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Hold Me, Honeydaddy!

April 1, 2014 //
2

Whoa, wait a second. That doesn’t mean what I thought it meant.

For men, there are a few unwritten rules about doing ‘number one’.

  1. Eyes on your own pee pee.
  2. Hands on your own pee pee.
  3. Aim directly at the target (preferably a toilet).
  4. Laughing and giggling during the event will not be tolerated.  (Sure, peeing is fun.  You’ve got a water hose attached to your body.  But it’s really quite awkward when other people can hear you.  Trust me.  I know.)
  5. Don’t try advanced techniques unless you’re ready to clean up afterwards.

All 5 of the cardinal rules were violated in one fell swoop.  How do I know?  I was one of the violators.  It wasn’t my fault.  The Worm made me do it.

A few weeks ago, Worm came home telling me how his best friend at school showed him how to pee standing up.  Wondering how a toddler that recently learned to stand and chew simultaneously could be so insightful, I was game to find out more.

“Show me.” I said.

Worm ran over to the toilet.  I followed quickly after, eager not to miss any part of this new trick.

*SNAP*  *ZIP* Pants fell to his ankles.  Two quick yanks on the diaper tabs and it hit the floor.

Then, I watched in horror (violation of rule #1)  as Worm leaned against the toilet, put his hands on his hips (violation of rule #5) and just let it rip (violation of rule #3)!  All the internet stories of kids spraying themselves, the furniture and unwary bystanders flooded my mind.  In order to save myself and our bathroom from urinihilation, I did what any handsome red-blooded hero with catlike reflexes and chiseled muscles would do.  I lunged towards the little pistol.  I grabbed it (violation of rule #2) and turned it squarely at the toilet bowl.  It fired off round after round for what seemed like eternity.  The whole time, a squeaky little stream of “heh heh heh” (violation of rule #4) filled the air.

Thankfully, I was able to save us and the bathroom from catastrophe.

My takeaways from this were:

  • Worm’s friend may be missing a couple of key parts of his method.
  • Worm’s friend should probably get certified or something before he starts teaching.
  • Worm’s friend’s dad must be a “hands free” kind of guy.  (Kids don’t just pick this kind of stuff up without seeing someone else do it.)
  • This is the first of those “Honeydaddy, look what I learned at school today!” moments.  I need to be better prepared.
  • I don’t really like holding anyone else’s pee pee.  (I’m thinking I’ll use pliers in case this happens again.)
Practice. Practice. Practice. Sometimes, I Miss the Target! And I've Been Doing This for Years!

Practice, Practice, Practice. Sometimes, I Miss the Target! And I’ve Been Doing This for Years!

Gavin – 30; Honeydaddy – 19 (I’m taking the point here.  Mainly because I saved us all from getting peed on.  I’ll probably be giving the point back when we are trying this in a dirty, public bathroom…)

 

 

 

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Categories Education

The Incentive to Poop

March 10, 2014 //
0

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!)

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Categories Education

Disneyland, the unhappiest place on earth…

February 24, 2014 //
2

It’s been a while since I’ve last posted.  I’ve been recovering both mentally and physically from our trip to Disneyland.

Why would any parents take their kids to Disneyland?  Termite tenting.  (It’s the #248th reason families visit the theme park.  It’s right below “Wanting to hear thousands of screaming children screaming and barfing in giant spinning teacups”.)

Our house was being sprayed and we had to leave.  We needed to go SOMEWHERE.  And silly us, we thought that visiting the “happiest place on earth” would be worth the two-hour drive.

We were wrong.

My marbles haven’t completely come back to me, but let’s recap.  Two hours in a car with anyone under the age of 21 just plain sucks.  I’m not sure why anyone would go through that type of confined suffering, unless it was to drop the kids off at the grandparents…

They’re awful in the car on long trips.  Smushie has become more, um, opinionated.  When she wants something, she’ll let us know.  Usually, it’s by screaming and crying.  But mostly, it’s by screaming.  She has to hit at least 120dB with her wail.  (My ears ring like they would after a rock concert.)  It only gets better when the Worm tries to match her intensity.  It’s the only time I think stereo sound is overrated.

