Written on Thursday, December 22.

My wife’s friend let it be known via facebook this week that she has told her very young daughter the truth about Santa Clause.  The real truth.  She said that she considered it lying to perpetuate the myth held nearly universally dear by the rest of society.  First of all, if you’ve never lied to your children I don’t think we can be friends.  Not even facebook friends.  Secondly, poor kid.  This little girl will be the truth bearing little bitch that ruins Christmas for all the kids in her kindergarten class.  She will be hated by children and parents alike.  I thought, “How dare they steal the innocence of her future classmates?”  More importantly, I fumed, “How dare her parents steal the wonderful Santa blackmail from those kids’ parents?”  It is enough that we as parents have to deal with the internet, older cousins and neighborhood kids, and cheeky TV shows and movies hinting at the truth.  Now these people are blowing our cover…on purpose!  Maybe they will do us all a favor and home school.

I distinctly remember how I discovered the truth about Santa.  The old fashioned way:  I caught my parents in the lie.  I don’t recall when I found out, but honestly, I grew up in a small town, before the internet and was the oldest kid in our house so I could have been embarrassingly old.  I discovered a receipt containing entries for two expensive GI JOE toys in my mother’s purse.  It wasn’t by accident.  I was a first class snoop and left no leaf unturned.  I didn’t immediately put two and two together.  At this point in my life I was still holding firm to my belief in Santa, so I assumed these toys were gifts from my parents to my younger brother and me.  Instead of telling my brother about my discovery, I tried to subtly convince him that he wanted what I felt was the inferior of the two toys I knew were coming.  That way my parents got to feel good because both their boys were happy; my brother would be delighted that he got what he was completely convinced he wanted; and I got the best gift.  I was shocked to discover on Christmas morning that I was meant to believe Santa had delivered the goods.  A little piece of my childhood died that day, but all was well, my parents still got to be smug, my brother was happy, and I still got the best toy.  I never told my brother.  In fact, I perpetuated the myth as long as I could, lest Santa stop coming. 

Now I am the proud parent of two boys, Will and Charlie.  Will, the oldest, is 3 ½ years old and Charlie is 18 months.  This year Will has gone all in on Christmas (Christian and commercial) and Charlie is following right in line.  They know the Christmas story from church.  They know about Santa because if you grow up in America you can’t escape Santa.  You can’t help but believe in Santa (unless your parents are dicks; see above) because he and his story are everywhere!  My wife and I have been excited about the holiday season for months.  We were looking forward to the solid month and a half of good behavior we expected to derive from the glorious threat of the naughty list; and, less selfishly, we were excited to see Christmas through the eyes of a child once again.  There is something truly magical about kids at Christmas.  They get so caught up.  They marvel at the decorations.  They get excited about the Advent calendar countdown.  They make their wish lists.  Earlier this month, as Will was ticking off his Christmas wishes, my wife told him that he would have to sit down with her and write Santa a letter.  He furrowed his brow and looked up in moment of deep thought, then replied, “OK, I will write him an H.”  We’ve employed the use of the popular “Elf on a Shelf” and Will adorably named him “Dinosaur Slip.”  We’ve had a blast with the boys all month shopping for their teachers and relatives and making Christmas treats, but a change has taken root this last week before Christmas.

It is three days until Christmas morning and the wheels are coming off the happy bus.  The cocktail of excitement, sugar, and rain induced cabin fever has transformed my children into Christmas monsters.  They still have their moments of sweetness, but those are increasingly offset by madness.  If they are not fighting, my boys are conspiring to wreak havoc.  Wreaking havoc is normal for brothers, but they have stepped it up a notch or two this week.  They torment the dog.  They’ve broken several ornaments.  Will tossed a four foot nutcracker across the den WWE style.  They occasionally take a break from hitting one another to take shots at me.  If we would just roll tape I’d have enough nut shots to fill a Happy Madison production. 

Threats have stopped working.  They may have fully crossed over into madness.  This morning I told Will that Dinosaur Slip was going to report to Santa that he was misbehaving.  Will replied that he would just have to touch the elf and take his magic away.  When your kid essentially threatens a hit on a sweet little Christmas elf it is time to take a time out and make some adjustments.  I came home early for lunch today and put on my best sad face.  I told the boys that I had gotten a call from Santa and that they were both on the naughty list.  The floodgates opened and Will cried, “But I don’t want to be on the naughty list!”  I tried to calm him and assured him that there was a way back on to the nice list.  I told him his mother had Santa’s phone number and if he was good and sweet to her she could call in a pardon.  He cleaned his room, ate his lunch, and took a long nap. 

The boys are spending the night with their grandparents tonight.  God help them.

*Update: Will was taken off the naughty list at approximately 6:45 CST on Christmas Eve.

 The gentleman in the power suit who had the pleasure of sitting next to the mother and child could not have been more polite.  He complimented the baby’s looks and courteously chatted with the mother.  They quickly found that they were both Texas Tech alums and had mutual friends in Washington and, in fact, the mother had worked on the campaign of the congressman the gentleman had met with that very morning.  They chatted about work, Washington, Red Raider football, and parenting without pause while the rest of the passengers finished boarding and the plain reversed and taxied out to the runway.  They were still chatting when the captain informed us we were third in line to take off and it would be just a few more minutes before we were in the air. 

 Just as their conversation turned to the mother’s reasons for traveling back to Dallas, the baby whimpered and started to cry.  My wife and I looked at each other and sighed our displeasure.  The gentleman offered his reassurance to the young mother, “Such a sweet girl, you’re ok,” he said.      

 “She’s just a little hungry, I think,” replied the mom as she pulled a small baby blanket from the carry on stowed beneath the seat and nonchalantly exposed her right breast from her loose fitting top.  The infant quickly latched on to her mother’s nipple and began suckling loudly as the captain informed us it was our turn to take off.  The mom covered the infant with the baby blanket as she fed and the gentleman stared uncomfortably in silence at the seat back in front of him unable to steal a glance out his window for fear of being labeled a pervert.  Any chance of comfortable conversation died and quick death as soon as the recycled air of the airplane touched the mother’s naked breast.  The gentleman soon closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.    

 The baby finished feeding and the mother removed the blanked and put her breast away.  The child slept peacefully for the remainder of the flight and my wife and I enjoyed the awkward silence and rested as well, considering ourselves fortunate to have witnessed such a beautiful, intimate act of nature.    

