We’ve created a (cookie) monster.

Saturday night Sakya decided to bake cookies for our family. Normally this means she eats 1 or 2 and I get the rest, which I’m totally cool with. Now that the tiny human is around, whenever we eat anything, much less a delicious cookie, B whines and wants a bite, so naturally I had to share my chocolate chip cookie with him. He’s quite selfish in that regard.

We try to limit the unhealthy snacks that B gets, which I believe was our first mistake. Despite his lack of fine motor skills and limited cognitive thinking, I see a devious little evil mastermind behind those baby blues. Think Stewie from the Family Guy without the strong desire to murder is mother.

The lone cookie sat on his high chair tray. He sat and stared at it for a moment, not blinking, but pondering his next move. He sits back and takes a sip of milk, checks his surroundings and takes a deep breath. And that’s when the attack comes. Not from the front, but from the side using a coordinated attack pattern that General George S. Patton would be proud of. Now that B has had his first taste of cookie, it seems as though he longs for its taste. And I’m not talking the sissy Twilight vampirery way. I’m talking zombie’s want to eat your brain type stuff.

***Side Note*** Quick thank you to Mr. Henson for creating “Cookie Monster”. It might be easier to feed kids fruits if he would have created “Apple Monster”. Just sayin…

The next day, there are still 3 or 4  cookies left. Sakya and I like to enjoy a snack before bed and we took the cookies back to the bedroom and leave them on the nightstand. While having some down time with B, he falls asleep in our bed so we decide to leave him there for his nap and go to the living room. After about 30 minutes we hear some rustling back in the bedroom, but figure it’s just B getting more comfortable. When he wakes up he yells until we pick him up for his next activity. Not hearing anything we assume he is still asleep.Another 5 minutes goes by and we hear another peep so we go and check on him. We find this:

That is an empty plate of cookies and a very happy toddler picking chocolate chip cookies off our bed. I have never seen a child eat so quickly. This was payback for all the bananas and pears we’ve made him eat. He was striking while the iron was hot. Like a shark (or vampire) he smelled blood in the water and attacked.

 

Watch your back Edward Cullen.

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Bath Toy Destruction

Don’t worry… I promise you this isn’t another post about B pooping in the tub. But it seems bath time got the best of me again.

Before B was born, Sakya and I had separate bathrooms. She used the master bath and I was sent packing to the guest bath. This was fine with me. I was able to accomplish all the manly things that needed to be done. Manscaping, washing of masculine areas and most importantly deep thinking was done in my own private realm of  peace and tranquility. Baby comes along and the serenity and harmony of my man-room was invaded like the beaches of Normandy.

Toys. A lot of toys. Toys in drawers, toys on floors, toys in closets and most importantly toys in the bathtub. If you were to glance into my tub it looks like that cast from Fantasia and Mr. Hooper’s Store had a mass suicide attempt. Mickey, Donald, Elmo and Cookie Monster are face down in a shallow pool of baby body wash and tearless shampoo.

B’s favorite toy, however, is a Weeble Wobble duck that floats and stays upright at all times. B unleashes Poseidon’s fury on this thing. Plenty of splashing, buckets of water, and an extra loofah have all been incorporated into sinking this toy without luck. It will just not sink or tip over, much to the delight of B. How ironic.

Skip to an hour after B gets out of the bath. Its finally my turn to take a shower. I tiptoe into the shower like I’m avoiding a minefield at Guantanamo Bay, I kick Goofy to the side, hang the Big Bird wash cloth on the bar and get down to business. There’s veritable who’s who of Nickelodeon characters surrounding my feet.  I wash essential body parts, shave my face, possibly sing a song on two and start to wash my hair. Obviously any grown man shampoo has been removed from my shower so I am left scrubbing away with Kermit Foaming body gel and Johnson’ s and Johnson’s Sensitive Scalp Shampoo. I normally leave the shower smelling like a mixture of Hello Kitty and Teddy Rumpskin.

Eyes closed tight and washing away, the unsinkable duck makes in appearance. I step forward to wash the soap from my hair, bump into the bubble making machine, step on the Weeble Wobble duck and:

I have opened up negotiations with Sakya for master bath time. Main bargaining chips include the Caillou Bath Crayons and the Sponge-Bob Submarine®.

I DO NOT have the X Factor

Quick back-story:

1.) I am a horrible singer

2.) I like to sing

3.) I do not sing in public…. Ever

4.) I like Disney movies

5.) Consequently I like Disney Movie soundtracks

Now that the formalities are out of the way, here’s a quick insight into the life of gridlock with a toddler.

Occasionally I will pick B up from the babysitter. Usually Sakya picks him up, but every now and then dad and tiny human get to roll together.  For the most part B occupies himself in the backseat. Checks out the surroundings, kicks his feet or babbles on our 15 minute drive home. In case you didn’t know, toddlers have the attention span of a pre-schooler with fun-dip and a Barney episode. So of course a traffic jam is the worst possible senario.

Gridlock. I’m talking like 10 car pile up, bio-hazardous material spilled on the highway, OJ Simpson car chase gridlock. Not moving. After 10 minutes of not moving B is getting antsy. At first there are little whimpers, followed by whining, followed by screams that sound like a 12 year old who hugged Justin Bieber and is never bathing again. This is not good.

Two things calm B down pretty quickly, The freaking Wiggles (see earlier post) and singing. Since I’m all out of Jeff, Murray and the rest of the merry gang, I throw on some Disney tunes on Pandora and begin to rock out. This worked for about 2 1/2 minutes.

I try the singing without really moving my mouth; not working. I try singing every 10 or so words; not working. I check my surroundings and start belting out Bear Necessities ; of course, this works.

At this point I’m getting into it. I mean The Circle of Life comes on and you have to do the opening African chant, right? B is laughing hysterically, I completely forget that we are stuck in traffic and my favorite Disney song Never Had a Friend Like Me comes on.

I am dancing, singing, doing my best Robin Williams impersonation and I look out my window. 5 teenage boys are filming me with iPhones and getting more enjoyment out of me signing than B. I look at them. Flip them off and continue signing. Wait till you have kids you little shits. You’ll be signing Hakuna Matata and it won’t be nearly as good.

Also I believe me singing is somewhere on youtube, but I have yet to find it. If you do, let me know.

Mustachio Daddio

The above image is in fact my dad. My dad has had a mustache since I can remember. Only certain people look good in a mustache and my dad is one of those guys. Like Tom Selleck, Rollie Fingers or Burt Reynolds – my dad is a mustache lifer.

He has always been pretty funny when asking him why he has a mustache. Answers range from “because it’s deer season”, to “I came out of the womb with a mustache, so I thought I’d keep it.” Fair enough pop, you once shaved it off when I was 3 or 4 years old and I wouldn’t talk to you for a week because I thought a stranger had moved into our house. Go ahead and rock the stash, it’s part of making you dad. Why, you ask, am I blogging about my dad’s mustache? Well because 20 or so years after he played a cruel trick on me and my sister did I finally realize I had been had.

One day dad walked out of the bathroom with half his mustache shaved off. My sister and I were roughly 10 and 6 years old respectively and we had probably only seen him with his face shaved once or twice before. He had a very serious look on his face and seemed to be looking for something. He had set us up hook line and sinker. Dad had a plan. We inquired about his mustache and what he was looking for. He proceeded to tell us that while he was in the bathroom he had lost half of his mustache and he had to find it before we were able to go to Chuck-E-Cheez.

Panic started to set in. My sister and I searched high and low, near and far, but that damn mustache was no where to be found. All the while dad was planted on the couch watching TV, throwing us some hints every now and then. “have you checked under the bed.” “what about in the kitchen?” We could fill the pizza and tokens slipping through our fingers. We probably went on that wild goose chase for 3 to 4 hours, or just enough time for dad to watch the basketball game and keep us quiet for the afternoon. Eventually we gave up. We cried. I can’t remember if I was more upset at the fact that we wouldn’t be going to play games or that dad was going to be without his facial hair for all of eternity.

Dad never told us that he had tricked us. But he did of course take us to Chuck-E-Cheez’s and I remember getting extra tokens that day. He assured us that he would find his mustache later and obviously the memory faded into my 6 year old history. Every parent needs some down time, you know to watch the game and relax. Now I can sit here and laugh about how freaking awesome my dad was growing up (and still is). I hope I’m as good of a dad to B as he was to me. And who knows maybe one day I’ll grow and epic mustache and “lose it” during a big game.

Who needs sleep?

B has always been a great sleeper, so luckily I don’t have to deal with this very often. We put him down around 8 o’clock every night and the majority of the time he sleeps through the night. The above image does, however, depict the sleeping arrangements on the rare occasion that the tiny human does sleep with mom and dad. Every now and then we’ll all “nap” together as one big happy family.

Before the baby came along, I would be knocked out like Joseph Gordon Levitt; Inception style. Sleep inside of sleep, dreams within dreams. Unicorns, ponies, balloons and butterflies. Now: not so much. When the baby and dog wants a nap with dad, I have fingers in my eye sockets, knees in the lower lumbar region and feet playing hacky sack with my testicles. There’s also the fear of moving even an inch in case I disturb the kiddo from his siesta, because no one wants a sleep deprived toddler.

A man once said, “I am not a smart man, but I know what love is”. No kidding buddy. Because only someone who truly loves their family would allow a  sleeping arrangement like the one pictured above to happen. I’m not sure if I radiate the most heat, or if it’s my wonderful fatherly aroma, or just the fact the right side of the bed attracts objects like moth’s to a light, but it seems like my personal area is the cool place to hang out. I can picture B texting the dog, ‘party in dad’s spot on the bed tonight, bring your green hat’. Not cool bro, not cool at all.

