Let's Play Dress Up. Seriously...I Really Want To Play

Having two little girls means I've played my fair share of dress-up.  It's not so bad if the characters are right.

Pretending: You're Doing It Wrong

It's really cool to watch your kids take an interest in something.  The boy is really in to reading right now and loves science.  The girl has taken up drawing and writing.  The baby is still just a lump of meat that I stick in front of the t.v. all day. 

But "Hooray" for the other two and their ability to overcome my poor parenting skills.  Maybe there is some value in overloading your child with t.v. in the developmental years.

While I'm glad that the older two are showing interest in non-digital, non-HD hobbies, I'm also slightly annoyed:  

Now I have to play with them. 

And, I don't play pretend well.  Between the three kids, a 30-year mortgage, and a degree I'll never use, I'm out of imagination.  I used to imagine that having kids would be a great idea.  Imagination is what landed me here.

Here.
Among the dirty urine-soaked underwear scattered on the floor.

Here.
Making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the kids' lunches every morning.

Here.
Standing on the tattered ruins of a carpet caked with ground-in Pop-Tarts.
(At least our house smells like Brown Sugar Cinnamon)

I have no imagination.  Or, at the least, I use it incorrectly.  Leah reminds me of this every time we play "Restaurant".  Her new found love of drawing has led to her carrying around a clipboard full of paper everywhere she goes. 

She likes to pretend she's a waitress and she always asks me:  "What do you want to eat?"

To which I respond, "A bacon cheeseburger."  "We don't have that."  "Okay, I'll take a steak."  "We don't have that either."  "How about some soup?"  "Sorry."

"Sorry?  You're sorry?  What kind of crap pretend restaurant is this?  I just wanted a nice fake meal in the comfort of my own home and now you're sorry?"

"Can I get you a drink?"

"Yes, I'll have some tea please."

"We don't have that."

Jake and the NeverLand Ponies

Yarrrr!  Everypony needs a break from work now and then:

D.B.D

There's really no reason for me to ever complain about the noise the kids make considering my musical preference:

If you want to know what winter break is like for a Stay At Home Dad, just listen to the video below, through earbuds, full-blast, on repeat.

Proctologists: Medical Mythomaniacs

I've been told by many people that my pain brings them pleasure.  If you're one of those people, first off, you're welcome and secondly, today is going to be a wonderful day for you.  I just went to the proctologist.

The Baron of Booty.
The Highness of Hiney.
The Tycoon of Tushy.

You get the point.  It's the guy that looks in your butt.

Don't trust that smile.  He's plotting.

The doctor visit starts off like any other.  I sit in a waiting room with warm, neutral colors until they call me back to the other waiting room--the one where things get serious.  The one where the nice nurse takes you back and speaks to you in a calm, smooth (almost seductive) voice and asks you about your medical history.  She then smiles at you, says the doctor will be with you shortly, and walks out.

Leaving you alone.  With only your thoughts.  Well, your thoughts and this thing sitting on the table next to you:

I don't know what this is, but I know what it's capable of.  I just did a Google Image Search for "Good God Don't Ever Let That Happen To My Butt Again" and it popped up.  #1 result. 

It's like those fun Star Trek water guns you used to have as a child, except instead of squirting water and making children laugh, it's rammed up your butt-hole and makes you cry. 

So now I'm alone in the exam room with only my thoughts and this torture device from the dark ages.  It's here that I would like to comment on the amazing capacity that the human brain has to be optimistic in the face of fear.  It may be a defect, but I'll take it.  

I tell myself:  How do I know that gun is meant for me?  Maybe they just leave it sitting out on the table until it's needed.  You know...like Kleenex or tongue depressers.  Just because there's a bottle of lube sitting next to it doesn't mean he's going use it on me right?  Right?

Before I could delude myself any further, the doctor walks in.  He introduces himself, we shake hands and I sit down.  Then some other dude walks in and he introduces him as his intern or his shadow or his cousin, I don't know who it was.  I didn't hear him because I was thinking, "Wait a second, who the hell invited this guy?  Did he leave something in here from earlier?  Oh, he's staying?  I got it.  Great."

