Daddy Geek Boy

Lesson In Equality

2012-01-25T22:28:00.000-08:00

It was the day after the MLK holiday. I was getting Sprout ready for bed.

“We got treated at school today,” Sprout said to me as I helped her pull her pajamas over her head.

“How did you get treated?” I asked.

“We got M&Ms.”

“Why did you get treats at school?”

“The teacher gave all the kids with curly hair M&Ms.”

“And since you have curly hair, you got some. But kids without didn’t get any?”

“No.”

“How do you think they felt about that?”

“Bad. But then the teacher gave them M&Ms too. They were treated.”

“You mean they were treated the same?”

“Yes.”

Gender Observations

2012-01-19T10:01:00.000-08:00

After spending a good portion of the evening piecing together his new Lego Y-Wing Fighter, the Bean was eager to play with me. He quickly fashioned a crude Lego ship for me to pilot and the space battle commenced. Midway through our aerial skirmish, Sprout slid into my lap, new doll in hand, and also wanted to play. While the Bean was busy dive-bombing my ship, Sprout’s doll complimented my Lego guy’s outfit and asked if I wanted to help cook breakfast. I attempted to land my ship at her dollhouse table, but was under heavy fire from the Y-Wing. Unfortunately, Sprout’s dollhouse took some friendly fire and breakfast was never cooked.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

I was fortunate enough to be one of two people who attended the marriage of Strawberry Shortcake and Lemon Meringue (aka “Lemon Girl”). The surprisingly short ceremony took place on the floor of Sprout’s room and was officiated by Sprout herself. The dolls walked down the aisle, were complimented on their hair by Sprout and made to give each other a hug and a kiss. Afterwards Strawberry Shortcake made Lemon Girl soup because she was feeling sick.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Over a rare leisurely brunch with some friends, the topic of boys and girls came up. The couple has two girls, but the husband clearly wished he had a boy in his life to balance the scales. As we discussed what life was like with a boy in the house--including, but not limited to: destruction, running around like a 55 lb. wrecking ball, constantly jumping on the furniture (and my back), the ever present very loud noises and screaming, smelly feet, excessive gas… As their girls quietly played with Sprout on the floor, the husband peered at the Bean and looked a little pallid.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The Bean is no longer allowed to play Mario Kart right before bed. He cannot contain himself when he plays, tapping his feet and bouncing on the couch like the Lord of the Dance after a few Red Bulls. The rush of adrenaline causes him to sweat profusely, dampening his just-washed body and clean pajamas and making sleep nearly impossible to attain. We have noticed that this phenomenon is not limited solely to the Bean. While gorging on an afternoon feast of Mario Kart with a friend, both boys were unable to stop squirming while they played.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Upon saying goodbye to his friend, the Bean in a surprisingly effective move swept the boy’s leg like a Cobra Kai and talked him. They continued to flop around on the floor with a ferocity that belied their friendship. The kid’s dad and I just looked at each other and shrugged. Off in the corner, Sprout played with her dolls, either unaffected or decidedly ignoring the rambunctiousness of brother.

Not Funny

2012-01-10T21:49:00.000-08:00

It's time for my sabbatical to end. I didn't plan on taking such an extended leave of absence from the blog, but after the craziness and chaos of the year I found that once I shut off my brain it was hard to turn it back on. Thus began the longest break I've taken since this thing began. To be honest, it felt good to check out for a while. I've made no secret of the extensive amount of traveling I did in 2011, which all in all amounted to 2½ months combined. It was important to me that I spend the holidays re-connecting with my family. And while my time off was filled with laughter, bonding and a metric ton of presents, the unimaginable happened.

WonderWife™ always says that marriage is a repeat. After 11 years together, she's heard my schtick many times over. Even my A material causes groans and eye rolls from her. (Though let's be honest, my A material is really at best a B.) So am forced to endure her scorn, criticism or just plain apathy at my attempts at humor. But that was okay because there was my son, my clone, who had an appreciation for his corny dad.

Perhaps it was all of the time he spent with me during my time off or maybe it was the highs and lows of the dual adrenaline rushes of Hanukkah and his birthday that led him to this moment, but somewhere during the end of the year the Bean grew weary of my humor.

During a phone conversation I made some joke. It doesn’t really matter what it was, just know that it was of the cheesy variety and squarely aimed at his 6 year old sensibility. But upon hearing it the Bean paused and said, “That’s not funny, Dad.”

And that was it. My son now joins my wife, my friends and my co-workers in the list of people who endure, but don’t enjoy, my bad jokes.

Sigh.

At least there’s still the girl.

The Best of Daddy Geekdom 2011

2011-12-22T20:32:00.000-08:00

The year winds down and the holidays barrel towards us. It's usually a time of reflection...and eggnog. Man do I love eggnog. And WonderWife™ has started making her own... Oh sorry. Got distracted.

2011 was a year with incredible ups and downs. On the positive side, my family is flourishing like WW™'s summer garden. Professionally, it was a year filled with great challenges and personal rewards. I spent more time in airplanes and hotels this year than the last three or four combined. It was a crazy time with a tremendous amount going on, but we all got through it unscathed.

Somehow I carved out time for blogging (though not as much as I would have liked). And as we prepare to put this year to bed, I thought I'd list a handful of my favorite posts from the 12 months that made up 2011.

I spent a lot of time this year trying to feed the Bean's inner geek--not always successfully.

I spoke my mind in a post that garnered some attention.

I ended up living with some unlikely new roommates.

I continued my battle with the worst arts and craft ever.

And I exposed my kids to one of the most whimsical authors of my childhood.

Happy Holidays and Happy New Year!

The Wit and Wisdom of Sprout: Volume 3

2011-12-16T15:06:00.000-08:00

Sprout doesn't talk nearly as much as her brother (who pretty much doesn't stop yapping unless he's sleeping or watching Phineas & Ferb), but that doesn't mean she lacks wisdom. Check out these nuggets of goodness:

Sprout: "You made my sauce touch my chicken."
WonderWife™: " Mommy’s not perfect."
Sprout: "Ashley’s mom is." (8/11)

"I’m washing the car soapilly!" (9/11)

Sprout to WonderWife™: "Why can’t you read me a story?"
WW™: "Because I’m going to lay on the couch and do nothing while Daddy reads you a story."
Sprout (bursting into tears): "I want to do nothing too!" (9/11)

The Bean: "This rice tastes like poo."
Sprout: "Winnie the Pooh or just poo?" (11/11)

"Can you help me find Black Bear? He’s black and he’s a bear, Mom!" (11/11)

“Tonight I’m going to sleep with my eyes closed.” (11/11)

“Is smiling laughing without making any sound?” (12/11)

(Holding hand up to her granny's): "Granny, your hand is as old as Bean is." [5] (12/11)

Past Wisdom
Volume 1
Volume 2

Traveling Again

2011-12-06T21:33:00.000-08:00

Although the trip had been planned for many months, the kids only found out about it a few days ago. Time moves slowly when you’re a kid and weeks can feel endless. Not telling them was an act of mercy.

They found out three days before the trip was to commence and they immediately started to pack their bags, trying to cram as many of their toys and stuffed animals as their small backpacks would carry. They spent the next few hours debating which items would be the most essential on the long flight.

I sat back and gleefully watched them scurry around, flush with the adrenaline rush that comes with being told you’re about to go to Disney World. Inside I was as excited as they were.

The night before the trip I packed my bag, unable to shake the feeling that I was forgetting something, that my routine had been shaken. I had traveled many, many times during the year and the trips had become rote, carrying the same bags to the same airport and arriving at the same destination. But this trip was different. This trip was a vacation—the only one I was taking all year…to a magical place…with the people that I love.

In a few days I would be riding roller coasters with the Bean and boats with Sprout. We would be shaking hands with over-sized rodents and smiling at princesses. We would be having the time of our lives.

New Products: Canadian Edition

2011-12-01T21:41:00.000-08:00

I used to write a lot about new food products. Not so much these days. In fact, the last time I wrote about something with the label “new” (my favorite label, followed closely by “limited edition”) was July 2010, and I got lambasted by my wife. Truthfully, there has seemingly been a lack of exciting new food products out there. Nothing worth writing about, at least. That was until I strolled into a Canadian branch of my beloved convenience store and found a few interesting items.

Let's start with this one:

Reese's Peanut Butter Cups are my undisputed favorite candy of all time. I'm a sucker for peanut butter. So it was with great excitement that I spotted this bar. Notice the "limited edition" at the top? Unfortunately the bar has nothing on the cup, which has the perfect chocolate to peanut butter ratio. The bar is too heavy on chocolate, which was a bit waxy. As they say, close but no...something.

Ketchup is not one of those flavors I seek when craving chips. Outside of fries, onion rings and the occasional burger, ketchup doesn't make many appearances in my food repertoire--let alone spicy ketchup. But far be it for me to resist a package of junk food that says "new" so I bought 'em and ate 'em. Thankfully the ketchup flavor wasn't overpowering, and they weren't that spicy, but I'll take a bbq potato chip over these any day.

The last package didn't say "new", but falls under the category of "if they don't sell it in your country, it's new to you." As with ketchup, pickle isn't a flavor I would associate with snack food. This was the first time I'd seen it in a Dorito. Normally Doritos all kind of taste the same, no mater what flavor. Unlike their cheesy cousins, the pickle Doritos did have the unique tangy taste of a pickle. Initially, this was startling. But after a handful, the flavor stared to grow on me and I nearly finished the bag.

Who knew there was such a snack food bounty hiding within my neighbors to the north? Nice snacks you have there, Canada.

This Close This Thanksgiving

2011-11-24T13:04:00.000-08:00

We trade off spending Thanksgiving with our two sets of parents every other year. Two years ago we were at my Mother-In-Law's for my favorite feast. Perhaps it was the result of one too many glasses of wine, but Mom 2 promised me that the next time she hosted us she would get me a Turducken. (I have been obsessed with Turducken for many years, much to the horror of WonderWife™ and the rest of my family.)

However earlier this year, Mom 2 decided that she wanted to forgo hosting Thanksgiving in order to take us to Disney World.* While this is incredibly generous of my in-laws, I can't help but think that this is a pretty extravagant way to get out of eating Turducken.

*We haven't told the kids yet, so "shhh"!

The Horseshoe and the Frenzied Man

2011-11-21T21:01:00.000-08:00

There were only two of us riding the shuttle bus from the parking lot to the airport. We sat in silence, not really regarding each other until we hit traffic. Predicably, the rain was rendering things unnecessarily chaotic out on the roads.

"Did I hear you say you were going to terminal 5?" the man asked me.

"Nope. 2."

"That's a shame. Was hoping we could take the shortcut."

The greater Los Angeles airport is in the shape of a horseshoe. You go in on one side, pass by each terminal sequentially and exit the other side. Ideally, the left lanes are supposed to flow allowing cars to quickly get to their terminal. This being LA, the ideal is usually never achieved so the horseshoe seems to be congested an awful lot.

There is one remedy for the airport's traffic and that is a cut through connecting terminals 2 and 5. It's a mercifully brilliant feature that has saved the sanity of many a frenzied traveler. The thng is that you only get one shot at it because once you've passed it by, you are commited to traveling the entire horseshoe.

It became obvious what this guy was getting at. He was doing that airport math when you're running late for a flight where you calculate every possible second to in order guess just how completely screwed you are. The man looked slightly pale and leaned forward in his seat, unable to relax in the slightest. He must have been running very late.

My head had been burried in my Blackberry so when I looked up, I couldn't tell where we were in the shoe because of the cars on every side of the shuttle. So I asked the driver if we had passed the shortcut. He said that we had not. I instructed the driver to drop me off. I'd walk the 100 yards to my terminal so he could attempt to get this guy to his plane on time. It would mean the driver would have to very quickly make his way across four crowded lanes, but hwhat sired me that he could do it.

"Good luck," I said to the stranger as I grabbed my stuff and hopped off the bus.

As I watched them drive off, I hoped to myself that he would make it.

Blog Update: Wonder Dads

2011-11-17T13:27:00.000-08:00

Hello Geek-a-teers!

2011 has been a crazy year--equal parts hectic and fulfilling. So much so that my once prolific blog writing has taken a beating. Despite this, I've vowed to keep posting here at least once a week. I thank you for your continued support. It keeps me going.

I also wanted to share with you a cool new partnership between this here blog and a great Dad website. You might notice a shiny new banner on the left side of the screen. This links to the good people over at Wonder Dads.

Wonder Dads is a publisher of Dad books and is also a fast-growing online community. They are committed to breaking down stereotypes associated with Dads by providing a forum for Dads. As you know, this is a mission I can get behind.

Daddy Geek Boy will now become a featured blog on their site, where they will post links to this blog along with links to some other great Dad Blogs. They're cool people and I urge you to click over there and show them some love.

Also don't forget to become a DGB fan on Facebook, for links to everything I write on the interwebs and some occasional fun and goofy content.

Hair Don't

2011-11-16T16:09:00.000-08:00

Sprout’s ponytail was askew, causing her perfectly round head look lopsided. I had attempted yet again to do her hair and yet again the results were less than stellar. Earlier my fingers had been tangled in ropes of her brunette tresses as she struggled to pull away from me so she could chase one of the cats around the house. She won, breaking free with her badly coifed curls bouncing in seemingly every direction.

It took a long time for Sprout’s hair to grow. She was a bald baby for a while before straight, sparse hair overtook her pate at around 2 years old. I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but recently Sprout’s hair has sprung up like some sort of type-A Chia Pet. She now has a mop of long, unruly curly hair that gets in her face…a lot. This means hair clips. So many hair clips. It also means I need to learn a thing or two about hair care.

I don’t know anything about hair. I’ve had short hair practically my whole life (save for that brief period in junior high when I had a mullet*). I don’t even use a hairbrush, let alone clips or barrettes or rubber bands. The only use I have for rubber bands is making giant balls. Even growing up with a sister hasn’t helped. She used to cut the hair off of all of her dolls.

The hair stuff is really just the tipping point, the first symptom in a problem I became saddled with the minute our doctor said, “you’re having a girl.” I’m not good at the girl stuff. The first stark realization of this came while changing the newborn Sprout’s diapers. Since she was my second child, I was a little cocky when it came to the parenting basics. But I quickly learned that girls come with a whole set of new equipment that has a whole set of different rules to navigate. Though I had previously had some experience with the adult version, the baby girl parts proved to be intimidating. I was told one wrong move and infection could set in. It was all too clear that there was a lot I didn’t know.

As a pre-schooler Sprout has proven herself to be a girl’s girl, which means there’s a lot of foreign stuff orbiting my world these days: dolls with tutus, princesses, dress up clothes, outfits that need to be coordinated, glittery stuff, stuff with feathers, foreign sounding ballet moves and a plethora of hair clips that seemingly appear from the ether to bite me in sensitive places whenever I sit on the couch. I don’t want to paint myself as some stereotypical clueless dad, but I'm at a loss with what to do all of it. My son asks me a question about Bugs Bunny or Batman and I’m a walking Wikipedia. My daughter asks me to braid her doll’s hair and I’m completely paralyzed.

I'm trying to learn. I'm working on doing a better job with Sprout's hair. One day I hope to fix her mop without WonderWife™ having to re-do it because every failed attempt at Sprout’s hair is another reminder of what I don’t know.

