We're going back...to the future

Ladies, Gentlemen and perverts, I have seen the future, and the future is 16-year-old cheerleaders — well Connor's future, at least. (I can see how that might have caused some confusion. You can stop calling the authorities now.)

This evening, Connor's grandparents took us out for Mexican food (or, as they call it in Mexico — food), and our table was right next to a table of six high school cheerleaders in full-on "cheer gear." Apparently, between determining who was and wasn't a slut (including the classmate who stopped by to say hi) the royal agenda included pretending to make out while they snapped pictures on their camera phones and generally giggling like a group of mental patients on laughing gas. They'd also been glommed onto by two male classmates who happened to be eating there as well. For some reason, these dudes kept eyeing me as if I was staring at their six "dates."

I know it looks bad that I have a lot of details about these ladies, but I wasn't staring, I swear. They were so loud that it would have been impossible not to have noticed these kids' behavior if I had been at home asleep.

The night left me with one distinct thought (well, two if you count my concern at how my body would handle the massive bean burrito I consumed) — I'm not looking forward to Connor's teen years. When I was that age, I kept hearing that it was so much tougher being a teenager than ever, and that I faced more temptations than my parents had ever imagined. Enter into the picture e-mail, instant messaging with video chat, camera phones, the evil that is MySpace, or any of the technological inventions that will put more stress on kids than ever, and the recipe for disaster is multiplied at least one thousand-fold.

For the record, the real recipe for disaster is an Eminem performance at a screening of Brokeback Mountain. Ba-dum-dum.

I feel incredibly grateful to have a boy, because if my daughter was one of those cheerleaders and I knew that there were 100 dudes a day trying to figure out ways to get that cheerleading outfit on their floor, I'd probably pop a fuse, and some skulls too.

Cash Rules Everything Around Me

I have been feeling really guilty lately, and it's time I got something off my chest: I'm a fraud of a stay-at-home dad. Perhaps I've given myself away already, but I have a job — several, actually. In addition to my freelance writing assignments (of which there have been few as I've been a lazy ass — that's technical writer-talk — about pursuing them lately) I also have a very part-time job at a warehouse in suburban Atlanta.

I'm sure there are other stay-at-home parents who do some work on the side from the house (writing, consulting, gambling, cheating on spouses — that's not a wishlist, by the way), but can I really call myself a stay-at-homer (man, that looks dumber than it sounded in my head) if I'm working several days a month outside the house while a family member who is not Connor's mom watches him?

Personally, I think I can, and to justify myself, I've come up with a top-ten list of reasons why I need to work outside the home occasionally.


10. We're broke

9. Our lavish lifestyle of canned food and frozen bean burritos demands it

8. We're broke (so much so, that it merits another mention, I'm afraid)

7. Our landlord flatly refused our generous offer of good karma and jelly beans in lieu of monthly rent

6. The reclusive white people in this corner of the world scare me, and any excuse to get back to being around obnoxious white people for a day or two is fine with me

5. Since I'm kind of a necessary piece of the equation, and going to jail isn't an option anymore, stealing is out

4. Have I mentioned that we're broke?

3. Stacey is a sissy and requires the house to be warmer than the air outside in the winter

2.I've got far too much time on my hands and would much rather spend it in a soul-stealing warehouse that has broken the spirit of everyone who's ever entered its doors

1. Two words: we're broke

Everything I need to know...I learned in the grocery store

It's been said that you learn something new every single day. Today, I learned far more than just one piddly little thing. For your reading enjoyment, I present to you everything I learned today while at Wal-Mart with Connor.

Mama is HOT! (Well, duh!)
We were standing in the checkout line, waiting on a price check for a customer ahead of us in line, when Connor started pointing and saying, "Mama, Mama, Mama." I looked in the direction of his point and saw a magazine with Ashley Judd's face plastered on the cover. That's what I'm talkin' 'bout!

