Really?  Totally naked, you say?

Worm, I Too Thought it Was a Bit Too Risqué...

Dad, Please Say it Ain’t So!

July 2011

Yep, you came out totally naked, Worm.  And you made sure your presence was felt, at the very least, on our eardrums.

It won’t be the last time you get embarrassed, turn beet red, scream at the top of your lungs and then get the whole room to stop and stare at you.  It will happen again.  I promise.  (I cross my fingers for that inevitable event to occur with you as a stage actor rather than you at a Saturday night college frat house party.)

If there’s anyone in the world that can make my kids cry more than I do, I’ll walk on water.  (Actually, I’ll probably key their car.  And if it’s a kid, they’ll get a firm wedgie, fork-lift style.)

I’m not sure what the percentages are, but in my house, we are 2 for 2 when it comes to infant torticollis.  Worm had it.  (Which is expected, because the uterus goes from apple size to watermelon size for the first time.  It’s a tight space.)  Now Smush has it.  (Which is strange because after having one baby, the uterus should be the size of a hot air balloon.  Plenty of room for a baby to ride a bicycle in there, let alone sleep for 10 months.)

I treated Worm myself (after sleeping at a Holiday Inn Express) and although his torticollis was more pronounced, he was much more compliant when compared to Smush.  I would massage his neck and perform range of motion tests.  15 minutes after softly sobbing, his brain and body would check out and I would finish up his session a short time later.  (It’s easier to work on babies that aren’t squirming, kicking, and flailing…)  Two weeks worth of treatments and full ROM and strength came back in his neck.  I did this early enough in his life so that he shouldn’t remember a thing.  (Hopefully…)

But Smushie is a different story.  This is the third time I’ve treated her and it’s the same story as the last.  With the lungs of a lion, she proceeded to cry for almost an hour while I worked on her neck muscles.  (Crying is an understatement here.  It is more like a life-threatening shriek, bleeding from every cell in her body.)  Did she get tired?  Nope.  Could she cry for another hour?  I’d bet another four hours were possible.  Why did I stop?  Because I had enough.  I couldn’t bear to do any more work on her.  When my child is screaming at the top of her lungs in pain and looking me in the eyes the entire time as if to say, “Please, make it stop.  I’m hurting.  I want to snuggle you for comfort because you are the only thing I need to feel safe and secure.”, it’s difficult for me to muster the emotional strength to keep going.

Without exaggeration, my little girl is usually happy and content for 23.5 hours of the day.  She has maybe cried for more than 3 minutes a handful of times in her life.  I make her bawl her eyes out for 60.  She has never cried so hard and so intensely before I started physical therapy on her.  Ever.  I’m the source of her agony and that’s a hard pill to swallow.  So during treatment, I subconsciously absorb some of her pain to overcome the guilt of being the one delivering it.  And in trying to bear some of that burden, every session leaves me spent and wanting to crumble to pieces.  Barely holding me together is the fact that this is necessary.  The very definition of a necessary evil.

The good news is that she now turns her head in both directions almost equally.  I hope that she needs only one more session before full neck flexion, extension, and rotation are restored.  It’s not that she can’t take much more.  It’s that I can’t.

“Everything’s going to be alright.” I whisper in her ear as she falls asleep, exhausted from the physical therapy.  Deep down, I know it’s more for me to hear than for her.

Shame on You Honeydaddy!

I Forgive You Honeydaddy!

When I’m chillin’ at my crib waiting for the girlies in the ‘hood to drop by, I like to relax with a Colt 45 warm milk.  Happy Monday ladies!

Does Mommy's Milk Come In Strawberry Flavor?

Does Mommy’s Milk Come In Strawberry Flavor?

July 2011

Honeydaddybars - Gluten free, dairy free, meat free home made fruit and date bars!

Honeydaddybars – Gluten free, dairy free, meat free homemade fruit and date bars!

Yes, they’re named after me.  Didn’t Mr. Lara name his bars after himself?  If you like Larabars, these will make you jump for joy.  Larabars are delicious, but I thought I’d add some extra ingredients and nutrition to this traditional date and nut bar.  So, I put on my baker’s hat (you know, the puffy white one that only true chefs wear), studied a few homemade larabar-esque recipes online and designed the most tastiest bar ever, the Honeydaddybar.

My bars are an awesome snack to everyone in the house except for Worm (because he’s two and hates everything edible right now)…and Smush (because, well, she doesn’t have teeth to sink in to them yet).  So, that just leaves the dogs, Steph and I.  The dogs aren’t the most discerning foodies, but then that keeps me from setting the bar too high for myself.

Now the great thing about these bars is that they are vegetarian, gluten-free, dairy free, and easy on the gastrointestinal tract.  (I think they’re Paleo diet friendly as well.)  They’re great tasting and a healthy snack for anyone on the go.

This is my first batch and I’ll update with more flavors down the road.  It’s a great snack for kids that is healthy and tasty!

Ingredients:

  • 2 cups pitted dates (make sure all the pits are out!)
  • 1/2 cup dried fig (I use Calimyrna, but any type of fig should work here)
  • 1/2 cup sunflower seeds (roasted and salted)
  • 1/2 cup cashews (roasted and salted)
  • 1 Tbsp chia seed
  • 1/2 cup dried cherries (pitted, of course)
  • 1 Tbsp peanut butter
  • 1 Tbsp coconut oil

Preparation:

Toss everything into the food processor.  Grind until it becomes uniform in mixture.  It should turn into a big ball when everything is mixed up properly.  If the mixture doesn’t stick together very well, you can add more dates or add more coconut oil to moisten it up a bit.

