An Open Letter to No. 2 Son on his Third Birthday

Aloha,

Our middle boy, No. 2 Son, turned three today… well actually, it was Tuesday, but I hope he doesn’t mind if I’m posting this a couple of days late.

Son, you are the cutest kid – and a most precious gift sent by God to keep your mother and me on the straight and narrow parenthood path.



Is this Cujo? Someone save me!

 

“Difficult” doesn’t begin to describe how different you are from your elder brother – (which leads me to note that I tremble to see how your fourteen-month-old brother’s personality develops.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trust me, your mother and I are happy, nay dare I say, ecstatic that the “terrible twos” are done. Indeed, we’re so excited about the upcoming year, we’ve dubbed it, on your behalf, the “terrific threes.”

(No pressure, Son, just a marketing tip I picked up from a baseball movie where they said if you call it, they will come and no-longer-have-temper-tantrums (or something like that…)

Your ability, however, to drive me nuts at the smash ( hmm, would we say “smash" - maybe too strong a word... I can still read most of my texts) of a hat - or smart phone - only serves to makes your teeth-filled grins, happy emotions and loving hugs all the more special.

Don’t be a hater (you’re only three, and Papa said NO!) but you are so unlike your older brother (the born entertainer/politician) that I’ve often made the joke if you were the eldest, you’d be an only child.

What's up with this shiny - and slow - Disney Transportation System?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Look, I'm obviously no spring chicken – more like a fall fowl – so I’ve also said, again in jest – that I hope you marry young and have kids early so I can be around (and can remember) to tell you “I told you so.”

Yes, Son, you are truly different, but that happened only through the grace of God, and we praise Him for the gift of you each and every night (if this sounds unfamiliar, it’s only because you are either wailing like a banshee or snoring like a drunken sailor.)

Your mother and I are blessed to have the responsibility of being your parents and now that you are three, I can (see the light at the end of the tunnel) start to see how you may want to spread your wings and fly. Sure, your older brother is a social butterfly, but you… you are like a bald eagle: Quiet, strong and aware of all that is going on around you.

I wonder…

Are you going to be an architect because you enjoy building all the towers of yogurt, sour cream and tins of tomatoes you love to construct in the aisles of the grocery store? (After I take my eyes off you for a mere seventeen seconds...)

Are you going to be a wrestler because you are most always in the middle of some melee?

Are you going to be in IT because you love playing with “Mama’s Computer” or “My Sony “Tab-e-wet? (One should note that Papa’s computer is off-limits…. It is not a good thing to see a grown man cry when a child informs him, “I dewete your fiwle, Papa… your fiwle is gone.”)

Whatever you decide, Son, just know your mother, siblings and I had a great time celebrating your birthday at Disneyland –  and my take-away memory will always be of you and I heading toward the exit of Star Tours. Your brother was already in the gift store looking for something Angry Birds-themed and I knelt down beside you.

“It’s getting to be the end of your birthday, Son. Have you had a good time?”

And, as if you had scored the winning goal in the FIFA World Cup, your two little fists shot upward and you screamed, “Yes.”

Our work in Disney was done.

Again, this is only through the grace of God, but our mission and our goal to give you and your brothers the strongest possible foundation that allows you all to grow into strong Christian men, continues.

Happy Birthday, Son – we love you.

(Now, put the tab-e-wet down and step away from the large puddle with those new shoes we just bought you… SPWAASH!!! (er, I mean SPLASH!!!)  ahy yai yai...)

 

First Anniversary of "You Know You're a Parent When..." (#12)

Aloha,

Before this month’s “You Know You’re A Parent When…” post, I must apologize that I haven’t replied to many recent comments.

I am WIP-minus 37 from my deadline, completely failing in my blogging duties – and I ask for your patience. All unanswered comments are waiting in a file (thanks: no-hyperlink-needed Alex.)

###




(Part One:) "PEEK A...

 This is the twelfth installment of my “YKW,” series, which means I’ve been promoting my, er, lack of parental skills for more than a year…

Here in the Blogisfear, it’s normal to celebrate a year of something (blog, followers, life,) but please for all that is holy and special… hold all congratulatory comments, because after a year (or more – No. 1 Son is five)…

Wouldn’t you think my wife and I would have nailed this parenting thing, right?