Daddy is HOT! (Houston, we have a problem)
Shortly after Connor understandably mistook Ashley Judd for his mother, he started pointing in the opposite direction saying, "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy." Of course, he's pointing at another magazine, but who do I see on the cover? No, not Stringbean... it was Brad Pitt. I don't want to discount Connor's thinking that his Mama looks like Ashley Judd, but I think we need to get his vision checked.

Tell me something I don't know!
Apparently Sen. Ted Kennedy and Tom Cruise are having a secret love affair and an alien is having their baby. It must be true, because I read it in the paper. If it's in print, it must be true, right?

I rule!
Judging what everyone else had in their carts, I am the healthiest person on the planet. Sure, I eat a little bit of junk food here and there — not to mention my out of control root beer habit — but at least I consume some fruit and vegetables — though mostly in the form of V-8. Sheesh. You wanna see some out of shape people to feel better about your pathetic self? Look no further than Wal-Mart, my friends. The number of people using motorized carts is depressing enough, before you look to see what they're buying. Mmmm, Fritos, sausage and Coke for dinner...uh, or breakfast?

-Since the intent of this post was to discuss everything I learned at Wal-Mart, I am strictly prohibited from writing about Connor's out-of-nowhere 104 degree fever this afternoon. He's fine now, but I think Stacey could use some Diazepam.

TV Party

It's no secret that intelligently written television programs have a difficult time garnering much of an audience. (Look at Arrested Development, probably the smartest show on TV, which was unceremonously cancelled after just two-and-a-half seasons several weeks ago or News Radio which NBC shuffled around more than a deck of cards in Vegas.)

Another program that makes me feel intellectually superior when I watch it is Scrubs. Last night's episode was no exception. Since the show airs at 9 p.m., it means I'm usually watching it by myself as Stacey has long since disappeared into the bedroom. It's unfortunate, because last night is an episode I would have liked for us to watch together. Towards the end of the show, there was a scene that really stuck with me and perfectly defined how I feel about Connor. I've included the transcript.

(A little background first: Carla is a nurse, trying for a baby with her husband and was watching Dr. Cox's two-year-old son for a few hours. After her day, she had serious doubts about having kids after all.)

Carla: You don't understand. I didn't dump him on the janitor because I was busy; I dumped him because he was working my last nerve, and I wanted to smush his face. I'm not meant for this.
Dr Cox: Carla, look at me and Jordan. You know how we hate everyone?
Carla: Well, yeah.
Dr. Cox: That goes doubly for children. It's true, they're loud, you can't understand them; they're like tiny cab drivers. But, trust me, when you do have your own kid, you won't feel that way.
Carla: Yeah, why are they different?
Dr. Cox: They're yours... Trust me, Carla. When you do have your own kid, you'll find out you had the courage to be a parent all along.

Of course, the smile on my face was short lived. Right after Scrubs, Law & Order: SVU was about a kidnapped little girl who was being used as a sex slave.

Everybody Poops

Have you ever heard the phrase "it's like trying to cram ten pounds of sand into a five pound bag?" This stupid, cutesy saying is typically associated with trying to accomplish something impossible.

Ten pounds of sand into a five pound bag, you say? Surely not, sir. I've done that math and the equation you speak of is most certainly outside the realm of possibility.

Then would someone please explain to me how it is possible for a certain little boy to eat almost nothing all day and wake up the following morning with more poop in his diaper than he even has room for in his digestive system, had it even been filled to capacity to begin with?

A few hours after we dealt with the scat-splosion, I noticed a little redness on Connor's "boyhood." Apparently, I hadn't gotten every single remnant of the waste matter off of him when I cleaned him (despite using a stack of Wet Wipes, some steel wool and a pressure washer). The resulting rash probably gave the same sensation as wearing a barbed-wire thong.

Worst. Dad. Ever

Crack Kills

THERE'S A LEAK IN THE WHITE [TRIMMED] HOUSE! Well, until today there was, at least.

