Archives for posts with tag: daddy blog

Men are from Mars and women are from a galaxy far, far, away.  That’s common knowledge.  A man’s brain is wired for rational, linear problem solving and sheer awesomeness!  I’m hungry.  I should eat food.  I’m thirsty.  I should drink beer.  And so forth.  A man’s brain operates like a Swiss watch, accurately and efficiently!  On the other hand, a woman’s brain is a wiring nightmare.  Their thoughts usually go like this:  “Let me see if I can talk on the phone while yelling at the radio station while getting dressed while driving while filling out a checkbook while eating breakfast while thinking about whether my bedroom should be painted mauve or lilac.”  (Come on ladies.  I see you doing this on the freeway all the time!)  A woman’s brain reminds me of the internet, a potpourri of gross interconnectedness.  When I query the word “gray”, I get the answer “Flashdance and the iconic sweatshirt”.  Say what?

I didn’t think that differences could be seen so early in life, but I’ve been swayed since the Smush came along.  As a comparison (just this once for my readers, because I don’t compare my children to one another…they are each unique snowflakes), Worm and I not only speak clearly to one another, but we can relate through sign language and orca clicks.  It’s remarkable that we don’t even have to be in the same room to understand each other.  Sometimes he farts and I know what he means.  It’s beautiful.  Smushie, though, just doesn’t make any sense to me.

Her words are limited to “Hi!” and “Daddie” in various permutations and combinations, but I’m not penalizing her on that.  She’s got grunts and twisted faces that help her to get the point across.  But more than half the time, I still don’t get it.  I’ve also never been good at Charades.  But still.

Exhibit A:

The setting – 9:30am and she hasn’t eaten breakfast since she woke up at 7.  I’ve prepared a plate of strawberries and pancakes ready to feed her.  Smushel is standing in the kitchen looking at me going “Ah. Ah. Ah.”  Her mouth is wide open.

Me – “Mushie, do you want some strawberries?” I fork the fruit from the plate and move it towards her mouth.

Smush – “Hi Daddie! Daddie!” with a smile on her face.

Me – “Here you go.” And I put the fork right in front of her mouth.

Smush – “Wahhhhh!” She gets this fearful look on her face, her eyes well up with tears, and she slowly inches backwards.

Me – “Don’t you want to eat?  Aren’t you hungry?”  I start to walk towards her.

Smush – turns and runs away to the corner of the living room.

Me – Uh, what the hell just happened?  “Oh well, more strawberries for me…”


Exhibit B:

The setting – 11am and she points at the TV.

Me – “Mush, do you want to watch some show?”

Smush – Nodding in agreement.

Me – I pick up the remote and turn on the TV.

Smush – drops to the ground and clutches the carpet in agony.

Me – “Uh, Worm?” as I look over to see if anyone else caught what was going on.

Worm – “Yes, Honeydaddy?”

Me – “Why is Mushie crying?” I ask, as if my height deterred me from seeing ‘eye to eye’ with my daughter.

Worm – “I think she just wants you to want to turn on the TV, but not actually do it. Or she’s crying for the killings in Gaza.  I can’t really tell.”

Me – “Worm, neither of those things you said make any sense to me.”

Worm – “Sure Daddy.”

The above two scenarios play out almost daily in some odd form.  Before the Smushmonster came, I figured there wasn’t much to understanding toddlers.  Now I find myself second guessing an 18 month old girl’s motives, especially when my incorrect action causes her to sprawl out on the floor screaming like I ripped the arms off her favorite teddy bear.  It’s like she’s speaking a different language.  I fear this may be the beginning of a long life of daddy-daughter misunderstandings.  I need to brace myself.  Or just defer to her mother for a translation…and I can stick to understanding farts.

This is Mushie's Response to Me Asking Her if She Wants to Play Legos.

This is Mushie’s Response to Me Asking if She Wants to Play Legos.


I’m getting tired of doing this.  My hands are chapped from wipes.  My nose hairs are singed from the stench.  The joints in my old fingers ache as they struggle to clasp yet another clean diaper closed.  (Ok, it’s not that bad…but you get my drift.)

I change about 8 diapers a day now, down from a high of 12.  I estimate that since the Worm was born, I’ve changed 8000 diapers.  Some of them in under 20 seconds flat!  (Pat myself on the back.)

The Worm is pushing 3 years old.  It’s time for him to be potty trained.  The little man could have learned a year ago, if Steph and I were more diligent about it.  But we both thought that after Worm showed interest that he would gravitate towards the loo posthaste.  We were wrong.

Worm is sensitive.  He needs encouragement rather than scolding and the embarrassment that typically follows.  So my idea of putting Worm in underwear, taking him to a public location, letting him wet himself and then ridiculing him to the point that he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice didn’t get approval from the ‘Boss’.

So she came up with a better idea.  Get Worm to use the potty and give him a prize for his accomplishment!

It’s a potty for prizes game.  Steph’s first version:

Pee = One Sticker.  Poo = Two!  Collect Six to Win a Prize!

Pee = One Sticker. Poo = Two! Collect Six to Win a Prize!

It’s a piece of paper with animal stickers to the untrained eye, and a game to rival the likes of Monopoly to the keen.   We moved to version two when Steph realized that Worm would be using the potty more than six times in his life.  We swapped a whiteboard for paper and magnets for stickers.

The Six Golden Rules of the Game:

  1. Every pee pee on the potty = 1 box filled.
  2. Every poop on the potty = 2 boxes filled.
  3. Every six boxes that get filled = 1 small toy prize!
  4. Every hand that goes into the dirty toilet = 1 box taken away.
  5. Every poop nugget that gets fished out of the toilet = 2 boxes taken away.
  6. Every toilet paper roll that gets unraveled = early bedtime.

We like it so far!  It gives Worm incentive to use the toilet (since a wet, stinky butt isn’t motivation enough).  He gets something for his efforts and he helps keep one more diaper out of the trash bin!

Sometimes Two is Better Than One!

Sometimes Two is Better Than One!

Gavin – 30; Honeydaddy – 18 (I know it was Steph’s idea, but without me, her muse, she wouldn’t have been inspired to come up with it!  I’m taking the point!)

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?!

He’s 2 months old and I thought there was a skin malfunction.  (I asked the stork to bring us a little brown version of myself and Worm showed up on the doorstep.)  So, I took him outside to see if the sun could help me out.

5 hours later.  Nothing.

Yes, Worm Looks Like His Mom...

Yes, Worm Looks Like His Mom…

Just kidding.  He was only left out in the sun for 4 hours.

June 2011

Me vs. Gavin has survived its inaugural year!

We are happy to announce that we exceeded our expectations (which were zilch, by the way) in everything here on MVG!

I’m personally surprised that in 12 months, MVG got over 11,000 views!  (I have a feeling that half of those views are from my mother…)

For the people who continue to read about the ever stretching Worm, thank you!  We think he’s a special kid (who set the bar pretty high for his sissy) and we’re glad you think so too!

In 2013, we plan to:

  • double the number of children we own
  • half the amount of dogs we own (just kidding…)
  • give the website a facelift
  • take on some more cooking duties
  • find time to write a children’s book (will be looking for publishers soon…)
  • and lose sleep every step of the way!

Care to join us?  It is going to be a bit of a turbulent ride for the next year.  So order a few more vodkas from the flight attendant and hold on to the barf bag…we’re about to take flight!

Most read MVG post of 2012: Cow Grates and Cow Boys

Bye Bye 2012!

I’ve Already Forgotten About You 2012!

Last Friday I had enough.  Enough crying.  Enough barking.  Enough cleaning.  Enough playing house.  When I was a child, playing house was nothing like this.

It was more like:

Wifey – “Welcome home honey!  I baked you some fresh bread and started a bath for you.”

Hubby – “That’s great! But before dinner, let’s feed the kitty, walk the dog, and churn some butter.”

And we all lived happily ever after!

On Friday, the proverbial shit hit the fan and the real shit hit the carpet.

But, let’s start a few days prior.  Enter Wednesday, the hors d’oeuvre.

I thought I had everything under control until my back went out on me.  Yep.  Kaput.  I couldn’t stand upright, sit down, or lay down without sharp, searing, nauseating pain.  (It was three orders of magnitude worse than giving birth, ok?)  My entire lower back was as hard as steel.  (Why can’t my abdominals be like that?)

We added a third dog, Looney (aptly named), to the house just after my back fell apart.  (Steph and I had agreed months ago to pet-sit a friend’s dog for four days while they were on vacation.  It just so happened to start today.  Seren-f-n-dipity.)

And since the gods weren’t quite done pissing on my mortal soul, they plugged up our kitchen sink.  We tried Drano as if, just this once, it would actually perform as advertised.  (Does Drano ever work?  The foaming version?  Nope.  The gel version?  Nope.  The extra strength version?  Nope.  The mystical, magic crystal version?  Nope.  Drano only seems to open the drain in my wallet.  I digress.)  Naturally, the plumber couldn’t come out until Friday morning.  (Do you sense a bit of foreshadowing?)

Thursday was hellacious, but nothing like the day after.  Enter Friday morning, le plat principal.  (In case you were wondering, entree doesn’t translate to main course anywhere except for America.)

The plumber is coming this morning.  I go to the kitchen to clean up before he arrives.  The dishes from the past two days are piled next to the sink and as I get closer, the backed up drain smells faintly familiar.  Oh yeah!  It smells like a dumpster in here!  Super!

Worm is still in bed sleeping (off some vodka cranberry we goosed last night), so I take the opportunity to pick up toys off the floors.  Every Friday is vacuum day.  (I vacuum in Speedos the color of my vacuum cleaner, if you’re after some mental eye candy.)  I look down at the carpet in the front room and there’s quite a few new stains showing.  They must be fresh because I don’t remember them from yesterday.  I look closer.  Oh, they’re chocolate stains.  Which one of the damn dogs smeared choco-noooo!  This is dog shit!  And it’s everywhere!  Double super!

I’m irate.  How stupid can these dogs be?  There’s probably 3 piles of shit in the whole backyard.  WTF?  Aren’t dogs supposed to smell shit a mile away?  How could they step in it?  Don’t they look where they’re walking?

I go to the living room to ponder what to do next.  And what do I see in the living room?  (You know this is not going to be good either, right?)  It’s a large puddle of yellow-orange vomit on our awesome leopard print rug.  Triple super!

At this point, we’re only 7 hours into Friday and I need a drink.

The plumber gets to the house around 8 and Duncan starts barking his head off.  The baby wakes up from the ruckus crying and screaming.  Looney sneaks outside to fence fight with the neighbors’ dogs.  So, I’m screaming at Duncan to stop.  The neighbors are screaming at Looney to stop.  The dogs must have sensed my weakness because they just looked at me and laughed.  The chaos went on until the plumber left an hour later.  To make a long story short, I spent the entire morning scrubbing, washing, cleaning, bleaching, steaming, fuming, panting, bitching, moaning, screaming, and almost sobbing.  I even missed my stay-at-home dad’s day at the tavern, which I’d been looking forward to all week long.

Last Friday, I was pretty damn close to spontaneously combusting.  If I had, I’m sure the gods would have surely pissed on me then.

Worm, I Am NOT a Disney Land Ride!

…and may just keep Worm’s parents out of jail!

I’m sorry Nutella.  You’ve been wronged.  You’ve had to pay out millions of dollars to some ignorant person that couldn’t find the time to read the label.

This is a classic example of how stupidity gets rewarded in America.  There’s no need to be educated in this country.  It will never pay so much, $3 Million, for so little effort.  (Besides, an education takes time and costs money and all you’re left with these days is a huge student loan debt and no job.  I digress.)

Um, hello?  Woman who sued my new favorite food company?  Athena Hohenberg?  I’m sure you’re NOT reading this post because you either:

  • A) can’t read
  • B) don’t see any real benefit to reading
  • C) now have enough money to pay someone to read (and think) for you

I have Nutella in my house.  Have I ever thought it was a healthy snack?  No.  Why?  Because it tastes so damn good!  It’s spreadable chocolate, for Tebow’s sake!

There’s 100 calories per tablespoon in it!  Half of those calories are fat!  The first ingredient is sugar!  Is any of this not obvious?

Just because the label says ‘No Artificial Colors’ and ‘No Artificial Preservatives‘ doesn’t make it healthy!  Just because you see it on TV, doesn’t mean that you should believe it.  (But if you see it on the internet, it’s probably true.)

Gimme That Nutella, Dad! Toss it Here!

Now, back to you Nutella.  Thank you for putting such a magnificent specimen in a jar for me to spread on some lightly toasted Hawaiian style bread with a side of fresh banana slices.  You are now my shining light and savior!  It wasn’t until that foolish lawsuit popped up against you that I smacked my 5 brain cells together and manifested a wonderful idea.

Here’s how you solved a serious weight problem for our family.  I’ve got a skinny kid at home that “needs” calories, or else the pediatrician is going to call Child Protective Services on us.  Worm is slipping down the infant weight charts faster than you lost that $3 Million.  So, I’ve decided to supplement his diet with some high calorie foods.  I’m trying not to load him up on dairy (like the pediatrician suggested) and I’m looking for some alternatives.  Since Nutella is so dense in calories and chock full of taste, it’s a perfect food for my son!  No artificial colors or preservatives and high in calories!  Awesome!

I promise that if I can get Worm back into the 50th percentile for weight before his weight check next week, we will name our next child Nutella Licious J.  (Come on, that’s an awesome stage name!  Disclaimer:  To be christened though, I have to clear it with the wife first.)

I wonder if I can sue a butter company because it made me fat…you betcha’!  In America, anything’s possible!

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