Apparently not.

Let’s dive in, (but not in the bath – apart from the obvious safety reasons, you need to check the water with your elbow first – oh, and try not to fall in… because now your center of balance is off, and you’re carrying a naked, twenty-pound baby held out at arm’s length in case he pees on you.

Again.



C'mon now, this is tasty stuff.

 

You can find the most recent YKW posts here and here. Everything happened, and it’s all based on my daily life as a happily married stay-at-home Dad J

 

 

 

 

 

You Know You’re a Parent When…

·         No. 3 Son is in the high-chair, and Mama says she’s “going to let him down” and the first thing that pops into your sleep-deprived head is to tell your wife that no, no, it’s OK, you’ll do it, so you get ready to shout: “Santa’s not real! Santa’s not real!”

·         While cooking in the kitchen (as opposed to the neighbor’s front yard – *shakes head*) you are asked to count to twenty (or “up to one,” depending on the age of the Son whose turn it is.)

And while the kids play hide-and-seek in the no-nooks-and-crannies of the open floor plan that is downstairs, you are reminded that, “but it’s OK, remember, we have our invisible green poncho,” which is when you remember it’s important to chill when making chili.)

     

·         A smile comes to your face and you say YES! when, in the middle of doing the dishes, Mama’s voice clearly echoes all the way downstairs and into the kitchen: “What? Why did you put Buttpaste on your toothbrush?”
Sometimes, dirty dishes can be a blessing…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 ·      Upset that a “decrusted” peanut butter sandwich still remains uneaten, the question is asked of No. 1 Son:

“What’s wrong with the sandwich?”

“It’s the wrong shape.”

INNER VOICE: The wrong shape, the wrong shape??? I’ve cut the edges off, so of course it’s not going to be a neat-looking shaped sandwich.

OUTER VOICE: “Oh.”

Can I have a square shaped sandwich?

INNER VOICE: What’s wrong with a rough-looking triangle-y shaped sandwich???

OUTER VOICE: “Square?”

“Square. Yes, please, Papa.”

After eating a non-wanted peanut butter (triangle-y shaped) sandwich, you drive to Bed, Bath and Beyond and invest in a train-shaped de-crustifying thing.

Later that week…

OUTER VOICE (filled with pride): So, how’s that train-shaped peanut butter sandwich, huh? Isn’t it awesome?

It’s OK, Papa, but can I have a triangle shape sandwich, please?

INNER VOICE: Weeps, especially as you keep forgetting about the George Forman and the ability to make a grilled cheese sandwich… with cool stripes on them :)

 

 

(Part Two:) ...BOO"         HAPPY HALLOWEEN

 

You Know You're a Parent When...(#11)

Aloha,

What, Papa?

When you’re raising three boys under the age of six, time flyeth before ye knoweth. Wow… Here’s the eleventh installment of my monthly “You Know You’re A Parent When…” series.

You can find the most recent here and here – and I promise everything happened, and it’s all based on my daily life as a happily married stay-at-home Dad J

 

 

 

Quick! Grab on, here we go....You know you’re a parent when…

·         You decide to write a 15-part weekly series on how training for a marathon can be like writing a book. Great idea, but where exactly is this extra writing time coming from – your arse?

·         You master the power of patience. This Zen-level of awareness was recently achieved when No. 1 Son said he, “peed on the toilet.”

“No, Son,” said you, the Dad/Writer, putting a pen behind your ear in a mad-professorial way, “It’s not on the toilet, it’s in the toilet.”

“Nuh uh, I pee-peed on the toilet, Papa.”

You smile at the child, [still] enjoying this teaching moment.

“Think about it, Son. You pee inside the toilet because the lid is up and the pee-pee goes inside,” you say, crouching down like (old) sitting tiger, “the only way you could pee on the toilet is when both lids are down.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Papa. I peed on the toilet!”

Oh.

 ##########

·         The kids are sleeping.