It seems the plumbing in the house we're living in isn't quite, how do you say, working? The downstairs toilet sprays water every time its flushed, the upstairs sink dripped constantly so we just shut its water supply off, and the downstairs shower leaks so much I think less water comes out when the shower is actually on. In that light, we had ourselves a visit from a plumber today to fix all of the aforementioned problems.

In my defense, I could have at least fixed the toilet, but the shutoff valve was so stripped I couldn't turn the water off and didn't know where our shutoff valve outside the house was located.

When the plumber arrived (sans drooping pants, I'm sad to report) I had to do a doubletake. I admit that I may have lost a bit of my credibility last week when I claimed that Connor and I hung out with Burt Reynolds, but I swear that today our plumber was Tim Conway. (It could have been ex-Enron CEO Kenneth Lay — he could use the cash — but I'm pretty sure he's gettin' poked in the pokey.) It was either that or an unemployed Tim Conway impersonator because, let's be honest, the world's funniest man (I'm dead serious) hasn't done much since the Dorf videos.

Okay, so you don't believe me. Let's move on.

It's a safe bet that the dude who built this house (I'm pretty sure it was a weekend warrior project) was not working from any blueprints. The stairs are uneven, the walls don't always meet where you'd think they should, none of the plumbing fixtures resemble anything our plumber had ever seen before, there are visible seams at the drywall joints, the screened-in porch blocks half of a den window...you get my point. It's a kickass vacation house for those certain sick individuals who call themselves fishermen, but it wasn't built for everyday occupation.

We should have known that what promised to be an in-and-out fix-it job turned into a six-hour plumb-a-thon. The leaky shower faucet was either an incredibly outdated piece of equipment, or the guy who built the house made it from scratch. The plumber couldn't find any parts to fix it with (despite leaving to check out several different supply sources during the day), so he had to install a completely new faucet. It wouldn't be a problem if the house had been built from blueprints that had been drawn with the knowledge that people MIGHT ACTUALLY NEED TO WORK ON THE HOUSE AT SOME POINT.

After cutting a 16"x16" hole in our laundry room and filling the entire house with the wonderful aroma of brain-numbing plumbing glue, we had a sparkly new shower faucet. After all that work, I didn't feel like telling them about the sink upstairs. Besides, that's the sink nearest where I change Connor's poop diapers. Who needs to wash their hands after that?

Eureka!

Wow, how do I follow up a story about hanging out with Burt Reynolds and the cops? Should I mention that today I hung out with Rick Moranis and the guy who was Brendan Fraser’s stunt double in the movie Airheads?

P'raps not.

I think I’ll instead talk about how my brilliant wife cut my daily workload in half by spending $1.50 that I probably would have been to cheap to part with.

We live in a house with no dishwasher — well, I guess I count as the dishwasher part of the time — so Stacey had a brainstorm and bought paper plates this week. I realized yesterday that if we ate all solid foods (no soups) I would only have flatware and cups to wash, so you can probably guess what Connor and I have been eating the past few days. (I’ve been attempting to figure out how to make a bowl out of a paper plate using a rubber band, a tennis ball, some spray adhesive, a popsicle stick, and a little glitter — to make it pretty, of course. Stay posted.)

While it might not exactly qualify for “stroke of genius” type thinking, the thought to use disposable dishes never occurred to me for some reason. I suppose that's why she's out earning a paycheck while I'm at home with our offspring.

With all the spare time I’ve picked up, I’ve gotten a little bit closer to beating the latest PS2 game I’ve immersed myself in, learned how to play most of Lamb of God’s “Hourglass,” and taught myself how to yodel.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to stop by the hospital and pick up some paper clothes.

All in a Day

This morning started out just like any other day. Connor woke up around eight-ish, played in bed for awhile until I got around to getting him up for breakfast, and was pretty much his usual happy self. A few hours later, I'd be asking myself where my normal day went.

