"Behold A Lady"

It shouldn't surprise me when Connor learns new things. Despite my best efforts to the contrary, he is picking up new information at an overwhelming pace, but everytime he recognizes something new or puts words together in patterns I've never heard him use (that'd be sentences, folks), I can't help but look at him like he's possessed.

"Uh, Connor, how did you know that was a unicycle?...No, I'm not washing my hands and who told you about proper hygiene habits?...No, that's not a transvestite on our lawn."

As it happens pretty much every day, Connor managed to surprise me yet again today when we went to have lunch with Stacey. When we pulled up, we saw a woman crossing the street across from Stacey's office building. Connor looked at her from his carseat and waved.

"Hello, lady," he said charmingly.

To make sure I understood who he was looking at he clarified the situation for me thusly: "Daddy, that's a lady, not Mama. Mama not a lady."

"Hands Clean"

Caveat: This entry is about the poop and nothing but the poop. If you're disinclined to read an ENTIRE entry about doodie, move on, pardner.

--
Over the course of a lifetime, humans will ingest pretty much every people-produced toxin imaginable. While looking online for some stats to back up this claim I actually made myself queasy and had to stop so as not to choke on the FireBall currently nestled in my jaw. Suffice it to say, you've definitely eaten poop and probably much worse (depending on your perogative, of course).

After changing Connor's dung-filled diapers, I can't help but notice that my hands often bear the distinct aroma of digested and expelled food, no matter how careful I careful I am to avoid direct contact — or eye contact, for that matter...that stuff is just bad news. Period. I wash my hands after most changings, but I'm not going to claim that I have a perfect record.

Wiping your hands with a Wet-Wipe is better than nothing, right?!

I have learned that any bad habit I have, I can generally multiply it by ten to get the general average. For example, if I fail to wash my hands after going to the bathroom 25 percent of the time then the average for the general public is much higher. (I'd try to produce a figure for you, but I have no idea what to multiply by ten...amount of trips to the bathroom?...IQ?...body mass?) Bottom line, germs are on everything you touch.

Couple this observation with the concept behind the film Waiting, a movie about the lengths to which people in the foodservice industry (a polite way to say food cooks/servers) will go to ensure that you get your recommended daily allowance of fecal matter, hair of unmentionable origin, and other "ingredients," and you can see why it's inevitible that you're going to ingest something horrid on a daily basis.

With that in mind, I've decided to stop washing my hands entirely. The way I see it, I'm in an environment now that should provide the perfect "training ground" for the outside world — after all, there are no germs like that of a snot-dripping, drool-slinging child. I am going to eat food tainted with Godknowswhat whether I like it or not, so why not start building up a tolerance now?

If I could just do something about the spiders I'll swallow in my sleep...

"When Good Dogs Do Bad Things"

It's amazing how quickly a good day can get turned completely on its head.

This afternoon, when Connor woke up from his nap, I decided we'd play out in the yard for awhile since it had stopped raining. This set Murphy (our dog) into a tailspin — literally. Usually, before I let him out with us, I'll walk up to the top of the driveway and close the gate, but lately he's been listening to me and staying in the yard, so I decided I'd take him out with us before said gate was clamped shut. Today, he listened for a minute, but once we got halfway up the driveway, he bolted.

He didn't go far, and like I said, he's been listening a lot better lately so I knew getting him back wouldn't be a problem. I walked to the gate to call him back, but noticed a car coming so I told him to stay. The car pulled up next to me and stopped. Intrigued, Murphy came running over.

Apparently, this guy had an identical looking dog that died last year and wanted to talk about Murphy's breed and characteristics.
No problem.

Then the guy wanted to pet Murf.
Sure, why not?

Then the guy wanted to take his picture.
Uh, okay. Murphy doesn't have any warrants, so I guess it's cool.

By the time this guy got out of his car, Murphy had been distracted by his Kryptonite — another dog. For all his good points (and there are many) Murphy turns into a lunatic when he sees other dogs. He's not being mean, he just gets really excited but ends up sounding as if he wants to disembowel the other pooch with his drool-dripping fangteeth. Needless to say, most folks don't like to let their dogs "meet" Murphy — the 90 lb. crazed canine.

