"The World is Full of Crashing Bores"

Through the course of each day, we are faced with endless decisions—most of which we barely even register.

What should I eat breakfast? What time should I leave for work? (Ha ha, suckers, I don't have that problem, yet) Should I go to bed now or pay the price for staying up late tomorrow? Should I really wash my hands after changing that last dirty diaper?

Since becoming a parent, I've become hyper-sensitive to the multitude of bad decisions that are made every second of every day. From poor eating habits (of which I'm certainly guilty) to horrid fashion choices (again, guilty), I've decided that the worst offenders are people who make poor choices while behind the wheel of their cars.

I have been cut off, and nearly rear-ended/T-boned/head-on'd more times than I care to remember, and, as a result, my car's horn gets used more often than a rape whistle at a frat party.

Seriously, do any of you know how to drive?

Last week, while Connor and I were at a nearby playground, a woman sped into the parking lot, with her music blaring. Once she "parked" (which more resembled a slide into home plate) five kids poured out of her smallish sedan. Let's do the math on this really quick: One compact car=no more than five seatbelts, tops. Even IF she had carseats for these kids, which she DIDN'T, she couldn't have fit them into her car. On top of piling five kids into an already space-challenged backseat, she DECIDED to drive like she was recreating the chase scene from Bullitt. I talked myself out of calling tha fuzz, assuming that she lived across the street from the park and ran a small day care out of her home and had no other means of getting an ornerous bunch of hellions to the park. I think I may have also imagined that she had a limited income and that she was dying of cancer.

Today, I was "cussed out" by an older, heavy-set man with swatches of gray hair at his temples, behind the wheel of his mid-life-crisis convertible because I wasn't driving at a satisfactory speed, which forced him to cut me off rather than simply merge behind me, as I was the only other car on the road.

"YOU SPED UP, YOU PECKERHEAD!!!" he hollered at me when we stopped next to each other at a subsequent traffic light. "SO DID YOU, ASSHOLE!!!" I replied, laughing at his rage, later glad that Connor wasn't in the backseat to witness my total failure as a role model.
"STAY THE F— OUT OF THE WAY!!!" he yelled back, and sped off.

I'd also like to mention that, several weeks ago, I was given a healthy dose of "the bird" by a driver who felt I'd wronged him—a driver who, I should mention, had a very large and prominently displayed Chrstian bumper sticker on his car.

So, just slow down. You'll get there eventually. Besides, damn near none of you know how to be on time anyway, (ah, another post for another day) so I really don't understand what all the rush is about.

...The soapbox is now closed.

"Question The Answer"

A fellow blogger "tagged" me a few weeks ago with a pop quiz of sorts, and I've been putting off doing it ever since. In my defense, I've been furiously Craigslisting some of my extra guitar gear, and I managed to scrape enough together to buy a decent tube amp and have been spending a bit too much time playing my guitar in the evenings.

So, after much delay, here are my answers to the three most crucial issues in the entire world (yeah, us stay-at-home dads tackle some world-changing stuff):

1) What was your biggest surprise when you became a parent?

At no point during the official discussions concerning pregnancy did I ever assume that I'd be the one staying at home "raising" the offspring instead of being out in the working world and bringing home the bacon (bits)—nor was it ever discussed as a posibility. Unexpected though it was, I have enjoyed my now-numbered days of lounging around the house, playground-hopping and swapping rump roast recipes with the neighborhood gals (hey-ohhhh!!).

2) Name some things you vowed you'd never do, but find yourself doing now.

I didn't exactly take a "vow," per se, but I somehow convinced myself that I wouldn't have to change dirty diapers—ever. I vaguely recall Stacey including this perk in her pitch to get pregnant, and, like a sucker, I fell for it. I did manage to abstain from changing the brown trout-filled diapers until Connor was eating solid food. But, in hindsight, it would have been immeasurably smarter to have started changing the diapers when they didn't smell like a turd covered in burnt hair—if I may steal a line from Anchorman.

3) What's the one thing you thought you would do, but actually don't?

Does "be financially stable" count? I never would have imagined, after Stacey's thoroughly researched PowerPoint presentation on why we should get pregnant, that we'd still be in financial and professional transition nearly four years (come August) after this process first started. After grad school, internship and post-doc fellowship, we might finally be moving toward stability, but by now, I've quit thinking too much about it. My goal now is to be able to afford to send Connor to high school—maybe.

"Take The Night Off"

Sorry for the prolonged absence. As of late, things have been quite busy 'round here thanks to the child-raising-and-whatnot, the freelancing and the extensive copy editing for a certain magazine staff that was partying in Austin at South By Southwest soaking up Booker T & The MGs, X Clan, Turbonegro, Mastodon, mc chris, Kenna, and Amy Winehouse leaving me to pull their weight back here at home.

Anyway, there have been a few new developments in our world in the last week-and-a-half. We have learned through a third party source that Connor's teachers think that he's the most consistently pleasant child in his class. But, we were also told, his poops are, by far, consistently the least pleasant. I'm not quite sure what we're going to do with that information—it's just nice to know that we're not being lightweights when we dry heave while changing his dirties.

Also, we've learned, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Connor most definitely has his mother's strong will—it's a will with more resolve than that of a cobra who refuses to let go of his prey, even when his head is cut off.

Last night, when Stacey put Connor to bed, I witnessed a test of wills that left me in awe and a little frightened of the two people who outnumber me in our three-person family. Instead of falling asleep fairly quickly, as he normally does, Connor got out of bed at least 75 times (I actually believe the final tally to be closer to 100 trips out of bed), and Stacey was charged with returning him to bed each time. I offered to step in for her, but she was fully aware that she and Connor were locked in a war—a war that she had to win.

The first 20 or so trips out, he simply whined and cried. Next, he begged for her to snuggle with him. When that didn't work, he said that he needed to "krow up in the sink." When that didn't work, he said that he needed to "krow up in the toi-wet." Next, he said his butt was itchy and that he had a bug in his diaper. Then he returned to the "krow up" ploy. He followed that up with a full-on temper tantrum, collapsing onto the floor. He, of course, threw in the "I want my Daddy," occasionally, just to make Stacey feel bad.

Finally, nearly TWO hours later, a completely exhausted Connor finally gave up and stayed in bed. No more than 30 seconds later, he was out cold. Neither Stacey nor I exhaled for at least five minutes, until we were certain that this torturous exercise was through. 20 minutes later, Stacey bravely entered Connor's room to cover him up. I partly expected her to smother him with a pillow out of frustration, but in anti-climatic fashion, she was in and out in less than ten seconds and Connor was none the wiser—and still alive.

It makes perfect sense that his school teachers think he's a very pleasant child—they've never had to put him to bed.