Since we hadn't gone anywhere together in a while ('cept for lunch with Stacey and a trip to Home Depot the day prior) I decided that we'd go to the playground to kill some time, brain cells and maybe even a little energy. While we were playing (okay, he was playing; I was making a half-assed attempt to look interested) we heard a loud screeching noise followed by what sounded like someone was using a giant hammer to smash my car. Close. It was a pretty bad t-bone + multiple rear-ender wreck on the road next to the playground involving five cars. (One pulled out in front of a line of cars, thus causing the massive pile up.)

The t-boned car was instantly flipped over on its roof due to the energy disspated into its frame from the violent collision. With each subsequent rear-ending of the car that had initially plowed into the first vehicle (you following this at all?) the flipped car got pushed further to the side of the road. When the last car smashed into the line of already crashed cars (this took about four seconds, by the way) the upturned car slid down the hill that separated the playground from the street. I mentioned that we were on the playground, right?

I grabbed Connor out of the swing, and fled for higher ground, even though we had plenty of time to escape as the car was sliding pretty slowly down the muddy embankment. Once the cops arrived, which was all of 45 seconds later since there's a substation just down the street, they weren't as interested in how we were as I thought they might be (maybe it was because the flipped car that was now wedged underneath the jungle gym was leaking gasoline and there were still people inside, but they did want to know exactly what I saw once they finally secured the situation — which took about an hour.

While we waited in one of the six ambulances that also arrived on scene I tried to keep Connor amused by bandaging my head like a mummy and wrapping his entire body in an Ace bandage. (They didn't have any fake blood capsules, that I could find, so I was limited in my entertainment possibilities.)

I couldn't help noticing that one of the EMTs looked really familiar, but I couldn't place him. After not-so-subtley staring at him, it hit me, though it didn't make much sense as to why BURT REYNOLDS (yes, the Bandit himself) would be working as an EMT in northwest South Carolina. He had a pretty rocking beard going on and a different toupee than usual, so most people probably wouldn't have recognized him, but I had an entire hour, unabated, to sit and try and figure out why this guy looked familiar to me.

I guess the look of relief on my face suggested that I had indeed discovered his secret identity. He laughed and walked over to us.

"You're wondering what the hell I'm doing here, huh?"

Yeah, that went without saying. As it turns out, he was researching an upcoming movie role set in very rural America and figured the best way to see low income people at their most honest was to hang out with EMTs and cops. He started talking to me about our experience here. I assumed that when he found out I was from Atlanta and had only lived here for a few months, he'd lose interest. But, our experience seemed like just what he was looking for — that being the culture shock we'd experienced at suddently being uprooted from somewhat urban surroundings and then moving out into the woods surrounded by a bunch of reclusive whiteys.

Once the cops had my statment, I thought it would be best if Connor and I headed home. Apparently Burt (that's what he told me to call him) thought the same thing and tagged along to see our place.

After showing him around (it took all of six seconds as you can see just about everything from the den), I excused myself to put Connor down for a nap. Before I could put him down, though, someone banged on the front door.

As I answered it, I saw a very irate police officer and four cop cars, two ambulances and a fire truck parked about 100 yards away from our house. Apparently, the propane tank of the trailer next door had just ruptured and was in danger of exploding. I grabbed Murphy (the dog) and Burt, Connor, Murphy and I all jumped into the waiting ambulance, as we were ordered to do by the barking officer at my door. As we pulled away, I heard a loud boom and I saw a fireball burst from our neighbors front yard, splintering his trailer. I couldn't see our house, so I had no clue what had happened to it.

Once the police had secured the area (which took about three hours) they told me I could return to our house. Keep in mind, I've been hanging out with Burt Reynolds this entire time. To make me feel better he kept calling his friends — Terry Bradshaw, Johnny Knoxville and Hugh Hefner, among them — and making them talk to me. It was a surreal way to pass the time.

The house, aside from a few missing vinyl siding pieces was okay, so Burt called his acting coach, who was staying in a hotel 30 minutes away, to come pick him up. After giving him some feedback on his most recent film role ("Dude, Dukes of Hazzard? Are you kidding me? You're the BANDIT for cryin' out loud!"), he left.