Should we high-five and get on with it then?

The poor guy can barely look me in the eyes as we shake hands.  I take this to mean that he knows what's about to happen and he's sorry.  Very, very sorry. The doctor asks to look at my belly.  He touches and pushes and asks if it hurts.  "Not a bit doctor, is that all?" I stand up thinking that wasn't so bad.  I'll just grab my hoodie and be on my way.

Then I hear the noise.  Gears grinding.  Belts moving.  An exam table being lowered.

(le sigh)

The doctor assures me he'll be gentle, but there will be some slight discomfort.  "If it hurts, tell me and I'll stop", he said.  "Some people can't make it through the exam".

Wait. What did you just say? Some people can't make it through the exam?  What's going on here?  He tells me to take my time to undress and prepare.  Then he got very philosophical on me and talked about how humans were the only species to worry about things that "might" happen before they happen.  He actually told me to go to a "happy place" and try not to think about what was happening.  Just some "slight" discomfort.

He starts the exam (i.e., let's hide the Star Trek gun) and initiates small talk.  He asks me what I do for a living.  No doctor, how about we talk about what you do for a living?  Is your wife cool with this?  Does your family know what you do at work all day?  Because this is not cool doc, not cool at all.  How do you sleep at night?

I tell him it hurts.  I don't actually say "It hurts", but I assume the language coming out of my mouth is sign enough.

He continues.

Then I actually say "It hurts".

He continues.

He says he wants to check one more thing.  I say "It hurts".  He says just one more thing...again.  I say "It hurts."  One more thing he says.  At this point, Three Dog Night starts playing in my head.  It must be the theme song to my happy place.

It's also the most painful number.

Here's one more thing doctor: Proctologists are lying liars that lie about being gentle and stopping when you say it hurts.  When he said, "I'll stop if it hurts", he should have said, "If it hurts, LULZ, GFY."  They're also bad with numbers because the first time he said "just one more thing" he should have said, "just three more things".

The whole time this is going on he's explaining to his cousin or best friend or whatever about what he's doing and his cousin keeps asking questions.  "I'm really glad that you both are enjoying yourselves but can we hurry this up?"

After a half hour (or five minutes, whatever), he finishes up.  He tells me that the two of them will leave the room and let me get dressed and "collect" myself.  "No way Doc.  You don't get to just do that to me and then leave me be.  Let's finish this up like men."

I forget exactly what happened next, I was light-headed and felt the need to puke.  We talked about the exam, shared some laughs, and agreed to do it again in two months.  Good times.

Sad, Butt True

It doesn't take much to get me excited anymore. Sad, but true.  While I occasionally like to live life on the wild side, the bar for things that excite me is set pretty low.  Like, six feet deep.  But today, I felt my heart pounding and a rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins.  It was like Christmas in July and I owe it all to poop.  Thanks Mr. Hankey.

We've been potty training Libby for the past two weeks.  (I say "we", but I mean "I".)  Anyway, "we" have not been having a ton of success.   She has been just as happy to go in her underwear as she has been to sit on the pot.  We didn't expect much in such a short time of such a half-assed job as we've been doing.  Libby has been using her whole ass which sort of makes up for our lack of commitment.

Today,  we had a breakthrough that had me excited enough to use the potty myself.   SPOILER ALERT:  I used it.

She's been wearing underwear all morning and has not had any accidents.  But here's the cherry on top:  She was downstairs, engrossed in SpongeBob Squarepants, while I was upstairs hard at work on the computer (trolling my friends on facebook).

She left SpongeBob of her own volition (a feat in itself), came upstairs, pulled down her pants, and went right in the pot.  My mouth dropped.  It was amazing.  Yes, it was the highlight of my day and possibly my week.  I don't care how exciting fireworks are on the 4th, this trumps everything.

We had such a hard time training the boy.  As young, inexperienced parents, we did everything by the book.  All the experts said to train your child at two years of age.  The hardcore ones said to start at 18 months.  I wish we'd never read any of those articles.

