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.... (#4)

Aloha and HAPPY NEW YEAR!

You Know You’re A Parent When…

You write a countdown letter to your newly born infant son...

Dear No. 3 Son,

It’s 11:47 p.m. HST on New Year’s Eve, 2011 and I’m writing this in the midst of a pink hospital overlooking much of Honolulu City and County.

Can't a guy just get a little sleep around here?

 11:50: While things are rocking and rolling in downtown Waikiki, up here the corridors are empty, doors are closed and all is quiet at this medical behemoth. (This is the quietest New Year’s Eve I can ever remember – but your arrival makes it the most exciting, and one I will never forget.)

11:52: Sitting close to you – my sleeping nine-hour-old son – your mother and I whisper and glance over at a muted, five-hour-old cable rerun counting down to midnight at Times Square.

11:53: The moon is a bright, white half-smile in the clear dark sky. This I discover only because a nurse stops by to say we should open the window blinds and catch the upcoming fireworks show.

11:57: I open a bottle of contraband – justifying the scandalous breach in protocol by telling myself if there was ever a time to have a sip, just a sip, mind you of something that tastes suspiciously like champagne – it’s today, Dec. 31, your Birth Day.

00:03: Mama and I spend a few minutes counting our blessings that you and her are both well and that this C-section was the easiest of the three.

00:05: We raise our plastic glasses to the memory of Uncle Junior who died exactly twelve years before you were born. Your birth means December 31 won’t have to be a day reflecting on loss.

00:07: Grandma, Grandpa and Special Guest Star, Uncle Jerry, call to wish us a Happy New Year. (Grandma says there are three glasses with twelve grapes each for when we bring you home Monday – I’ll explain that particular family tradition once you’re old enough. It involves wearing a red shirt and jumping up and down twelve timesJ)

00:17: For about fifteen minutes, the entire sky – from Waikiki to Honolulu international Airport and beyond was filled with thousands of fireworks from hundreds of groups and families.

Wow, what a great show and a cool way to celebrate your birthday!

01:53: Mama is sleeping and I’m looking at an old friend, the hospital blue chair, the one that opens – somehow – to a single bed. The sky is clear again, and it’s time to go to bed, but I just wanted to say Happy New Year, son. May you dream big, live large and be the person you are meant to be.

Happy New Year!

P.S. Another silly reason Mama and I were happy to see you today… your timely arrival means we’ll get a tax break for 2011. (We promise to use the extra funds to pick out the finest diapers and wipes money can buy at CostcoJ)

Special Edition: You Know you're a Parent when...

aloha...well I didn't expect to be writing this post until at least sometime next year (tomorrow) but here I stand in a green hairnet and blue booties waiting to go back to the OR where my wife is having her third c-section..... My wife, Gen, started having contractions and when we arrived at the military hospital, they decided to admit her. I'll be updating this post often, or shooting quick updates via Twitter.....you can follow me at      #markjkoopmans

Update: No. 3 Son was born at about 3 p.m., weighing in at 8 pounds, 0 ounces on New Year's Eve :)

Thanks to everyone who posted congrats and good wishes.... Mom and Son are doing well, and we appreciate your kind thoughts and words :)