Archives for the month of: May, 2013

…Smush leaks.  From either the top or the bottom.  Actually she leaks out of the sides too.  Sometimes I don’t even have to squeeze her and stuff squirts out.  I can wrap her in diapers from head to toe and it’s not enough to curb her outpouring of, um, love.

VOMIT:  Worm wasn’t this messy.  In fact I can count on one hand how many times he spit up during his infancy.  In Smush’s case, I can barely fit on one hand the number of times she spits up in a day.  Steph tells me that my technique in holding Smush puts pressure on her stomach and makes for easy projectile vomiting.  I hold her as I would hold a bunch of clothes that need to go to the laundry, i.e. stuffed under my arm.  I did it with Worm and it worked fine.  Besides, it makes my arms look more muscular when I carry her around the playground.  I see no reason why Smush can’t follow the path that big brother has cleanly (and I stress, cleanly) set out already.  (In case you’re wondering…being in close proximity of my armpits has not been clinically proven to cause nausea, vomiting, and excessive drooling.)

PEE:  Little girls aren’t equipped with a firehose like the lads.  It’s not like you can move any equipment around in their diaper or make any minor adjustments.  Diapers and girls are pretty much plug and play.  Still, I’m perplexed as to how my little girl’s diaper can barely be wet, while her pants are soaked in pee.  It makes no sense.  But what does make sense, is that the gods are using her body as a conduit and indirectly taking turns pissing on me for my karmic misdeeds.

POOP:  We visit the zoo once a week.  She manages to poop through her diaper, wiggle in her stroller seat enough to get poop up to her pits and then acts like she doesn’t know why all the flies are swarming us.  Don’t even ask about the rest of the week.

On average, she’s soiling 4 bibs and 3 outfits a day.  My logical mind tells me that if we can flip the materials inside out, we can cut the amount of dirty clothes in half.  The worst of it is that I’m less and less interested in holding her without wrapping her in a plastic bag first.  Especially for long periods of time.  And if I hear any noise (or any long, still pause), my instincts cause my elbows to straighten and force the street to catch any fluid spillage.  Unless, I’m in the house.  Then, I just sprinkle some bacon bits over the fresh mess and let the dogs clean up.  (I kid.  I kid.)

Uh oh.  I think I heard something…

I'm a Lady, Dammit!

I’m a Lady, Dammit!

…to get your pacifier!  Use your Jedi mind.

If Luke Skywalker Can Do It, So Can I

Dad, That Sounds Like Way Too Much Work…

August 2011

We’ve got two dogs.  We’ve had them for so long that they are starting to smell a tad musty.  Now we have two kids, one that scurries around like a headless chicken and the other with the mobility of a turtle on its back.  With our small house, it was only a matter of time before any two of these particles would collide.  And they did.

Let me first say that we have gone to dog and baby class to learn about how to deal with kids and animals living together.  But, we never took a class on how to deal with kids and kids together.

I left the two dogs in the front room and the two kids in the living room with the idea that I could quickly go drink a few beers wash up a few dishes in the sink.  Not 10 seconds later, I heard a baby scream and I dropped the kitchen sponge to peek over the counter.  I saw Smush screaming at the top of her lungs and Worm standing 3 feet away with his eyes glued to the TV like nothing happened.

I walked over to them both and ask the question “What happened?” as if either one could answer me.

Worm replied “Watch George show.”  (Translation:  Can’t you see? I’m watching the Curious George show.)  Three words that made perfect sense to him, but didn’t answer my question.  I rephrased it.

“Worm, why is sissy crying?”  (Translation:  What did YOU do to your sister?)

He responds with the sign language for cry and points to Smush.  (Translation:  Sissy is crying and I plead the 5th.)

Believing that the accused could drag my interrogation out over the better part of an hour, I took matters into my own hands and scooped up the Smushster from her tummy time mat.

With the instincts of a polished detective (I’ve seen Columbo.), I started taking off her clothes to see if there were any marks or indications that an altercation had ensued.  I found bite marks!  I snapped off some pictures and sent them to dental forensics for further examination.

Even before the evidence had come back matching Worm to the crime, the prime suspect (solely because there was no one else in the room at the time of incident) was confessing (and not the slightest bit remorseful, I might add.)

I’d like to blame the biting on Worm, but I think it’s my fault.  I ‘play bite’ Smush on her belly all the time.  Worm probably saw me do it time and again and imagined that her belly was made of steel.  So he did it too.  After she started wailing, he didn’t think that his biting and her crying were related.

To fit the crime to the punishment, the suspect was booked on involuntary man-eating and sentenced to two hours without George show.

Forensic Report of "The First Bite" (because there will probably be more biting after this one...)

Forensic Report of “The First Bite” (because this won’t be the only time…)

Gavin – 25; Honeydaddy – 13 (Stupid me for teaching Worm how to bite people for fun…)

I knew I should have pre-viewed those sign language videotapes my parents sent us before I showed them to Worm.  I didn’t understand why the box said PG-13…until today.

The Video Told Me to Put My Index Finger and Thumb Together Like This...

The Video Told Me to Put My Index Finger and Thumb Together Like This…

July 2011

I like t-shirts almost as much as I like tee-shirts.  Especially tee-shirts that are clever, meaningful, bold, imaginative, and unique.  Everything that I’m not.  Since a smart-looking short sleeve makes the man, I’ll gladly spend the $15 on a good tee to cloak my thin torso in its charismatic charms.  (I’ve been brainwashed by the fashion industry.)

Today, I got a tee-shirt.  Probably the best tee-shirt ever.  No, it IS the best tee-shirt ever.