The laundry is piling

The Elmo sheets are a-foldin’

(And it’s all good, ‘cos)

The ‘80s are a-rockin’

 

Cover of Dark Tower: The Gunslinger by Jae Lee.

·         You finish changing the baby and bound downstairs with a spare diaper in your side pocket.

As you traverse the dangerous Pocoyo and Lego-strewn “walkway” to the kitchen, you realize that while you may never be Roland the Gunslinger, you can, by gosh, claim rights to Papa the Kidslinger as No. 3 Son moves from hip to hip or side to side with nary a cry or squeal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

·         You [nearly] poop your pants while at the weekly Moms (and Dad) morning playroom event at the community center.

Scanning the room to verify presence of all three sons, No. 2 Son (who is two-and-a-half) is nary to be found.

It’s a *large* open room, so he can’t be hiding, so where is he?

Putting the smartphone down… (oh yeah, you feel smart now checking your blog… smart as a wet paper bag) you stand up as the Papa Kidslinger instincts fire up.

Slowly, you scan the room again… he’s wearing solid red… there’s about thirty kids, twenty parents… take your time…

Oh gosh, (I may have said a stronger word…) where is he?

No. 1 Son is painting, No. 3 is sleeping…

OK… move toward the front door…. Scanning, turning… out into the lobby…

There is a meeting going on…open door… you barge right in there… “sorry, looking for my son…”

He’s not there.

You look at the door to THE OUTSIDE and there is no way

(is there??)

that he could have gotten OUTSIDE…

You turn around, back into the main, open area… walking slowly… dry mouth…

Real panic starts to bubbliciously announce its arrival when one of the moms opposite where you sat waves.

“He’s over here – in the little (dollhouse-style play) tent.”

He was not on the tent, he was in the tent… the flat-on-the-ground tent where he had crawled into (less than twenty feet from me) to play with some plastic dinosaurs.

(Thank you, Lord.)

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“No problem. I noticed him crawling in the tent, and when I saw the look on your face, I put two and two together.”

I lifted the flat opening of the flat tent…

“Son, what... where, what are you doing in there?”

“Dinosayers! In the tunnel, rook Papa. Rook at my dinosayers. In the tunnel!

 

Moral of the story: We ain’t buyin’ no stinkin’ dollhouse tents in this house J

Papa? Where's my tent, Papa?



 

You Know You're a Parent When...(#10)

Aloha,

Well, when you’re raising three boys under the age of six, time doth fly.

Wow… Here’s the tenth installment of my monthly “You Know You’re A Parent When…” series.

Like previous editions – you can find the most recent here and here – it all happened and is based on my daily adventures as a happily married stay-at-home Dad J

 You know you’re a parent when…

·         Instead of the usual frustrated feelings when told your expected wait is “fifteen minutes – but your call is really important –” you decide to accept the mission (that no one gave you.)

Can you change, wash, dress and get the baby to sleep before the cheery, tinny out-sourced voice comes back on the line?

Yes, I'm in the laundry basket. Papa was multi-tasking:)

And, wouldn’t you know?

Score!

“Hah, I’d like to see Michael Phelps do that water move,” you say to sleeping No. 3 Son while rocking [him in] the hallways.

Your mood is brighter, your step lighter – until reading Phelps won his 22^nd Olympic medal.

The tagline from Wayne’s World pop into your head as you ponder this awesome achievement :)

·         Your heart skips a beat and the boys’ college funds receive a major boost (if only for a second) when you read the following email:
“An ATM Card Donation of $4Million US Dollars has been accredited to you from online draw. Contact Mr.Barnet Catford for claims.”

Sigh… if onlyJ

·         Speaking of sleeping babies, you lay the little beauty down for his nap.

...Then spend the next ten minutes extracting your fingers from between the pillow and the head of No. 3 Son

… one false move and it’s all over…

Sweat beats down your brow as you listen to Twinkle, Twinkle (You’re Killing Me) Star… nine times in a row.

Once the extraction is complete (and you switch the "repeat one" button off,) you make a mental note to ask the local Bomb Squad how they do what they do…

·         When No. 2 Son suffers from an unknown bug/illness, the after effects result in you coming up with a revised version of a Christmas classic (even though it’s July.)