*Don’t judge, it was the 80’s.

Halloween Lingers

2011-11-10T22:41:00.001-08:00

Our house was all decorated for Halloween. The problem was Halloween was a week ago. Some of the styrofoam gravestones had been upended, but the zombie hands still stood and the skeletons still looked like they were coming up from the ground. I had taken another business trip the next morning after trick-or-treating (of course I took a few pieces of candy with me) and had been gone for a week. My absence and our crazy schedules meant the kids, and our neighbors, were going to get to celebrate until the next weekend came, when I could carefully dismantle the scene. Arriving home two days later, the graveyard was gone—packed up into bins ready to be put back in the shed for another year.

I married a good woman.

Ghost Train

2011-10-31T04:00:00.000-07:00

There were a few hundred people lined up outside the entrance to the train yard. Stupidly, it had never occurred to me that a spooky ghost train ride running for a scant few nights around Halloween in a big city like Los Angeles might attract a crowd. So the Bean and I would just have to wait it out. This was the first sign of trouble.

The Bean’s excitement at riding the train carried us through for a little while. He had spent the majority of the day exclaiming, “Oooh, I can’t wait! I can’t wait!” (I was pretty excited about it too.) The Bean was also curious about being up past his bedtime. He didn’t yet have a solid grasp of time, so as we waited the conversation went like this:

The Bean: If we were at home, what would I be doing right now?

Me: You would be in the bath, complaining about having to wash instead of getting to play.

(Five minutes later…)

The Bean: What would I be doing now?

Me: You would be drying yourself off and running naked around the house, refusing to put on your pajamas.

(Five minutes later…)

The Bean: What would I be doing now?

Me: You’d be halfway through your first game of Mario Kart, bouncing around on the couch like a maniac and whining that you weren’t winning.

Twenty minutes went by and we had barely moved. Since we were now officially past the Bean’s bedtime, our conversation had subsided. He remained excited about the train ride, but was getting a little antsy. I didn’t have anything for the Bean to do but watch the kids who’s smart parents had brought glowsticks and lightsabers. I attempted to keep the kid busy by “timing” how fast he could run to a nearby tree and back. That didn’t last for very long.

It took us an hour before we reached the entrance to the train yard. The Bean was growing tired, but was steadfast in his wanting to ride the train. Then I noticed the second sign of trouble: what was usually a small straight line from the ticket booth to the train was now an unruly queue made up of a couple hundred people that snaked back and forth four times. Though he was deflated and yawning consistently, the Bean insisted that we stay. At least inside the yard there were Halloween decorations to look at.

We slowly moved our way past one of the displays that turned out to be the third sign of trouble: a mannequin bathed in a black light with a woman’s face projected on to it hung on a wall, creating a ghostly visage. It was a cheaper version of the effect used to bring Madam Leola to life in the Haunted Mansion. And even though the Bean had been in the Haunted Mansion a plethora of times with absolutely no problem, this freaked his head off. I tried to diffuse the situation by showing him the projector and telling him how the trick was done but the Bean was still afraid. At this point, we had been waiting for nearly an hour and a half.

As we zigged and zagged through the line, the Bean alternately complained about being scared and being tired. I asked him if he wanted to go and he gave a sharp, firm no. He was going to ride that train. Then he spied a picture that was projected onto a makeshift frame hung above the train platform. It was an old-timey person that slowly transformed into a zombie—another trick he’d seen at Disneyland that wigged him out here. He slid behind me and covered his eyes.

I became convinced that the ghost train was going to break my son. I mean here was a kid who claimed to have gotten spooked by a scene from Dinosaur Train. I gave the Bean every out imaginable. Yet the kid was determined to let anything keep him from riding the train that night. I wondered how long it would take me to save up for his therapy bills.

We had been waiting for two hours by the time we reached the front of the line. The Bean was practically asleep on his feet suddenly became excited boarding the train. I, on the other had, was incredibly nervous.

Thankfully the ride was fairly mild, favoring goofy scares over true horror. And even though there were some images a little more severe than not-Madame Leola, the Bean wasn’t bothered by any of it and we both had a spooky good time. Even though it was two hours past the Bean’s bedtime, the ride acted like a caffeine shot and he was bouncing all over the place after we arrived home, unable to contain his excitement as he told his mom of his adventure on the Ghost Train.

Molasses

2011-10-27T13:58:00.000-07:00

The speed at which Sprout headed toward the toilet stood in direct opposition to the urgency in her voice when she said she needed to use the potty. Her movements were painfully lethargic.

“I’m moving in slooooow motion,” Sprout said to me. There was a mischievous smile directly underneath the brunette curls of hair that has spilled down over her eyes. She didn’t care that we were in a hurry.

The expression “like molasses on a cold day” often pops into my mind when it comes to my daughter. No matter what Sprout is doing, she does it with painstaking methodical deliberation. Even when there is urgency to her action, like the potty or needed to spit toothpaste into the sink, she is at a snail’s pace. This flies in the face of the ultra-fast, always running late, trying to herd cats pace of day-to-day life in our house.

Naturally, this drives me crazy. Sprout knows this drives me crazy, which is why she is sometimes slow on purpose. When an already slow child decides to be even slower, the result can be excruciating. Moving like a glacier she will carefully pull her shirt over her head, all the while smiling at me. “I’m slooooow,” she says in a voice that sounds like a cartoon turtle.

There are times when I am flummoxed that this child can be three years-old. She seems way too smart and way too manipulative. On those mornings when both kids have school and WonderWife™ is feeding them breakfast and preparing lunches and I’m working on getting them ready for the day and Sprout is operating at the speed of a dial up computer trying to download a movie, I have to fight back the urge to throttle. I try reasoning instead. In some cases, I’m not above begging. But it’s no use, she’s slow even when she’s not doing it on purpose.

Meanwhile, the Bean buzzes around like a caffeinated hummingbird.

These are my mornings. These are my children. This is my life.

Musings At Bedtime

2011-10-18T21:05:00.000-07:00

Amongst the students enrolled in Sprout’s pre-school class, there is a bear. Peyton is a fluffy, light brown stuffed animal. His neck is adorned with a big red bow. Like a slacker who spends his first year out of college surfing the couches of his friends, Peyton goes home with a new student every few days. The kid is meant to care of the bear and report all of Peyton’s adventures back to the class upon his return. This weekend was Sprout’s turn.

Sprout took her role as Peyton’s caregiver very seriously. With the exception of her bath, Sprout kept Peyton by her side for the entire evening—even bringing his special blanket into bed with her so Peyton wouldn’t get cold.

Not so deep inside that rambunctious, precocious, stubborn little girl of mine is a very sweet, nurturing person.

___________________________________

Something unexpected happened while tucking the Bean into bed for the past two nights. The routine started out the familiar way, with stories (currently the 7th reading of Diary of a Wimpy Kid). I got up to read and turn off the lights. The Bean didn’t ask for it (it being me singing Mary Had a Little Lamb while spraying “scary spray” in each corner of the room. I decided to make a test of it and didn’t mention it. In the past when I’d forgotten to sing, the Bean would come out of his room a few minutes later and let me know my error. Time passed and he didn’t come out. The next night, same thing: I didn’t sing. He didn’t ask.

It could very well be that my boy is growing up.

The Wit and Wisdom of the Bean: Volume 7

2011-10-10T05:00:00.000-07:00

Just because the Bean is getting older doesn't mean he's going to stop dropping knowledge on us like Zeus drops lightening...

After getting very angry: "[At my birthday party] I’m going to give you a goody bag with boring stuff. It’s going to have rice. It’s going to have a knife. A pie in the face. A pie in the ear and muddy water that will go on your wiener. Can I say wiener?" (4/11)

"How big is ‘yea’ big anyway?" (4/11)

"I have a penis and my penis wiggles." (4/11)

Me: "How many hours in a day?"
The Bean: "What season are we talking about?" (6/11)

"You’re not winning you know, you’re just in first place." (7/11)

"This hole where my tooth used to be is like a door into my mouth." (7/11)

"If you have an anchor tattoo, that means you’re really strong." (8/11)

Upon getting a bag of Skittles: "I got some S&M’s!!" (9/11)

Past Wisdom:
Volume 1
Volume 2
Volume 3
Volume 4
Volume 5
Volume 6
Holiday Edition
Valentine's Day Edition

Magic Shel

2011-10-04T20:03:00.001-07:00

Having grown tired of reading The Giant Jam Sandwich to my daughter every night for the past two weeks, I went foraging for some new books. Digging through the box in the back of a closet, I stumbled upon Where the Sidewalk Ends and stashed it on the bookshelf.

The book was sitting on Sprout’s bed when she climbed in. She looked at it quizzically and then at me, silently asking if this was my doing. I told her I was going to read some poems from the book for one of her stories. She happily obliged and snuggled next to me as I began to read. She adored the book and happily drifted off to sleep moments later. I said goodnight, tucked the book under my arm and closed her door.

The book was sitting on the Bean’s bed when he climbed in. He looked at it quizzically and then at me.

“What’s this?” the Bean asked in a tone of voice that sounded almost insulted.

I told him I wanted to read some poems from the book for one of his stories. The Bean’s eyes got moist (he’s prone to crying fits when he’s tired). I told him that he would still get to read two stories of his choosing, but I wanted to read this one as a bonus book. That pacified the Bean and his eyes dried up.

I lured the Bean into the book by first reading him “Captain Hook” (Captain Hook must remember/Not to scratch his toes./Captain Hook must watch out/And never pick his nose.) He giggled. We read some more. And some more. He was enraptured.

Finally, I closed the book and prepared to tuck him in.

“Can you? Can you read that last one again?”

“The one about the outlaws and pirates and watersnakes and cannibals and eagles?”

“Yeah,” he said wide-eyed. “Please!”

I read the poem again. After I tucked in the Bean, I could not take the book with me because he refused to go to sleep until he flipped through the whole thing himself.

Feeling Sick

2011-09-26T22:52:00.000-07:00

My friend looked shell shocked after my daughter threw up on his floor. The vomiting took place all over his nicely polished hard wood in a high traffic area during his wife’s birthday party. Sprout had been gorging herself at the buffet and before we knew it WonderWife™ was cupping her hands in front of the girl screaming for somebody to get her a bowl…quick! (Not realizing the severity of the impending situation, my friend politely passed her a small paper plate.)

It wasn’t digest or nausea that left my buddy looking green after the incident, though I’m sure he was feeling both. My childless friend had just witnessed parenting at its worst. Oh yeah, my friend and his wife were expecting. I knew all too well the look in his eyes. Panic was slowly burrowing into his brain bringing with it the horrifying realization of what he was getting himself in to.

When WonderWife™ was pregnant with the Bean, we visited one of her oldest friends and her toddler. They lived in a grown up house like the kind I grew up in, which was entirely unfamiliar to me who was still felt that living in an apartment in the city was what truly made me an adult. The house was filled with unfamiliar and intimidating items like baby gates, high chairs and lots and lots of toys that were strewn about every room. Her boy, like every boy his age, was a whirling tornado of energy that could not be stopped. I was something new in his world, something to be scaled. So while WW™ and her friend caught up, I looked after the kid, who without hesitation proceeded to climb all over me. I chased him when he ran too close to the stairs. I stopped him when he tried to grab some contraband. After mere minutes I was exhausted. This is what parenting was like? On the ride home, I wore the same expression as my friend.

It didn’t help that in the aftermath of Sprout’s spouting that WonderWife™ and I regaled my friend with more kid vomit stories. It was our own misguided attempt to make him feel better by telling him that it gets worse. It’s amazing how insensitive us experienced parents can be around the freaked out newbs. We wear our parenting horror stories like badges of honor, and even though we aren’t too far removed from our pre-childhood days, where even the smallest parent task seemed impossible, we unfairly take ghoulish satisfaction in relaying these events to the uninitiated.

On the way home, WonderWife™ and I felt bad and hoped that we didn’t break our friend. Nervous or not, in a few months he was going to be dealing with his own little vomit machine. And even if after we left if he was convinced that he might have made a terrible mistake, those of us who are firmly entrenched in this thing called parenting know that he didn’t. Being a parent is an amazing thing. But it’s hard to see from that vantage point when you’ve just watched some kid barf on your floor.

Nails, Part 2

2011-09-21T22:17:00.000-07:00

The Bean came home from school and drew a picture of a face with a big red frown. When asked about it he said that he was sad. The reason was painfully clear. The Bean had been teased at school about his polished nails.

Last fall Sprout expressed a desire to paint her nails, which prompted the Bean to want to paint his as well. Normally it was Sprout who copied every mover her big brother made, but this time little Sprout found herself the leader. Soon my kids were decked out with vibrant matching nails. The Bean really liked the look and his fingers have been periodically adorned with paint ever since.

WonderWife™ and I have always supported the Bean's decision to wear nail polish. We strive to be the kind of parents that let our kids, even if that means letting out of the house in mismatched shoes, covering their torsos in temporary tattoos or painting their nails bright pink. In fact, there have been times when I've found myself having to defend his choice.

And while the Bean has become sensitive about showing certain sides of himself in public, for instance he doesn't like to let others see him cry, he has remained blissfully carefree about his finger nails. In the few times he's come under scrutiny, the Bean has handled himself with integrity. He hasn't cared about social conventions or gender roles. I've been immensely proud of him for this.

The Bean's world became a different place upon entering kindergarten. School used to be a safe, nurturing environment where his days were spent playing. Now school has become more serious as the emphasis is on learning and homework. Kindergartners suddenly seem older and savvier about the world in unexpected ways.

It was the Bean's second week in kindergarten and he seemed to be doing well. He had made a few friends and there was even a girl whom he had taken a special liking to. But I was secretly worried the morning I walked him to school, his sparkly nail covered hand clasped in mine. It would've been impossible for his classmates not to notice. It would have been improbable for someone not to say something.

Sure enough, as the Bean tells it he had been teased by "everybody". He did stand up for himself bit that wasn't enough and he went to his teacher. By the end of the day, he was feeling pretty awful. He came home and drew the picture, which resulted in a good dose of nurturing from his mom. This made him feel better.

My heart broke as WonderWife™ told me this story. As I began to contemplate what to do next, she told me she asked the Bean what he wanted to do about his nail polish. After thinking it over for a minute, he decided that he wanted to keep it on. Once again, he has made me very proud.

I am glad that in this case the opinions of others hasn't deterred my son from being who he is, but I know the road of independence will not get easier as he gets older. All I can do is stand by him and encourage him whether his finger nails are blue or he wears rain boots on a sunny summer day and hope that he will have a thick enough skin to endure those that will not.

Aaaarrrgh, A Re-post!

2011-09-19T09:53:00.000-07:00

In honor of Talk Like a Pirate Day, here's a re-post from 2009 (and one of my favorites):

September 19th is International Talk Like a Pirate Day and we're celebratin' early. Arrggh! So now I present ta yah, a rare treat...audio. Here is tha Bean:

Forever Disgusting

2011-09-11T09:09:00.000-07:00

It's that time once again--time for you to be horrified (and me somewhat ashamed) as I post the annual list of everything I ate at the LA County Fair this year.