Use a roller to flatten the mixture onto parchment paper or flat surface.  Cut into animal shapes or former presidents’ faces, whatever floats your boat.  Serve.  (I only had Halloween cookie cutters in the cupboard, so that’s what I used.  So, no the ones in the picture are not from last October…)

Keep refrigerated in air tight container.

My two babies have nicknames.  Cutesy little monikers that I dreamed up on my own (with the help of my animal friend, Gosling’s Black Seal).  Names that one day may embarrass the tears from their eyes, when shouted in a crowded room of their peers.

First came Worm, the wiggly, shifty one.  From early on, he was a master of escape.  As hard as I tried to swaddle him, it was never enough to keep all of his limbs secure.  15 minutes of sweating, squirming, and shuffling was all it took to thwart my best wrapping effort.  Even with the lights off.  And with a wet diaper, he was doubly fast.  The writhing contortionist was so worm-like, that it didn’t take long for me to think of what to call him.

Then there’s Smush, the cuddler.  She loves to be close to another warm body.  Her spaghetti noodle arms aren’t developed quite yet, so she mainly cuddles using her face.  We have ultrasound pics of Smushie trying to ‘hug’ her mommy’s womb from the inside.  Her cheeks mashed up against her mom’s uterine wall and reminded me of a pug.  (But I drew the line at calling my daughter a pug.  I’ve got standards!  Besides, Steph didn’t approve it.)  I can’t blame the little girl.  She’s got cheeks like pillows and still uses them to shamelessly nestle and snooze anywhere on anyone.  Sometimes, I smush her cheeks together for my own amusement.  (I have a feeling that will come back to bite me in the ass.)  Smush.  Looking at those pudgy cheeks, I can’t think of a more fitting name.

When I was younger, I thought I would get a cool nickname from my friends.  (You can’t give yourself a nickname.  That’s against the rules.  Besides, it’s lame.)  Maybe they would see my mathematical prowess and call me ‘The Human Calculator‘.  But, now I see that most people can do double-digit addition without a pencil and paper.  Or maybe I would be called the ‘Big Injun’.  But, I couldn’t eat enough cheeseburgers to really nail the ‘Big’ part.  Not to say that I waited 36 years for a nickname like this one…but since it was first uttered from the Worm’s mouth in the sweetest sing-song tone ever, it has firmly planted itself into my heart.

I am the ‘Honey Daddy’.  (Take your shots now, you soulless, cold-blooded, insensitive people.)  And it’s not to be confused with the fierce honey badger.  No no no.  Worm likens me more to honey butter than honey badger.  I guess it fits.  Because everytime he says it, I melt.

Gavin – 24; Dad – 12 (Worm, can I get a tougher, more manly nickname later?  Pretty pretty please?)

How Can I Say No To That?!

How Can I Say No To That?!

I understand the need for a pacifier.  Sort of.  Yes, the sucking reflex soothes babies.  With the undeveloped brain firing off a limited number of primitive requests, the sucking action onto said “plug”, nipple, bottle, or ever lasting gobstopper functions to satiate both the infant mind and body.  The motion effectively helps newborns cope with the cold, cruel world they are unmercifully pushed into.

But when do you take the “paci” away?  Some parents don’t care to remove it from usage.  These kids grow up to become finger and, if flexible enough, toe sucking adults.  (If left untreated, these adults will revoltingly desire to nibble on their friends’ and families’ digits.)  Other parents take away the pacifier too early and the child never emotionally develops past the second grade.  (Just kidding…maybe.)

The wife and I are in two separate camps on the pacifier.  She doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with Worm using it until he can swap the pacifier for cigarettes.  I think it should have been dropped after Worm hit the 12-month mark.  We couldn’t agree on a solution, so the safe thing for me to do at the time was leave well enough alone.

But during a recent dinner discussion of current events (Cyprus bankruptcy,  North Korea missiles, and baby pacifiers), I felt the urge to raise the plug question from the dead.

“I’m ready to toss out the pacifier.  Worm’s two years old today.  He doesn’t need it anymore.” I asked.  (This is a very effective way to ask a question and get the answer you desire, especially if the other party doesn’t reply.)  After much back and forth, the wife and I were left hot and bothered.  (No, sadly not the good kind of hot and bothered.)

I don’t know what happened later that same evening, but Hell may have frozen over.  I was granted one opportunity to remove the Worm’s pacifier on his birthday.  Hence, I gave him his first birthday un-present.  (I’m sure there will be more un-presents in the future, especially if he becomes one of those kids that whines about how lame his gifts are and how Jimmy John across the street got something way better…)

Anyhow, I took my chance.  In putting the Worm to bed that night, I swiped the plug, turned out his lights, and closed the door.  He fumbled around in the dark looking for it for about 2 minutes.  He screamed and fussed for a few minutes more and that was the end of it.

Now we’re going on the third night in a row with no withdrawals.  Worm’s adjusted well.  His coping mechanisms have matured as much as he has.  A couple books and a shot of rum are all it takes to get the boy to sleep.  Well done, son!

Gavin – 23; Dad – 12 (You get a point for showing a little maturity for your age!  And I’m giving myself a point for convincing your mother to give this a try.  I think she was more attached to the pacifier than you were.)

Worm, You Can't Carry a Concealed Pacifier Without a Permit!

Worm, You Can’t Carry a Concealed Pacifier Without a Permit!

Worm, I wish you a happy birthday.  Exactly two years ago, you were born and you haven’t been out of my heart since.  Our life together has been very special and I cherish it.  I am excited to see what the future brings.  I love you.
 
Your proud father,
d.
 
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