Resting in peace

Holey moley, whatta long day.

Yesterday, as I mentioned, Connor and I made the hour-and-ten-minutes drive to the suburbs of Atlanta so that I could spend today working at my very part-time job and he could spend the day playing — but not with me, unfortunately. I got up this morning at 6 a.m. (which is unheard of for me these days, and quite unpleasant, I might add) to get to work by 7. At 3:30, my ears ringing from working in a warehouse that tends to sound like jets are taking off inside it, I headed out at the end of my eight-hour shift, ready to pick Connor up and make the hour-and-ten-minutes drive back home. We got on the road by 4:20, and anyone familiar with Atlanta traffic knows that this time of day usually means the interstates are clogged worse than Chris Farley's arteries. But, we managed to avoid the worst of it, and our car's wheels never came to a complete stop. A small victory, I suppose.

At the end of this very long day, I'm struck by how little I miss working. Having only a few hours to yourself at the end of the day? Bah humbug. That doesn't seem so appealing to me right now, especially since I'm sure I'd feel compelled to spend every free moment with Connor and totally neglect myself...much like the his mother is doing now.

Road Trip!

Connor is a little more than a year and a half old, and today was the very first time I took a trip longer than 20 minutes with him by myself. It's not that I haven't wanted to take him out of town with me, it's that lil' dude has a very protective mother hen who has probably pulled out two-thirds of her hair by now.

I can't say I blame her, but when Connor was about a month old, Stacey took him away from me for a week, and repeated the process several times throughout his infancy. "It's different," she says. "I'm his mom," she says. "You just don't understand," she says. "I'm sorry but I think capri pants are cute," she says...sorry, off topic.

We're going to be out of her sight for about 36 hours — not exactly enough time to really test her endurance, but enough to make her upset at having to be at work. Our trip just so happens to have coincided with her late night (Tuesday - a day during which she wouldn't see him anyway). Plus, we'll be back by the time she gets home from work on Wednesday. Aside from having to sleep by herself (which she apparently thinks she does every night judging by the ever decreasing amount of mattress real estate I'm allowed at night), she won't even know we're gone.

But, that didn't stop her from becoming a total wreck last night, just thinking about her little man (that's not me, by the way) being in a different town. I hope she adjusts to the idea, though, because Connor and I have a month-long backpacking trip in Europe planned for this summer. Seriously, who wouldn't pick up a guy with a toddler?

The long and winding road

When I was a kid, in order to entertain myself on long car trips, I had to get creative. No mindless entertainment for me. Nosireee, pardnah.

"You want fun? Make your own!"

My brothers and I each had a red toolbox with our names painted on the end and were allowed to bring whatever we could fit in the smallish wooden box with us. This usually meant a cramming in a few G.I. Joe figures, a Head-To-Head Football game, and probably some crappy Christian rock tapes — and being the only kid of music I was allowed to own, I didn't care how bad it was. Back then, just about all Christian rock was crap...though most of it still is, I guess.

My point with all this is that this weekend we got one of Connor's Christmas presents about a month early. Judging by the picture I've included, can you possibly guess what it is?

Stacey and I had a few discussions about whether we wanted to head down the road of watching DVDs in the car or try to sidestep it entirely. Even if we hadn't decided that it was okay, I think the exhuberance of certain grandparents might have won out anyway. Glad we were able to agree and avoid a messy situation.

Last night, on our way back home from Atlanta, Connor watched a bit of Baby Einstein and a whole lotta Barney. Now that I've seen the possiblities, though, (Stacey and I watched Napoleon Dynamite in bed last night before falling asleep) I'm glad we caved. Connor hasn't gotten used to the headphones, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna hook the DVD player up to the car's stereo...unless Stacey's driving and me and my boy are watching Batman Begins.

This just in...

In light of the thanking, giving, eating, sleeping, burping, lazing, farting and even more sleeping that will surely be taking place during the rest of this week, I am giving myself a brief hiatus from this albatross. Know this, though: I am spending the next couple o' days in a house with a rabbit-ear-free TV, high-speed Internerd, more food than I could eat in a week and people with whom I'll have to fight just to have some time with my boy. I swear they love him damn near as much as I do.