When the flight landed the gentleman politely said his goodbyes as he struggled to maintain eye contact.  He made the mistake of saying goodbye before the plane had even made its way to the gate, however, so he was forced to wallow in the awkwardness for another 20 minutes before he clumsily said goodbye again and was mercifully allowed to leave the plane and presumably begin a search for his lost innocence.

No is a big word at our house.  (Just ask my wife, HEY-OH!)  The dog hears it a lot.  “Scout, no” was one of the first complex phrases our son managed to put together.  Our son hears it often too: when he climbs on the coffee table; when he asks for a cookie 30 minutes before dinner; when he takes a swing at the dog; when he tries, in a very heterosexual way of course, to apply some of my wife’s makeup; and, when he begs for a new toy at the store. 

Saying no to toys is the hardest for me personally.  I had a ton of toys when I was growing up.  My parents hardly ever said no if they could afford to give us something.  My brother and I had ALL the GI Joes and Transformers.  We had the DC and Marvel super heroes, we had Micro Machines, we had Masters of the Universe, we had Ghostbusters, we even had friggin Care Bears.  Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t like that brat in “The Toy” or Ricky Schroeder in “Silver Spoons.”  My first car was a 1979 Chevy Nova.  It cost $500.  In 1995.  Each of my childhood toys in and of itself cost relatively little, but, looking back, my parents really should have said no more often.  They nickel and dimed themselves to death. 

My wife had a very different experience growing up.  Her parents could afford to provide her with whatever she would have asked for, but were much more judicious in their generosity.  She has grown up to be very frugal when it comes to big purchases.  Some friends purchased, without a birthday or holiday in sight, a new trampoline for their children.

“When we got our trampoline it was a BIG Christmas present,” she said amazed.

“We had a trampoline too, but it was one of those tiny personal-sized ones they sold in the 1980s as a fitness craze,” I replied helpfully.  Come to think of it we also had the door-knob pulley system exercise machine, sand ankle weights, strength shoes, and balance balls.  They were throwing those nickels and dimes at everyone.  You’re welcome Sallie Mae. 

We are, collectively, attempting to follow the example my wife had set for her and follow some restraint when it comes to giving in to our son’s demands.  As a result we say “no” repeatedly.  Our son is also ambitiously mischievous so we repeat “No-No-No” often.  He has now adopted “no” as one of his personal catchphrases.  It can be achingly cute.  He will arch his brow and point a finger at the dog to give a quick “No. NO!”  He will smile and shrug and give a long “Nooo” if we ask him about something embarrassing.  His little eyebrows arch out and beg without words before he frowns and says “Noooo” when we tell him it is time for bath or bed.  Some “no’s” aren’t as cute.  When he gets a little too obstinate and refuses to act with a curt, “NO!” my wife normally replies with an “Excuse me?” and the pecking order is restored.  She was recently tested when our son was in a particularly feisty mood. 

Our son attends preschool three days a week at our church.  I’m long gone by the time it is necessary to get him dressed and ready so I can only imagine the chaos that surrounds their routine.  Recently she was attempting to corral him to his room in order to change him from his breakfast stained PJ’s to something more suitable to stain with finger paints and snacks.  He was not cooperating and when ordered to his room he shouted at defiant, “NO!”

“Excuse me?”

“NO!”  He repeated.

“Excuse me?”  She tried again.

“NO!”

“Are you supposed to tell Mommy no?”  She asked.

Our son stared back blankly, and then wrinkled his tiny brows in thought for a minute before arching them upward and replying sheepishly, “Uh-uh.”

Scout is a designer mutt, which is to say she was illegitimately expensive.  We got her before we had kids or a mortgage, and we were both working and making decent money.  (Our son’s next dog will likely be a mutt.)  Scout’s mother was a cocker spaniel and her dad was a cavalier king charles spaniel.  She is a beautiful dog and grew to a perfect medium size.  In fact, she and our little boy are about the same size at this point which is kind of fun. 

We purchased Scout’s freedom from the loveliest little puppy mill about one hour northeast of Hot Springs, Arkansas.  (Cue banjo.)  It was flat out disgusting.  My wife and I left our Hot Springs hotel early on Sunday morning to pick up our new addition and make the 5 ½ hour drive back to Dallas before dinner.   I didn’t feel like talking because I was still shaken from a horrifying Hot Springs bath house experience the previous day (I will take it to my grave), so we drove mostly in silence following the directions given to us by the “breeder.”   After about 45 minutes of highway, we turned onto an asphalt county road barely wide enough for two cars to meet.   Five miles down, we made a right turn onto what can only be described as either a narrow dirt road or a wide trail, take your pick.  Our directions said the kennel would be on left in exactly 7.3 miles.  I noted the mileage on the odometer and we started out into the thicket.

About 15 minutes later (seemed like hours), we arrived at a gated driveway.  The metal gate had been pushed and propped open in anticipation of our arrival, but chains and two large padlocks indicated that wasn’t always the case.  The gate itself, the flanking fence posts, and trees were littered with signs warning “Beware of Dog,” “Keep Out,” “No Trespassing.”  I turned to my wife.

“How long would it take for someone to report us missing?”  I asked.

“Not. Funny.” she shot back, not amused,   “Let’s leave.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.  We came all this way.  We are getting this dog.”  I pressed the accelerator and turned into the gravel driveway. 

The scene that unfolded before our eyes was like a redneck Island of Dr. Moreau.  I half-expected to be greeted by a tunic wearing dwarf and Marlon Brando.   Instead, a very normal looking middle age woman walked slowly down the front steps of the centrally located frame house.  Dozens of large chain link enclosures spread barracks style around the home.  Interspersed among the large kennels were dozens of smaller ones.   These cages contained every conceivable breed of dog, plus miniature donkeys and miniature horses.  We rolled down the car windows and were taken aback by heavy smell of feces.  In the open pasture land, we spotted other larger horses and a few llamas and cows.  Chickens and peacocks roamed the grounds freely, as did a solitary feline.  Our presence set off a frenzy of barking that deafened us and eliminated any chance element of surprise or need for an alarm system.  The house itself was neat and tidy and looked to have a fresh coat of green paint and white trim.  The roof looked newly shingled.  A large, new Ford F350 was parked near the front porch. 

“You here about the cockalier?”      

“Yes ma’am,” I replied sheepishly.

“This way,” she said, motioning us out of the car. 

