Archives for posts with tag: funny dad blog

The awful passport pictures from the last blog post were so unforgettable that Unka Wey, rising rap music mogul, decided to grab the Worm and see if he could turn him into the next Lil Bow Wow, P-Nut, or MattyBRaps!

Meet Lil’ Wormie. Here are the lyrics to his debut single, Junkfoo’! (Please use Notorious B.I.G. Juicy instrumentals as background beat.)

It’s all good baby, baby!

With cookies and cream,

I used to drink cold milk wit’ my team.

Gummi bears and sharks up in the limousine.

Hanging pictures on my wall

Every Saturday, Froot Loops and Frankenberry Cereal!

Bubble tape got rocked, til my tape stopped.

Smokin’ gum cigarettes, sippin’ on soda pop!

Way back, when I stole the red and black treats from Brach!

With Spice Drops to match!

Remember Candy Blox? Duh-ha, duh-ha

I never thought that junkfoo’ would take it this far!

Now I’m eatin’ Star Brite cuz I rhyme tight.

Time to get paid, blow up like Fun Dip Lik-m-aid.

Born sinner, the opposite of a winner

Remember when I used to eat veggies for dinner.

Peace to Starburst, Pixy stix, chewy spree,

Double Bubble, Crunch, Oh Henry!

I’m blowing bubbles, you thought I would.

Call the crib, same number same hood,

It’s all good!

And if you don’t know, now you know…

The next Vanilla Ice Cream Or M&M! Yo Yo! All About the Chedda Goldfish!

The next Vanilla Ice Cream Or Caramel M&M! Yo Yo! All About the Chedda Goldfish!

The Thinker:  “I wonder if that carpet runner is digestible.  Hell, I wonder if it’s even biodegradable.”

The Doer:  “Nom! Nom! Nom!”

Guess which of my kids is which?  Is it a dilemma?  I’m not sure yet.  My boy is so cautious and calculated that it scares me how precise he can be with his words and actions.  And my daughter is so reckless and unobservant that it scares me how fearless she can be in exploring her surroundings.

Basically, Worm and Smush give me gray nose hairs.  (If they were only more like their dearest Honeydaddy, I would be so much less stressed out.  Where did I go wrong?)  These two have fallen far from the apple tree and in opposite directions.

Personally, I can relate to a calm, collected child.  But, my brain just can’t make heads or tails of our pocket-sized daredevil.  She’s got no sense of self-preservation and it drives me crazy!!!  (I used to be a believer in Darwin’s evolution, but I’m afraid that evolution would happen without the Smushter if I didn’t intervene twice a day!)

I know she’s only 9 months old, but isn’t protecting oneself supposed be hardwired in the brain?  I have a feeling that Smushie doesn’t think too much about anything.  From my vantage point, she pauses briefly with a look of “I think I can eat that!” before she sticks whatever it is (today, it was the kitchen trash can lid) in her mouth to see if it fits/digests/tastes good.  That only describes the oral fixation.  There’s a whole diving head first off of high ledges chapter as well.

Then I’ve got the Worm, who has to see 100 kids check that gravity works from the top of a slide before he will attempt it himself.  No amount of ‘Ritos or gummy bunnies will convince him to go sooner.  All the boxes must be checked off his list (he gets this from his mother) before Wormie puts his own body in jeopardy.  For if gravity doesn’t work for the split second he is on the slide, he will only have himself to blame.

Our life is getting much more interesting, and twice as busy.  I’m trying to keep up my blog and I know I’m way behind!  Two mobile kids really makes for a lot of eye strain and back pain for me.  It’s a good thing I own an all natural topical pain relief company.  Click Here.

If there ever was a picture to accurately describe my two little loves in a thousand words, this is it!

I Think the Picture Says it All.

I Think the Picture Says it All.

I’ve finally been able to get some free time during the day.  (When I say free time, I mean time to toss in some laundry, make a meal for myself, go to the bathroom, pick up toys off the floor, and sit down for 3 minutes.  Free time in our house means free from screaming children!)