See you next week.

I can see it now...

I had a vision today of my future — or my future with Connor. Care to have a glimpse?

-"...but, Dad...I don't want to listen to my music loud. It hurts my ears."
-"You'll turn that stereo up or I'll turn it up for you, and you don't want that."
-"Fine, but don't expect me to listen to anything but lite FM radio."
-"Oh, no you won't. You'll take this Slayer record and turn it the hell up. And while you're at it, untuck your shirt — actually, just take it off. Abercrombie & Fitch? Puh-leeze. And stop parting your hair so neatly. Do you want to get beat up, or worse, lumped in with the popular people?"
-"Forget it, Dad. I like looking like this. You and your friends scare people anyway. Why would I want to look like I'm homeless?"
-"Whatever, just turn up the radio and make yourself look presentable. By the way, are you ever gonna get sent to in-school suspension? I haven't gotten any calls from your teachers. Are you even my kid?"

Off Track

For those of you without kids, I'll clue you in to one of the hardest things about raising a lil' one: the unpredictable schedule is, far and away, the worst thing about my day. (Good problem to have, I guess.)

Most days, Connor adheres religiously to his 10 a.m.-11:30 a.m. nap and 2:30 p.m.-4 p.m. nap schedule, with little variation. But, on some days (can you guess which one we had today) he's off the map. Actually, today's schedule was a direct byproduct of our stream of visitors this weekend and too little sleep as a result.

Sure, the morning went routinely enough. Connor was up by 7:45 a.m. (a touch early, but not out of character), and we were watching Calliou by 8:30. By 9:30, he was showing signs of needing a nap (temper flare ups, projectiles flung my way, coherent cursing), so we headed upstairs to begin the settling down process of getting him to sleep. (ie. changing the diaper, reading Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb for the gazillionth time, etc). By 11:30, sure enough, he was up and ready to go, a filled diaper his payment to me for letting him catch up on some sleep.

We ate lunch and played around the house, since it was pretty gloomy out today and I didn't feel like making the 20-minute trip to the dry confines of Wal-Mart or the 30-minute trip to the mall.

By 1:45, he was once again starting to act like he needed some sleep, so we started the ritual that I could now easily perform blindfolded and under heavy sedation and had him in his crib by 2.

"Great," I thought. "I've got an hour-and-a-half to fold some clothes, clean up a bit and maybe check some e-mail and see what's going on in the world today."

Three-and-a-half hours later, the beast awoke from his deep sleep. Let me repeat that: three-and-a-half hours later...

Had I known when I put him down at 2 that I would have until 5:30 to myself, I'm sure I would have spent it more wisely. Ya know, I haven't watched Napoleon Dynamite in a while.

Monsters, Inc.

After a trial run two months ago — meaning that we had a very observant grandmother functioning in a supervisory capacity — Connor and I made our first solo trip to the doctor's office today. Connor is still alive and I don't think our insurance company has dropped us, so I think we did alright. It helps that the 18-month checkup requires no shots, though Connor didn't know that, and he acted like he could see the needles coming for him the entire time we were there.

As soon as the doctor entered the exam room, Connor began Operation Freakout. He wasn't exactly pleased when she started poking him with her stethoscope, or any of the other tools she used. He didn't think she was funny and didn't think I was being protective enough, because he kept looking at me with an expression that said, "you can see what this witch is doing to me, right? Halp!"

Snot was running down his nose, he was clutching on to me like he was on top of the Empire State Building and had decided not to jump at the very last moment, and he had a convulsive kind of crying happening. It wasn't one of his prettier moments. I kept telling the doctor that I could just hold him down and let her do her thing so it would be over quicker, but she kept trying to connect with him and entertain him.

"Doc, I'm not talkin' Abu Ghraib-style torture here, but holding him down might help a little, don't ya think?"