My wife and I followed her to an enclosure on the second row of kennels, watching our step.   I glanced at the animals as we went.  They looked healthy, but sad.  This was like a petting zoo with no visitors.  My wife wanted to take them all home, I could see it in her eyes.  She wanted to be their Angelina Jolie, but our apartment was only 700 square feet. 

“Just one,” I whispered in her ear.     

The proprietor brought us a tiny, shaking bundle of fur.  “Here she is,” she said pushing the dog toward us.  “Here’s her papers,” she proclaimed as she fished a few documents from her back pocket.  I handed her an envelope with the agreed upon cash payment, which she promptly counted in front of us, licking her thumb after each bill.  When the counting was over, we left without exchanging pleasantries.  My wife called the Humane Society from her cell once we reached civilization and could get a decent signal.  Miraculously, other than an inevitable case of intestinal worms that was quickly cured, Scout has never had any health problems.

We treated Scout like a first born.  We doted on her, played with her, and fed her only the best.  She started her time with us sleeping in a bed on the floor, but quickly found her way onto the bed.  She was generally well behaved and extremely smart.  We were able to potty train quickly and my wife even taught her a few tricks.  She knows sit, stay, down, speak, shake, high-five, roll-over, heal, and several other commands.  I taught her to catch food that was thrown her way.  When we learned we were expecting a real human baby, we worried about jealousy; but, those worries proved baseless.  Scout napped with her head on my wife’s expanding tummy during pregnancy and formed an immediate motherly bond with our newborn son.  She watched over him as he played and was very helpful with cleanup during mealtime. 

As our son aged, Scout became less of a caretaker and more of a playmate.  Nowadays, they go at it full throttle.  As our boy grows, they behave more and more like siblings.  They are best friends and partners in crime.  Our son constantly feeds her from the table; and, if he isn’t careful and we aren’t diligent, she will snatch food from his plate.  Of course, if we don’t keep an eye on our son, he will drink from the dog’s bowl.  It isn’t unusual to hear the dog yelp, and then hear our son squeal with mischievous delight as he is chased from the room.  It is heartbreakingly cute to see him point to the ground and order her to “Siiiit,” or tell her “No, no, no!”

The push, they play, they have fun, they jump, help each other, and blame each other.  They are like Tom and Jerry, but I can’t really define who’s who.  They tattle.  It really is amazing how similar toddler toys are to dog toys.  They are virtually interchangeable and neither our son nor our dog can really tell whose is whose.  Our son recently burst into the family room, his eyes welling with tears.

“What’s the matter?” We asked.

“Stoooouuuttt!!!” He cried pointing.  We walked into the next room to find the dog playfully tossing our son’s newest toy into the air. 

Scout can’t talk, but she tattles with her eyes.  Some days, after hours of ear pulling, attempted bare back rides, and being chased, she gives us a look of, “Please make him stop.”  He gets more agile every minute.  She can’t even hide on our bed anymore.  In the end, I think she realizes how good she has it and can feel the love in his powerful little hugs and sweet kisses on the head.  Maybe.  Maybe she feels caged again. 

She’d never make it in the wild.

I remember the specter of spankings hanging over my decision making process as a kid, but I only really remember one individual instance of actual being spanked.  I was older.  I was definitely walking a gray area of being too old to spank, but not really old enough to have any real personal freedoms to withhold in the form of grounding.  I was way too young to drive and wasn’t really into talking on the phone with girls (late bloomer).   I was a good student and overall a pretty good kid.  My brother and I had a Nintendo, but he was more into that than I was.  I watched a lot of TV, but any meaningful prohibition against television would have meant a lot more one on one parenting.  I loved sports, but skipping a game or practice wasn’t an option either.  I was athletic (swish); and, parental egos being what they are, there was no way they were going to miss having something to brag about.  I liked to read, but “NO MORE BOOKS” would put any parent into the hall of shame.  I was a bit of a loner at that age and only really spent time with friends at the aforementioned sporting events or at church.  No more church?  (See books supra.)  This perfect storm of preteen awkwardness and the fact that my brother was two years my junior resulted in the spanking hanging around a little longer in my childhood than in most.    

I don’t remember what I did, just that it was on purpose, to my brother, and my dad REALLY didn’t like it.  I ran.  Back then, I was lean and fast and the only real chance my dad had of catching me was poor decision making on my part or help from my mom and brother.  I knew, of course, that he had a willing ally in my sibling; and, since we were in the house, I had limited maneuverability.  With my mom and brother guarding the exits, I made the executive decision of attempting refuge in my room.  I bolted across the house and made it to my door.  I must have severely misjudged my father’s athleticism, however, because he was on my heels.  I leapt from the doorway onto my bed.  

I had a ceiling fan in my room growing up, and, at the time, the cord hanging from the fan to operate the lights was long.  Extremely long.  I had modified it so that I could reach it without getting out of bed (sometimes laziness is the mother of invention).   At the end of the cord was a heavy wooden ball, about the size of a golf ball.  When I jumped onto my bed, I hit this ball with the full force of my flying body.  It swung out like a pendulum and back into the doorway just in time to meet my father’s wide, angry eye.  He let out a scream that haunts me to this day and proceeded to give me the last spanking I ever got.  My backside stung for a few minutes, but his eye was black for days.  I wonder what he told people at work. 

There is a fine line between spanking and beating…hence the parenting controversy and all the judging.  The line is so touchy, I couldn’t even find a suitable substitute for the word spanking.  I have therefore repeated it enough in this post that it probably be a top hit for creeps trolling Google for S&M sites.  The fine art of spanking is learned.   I would never strike my child with the intent to harm him.  It’s not like we are Nathan Jessop’s marines carrying out a “Code Red.”  It is very hard to judge the amount of force to use.  The first couple of times I forced myself to discipline in this matter, I looked like Charles Barkley trying to hit a golf ball. 

After one of my early attempts, as punishment for pulling ornaments from the Christmas tree, my son turned to me and flashed the hand sign for “more.”  Thank you Baby Einstein for giving my son the tools to taunt me.

Finally, though, I got the hang of it, and now employ this playing card when necessary.  Throwing food.  Spank.  Turning over dog food or water bowl.  Spank.  Unplugging lamps, computer, television.  Spank. Spank. Spank.  He knows he’s done something wrong.  He cries.  We hug.  It’s all over in 30 seconds.  I suspect the crying is just ritual for him.  I caught him in the act of jumping from the coffee table to the couch a few weeks ago.  I was out of the room for maybe 15 seconds to help my wife in the kitchen.  When I walked through the doorway he was standing with toes curled over the edge ready to spring like Michael Phelps in the 200 meter butterfly.