He said he'd call me with some more questions about our life out here. Plus, his grandson lives nearby in North Carolina and he wants to get a tattoo. I guess mine were as good as any he'd seen, so he wanted me to take his grandson to get tatted. Uh, okay.

Yep, just a regular old day in the life of a stay-at-home dad. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Word Nerd

Tonight, I'm going to tackle a topic I've been considering writing about for awhile — that being language and how it may or may not affect my little boy.

I've had a few discussions with family members and friends about the types of words we use around Connor. Mostly, these chats have revolved around me defending my views. When it comes to words that some perceive as "cursed" there's no reasoning with some people.

At 20 months, Connor has heard probably every curse word there is — though not every day and not with great frequency. If I crack my head on the car door or bend my fingernail back putting my shoes on, you can bet that I'm gonna let an "worty dird" fly. (Once, we were in Wal-Mart and Connor started shouting, "Oh shit, oh shit," really loudly, though you'd have had to really know what he was saying to have understood it.)

Words have only the power that YOU give them. When I was in middle school, I never understood why I got sent to detention for saying "shit," but not "crap." These words mean the exact same thing. Same with "damn" and "dang," unless you're condemning someone to Hell, in which case doesn't "condemn" mean the same thing? Plus, in the early 1900s, words such as "dang" and "shoot" were considered curse words. (My mother — a non-curser if ever there was one — says "shoot.") Is anyone really sanitizing their speech by using replacement curse words?

Maybe I'll feel differently when Connor is calling me from school to tell me that he got caught screaming the "f" word 20 times in a row at the top of his lungs at recess (as I did in sixth grade), but I have absolutely no problem teaching Connor that words are words and nothing more. (Yes, I do plan on teaching him that there are certain places where word selection matters more than others.) Do people get put off when they hear a curse word in a foreign language? No, because they have no preconceived notion of what the word means and don't know that they're "supposed" to be offended. Just as the Red Sox nation learned last year, there is no curse.

Please don't take this to mean that I'll going to allow Connor to use every word that has a negative stigma. If I catch anyone using racial slurs in front of him (as a family member did a few weeks back, causing me to freeze and say to myself, "Did I really hear what I thought I just heard?"), I'm going to flip out and hurt somebody.

So, don't give me the speech about how I'm harming my son by swearing in front of him. I'm a writer. I know about words and stuff...uh, dammit.

Moron #1: "How's the weather up there?"

Connor is gonna be a tall dude when he grows up. Whenever I'm out with him, hardly anyone ever correctly guesses his age (currently holding at 20 months), due to his height and slightly accelerated verbal skills. (If he continues to learn at his current pace, I probably wouldn't even be able to help him with his homework by the time he's in second grade.)

For a lady, Stacey is tall (she professes a height of 5' 12"), and I'm somewhere in the neighborhood of 6' 2". Her parents are both tall folks and my dad was taller than I am, so it's a safe bet that Connor will crack the six-foot plateau by the time he's thirteen.

As far as physical traits go (after being able to grow a moustache in seventh grade), being tall seems to be at the top of everyone's list. But, as a tallish guy, let me caution those of you concerned with gaining a little more height. Sure, it's nice not to need a chair to adjust the shower nozzle, but buying clothes can be a bit frustrating.

For Christmas, Stacey bought me a couple of hooded sweatshirts since, of the two I already had, one fit horribly and the other was at least ten years old. Keeping in mind my specific clothing requirements, she bought me two large-tall sweatshirts. One fit perfectly. The cuffs fell just below my wrist and the body didn't fit like a parachute. The other sweatshirt, however, (the same size, mind you) was all out of whack, so I returned it and ordered a replacement. When the replacement arrived (again, a large-tall) it still didn't fit right. So, I returned that one, as well. Instead of ordering another large-tall, I decided to just bite the bullet and order a large-extra tall, costing me an extra $8.