A Crazy Chocolate Candy Bar
2 Beers
Deep Fried Kool Aid
Fresh Cut Potato Chips with Cheese Sauce
Crispy Fries
Krispy Kreme Chicken Sandwich
Fried Ribs
Roasted Peanuts
Pressure Fried Chicken
Deep Fried Oreo
Curly Fries (in brick form)
Garlic Parmesan Fry Bread
Peach Licorice
Pulled Pork Sammich
Ear of Roasted Corn
Sausage Sammich
Deep Fried Klondike Bar
Maple Bacon Donut
Kettle Corn
Pepto

Here are links to the 2007, 2008, 2009 and 2010 lists.

It's Real!

2011-09-08T12:58:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I've written about food on this here blog. While there have been a few new products out there which have gotten my attention, I haven't been compelled to discuss them there. I had heard a rumor about this product, but today it was confirmed so I am compelled to share.

This is soon to be my wife's favorite ice cream:

There are very few things in life that will make WonderWife™ laugh with glee like the infamous "Schweddy Balls" sketch on SNL. It's the perfect storm of juvenile and obscene that delights her to no end. I'm thoroughly tickled with how much she loves it. WonderWife™ and I don't always see eye to eye on pop culture and our senses of humor can be vastly different. So it's a big deal when something strikes both of our funny bones. "Schweddy Balls" does just that.

You can be sure that in the near future we will be buying ourselves a pint or two of Schweddy Balls. I'll be sure to let you know when we do. Mmm. I can't wait to see how those Schweddy Balls taste.

Be sure to check out EW's full story, complete with the video of the sketch.

Overwhelmed By Olfactory Hues

2011-09-06T17:47:00.001-07:00

The first thing I noticed upon entering the elementary school was the smell. It had been many years since I crossed the threshold of a school, but the aroma was unmistakable. The halls were filled with the musty smell of old books and tempera paint. It was an odor that was both familiar and horrifying.

I was making my first visit to what was going to be the Bean’s new school in order to drop off some enrollment forms. Stepping through the door of the administrative office, the busy-looking woman told me to have a seat and I immediately did as I was told. The stern tone in her voice combined with the ever-present school smell had triggered an involuntary reaction in me. I squirmed in the uncomfortable wooden chair listening to the ticking of the clock. I was on edge, no longer did I feel like a parent of a future student, I felt like I had gotten in trouble and was waiting for the principle to emerge from his office to have a chat with me about my behavior.

I began to normalize once I was outside in the fresh air, wondering if I was going to feel that way every time I went into the school. If so, it was going to be a long year.

The Show

2011-09-01T23:49:00.000-07:00

As I left for work, the kids were at the end of the driveway digging through their bin of play clothes.

“We’re getting ready for the dress-up show,” the Bean told me. I didn’t think much of it, except that the WonderWife™ was going to have at least 10 minutes of peace that morning.

In the afternoon I called WonderWife™ who immediately directed me to her Facebook page. There she had posted a picture of a flyer the Bean had drawn. In that shaky, block handwriting that all kindergartners possess, he had written his name, our address and 6p. Sho.

“He’s been planning his dress-up show all afternoon,” WW™ told me.

“He’s actually been planning it since this morning,” I replied.

“He’s made 7 flyers and we’ve given them out to our friends in the neighborhood,” WW™ continued. “He’s going to sell cookies and lemonade.”

I was full-on chuckling. “What is he going to do? Is anyone coming?”

“I have no idea but our neighbors said they were coming over.”

I left work early so I could be in the audience. There was no way I was going to miss this.

The Bean was standing in the lawn as I pulled up to the house, dressed in his Robin costume. Sprout was decked out in a firefighters outfit. A blanket had been placed on the lawn; in front of it was the kids play drum set and their bin of clothes. At the front of the lawn sat a small table where a jug of pink lemonade and a plate of what were obviously my wife’s homemade cookies rested.

Our neighbors soon arrived. The audience consisted of: two sweet natured 15 year-old boys who have known my kids all of their lives, their younger sister, her friend, their mom and our elderly next-door neighbor. Everyone took a seat on the blanket. I stood behind them, video camera at the ready. The show was about to begin.

The Bean stood tall in front of the audience…and said nothing. He stood there, looking at us. A small flush began to form on his cheeks. Not quite knowing how to proceed, the Bean pulled at his sister’s sleeve. Sprout was sitting on the grass with her back to us. Never turning around, she handed the Bean his paper guitar and took out her drumsticks. For a moment it looked as if they were going to start singing. But instead, Sprout beat on her drum a few times while the Bean stood there.

Next, the Bean put his face really close to Sprout’s. They stared at each other for a moment.

“You’re interrupting me!” he shouted to her.

“You’re interrupting me!” she shouted back to him.

“You’re interrupting me!” he replied.

This went on for a few minutes before somebody in the crowd wisely asked if it was perhaps time for intermission. The Bean collected 25 cents for every cup of lemonade and every cookie that was handed out.

A big musical number was promised in the second half of the show. But instead the Bean opted to do three somersaults and then help his sister do three things that kind of looked like somersaults. We applauded anyway and both he and Sprout took a bow.

We thanked the audience profusely and they soon dispersed. When all was said and done, the Bean had earned $6. He generously split it with his sister.

I have no idea where he got the idea to do the show. I can’t help but think that it was all a clever ploy to try to earn more money for the Batman submarine he’s been wanting. While the Bean may not have much stage presence, I was genuinely impressed by the thought and effort that went into his first show. I am grateful that I was there to see it.

The Diaper Genie

2011-08-29T21:46:00.000-07:00

There is an empty spot in the corner of the house where the Diaper Genie used to be. Walking past this now vacant spot never fails to evoke a small cheer from me. I hated that freaking Diaper Genie.

The Genie may have been designed for ease, but it quickly became a dirty, stinky symbol of one of the worst parts of early parenting. There isn’t a single person alive who likes changing diapers, mother or father. But unlike my own father, who had the great fortune of being a parent in the 70’s where dads were held to a different social standard and therefore has never changed a diaper in his life, my wife and I were equal partners in this parenting thing. Meaning, we both had to deal with a lot of shit.

In addition to diaper changes, it was my job to replace the bag inside the Genie. Somehow, like my kids, it seemed in constant need of changing. I couldn’t take my diaper-fueled aggression out on my children, so I channeled it towards the Genie. Over the years I grew to loathe it. Yet there it sat in the corner of my house, mocking me.

I wanted to destroy it, Office Space style. Or have Andrew W.K. blow it up in some spectacular fashion. But I didn’t have access to explosives and I thought it might have freaked out the kids to see their daddy bashing it in the backyard with a baseball bat. I was close to being rid of the damn thing too. But Sprout, like in every other phase in her life, was steadfast in her stubbornness and refused to poop on the potty.

The day finally arrived not with a bang, but with the polite urging of my wife to finally be rid of it. Even though we had agreed that the Genie’s services were no longer required, there it sat. My wife grew tired of waiting for me to devise a clever plan to demolish the thing and hinted that it might disappear on it’s own. But this was my funeral to give. So I opted for a simple and unceremonial burial in the trash bin. On trash day, I gleefully wheeled it out to the curb and waited for the green truck to arrive.

Usually the kids run to the window to gaze upon the garbage truck as it collects our refuse, like a couple of cats staring down a squirrel on the tree in the yard. However, that day when the truck came to collect I stood along side them, watching and happily waving goodbye to the Genie forever.

Shattering Stereotypes

2011-08-23T08:08:00.000-07:00

As my hair stylist draped the smock over me she asked, “So what are we doing today?”

“Cut it short,” I said. “Super short.”

“Really?” She replied. “Is WonderWife™ going to be okay with that?”

I stared at her incredulously. “She doesn’t run her hair choices by me before she gets a hair cut.”

I was truly shocked at the question. This is a woman who’s been cutting my hear for nearly 12 years. I see her more often than some of my friends. She also cuts WW™’s hair. She’s known me before I met my wife. She knows us as a couple. She knows about our relationship. Yet for some reason, she has the misguided perception that I need to get permission on my choice of hair style.

The next morning the kids were getting dressed. Sprout decided on a flower print top with a paisley pattern skirt. Now I’m no fashionista, but even I knew that this was a horrible, garish combo. Yet WonderWife™ and I encourage our kids to dress how they like, even if the outfits are disastrous.

I had plans to take the kids to the aquarium that day. “You know this is going to reflect on me,” I said to WW™.

“What? No it won’t.”

“I’ll be out in the world with two kids by myself. Everyone who sees Sprout’s outfit is going to think that I dressed her.”

“Oh,” said WonderWife™. “Yeah I guess you’re right.”

It’s amazing in this time of dad’s being more involved than ever that the notion of the hen-pecked husband or clueless father still runs rampant today. It’s a stereotype that I work hard to shatter.

So where does this come from? As much as I hate to bag on my beloved television, a lot of this primitive thinking is spoon fed from the magic box. Modern Family is a great show, but Phil Dumphy is an idiot—the prototypical clueless dad who leans on his wife for everything. Commercials are even worse. How about the Yoplait ad where the woman is on the phone talking to her friend about eating Boston Cream Pies while the husband stares into the fridge, directly past the many yogurt containers clearly marked Boston Cream Pie that are stacked up on the shelf at his eye level while attempting to look for the sweets his wife is describing?

This kind of dad discrimination has to stop. Women, look around you. Us guys are not as clueless and inadequate as we’re made out to be. I do not need to ask my wife’s permission to hang out with friends, see a movie, buy clothes or get my hair cut. When I make plans I will often confer with my wife to make sure I haven’t forgotten some errant birthday party. But that is consideration, not permission.

It’s true that WonderWife™ runs the household. It’s true that I may, at times, ask here where the toilet paper is when I know exactly where we keep it. But that’s laziness, not ineptitude. When it comes to the things that matter in our lives, I’m an equal partner. I’m really good at being a husband and father. I am not clueless and I am not a stereotype.

And besides, my wife really likes my hair super short.

What's In A Name?

2011-08-17T23:17:00.000-07:00

I was asking the Bean about his new friends at camp and he brought up a girl. There was a certain twinkle in his eye that I had never before seen when he talked about her. He liked her voice. It was funny in a good way, he said.

“So what’s her name?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

He had only been going to camp for about a week. So the next morning I issued him a challenge.

“Today, buddy boy, your goal is to find out that girl’s name,” I instructed.

“Okay, Daddy!”

That day he didn’t get the girl’s name. In fact, the whole next week he didn’t get the girl’s name. He still referred to her as the girl with the funny voice.

“But what do you call her? If her back was turned to you and you wanted to get her attention, what would you say?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Would you pull her hair or poke her in the back?”

“Daddy, I would never do such mean things to her!”

I pretty much dropped it after that.

__________________________________

As I came home from work WonderWife™ told me, “You’ll never guess what happened at camp today. You have to talk to the Bean.”

The Bean had excitedly wandered over, like a puppy who wants to play.

“So…?” I said to him.

“I did it,” he said. “I asked her, ‘What’s your name?’”

“…and?”

“And she said, ‘Oh, you know!’ so I said, ‘I don’t’ and she said, ‘Guess.’ I told her I didn’t know so I gave up.”

He waited a beat and said, “So it’s her fault!”

_______________________________________

Today was the last day of camp. The Bean raced over to me as soon as I walked through the door.

“I know it! I know it!” he screamed.

“Well…what is it?”

“Um…” He stood on his toes to whisper into WonderWife’s™ ear.

“You already forgot it?” I said.

After a beat it came to him. “It’s Eliza!” He said beaming proudly.

Camping

2011-08-16T00:24:00.000-07:00

I think it might have been an episode of Curious George that inspired the Bean to talk about camping. Not just talk about it, but ask to go. It wasn’t long before “camping” was added to the ever-growing list of things to do this summer.

Though I am by no means an avid camper, I love it. This, by the way, goes against my upbringing. I was raised by people who have never slept anywhere that didn’t have a mattress a roof and most likely room service. My parents are mystified by how I grew up to love camping (in the same way they are mystified by how I grew up to be a movie nerd). But why not love camping? It’s about slowing down, about teamwork and hanging out with friends, telling stories and drinking beer. Plus there’s the ever-present wood burning smell, which is my favorite aroma in the entire world.

I was extremely excited to take my boy camping. But would he like it?

In a cunningly strategic move I enlisted one of my best friends, who has two boys similar in age to the Bean, to journey with me on this expedition. Our boys get along really well, and as a bonus I’d get some good bonding time with my buddy once the kids went to sleep. Assuming the kids went to sleep.

We arrived at the campsite with a car packed to the gills and three very excited, very loud little boys. The grounds amounted to a dirt field in the middle of nowhere. There was a total of two trees on the campgrounds, and thankfully one of them was on our site. Despite the 100 degree temperature, we had shade and a strong breeze that made pitching the tents challenging, but prevented us all from keeling over before the sun went down.

When evening approached, my buddy and I showed the boys how to build a campfire. My lighter was useless in the wind. Thankfully our neighbor, who was clearly an expert camper based on his gear and palatial tent, had a blowtorch. All of us, young and old, ooh and aah’d over the awesome toy.

The sun went down. Sticks were procured and hot dogs were cooked on said sticks. The boys learned the insane fun of throwing things into the fire to watch them burn. I taught the Bean how to roast a marshmallow. This prompted a lengthy discussion turned debate about the preferred method of roasting the confection. I like when they catch fire, rendering them crusty on the outside and molten on the inside. The Bean came to favor a more refined approach, where the outside was gently toasted to a light brown. That may be one of the only things we differ on.

Ghost stories were told. I showed the boys how to hold their flashlights under their chins when telling their tales for maximum creepy effect. Surprisingly, for a kid who can be afraid of the most unexpected things, the Bean’s stories were the most elaborate of the kids.

At one point I sat by the fire as the boys were running around. The Bean stopped playing and pulled his chair next to mine. Together we sat and talked as the orange flames licked the wood in front of us.

The sky was clear and the full moon hung so brightly overhead that we didn’t need our lanterns. Way past their bedtimes, the boys finally settled into their tent. After much talking and giggling, exhaustion overtook them and they fell silent. Asleep. My buddy and I toasted a few beers while the fire consumed the rest of the woodpile. We threw things into the fire and watched them burn.

Sometime during the night, the Bean migrated from his tent to mine and my buddy moved into the tent with his boys. The Bean was wide-awake when daylight broke. His stare shook me awake. The rest of the grounds were silent. I think we might have been the first ones awake in the whole place. Together, my boy and I watched the sun rise.

“Let’s go for a hike,” he said.

The day before I had been unable to convince him to hike with me. Now after I had spent the past 24 hours loading gear, pitching tents and chasing after three young boys who were hopped up on marshmallows and bug juice he wanted to go?

Barely conscious I groaned. “Aw, it’s too early for hiking, buddy,” said the man who was decidedly not a morning person.

“How about breakfast?” he eagerly asked.

That I could do. Thinking about the slab of bacon in the cooler, I sat up put on my sweatshirt and exited the tent.

“Are we going to put a pancake on a stick and cook it over the fire?” The Bean asked.

“Interesting idea. We’ll have to try it next time. You do want to go camping again, right?”

“Oh yeah, Dad. This was the best time ever!”