Seeing Murphy's increasing agitation, I assumed the guy would back off and let me handle my dog's aggression. But, he got between us and the approaching dog (a "menacing" Jack Russell) and insisted on getting his photo. By the time he'd squeezed off two quick photos, Murphy decided he'd had enough.

Bursting into instant convulsions designed specifically to knock me on my ass and free himself from my command, Murphy did just that. As he was wresting himself from my grip, I fell ass over elbows into the mud, bruising my tailbone and making a total ass out of myself in the process. The fall was the kind where you have no idea what happened — you just know it looked as bad as it felt.

What did the concerned bystander do? You mean, besides pretending nothing happened?

After watching Murf speed off to terrify the Jack Russell, he offered a half-hearted apology for getting me "twisted up," with the same conviction as if he were apologizing for sneezing.

After asking me some questions about how long we'd lived here (under the guise of wondering why he'd never seen Murphy before), he got in his car and drove off.

After gathering Connor (who was still in our yard, though I had nearly forgotten about him in the excitment), we hollered until Murphy saw fit to return and take his lumps.

I didn't really stop and think about the exchange until the event was over. Stacey is worried that Murphy is gonna get dognapped by the weirdos down the street.

Can't you just picture it?

"I know my first name is Murphy!"

"Days Were Golden"

I know...awesome pants, right? (The couch is pretty good, too, though.)

Pardon me while I brag about my dad for a minute. That's him with my older brother, sometime in the late '70s in the picture above. I've always liked this picture, for several reasons. First of all, it's a picture of my dad, but secondly — yeah, aside from the laughable fabric patterns — is that it depicts a patient father, who had been engaged in reading the newspaper, taking a break to make time for his son.

My dad died when I was sixteen.

Although it was quite difficult for me when he died, it seems like something new happens to me every year to make me wish (aside from the obvious reasons) that he was still around — graduating high school (barely), graduating college (finally) and getting married were all events I wish he could have been there to see.

Boy, can you see this one coming, or what?

Having Connor has been, hands down, the best thing I've ever done — except for winning that sixth grade speech contest...girls love a practiced orator — but it's been hard not to have my dad here to see it and tell me what a kickass kid I produced. (Although, Mr. Presbyterian minister might have used softer language and would have preferred I do likewise.)

He was by far the most patient and giving person I have ever known — moreso than I could ever hope to be, and I think about those traits often when Connor is flinging Matchbox cars at the back of my head from the backseat on car trips (with surprising accuracy), or dumping his lunch on the floor when he's sore about something.

Honestly, I never once questioned "why" when my dad died; It was out of my hands so I just accepted it and tried my best to move on. Now that I have a son of my own, though, I can't help but wish that Dad was still around.

Besides, maybe he'd give me his plaid pants.

"Behind the Wall of Sleep"

Listen up, people. This is Carter's subconscious. Sure, his body is sitting at the computer, his fingers hammering out this entry, but he's pretty much oblivious at this point.

"Stick with me, dude. We gotta get this done before your drool shorts out the computer keyboard."

In addition to his regular gig as #1 Dad, Carter has had a full plate the last four days with a couple of freelance projects that have kept him up until wee hours (a time of day he hasn't seen in some time) being all creative-like. He's basically exhausted and worthless at this point? How is that different from regular Carter? I did say exhausted, right?

Since he's a creature of habit, though, he sat down to compose an entry tonight so as not to disrupt his rigid blogging schedule, but he lost consciousness soon thereafter. Since I've got a dream planned for tonight about starting a small business in Portland, Oregon, that makes specially designed TV remote control buttons for ladies with exceptionally long fingernails (as far as the subconscious goes, yeah, I'm a little "off"), I gotta get this kid to bed.

"Dead Presidents"

Since I'm in the middle of an all consuming freelance project at the moment (and have yet to bathe today), I'mma tell a quick story and get back to work, well, after I shower.

After breakfast and the required viewing of Sesame Street this morning, Connor and I jumped in the car and headed out to complete a few errands: the dump (HELL YEAH!), the gas station and the bank. The gas station and the dump are both relatively near our house, but the bank is about 20 minutes away on the opposite side of "town." I usually try to piggyback that errand with an errand that will have us on that side of town (Wal-Mart, post office, etc) but today we had nothing else going on.

Oh, well, I thought. We'll put some good music on in the car (read: NO kiddie songs) and have ourselves a cool little road trip.