Kids don't care what the experts say. 

Caleb wasn't prepared when we started toilet training him and we had nothing but problems.  We were totally relaxed with Leah--to the point where she basically trained herself.

We've taken the same laissez-faire attitude with Libby and today was a major victory.  Now, if I could just teach her how to sit on the pot instead of in the pot.

Mental Floss

I love trivia.  More accurately, I love knowing the answer to trivia that no one else knows.  The problem is, I don't know as much as I'd like to think I know.  I have a brother-in-law that can tell you the scores of every Super Bowl played since the beginning of time and who had the most stolen bases in Game 3 of the 1909 World Series.  Seriously, just make up some random question about sports and chances are he'll know the answer.

It's creepy.

And awesome.

And, I wish I had that kind of memory.  But, I don't.  My Dad has all kinds of useless facts roaming around in that brain of his, but not me.  Apparently, it skipped a generation.

I think the boy has it.

It's not even a good memory or useless trivia with him though; it's knowledge.  That's half the battle.

Tonight we played the Mental Floss board game.  A great game based on an even better magazine.  If you don't read it you should.  At least visit their website.  I was given this question:

"What is sodium bicarbonate also known as?"

Apparently, I should have known this.  Like I said, I'm not the brightest.  I was thinking it was salt or soda, I had no clue.  Lose a turn, feel ashamed, ask the boy.

"Hey Caleb, what is sodium bicarbonate?"

Without even pausing to think about it or missing a beat of his hand-flapping, he replied:  "Baking Soda."

That's my boy.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs

I might be getting old, but not too old to party.

Sign I'm Getting Old:  I went to pick up the kids from school today and completely missed my turn-off,  heading half-way in to town.

But Not Too Old To Party:  So I pulled a U-Turn, cranked up some metal (Rings of Saturn) and head-banged all the way to elementary school.




Sign I'm Getting Old:  I'd rather stay home with the family than go to an outdoor metal festival.  Sorry Mayhem Fest.

But Not Too Old To Party:   Those kids are going to bed early so I can drink beer and play Guitar Hero in my underwear all night.

Sign I'm Getting Old:  I spend more time yelling things like "Don't touch that", "Who did this", and "Stop".

But Not Too Old To Party:  When I do yell "Stop" it is immediately followed by "Hammertime" and my awe-inspiring rendition of the Hammer Slide.

Sign I'm Getting Old:  I enjoy spending three hours sitting in an uncomfortable chair to watch my little girl perform somersaults, hand-stands, and front-flips during her 5-minute routine.

But Not Too Old To Party:  I know that all this handstand practice will make her own everybody else at college keg stand parties.

  Make Daddy proud.

Sign I'm Getting Old:  I have life insurance, a will, and a trust fund set up.

But Not Too Old To Party:  The will has specific instructions to throw my ashes in a biodegradable urn alongside an apple seed and plant me.

 That's one way to say "Eat Me" to the world long after you're gone.

Sign I'm Getting Old:  My brain comes up with awesome blog posts around 11:30 at night when I'm falling asleep and then I forget them by morning.

But Not Too Old To Party:  I'm getting revenge by slowly killing brain cells.

The brain is such a scumbag.

Bonding:Like Glue On A Wound

There is a special bond between Elizabeth and myself.  We do everything together.  We eat the same foods, we watch football together, and we even go to the hospital together.

The results of a recent MRI led to an even more recent surgical procedure--namely, spinal surgery (that's totally metal).  The night before my surgery, Libby was feeling sympathetic.  Rather than just share in my emotional pain, she shared in my physical pain.  One badly placed footstep and a well-placed chin later, she was in the hospital emergency room getting her own little surgery.

When I say surgery, what I really mean is that they super-glued her wound shut.  Two-hundred and fifty dollars for them to glue her chin.  I certainly appreciate the ER nurses and their ability to keep my baby from bleeding out, but a quarter of a thousand dollars sounds pretty steep for a glue-job.  Lesson learned.  I've a 97-cent bottle of Elmer's and some Duct-Tape I'll try next time.