Sung to the tune of 12 Days of Christmas, your version goes something like:

"Seven pukes a puking,

Six white towels,

Five. Changed. Outfits

Four hot showers,

Three new sheets,

Two year-old boy

And one too many glasses of milk."

·         Proudly, and with pride, you hold the new, $10 nightlight up in the air as if it was Excalibur. Tired of No. 2 Son destroying the “normal” nightlights, you review the packaging again:

“Guaranteed for 10,000 hours! Break resistant!”

Sadly, this Super Nightlight never had the pleasure of officially meeting No. 2 Son.

Seventy-two hours later, it lay at the bottom of the stairs, its resistance (and everything else) broken.

Later that evening, you switch on the laundry room light and leave the door open a crack.

·         And finally, I always tell the one about me before I had kids.

I had hair that would make a 80s rocker proud, and now look at me: As bald as the eagle.

It’s tough being a parent. It really is, but I’d rather be in an empty room screaming through frustration, than frustrated and screaming because our home is empty.

This post is dedicated to the wonderful, loving couples who are all too familiar with Clomid, timed shots and unromantic rendezvous.

(Hang in there… my wife and I have walked in your shoes.

No. 1 Son and No. 2 Son arrived via God’s blessings – and fertility treatments – so Don’t. Ever. Quit.)

You Know You're A Parent When... (#9)

Aloha,

Haven't you always wondered how the Seven Dwarfs met and why Cinderella didn't run away with the local baker?

If so, you need to check out our “What If?” Blogfest, and thanks to the many dozens who've already signed up.

This is going to be a Beauty... yikes....does than mean I'm the beast :) 

My co-hosts, Cassie Mae, Leigh and Morgan and I appreciate everyone signing up – and if you want to, add your name to the Linky List here J

The Dream Team... and me, the Nightmare :)

In other news, (I've always wanted to say that:) here's my ninth and latest installment of “You Know You’re A Parent When…” an ongoing series that makes single people cringe and roll their eyes J

If you’re new to my blog (thanks), I've included some recent YKYA posts here and here.

You Know You’re A Parent When…

·         You go for dinner at an outdoor restaurant with another couple (with multiple kids), and when they act as frazzled as you live, a bonding moment occurs.

The adults each help manage the controlled chaos to where you enjoy some downtime talking to your spouse – using “big” words – and sentences that don’t end in “STOP IT! or SIT DOWN!!

Inventory Check... How Many Kids Should We Have?

As you leave, you realize in a weird sort of way that you’ve had a (not-so-quiet) date night. Wow… imagine that...

### 
·         No. 1 Son covers his lower face and chin with a grey, washable marker... and when you ask why, he says, ‘cos I want my face to look like Papa’s scratchy bumpy face.”

###  
·         You treasure the small collection of “sleep-maker” DVDs and love the moments when you catch No. 1 Son losing the battle to keep his eyes open. (Thank you, Baby Einstein – Lullaby Time J)

Look Papa... it's the Six :)

·         You turn the corner and remember why you don’t want an e-reader – try recreating this memory with a Kindle.
Then, you start hoping James Patterson or John Grisham won’t be upset with this new-look “book display.”

###
·         Cleaning the table after dinner includes removing the following:

o   Large Salad Spoons

o   Placemats

o   Various Matchbox Cars

o   Salt and Pepper Shakers

o   Plate Warmers

o   Large Foam Letter “U”

o   A Steel Cowbell

o   Removal of 4-foot-long grey dolphin from underneath table

###

 ·         Trying for just one nice picture of your independent two-year-old, you find yourself sweating, leaning over, falling backward, all the while hooting and hollering a bunch of complete and utter gibberish as you strive to earn No. 2 Son’s attention.

And then, just like that, he looks up and you snap the “money shot” you never saw coming.

Of course, you scuttle back to the other parents and show off the image, all the while saying that *this* was the so easy-to-get shot you intended all along.

Look, Papa... it's the Sun :)

...It's only now that you remember that these same parents follow your blog and the secret is out....

...oops :)