Once she finished working him over, he clawed his way out of my arms and ran to the opposite corner of the room, his back against the wall and his arms spread out against the arm, looking very desperate for an escape. After about two minutes of chit-chat between the doctor and myself, he cracked a wicked little smile. I'm not sure if he realized that the shots weren't coming, or thought he was Hulk enough to shatter any needles that tried to puncture his skin, but he looked like a wild man.

I swear he winked at me.

The secret lives of dads

Yesterday morning, I was doing laundry, folding bibs and tiny items of clothing as per my job description requires. Several hours later, though, I found myself in a very different atmosphere. I was here, gettin' my rock on and crackin' skulls.

Actually, my good friend Matt, who I've known for more than ten years I think, called me on Sunday to tell me that his band was going to be in my neck of the woods and that I should come out and hang. I don't get to see Matt (that's him in the center of the picture, airborne, legs splayed) very often so I jumped at the chance...once I secured a babysitter, since Tuesday nights are Stacey's late nights and I couldn't have made the show in time otherwise. Although I do like Matt's band, it was more about connecting with an old friend than going to a concert.

Five years ago, I wouldn't have thought twice about heading out to see a show. No commitments, no babies, no problem. Now, though, it feels like I've gotta work like a hyperactive badger in order to get all my ducks in a row to leave the house without Connor for more than a run to the trash dump. I'm not complaining, just noticing how different life is with several key commitments. (For the record, my Home Ec teacher in high school was totally wrong...parenting is nothing like carrying an egg around. I'm just sayin'.)

For a night, at least, I was back in my old life — loitering at a smelly rock club with friends, being out of the house past 10 p.m. (the horror!) and debating the worth of every band on the planet. It was fun, but I wasn't exactly ready to trade in my "new" life.

Once I got home, and after attempting to throw together a coherent blog entry, I slid into bed at 2:15 a.m., tired from a long day, but glad that I had made the time to meet up with Matt. I think our next great father-son musical experiment will be with Matt's band. With cover art like this, how could Connor not like it?

Deep Thoughts

Since it is nearly 2 a.m. on Tuesday night/Wedesday morning, I am in no mood for a lengthy entry tonight. Instead, I will leave you with a few observations, taken during my brief road trip this evening. (More on the trip tonight/tomorrow night, dig?)

-It's best to remember that, when driving alone, you don't need to point out the cows to the nonexistent toddler, who's not in the backseat, who would otherwise be very interested, but isn't because HE ISN"T BACK THERE. Nor do you need to point out the big trucks, the horses (or "neigh neighs" as Lil' Man calls 'em), or anything else he thinks is cool. You're an adult. You've driven alone plenty of times before. Act like a grownup, for cryin' out loud.

-Whenever you hit an animal attempting to cross the road, make sure it isn't a skunk — lock up your brakes, flip your car, roll down an embankment Fall Guy style...anything to avoid squishing it. I drove past a semi-flat skunk that met just such an unfortunate fate this evening and I could smell it for at least two miles before and after I passed it. I can't imagine how bad the car that actually hit the animal must stink. That stench can melt the enamel off your teeth.

-No matter how fast you drive, there will always be one asshole intent on driving just at least ten miles per hour faster. Don't cop a "you ain't gonna pass me" attitude. Stay away from said speed demon, because he/she — oh, come on, it's always a "he" — is going to die in a flaming wreck sooner or later and will probably take you and three others with him if you don't keep your distance.

That's all I have to say about that. Goodnight.

Remember When?

Let's take a stroll down memory lane shall we? About two years ago at this time, our lives changed forever. Stacey was pregnant — not showing yet, though — and we were beginning to assess our needs...crib, furniture, diapers, know-how, iron maiden...you know, all the routine stuff.

Though it had only been a few months since we'd found out we were gonna be parents to something other than a dog, well-meaning family and friends began the onslaught of offering us the perfect baby name.

"How about Alestair? Venera? Zoe? Moon Unit?"

Alright, so most names were were offered were a little less unconventional than some of these, but everyone seemed to have the perfect name for our kid — even people we didn't know very well — and all felt obliged to share. Thanks but no thanks. "Not to sound difficult, but any name you suggest will be automatically thrown out of consideration. So, unless you want this kid to be named clownpenis.fart, back off and stop naming names before they're all gone."

Rather than call the baby "it" throughout the pregnancy, we decided to call him "Indian Larry," after the motorcycle-riding thug of the same name. Yeah, that's him. Pretty fella, ain't he? This kept us from slipping up and calling the baby "Connor" to family and friends once we decided on that name, plus it was funny for about five minutes, although the joke wore thin (for me at least) pretty quick. Plus, if you wait 'til they're born for the big reveal, nobody will tell you then that you picked a lousy baby name...unless they're a total asshole or you named your kid Moon Unit.

Now that we've got some distance between us and Indian Larry (who fell off his motorcycle and died during a stunt three months after Connor was born) I can almost laugh about it again...the business about the name, that is, not the crash, sicko.

At least we didn't call him "lasagna" like my brother and sister-in-law did with their unborn. Of course, they started affectionately calling her "pumpkin squirrel" after she was born. I'm not sure which was worse.

Aside from it not being funny for more than a day, I was worried that Connor was gonna hear this story one day and think we were idiots for calling him that. Now, however, I realize he's going to think we're idiots either way. I'm cool with that.

Leader of the Pack

I just growled at my dog. I think we've been spending too much time together.

I was sitting at the desk in front of my computer, checking a few websites and getting ready to update this mofo when I decided to indulge myself in a couple of the oatmeal & raisin cookies that Connor's great-grandma (that's Nana to you, bub) made for us today.

I had one cookie in my non-mouse-using hand while I munched on the other when I felt a slight nudge on this cookie-laden hand. I instinctively looked down and Murphy was making his move for it. For a second, I was stunned. He's usually a very well-behaved dog (unless he sees you walking your dog in the park, in which case, he'll turn into a drool-spewing looney — sorry), and to see him moving in on my turf isn't a regular occurence.

I gave him the requisite, "NO" and then growled at him when he didn't retreat fast enough for my liking. It seems that all the freebies that are coming his way now via a very friendly toddler acquaintance ("one for me, two for you") have taught him that he eats first and we take his leftovers. He's gotten so used to taking handouts that he'll eat pretty much anything that comes his way — carrots, bananas, spare change — whereas a few years ago he'd turn his nose up at most anything not up to snuff.

So, I growled at him. He immediately broke his stare and hustled off, his tail between his legs, glancing back at me from across the room with an obviously confused look that said, "What the hell, dad? I wasn't gonna TAKE it. Honest."

Order is restored. The big dog is riding high once again. You want some?

The Final Countdown

Ten reasons why my day was better than yours:


10. Tiny fingerprints all over my glasses. Gunk on my glasses — be it fingerprints, sweat residue, hobo blood — would normally drive me batty, but when I pull the frames off my face and see the teensy smudges, it only makes me laugh...then I promptly clean that crap off, cuz we ain't havin' no dirty specs.

9. Root beer. When I was a kid, the only reason I would drink root beer, was if we stopped for fast food (an all-too rare occurrence in my po' family) and I didn't want my mom asking for a sip or three. It's the only soda we knew of that she wouldn't want. Last week, I discovered that I really like root beer and bought a case at Wal-Mart on Monday. I think a man feels more like a man when he's working out of doors in the springtime if he can have a bottle of root suds.

8. Barney in bed. When Connor woke up from nap #2 so sweaty that I thought he had snuck out of the crib for a quick shower, I knew that it was time to utilize the newly hooked up Playstation2 in our bedroom and watch a Barney DVD, since he was pretty groggy and needed some snuggle time. Being so out of it, he laid next to me for awhile and we watched it together. I can honestly say, that's the first time I actually enjoyed watching Barney...well, almost.

5. Oops, I told you I was bad at math.

4. Stealing from Big Lots. I think he's trying to impress his old man, because today, Connor swiped a knockoff Matchbox car from Big Lots. The kid's got balls; I waited until I was at least four to start lifting stuff. I should probably fess up as his accomplice, though. Connor had been walking around the store with an auto detailing brush he found on one aisle, when he happened upon the tiny toy automobile. Bye bye, brush. Hello, car. It looked like it had been run over by a shopping cart as the roof was all dented in. I figured the store couldn't sell it anyway and it wasn't worth the hassle of trying to distract him to wrangle the car away from him. Score one for the little guy(s).

3. Skateboarding 101. Today, during nap #1, I somehow found a video online of pro skater Reese Forbes demonstrating his monster ollieing ability. (Here, if you're interested.) Connor sat on my lap as I began the process of teaching him how to skate — in theory only. It's a tiny bit different once you actually step on the board. Some dads teach their kids baseball...I'll teach Connor kickflips and power chords, thank you very much.

2. Sleeping like — you got it — a baby. Yeah, I'm a lazy bastard. Each morning, today included, I usually sleep until about 8:00, wake up, check my e-mail and a few important websites while I wait for Connor to wake up. Plus, he usually naps for at least a total of two hours each day, and often more. I'll bet you were working on TPS reports while I was watching Aqua Teen Hunger Force, huh?

1. I'm a dad. Need I say more?

Gray Matters

I suppose spotting the first of what are sure to be many more gray hairs on my head should be a really big deal?

At 29, I've officially earned my stripes as a man. After proving that I can indeed grow a burly mess of a beard this summer, I suppose this was the final frontier. Though I'd thought I noticed a few stray gray hairs in my beard a few months back, I just chalked it up either to bad lighting or poor eyesight. But, since my hair is a reddish mixture of blonde and brown anyway, the lighter hairs aren't as noticeable as they might be were I sporting locks of Spock-black hair.

But, a few weeks ago, when Stacey was cutting my hair, she noticed a few stray grays on my head. I didn't really care, and actually forgot about it until yesterday. I looked in the mirror trying to find them for a few minutes, until I finally saw them, just behind my left ear. "Hmm," I thought. "There they are. Okay...now, what?"

Growing up, I was always convinced I was going to be bald, since everyone I knew who was bald, had a bald grandfather on their mother's side and everyone knows that a man with a bald maternal grandfather is doomed to a follicly challenged adult life. Both of my brothers are dealing with various degrees of hair loss, and I figured it was just a matter of time until mine started retreating as well. God knows I treated my hair poorly enough when I was younger (repeated bleaching/dyeing/stopping after "lather, rinse" and not repeating [gasp!]), and I knew my hair was pissed at me anyway and was ready for any excuse to bolt.

But, have I somehow escaped this fate? Is my hair just beginning its change to autumn a little early?

I guess I'll have to wait a few years to find out, but I do know this: I had no gray hair before Connor was born. But, very shortly after shifting into full-time parent mode, they've begun to sprout. I used to think that the stories about kids making their parents go gray was a silly old wives tale. Now, I'm not so sure.

Unidentified Flying Objects

I feel like I got hit by a train today...

Actually, I did — a three-inch toy train, made out of wood and metal. Right square in the bridge of the nose, too. (Yeah, that's him, right there, officer.) My toes immediately went numb, and I yelled "SHIT" loud enough for Connor to get scared and start crying. I hadn't even seen the projectile coming, and he probably didn't even remember throwing it by that point. My head was pounding, he was inconsolable, and the dog had already bolted for safer ground. Man's best friend, indeed.

We've decided that Connor got his temper from his mom. If he gets the slightest bit frustrated, he flips out and starts tearing shit up. Had he inherited my temper, however, we would have already found his list of people to kill because I like to stew and let things build up to unhealthy levels before acting on them. (By the way, [and you know who you are] I'm coming for you next.)
Since he was crying already, I couldn't get too mad at him, but my head was telling me that there was some serious headaching in my future. After a trip to the bank and grocery store, my head felt like I had two elementary school bullies on either side of me, each digging their ring-finger-knuckle deep into my temples, and I had shooting pains running up the front of my neck into my jawbone. After putting our future UFC warrior down for his afternoon nap, I grabbed some Tylenol and a root beer hoping that the room would stop looking so fuzzy. After watching a little Dogtown & Z-Boys, the headache was just a bad memory. Whew.