The price seems more ridiculous when you consider that my spinal surgery cost us a little over 700 dollars.  That's the difference between In-Network and Out-of-Network.  Not to worry though, the Affordable Care Act will make everything more affordable.  It's in the name, it can't fail right?  On the plus side, for a little under 1,000 dollars we both received some cool scars and matching bracelets.

I also scored this sweet pair of socks with a built-in sunroof.

Even though my back still hurts, my foot is still asleep, and we'll have bills to pay over the next several months, it was worth it.  #LiesITellMyself

Sure, we could have gone fishing together, toured the pumpkin patch, or gone out for ice cream, but you can't put a price on this type of bonding experience.  Just look at the joy and love on Libby's face:

World War Zzzzzz....

I remember spending an evening with my grandparents when Mom and Dad would go out for an anniversary, birthday, or just a night out.  My grandparents were responsible for some of my most memorable moments.  You could get away with things at Grandma's that you just couldn't at home.  We made triple-decker sandwiches, built tents out of the couch cushions, and best of all, we put ice-cream on our Tostino's Party Pizzas.

  I went through a Ninja Turtle phase. If you don't understand, then I'm sorry your childhood sucked.

Fat chance doing any of that stuff at home.  I remember thinking how lame my parents' nights out were.  They just went out for dinner and came back.

LAME.

Then I had kids.  Now I realize how special a dinner sans kids is.  It's the little things that make a night out so memorable.  Little things like being able to eat a steak dinner on a place-mat that doesn't double as a maze/word-search/coloring book.   Or, not having to ask the waiter if they have both chocolate and whole milk.  Or, being able to complain about how loud other parents' kids are.  Or, not having to negotiate with my fellow diners over how many more bites they need to take.

  Okay, so I actually enjoy doing the word searches. Caleb always beats me to the mazes.

When it came time to take Rachel out for her birthday I knew a nice dinner without kids would be well appreciated.  What I didn't expect was what she wanted to do after.  Having polished off our steak and drinks (our table actually had a tablecloth on it!) we headed to the car.  "What do you want to do now?", I asked.  "I don't know.  Let's head home."

If I was telling this story at the gym, that's where I'd quit talking.  But I'm not at the gym (not now or ever really) so let's keep it real.  On the way home we stopped by Redbox and picked up World War Z.  And, since this was supposed to be a "Date Night", we made it official by stopping by Wal-Mart on the way home and picking up some groceries.  When we arrived home, Rach offered me a couple of choices.  I suggested a third:

With my bright idea eliminated that left us with the two things she really wanted to do:

1.  Watch a movie

2. Take a nap

Yes, our big night out was going to end with us either taking a nap or watching a movie on the couch, which would, most likely, result in at least one of us taking a nap.  Now I understand my parents' lameness all those years ago.  The joy of watching a movie without hundreds of interruptions (for something to drink, something to eat, somebody hit me, I pooped on the carpet) can only be surpassed by the greater joy of taking a nap in a quiet house.  Let's pop that movie in and fall asleep.

Sunday Night Football

Tonight's game may be one of the best Sunday Night Football matches of the season.  NFC divisional rivals Seahawks and 49ers have taken the field in the 1st quarter.  I sit down to watch.

That's not entirely true.

I've sat in the same seat since 12:05 this afternoon watching Yahoo's Stat Tracker, eating things I shouldn't, and yelling at the television.

  They can't hear me either Ramsey.

Then the kids come downstairs and ask me to tuck them in.

Pause.

Thank you Anthony Wood for inventing the DVR.  Although you don't use one yourself, sports-fans everywhere thank you that we have the ability to pause, rewind, and watch our own replays frame-by-frame.  It's empowering and makes us feel justified when yelling at refs for obvious blown-calls.

As an added bonus, I can also feel like Super Dad and tuck my kids in at night while the Niners and Hawks wait patiently for me to return from my fatherly duties.  The kids have my full attention.  Kind of.