When I pulled up to the bank, I immediately noticed that the parking lot was empty. Could they be this slow on a Monday? I asked Connor, though once the words left my lips I knew the only answer I would get was, "Cookie please?" Two seconds later, it hit me: President's Day. Crap. That was 40 minutes worth of gas and time that I'll never get back. Oh well. At least we got to go to the dump.

Later, when Connor was starting to stir from his afternoon nap, I decided to take advantage of the last few moments of peace and go check the mail. I put my shoes on, assured Murphy I wasn't going for a walk without him, and hiked the 30-or-so yards out to our mailbox. As soon as I opened the tiny door on the mailbox, I remembered today's holiday and felt like a fool.

Well, moreso than usual.

"Bring on the Snakes"

Even though we live in a relatively underdeveloped corner of the world — in relation to what we're accustomed to, at least — I have to say I am incredibly grateful for our front yard, every inch of which is fenced in. The latter detail has been an essential element in our ability to play outside, as our neighbors are apparently unfamiliar with the idea of keeping their dogs confined to their own property.

(As a result, we can't really take walks in our "neighborhood" without arming ourselves with a Hershey's Syrup bottle filled with ammonia to squirt in any charging mutt's eyes...just kidding. That was actually my older brother's trick to get past the snarling rottweilers on our street when we were kids.)

But, because we've got a fence, we've got ourselves a nice sized play area where even Murphy can get out and enjoy himself running around and peeing on trees — though Connor and I dabble in a bit of that behavior, as well. Today, while playing outside with Connor's great-grandparents we made a new friend.

Ah, who am I kidding? I'm sure by now you've already peeked at the picture below so I guess I can stop with the descriptions.


I knew there were snakes living in our yard because of the football sized hole in the ground that's at least four feet deep, the discarded snake skins that I've seen a few times around the yard and our close proximity to the lake, but I hadn't actually seen one yet. Once we found this little demon, though, Connor's great-grandmother decided she'd be more comfortable inside the house while I gently prodded the serpent with a ten-foot-pole to see if it would strike (it did), whether it would leave any venom if it did strike (it didn't), and snap a few pictures so I could reference them when I looked online to check and see if it was venomous (it wasn't — just your garden variety constricting Black Rat Snake who can apparently climb trees disturbingly well).

But, this wasn't even the most exciting event to happen in our front yard this week.

Yesterday, the owner of the trailer next to the one next to our house (there's gotta be a better way to say that) was in town to have her driveway paved. While the bulldozer was grading the driveway, Connor and I went outside to check out the excitment happening on our otherwise lazy street. She noticed us staring and walked over to introduce herself. A few minutes later, after she walked away, her grandson, a pudgy, mop-topped ten-year-old ran over to the fence where we were standing, out of breath from playing with his sister.

"HEY!!" he shouted, even though we were standing closer to him than your face is to your monitor right now.
"MY NAME IS CARTER, JUST LIKE YOU!!"

With that crucial piece of information imparted, he ran off.

"It's Like That"

Surely I'm not the first person to notice it, but dealing with kids is remarkably like playing chess. Even though I don't technically know how to play, I've glossed over the rules, seen enough games played, and even written a story or two on chess (WOW! A STORY ABOUT CHESS?!? HOW COOL!!) to know the basic ins-n-outs of the game that you can't be senior citizen without knowing — it's, like, a law or something.

So you want to get a child to do something, huh? Be prepared for acceptable losses (such as a low stress level), and be prepared to think several moves ahead of your opponent. ("I know you're thinking about locking yourself in the bathroom and flushing my wallet down the toilet, but how about we go play outside instead, okay?") Although your enemy might not look all that menacing at first glance, he or she posesses a ferocity not to be taken lightly.

Also, just like in chess, once you remove your hand from the "piece," you officially conclude your move and relinquish your right to continue to ponder any current moves during this turn of play. For example, when changing Connor's diaper, I have to keep at least one finger on his body at all times or he assumes we're done and scrambles for the door. And you thought catching a greased pig was messy? You try to coral a bolting brown-bottomed baby boy who seems to think that having his butt cleaned is some form of ritualistic torture.