While we were getting ready to eat dinner, Connor tossed his bib on the floor before we could strap it on him. Since we use his chair as a way to block off Murphy's food bowl from prying toddler fingers, I crawled under the table to grab it. Coming back, I made a painful misjudgment and cracked the back of my head on the kitchen table. I hit it so hard, in fact, that Connor stopped pitching his minor little fit and looked at me as if I had just farted at a black tie event.

Yeah, the headache is back.

Sweet Relief

Today, while I was putting some laundry away, I noticed that Connor was frantically clawing at something behind my bedside table and mumbling something over and over in a semi-panicked tone. Not seeing anything myself, I pulled the table out a bit and saw my long lost SWISS ARMY KNIFE! Can it be? After several weeks of turning the house upside down, could it really have been inches away from me while I slept? To be honest, I hadn't even looked upstairs at all, since I didn't even remember him having it up there. I had decided it was somewhere downstairs in the den, guest room or porch, since those are our most frequented areas, aside from the yard and car, and I know I never would have let him take anything important into the yard.

He must have remembered hiding it there, because I don't think he could see it — I couldn't. That little turd hid it from me on purpose and was coming back for it. I guess I should probably check under his crib mattress for copies of Playboy or in the back of his pajama drawer for bags of weed, huh?

When I did find the knife, though, I'm sure I looked like Gollum and his precious, because I couldn't stop staring at the knife, while trying to hide it from Connor so he didn't want it back in his hands, lest we repeat this whole process over again.

Job Security

This week marks the beginning of my fourth month as a stay-at-home-dad. According to our original plan (which is subject to change, given our situation next year) I'm one-third (I think...remember, I'm horrendus at math) of the way through with my tour of duty.

So, what have I learned thus far? This "job" kicks ass.

When you see women bitching about how hard it is to be a stay-at-home-parent, know this:the ones who complain about it don't really want to be at home. Don't get me wrong, raising the wee ones is tough work (especially if you're one of those psycho parents who has more than one to keep track of), but we're having a ball, though I suppose I should act like it's the worst job in the world, since Stacey will probably kill me in my sleep so she can cash in the life insurance check and stay home herself. She doesn't really need any encouragement.



Maybe it's because we were blasting the crap out of Licensed to Ill today, or that we found a playground this week that would make the Death Star look small by comparison (yeah, that's it in the photo..."that's no moon!"), but I can't figure out why men are so reticent to stay at home with their kids. If they'd come hang out with us for a few days, I'm sure they'd change their minds.

Beisdes, to me, it makes more sense for the guy to stay home. I've read many accounts of women who, while they love their children and wouldn't mind staying home with them, feel an obligation to enter the workforce. Many ladies burned perfectly good foundation garments for that right. We men have nothing to prove by working. Stay home, dammit.

But, I still have this theory that the women who complain about how hard it is to stay home (again, it is hard work) are part of a plot to cover-up the truth about stay-at-home-parenting: it's fun and they don't want the men to figure it out or they might want to stay home too.

Low Rider

"Excuse me, ma'am? Yeah, I'm talking to you — the one glancing over at me out of the corner of your eye as you tug nervously on your shirt so that it covers your ass crack.

Look, first of all, I'm not the one who told you to buy jeans that show the world your "business" when you lean over too far (either forward or backwards), okay? Secondly, I'm here at the playground with my son to play, not ogle at housewives or troll for a date."


Ever since I found other stay-at-home dads who blog, I've learned that there are a few distinct sects of SAHDs (yeah, that stands for what you think it does...we have our own lingo, suckas!). Some dads are pretty easy going, aware that they are doing what is perceived as a "woman's" job and don't really care. But, there are some that are super militant about the whole deal, harboring feelings of oppression and demanding equal treatment and recognition.

Me? I'm definitely more laid back, but when I see moms at the playground giving me the eye, and noticeably covering themselves up when they see me, it's irritating and helps me understand the feelings of resentment.

What was this gal so afraid of? I know Lifetime told her that men are rapists, murders, child molesters, and basically evil people, but I'm really nice, and my son would like to play with your kid...or wave at her.

Besides, you've got a pretty nice butt.