While the boy and I lay in his bed talking about Power Rangers and the Seven-Legged monster they fought today, I can't help but think what I'm missing.  Has Kaepernick ran in a touchdown yet?  Who's winning?  How much Adderall has Sherman taken?

  It's for narcolepsy. Don't judge.

Eventually, the boy tells me he is tired of talking and wants to sleep; he allows me to leave.  I come downstairs to find 23 minutes of time built up on the DVR.

Using the "Pause" button to let me tuck my children in at night is great, but here's the real reason to pause the game: 23 minutes of recorded time lets me skip commercials and half-time.  I plop down on the couch, confident in my superb parenting abilities, and ready to watch an amazing, commercial-free, half-time-free game.

Play.

CRAP!!!  There goes my 23-minutes.  I walk back upstairs to see if I can interest Caleb in some more Power Ranger talk.

I Wanna Rock

We all have our bedtime routines.  For the boy, it's a glass of water and wanting to talk while he falls asleep.  While it was annoying at first (I figured it was just a ploy to stay up later), it soon turned in to one of my favorite parts of the day.  I'm not competing with SpongeBob SquarePants or Angry Birds for his attention.  And like his absorbent, yellow, porous friend, he soaks up everything we talk about at night.  It's a great opportunity to warn him about the dangers of drugs, not wearing a seat belt, and the flaws of a "Two Party" system.

The girl's routine consists of getting out of bed a minimum of three times: once for hugs, again for kisses, and a third for the all-important glass of water.  Depending on her level of tiredness and the inefficacy of my yelling at her to go back to bed, we may see her three or more times yet again.  This results in us locking our bedroom doors, turning out the lights, and turning a deaf ear.  It works.  We might trip over a 4-year old sleeping outside our bedroom door in the morning, but it works.

The baby has taken a lesson from her older sister and comes out of her room each night before bed too.  But instead of wanting hugs, kisses, and water, she only wants one thing.  Like her speed-metal-loving Dad, she just wants to rock.  How can I say no?

  She likes to rock out with her book about crocs out.

If you don't have a rocking chair, you're missing out.  It's the best way to fall asleep, but that can also lead to problems.  The idea is for the baby to pass out, but I usually end up falling asleep first.  It doesn't matter if it's 10 o'clock at night or 10 minutes after seven.  If I'm rocking in that chair, I will be unconscious first.

Every time.

No matter the time.

While the saliva gathers at the corners of my mouth, Libby is left with unfettered freedom to destroy the house in true Rock Star fashion.  Eventually, she tires of pulling the cookware out of the cabinets and spreading toys across the floor; she falls asleep.  I guess we all have our bedtime routines.

Danger Is My Middle Name

Some people like to say that once you have children, the thrill of living is over.  No more exciting weekend ski trips, no more Fast Pass fun at amusement parks, and no more hanky-panky without hearing a small child knocking on the door asking what you're doing.  Well, they're right.  But I say you just have to make your own excitement once you have kids.  Just because you gain thirty pounds, have high cholesterol, and are on anti-depression meds doesn't mean you don't know how to party.  Here are a few ideas for making life a little more fun.

Paint:  We've been redecorating our house lately and while painting is about as much fun as watching it dry, it can easily become an exciting adventure.  After three days of mundane taping, pouring, and wearing raggedy clothes, I decided to liven things up a little.  I put on my nice, black dress-shirt and started painting.

Every brush dip into the paint can was a breath-holding moment similar to those experienced by snipers on the battle field.  Every stroke of the brush on the wall made my heart beat quicker and my mind rush.  Would this be the time that the bristles splattered paint all over my nice shirt.  It was a rush.   Insanity Wolf approves.

Drinks:  My kids drink like I did in my early twenties.  The only exception is that chocolate milk doesn't make them black out and lose track of time.  I thought science would have came up with some type of drink that would make your kids pass out for a couple of hours by now.    I guess there's always the Benadryl Cocktail.