You think you know, but you have no idea. Sure, you've spent years and years trying to master the game, but every time you "play," there's a new strategy thrown into the mix. So, even though last time you may have won the battle utilizing reverse psychology ("Don't you eat those carrots!") or bribes ("If you'll PLEASE let me put some pants on you, we'll watch Barney, okay?) each subsequent encounter will require a completely new gameplan. Learn to adapt to your surroundings and you'll do okay.

Just don't, under any circumstances, allow your opponent to lull you into a false sense of security with good behavior. Underneath that happy, smiling exterior is a seething caldron of rage just aching to take you down. Consider yourself warned.

"Lost in the Supermarket"

It seems that when Connor and I make a trip to the grocery store I rarely make it out the door with the list I brought with me.

Why? Because I am the proud owner of an almost-two-year-old boy who demands to hold the list but often loses interest and casually drops it when I'm deciding whether Stacey will let me get away with buying non-name brand sour cream.

(The answer is no, by the way. Don't even try it. She swears that she can tell the difference 'tween the knockoffs and the real thing. I think we're gonna have to conduct a "Pepsi Challenge" with different brands of sour cream to see if she's lying.)

I've lost lists in the bread aisle, the checkout lane and even the parking lot. On my bedside table, at this very moment, is a grocery list from about two months ago. I'm not sure why I haven't thrown it away yet, but it's probably because I'm proud that I actually made it out of the store with the list still in hand. (That reminds me, I need to throw that damn thing away, stat!)

Yesterday, though, I had a stroke of genius — well, for a guy with more fingers than brain cells it counts as genius. Since I almost always lose my list somewhere in the store, I decided to get a bit more creative with an otherwise dull list of sundry items.

For example, yesterday's list had the usual suspects such as diapers, soy milk and cereal, but mixed in with the mundane was a special reminder to pick up "anal itch cream." No, I don't have an itchy butt — well, no more than usual; I thought I'd add a tad of spice to the day of the nosy person kind enough to pick up my discarded list (of course we lost it!) and read it.

Maybe next time we'll add "a knife that will cut human bone," to the list, or maybe "a disguise for slipping through customs."

Runners-up include: "dog condoms," "enough bullets to do the trick," "20 packages of Sudafed for...you know," "a Josh Groban CD," "Batman bedsheets for my nephew I SWEAR!," and finally, "enough Rohypnol for Friday night."

Boy, there's nothing like a nerd with too much time on his hands.

"Congratulations, I'm Sorry"

I have to say, I'm a bit disappointed. I never would have dreamed that the phrase "sanctimonious bastard," would be used in a comment by an outsider on my blog to describe someone other than me. Clearly I haven't been doing my job.

At any rate, I did elicit some opinions with my briefing on our decision to try and avoid daycare (both online and offline). Thanks for the feedback.

I should clear up some confusion, though, lest I get turned into the Net's version of A Bazillion Little Pieces. In a comment related to Jeff's entry I mentioned in my previous post, I wrote that Stacey earns roughly $17,000 per year. I apparently left off a zero bringing the total to $170,000. My bad. It's still extremely difficult to get by on that amount per year. You have no idea.

Also, I should confess that I have a magic lava lamp that grants me one wish per day. Never one to be greedy, I'll normally use it to get the laundry done or the dishes washed, but sometimes I'll wish to have Marilyn Monroe come in and help out for the day. She's pretty much useless, but, uh, Connor likes having her around?

Finally, I don't really stay at home. I've got a full time job shooting fake snuff films. Sue me — the family of the woman who was accidentally trampled by the elephant is.

Whew. That feels better.

"I Might Be Wrong"

I am about to make some enemies, for today we talk about daycare.

It seems my fellow stay-at-home dad blogger, Jeff, has opened up a can of very opinionated, close-minded and argumentative worms with a similar post. Surely he saw this coming though, right? I mean, who buys canned worms anyway?

I'll let you read Jeff's thoughts on the matter (if you're interested), because anything I could convey would simply be reiterating what he's already written. Okay, lazy, I'll sum it up for you.

In sum (but in my words):
-Daycares, while a viable option for some parents, have become vastly overutilized either by parents who had kids because they could but hadn't planned on the economic drain that children cause or by parents who are too preoccupied with climbing the socio-economic ladder to "success" to worry about cutting back to one income.
-Parental care far supercedes daycare, uh, care.
-Kanye West is drastically overrated.

Okay, I may have added that last one in myself. I ain't sayin'.