I knew that caring for a second child, in addition to the Worm, would make my life three times the lady it once was.  (Isn’t it impressive how I’ve thrown in a reference to the king of ballads, Lionel Richie, even if it doesn’t make any sense whatsoever?  I digress.)  Two kids requires not two, but three times the effort in managing triple the chaos.  I thought that a schedule would be a valuable thing to help me squeeze out some magical “me” minutes from my hectic day, but just after Smush was born and up until recently, I couldn’t even schedule the time to think about a schedule.

So, soon after Steph’s maternity leave was over, she went back to work and I began fumbling through the daily eat and sleep schedules of the little ones by myself.  Worm takes 2 meals and 1 nap a day.  Smush takes 3 meals and 3 naps a day.  I asked myself “How am I going to manage without hiring a really attractive nanny or a beer-slinging manny to help me out?”  (There were no negotiations.  Steph shot down the idea before I could convince her of its brilliance.)

With my dreams of an assistant stomped right out of my senses, I gravitated towards the hippie method of parenting in hopes that the universe would naturally organize my day.  I “let things try to work themselves out, dude…” for almost two months.  It didn’t work.  I was clearly not a hippie and therefore could not fool the hippie spirits to work in my favor.  Or maybe I wasn’t conjuring them up in the right smoke. *cough* *cough* *cough*  (Just kidding, NSA.  Tell the DEA I don’t do that stuff.  Please!)

It’s hard to believe that even with Smushie napping 3 times a day, there was never a time when both kids’ naps overlapped by more than 10 minutes.  Until I solved the riddle.  It’s all about sleep scheduling.  I learned that if Pavlov’s dogs could be trained, so could Honeydaddy’s children.

Babies and toddlers need structure, otherwise bad things happen (like creativity and abstract thought, neither of which make sense).  Their brains have not yet been calcified from the years of artificial sweeteners, GMOs, and over-flouridated water in our environment.  Their brains are, in essence, plastic.  Moldable.  Pliable.  Bendable.  Like play-doh.  During my short-lived hippie parenting phase, I was succumbing to the kids’ whims and fancies and it was getting me nowhere.  So, I turned the car around and drove in the complete opposite direction.  Structure, structure, structure.

Worm – you nap at noon. Period.  (Give or take a minute.  I kindly added some slack to the schedule.)  If you eat lunch before your 12 o’clock nap, great.  If not, I can stuff a sandwich and chips in your mouth while you’re sleeping with your mouth agape.  I know you can chew in your sleep.  I won’t let that talent go to waste.  Otherwise, you eat your next meal when you wake up.

Smush – you nap at 9am, noon, and 3pm.  (A minute here or there won’t hurt either.  I’m flexible.)  You’re so flighty that one minute you won’t touch your milk and the next, you’re starving.  I know how to work with you.  If you skip a meal and it’s nap time and you get hungry, you’re out of luck.  You’ll cry, wear yourself out and then fall asleep (which is the goal anyhow).  Enough repetition of this and your body will adapt.  I know you’re only 5 months old, but come on, how long are you going to use that excuse on me?

The result?  Sleep scheduling worked for me.  I can get anywhere from 45 minutes to 2 hours of “kid free” time without resorting to locking them both in the bathroom.  Besides, when the kids know what is coming, they’re less likely to flail and I don’t have to use the taser nearly as often.

I Caught You Two!  What Are You Whispering About?

I Caught You Two! What Are You Whispering About?

Gavin – 25; Honeydaddy – 15 (I’m more clever than I look.  For now, at least.)

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?

We waited long enough to do this, but it’s time.  Worm’s just turned 21 months old and eager to explore the ends of his universe, our house.  He’s in Lewis & Clark mode and wants to leave no closet unexamined and no cabinet unpilfered.

I don’t know why, but the one place that Worm must visit 100 times a day is the cabinet storage under the kitchen sink.  And after he tried mixing Comet cleaner and Pine-sol onto the floor, I had to restrict access to this hazardous area.  I was afraid he might try to toss some cleaning powder in my eye and beat me up “Bloodsport” style…

I installed some cabinet latches that require a little more dexterity than the Worm has got at this age…and then I videotaped his reaction…priceless

I’m so happy I didn’t give him the butcher knife to hold during this video!

I was laughing up to the point where he hit me.  But, I still got the upper hand on him!

Gavin – 19; Dad – 11 (It brings so much joy to my life when I can outwit a toddler…)

In the wise words of Brittany Spears, “Oops, I did it again…”.

I don’t know if I should be embarrassed or angry.  I get it.  It’s the new millenium, the age of feminized men.  Delicate jawed, pouty lipped, long eyelashed men.  Weepy, emotional, does-this-tie-make-my-belly-look-fat, softy men.  At times, I’m that guy.  But I’ve got an excuse.  I’ve got a full-time position as a SAHD and studies have shown that many long term SAHDs suffer from a flip in the testosterone to estrogen ratio.  (Can I claim disability for this?)  Since I didn’t destroy anything, my boss renewed our contract and in January I’ll be put in charge of another underling…with no pay raise!  I’m a little miffed about it and thinking I may go on strike.  Sorry, just venting…now back to our regularly scheduled program.

I’m at the park this morning and I see two children, somewhere between 2 and 30 years old, and I think ‘Hey, a couple of girls for Worm to practice pickup lines on’.  He doesn’t go up to either of them and I figure he’s just minding his own business (or looking for a good stick to poke them with.)  And then I start chatting up the nearby mom of one of the kids.

“Worm loves to dig in the sand and pile it in the buckets.”  I say.

She replies “For a while, I couldn’t get my son out of the sandbox.  Now, he’s into the jungle gym.”

Son?  Where is he?  Maybe he’s in daycare now?  Or his dad has him?  Because all I see in front of me is one boy.  Mine.  It takes me 10 minutes of conversation with this mom to figure out that the ‘son’ she is talking about has been here the entire time!  I wipe the sleep out of my eyes and look again.  I don’t believe it.  (“Inconceivable!” as the great philosopher Vizzini would say…)

It’s a good thing I didn’t open my mouth too soon and say something stupid.  Whew!

0 for 1.  Next kid.  Worm and I head over to the swingset and see a dad pushing his little creature in the swing.  I look in the basket and see a child with its hair tied into a hamburger-bun-or-whatever-women-call-it on top.  Remembering that I’m not in India and that chances are slim that a boy, especially one of caucasoido-anglo-northernEuropea-something descent would be wearing a girl’s hairstyle, I assume I’m looking at a wee chickadee.

“How old’s your daughter?” I ask, thinking that she is the same age as Worm.

“Ahem!  My SON is almost two.” along with a pursed lip smile stretched over his gritted teeth.

Whoops!  Hoping he has the memory of a goldfish, I point to the bike leaned up against a nearby tree and ask this dad about the quality of the baby bike seat.  0 for 2 today.  (Good thing I didn’t take a third pitch, eh?)

You know how when you’re at the playground and you’re just not quite sure of what you’re looking at?  Hmm.  Is that a boy or a girl?  (I would have sworn on my second child that those two kids at the playground today were girls.  It’s a good thing I didn’t wager.  It would be terribly awkward to explain to Steph during labor and delivery that Smush’s new owner wants me to videotape him catching his new prize and cutting the cord.)  You perk up your ears and listen for the parent to say something like “Hey Joey boy, stop slamming your face into the merry-go-round.” or “Lisa Ann, don’t you know that little girls should practice good posture daily?  Put that book back on your head and walk this way.” to doubly confirm your suspicions of whether or not the kid you’re looking at owns a Y chromosome.

Parents, make sure the people around you don’t have to guess your progeny’s gender.  Don’t embarrass your kids or other adults or get other adults to inadvertently embarrass your kids.  There are ways to avoid these potentially scarring and indelible moments from occurring (unless you’re punishing your child on purpose).

Situations like this next one, happen every year in American homes all over the world (It sounds more grand this way.):

Your son, little Junior, has been constantly mistaken for a girl for the first 13 years of his life.  (Part of the reason is that the hand-me-downs he wears come from his older sister that YOU forced on him because you wanted to get double the usage out of them.)  His physique is obviously not a big ego boost for him and he’s become a teenage mess trying to understand why he doesn’t look glisteningly mannish like the Chippendale models on the freeway billboards.  (You live in Vegas, ok?)  So he goes to the local gym and buys a case of steroid injections with his allowance money that YOU gave him.  He shoots up every day, builds boatloads of muscles and his voice drops.  Then using his practicality inherited from YOU (remember the hand-me-downs?), he refills the steroid needles with heroin because he wants to get double the usage out of the hypodermics.  Now he’s a ‘roid raging heroin addict and it’s all your fault.

Don’t be stupid and turn your child into a heroin addict.  Play by the rules.  Boys should be seen and not heard look like boys and girls should look like ballerinas, princesses or fairies, or something like that.

Here are five tips on how to keep your kid from being gender-confusing to the world:

  1. Dress your child in pink if you’ve got a girl, and blue if you’ve a boy.  (This is pretty simple people.  The colors are there to avoid the Crying Game guessing game.  Follow this until boobs and mustaches form on your little one.  If boobs and a mustache grow on the same little one, see a doctor. Got it?)
  2. If you know your boy is a little effeminate or your girl wears a lot of flannel, add the word “boy, buddy, son” or “girl, sister, daughter” to every sentence when speaking aloud.  (It puts other parents at ease.  For example, “Hey Matthew girl, pick up your bicycle.  Bring it in the house, young daughter of mine!”  It’s perfectly clear that this parent is using the unisex version of the name Matthew for their daughter, yet it’s no surprise to other parents that this Matthew is a female.)
  3. Don’t name your children after inanimate objects found in nature.  (“Come here Parkbench, I’d like you to meet Treeroot.”  Huh?  Other moms and dads will sit around for hours staring at your kid trying to figure him or her out.  I know we’re in California and we’re more subject to the atypical naming conventions that abound with treehugging hippie nature-loving heavy potsmoking alternative-healthseeking parents.  So until the androgynous look is outgrown, use a name that leans strongly to the right or left like “Mike” or “Jill”.  Afterwards, you can call them “SlowlyBlazingGrassLeaf” for the rest of their lives.
  4. Cut your child’s hair.  (Buzz cuts for boys.  Shoulder length or longer for girls.  Don’t think about it, just do it.  Chances are that you’re still debating whether the ‘Jennifer Aniston’ do will gain your favor in daycare and whether or not the ‘Bieber’ will still look good when baby’s got boogers dripping and a 9-tooth smile.  It doesn’t matter right now.  Let them screw up their own hair, attire, and lives when they get older.  But, until then, keep it simple.
  5. There are only four tips, ok?  I can’t think up another one right now.  I’m tired and need a drink…I mean a nap.

So there you have it folks.  And for those that need a picture to burn into their brain, please see an example of what NOT to do.  (I purposely photoshopped the image as poorly as possible so that my dad with bad eyesight can see that it’s not a real wig.  His blood boils when I do crazy stuff with Worm in real-life.  Here’s to you keeping your hypertension in check, dad!)

If Your Son Shows Up to the Playground Looking Like This and Other Parents Continue to Mistake Him for Her, There May Be a Problem You're Just Not Seeing.

If Your Son Shows Up to the Playground Looking Like This and Other Parents Continue to Mistake Him for Her, There May Be a Problem You’re Just Not Seeing.


Please forgive me, I couldn’t post this beforehand. The paparazzi would have staked themselves outside our hotel room the entire time and we would have graced the cover of US Weekly without getting paid for it!  (Ah, the life of a celebrity…)

When I think of Las Vegas, the first thing that comes to mind is “Wow, I can’t believe I’m thinking about the shrimp eating capital of the United States.”  And when I have dreams of myself snorkeling from one slot machine to the next in the hopes I could jackpot a lifetime supply of shrimp with just one pull of the lever, it’s time for a shrink a visit.

Las Vegas built a direct road to San Diego.  Scratch that, San Diego built a direct road to Las Vegas.  (It’s part of the reason why our city is broke.)  One freeway, the I-15, whisks you over the hills and through the woods desert to the place where the fourth largest pyramid in the world resides.  (If you’re visiting from space, hover directly over the vertical light beam in the sky and descend.  It will take you right to the center.)

When I was younger and had time, money, and energy, Vegas was a fun place to let my single self cavort and run wild.  “Sleep during the day and party at night” was the motto.  Funny.  Now that I look back, I don’t remember seeing any babies or toddlers in Vegas.  (In my mid-twenties, I probably couldn’t tell you what a toddler was, let alone spot one in public.) Today, I know why you don’t see a lot of young families like mine in a place like Las Vegas.  Would you still view Vegas the same way if the consequences of your sins committed there were standing next to you on the people mover?  Watching a poor sap like me lugging a 50-lb bag of diapers, a stroller full of toddler screams, and schlepping a tired, worn-out pregnant woman from casino to casino would make any sane man question his free-wheeling motives!  So, strollers and babies are forced to navigate the “Strip” more covertly…through the service and maintenance routes.

2.9 Members of the MVG clan!

I’m on the other side of the Stratosphere now, and I’ve had to begrudgingly change my Vegas habits to a more G-Rated, all ages version. Wake up at 6:30am.  Nap time at noon.  Breakfast, lunch, and dinner time scheduled around pregnancy munchies and Worm’s occasional desire to eat.  Squeeze all that in by 8pm and everyone’s happy…almost.  During our three-day stay, I saw more of my hotel room than I have in all the other times I’ve visited combined.  Not the most fun for me, but I sacrifice my own joys in life to be with my family.

During Thanksgiving, Vegas gets much fewer visitors.  This time of year isn’t hard to find a great hotel package deal for the whole clan.  We haven’t been on a vacation since before Worm was hatched.  It was a perfect opportunity to test out the little guy’s portability and travel manners during the “terrible twos” period.  Besides, the thick walls of these hotel rooms can muffle sounds from the most unhappy toddlers.

I found Vegas to be surprisingly kid-friendly.  There’s a ton to do.  If your kid is bored in Vegas, consider the clergy for them.  The mobsters running the Boulevard (just kidding, please don’t shoot me) know that Vegas runs in two shifts (day and midnight) and never the twain shall meet.  Every day well before the witching hour, we hit the pool, the buffets, and the Strip.  On the last day, we blazed through the Mandalay Bay Shark Reef Aquarium in about 10 minutes.  (We were overstimulated, ready for nap time, and our brain had shut down…we were out of sins and ready for home.  We = Worm.)

Though I had plenty of misdeeds left in me, Worm was right.  Out of time and Thanksgiving turkey, we left Paradise (Clark County) and headed for home.  It was a nice detour from reality, if only for a few days.

Looks Like Someone Was Enjoying the Mandalay Bay Exhibits

If you’re wondering, Worm racked up the 11 hours of driving in excellent condition.  He was a great travel companion.  When strapped down, he was easy to talk to and didn’t once try to escape my lecture on “Why Vegas is Called Sin City”.  We managed without shoving a TV, iPod, iPad, or laptop computer in his face.  (Yes, I’m amazed too.)

Finally Able to Catch Some Z’s! Vegas was Awesome!

Gavin – 19; Dad – 9 (From the pictures, it looks like you got the Vegas thing down pat, Worm.  Good job!)

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