The Reason Why There Is A Piece Of Glitter On My Face

2011-08-08T04:30:00.000-07:00

WonderWife™ was out running an errand. The kids were finally down for their rest time. At long last quiet had descended upon the house. I was mere moments into seizing the first opportunity I had all day to gorge myself at the trough of Facebook and Twitter when a scream rang out from the Bean’s room.

I burst through the Bean’s bedroom door like Whatshisface Baldwin in Backdraft, to find him sitting on his bed, wet and surrounded by shards of glass. The Bean had thought that vigorously shaking a snow globe next to a wall was a good idea and naturally, it broke. I inspected him for cuts and seeing that there were none proceeded to the calm-the-kid-down stage so I could inspect the damage. My worst fears had been realized. The bed had been compromised. The shimmering contents that had once been held captive safely inside the glass orb had now been released into the world, like spirits from the Arc. Glitter was everywhere--all over the Bean's bed, cascading down the wall and plastered against half of the Bean's face and hair.

I cannot stand glitter. If glitter were a food, it would be cilantro. Yet my parental duties to clean up the glass and glitter fiasco outweighed my loathing of the stuff. So I did what needed to be done. I rolled up my sleeves and got to work making the Bean's bed once again sleep-able, knowing that this was to be far from the last time that I would be seeing the evil shimmery bastards.

The Wit and Wisdom of Sprout: Volume 2

2011-07-25T22:06:00.000-07:00

There's more to my little girl than her steadfast refusal to allow me to read to her at night. She actually has a lot of wisdom. Here's some of it:

"Dad, I can speak cat!" (4/11)

WonderWife™: "What's wrong?"
Sprout: "My bone hurts."
WW™: "Which one?"
Sprout: "The left one." (4/11)

Me: (putting Sprout down): "Go, run be free."
Sprout: "No, I’m going to be four." (5/11)

Me: "How do you fit all of that food in you?"
Sprout: "I have five pipes!" (5/11)

"I have bare feet because bears don't wear anything on their feet." (5/11)

"Did you just fart? Because farts are funny." (5/11)

"Grownups say a lot of things." (6/11)

Previous Sprout Wisdom:
Volume 1

Hot N Cold

2011-07-18T23:19:00.000-07:00

It had been quite a long time since I spent QT with Sprout, so I took her out for a much needed daddy/daughter day. She accompanied me to the park, where I pushed her on the swings for 20 minutes straight. Sprout giggled uncontrollably when I performed the Super Push, one of those overly-exaggerated moves that only a parent of a young child could get away with and not look completely foolish. It was a crowd-pleaser that I pioneered years before when her brother rode the same swing set. As I pushed Sprout, her face glowed and her taut brown curls bobbed in the breeze.

Afterward I took Sprout out for a sushi dinner. Yes, my girl loves sushi. So I splurged and drove us to one of the best spots in the city. We bellied up to the bar and feasted on heaps of expertly prepared salmon and yellowtail. I exposed her to the joy that is the blue crab roll. She even dared to try spicy tuna. The sushi chef was impressed with this little girl savoring his creations and began to flirt with her by making faces as he skillfully prepared our meal. I was impressed with her too.

“I love you, Daddy!” she exclaimed throughout the meal. “I love daddy/daughter day!”

We topped off the feast with a big bowl of ice cream. We were both in heaven, my little foodie and me.

That night, as I was giving the kids a bath, Sprout said to me, “I want Mom to read me a story.” Later I went to give her a hug before bed, but she turned her back to me. She refused to give me a kiss or talk to me. Sprout went off to sleep without so much as a glance in my direction.

And such is life with my daughter.

Jealousy

2011-07-11T20:22:00.000-07:00

I know that summer is a stressful time for parents. Robbed of the structure of school, the long, hot summer days can descend into lethargy and crankiness. To combat this, WonderWife™ plotted out her summer with more strategy and cunning than everybody I’ve played in Risk. She's jam packed her days with outings and playdates in order to keep the kids, and to keep herself, from losing their minds.

Stuff like:

Zoos
Ice cream cones
Swimming
Roller Coasters
Cotton Candy
Wooter Ice
Sprinkles
Ferris Wheels
Spinny Rides
Demolition Derby

Part of this means leaving me to my own devices while they go play on the other coast. Because summer is a busy season for me too--my work hours ramp up and travel becomes more extensive.

I’m a little jealous of their exploits--a little left out. But I’m glad they’re all having a good time. Me? I’m just happy that there’s Netflix streaming and that there was a wine sale this weekend.

Fate

2011-07-04T07:47:00.000-07:00

So many things could have gone differently...

My date might not have canceled at the last minute.

My friend might have not invited her friend.

The friend could have had other plans.

I might have convinced my buddy not to go back and get a bucket of fried chicken.

I might have caught the ball in the outfield.

I might not have sat next to her in between innings.

But…

The woman that I had gone out on two dates with decided at the last minute that attending a picnic/kick-ball game wasn’t her thing. I knew at that moment it was never going to work with her.

In an effort to expand our social circle, my friend decided to ask her friend, a recent arrival to LA, to come to the game.

The friend didn’t yet have anything to do for the 4th of July.

Although we were running late to the picnic I was hosting, my buddy, who was driving, decided not to listen to me so we went back to get a bucket of fried chicken.

The new friend was unsure about playing kickball. Our first interaction was me telling her not to worry because we’re all terrible at sports. Moments later, I would prove this to be true by dropping an easy fly ball.

I found her sitting on the grass during a quiet moment between innings and we began to talk. We spent the rest of the afternoon together. Before she left, I gave her some fried chicken. She gave her friend permission to give me her number...in case I asked for it.

Minutes after she left, I asked for the number.

I called the next day. Two days later was our first official date. We've been together ever since.

So many things could have kept me from meeting WonderWife™ 10 years ago today.

But they didn’t.

She Turns Three

2011-07-02T22:40:00.000-07:00

Sprout turned 3 today. A whole lot happened. It's best summed up by WonderWife™. Here's what she wrote about it:

I started my blog when our family of three turned into a family of four and life became pretty insane. Spout was the one who completed our family; she was born three years ago today - 7:02am on 7/2. I accused the nurses of fudging her time of birth, but apparently they take these things very seriously and assured me that 7:02am was in fact Spout's legitimate time of birth. I spent last night re-reading my birth story and getting nostalgic.

For her second birthday, she got a shirt with a "2" on it and she's been wearing that thing for a whole year. It's really small on her now, so I made her a new one for her 3rd birthday, complete with "sparkles" around the neck. She loves it.

Before she went to bed last night, we asked Sprout what kind of cake she wanted. In typical fashion, she was very specific and asked for cake that had "a little bit of pink on it, with chocolate frosting and sprinkles that are purple." So that's what I made for her.

We also asked her what she'd like for her birthday and I swear to you that when she answered "fabric to sew with" I almost wept. Spout is now the very proud owner of a Singer Pixie Plus and five FQs from my LQS. Happy birthday little girl.

Sprout told me that she wanted to make a quilt, but when I told her that we could make a skirt that she could wear today, she was sold. She picked out the fabric she wanted and I plugged in her new machine. It's basic but smart - there is a foot pedal, but for people with little legs that can't yet reach the floor, there is a button that will engage the needle, so Sprout can make the machine sew all by herself.

I taught her how to raise and lower the presser foot, turn on the sewing action, and cut threads. Together we helped guide the fabric through the machine. And in less than an hour, Sprout was wearing the very first piece of clothing she ever sewed. On her third birthday.

We zig-zaged the raw seams, but 3 year olds aren't known for their patience, so the fabric isn't prewashed. We'll see how it holds up once it's washed. Both the length and the stitching are uneven, but it fits and she loves it. And so do I.

I am such a proud mama. I can't wait to sew more with her - I wonder what she'll want to make next. Happy birthday, my sweet little girl.

This Is Your Wallet on Cars

2011-06-24T17:41:00.000-07:00

Cars 2 opened today. The reviews have been terrible. The Bean is really excited to see it.

I've been thinking about it a lot.

Click over to the Reeling Blog on Offsprung to see what I have to say about all of it.

Our Bar

2011-06-23T14:44:00.000-07:00

I always wanted to be a regular somewhere. Growing up there were a few restaurants where my parents had befriended the owners and we would get special treatment, like the best table in the house or a free appetizer that was off the menu. But I chose to move to Los Angeles, where connections like that are forged out of celebrity or because of the bank account of one. Compounding that challenge is the fact that by nature I struggle to be outgoing. I can be socially awkward when it comes to new people.

Thankfully I was not alone in moving to the City of Angels. A collection of like-minded friends that I amassed at college also migrated to the city. Not the social butterflies either, the guys and I spent the majority of our first few post-college years hanging out in their crappy apartment (I use this term lovingly), drinking and playing video games. But the few times when we did wander out, thankfully there was a dive bar across the street.

15 years later we’re still drinking there.

Like the best dives, the bar itself isn’t memorable. It’s dark and although smoking has long since been banned in public places, the place still reeks a little bit of smoke. The décor hasn’t changed much since the 70’s. Sure modern touches like a flatscreen TV in the corner and an mp3 jukebox now inhabit the space, but the wood panel walls and the out dated pleather chairs remain the same. There’s a pool table in the back shoved in a room that’s too small for it, requiring the cues to be cut in half in order to play. There’s the requisite dart-board and Golden Tee golf game located next to the popcorn machine. The bar doesn’t try to be anything other than what it is—a very comfortable, lived in dive.

Its proprietors are a short, frizzy-haired waitress with a thick Polish accent named Nina, and the surliest bartender in the history of the service industry. He never smiles and spends his time staring at the patrons with a thinly-veiled look of contempt. They are a couple. At least I think they are. Though they rarely speak to each other. They are the consummate good cop/bad cop. While Nina is outgoing and friendly, always greeting us like she’s glad to see us, the bartender (I don’t even know his name) acts pissed off when you have the nerve to order a drink. Forget about the fact that we’ve been patronizing this place for well over a decade, ask the bartender if you can open a tab and he’ll curtly say “no.” Ask Nina and not only will she open the tab, but she’ll pour a double and offer a bowl of snack mix that she consistently refers to as, “keeeebles and bits.”

It’s the kind of place that doesn’t carry imported beer. It’s the kind of place where you will literally get laughed at if you try to order a drink from the bartender without booze—just ask my buddy who once had the audacity to skip a round of drinks because he has the tolerance of a small rodent.

Our lives have changed--girlfriends, marriages, kids, jobs--but the bar remains the same. Except for a brief period of time when the hipsters found it and a line would form outside on Saturday nights. There is something amazingly comforting in that.

They might not know my name there, but they know my face. Our status there doesn't get us much other than a warm greeting. Sometimes Nina will boot people out of the corner tables for us, but that's about it. But my friends and I don't ask for much either. We just like having a low-key place that fits us. And while we don't have the luxury of an abundance of free time that allows us to hang out there as much as we used to, it isn't long before we find ourselves back at our bar for a smile, a drink and a bowl of “keeeebles and bits.”

____________________________________________________________

The topic of today's blog post was chosen by the awesome readers who like Daddy Geek Boy on Facebook. Links to all of my various postings, here at Culture Brats and the Reeling movie blog are collected there. Stop by and become a fan.

Loose Tooth

2011-06-21T12:04:00.000-07:00

The phone in my office rang, as it does many times a day. The caller ID indicated a familiar number.

"The Bean has a loose tooth," WonderWife™ told me when I picked up. This was the Bean's first loose tooth.

"That's awesome!" I said. "Is he excited?" That was a dumb question, since I could hear him yelling in the background.

"He's jumping up and down on the couch."

I could detect a sadness in WonderWife™'s voice. "What's wrong?" I asked.

"I've held it together during all of the milestones he's had. I didn't shed a tear when he graduated from preschool..." She began to sob. "But I...He's...They never look the same once they lose their teeth! They don't look like babies anymore!"

"I hate to break it to you, babydoll," I said. "But the Bean is a full-fledged kid. He has been for some time. He's growing up."

The crying subsided somewhat. "I know," she said through a sniffle. "I know."

"I'm totally charmed by you," I said.

Breakthrough

2011-06-15T20:26:00.000-07:00

I’ve had some notoriously difficult times with Sprout during her almost three years. For a while, she refused to let me feed her. She refuses to let me read her a bedtime story. And she most certainly never gives me a hug or a kiss before she goes to bed.

One evening I escorted Sprout from the bathroom to her bedroom to help her get into pj’s. Sprout was tired. And when Sprout was tired, she was grumpy, which meant I was the absolute last person she wanted to spend time with.

She glared at me as she slowly got dressed, like the way a feral dog sizes up an opponent before deciding if they need to attack. I was in a good mood and wasn’t about to let her dampen it. Knowing I ran the risk of provoking her further, I told her I was going to tickle her and eat her belly. She grunted at me. I told her I was going to poke her ear and nibble on her toes. She turned her back towards me. I sat down on the floor in front of her when one of our cats walked in the room.

The cat in this scenario, Candy Bar, is so named because the colors of her fur resemble a candy bar that’s been stepped on one too many times. She’s incredibly sweet but incredibly needy. And she’s the loudest cat in the history of all felines. She meows and whimpers when she wants attention. She mews when she’s being pet. In fact the only time this cat doesn’t make noise is when she’s sleeping.

Candy Bar walks into the room and I tell Sprout that she’s come in to say hi. Right on cue, the cat lets loose with a small “meow.” So I meow back at the cat. She answers me. The cat and I continue to have a "conversation" for a minute before she slinks off to go pester another member of the family.

I glance up at Sprout, who is staring at me with big, round eyes like a cartoon character. “I love you!” she says.

“Oh, you didn’t know I could speak to the cat?” I said.

She excitedly shook her head no.

I got a hug and a kiss that night.

A Plan For the Potty

2011-06-12T23:22:00.000-07:00

We are almost done with the potty training of our children. Except one hurdle has yet to be jumped. And the only thing standing in the way of diaper independence is one incredibly stubborn little girl

When asked, Sprout claimed that she would poop in the potty tomorrow. When tomorrow came she said she would do it, "Monday."

For a while Sprout promised to do it, "When I turn 3." However now that Sprout has realized that she is a mere two weeks away from actually being 3, she now says that she when she is 3 she will go outside and poop beneath a tree.

I am not sure if she has a specific tree in mind.

Super 8 (a personal, yet spoiler-free review)

2011-06-09T23:52:00.000-07:00

I was lucky enough to get to see a sneak peak screening of Super 8. You can read my spoiler-free thoughts of it over at Offsprung.

A Few Things About Star Wars

2011-06-06T05:00:00.000-07:00

I was floored when WonderWife™ presented me with tickets to Star Wars in Concert. It was one of the things that under normal circumstances she would mock relentlessly (and often does). But there we were on our first date night in months sitting under the sky at the Hollywood Bowl, waiting for an orchestra to play sections from the movies accompanied by clips on a giant screen. Geek paradise for me, but not so much for her. Yet she was happy to give me a night like this, which is why I love her so much.

As the sun was setting and the show about to commence, sounds began to play through the loudspeakers. They were the iconic sound effects from the films—lightsabers, tie fighters, Chewbacca…

“What was that sound?” WonderWife™ asked me. “Was it a Wookie? An Ewalker? Are those the guys with the long green ears?