When Stacey and I were dating and talking about whether we wanted kids or not, she was convinced that she never wanted to place her future offspring in daycare. I was of the mindset that, when I had kids, why wouldn't I put them into daycare? (This even though I never spent a single day in one myself as a lad. Go figure.)

After conducting some intensive research (which mostly just involved watching Daddy Day Care and scratching my butt), I realized that she was absolutely right, but I always assumed it would be her that stayed home. Why wouldn't I? Stay-at-home dads are such a minority, and I never pictured myself staying home to play house. I didn't spend the better part of a decade in college for nothing!

All of which brings us to where we are today: Stacey is working as a clinical psych intern, earning a paycheck (which is so small, my keyboard doesn't have numbers of small enough measure to accurately convey the tiny sum of her "earnings") and I'm at home kicking back, watching Elmo, fingerpainting with lunch, hitting up the nearby playgrounds, and maybe changing a dirty diaper or two... thousand.

We may be poor, but I'm probably the happiest I've been in my life. Besides, I've said too much already and it's likely that some of you won't speak to me again.

"Great Balls of Fire"

Since this space has morphed into my very public confessional booth where I talk about happenings that even my mother doesn't know about (she freaked out about my entry about someone once holding a gun to my head and pulling the trigger...geez, who could have predicted that?), I've got another bombshell for you folks:

I might as well face it, I'm addicted to Atomic FireBalls. Yeah, just let it soak in. When the shock has worn off we'll continue, mm'kay?


Whew. Shall we?

A few years ago, Stacey used to regularly buy for me, in bulk, enormous containers of the aforementioned tongue-searing candy. I developed quite the serious habit. For a year or two, I had a severe case of badger-face as I almost always had a FireBall (or two) lodged in my cheek, slowly burning a hole in my mouth. Once her Sam's Club card expired, though, I saw nary a FireBall for quite some time. It was tough at first, but after a while, I rarely thought about my long gone friend.

For my birthday this year, however, Stacey bought me several bags of the candy I had worked so hard to forget. You know how "they" say an addict never really quits? Well, now that we are back together, it's like we were never apart. I've consumed so many FireBalls in the last few weeks, I can almost poke my pinky finger through the small hole that's forming in my cheek. It's a sacrifice, sure, but the payoff is so worth it.

Anyway, I just thought you should all know about this. In the event that I disappear for a little while (cough-rehab-cough-rootcanal-cough), you won't wonder for too long where I've gotten off to.

"It's Oh So Quiet"

So I might not have exactly sung the praises of our neighborhood in yesterday's post. After intending to describe what I like about living here I got a little bit sidetracked — what with the gunshots the night before and all.

Today Connor, Murphy and I were out playing in the front yard, enjoying the non-rainy weather, when the wind started to whip up a little bit. Realizing that this would be the perfect time to try out the Spiderman kite I bought for all of $1 a couple of weeks ago, I dashed in the house to grab it.

But, by the time I got back outside with the kite and assembled it, the wind had vanished. Not to be deterred, especially since Connor was staring at me, with his mouth agape, I decided to go ahead and let out a generous amount of string and start running up and down the driveway like a hyperactive kid trying to get the damn kite to take to the air. No such luck.

In yesterday's post, before I got derailed, I believe I mentioned that I liked that it's nice and quiet out here, even if the "quiet" is sometimes a bit unsettling. You'd better believe I appreciated every ounce of that solitude as I was running around the front yard like a spastic ten-year-old with a Spiderman kite in tow knowing that the only people that could see me were the ninjas in the trees.

Surely I've mentioned the ninjas before, right?

Rainy days and Mondays

About a week or so ago, I realized that I've never described the place where we currently live with any sort of positive details — in this forum, at least. So, I decided that I needed to write an entry about how much I've enjoyed the solitude, the calming beauty of the lake (which is about 20 yards from our back porch) or the welcome anonymity that comes with moving somewhere new and not having to work or go to school. (FYI: the bank teller has no idea that I don't really have a Scottish accent, the telephone repairman has no clue that I'm not blind, and the Wal-Mart cashier doesn't know I'm an asshole...okay, maybe she does.)