(I'm pretty sure a batch of "large" sweatshirts got mislabeled as "large-tall" at the factory, though the merchant's customer service reps I spoke with on the phone thought this scenario was impossible. "Maybe black runs small," I was told. Yeah right, the same exact sweatshirt, cut from the SAME FABRIC, is sized differently.)

When I win the lottery (that I've never played in my life) the first thing I'm going to do is hire a personal tailor.

Working (Myself) Stiff

I have gotten soft. In my new career as a stay-at-home dad, I've apparently become unable to handle a nine-to-five job (or a seven-to-five, as it's been the past few days...keep reading, you'll understand in a moment).

This week, I've been in Atlanta working at my very part-time job, supervising a project (with six temp workers) that my boss didn't want to handle. This is a project I've helped to complete innumerable times before myself, so I had no doubts about running the show, so to speak. Keep in mind, also, that I worked this same job, in this same department, for this same company from 1995 until 2000, when I followed Stacey to Tuscaloosa, Alabama like a lost puppy. I've worked for them as a "casual" temp ever since, whenever I was in town, or needed some extra cash. To say I'm familiar with the ins and outs of this employment (partially a shipping/receiving job, partially paperwork) would be an insulting understatement. Been there done that.

But, these past few days, I come home (well, to my Mom's house, at least) almost limping because my feet and legs are so tired. The recent uptick in the thermometer hasn't helped much, because warm weather isn't exactly my favorite climate. Tonight, my head was throbbing so hard, I glanced in the mirror half-expecting to see blood spurting out of my head somewhere.

As much noise as I've heard about raising kids being the toughest job in the world, I must confess that I've found many more difficult occupations in my life — or ones I liked least, I should say.

Raised Right

Over the past two nights, I have been engrossed in the new PBS documentary Country Boys, and am preparing to watch the concluding episode tonight. As I've been watching this unbelievably fascinating program, I keep thinking how fortunate I was to have parents that were (somewhat) normal and were always supportive of whatever endeavor I chose to pursue — even though they were less than thrilled at the bones I smashed on a skateboard or with the dirtbags I cavorted with in filthy rock clubs (or the construction equipment I copped to driving in the middle of the night a few posts ago...oops).

Even more importantly, as I'm seeing the stories of Cody and Chris (the two main subjects of the documentary), and the hardships they face with zero help, love and support from their families, I'm struck by how fortunate Connor is to have an overwhelmingly large support group behind him, making sure he has the tools necessary to do whatever makes him happy.

Even if I continually pushed Connor down a lot, while pointing and laughing, or if I took his favorite toys and said to him, "You like this a lot, don't ya?" and then smashed it, I'd be a better parent than the people that gave birth to Cody and Chris. (Cody's parents are dead and Chris' might as well be.)

So, even though I'm realizing how "stellar" some parents can be — and it's really depressing — I think I can lower the bar on my parental skills a bit and Connor would still turn out okay.

Yeah, I think I'll start smoking in the car with the windows up.

Happy Birthday to ME

Most people make a big deal out of their birthdays, but I've never been one to want a big fuss made over me. My birthday is no exception. Despite having had many birthday parties in my life, I can't connect an age with any particular celebration; I'm confident I'll always remember where I was and what I was doing on my 30th — though not because of any supposed milestone I've now achieved or any elements of "childhood" that I'm leaving behind.

Today, for me, was a day not unlike any other thus far in the grand stay-at-home dad experiment. Connor and I played with his trains, we played with his Matchbox cars, we threw poop at the wall (just checking to see if you're paying attention), we ate some animal crackers and graham crackers, we went to the dump (yes, again — it's our new cool spot), and we went to the hiiii-faloootin' Dollar General for necessary supplies.

I can think of no better way to spend a birthday.