“What are you doing?”  I barked.  “Are you supposed to be on the coffee table?”  I warned.

My son immediately scrambled to the floor and gave himself two quick swats to the rear end. 

“No. No!”  He ordered.  He then lurched toward me arms outstretched for his hug.  My heart melted and my stomach tightened as I feared the judgment of his teachers should he perform this stunt upon reprimand at the church preschool.  I hugged him and told him not to climb on the table.  He walked away, turned and smiled at me over his shoulder, climbed right back up, and bounced onto the couch. 

I could read his mind, “Totally worth it.”

It is my goal and the implied duty as a father to guide my son on the long harrowing journey towards becoming a man.  I will show him how to use tools, work in the yard, watch sports, scratch himself, burp the alphabet…you know, important manly things.  I am fully aware of that it is important that I treat my wife with respect and love because that is what she deserves, and it is through me that my son will learn how to treat the fairer sex.  He’s watching; let’s just hope he turns out to be the kind of person that is able to learn from the mistakes of others because I know absolutely nothing about women. 

My wife is almost 6 months pregnant with our second child (another boy).  The fact that I convinced her to date me, let alone marry and procreate with me, is a miracle I may never comprehend.  I consistently work to throw a monkey wrench into her happiness and my sanity by stepping in the many bear traps of the Mars-Venus relationship.  I try to solve problems instead of just listening.  I insist on infusing arguments with logic and reason instead of emotion.  I refuse to concede a point when I am convinced that I am right.  I offer actual opinions when asked how something looks.  I worry about what things cost.  My inability to understand or deal effectively with my wife’s emotional state is only compounded by the hormonal crapshoot that is pregnancy.   (Probably because I do or say things even when my gut is telling me not to.  This blog entry for instance.  She will HATE it.)

Recently, my lovely wife was prepping for a night out with the girls.  We ate dinner together as a family and I got our son bathed and pj’d and ready for bed while my wife got dressed.  The kid and I were sitting on the couch, reading “Good Night Moon,” when she walked into the room positively glowing and looking quite stunning in a new dress. 

“How do I look?”  She asked.

“Is that a new dress?”  I answered countered. 

“Ugh!  Yes!  Is that all you have to say?”

“When did you get that?”

“Really?  Does it matter?  Does it look okay?”

“Sure.  Do you have a belt or something?”  Now the guy that wears his house shoes in public is giving fashion tips. 

“Unbelievable!  I’m changing.” She responded and stormed out of the room.

Thinking only of her punctuality at this point (she was running late) I called after her, “No, No, don’t do that.  It’s fine, you don’t want to be late.”

She walked back into the room and snatched her keys from the end table steaming.  Her eyes were red and her mouth twisted into a tight frown.  I only now realized that I had done any damage.  I sat staring like a deer in headlights, resigning myself to the fact that I was about to be run over for my stupidity.  As the tension in the room threatened to constrict our airways, my son pushed himself off the couch and ran to his mother’s side.  (Traitor.)  He tugged at the hem of her dress.    

“Cute,”  he said innocently and honestly.

“Aww, thank you,” she replied beaming.  “You know just what to say.”

“Kiss?”  He asked boldly. 

He was rewarded for his consideration, and I was left to ponder when he left me behind in the game of chivalry.  I’ll be following him from now on, taking notes.

This weekend was a busy one in our household.  On Saturday alone, my wife was invited to a “sip and see” (I don’t understand women), a wedding shower, and an engagement party.  The sip and see and the wedding shower were both scheduled at the same time and the locations were 70 miles apart, so she was forced to choose.  She chose the wedding shower.  Afterwards, she had a few errands to run.  The engagement party was later that evening which gave her just enough time to come home for a wardrobe change and to pick up her dashing escort.  With my wife gone most of the day, I was left in charge of the kiddo.  Great!  I couldn’t imagine a better way to spend a Saturday than hanging with my boy.  It would be like our normal daily playtime on steroids.  I even volunteered to make breakfast, but my wife insisted that she would do it because “I’d need my strength.”  I was a bit offended, after all I’d been working out for almost half a year now.

I sprang from bed at 7 AM and hustled to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.  As I passed our son’s room I could hear him playfully chatting himself up.  He was in an awesome mood.  He must have sensed this was going to be a fun day with dad!   The coffee was already brewing (pre-programmed by my wife the previous night), so I whirled around and headed back toward the bedroom.  I was met in the hallway by my son sprinting, arms outstretched.  His mother had already gotten him up, changed his wet diaper, and made our bed.  (How long did it take me to walk to the kitchen?)  I scooped my son up and headed to the family room to read a morning book and get in some warm up playtime.

“Are you sure you don’t want help with breakfast?”  I asked my wife.

“Nope. Got it.  You two have fun,” she said with a smile. 

Okay!

My wife called us to breakfast and then asked, “Are you two okay?  I’m going to get ready.”

“Go for it,” I replied.  “We men can take care of ourselves.” And she was gone. 

The breakfast spread was magnificent.  We had eggs, bacon, biscuits, fruit, and jelly.  My son drank orange juice, and I enjoyed my morning coffee.   He was in such a great mood – singing and laughing.  Our dog was a little annoying.  She kept begging for food and putting her paws on his highchair.  He seemed to enjoy it, however, and snuck a few bits of egg her way.  I let it slide.  Kids feed dogs, right?  Nothing to get upset about.  I took advantage of breakfast to take my turn at a few of the dozen or so “Words with Friends” games I was playing simultaneously on my iPhone.  (Words with Friends is an iPhone app.  It is basically online scrabble and it is super addictive.) 

I was deep in thought trying to think of a word with q and x (quavex?) when I caught a splash out of the corner of my eye and felt the sting of coffee on my right hand.  I immediately looked to my cup to find evidence of the spill and a large portion of scrambled egg floating in my morning drink.  My eyes moved to my son.  He had a mischievous grin sprawled across his face, and his left arm was raised above his head.  He was holding another sizable bit of egg.  The menacing grin and the outrageous bed head (think Doc Brown from Back to the Future) gave him a look that was at once hilarious and terrifying.  I moved to dodge, but it was too late and I took a round to the chest as he squealed with laughter and shouted, “Done!”  