I do like it here...it's just a new environment that I'm completely unfamiliar with — like last night's happenings, for instance. Just as Stacey and I were getting into bed, we heard two quick "POP" noises, followed by about seven more in almost instantaneous succession. Unless Alex Van Halen was in our driveway practicing his drumrolls on a piccolo snare for about five seconds, it was most definitely gunfire — the kind that sounded like it was discharged in a helluva hurry, and perhaps at someone far too close (read: less than 100 miles) to our house.

Stacey and I shared a very uneasy glance, until I mentioned that I was relieved that we'd moved Connor's bed away from an outside wall and her tongue almost went down her throat. I called 911 and they sounded very casual about the incident, though with such sparse details ("uh, I hurd gunfur near ma house") they really couldn't do much except dispatch an officer to cruise the neighborhood and look for blood trails.

Ever since I grew out of playing with guns as a kid, I have pretty much hated them, and tried to keep a safe distance between myself and firearms — although in the South that's tough to do. I look at gun ownership like Gremlins; we just aren't ready for such a huge responsibility. I can trace my distaste for guns to an incident involving a concert promoter putting a gun up to my head and pulling the trigger to try and scare me. It was unloaded, but I didn't know that, nor did he want me to. (For the record, I didn't flinch because I'M A MORON.)

The American dream

I stressed a little today about the incident from last night, and I thought it got to Connor a little bit. Plus, it was cold and rainy all day so we stayed indoors. Around 2 p.m., he ran up to the refridgerator and started yanking his magnetic ABCs off. After about 20 seconds of this tantrum he started saying, "Why? Why? Why?"

Poor kid, I thought, he's stressed out about living here, too.

Then I walked over to him and noticed him staring at something near his feet, wedged under the fridge...the letter "Y."

So much for parental intuition.

It Figures

Last Thursday night (after I wrote in my blog that Connor had quickly gotten over his fever) lil' man woke up around midnight putting off 103 degrees of heat from his normally clammy body. With Stacey instantly transtitioning into nurturing role, I was left to run out to Wal-Mart for fever-killing drugs, although she did half-heartedly offer to go herself.

I had been in a deep sleep (probably dreaming about being a pastry chef on Mars, or something equally stupid), but was more than willing to head out for some medicine so that we could all get back to sleep as soon as possible — which ended up being much later than I planned. When I stuck my key in the car's ignition, I remember thinking, "I'm either gonna get pulled over by the cops or I'm gonna die behind the wheel tonight."

Since I'm obviously not writing this whilst wrapped around a pine tree, I'm sure you can guess what happened.

Apparently, I turned right on a red light at an intersection where that's not allowed and was lit up by a state trooper, even though there was no one else at this intersection. To the statey's credit, though, he let me off with a warning for the traffic infraction (which never happens to me), but did write me a $25 ticket for not having a S.C. license.

(A little tip: cops LOVE it when you turn on your car's interior light, place both hands on the steering wheel and act right. Besides, I've tried being belligerent, snooty, indifferent and even constipated — believe me, nice works.)

With Connor's great-grandparents watching him for the day today, I bit the bullet and went to the constant freakshow that is the DMV to rectify the driver's license situation. Besides the mayhem depicted in the picture below, all I have to say is, thank GOD I brought my iPod.

If it's in print, it's TRUE!

From the Associated Press:

Noel Gallagher says children are "devil brats". The Oasis frontman [HE'S ACTUALLY THE GUITARIST, BUT WHO EXPECTS THE PRESS TO DO ANY FRIGGIN' RESEARCH?!], who has a five-year-old daughter Anais added: "They are idiots are they not? "They're f***ing idiots...they're small, noisy, smelly, small, devil brats! They take too much time and they cry all the time."
Noel says that becoming a dad had made him bored. [SORRY TO INTERRUPT AGAIN, BUT I THINK THE WRITER MEANT TO SAY "BORING," BECAUSE "BORED" MAKES NO SENSE WITH THE FOLLOWING QUOTE. DUMB JERK.]
He said: "Many people become so boring when they get kids, they seem to want to take over the house you live in. You have to be quiet when the babies are asleep... f**k that! It's my house and I am the boss in my house."
--

I loves me a good quote from either of the Gallagher brothers (no, not the fruit smashing idiot "comics" — I'm referring to the constantly fueding brothers at the core of Oasis), but this rant has to be my all time favorite. The funniest part? He's absolutely right.