Slowing Dooooowwwwwwnnnn

I don't know what the hell happened to me. When I was just a little bit younger, I'd stay out all night with my friends doing dumb stuff, get home when the sun was rising (sometimes I'd mow the lawn before I hit the sack) and have no problem functioning on a few hours of sleep for the rest of the day, most likely repeating the same schedule the following evening. (For the record, there's nothing like driving construction equipment or breaking in to abandoned buildings at 3:30 a.m. to really get the blood pumping. You know what they say — boys will be terrorizing idiot maniacs and do stupid things until they either wise up, die or go to jail.)

Back to our regularly scheduled program...

These days, if I get less than seven hours of shut-eye at night, I'm in trouble the next day, as evidenced by my crash and burn nap of two hours yesterday. Our little family had taken yet another trip to Atlanta over the weekend for Stacey and I to work at our very part-time jobs on Saturday. By Sunday afternoon, once we arrived back at "home" in South Carolina, we were all so tired that my wife, my boy and I all spent the afternoon staring at the back of our eyelids. (I suppose I should probably expect this since I turn 30 on Tuesday.)

By the way, Connor slept for four hours. By hour number three, I was trying to convince myself that he was still in his bed, and that a ninja had not snuck in through his window and made off with the (stinky) booty.

As grumpy as Connor was today, though (still a touch short on sleep, I'm afraid), he managed to enjoy our usual trek out of the house to run a few errands. When Stacey got home, I asked him to tell her where we'd been today. He looked confused for a minute, and then remembered his most favorite place in the whole world. His eyes lit up and he shouted out, "THE DUMP!!"

Yeah, he fits in just fine in this neck of the woods.

Blogging 101

When I first had the notion of starting this blog, I had one goal in mind: to make myself write on a regular basis. I had noticed that my writing skills were beginning to get a bit rusty over the summer since leaving my job as a managing editor of two monthly publications for the land of stay-at-home daddydom, and I knew that I needed some structure to ensure that I didn't lose my touch as the greatest writer to have ever lived. (Can you taste the sarcasm?)

My guidelines were simple: to come up with topics to write about, four days a week, that were somehow related to being a stay-at-home-dad. For non-writers, this might appear to be an easy task, but it's more difficult than it seems. As a professional writer, I have written stories on the driest subjects imaginable (bleeding-edge accounting technologies, the impact of German auto manufacturing on the local economy, the principles of lean manufacturing, et cetera ad nauseum). As a result, I figured I could write about nearly anything. These past several months, I've usually had an idea of what I wanted to write about before I sat down to bang it out on the keyboard, but in a few instances, I didn't really know what to write about until I got started, or erased one or two lead paragraphs.

But, in spite of any writer's block I may have encountered, I always found something to write about and was never forced to cobble together an entry about nothing at all.

Whew. An entry about nothing? Perish the thought...

Beans are neither musical or a fruit...

For those of you who are married or in long-term committed relationsips, I'm sure you already know how different your family is from that of your significant other. But, once you have a child together, those differences, once small and unnoticeable, become much larger issues.

Take, for example, Connor's new favorite song. It's an oldie, but I'm sure all of you know it. I won't delve into the specifics here, but suffice it to say, the consumption of beans and the health of your heart are involved.

A few weeks ago, a well-meaning family member gave Connor a tub of tiny dried beans along with a measuring scoop so he could play with the beans and scoop them in and out of the container. (I say "well-meaning" because these damn beans have been stuck to the bottom of my feet for exactly as long as they've been in the house, but Connor does enjoy making a mess out of them, so I can't really complain.)

Approximately once every day, Connor will decide it's time to play with the beans. Up until last week, he'd just say "beanbeanbeanbean??," until we relented and gave them to him. BUT, after Stacey's dad taught him the aforementioned song about carbohydrates and coronary health, he'll now run up to the container and say, "bean, bean, heart? bean, bean, heart?"

Personally, I was a little miffed. Not that he'd been taught the song, but that I hadn't gotten to teach it to him. Getting back to my original point (finally), Connor probably wouldn't have learned this song from my side of the family. I had to learn it on the bus (the source of most of my worldly knowledge).