My wife knows nothing about Star Wars. Early on in our relationship I screened it for her and we still debate if she made it through the whole thing (she claims she did not). Maybe it was the pre-show cocktails, but I found her utter cluelessness about Star Wars adorable. She was truly adrift in a pop culture sea without any sense of direction. At one point she pointed out, “all of the kids and their light swords.”

So naturally I started to quiz her about Star Wars. “What ship does Han Solo fly?” I asked.

“Um, I don’t know...the Star Wars Express?”

I couldn’t contain my laughter.

_____________________________________________________________

“Your son has been asking to see Star Wars,” WonderWife™ told me.

Normally this is a phrase that geeky parents like myself anxiously wait to hear. But knowing the Bean like I do, I strongly question if he’s ready for Star Wars. He’s got a bit of anxiety when it comes to the movies. I thought back to a fateful ride on Star Tours at Disneyland two years ago where he less than enjoyed the experience—to put it mildly. I was afraid that one ride alone might have put him off Star Wars for a few extra years.

Knowing that I only have once chance to have Star Wars make a good impression, I decided to press him for details as to his sudden interest.

“Mom has told me you’ve been asking about Star Wars,” I said to the Bean one night while tucking him in.

“Yeah, I want to see it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have your friends seen it?”

He paused for a moment. “Well…one day at school when Tony’s mom picked him up, she told him when he got home he could watch Star Wars. And that’s when I wanted to see it.”

So there it is.

I really want to show the Bean Star Wars (I bought the original versions of the trilogy on DVD when he was in utero to get ready). But I don’t think that peer pressure is the right reason. I’m afraid I’m going to have to wait a little bit longer.

Lost In Something

2011-06-01T22:27:00.000-07:00

It was a long day filled with meetings and stress. He was halfway through another business trip that had come on the heels of the one before. After spending time alone in a hotel room, he began to feel isolated, like something out of Lost In Translation, except without the company of Scarlett Johanssen.

In the evening, he excused himself from the room and found a quiet place to call home. His wife sounded frazzled and tired. No different than any other night. Yet he couldn't help but feel guilt that his extended absence was to blame. His daughter refused to get on the phone, which was disappointing yet not entirely unexpected. His son, on the other hand, wanted to chat. When he told the boy that he was sorry but he didn't have very much time to be on the phone, the boy sulked and told his father that he wanted more time to talk. He apologized before saying goodnight and hanging up the phone. His heart breaking a little bit as he made his way back into the room.

A Lot of Lamb

2011-05-26T05:00:00.000-07:00

I have sung "Mary Had a Little Lamb" over 1100 times. It's part of a nightly ritual that has been a part of the overwhelming majority of my parenthood.

It was during an intense heat wave four years ago. We had the ideal timing and good fortune to be vacationing in Palm Springs at this time with my parents and my sister and her family. Understandably, the Bean had trouble getting to sleep so we began to sing to him "Mary". This did the trick. Ever since before he goes to be he is sung all four verses of "Mary Had a Little Lamb" while one shot of "Scary Spray" is sprayed into each corner of the room.

We have been doing this for 4 years. Every night while tucking in the Bean, I ask him if he'd like his song. I'm waiting for the night that he outgrows it. For that will be both a happy and a melancholy evening.

Worms

2011-05-22T19:45:00.001-07:00

Partly out of interest, but mostly out of the desire to not go to either the car museum or the train yard yet again, we took the kids to a Bug Fair last weekend. The Fair was pretty cool, consisting of tables upon tables with terrariums filled with things like this:

We got to do fun things like touch scorpions and hissing cockroaches. WonderWife™ and the Bean bravely ate some bugs sautéed with veggies. (It was not lost on me that I had an easier time getting my son to eat veggies when they were mixed with ants and crickets.) We all had a creepy-crawly good time. And at the end of the day, we left with some new additions to our family.

This is how I came to have worms living in my house.

On one of the tables at the Fair were tubs upon tubs of silkworms in various sizes for sale. I’m not sure exactly when it happened, maybe it was when I took Sprout to the bathroom, but WW™ bought a whole mess of them.

Our silkworm friends, their numbers totaling 25, were brought home and transferred to their new residence, an empty shoebox. The bottom of the box was lined with mulberry leaves, on which the worms were happily and constantly munching. The worms were horrible looking little creatures. They had a sickly white color and cracked skin that always looked on the verge of shedding. And they pooped. A lot. It wasn’t long before the shoebox was littered with tiny black feces pellets that rattled when the box was moved. The kids instantly loved their new pets.

Because we live with two cats, one of them more curious about the insect world than the other, the worms needed safe-harbor where they could be free to eat and shit.

This is how I came to have worms living in my bathroom.

While the worms fascinate most of the members of my family, I find them repugnant. Yet there they are right on the counter, squirming and munching and pooping as I brush my teeth. The only time they come out of the bathroom is when the kids watch TV. They park one of the boxes between them on the couch and pet the worms as if they were one of our cats.

I’ve been secretly hoping that the life of a silkworm is short. And it is...kind of. Soon they will grow fat and spin cocoons, hatching as moths. However, those moths lay eggs, out of which will emerge tiny silkworms and the whole process will start over again.

It seems as if the worms are going to be a part of this family for the foreseeable future.

Traditions

2011-05-17T11:17:00.000-07:00

If you've noticed it's been rather quiet around here, it's because I'm getting into my busy season again. As a result, I've been doing a lot of traveling. I've realized that there are some very specific things I do when I travel. I call them traditions, but they very well could be a product of neurosis.

Here is a list of things I must do when traveling on a plane:

Always call WonderWife™ before getting on the flight.

Must email a picture of the plane I am about to get on to WW™, so she can show it to the kids. (A picture of me sitting inside the plane is optional, but appreciated.)

Must touch the outside of the plane as I board. (I have no idea of the origin of this or why I do it.)

As soon as possible, open up the airline magazine in the front pocket and check what will be the in flight movie, regardless if I am watching it or not.

Upon approaching landing, count down from 10 trying to time "1" with the wheels touching down. If the count is early, continue to count back up to 10 until the wheels touch down. If sitting next to loved one, such as wife or child, whisper the count to them. Prepare to be mocked by wife if the count is off by more than 1.

Unbuckle seat beat while taxiing to the terminal. Why? I don't need your rules, man!

Band Aid Spoilers

2011-05-06T07:53:00.000-07:00

Out of all of the band-aids available, Sprout picked Star Wars. Upon seeing the bandage, the Bean too became excited and before we knew it the kids both kids suddenly had a host of mysterious owies that needed to be covered.

My kids have not yet seen Star Wars, though they know that such a thing exists. As the kids were in the other room fetching the box of bandages, I said to WonderWife™, “I wonder if the big surprise of Star Wars will still be a secret by the time the Bean is ready to watch them.”

WonderWife™ cocked her head, gently reminding me of her non-geek nature and therefore her ignorance of what I was referring to.

“You know,” I said, “who Luke’s father really is.”

A few years ago I had a conversation with some colleagues at work who were a decade younger than me, who told me that they grew up always knowing who Darth Vader was in relation to Luke. This is sad, because that moment in Empire is one of the best twists in movie history.

Just then, the Bean noticed that Anikin adorned one of the band-aids.

“Hey it’s Anikin!” he shouted. “He grows up to be Darth Vader!”

WonderWife™ looked at me. “Well, there goes that.”

Something Positive About Transformers?

2011-05-02T05:00:00.000-07:00

Over the weekend while consuming the summer season’s first cinematic tour de force, I saw the new trailer for the next Transformers movie. It kills me to say this, but the trailer was really good. Maybe it was my overall jovial mood or maybe it was the theater packed with cheering moviegoers that made the difference. Or maybe, just maybe, Transformers 3 might actually be a decent movie? (Gasp!)

Anyone who follows my blogging, or knows me in person, is aware of my utter disdain for the filmmaker behind the Transformers movies, Michael Bay. Despite the fact that the Transformers movies have made gazillions of dollars, they are soulless, inane, disorienting messes. They are all spectacle with no heart, no trace of a coherent story or well drawn characters. Things I consider to be essential ingredients in a movie.

I’ve been ragging on T-Form 3 since it was announced they were doing another one, especially about the fact that it was being shot in 3D. I can’t think of a more vertigo-inducing experience than a Michael Bay in the third dimension. Bay’s knack for using quick cuts and shaky close ups makes his flat movies hard to watch. However, Bay has said that he needed to stop moving his camera so much in order to use 3D. This is encouraging.

But Bay has not yet earned my money.

Bay has also been talking a lot of smack about Transformers 2 lately. (Although it’s easy to come out and say your movie sucks after it’s been universally panned by nearly everyone.) Bay promises that T-Form 3 will be better than T-Form 2. While that’s all well and good, it doesn't fill me with confidence. Just because Revenge of the Sith is better than the other two prequels doesn’t mean it’s a good movie. To Bay, the high bar seems to have been set with the first Transformers movie. For me, that’s not high enough. I don’t just want Transformers 3 to be better than 2. I want it to be better than 1.

Admittedly my interest is piqued by the new T-Form trailer, but beast we forget that the original Transformers movie had a great trailer too—a trailer good enough to get my butt in the seat. And that one didn’t turn out so good.

For the time being, I will temper my feelings about Transformers 3. I believe Michael Bay when he says he’s making a movie better than the last one. But I don’t have hope that he will completely correct course and make a decent movie. I would love to be wrong about this. But I’m going to have to let the public convince me of that first, before I can truly buy into the promise of the trailer.

Home Movies

2011-04-26T22:31:00.000-07:00

I never had a video camera growing up, despite my repeated attempts to convince my parents otherwise. That didn’t stop me though. I borrowed my neighbor’s camera, got some friends together, shot some footage and found a place that rented editing bays by the hour so I could crudely stitch together a few raw movies.

I bought my first video camera during my college years. Yes, there is footage that would prevent me from running for office. No, you can't see it. There has either been one strapped to my face or within easy reach since. And it’s only gotten worse since the kids came along.

Technology has only served to feed my habit like a Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting. Digital video lets me shoot forever and powerful editing software lets me pluck out all the good parts. Treating my life as my own personal Truman Show, I’ve captured all of the major moments—marriage, honeymoon, births (or more accurately the moments just after), first smiles, first food, crawling, steps…

I obsessively spend days going over the footage and editing together sixth months of my kids' lives into little 15 to 20 min packages. My goal in making them is to not only entertaining my family, but anyone else who would see them. Even though nobody else does.

I estimate that for each one, I probably spend anywhere from 10 to 15 hours before they are ready to be burned to DVD and shipped off to a very select group of people on my mailing list.

These movies are filled with my love for my kids. I’m extremely proud of them. And I have a close connection with my audience, small as it may be, who I know are rabid fans.

Sadly, I cannot show them to you. You know how it is with me. The names have been changed to protect the innocent and all that. I do realize that this makes this whole post one giant tease. But this never-ending movie project is an increasingly important, and time consuming, part of my life, which makes it fodder for the part where I document my kids’ lives in print.

But I promise you this: if you ever see me, and if you’re truly interested, I promise I’ll show one to you.

UPDATE - Although it has no pictures of my kids, if you want to experience some of the home video goodness, check out this audio version of one of my favorite segments ever. It's still wildly entertaining.

Painting Toes Pink

2011-04-22T05:00:00.000-07:00

The Daily Show tipped me off to a story that’s been bubbling up across the media this week. Clothing store J Crew recently featured an ad that showed a mother and son where the son’s toenails were painted pink. Apparently the idea of a nail polish on a boy was cause for concern, but it was the color of the toes in question that seemed to send people into a tizzy.

Psychologists and other “experts” came out of the woodwork and spoke with places like Fox News (natch) about a world that is “abandoning the trappings of gender identity.” A spokeswoman for some traditional values organization fears that the ad “features blatant propaganda celebrating transgendered children.”

As the father of a boy who on occasion likes to paint his toes and fingers pink, I’d like to say one thing to these people:

FUCK YOU!

Just because your narrow ideas of gender identity are old fashioned doesn’t mean you have the right to suggest that my kid is anything but a perfectly happy, well-adjusted little boy. How dare you take a young mind that is open and without prejudice and try to teach him that a color is off limits because somebody along the line decided that it was “for girls” or that he can’t express himself by putting that color on his nails. Fuck you for implying that my son will have identity issues and fuck you for insinuating that I’m a bad parent because of it.

I thought we were beyond this. I grew up in the age of Free to Be You and Me and was taught that boys and girls shouldn’t be defined solely by their gender. It was okay for William to have a doll if that’s what he wanted just like it was okay for me to play kitchen with my sister. And because of the time I spent play cooking, I became a tornado in the kitchen who makes a mean red sauce. There’s nothing girly about marinara.

A color is a color, not a gender. Pink is red and white mixed together, not a lifestyle. A little nail polish isn’t going to change the way somebody is wired. Yes boys and girls are different, but it’s not because of colors or princesses or sports.

I’d like to invite these small minded so called specialists to spend some quality time with my son who does many “boy” things, like run around like a maniac and pretend to shoot guns and play superheroes and video games…all while wearing bright pink nail polish.

You simple minded, scared, homophobic assholes can raise your kids however you want. But you shut your damn mouths when you talk about mine.

Locksmith

2011-04-20T05:00:00.000-07:00

The wail was so loud it practically made my phone vibrate. I could only imagine what it sounded like in person.

“What’s happening?” I asked WonderWife™ during my traditional I’m on my way home to you phone call from the road.

“The Bean locked himself out of his room.”

This was not entirely unexpected. The Bean had started playing with the locks on the doors in our house. I was afraid that my previous warning to him about the consequences of such actions didn’t stick.

“Keep him locked out for a bit,” I snickered. “That’ll learn him.”

“Oh, I plan on letting that kid dangle for a while,” she said a bit gleefully.

I came home to an exasperated wife and a son who’s eyes were rimmed red from crying. She immediately shoved a bent paperclip in my hand and asked if I could try my luck at getting the door open. The Bean was clearly upset at his prediciment and knew he was in trouble. Plus it was bedtime. WonderWife™ had to get Sprout down and then figure out what was to be the Bean’s alternative sleeping situation in the event I proved unsuccessful.

No pressure. I was confident I’d be able to get the door open. Growing up, I figured out how to circumvent the locks in my house. This was especially helpful when it came to sister torment. And although I am not in the slightest bit handy, I figured I’d use some of my old magic and the door would pop right open.

What I didn’t count on was that this was not your everyday interior lock. No, the geniuses who used to live in my house had installed a standard outdoor lock to secure this bedroom. I'd never noticed this in the five years we’d been living in the house. It was yet another astounding decision the previous owners had made in this house, which included the bathroom that was too narrow to open the door and the refrigerator that blocked off a good portion of the kitchen's entryway. Any key that might have existed to this lock was long gone.

I kneeled down in front of the door with the flattened paperclip and an eyeglass screwdriver. I examined the doorknob and it wasn’t long before I realized that I didn’t know the first thing about picking a lock. I jammed both the clip and the screwdriver into the lock as I had seen in countless movies, but this only served to bend the screwdriver. Dipping back into my movie knowledge database, I tried the ol’ credit card trick. But there wasn’t enough space for a sheet of paper let alone a card.

