, and, once again, though Connor had a blast (what kid doesn't love a grandmother who ALWAYS comes bearing the coolest of gifts?), he still stayed really close to me.

I must say that I am really enjoying this phase where Connor wants me around all the time. It's sweet and a lot of dads probably never get this, because they're out earning money, and spending money, and meeting people, and...wait, where was I going with this?

I guess I'd better enjoy it now because when I make him start washing my car next month, I'll probably get knocked down a peg or two. Ya think? Oh well, It's pretty cool stuff for a guy who used to wear this T-shirt: