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.


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.

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?