A few times a very concerned Bean appeared in the hallway and offered suggestions. I have no idea what he was basing his ideas on. I was hardly listening to him. I was channeling all of my energy into not cursing in his general direction.

On to plan C. I grabbed a hammer from the toolbox and using the claw end, I went to work separating the base of the doorknob from the door. After a few satisfying pulls of the handle, the lock broke and the door swung open.

The Bean dried his eyes and happily ran into his room and jumped on his bed. As I tucked him in moments later, I couldn’t help but feel manly. But best of all, I felt useful.

Superhero Costume Party

2011-04-18T05:00:00.000-07:00

The Bean is slowly dipping his toe into the world of super heroes. Though he is not quite ready to trade Spider-Man for Lightning McQueen or stop watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse in favor of Batman, he is getting more inquisitive about pop culture’s costumed heroes. Thankfully, there are a couple of The Bean’s pre-school friends who seem to be guiding his interest. Recently, the Bean was invited to one of their birthday parties and I was thrilled to learn it was a superhero themed costume party.

“So who does the Bean want to be?” I asked WonderWife™ when she told me about the event.

“He picked Robin.”

“Robin?” I asked incredulously. “Robin?”

“Yes, Robin.”

“Robin’s not a superhero," I said glumly, "He’s a sidekick.”

The Wit and Wisdom of the Bean: Volume 6

2011-04-11T05:00:00.000-07:00

In what's become one of my favorite regular features here (okay my only regular feature), I'm happy to present a fresh batch of awesomeness direct from the brain of the Bean:

Me: "How was school today?"
The Bean: "Chocolate!" (10/10)

"My yo yo broke but that's ok. My brain gave me options and now I have two toys." (10/10)

Sprout: "Daddy is the best cooker."
The Bean: "But he’s not the best looker." (1/11)

"Real animals are not made of this stuff. Real animals do not have tags on their backs and their eyes are not hard. Real animals have squishy eyes." (10/10)

"Ice cream is healthy when you’re in the desert, cause it’s hot. When you’re in the desert you need to eat something cold cause it’s hotter there than summer and you might throw up." (12/10)

"I know why your body gets smaller when it gets old. It knows you’re getting old and it knows you’re going to die soon, so it gets smaller to fit in the hole [in the ground]." (12/10)

"If you have pink lipstick on how do you know what is the lipstick and what is your lip?" (12/10)

"You can tell they’re Hot Wheels because of the fire on their sides." (1/11)

"Lifeguards can throw out life savers, but they can't throw out lightsabers." (1/11)

"A cliff is land but then that land breaks apart." (1/11)

"You can really string this cheese!" (2/11)

Upon being asked if he’s excited to learn to drive when he’s older: "I don’t want to drive, I just want lots and lots of money." (2/11)

"Boys don’t like pretty, they like fancy." (2/11)

Past Wisdom:
Volume 1
Volume 2
Volume 3
Volume 4
Volume 5
Holiday Edition
Valentine's Day Edition

Facebook Announcement

2011-04-07T08:04:00.000-07:00

In my ever-expanding plans for world domination through blogging, I’m happy to announce a brand spanking new Daddy Geek Boy page on Facebook.

You read my blog and you follow me on Twitter, why should you “like” DGB on FB? Well, if you’re as addicted to Facebook as I am you probably spend more time interacting with people there than anywhere else and the FB page will send a link to every post right to your news feed. Plus links to other blog posts, like Reeling movie reviews and Culture Brats. And every once in a while, I might link to something funny or interesting like this.

Don’t worry if you’re not on Facebook. This place will always be the hub of any DGB activities. But if you are amongst the 500 million people who use FB, click here to pop on over, check out the new digs and click that like button.

I humbly thank you.

Exit Through the Parking Lot

2011-04-03T21:30:00.000-07:00

There hadn’t been a Bean-friendly movie in theaters for many months, so I was excited when Hop opened. I had been planning to take the Bean for a few weeks and when I broached the subject with him, he seemed excited. Soon tickets were bought and a giant tub of popcorn procured. But about a half-hour into the movie, the Bean signed “all done”, which is the last remaining vestige of teaching him sign language as a toddler. A few moments before, I had noticed him sitting rigid in his seat, hands over his eyes. As much as I wanted to see the rest of the flick, it would have been bad parenting to keep him there. He asked to leave again. We left.

The Bean was despondent as we walked out of the theater. My attempts to find out what was bothering him went ignored. We passed by a furniture store and I suggested we go inside to test-sit the couches. When the Bean found a rocking chair, his disposition brightened some. After several minutes of chasing each other around the store, my boy was back. I found a nice over-stuffed sectional for us to crash on and I was finally able to coax his troubles from him.

There was a scene in the movie, where a cute and fuzzy talking bunny is hit by a car. Although the bunny was barely touched, he feigned hurt to gain the driver’s sympathy. The driver, thinking he had maimed a small animal picked up a rock in order to put the rabbit out of its misery. At the last minute the bunny realized what’s happening, a bit of chaos ensued and thus began the comic misadventures of man and bunny that drove the rest of the story.

Although all of this is played for laughs, this scene is what bothered the Bean. He couldn’t get over it and he worried that another “scary” moment might be around the corner. While having to bail before the end credits disappointed me, I understood that doing anything more than complying with the Bean’s wishes to leave the theater would have been incredibly hypocritical of me. Because when I was a kid, I was petrified of the movies.

My first movie memory is of Superman. When faced with the death of his beloved Lois Lane, Superman flies around the world backwards and turns back time. As a young child seeing this on the big screen, I completely and utterly lost my shit. For years afterward, I would have panic attacks at the mere mention of going to see a movie. When I did make it inside, I would often have to leave mid-flick. As a result, my dad and I spent a lot of time doing deep breathing exercises in many a movie theater parking lot.

Amazingly I not only got over my fear, but I transformed into a giant movie nerd. To those closest to me, particularly the ones who endured my phobia, my obsession with movies stands as the greatest of ironies. Any psychologist worth their salt would say that my connection to movies is a subconscious way of overcoming my childhood fears. Though I guess I didn’t just overcome them, I obliterated them.

All of this ran through my mind as the Bean and I ate lunch. I fought off the urges to try to explain to him that the movie wasn’t supposed to be scary, that even though some scenes can be thrilling, movies are filled with happy endings that make us feel good. But I knew that anything I said would have been as pointless as when people said them to me many, many years ago when I was a freaked out kid. The best thing I could do here was to accept that my son is my clone, to stand by him and to realize that this wouldn’t be the first time we walked out of a movie together.

I hope that the Bean doesn’t develop the level of fear that I had as a kid. It was something that haunted me for a long time. But if he ever does, he’s lucky because he’s got me for a dad—somebody who understands what he’s going through and will stand by him unconditionally, and somebody who knows plenty of deep-breathing exercises and where the best places are in parking lots to do them.

Foolin' Around

2011-04-01T21:48:00.000-07:00

“Your son has something he wants to tell you,” WonderWife™ said on the other end of the phone in my office.

A rustling noise was followed by a sheepish voice that said, “Daddy?”

“What’s up, buddy?”

“The dentist said I didn’t brush my teeth very well and I have a cavity.”

As the parent who is responsible for overseeing teeth brushing half of the time, my first thought was: Crap. Parenting fail.

It was still for a beat before the Bean shouted, “April Fools!”

I smiled because he totally got me.

_____________________________

I love a good April Fools joke. And the internet has made April Fools an incredibly fun day.

Over breakfast, WonderWife™ was complaining over the discovery that Flickr had been bought by Yahoo, who added an “e” to the website’s name…until I reminder her what day it was. We proceeded to spend the morning seeing what tricks Google, YouTube, Think Geek and others had planned. There was even a great bacon related one.

As per custom, I managed to get in on the fooling myself. Though I decided to think carefully about how I went about things. (Last year's post here caused me nearly half my readership.) I decided to keep it simple. I had my father believing for a second that he and my mom weren't invited to visit us this summer and a couple of frantic calls from friends confirmed that at least a handful of people believed my Facebook status update that said WonderWife™ and I might be moving across the country. We even got into the spirit over at Culture Brats.

But my favorite prank of the day belonged to my son, because it was his first and because he executed it flawlessly.

Scenes From a Wedding

2011-03-30T21:38:00.000-07:00

I was uncharacteristically dressed in a suit. WonderWife™ was in a dress. Our kids were many miles away, being spoiled by their grandparents. Not only was it a rare date night, but it was the wedding of our very good friends.

The ceremony was written by the groom himself and was one of the funniest and most heartfelt I’ve witnessed.

We overlooked the ocean as the sun set. Booze flowed freely. Instead of working the room separately, as WonderWife™ and I tend to do, we hung together and mingled as a couple.

It was WonderWife™ who notices the impeccably dressed man in the vest and the pocket square, but it was me who was caught staring at him.

I was pleasantly surprised when the sister of the groom remembered my name. Although the guy getting married was a prime member of my inner circle of friends, I had only met his sister a handful of times. Later I was able to grab a moment with my newly married friend and he told me that he had gone over his friends’ names with his sister earlier in the weekend.

“She kind of remembered you,” he said. “She said you were ‘the serious one’.”

The serious one? What does that mean? I spent the rest of the night trying to figure it out.

WonderWife™ was on the dance floor gettin’ down with a few of her friends. She saw me watching her from across the room and gestured for me to come over. When I did, she handed me our camera. I began taking pictures of the trio’s spastic dancing.

After a few shots were snapped, WonderWife™ pulled me close and said, “You idiot, I was just giving you the camera. I didn’t want you taking pictures of me dancing!”

Lamb had been barbecued. Bite sized bits of cheesecake were impaled on skewers and drowned in melted chocolate. Later, when the bar closed and the night wound down french fries and mac and cheese were passed, which I now believe is the only way that a wedding should end.

I watched as my friend absentmindedly played with the new ring on his finger as he drank in his bride from across the room. I took WonderWife’s™ hand in mine and hoped that they would be as happy as we were.

The Performing Ushers

2011-03-22T15:04:00.000-07:00

The movie theater that I frequent takes the moviegoing going experience very seriously. Just the way I like it. From the real butter on the popcorn to the assigned stadium seating to the fact that they won't let anyone in after the movie has started—so there's nobody walking in front of you during those crucial first few minutes, this is a modern movie palace seemingly custom designed for a movie geek like me. Watching a movie here is about as close to a pure experience as a multiplex will allow. Take, for example, what's on the screen before the movie.

Nothing. A blank screen.

Not a bunch of commercials. Not horribly outdated and easy movie "trivia". Nothing. When the show starts there are just three trailers. No annoying theater ads gently suggesting that you to buy a washtub of popcorn and a tanker of Coke before reminding you to turn off your cell phones. Nope. In this theater the ushers take center stage. Before lights go down, a spotlight is illuminated in front of the screen and an usher introduces the movie.

Before the show can start, there are a few key pieces of information that must be conveyed: the name of the movie, it's run time, a reminder that there should be no phones or texting, and please no putting your feet on the seat in front of you.

When the theater first opened, these speeches were very dry and technical. But because this is Los Angeles and this is an opportunity to perform, some of the ushers have developed routines in order to make the announcements more interesting.

Some tell jokes. Others offer wry observations about the movie. A few play to the crowd. Some of the ushers use different personas—the intellectual, the fanboy, the nervous nerd, the caffeinated cheerleader...

If the theater is fairly empty, an usher might try to strike up a conversation. In a theater composed of me and one other couple, as the usher got to the, "there's no talking in the movie" part, he pointed at me and said, "especially you, sir." When he remarked that I didn't respond to him, I reminded him that he had just asked me not to talk. A courtesy chuckle came from the other couple.

A few of the ushers have actually developed fans. It's not uncommon to hear their name being shouted out as they take the stage or vigorous cheering after their speeches. It doesn't seem like the patrons are doing this ironically either.

I've grown to look forward to these performances each time I see a movie there. And I see a lot of movies there. Instead of being bombarded with the same ad over and over, these performing ushers add a welcome dose of spontaneity and life to the moviegoing experience, which is something that you don't usually get at the multiplex.

Coda

2011-03-17T05:00:00.000-07:00

The Bean clapped his hands to the beat in his head. "Guess what song I'm hearing," he said.

There was no possible way to discern the song from only the off-rhythm claps, so WonderWife™ began throwing out random guesses.

"Dust in the Wind?" she tried.

"Mommy, you have to pick songs that I know," said the Bean.

"I don't know. I give up. Tell me."

"Mommy, you don't give up. Don't give up like Daddy."

Don't Give Up

2011-03-15T21:55:00.001-07:00

“We were talking about Picasso today,” WonderWife™ said to me in front of the kids. “About how his drawings sometimes looked weird but he was still one of the most famous painters in the world.”

This was code that I deciphered immediately. The Bean had been struggling with drawing. He’d recently developed a burgeoning interest in art, but was getting frustrated when his drawings didn’t meet his exacting standards. This had led to a few McEnroe-style tantrums before he’d shut down and refuse to do the thing that he cannot.

Later that night the Bean and I had a chat.

“Do you know how you get good at anything?” I asked him.

“Practice?” he replied.

“Yes. And you can’t give up.” I sat on the edge of his bed and looked him in the eye. “I always wanted to play guitar for my whole life. One day I bought one, took a few lessons and started to practice. But I wanted to be better at it than I was. I got frustrated and quit. I never learned how to play guitar.”

“But you should learn. You shouldn’t have gave up. You should learn guitar.”

“It’s too late now,” I told him. “I have a busy job and you guys to look after.” And a blog to write and movies to watch and the occasional video game to play, I thought. “But you can learn from my mistake and when you get frustrated, stop and take a break, but don’t ever give up.”

_____________________________

The next night, as I lay in my favorite position on the couch—snuggled next to WonderWife™, Food Network on the tube—she said, “Do you know what the Bean’s takeaway was from your conversation last night?”

I smiled at the thought that my story might have gotten through to him. “No,” I said. “What?”

“He wants to learn how to play guitar.”

The Player

2011-03-10T05:00:00.000-08:00

Word has it the Bean kissed a girl at school and then told her he loved her. His first kiss (as far as I know). I couldn't get any details out of him. He was rather coy about this when I asked, but I have it on good authority that this is exactly how it went down.

Later the same day day, the Bean said, “I love you” to another girl in his class. She replied with a curt yet polite, “thank you.”

I guess she saw the Bean kissing that other girl.

In the Cushions of My Couch 2

2011-03-09T05:00:00.000-08:00

The following is what was discovered in my couch while cleaning it...again:

One giant paperclip
One toy thermometer
One bristle block
Two hair clips
Two toy quarters
41 cents
Eight plastic marbles
One glass marble
Six socks, all mismatched
Two washcloths, cleanliness undetermined
One Matchbox car
Two toy drill bits
Once piece of bacon, plastic
One cheddar bunny, stale
One spider, glow in the dark
Two pens
Two glowsticks, expired
One board book

We really need to clean more often.

Share a Story

2011-03-08T11:31:00.000-08:00

Chris Singer over at BookDads has a series of posts for the Share a Story, Shape a Future program, which encourages kids to read.

We were asked to write about the "gift" we recieved from our kids' exposure to reading.

I'm honored to be amongst a great group of writers talking about an important subject. Please click over there and check it out.