I thought, “Lefty!  What an arm!  Can’t coach that!  We’ll work on control later.”

I extricated him from his high chair, and the dog cleaned up the mess before I had a chance.  “That was easy,” I thought to myself.  “Now the fun begins.” 

Off to the playroom we went.  We built a castle out of blocks.  I showed off my superior lego skills.  I read dozens of books, some of them twice.  We wrestled, tickled, giggled.  We had a blast!  We worked on t-ball skills.  We shot baskets.  We high-fived.  He had gas.  I had gas.  (Eggs!).  We laughed at gas.  (Never not funny.)  By  the way, I love that fart jokes are universally funny to guys, even at 21 months old.  When my son says, “Toot!” and bursts into laughter, I can’t help but smile and think to myself, “He totally gets me.”

Our first mishap of the day was a near catastrophe.  Among our many toys is a large blue ball.  We use it to practice dribbling and to play games of dodgeball, which I always win.  On Saturday, we were doing amateur acrobatics.  I placed the ball in the center of the room, and my son stood against the wall.  On my signal he ran to the ball and leapt, bouncing on his stomach and flipping to the other side.  We were having a great time, until he failed to fully execute the flip and landed on his face.  The floodgates opened, and he was inconsolable.  I hugged him to make it better.  He eventually stopped crying, but had lost all interest in playing.  He was probably tired.  I know I was.  It was about that time that my wife poked her head into the playroom and said, “Okay guys, I’m off.  Be good.  Have fun.”

Oh my God.  I hurriedly looked at my phone.  It was 9:45.  I could have sworn we had played right through lunch.  I was fresh out of ideas.  My entire schedule of activities had been exhausted before the day had actually begun.  I was in big trouble.  I heard the garage door open, then shut, then came the howl “MOMMMMMAAAAAAAA!!” 

I tried everything I could think of: funny faces, funny noises, songs, dances…nothing worked.  TV?  Nope.  Fun with the dog?  Nope.  The kid was totally over my shtick.  I decided we’d go outside.  I knew he liked that.  I was saving it for the afternoon, but this was an emergency.  I asked if he wanted to play with bubbles.  His favorite outside activity was playing with the bubble machine his uncle had given him about a month ago. 

“Bubbles!!!”  He screamed with delight.  I grabbed the bubble machine and we headed out. 

My son and the dog stood with anticipation in front of me as I built the moment up, “Are you ready for some bubbles?!?  Here they come!!!”  I squeezed the trigger, and boy and animal danced excitedly in front of me.  Their eyes filled with joy as they heard the familiar whir of the tiny motor, but there were no bubbles.   My son’s look of joy turned to horror, and the tears began to flow again when we both realized we were out of the main ingredient for bubbles.  In the intense pressure of the moment, I lost all problem solving ability and failed to comprehend that our house was full of the necessary materials to make our own bubbles.  (Soap.  I couldn’t think of soap?)  I weathered the tantrum and grabbed a tennis ball to play fetch.  I threw the ball into the yard and watched as both my playmates dashed after it.  The dog won and hurried back to me, being chased.

As my son got closer, I noticed the large brown smudge on his tiny khaki pants; I was soon hit by an unmistakable odor.  He had stumbled upon one the potent land mines left by the dog and ignored by me when asked to clean the yard.  I scooped up the boy and held him at arm’s length as I carried him into the bathroom.  I managed to strip him naked and tossed his clothes into the sink.  I rinsed his hands and turned my attention to rinsing the stain from his pants.  Once I finished cleaning his things and diapering, I noticed I was soiled so I coaxed my son into following me to my bedroom so I could change clothes.  I removed my t-shirt and opened my drawer to grab another.  As I was dressing, my son, wearing only a diaper began emptying every item of clothing from my dresser drawer and scattering them through the house.  I scooped him up again, whisked him to his room and dressed him.  The clock read 11:15.  Too early for lunch?  Not today.

As I prepared my son’s nutritious lunch of a hot dog, chunks of cheddar cheese, crackers, banana, and cookies, he took to the task of emptying the kitchen cabinets.   Every pot, pan, bowl, skillet and hot pad ended up on the floor.  He ran circles around me laughing and chasing the dog with a spatula.  I wrangled him into his highchair for lunch at around 11:30; and, as he ate, I cleaned the items from the kitchen floor.  I didn’t bother to wash anything.  I just stuffed everything back into the cabinets.  When I help put away dishes, I usually use the contents of the cabinets to clue me in as to where things belong.  Since everything was on the floor, I had to operate from memory.  I was so frazzled at this point I was really just guessing and not caring.  I finally managed to get everything put away all the while being pelted by hotdog shrapnel and dodging the dog who was busy gobbling up most of the feast I had prepared.  My son finished eating (throwing) around noon and mercifully asked to be put down for his nap. 

I had planned on working on this blog during that naptime, but instead I tidied up our mess and collapsed onto the couch.  My wife returned home at 1:30 in the afternoon, and he was still asleep.

“How was it?”  She asked with a twinkle in her eye.

“Piece of cake,” I lied.

“Did you get any writing done?”

“The morning was full of inspiration,” I smiled.

My wife is wholeheartedly devoted to optimizing the health, happiness and development our son.  She carefully monitored her diet during pregnancy, save the occasional Rice Krispie treat.  She read ALL the baby books, even the conflicting ones, even the ones written purely for comedic purposes.  She played classical music while he was in the womb and bought crib toys that played classical music for him after he was born.  She continued to monitor her diet while she was breastfeeding; and, when our boy began eating solid foods, she made it herself using all organic ingredients and carefully introducing vegetables and proteins before sugars.  As he got a little older she worked with him to develop his motor skills, and he was an early walker.  She worked on his vocabulary, and he is now a decent communicator.  She doesn’t allow tv, or strictly limits the amount of television he is exposed to.  She is a great mom and does a job I couldn’t dream of handling.  Obviously. 