On a completely unrelated note, I've been given some grief by a couple of people for getting a wireless rig for my little guitar amp that I keep on a table in our den. After getting it up and running, and playing all over the house, the battery on the transmitter died this morning. (Yeah, I've used it a lot, gimme a break.) With no other choice, I hooked up a cable to my guitar and the amp. What did Connor promptly do? Perhaps the picture below will clue you in.

I'm going to get batteries tomorrow.

Back in the Saddle Again

Much like how I used to feel coming back to work (at a real job) after taking a week, or so, of vacation time, today was all about getting back to reality.

Over the last week-and-a-half, I put Connor down to sleep just once, which was probably the only time I was alone with him. Today, though, we were back together again, trying to get along and not get too out of control. This morning, we trekked into a nearby town to run a few errands and expend some energy at the mall, since the ground was still waterlogged from several days of hard rain. A few hours and several thousand steps later, Connor was practically begging to be put down for his nap, and fell asleep before I could even deposit him into his bed — which never happens.

After putting him down, it was all I could do to keep my eyes open, as well. I foolishly stayed up too late last night playing my guitar, so I was ill prepared for my first day back on the "job."

Whenever I get together with my friends and go skating, I'm always really sore the next day, as my threshold for physical activity decreases with each year of age. I'm sure, after our marathon day today, I'll be tired tomorrow in places where I didn't even know I had places.

As Connor says, "nigh nigh."

Whew

The last week-and-a-half has been a total blur. Perhaps I'll hit the highlights to catch everyone up.

More cool stuff than a dirtbag like me will ever deserve
I can now add a video iPod, a Line6 guitar amp, a Nady wireless rig to go with the amp, and a Swiss Army watch and knife to the list of stuff I won't be able to take along with me when I die. Don't get me wrong, I'm enjoying my new acquisitions, but I can't help but feel incredibly spoiled.

Germs are our new best friends
After Stacey, Connor and I all got sick in the days leading up to Christmas, Stacey still found a way to get sick again during the week. Due to eating an entire jar of Hellman's in one sitting (kidding) she spent all of New Year's Eve eve vomiting and all of New Year's Eve dehydrated and queasy (not kidding).

We're running out of space
In the weeks leading up to Christmas I was more than a little concerned that we were about to be innundated with toys for Connor that would take up precious floorspace in our already cramped home. The verdict? We got less stuff "space-wise" than I feared we might, but Connor still got plenty. A HUGE thanks to those of that bought him smaller items such as DVDs and Matchbox cars. I've already cracked my toe on a toy garage that's taken up residence next to our treadmill.

Family time
I love our families. Absolutely and without question. But, living out of town, and having a one-and-a-half-year-old means that you are in high demand during the holidays — although that's probably only because of the one-and-a-half-year-old...when we were childless and living out of town, nobody gave us the time of day. Each day we were home, we spent it with family in some capacity. It was great to see them all, but retreating to the solace of our very rural backwoods country town that we currently call home was a welcome change for me, at least. I'd be a reclusive, mail bombing hermit if Stacey would let me.

Did I mention that I'm a dirtbag?
Due, in part, to the demands of allocating enough time for our families, I completely neglected my friends last week. Okay, maybe the video iPod and guitar stuff didn't do much to get me out of the house either. At any rate, despite loose plans with several people and intentions to call several others, I completely flaked out on everybody — even people I won't have a chance to see again until next Christmas, and people I have plenty of opportunities to see but pass up the chances because there's always a "next time," so I probably won't see them again until next Christmas either.

No boy
Stacey had been looking forward to last week ever since she started working last August. She had one week, unfettered, to spend with Connor. Sure, we spent a lot of time with family, but Stacey made sure Connor was never more than 10 feet away. She's upstairs right now putting him to bed and saying her goodbyes, because tomorrow the dynamic duo are back together again.

Let the deprogramming begin again!