Sprout and Her Bestie

2011-03-02T21:57:00.000-08:00

There were two voices constantly emanating from the family room. Chatter, laughter and squeals of delight pierced the air while I tried to work in the other room. Sprout was having a play date.

It was one of those rare days where I was off of work on a weekday. Sprout’s best friend and her mother had come over. It was a rare glimpse into a world that I usually don’t see, but I know takes place—a familiar sight to any stay-at-home parent. The moms drank coffee and gossiped in the kitchen, while Sprout and her Bestie ran amok through the rest of the house. I hid in my study, trying to stay out of the way while attempting to be productive and spy on them at the same time.

Bestie had been the topic of much conversation around our house. Sprout was clearly taken with this girl and spoke of her often. I had met Bestie, and her mom, once before during one of those chaotic events where you never get to engage in an adult conversation that lasts beyond the opening pleasantries. But in reality all I knew of them was anecdotal. Listening to my daughter play with her best friend was something new, like the difference between seeing lions on safari and in a zoo.

Sprout can be incredibly charismatic and social...within the confines of our house. Most of the time in public she is shy and quiet. But with her Bestie by her side, Sprout was anything but. The two girls were rambunctious and giggly. They never stopped talking. They never stopped moving. I imagined this was a taste of Sprout's tween years, not 2 ½ year-olds playing together.

It was completely charming and made me wish that I got to spend more time at home, watching my kids in their natural habitat.

Super Acquaintances

2011-02-27T22:10:00.000-08:00

Fueled by the awesome Imaginext toy line, a few progressive school friends and his geek dad, the Bean has been slowly getting into superheroes.

Unfortunately, he doesn't always get the facts straight.

These are the answers to the following questions, according to the Bean:

Spider-Man's true identity: "Peter Partner"
Batman's sidekick: "Robber"
He's green, he's angry, he wears purple pants: "The Incredible Naked Man"
Star Wars' main bad guy: "Black Skeleton"
...also known as: "Dark Vader"
The main robots from Star Wars: "Iron Man and R2D2"
One of Batman's main villains: "Freezer"

I've clearly got a lot of work ahead of me.

The Main Cage

2011-02-21T21:46:00.000-08:00

The blinking red light of doom on my Blackberry cut through the darkened room like a lighthouse. I peeled myself out of bed and trepidatiously checked it. It was from WonderWife™: Call me when you wake up re: your debit card.

These are not the words one wants to read upon first waking up when you’re on a guys’ weekend in Vegas.

I called my wife, who had spent the better part of the morning besieged with calls from the bank. My account had been frozen. She was given a run down of the problem—there were a few withdrawals made in Las Vegas, but the correct pin number was used.

“My husband is in Vegas right now, so I’m sure everything’s okay,” she told the bank rep. “You can unfreeze the account.”

“But there’s some suspicious activity on the account,” the bank rep replied. “An attempt was made to go over the limit and usually customers know the daily limit on the account. The transaction in question was from a machine called ‘the main cage.’”

“That was in a casino!” I interjected as WW™ told me the story.

“Sure it was,” she said slyly.

The bank rep told WW™ the amount I was trying to take out. I imagine her jaw hit the floor.

“Um, you better keep that freeze on the account,” she told him. “I don’t know what the hell is going on out there.”

As she was telling me this, I had already figured out the problem.

“Last night Sam left his ATM card at the hotel, so instead of him having to fight traffic all the way back up the Strip, I was attempting to float him a loan,” I explained.

“Uh huh,” she said.

Then there was a pause.

“I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

Today There Are More Important Things Than Blogging

2011-02-18T05:00:00.000-08:00

I’m not going to write a blog post today.

There are more pressing things at hand. Like driving through the desert to a neon-lit oasis where gambling is permitted, alcohol flows like wine and where the beautiful women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano.

I am embarking on what will likely the last bachelor party I’ll ever attend. One of my last single buddies is getting married, so my merry band of idiot friends and I are once again on our way to Vegas.

A few months ago, I asked the groom if there were any plans for a bachelor party. I was aghast when he said there were none and offered to help plan it. (I was made for organizing stuff like this—especially Vegas.) Now after a couple of months of internet research, phone calls, confirmation numbers, dinner reservations and emails, it’s finally here.

I used to go to Vegas every six to nine months.

It’s been three years since I was last there.

I absolutely love Vegas.

I love my buddy.

I can’t wait to celebrate.

And this is why there will be no blog post today.

She Goes to Extremes

2011-02-16T17:54:00.000-08:00

“Pick me up, I want give you a hug,” Sprout said to me before I was out the door in the morning.

I happily scooped her up and twirled her in the air savoring the feeling of her little arms wrapped around my neck. It was a stark contrast to the previous night where Sprout threw a monumental tantrum that lasted for an hour and a half that ended with her sitting on the floor, back turned to me, refusing to even sit next to me on the couch.

Ah, such is life with Sprout. She is a study of extremes. Her attitude towards me is either hot or cold, and there’s no way to predict which version of her I will encounter at any given time. The speed at which her temperature can change is head-swimmingly astounding.

Once upon a time, when Sprout was in utero, the constant refrain I heard from others was how wonderful it was to be the dad of a girl. Stories were heaped upon me of little girls sharing a special bond with their daddies, filled with promises of a child who would relish every moment with her father. I was excited to be the dad of a girl, thinking that I would have at least 10-11 great years with my girl before she turned into a tween preoccupied with boys and Biebers.

Sprout was soon born, screaming herself purple and angry for having to move from the womb to the world.

I had the touch with Sprout, for about two weeks when she was a newborn. If I turned out the lights in my study and rocked her while “Three Little Birds” played, without fail she would settle. But this didn't last long and it was soon that Sprout wanted very little to do with me.

Sprout’s icy attitude towards me began to thaw around the two-year mark. Suddenly I would receive kisses and hugs and would hear the phrase, “I love you.” Each time electrified me in the way that only a parent could understand. But Sprout carefully played me like a concert pianist, always careful not to let me in too much. Now she often routinely refuses to give me a hug or a kiss—always at night. And forget about her ever letting me read a bedtime story.

Of course, all of this rejection only makes me want to try harder. Yes, at an early age Sprout has figured out what a lot of women don’t learn until much later—the more you push a man away, the more they want to chase. Even though I recognize that this is happening, I am compelled to try to break down the walls she’s put up between us in my fruitless pursuit of the idealized father/daughter relationship that I been told about so long ago.

The Wit and Wisdom of the Bean: Valentine's Day Edition

2011-02-14T08:14:00.000-08:00

A Valentine's Day "poem" from the Bean to his pre-school teacher:

"I love you. You should really believe that I love you. That is a special secret. If you're a clown, you'll get a special present--I'll throw a pie in your face. Clowns really like that."

Flashback Friday: Say What?

2011-02-11T05:00:00.000-08:00

With the ease in which Sprout converses these days, it feels like she’s been talking forever. Of course anyone with the vaguest understanding of child development knows this isn’t actually the case. In fact it wasn’t long ago that when Sprout spoke, none of us could understand what she was saying. Except for the Bean.

The Bean had a miraculous gift for translating Sprout, and we would turn to him time and time again to help us understand what our little girl was saying.

We’d be sitting eating dinner when Sprout would pipe up. “Aggle flaggle.”

I would look at WonderWife™ and be met with the same curious, empty stare I was giving her.

“She wants a glass of milk,” the Bean would say.

“Aggle flagge!” Sprout would nod in agreement.

After a while, we didn’t even try to figure out what Sprout was saying. If the Bean was nearby, we’d automatically turn to him and he’d happily tell us what she said.

Poor kid. It was the first in what would become a long list of ways in which he’d be helping his little sister through life. But WW™ and I were grateful that the Bean spoke fluent Sprout.

Improvement

2011-02-07T22:31:00.000-08:00

Although looking at me from the outside it was hard to notice, last year I sort of fell apart. Professionally it was a chaotic time of transition that consumed me. As a result, I lost some of my focus on other things. And while my life is far from being a Lifetime movie of the week, I haven't liked feeling scattered and remote.

These are normally the kind of thoughts that pop up around the New Year, when resolutions are made. But seeing as we are long past the time when most of these promises have been abandoned, it feels like a safer time to instill some change.

My Health
The first step was joining a gym. However, the more crucial step of the plan is to actually go to said gym. This is the part where I usually have a problem. I have no difficulty putting money down to enter a gym, but I can't stand working out. I believe that there is such a thing as a runner’s high for some people, but I have never been one of them. To me, exercise is neither cathartic nor enjoyable. It’s painful, sweaty, hard work and I am, by nature, a lazy man. But seeing that I’m staring down the barrel of 40 and that I have an appetite for bacon and booze, I need the gym. So far, I’ve gone three times in the week and a half since I joined. It’s a good start, but I’m not celebrating yet.

My Blog
I have lost a bit of my writing mojo, as evidenced by my one post a week schedule here. Like my body, my brain needs exercise too and writing gives me that work out. Unlike the gym, I enjoy writing. I actually thrive on the outlet. But when work got busy, I fell out of the habit of writing regularly. It’s not even writer’s block. I have pages worth of ideas and observations. But lately it’s seemed like effort to get them into post-worthy shape. As much as I care about my readers, the real reason I write this blog is to keep a record of my kids’ lives. So I need to push myself to get over this hill for them.

My Marriage
I need to be a better husband. Though I am not quite sure how to do this. It feels like my and WonderWife's™ role as parents has overtaken our roles as a couple. Things aren't bad between us. But they could be better. I know that if I try, WW™ and I can find ourselves again despite all of the diapers and laundry and floors strewn with toys.

My Kids
While I think I’m a good dad (and hope that my kids agree), I want to be better. I need to be more patient. I need to be more present. I want to make sure that the time I spend with them is quality. I want to be more creative and more fun with them. I want to give them everything they need, and more.

There. I’ve laid it all out for the world to read. Now it’s up to me to be accountable. Right now I feel energized. This is attainable. It’s just going to require a little work.

The Wit and Wisdom of Sprout: Volume 1

2011-01-31T06:00:00.000-08:00

The Bean isn't the only one who spouts wisdom on a regular basis. Now that Sprout has taken command of the English language, she's filled with nuggets of insight too:

Me: "How do you know that?"
Sprout: "Because I'm a Smarty McSmart!" (11/10)

"You don't need to get soap in my eyes because my eyes aren't dirty." (11/10)

Sprout (pointing to WonderWife's™ mouth): "What's that?"
WW™: "That's a piece of loose skin on my lip."
Sprout: "Oh. Can I eat it?" (12/10)

"Oopsie Donald Duck!" (instead of "oopsie daisy") (1/11)

"Don't cut me, I'm your sister!" (1/11)

"Dad, by accident the Bean yelled at me!" (1/11)

A State of the Union on 3D Movies

2011-01-28T22:22:00.000-08:00

Hey everybody...

Wanna know where I am? I'm hanging out over at my blog Reeling on Offsprung for a discussion about the current (sad) state of 3D movies.

RIF

2011-01-25T11:41:00.000-08:00

Despite my love of pop culture, I am not one of those parents who push it on my kids. Yes, I’ve dipped their toes into the water of super heroes and Star Wars, but it’s nothing like the parents I know who were showing the original trilogy to their toddlers or putting them on a steady diet of cartoons before they turn 5. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to share what I love with my kids—especially the Bean. But he isn’t ready.

The Bean is what I call a young 5. He’s more sensitive and what he loves are shows like Sesame Street, Yo Gabba Gabba and Word World. Word World is a show that teaches reading, where everyone and everything is made of words. And it has captured the attention of my son like the Sirens captivated Odysseus or how a woman in a Snow White costume captivates me (but that’s another story). Right now Word World is just about the only show my kids will watch. As a result, the Bean is becoming obsessed with letters. He wants to learn to sound out words and he’s asking us how things are spelled. The other morning, WonderWife™ told me he actually read a bunch of words. He’s also been typing them out on her computer. I’ve even seen him try to teach his sister to read.

All of this is incredibly exciting as we slowly segue from picture books into chapter books. It didn't occur to me, but the world of reading is the gateway into cool pop culture. Pretty soon he’ll be into things like the Captain Underpants series. Then I’ll introduce him to the comic book Bone--an excellent all-ages fantasy. There are comics now of Cars and The Incredibles. And when he’s older, Harry Potter is waiting for him.

I’m okay with not being a guy who’s forcing my TV and movies down my kids’ throats. My patience with my kids is being rewarded. Because left to his own devices the Bean is choosing to watch a show like Word World that is stoking the literary fire within him. And although he may not be that interested in pop culture now, I know that he will be once the words start flowing.

Dirty Socks and the Muddy Hand

2011-01-21T16:54:00.000-08:00

There were errant socks strewn about the floor of the Bean’s room. I pointed them out to him and asked him to pick them up. He hesitated.

“But…” he began.

I wasn't in the mood for excuses. I cut him off and demanded that he clean up his room.

“But the muddy hand,” he said.

“What?”

“The muddy hand is on the floor and I can’t touch it.”

The muddy hand comes from one of the Diary of a Wimpy Kid books where the Wimpy Kid watches a horror movie about a disembodied hand and spends the rest of the book worried about it. Based on the amount of questions I fielded about the hand after we read the book, it was clear it was an aspect really captured the Bean's imagination.

I looked at the way the socks were laid on the floor. Upon closer inspection, they weren’t thrown haphazardly around the room, they actually created a path from the Bean’s bed, across the floor, to the rug where it was “safe”.

The Bean confirmed that this was why the socks were on the floor. I softened. If you’re going to have an excuse for a messy room, this was a pretty good one.

Curses Again!

2011-01-18T05:37:00.000-08:00

The Bean continues to have a trenchant mouth. At least we think he does. Maybe. Well, in any case he's cursing. But in the most creative way. Here is another list of curses unleashed by the Bean:

Silly pookie!
Kabinga!
Hey you corn cucumber!
You silly bobbily bork!
You gaga!
You noggle head!
Keely head!
What the bobby bork!
Baba porky pine!
Mr. poppy face!

Click here for the original list.

Once Again, Delurk Yourselves

2011-01-14T09:50:00.000-08:00

You blog readers can be a skittish bunch. They silently sneak onto the pages of a blog, ingest, laugh (hopefully) and leave without a trace. But there is one day a year where readers should feel safe to uncloak themselves and leave a comment. I speak of Delurking Day.

Last year was a weird time for the blog. Starting with a not so funny April Fools joke that lead into an incredibly hectic rest of the year, I wasn't able to focus as much attention here, and elsewhere on the interwebs, as I would have liked. Sadly many of you left, but...a lot of you stayed. I sincerely thank you for that. Even though this year looks like another crazy one, I'm going to work to be more productive here.

So help celebrate Delurking Day by leaving a comment below. Even though you might not comment regularly, it's really good to know you're here.

I will leave you with a conversation between me and the Bean from last night:

The Bean: So at school I built this awesome Lego thing and I put a guy inside. The guy had just eyes.

Me: So he didn't have a head?

The Bean: He had a head, but he didn't have a mouth. He had a big helmet like...um...like a marching band hat. It was all black.

Me: Was it Darth Vader?

The Bean: How do you know about Darth Vader?

Me: Wait, how do YOU know about Darth Vader?

Green Hornet: F Yeah!