I agree with the concept and goals of all the fantastic parenting my wife does.  I really do.  But…I LOVE TV.  I love reading, too.  I read all the time.  I am now even writing occasionally.  But when I want to relax, I don’t open a book or open up the word processor, I watch television.  I really don’t care what it is either.  I like movies, good and bad.  I like sitcoms.  I like reality.  I like game shows.  In fact, if my wife and I find ourselves alone in front of the television, I will commit the ultimate man-sin and give up the remote control.  I don’t care what we watch as long as I get to bathe in that sweet warm glow.  I may not even actually hear a word or comprehend an action.  I just shut off most of my brain and stare blankly ahead like a still life.  Don’t get me wrong, I have my preferences.  I prefer Seinfeld or Curb to Barefoot Contessa, but in the end I just need the fix. 

It’s not really my fault. (Is anything?)  My parents, God bless them, were extremely lenient when it came to watching television.  I’ve seen and can quote, often subconsciously, most sitcoms from the 80s and 90s.  I grew up before Tivo, but not before the VCR; and, at a young age, I knew how to program it.  Remember the old joke about having to ask your kid to program the VCR.  I was that kid. 

I played Pop Warner football growing up.  Beginning in the 4^th grade, every Saturday, my family would load up and travel to my football games.  I loved football, but Saturday mornings were meant for cartoon watching.  Thanks to the glorious technology that was the VCR, I returned home every Saturday after a long morning of running around and into other children to a full five hours of cartoon goodness.   On school days when I was a kid, I would rush home to watch Transformers and GI Joe.  To this day, I HATE the Cubs, White Sox, and Braves because their games often preempted my cartoons on WGN and TBS.  Screw you and your jheri curl Andre Dawson!!  Damn you Atlanta Braves fans and your overtly racist tomahawk chop!! 

 (Dear God i hate you so much)

Like the dad in the (anti?) marijuana public service announcement, I am afraid I may be doomed to pass my addiction to television on to my son.  “From  you, alright?!  I learned it from watching you!”  

My son’s first exposure to television came on my wife’s first post pregnancy girls’ night out.  Left to my own devices, I naturally decided it would be a great idea for the guys to watch a Zach Galifianakis stand up special on Netflix.  Hilarious.  My son stared blankly at the glowing screen.  Was he being ironic?  Maybe he was out deadpanning Galifianakis.  If so, he is a comic genius.  Maybe he just didn’t think it was funny.  If that was the case, what does he know, he was 3 months old?  Whatever.  I got my fix, he didn’t seem to be harmed in any way, everybody’s happy.  The next time she went out, we watched an NBA playoff game between the Spurs and Mavericks.  It was great!  It was our little secret.  When mommy went out with the girls, father and son bonded over sports and hipster comedy.   

As our boy got a little older, his mother loosened the reins a little.  He is now allowed to watch cartoons in the morning while daddy gets ready for work and mommy makes the bed and prepares breakfast.  We tune the television to PBS and leave it on for “Arthur” and “Martha Speaks.”  Our son LOVES Arthur.  His two favorite books feature this character.  I’m not sure what kind of animal Arthur is; he’s either a mole, a guinea pig, or a tailless squirrel.  (chupacabra?)  I really enjoy Martha.  She’s a talking dog.  The show features a ton of little inside jokes for pet owners that adults can appreciate.   Our son watches each show for about 3 minutes and seems to lose interest.  As far as Mom is concerned, other than during these two series from 7-8 AM weekdays, TV is absolutely off limits.  It is this unwavering prohibition and my wife’s noble quest to raise the brightest, healthiest, most well adjusted child possible that tipped me to our boy’s first lie.

Lately our little angel has been on a real roll at home when it comes to misbehaving.  He is in a stage (we hope) where he is very obstinate.  He likes to say, “NO!”  He throws the occasional tantrum.  He throws the not so occasional piece of food across the room.  He torments our poor dog.  He is getting a head start of the infamous terrible twos.   Oddly enough, he behaves like a perfect angel for sitters and at preschool.  He has yet to be sentenced to the dreaded timeout by anyone other than my wife or me.  He is the Eddie Haskell of his preschool.  (Most dated pop culture reference ever.)  He is charming and sweet when it benefits him, but can be down-right devilish at times.

One day last week, I returned home from work around 5:30.  I opened the door from our garage to find my wife doing her June Cleaver best. (Again? Really?)  She looked beautiful standing in the kitchen with our son, allowing him to assist her at making cookies.  As I entered the room our boy ran to great me with a hug, and my wife kissed me and asked about my day…(Ok, at this point I feel the need to interject.  All this actually happened.  However, my wife wasn’t wearing heals and pearls, we don’t live in black and white, and I didn’t have a scotch and cigarette before dialing my mistress on our rotary phone.   We are a loving couple, but a modern couple, Beaver references notwithstanding. )(Giggle)…  I then followed as my son led me into the family room, where we generally wrestle, play with toys, shoot baskets on his Little Tikes hoop, or read.   He guided me into the room and to the chair we usually use for reading.  Curiously, he then walked toward the television, pointed to it, and politely asked, “Toons?”

“Yes,” I replied, “We watch toons there in the mornings.” And when mom isn’t around.

“Toons,” he said again, this time not with the inflection of a question, but with the self-assurance of a command.

“I don’t think so, buddy.” She’s right there, dude, you’re going to get us in trouble.  “That’s not allowed, let’s read.”

“Toons.”  Again.  Now his tone was more of a threat. 

I decided to pull out the big guns since I’d apparently lost all authority when it came to regulating television viewing.  “Does your mother let you watch TV in the afternoon?”

“Uh-huh,” he said sweetly smiling and nodding his head.

I was caught off guard by the lie, and momentarily questioned my wife’s commitment to the TV ban.  Once I accepted the fact that my sweet boy was staring at me, bold faced, and lying without hesitation, I was a little angry, and then guilty.  Finally, I took him into my arms, and, out of pity and understanding picked up the remote control and pressed the power button.  I couldn’t find GI Joe so we watched Spongebob.

Before I became a father, I could not imagine anything worse than changing a diaper.  The nightmare of facing this parental challenge literally acted as effective birth control for many years.  My normally subdued gag reflex would instantly react at the mere thought.  The truth is, though, it really isn’t that bad when it’s your kid; and, I suppose I could, in an emergency situation, even change some other baby’s now.   I think that when my son was a newborn, I was so enamored by him that I did the work without thinking and now I have gotten used to it…mostly.   I mean it is gross, no question, but sometimes as a parent you have to do things you wouldn’t otherwise choose to do.  I knew what I was signing up for.  I thought.  The fact is I was prepared for the gross factor.  You kind of see that one coming.  I was not prepared for the battle that ensues between my son and I around once in every three times I attempt a diaper change.