For those of you that know me personally, you know that my body size would limit sleeping in a 3′ x 3′ square. I’m roughly 6’3”  – 200 (ish) pounds and to top it off I need to lay in a perfect position to fall asleep. Dog jammed into my feet, baby drooling on my head is NOT a perfect position. The sheer fact that I purchased a king sized bed from Ikea and successfully assembled said bed with Ikea directions, should allow me as much sleeping room as I want. Seriously, go hang out on mom’s side, its really nice and has great views of the rest of the room.

But, alas, I give give up. I can move the baby towards the middle of the bed over and over, scissor kick the dog in the head repeatedly, but they still gravitate towards me in the end. I’m fighting a losing battle. Sakya, B and the dog are dreaming away and I am left stuck with my thoughts as I stare at the wall from my tiny piece of Serta. In actuality I am pretty blessed. I have 3 living things that love me enough that they want to be draped over me amidst their slumber.

Now, if only I could free this arm just a bit to Google on my iPhone “contortionist classes” and “Ambien”.


Bath time “fun” with baby

Ahhh bath time. The baby gets to sit in the tub, play with toys and mom and dad get to chill on the sidelines and relax. Bath time in our house is usually pretty calm. We will splash around with B, blow bubbles and play with boats and toys. Bath time, 99% of the time is uneventful..

There was one time where the dog jumped in the tub with the baby. The scene looked like something out of Titanic. The baby was reaching for the dog, the dog was trying to swim, I was slipping trying to rescue all parties involved and the band kept playing on the deck while the ship went down. The bathroom was wetter than Jack Dawson when Rose let him sink to the bottom of the ocean off that plank of wood.

I guess i need to preface this particular incident with a little note. I have a notoriously weak stomach. I literally can not stomach certain sights and most smells. When it comes to odd aroma’s I count on Sakya to pull me through. I frequently make her smell the milk if its past the expiration date and clean out the refrigerator of left overs while I vacate the premises by at least 50 yards. I require multiple candles to be lit when she has a new cooking idea and Febreeze is carried with me on a belt like holster in desperate situations. When B was first born, I had to wrap a towel around my nose and mouth, scuba goggles on with a plastic bag on my head to make it through a diaper change. I seriously Googled “Hazmat Suit” and priced them out accordingly. I have got a lot better about diaper changes, due to the fact I can now hold my breath for roughly 5 minutes with out passing out, but there are certain things I’m not sure I will ever grow accustomed to.

One particular night it was bath time. B had just finished eating dinner and we were playing submarines in the tub. I do a fierce Sean Connery from the Hunt For The Red October impression which B loves by the way. We were probably 5 to 10 minutes into battleship positions, body and hair had been washed, all the tough to reach places were scrubbed and the baby was squeaky clean. Out of no where B gets a really serious look and his face and stops splashing. He places his hands on head, looks down at the bottom of the tub and I hear what sounds like a tug boat pulling a cargo vessel into port. Only a sound that a quick release of air can make on water filled porcelain. That familiar nauseated feeling starts creeping up.  I panic, not sure what to do.

“SAKYA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I look down in the water and it looks like the Gulf Coast: Summer 2010. Either our tub sprung an oil leak or B had done the unthinkable. Poop in tub. This wasn’t a solid poop either… what a time for diarrhea. Sakya runs into the bathroom, and at this point I had scooped B out of the “water” and was dangling him over the tub. He wasn’t finished.  BP would have been embarrassed by the amount of water to foreign matter filling the bathtub. B is laughing hysterically, I am turning green and Sakya is staring stone faced at the picture we laid before her.

There is only one thing left to do, I quickly hand the baby to her, turn to the toilet and proceed to dry heave for 10 minutes. The tub is drained, the toys get a bath of their own and B is cleaned all over again. And I, for one, hope and pray we never again face the infamous bath tub catastrophe of August 2011. I’m not sure my stomach could handle this again.

The things we do for our kids

Every parent has been there before. Your kid is throwing a tantrum that rivals Bobby Knight circa 1975 and you feel like your head may explode. I know, personally,  I faced this many of times when trying to change a diaper when all B wants to do is chase the dog around the house. Between him arching his back, kicking his legs and screaming at the top of his lungs, I’ve ended up with a busted lip and poop on my chin more than once. Not exactly what I would call a fun time.

There are other little crazy things that parents do without even blinking an eye. Picking your kid up in the middle of Target, holding his butt up to your nose and taking a big waft of poo air to check if there is a surprise left for you. Licking your hand to get off the little bit of leftover food you missed with the baby wipe after dinner and jamming out to the Beauty and the Beast soundtrack to keep B satisfied while we sit in gridlock traffic.

Yes, I have done some stuff I am not proud of… Even after B has fallen asleep, I’ve continued to sing “Be Our Guest” in my best French accent during rush hour traffic. I might have put and left a onesie on backwards once or twice after a late night changing, and occasionally I’ll eat some of his puff snacks when I’m a little bit hungry. Look, I’m not saying I’m a perfect parent, but then again I’m not the worst either. Realistically I probably fall somewhere between the guy that cut off his own leg to save his kid after an avalanche and Michael Jackson. An before you ask, B’s name is not Blanket… or Apple, or Seven or anything else dumb.

Oh if my college buddies could see me now. Struggling with a 25 pound maniac trying to get him dressed in the morning isn’t my brightest moment. How in the world can i keep him calm? Its simple really. The Wiggles. For some reason the kid loves those guys. I hate them. I swore that I would never let him watch the Wiggles as their stupid Australian accents and songs about cars and clouds and cold spaghetti really drove me crazy. But what’s a tired guy supposed to do, if the kid likes the Wiggles and keeps him happy for the 5 minutes I’m getting him dressed, have at it.

So, of course parents will all do anything to make our kids happy. Seeing him smile is one of the most amazing things I have ever experienced in my life. So if this makes him smile *** and shuts him up for 5 minutes*** Wiggle on the F on.

Foul Mouthed Little Bastard

So I will be the first to admit that I have a foul mouth when it comes to things not going my way. Sakya has tried to break me of this ugly habit since she met me, and up until recently she’s been out of damn luck. Occasionally when my favorite sports team is losing, or when the X-Box is clearly cheating, or when I stub my toe or when I get excited telling a story, a few “F” bombs and other choice novelties will come sailing out of my mouth. I have tried and tried to hold back since the tiny human has been born, but to no avail. There’s really only a few words that can properly get your point across when it comes to explaining how you really feel. Amirite?

To the stats! According to the Linguistics Society of America, men say roughly 6000 or so words a day (women are significantly higher; imagine that). The average 1 year old has the vocabulary capabilities to say about 10 words. So out of these 6000 words I say a day, no more than 5 to 10 can be significant curse words, right? So how do I explain to my wife that my one year old, who mutters  masterpieces such as dog, mama, dada and bye bye, has a new favorite word.

Of course I try to defend myself to her. There is no way that he is cussing and knows the meaning, right? He is simply mixing up the words milk or truck or book or he’s trying to say his name and his miniature tongue is getting all twisted. I think I had her convinced. Everyone was happy… Flash forward a few days.

B was in his playroom pushing a train along, Sakya was twittering away on the couch and I was watching ESPN. B stands up still holding onto his train and gets as much steam as his pudgy little legs will take him. He tumbles forward  into the wall smashing his face. Sakya and I pop up to his rescue as the fall looked kinda bad. I’m thinking a bloody nose, missing baby tooth or black eye, but no tears came. B sits back, looks at us, squeezes his eyes tight and of course.

“Fuck”.

Trying to hold back the laughter was the toughest part. I couldn’t have constructed a better phrase myself. The timing, the tone, the clarity of the words perfectly encapsulated the situation. I was kind of impressed that his mind was able to grasp the right word so quickly. I was sort of proud. Sakya… not so much.

Needless to say the F word has been put to rest on my end. B has other thoughts, he thinks not being able to say one of the ten words he can actually pronounce effectively is ridiculous.


Hi there.

Welcome to my blog. Hope you enjoy the ridiculousness that is about to take place.

First let me set the scene: We live in a smallish, sort of Southern, sort of Mid-West city. Not too big, not too small. My wife and I are in our upper-twenties (please don’t tell her I told you that) and about a year ago we had our first baby. The events that take place from this point forward are all true, except the names are changed to protect the innocent. Hang on tight, here we go.

The Cast:

Me – Ryan

Wife – Sakya (suh-kye-ya)

Baby – B

Dog – Clark

I debated started this blog since conception of the baby, but since I want this blog to be relatively PG-13, I will spare you the gory details. For those of you who haven’t had the privilege to have a pregnant wife,or been pregnant yourself, you may not understand that no one wants to be blogged about in the heat of the summer while every imaginable part on their body is swelling. So that brought us to the day the baby was born. I had the blog all set up and ready to go, but then I realized that infants are pretty damn boring. They are basically blobs of goo who cry and sleep and eat every 2 hours. Between the constant crying and the incessant confusion on my end, it felt like college calculus all over again. Who wants to read a blog that’s as boring as watching The Notebook and Letter’s to Juliet back to back? For what its worth, we did this twice during pregnancy, and I don’t recommend it.

So that leads us to this point. B is 1 years old and the joys of parenthood have finally really started.

Besides what better time to start a blog when your one year old drops what sounds like “fuck” repeatedly throughout the house?