When we booked the hotel room for our trip, there was no double crib option.  Instead, we got another queen size bed.  We only have one portable crib, so that meant one child was going to have to sleep in a bed with a grownup.  (Remember, bot of our kids are still in a cage crib at home.) Wormie nominated himself to spend the night with me.  And that first night, he marked his territory by peeing on it.  (I remember jumping out of bed at midnight with a wet hand, yelping “Steph!  STEPH!  What is this?” as if there was radioactive waste on me.  Ah, memories.

Now for the theme park.  We get to Disney on Superbowl Sunday (supposedly the best time of year to visit)  and the rumors were valid.  It’s not as crowded.  The longest line for a ride was 30 minutes.  Not that we went on many.  The environment was so new and different, the kids’ brains overloaded within the first hour.  They fell asleep in their strollers, steam pouring from their ears.  Though, it wasn’t as bad as you’d think.  Steph and I got to enjoy a walk with some uninterrupted conversation:

Me:  “You look nice today!  You did something to your hair, didn’t you?”

Steph:  “Honey, I got it cut and colored two months ago!”

And we spent the rest of their nap time trying to remember who it was that we had married.

If I could really just list 8 things I learned about taking a 1-year-old and a 2.5 year old to Disneyland, it would be these here:

  1. The fake mustache trick to get on the big kid rides doesn’t work.  It’s not that believable on a baby girl.  Besides, it’s a height restriction not an age limit.  Most rides are 40″ or 42″.
  2. If your kids want to ride something and you think it’s a bit out of his/her league, scream and run away as fast as you can.  Later, tell your child that you saw a ghost and you don’t want to go near that ride again.  Works every time.
  3. You will walk 10 miles carrying 30 lbs of gear and still be unreasonably expected to feed, change, and cater to your children.
  4. If you have any grand ideas that you will be videotaping and snapping photos of your toddlers doing cool stuff at the theme park, don’t.  Especially if it’s your first theme park visit, you’ll be much too busy saving them from eating food off the ground, running full-bore into random strangers, digging up plants from the landscape, and swimming in the pond with the ducks.
  5. Don’t go into the gift shops unless you want to buy everything inside…and/or hear your child whine about wanting everything inside.
  6. If you’re not a fan of mobs of people, hop the Disneyland gate after it closes.  Otherwise, Superbowl Sunday really is the next least crowded day to visit.
  7. The amusement park isn’t nearly as fun as the telephone and plastic cups in the hotel room.
  8. Stay for the parade.  It’s the best part of the day for little ones.

Worm, I came home exhausted from our trip.  I didn’t feel like it was the happiest place on earth like the brochure said.  (I may have missed the fine print disclaimer.)  And from the looks of it, you slept through half of the Disney experience and cried for pretty much the entire other half.

I must say that for a total of one hour of the forty-eight we spent in Anaheim, you were grinning from ear to ear.  And every time you got that big, cheesy smile, I was elated.  For me, you are the happiest place on earth.  You’re my Disneyland.

This Was a Dream Come True for Worm! A Life Size Mater!

This Was a Dream Come True for Worm! A Life Size Mater!

Gavin – 30; Honeydaddy – 17 (Worm, the look on your face when you saw Mater was unforgettable.  I’m glad your eyes didn’t pop out of your head!)

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Categories Play

How Early Does a Child Learn Right From Wrong?

January 24, 2014 //
3

It’s right around one year of age.

No kidding.  If someone would have asked me that very question a couple of weeks ago, I would have guessed that kids don’t get it until sometime after high school graduation.  I vaguely remember our pediatrician mentioning to us at her 12-month appointment that we could start showing Smushie some boundaries.  (Of course, I nodded my head in agreement.  Sort of.  I was really nodding as an answer to my own thought, “Should I make a ham and cheese panini for lunch today?”)

There was no way in hell that a baby who’s self-feeding procedure of:

  1. Grab applesauce off plate
  2. Place applesauce gently on forehead
  3. Tilt head back slightly
  4. Catch food in mouth
  5. Clap hands
  6. Repeat

would understand that certain things were “off-limits” let alone the concept that her nose was more than a food slide.

Yes, I’m talking about the same Smush that tries to chew through power cords, lick the dog bowls,  dive off the changing table, and shoves everything into her mouth, edible or not.  Daily.  None of my parenting techniques on “house rules” seemed to matter until the other day.