The newfound responsibility of having a newborn child can be a bit overwhelming.   For me, it really was hard to believe that my wife and I were now in charge of caring for a human being.  Our dog was two when our son was born, so we had experience with other species; but, it really seemed as though humans required more care.  The constant feeding, burping, changing, rocking, bathing, swaddling, and holding seemed, at the time, to be the hardest thing we had ever attempted as a couple.  We now look back on those first few months and giggle internally at our naivety.  When our son decided to start moving around, the real work began.  Those days when he would nap peacefully while we ate dinner, or showered, or read a book, or exhaled seem so sweetly distant now.   We now know that 21 month olds are a tornado of constant motion and mischief.  At least ours is, and that includes during diaper duty. 

My darling son, frequently, likes to make a game of preventing a successful diaper change.   Sometimes, after announcing that he has a “poo-poo,” he will extend his arms to be carried to his room for changing.  Other times he will announce and lead the way to the changing pad.  These occasions present no difficulties other than the gag reflex, which, as I mentioned above, I have overcome valiantly.   Occasionally though, he gets a playful look in his eye and a sly grin creeps across his mouth and buries itself in the solo dimple he sports on his right cheek.   I take a step toward him and he crouches like a cheetah readying for the sprint, and then he is off.   He makes up for my enormous speed advantage with incredible cunning:  he runs dangerously close to sharp edges so that I am afraid to lunge and accidently knock him into injury; he is extremely good at finding narrow pathways that I cannot navigate; and, he will use furniture, pets, and other family members as natural screens whenever possible.   Mind you, I have tools in my arsenal as well.  I am, after all, considerably more experienced at literally everything, and I have the aforementioned physical advantage.  Eventually, he will fall for a head fake or will continue in a circle around some piece of furniture or corridor while I stand and wait. 

Once he is caught, however, the game is far from over.  He instantly becomes dead weight and unhinges his shoulders from their sockets making him nearly impossible to carry (an instinct all humans are born with).  If that doesn’t work, he arches his back and kicks violently at my mid-section (again, instinct).   Once I manage to wrangle him onto the changing pad, the kicking and flailing escalate.  Removing the diaper isn’t all that difficult at this point if it is just wet; however, if it is soiled, removing it during this sort of tantrum is not an option and would be more disgusting than letting him wear it.  If the diaper is wet and can be removed, he will lock his knees to prevent a new, clean diaper from being secured.   During this entire episode our precious child is intermittently wailing and laughing, sometimes simultaneously.  Curiously enough, this situation often occurs immediately before nap or bedtime. 

At first, my wife and I were lucky enough to be able to work in concert and use our sheer strength advantage to subdue the frantic child and complete diaper change.  We quickly realized however that this could not be our sole plan of action because eventually one of us would have to make a solo run.  My wife’s attempts at calmly soothing our son worked to some degree, but we eventually came to the conclusion that distraction was the only possible solution to our dilemma.  My wife found goofy faces and singing to be effective.  Once our son began developing a vocabulary she found that this was a good time and to practice saying people’s names or identifying body parts.   For some reason he was having none of this from me.  Luckily, one day, entirely by chance I discovered a talisman of calm.

I played sports as a kid.  All sports: baseball, football, track, tennis, soccer, dodgeball, golf, heck, I would have played cricket or rugby if my town would have had a kids’ league.   My parents obviously felt that running around and sweating under the direction of someone else’s parent was a great way for me to spend a few hours a week.  My favorite all time sport to play was basketball.  I loved basketball; and, I came of age in the wheelhouse of the resurgence of the NBA: the glorious Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, Michael Jordan 1980s.  I spent hours in our driveway imagining myself one on one against all the great NBA players.  I watched every game I could find on television.  I dreamed of being in the league.  Unfortunately, I grew up to be 5’9”, stocky, slow and oh so white. 

I had plenty of toys as a kid, but two of my most prized possessions were the first edition “Starting Lineup” action figures of Michael Jordan and Larry Bird.  Though they were advertised as collectibles, I tore into the boxes immediately and played with the stiff plastic figures enough to wear the (probably lead-based) paint from them in places.  Most of my childhood toys have either been given to Goodwill or, far more likely, are somewhere in my parents closet or attic.  (My mother’s hoarding tendencies are not germane to this discussion.)  But Larry and Michael made their way with me to my college dorm and occupied a prominent shelf placement in my first office.  Eventually, my need to look professional overrode any nostalgia, and the toys found their way to my bedside table drawer.  (I apparently inherited a bit of the hoarding gene.) 

When my son was born, I happily passed on these prizes of my youth to him.  I ignored the potential toxicity of the fading paint and smiled happily as he chewed the plastic molded heads of my childhood heroes.   He seemed to enjoy playing with the toys as much as I did and was just as territorial as I would have been when our dog tried to make them hers.   It is because of the dog and my son’s tendency to scatter his possessions to and fro throughout the house that I discovered the solution to the diaper changing tantrum predicament.    

One day, during a particularly wild fit, after a particularly smelly episode, I found myself alone with my son, no helping pair of hands in sight.  I tried funny faces and singing songs.  This seemed to frighten or possibly anger him.  (Everybody’s a critic.)  As his cries became louder and his look of consternation more heartbreaking, I noticed him pointing intently to my left and pleading with his eyes.  It was then that I began to make out what he was crying out for. 

“Airy Birt?! Airy Birt?!” He cried repeatedly.

“What do you want?”  I asked desperately.  “What is it?”

“Airy Birt!?  Airy Birt?!”

I looked down to my left and there he was staring at me like I was Kevin McHale sliding off a pick for the wide open layup.  I swear Larry winked at me.  I picked up the tiny plastic figure, with his tiny mustache and tiny green uniform complete with tiny short shorts and quickly handed it to my crying baby boy.   The crying immediately ceased.  Complete satisfaction. 

“Airy Birt!”  

Works every time.  My wife even uses this magic on occasion.  I may (emphasis on may) never play in an NBA game, but I have scored points with my family with an assist from Larry Legend.

I am 31 years old and have owned exactly three alarm clocks in my life – one in high school, another from college until some point early in my marriage, and now I use my cell phone.  They all had nine minutes of “snooze” time.  I have to believe that some amount of study has been devoted to the idea that nine minutes is the perfect amount of time to rest after waking and before actually getting out of bed.   Despite all of the careful planning by me and hard work by the alarm clock industry, I wake up at 5:10 every single morning.  Even though I know better, I still check the time.  Two minutes is not the scientifically studied perfect amount of time to doze back.  I stare at the ceiling, I close my eyes, I drift off and I am jolted from sleep.  Some days I never recover.