 Prepare to stock up on milk. Four gallons should last you two days.

Take sippy cups to the next level by letting your children pour their own drinks.  Watching your child lift a gallon jug of milk into the air with two hands is sure to get your blood flowing.  Their arms start shaking, the milk begins sloshing back and forth, and you're standing there wondering if you should jump in and help or just enjoy the rush.

Enjoy it.

Besides, eventually your kid will get the hang of it and you won't have to pour those drinks at all anymore.  For added excitement, I recommend putting important documents underneath the sippy cup your child is trying to pour milk into.

Dinner:  After you've spent an hour making dinner, prepare your child's plate.  Fill it up until you can't see Dora staring at you through those giant, dead eyes of hers.  Then, let your kid carry the plate to the table.  The suspense will damn near kill you.

Don't warn your son that he's tilting his plate to the left.  Don't you dare tell your daughter to use both hands to steady the plate.  Much like that corn, carrots and peas medley, you'll be living on the edge, just waiting to watch all of your hard work come crashing down around you.  Thank goodness that bedtime follows soon after dinner, you'll be spent by the time your kid makes it to the table.

 Not even close to being full enough.

  Closer, but you can still see those beady eyes.

 Now you've got it.

For more dinner time fun, try leaving your child's shirt on while he eats.

Reality Football

Some people play Fantasy Football.  The fantasy being winning their league's championship trophy.

Not me.
I'm a winner.
No fantasies here.

I'm living the dream.  In fact, I'd like to take the time to show nine friends of mine what they've been missing this year.

The Kapowski has enjoyed its new home and has been treated with the utmost respect and care.  Like the popular girl she is, Kelly has had no problem making new friends.

 We spent a lot of time frolicking (yes, frolicking) in the park.  Kelly loves to be pushed in the swing.

And the slide was tons of fun too.  Look, Kapowski is at the bottom.  The same place that Rich's team was in last season.

We also spent some time at a petting zoo.  It reminded us a lot of Danielle's, Sara's, Garrett's and Wes' teams.  That is to say, it really stunk.

We also visited this cool statue which seemed to have such a sad, sad expression on his face.  We imagine it's a lot like what Jeff's face looked like as he saw his Fantasy Football Championship dreams come crashing down around him during the Kapowski Bowl.

We also spent plenty of time in the pool this summer.  Here's a picture of a little 4-year old girl (not my child) doing something that Levi has never done yet--holding a championship trophy.

It's been a great summer spending time with Kelly and I look forward to keeping her with me for another year.  She's finally home.

 *Zach was not mentioned in this post.  He never logs in to set his lineup, so there is little to no chance that he would ever read this anyway.  And Sid, no longer able to handle failure has dropped out of Polk High.

The Bra Trick (For Babies)

Kids ruin everything--your hopes and dreams, bank account, and sexy things.  There used to be something sexy about a girl removing her bra without taking her shirt off.  Then the baby ruined it for me.

  This creepy bastard has also ruined it for me.

If you've read any of the Disgusting Diary, you'd know about Libby's love of playing in poo.  We've had to resort to putting her in onesies lately.  If we don't, she pulls off her bloomers/shorts/pants, rips off her diaper and swings it around in the air like a single-mother trying to make a living.

She can't unbutton the onesie, so we figured we'd be safe.

We were wrong.  Horribly, horribly wrong.

 Better judgment (aka--My Wife) kept me from posting a picture of Libby's used diaper. But, for interested parties, just do a Google Image Search "baby poo" and you'll have an idea of what I mean by "Horribly Wrong".

The girl has skills.  Too many times I've walked in to her room to see her waving a diaper over her head.

"Where'd she get that diaper?", I ask myself.  Then I notice she is no longer wearing one and her onesie is still buttoned.  Either she has learned to unbutton her jumper, remove her diaper, and then re-button her clothes, or she can take her diaper off without removing her clothes.  I've seen the latter in action and if it's any indication of her inhibitions (or lack thereof), well,  at least she'll be the most popular girl at all the parties.