Steph walked into the house after work and unwrapped a package of tee-shirts that she had designed for each of us.  Smush drooled all over hers.  Worm, being terribly two, threw his to the ground in disgust.  And me, well,  I cried.  (What is it about childrearing that is so beard-removingly effeminating for me?)

I don’t know what came over me.  Maybe it was the high cotton thread count.  Maybe it was the picture of Worm’s grinning face on the front.  Maybe it was the way the soft, black collar felt on my adam’s apple.  I don’t know why I got so choked up over this damn thing.  My gratitude to my wife came out as “Blub, blub, blubbery blub.”  In a strange way, she understood the magnitude of her gift to me.  As an aside, I’m very proud of myself for only losing control of my tear ducts and not my bowels through the excitement.

I’m now one of ‘those’ people.  You know, the ones that wear custom tee shirts with pictures of their significant other/family member and the words ‘I’m with stupid –>’ underneath.  I’ve got a shirt with Worm on it and it’s a one-of-a-kind.

In my mind, those types of shirts were lame…until I got one!  I have seen the light!

What is it about screenprinting family photos onto a piece of clothing that touches the heart?  I don’t know.  I was overcome by a wave of emotions and thoughts such as:

  • If I don’t wash it, it might stay brand new forever.
  • Would it be weird to want matching pants for my new shirt?
  • If the real Worm spills anything on my awesome tee, I’ll tan his hide.
  • Does this shirt make my arms look fat?
  • Can I dress up this tee with a white sport coat for special occasions?
  • Can the real Worm handle the idea that tee-shirt Worm is so awesome?

I feel close to my son now.  The only way I could feel closer, would be if I received a tee-shirt made entirely from his lovely auburn colored hair.  (Hint, hint, hint.  Father’s day is coming up.)

It’s better than my Dalai Lama peace tee.  It’s even better than my Goonies tee, which I singlehandedly brought back from the dead using Goo-Gone and a scrub brush.  (That stuff’s amazing!)  This tee-shirt will be worn for all eternity…or until Smushie barfs all over it in a jealous rage (or indigestion).  8VMTEHKY5KQU

Could a Day Get any Better Than This?

Could a Day Get any Better Than This?

The old adage goes, “Of all the thing I’ve lost, I miss my free time the most.”.  (Yes, that’s a period before an end quote followed by a period.  I’m rearranging the rules of punctuation to make sense to myself.)  In the parenting world, the phrase rings true for many.  I was recently smacked with an oar and hauled into that very boat.

The wife and I talked about all of the personal things I would be giving up to stay home with the children.  Things like my career, my extra paychecks, my hobbies, my exercise routine (hello daddy dumpling!), my sanity.  I didn’t believe her when she said it two years ago.  And I was able to fend off the truth up until 4 months ago when the stork dropped little Smush onto our doorstep.

These days, I’m chasing children from 7am to 10:30pm.  (Smush caps her night with some warm milk and late night news.  If she could put herself to bed, the rest of us wouldn’t wait up.)  During a standard day, I don’t get more than 10 minutes overlap where both children are napping and those wistfully silent minutes are used to wipe my own behind.  Every day is go-go-go with only the random pause to look down and examine a fresh shirt stain.  As you can probably guess, outside of those kid-friendly hours, my ‘free’ time is spent snoring into and slobbering onto my lucky pillows.  Probably not the most productive way to spend my time, but I can’t think of anything else that prepares me as well for the following fast-paced day.

I don’t look much past the present moment anymore.  I take one day at a time.  It appeases my zen side and teases my type A persona.  (Much of the reason for me to start this MevsGavin blog was to assuage my overly demanding, self-critical, workaholic tendencies.)  And as I’ve surrendered almost all of my self-defining practices to my two time vortices (or vortexes as they say in Sedona), I’m doing my best to hold MVG together.  It’s the only real way that I can peer at the stars of my day without letting their light disappear into the black hole of child rearing monotony.  Because in my current state of mind, if I don’t write it down, it will be lost and never recalled again.  (Besides, writing keeps me off the streets and out of the bars at night.)

I’ve taken a breather from MevsGavin, not by choice, but by necessity.  Trying to find a clear head at midnight to write about the new developments of Worm and Smush has been difficult, even when I’ve soaked my neurotransmitters in spirits.  (It just puts me to bed sooner!)  I seldom can spare a few minutes to sit at my typewriter (it sounds more bona fide than laptop) let alone feed myself adequately.  And being a slow thinker, a few minutes amounts to a puff of smoke from my ears and a sputter of hand twitches in the general direction of my keyboard.  My time would be better spent pounding my head against a wall as that would offer a tangible result for my effort.

Though, in my unexpected hiatus, I realized how much this blog vocalizes my laughter and sheds my tears.  It’s an extension of myself in words and images.  It’s an expression of my life with kids.  My definition is that of a father now.  (I still haven’t completely wrapped my mind around the idea that Steph and I made people!)  And I’m a father first, before anything else in my life.  Maybe a few years from now, when we’re all a little older and moving a little more slowly, I’ll have some free time to look back and see what was happening at the time my babies were babies.  But for now, there’s just no time to fit anything else in.

They Don't Even Have Time to Take a Picture With Dear Old Honeydaddy...Go, go, go.

You Guys Can’t Even Sit Still For a Half of a Second?

…babies didn’t drink milk.  They were fed baby giraffes.  Let me show you how these pre-diaper era babies would grab the giraffe and eat off his head like this!

Nom, nom, nom, nom!

We're More Civilized Today!  We Only Eat Rubber Giraffes Now!

We’re More Civilized Today! We Only Eat Rubber Giraffes Now!

July 2011

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