I choose to begin my day with the torture session of leaving my beautiful pregnant wife alone in our insanely comfortable bed and driving to the nearby gym.  The morning workout works best for me because I am a creative excuse maker and procrastinator.  There is no limit to the number of excuses I could muster if I waited until the end of the work day to schedule my gym time.  I am much less creative when I’m tired.  Plus, my son is usually asleep when I leave in the mornings, and I would give up precious time with him if I waited until after work (EXCUSE!).  On the occasions my son is awake at 5:30 am, he is either completely wired in some crazed toddler state of intense hyperactivity or he is inconsolably pissed at the world.  Either way, no one is sleeping in and both of these situations require more effort than muddling through a workout.   Also, despite the herculean effort necessary to drag myself out of bed, once I am up, I am somewhat of a morning person; and, therefore, in my adult life have always preferred, or been forced by my nature into, the morning workout.

Is there anything more depressing than the gym?  (Maybe beginning a paragraph with a rhetorical question.)  Seinfeld had a bit about the gym where he asked, “What exactly is everyone trying to get in shape for?”  His conclusion was that everyone was packed into the gym, day after day, exerting all this intense energy to get in good enough shape to make it through their workout.  Of course there are those who are training for marathons or triathlons, or are professional athletes, or have some job like firefighter or police officer that theoretically requires some modicum of physical fitness.  Some people just want their clothes to fit better, or their spouse to look at them the way they used to.  Some people are just vain.  I sit at a desk most days, so I don’t have an occupational need for physical fitness.  Truth is, I’ve got a beautiful wife, an awesome kid, and another on the way; I have reasons to want to be around a while.  Last year I was told that I had high cholesterol and could stand to lose a few pounds.   I’ve been working out regularly for about five months now and I really like the way it makes me feel, but I HATE the gym.

I used to live in large city and the gym was actually bustling before sunup.  You could tell no difference between 5 AM and 5 PM.  I now live in a much smaller town.  Pre-dawn at my gym is a place inhabited by characters of Seussian variety and sheer weirdness.   You expect to the working mom fitness boot campers, the sweet couple that sweats together, the lawyers, and the accountants.  Every gym, no matter what time of day has the work out addicts, the socializers, the over-stretchers and the advice givers.  My gym has all those, but it also has a cast of misfits that both ruin and make my day.

First, I really, really think highly of our armed services.  I think the military career path is an excellent choice for many men and women.  I admire the bravery of those who fight overseas.  I respect the ROTC program.  That said, the camo kid at my gym is a grade “A” dork.  He works out, sporadically at best, in full camouflage, including hat, and black combat boots.  He also wears a gold wristwatch, which I don’t believe is government issued.   His mullet isn’t regulation either.  He is either training in hopes of joining the military or is just a HUGE fan of the clothes.   He spends most of his time swaggering and thinking about the exercise he is about to attempt.  I mean REALLY thinking – cocking his head, rubbing his chin, nodding to himself.   He then does one or two repetitions on a piece of equipment before putting his hands on his hips and looking very satisfied with the effort.  If his training doesn’t intensify, he isn’t going to make it with Uncle Sam.

Physically, the most difficult person to encounter at my gym is the guy I refer to (internally of course) as “Smokey.”  From a large enough distance, he appears and is harmless.  He is young, in good shape, and seems polite.  Unfortunately he is surrounded by a caustic force field of eye stinging, lung searing, cancer-causing cigarette smoke.   The smell trails behind him like the tail of a comet and lingers on any equipment he comes in contact with.  The deep breathing associated with exertion actually makes sharing space with Smokey unhealthy.  I am literally better off staying in bed than exercising next to him.  On the bright side, the mental effort I spend avoiding him keeps me sharp.

There’s also the older guy that wears the short, short, short shorts and headband; the obese women who comes once a month, in jeans, and stays for ten minutes; and, the middle aged mom who is in good shape that brings her slightly pudgy, preteen daughter with her before school.  But, I have one person who I have honed in on as my gym-nemesis.  I have never met this guy outside the gym setting, and I haven’t said two words to him there, but I absolutely despise him.  My neck stiffens and jaw clenches when I see his pickup truck in the parking lot, and I grip my steering wheel slightly tighter.  Butterflies churn in my stomach from the completely unjustified hatred I have developed for this poor guy.  I have no natural enemies.  I am, for the most part, extremely laid back and I almost always give people the benefit of the doubt.  For some reason, my psyche has singled this person out.   Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, maybe it’s because I don’t eat breakfast until afterwards, or maybe it is actually something about him.  He is a small guy, not short, but slight.  I’d say he was 5 foot 10 or 11 inches tall and probably weighs in at a buck fifty.  He wears the exact same thing every day.  He doesn’t wear similar clothing, we all do that, he wears the exact same thing: maroon shorts, white shirt advertising some charity 5K I’m sure he didn’t run in (tucked), and maroon fitted baseball cap.  When it is cold, he arrives in a maroon tracksuit, matching of course.  He wears brand new Asics running shoes into the door and carries a maroon (shocking) gym bag.

The gym I frequent is small, and all the equipment is in one room.  The locker rooms are at one end of this large room and the entrance is at the other.  Between the men’s and women’s locker rooms is a large, dark wooden shelf with dozens of one square foot storage cubbies.  My nemesis’s first move is to walk to the exercise machine that is directly in front of the storage cubes and set his gym bag down and proceed to remove his track suit and shoes.  Bogarting a machine is bad enough, camo kid does this too, but at least he is pretending to workout.  This guy is changing clothes, ten feet from the locker room.  He pulls from his bag a pair of slightly used Asics running shoes and a spiral notebook.   He puts on the old sneakers in place of the new ones.  He then folds his track suit, puts the jacket, pants, and new shoes back in his bag and neatly places the bag on the shelf.   He meticulously tracks his workout statistics in his spiral notebook when he is not using it as a place holder to monopolize two pieces of equipment at the same time.  He has also been known to interrupt fellow members (ME!) between sets and ask to use equipment.  I have never confronted or attempted to befriend my nemesis.  Ours is a cold war and he is my Russia.