It was a lovely morning, with the sunlight beginning to wash over the window sills as it burned off the dewy moisture from the glass.  I saw the Meatball in front of our TV entertainment center.  Again.  For the 50th time, she was pushing the on/off button on the A/V receiver.  (Why do manufacturers put lights on the damned things!  I don’t need it.  I’ll know if it’s on if I can HEAR and SEE the TV!  Or at least they could offer a childproof option that disables buttons on the front panel when little hands are dangling nearby.)

Before she could blow out the expensive piece of equipment, I walked over with my estoque and capote de brega to lead Smush away from her “toy”.  As I advanced nearer, she looked up at me wide-eyed and mouth agape.  Then, she dropped down on her butt, kicked her legs furiously and hauled herself away from me at full speed.

Now, there’s no disputing what occurred.  We both knew what we was going on.  Since I’m part neanderthal (given the slope of my forehead), I use more physical action than verbal expression when parenting.  But even my actions have meaning.  No actual words filled the air, but this was the conversation my little girl and I had, each in our own communication style.

Noise: *click* *clock* *click* *clock*…ad nauseum.

Me:  *stomp* *stomp* *stomp* “Meatball?  What are you doing?  This is not a toy for you!”

Smush:  “Red light!  No red light!  Red light!  No red light!  Wow, this is the most amazing toy EVER!”

Me:  “Alright, let’s move you to a safer part of the house.  How about I strap you into your restraints high chair?”

Smush:  (Looking up with surprise.)  “AH!  I know this looks bad, but this time it’s not what you think it is.  Besides, how could you sneak up on me like a Ninja!  I gotta split!  You can’t catch me with an empty diap….ohhhh nooo!” *pffft*

Me:  (Scooping her up with extremely well-muscled outstretched arms.) “Gotcha!  Hey, what’s that smell?”

And so a lesson had been learned.  If anyone needs to have boundaries, it’s the Smushter.  She’s just that type of baby.  Hence the baby gate, the wall outlet covers, the padded helmet, the muzzle, the straightjacket, etc…

I can’t think of anything more fun and joyous than disciplining a baby.  Maybe I’ll look into a citrus spray shock collar.

Smush, Everything You Say Will Be Held Against You in The Court of Honeydaddy...

Smush, Everything You Say Will Be Held Against You in The Court of Honeydaddy…

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Categories Education

Smushie Meatball is Officially One!

January 15, 2014 //
1

I almost never post twice in one week anymore, but not because I don’t want to.  With the craziness of our household and the current orbital state of Mars in retrograde, it’s tough for me to complete a meal let alone a few sentences.  But this week’s different.  Smushie Meatball is turning the big single digit, one.  Wow.  What a year!

I can’t believe that she’s lasted this long!  I mean, with the Worm and the dogs, she’s not really a top priority for me as her caretaker.  But the Smushter is scrappy and feisty, just like a second child needs to behave in order to feed herself and survive.  Sure I’ll throw her a bone, both figuratively and literally.  It doesn’t matter.  She bites in with gusto.  (It’s a disgusting habit and 100% true, unfortunately.)  The plus side of chewing everything is that she’s building immunity to every strain of microbe that lives in our house and getting some form of nutrition at the same time!

Since today’s the big day, you know what she gets?  Vaccinations!  Hooray!

She also gets plenty of kisses from mommy and daddy!  At this age, kids are cheap.  I could wrap a…hell, I could just hand her a toilet paper tube and she’d feel like she won the lottery!

Smushels, you bring a lot of laughter and joy to our lives!  I hope that it continues or you’ll be spending a lot of time in your crib.

It’s pretty neat having you with us.  You’re very different from your brother, that’s for sure.  You’re not quite walking yet, but when you’re standing, you’ve often got a toy in each hand while you’re shaking to your own rhythm.  I just keep getting these flash-forwards of you at 16 with your brand new driver’s license trying to video chat, put on makeup, and paint your toenails while driving down the freeway.  Your brain is definitely wired differently than your brother’s.  That, I know.

Your smile lights up a room and it’s infectious.  I can’t tell if you’re laughing at me sometimes, or with me.  Either way, I find it adorable.  Your tiny, slightly crooked teeth remind me of a box of mini-Chiclets.  Which makes your 5-tooth smile even more cute!  Since you do put everything in your mouth, I keep my fingers away.  You bit papa’s finger a few weeks ago and I don’t even want to imagine the bite strength you have.  Which is why I feed you with utensils and from a distance.

You are fearless.  Nothing scares you, except your stuffed animals.  I love your tenacity and your boldness.  You go after things, even if you need to jump off your high chair to get them.  I’ve been your parachute and safety net for the past year, but I’m getting older and my eyesight isn’t as sharp as it used to be.  I hope that I may teach you to use thought before action before real bodily damage can occur.  For now, you’re pretty pliable, but when those bones fuse, the hard knocks of life may break appendages.  Enjoy it now.

Happy birthday littlest one!  You’ve taken us on a roller coaster ride thus far!  If there’s one characteristic our family could use, it’s someone to think and jump outside the box.  I believe that person is you.  I love you Smushie Mushie Meatball!

She's Either Going to Be a Professional Eater or Professional Fighter...

She’s Either Going to Be a Professional Eater or Professional Fighter…

 

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Categories Random Thoughts

Holiday Happiness, Aches, and Pains

January 12, 2014 //
2

I love the holidays.  Spending time with the family, sharing laughter, eating great food, and the most memorable part: getting help taking care of the children.  Almost everything is wonderful.  Almost.

We do our best to make it a happy holiday season, but with small children, that happiness comes at a price.   (I often pay in sanity and the black of my hair…)

Travel.  Ugh.

I hate travelling.  We live on the left coast.  Both sets of grandparents are on the wrong coast.  Air travel is a must and becomes part of our holiday planning.  Before children, I loved flying days.  Years ago, I’d fill my backpack with magazines (yes, the paper ones), music headphones, and arrive at the airport early just so I could hang out and putz around (what people without kids call ‘living’).  I didn’t have to do anything, save for getting on the plane before it left the gate.  After having spawned a pair of mini-me’s, air travel officially sucks.

Nowadays, before we leave for a trip, I fill my backpack with my son’s dvd player, his headphones, his movies, forty-seven of his favorite toys all piled on top of my trusty laptop and camera (neither of which I’ll get to use during the flight).  My backpack isn’t quite large enough to hold the essentials, of course.  So, I also carry a diaper bag (or my purse, as Worm calls it) with food, drink and diapers to manage a full day of bodily functions for dos pequeños niños.  This 40 lbs of stuff must stay close (read: under the seat in front of us) to prevent our children from spontaneously gushing fluids, suddenly starving, or imploding from stimulus deprivation.  (Translation:  I can’t stretch out my legs without crushing gummy bunnies and teething crackers.)

Then for the entire trip, I’m basically shushing, wiping, grabbing, restraining, carrying, feeding, smelling, changing, holding, pushing, dragging, or cleaning someone.  Sure the kids nap.  But once either of them senses my guard dropping, he or she wakes up to put me back on duty.  (They work in shifts, I swear.)

Sure travelling with small children is awful, but it’s not really what’s eating at me.  Steph and I eventually want to build our own family traditions.  We want to bake cookies, decorate gingerbread men, sing Christmas songs, play games, drink hot cocoa, make snowmen (yes, there’s snow nearby), draw holiday decorations, read the Night Before Christmas on the night before Christmas, and all of the other fun things to do while waiting for Santa to come down our fireplace on Taiwan’s Constitution Day.  The pandemonium of going across the country with two small children doesn’t provide us with quite the opportunity to instill those things on our children.  We’re too focused on all the trip details, schedules, and logistics planning.  And these next few years for our children are the ones that can be molded into those magical memories that they will cherish.  We want it to be exciting for them and (to be a little selfish, here) fun for us, too.  I don’t want Worm and Smushie to remember the inside of the car and the airport when they recall the holidays.  I wish we weren’t so far away from the grandparents, but we have to work with what we’ve got at the moment.  In an ideal world, our holiday would be more like Christmas Vacation (maybe minus Cousin Eddie) and less like  Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.  I just don’t know how to work it all out so that everyone gets what they want for Christmas.

Come on Worm, Put a Smile on Your Face! We'll See the Nanas and Papas Soon!

Come on Worm, Put a Smile on Your Face! We’ll See the Nanas and Papas Soon!

 

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Categories Random Thoughts

Someone Got an Earful

December 18, 2013 //
1

I yelled at my son last week for the first time ever.  He’s four months shy of 3 years old and I held out for as long as I could.  The event was exasperatingly awful.  It was not at all how I pictured what being on the ‘other’ side would be like.  I don’t like to raise my voice (unless I’m arguing with my wife…because that’s a contest to see who can be the loudest!), but I felt that Worm needed to hear me (which doesn’t always equate to listening.)

I’m usually pretty relaxed as long as the kids are orderly.  (Read:  I haven’t been relaxed in over 2 and a half years.)  I don’t get rattled real easily.  But when I’ve had enough, I will overreact to certain situations.  This time warranted a little extra vocalization on my part.  (I channeled the “stern dad” voice!)

The day started out with breakfast for Worm.  That meant pouring milky cereal onto his tray and pants.  Ok, no problem.  When I tried to clean up, he cried and screamed for me to stop, as if I was ruining his ‘Mona Lisa’.  (If Worm is the next Jackson Pollock, I’ll be kicking myself later for stunting his artistic fervor.)  When the kid and floor were 80% clean, I offered Worm a refill.  He refused.  And found a way to whine about it.  An hour later, Worm stated that he was hungry and casually left off the part about being grumpy.  (It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that when you don’t eat, you get irritable until fed.  But the idea looks like it takes more than the mind of my toddler to grasp.)  I gave Worm some cheddar goldfish to satiate his belly only for him to decide that the dogs were more deserving than he.  I promptly took the remaining goldfish away from him and forced the dogs to vomit up their share.  (Just kidding.  I wanted to see if you were still paying attention.)  That situation didn’t go over well.  Apparently, I was interrupting Wormie’s reenactment of Jesus feeding his disciples with a few fish and bread.  I screwed up the miracle, the dogs were going to starve to death, and I would become the devil.  He cried for them…as loud as he could.  For the next 10 minutes.  (Does anyone else think that toddlers should have a mute button?  Add a reset and sleep button to them and I’d be happy.)

Lots of whining, crying, and horseplay (as my dad would say) happened between snack and lunch time, which was surprising since it had been about 15 hours since Worm’s last meal.  At any point, I thought his energy would fizzle and he would barely have strength to sit upright in a chair let alone gallop around the living room.  So when noon rolled around, I made a nice (and tasty, I might add) sandwich and cut it into perfectly ideal sized morsels.  I placed the food in front of him and even turned on the TV to ingrain mindless eating habits at an early, impressionable age.  Three episodes later, not a crumb had moved.  I asked Worm if he wanted to eat.  He said no.  I repeated the question two more times.  I got the same answer.  (No means no after the third time.  It’s one of my new parenting techniques…)

“F#*k it.” I said to myself for the 9th time that day, which had barely concluded the morning.  It’s time for nap.

I scooped Worm up from the play area, put him into his crib, closed the door, and left.

I was called back in multiple times over the course of an hour for: one ice in my water bottle; get me big ‘Mater; I need tissue for boogies; turn light on;  ‘what are you doing, daddy?’; I want to brush teeth; get me my train with blue wheels;  and a few other things that I can’t remember at the moment (because anger causes the brain to block out negative memories so that I will most likely repeat the same parenting mistakes again at a later time…sorry, I digress.)

I was pushed over the line.  The last request, unbeknownst to him at the time, had me fuming.  I began screaming from the hallway, before I entered his room, hurling my words through the door at him.  I was so pissed about all the whining, crying, and misery of the morning that my voice was reverberating off the walls.  When I saw him looking at me as he never had before, his eyes pasted open and jaw dropped I said one last thing “GO TO SLEEP NOW!”  He said nothing.  Immediately he turned and huddled himself into the corner of his bed and cried himself to sleep.  I walked out feeling like the biggest asshole in the world.  Sometimes I love parenting more than other times.

Worm, You're So Dramatic!

Worm, You’re So Dramatic!

Gavin – 29; Honeydaddy – 17 (Worm, what sucks is me getting to a place where I have to yell at you to stop doing what you’re doing.  But, it’s still my fault for getting so heated.)

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Categories Play, Uncategorized
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