2011-01-13T17:49:00.000-08:00

Green Hornet comes out tomorrow and despite some bad buzz from last year’s Comic-Con, I think the movie’s going to be fun on a bun.

Here’s why:

Seth Rogen as action hero is awesome against-type casting

It’s got a fun, bright, crisp, pop look to it

I have a not-so-secret man crush on Seth Rogen.

It’s mad genius crazy, visionary director Michel Gondry’s first action movie. (He’s done some amazing music videos as well as director of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.)

The Black Beauty

Though it wasn’t shot in 3D, it was conceived that way. It looks like it makes good use of the extra dimension.

Kato-Vision.

It was written by Rogen and Evan Goldberg, who also wrote Superbad and Pineapple Express, and they know their way around a buddy pic.

The notion that studios dump their less than stellar movies in January is an antiquated notion. These days, the popcorn movies don’t always come out in the summer.

Did I mention my worship of Seth Rogen?

So...If anyone needs me, it’ll have to wait until Saturday because I'm gonna be at the movies.

The Power of the Party

2011-01-11T22:02:00.000-08:00

Five year olds don’t wield very much power. There is little they can do to rage against a world filled with bedtimes and teeth brushing and interrupted games. Which is why I have been uninvited to the Bean’s birthday party six times.

When the Bean gets angry, I mean really, really angry, his face becomes flushed and he’ll invade my personal space and in the most sincere tone will come the fateful words, “You are not invited to my birthday party!”

I try not to laugh, for doing so would belittle his feelings. But it’s hard not to break under such intensity. I try to tell him that without me, there would be no birthday party. But it’s hard enough to explain the concept of earning money to a young kid—especially one in the throws of a tantrum over having to put their toys away before bed.

The birthday party remained the one trump card in the Bean’s otherwise small deck. Until the day after his birthday party, when the Bean discovered that he no longer could use this power.

It’s tough to be a kid.

I Got This

2011-01-04T18:31:00.000-08:00

“I’m tired of living under the inadequacies of my peers,” I told WonderWife™ over the phone the first night she was away.

WonderWife™ had been suddenly called out of town for a family emergency, leaving me as temporary stay-at-home-dad for three days. In the brief time between WW™ making her plans and leaving, there was a huge outpouring of support and encouragement for me. A few of WW™’s friends even promised to drop their own families in order to help me if I needed. While everyone meant well, I was annoyed by the implication.

I’m a competent dad. When it comes to taking care of my kids by myself, I got it. Under my watch, my kids always get fed well, get bathed and get to bed on time. But based on everyone’s reaction, you would’ve thought me a total parenting noob. I’m not exactly sure where the perception comes from. Maybe years of watching inept sit-com dads on TV have influenced the collective consciousness. Or perhaps the husbands of WW™’s friends are a bit lacking and it’s being projected onto me? I’m not here to judge. I’m just trying to get to the bottom of why it becomes a much bigger deal than it should that I’m left alone my offspring for a few days.

The reality is, I needed very few instructions. Aside from a list of a few errands and some overly complicated instructions for the preparation of school snack, to work around various allergies of classmates, WW™ didn’t need to school me on anything. Sure I asked for a complete run down of what to pack in the kids’ school lunches, but that’s because they are creatures of habit and I wanted to replicate what they’re used to. Left to my own devices, I’m confident I would have worked it out myself.

The only thing I could have used a little help with was preschool pick up. My fatal flaw was relying on Sprout to guide me. I figured since she’d accompanied WonderWife™ to every single pick up she’d know a thing or two. However, the little monkey led me to the wrong room. The teacher inside politely guided me to another room, where my presence interrupted the class. The Bean noticed me right away and became unable to pay attention to the most hectic game of Simon Says I’ve ever seen. (Note to self: be extra good to the Bean’s teachers at the end of the year.) Not wanting to disrupt the game, I stood in the corner trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. After a while, I noticed some other parents loitering outside. Then it hit me. Nobody told me this is where we were supposed to wait until the kids are released.

With head hung low, I slunk outside to join the adults. Of course when I looked up whom should I see but the moms who offered to help me. They were wearing sly, sympathetic smiles—images of Michael Keaton in Mr. Mom running through their heads. “You’re doing it wrong.” This was not helping my case for independence.

The women reiterated their offer and I politely thanked them, gathered up the kids and headed home, where later I would cook a full dinner (with veggies…from scratch). I know that their hearts were in the right place, but aside from my ignorance about school pick up policy, when it comes to being a parent, I got this.

Rainbow Cake

2011-01-01T12:52:00.000-08:00

When asked, the Bean said he wanted a coconut rainbow cake for his birthday. For most people, this conjures up an image of a sheet cake with an icing rainbow painted on. But because WonderWife™ just can't do things normally, and because she's a bit insane, she summoned her inner Martha Stewart and made this:

(She isn't called WonderWife™ for nothing.)

The Bean was surprised and excited. And as the four of us sat at the table enjoying the cake, the Bean wished he had more people to share it with.

Now he does.

Birthday List

2010-12-31T00:01:00.000-08:00

Dear Bean,
It's ironic that your birthday coincides with the end of the year because both are a time of great reflection about the past. We've had some tremendous experiences this year, you and I. So in honor of your 5th birthday, here is a list of just a few of the things that I love about you:

You call fuel trucks “string cheese on wheels”.
You still say “gus” instead of “just” (the last vestige of your toddler-dom).
Your love of physical comedy.
Your amazing mop of thick curly brown hair.
The way you teach your sister the things you know.
Your devotion to all things cars.
Your devotion to all things Cars.
The simple, trusting way in which you see the world.
Your burgeoning love of Legos.
Your initial enthusiasm for Looney Tunes.
Your burgeoning love of roller coasters.
The way you make your mom smile.
Your laugh.
The way you told everybody who would listen that your birthday was New Year's Eve.
Your affection for our cats, specifically the young one.
That you are my only son, my first-born and an exact replica of me.
That at 5 years old you are now a full fledged little kid, no longer a baby.

The Wit and Wisdom of the Bean: Holiday Edition

2010-12-23T23:05:00.000-08:00

Like everyone else, there’s been a lot of talk about the holidays around my house lately. But seeing as Hanukkah has been done and gone for a few weeks just as things are gearing up for Christmas. Naturally, the Bean has been trying to make sense of all of this…

“Only Hanukkah people can look at Christmas lights. Christmas people aren’t allowed to go see Christmas lights because they have their own.”

"Hanukkah wins the Piston Cup because it has 8 nights and Christmas has 1 and 8 is more than 1."

"It’s better that we have Hanukkah to you don’t have to go to sleep to open presents."

Watching the Grinch for the first time: “I’m really glad he didn’t steal Hanukkah”.

WonderWife™, after her second attempt at homemade egg nog: “It’s just right and filled with noggy goodness.”
The Bean: "Ewww!"

Happy holidays everyone!

My Very Own 3D Glasses

2010-12-14T17:52:00.000-08:00

As I strode into the movie theater and gave the usher my ticket, I politely refused the 3D glasses he tried to hand me.

“No thanks. I brought my own,” I told him.

The usher looked somewhat confused and I don’t blame him. I very well might have been the only person in the theater wearing my own 3D shades. But if Oakley has their way, everyone will soon be.

Let’s face facts, 3D isn’t going anywhere. It’s quickly migrating from movie screens to our TVs and game consoles so it makes perfect sense that companies are starting to manufacture personal 3D glasses. I had heard that they were coming, but hadn’t really been paying attention. Then a rep from Oakely reached out to me.

Okay, full disclosure time: I was given a pair of 3D glasses from Oakley, but in accepting them I was under no obligation to write about them or pressured to give them a positive review. The products that I write about on this blog are things that interest me (even if they don’t contain bacon). Being the giant movie-geek that I am, how could I not test-drive personal 3D glasses?

You should know that I’m a fan of 3D movies. Well, I’m a fan of movies that make good use of 3D. Flicks like Avatar, How to Train Your Dragon and Despicable Me use 3D in clever ways to enhance the experience. So if a movie is conceived and shot in 3D, I don’t mind paying a bit more for that extra dimension.

The glasses soon arrived with a bunch of literature extolling the virtues of the lenses—premium optics designed to reduce glare and show truer colors, etc. I was excited to see if these claims were true. At the very least, it would be nice to have a pristine pair of glasses that nobody else had worn.

For the test run, I decided to see Tangled because I heard it was a good movie (and I secretly have a hair fetish, shhh). When it came to picking a theater, I encountered the first stumbling block of personalized 3D glasses: not all 3D theaters are created equal. There are two different kinds of 3D—active polarization, which use glasses with an electronically controlled shutter, and passive polarization, which use standard disposable glasses. While the majority of theaters use passive, guess which one my favorite local theater uses? So I had to travel a little bit further to try ‘em out.

In the theater I settled into my seat and strapped on the Oakleys. They were comfortable, feeling good against the bridge of my nose without hurting the tops of my ears like some 3D glasses can. Aside from that it was hard to notice much of a difference. The picture did look a tiny bit sharper, but nothing overtly noticeable. It’s like when I hear an audiophile complain that mp3s don’t sound as good as CDs or records—I really can’t tell.

After watching the movie (it’s very good, by the way) I began weighing the pros and cons of personal 3D glasses. The biggest con is that they aren’t cheap. The Oakleys retail for $150. Considering that theaters aren’t yet dropping the 3D surcharge if you bring your own glasses, these truly feel like a luxury item. While they are super comfortable to wear, and having my own glasses means I won’t be watching through scratched or dirty lenses, it’s unfortunate that they don’t work on every 3D screen (including 3D TV’s, which currently use active polarization).

I think there will be a market for personalized 3D glasses down the line—perhaps when there’s a more uniform system of exhibition is in place. But considering the love affair I have with my local theater, having my own glasses isn’t enough to lure me away. But I’ll happily wear them if I’m at a theater where the glasses work.

Bookends

2010-12-09T23:21:00.000-08:00

In the morning, I heard a thunk as I got into my car. I looked over to see that a young boy in the space next to mine had slammed his car door into the side panel of my car. I sat there, mouth agape, waiting for the mother in the front seat to acknowledge what her offspring had done. When she didn’t respond to what had happened, I thought that maybe he was unaware of what had happened. But seeing as her door was still touching my car when she turned around, I realized that she was simply ignoring the situation

I backed out of my space enough to inspect the damage, while the mom continued to get her kids out of her car. There was a little nick in the paint on my car door where it had been hit, but seeing as it was near a dented fender, the result of a rare bad parking job by yours truly, and adjacent to the place where my car was keyed in the middle of the night by some unknown assailant—and because the caffeine had not yet kicked in—I decided to quietly let this one go.

In the evening, I arrived home to witness my exasperated wife struggling to get the stubborn Sprout to clean up her toys. I told her I’d take over and patted her on the shoulder, tapping in like it was Wrestlemania. She left to do whatever it is that she does with her free time and I was left to perform the bathing ritual. Approximately 3 minutes later, both kids had completely broken down and were screaming, crying and demanding their mother. The hysterics continued while I tried to get them to brush their teeth, bathe and get into their pajamas. By the end of the ordeal, both kids were yelling at me not to talk to them. The Bean had disinvited me to his birthday party and both kids refused to give me a hug or a kiss. Neither would say “goodnight” to me. They were so upset with me, WonderWife™ was forced to return to the scene in order to get them to bed.

Nails

2010-12-07T23:13:00.000-08:00

The nails on one hand were pink. The nails on the other were blue. The Bean proudly showed them off as soon as they were dry.

That night he told me, "Michael said that nail polish is for girls."

"What did you say back?"

"No it isn't. And I like it."

"I'm very proud of you for saying that."

Fathers and Sons and Pop Culture

2010-12-01T08:17:00.000-08:00

I was watching Tom & Jerry with my son for the first time when my dad, who had been quietly sitting next to us, completely absorbed in trying to work his new Droid phone, glanced up at the TV and said, “Oh, I love these guys.”

“You what?” I said incredulously.

“I love these guys," he said matter-of-factly. "Used to watch them all the time. They played them in front of the movies. Popeye too.”

Later that night over a bottle of wine, I told my sister the story. She turned to our father. "You like cartoons? You?”

My dad confirmed that he did.

As far as I had known, my dad had never watched a cartoon in his life. The fact that I grew up worshiping at the altar of Bugs Bunny seemed to be lost on my dad. When I was watching TV, he would often swoop in the room, wrest control of the remote and turn on sports or news or something boring like that.

“Dad, do you realize I’m almost 38 years old and this is the first I’m hearing of this?” I said to him.

I was stunned and I was also a little ticked off. All of the times my dad tried to get me interested in sports and all of the time I spent fighting it, we could have been watching cartoons instead?

_______________________________

WonderWife™ had given the Bean a figure of Spider-Man riding a motorcycle. Despite my umbrage at the fact that Spider-Man does not ride a motorcycle (a fact I made well known to my nonchalant wife) the toy piqued the Bean’s interest in the web-crawler. During a long car trip, the Bean started asking a few questions and WonderWife™ attempted to answer. It was a valiant effort, but I needed to jump in and correct her on a few important details—namely that Spider-Man does in fact wear a costume.

“So Dad,” the Bean asked me the next morning, “Who is the person under Spider-Man’s costume?”

“That’s a really good question. I’m glad you asked. His name is Peter Parker…”

I laid it all out for him—the radioactive spider, the wall crawling, the web-slinging, the crime fighting. I taught him, “with great power comes great responsibility.”

As he absorbed all of this, his eyes got really big. More questions soon followed.

Much Ado About Nothing?

2010-11-29T12:45:00.000-08:00

Despite getting worked up about airport security, both legs of my trip were using old school scanners. The new scanners were in place, but dormant in Ft. Lauderdale. In fact, a TSA agent told us that when they do use them they don't put small kids in them--not because of safety, but because "kids can't keep still for 10 seconds."

As result, WonderWife™ and I were left with a lot of displaced anger. We had whipped up a nice frothy head of agitation in the days leading to our trip. I decided to take mine out on Florida drivers, whom I've come to realize over the years are just about the most inconsiderate in the country. I'm not sure how WW™ ultimately coped. Maybe that's why she was "accidentally" kicking me in the middle of the night.

So at the end of it all, we survived a grand total of 11 hours in airplanes, 4 hours in terminals, 7 hours in the car, two great-grandparents, 2 grandparents, 2 siblings, 2 spouses and 4 kids under 5.

I still contend that the TSA thing is a big issue that will continue to be hashed out both publicly and privately, but for now I've got to shake off the tryptophan coma and let go of my dreams of my mom's candied sweet potatoes and get back to my normal life.

Scanners

2010-11-22T14:33:00.000-08:00

It didn’t dawn on me that our annual Thanksgiving family trek across the country would be more difficult this year until WonderWife™ brought it up.

“What are your thoughts on the new airport scanners?” she asked me one morning over breakfast.

She was referring to the new TSA full body scanners that bounce x-rays off the body in order to take a full, revealing image of airline passengers. Many people are up in arms over the invasion of privacy. Passengers can forgo the scanner, but are then subjected to a rigorous pat down that is reported to be so invasive, some who have gone through it are threatening to sue for sexual misconduct.

Personally, it’s not the the picture that bothers me. I don’t care if there’s some anonymous image of the outline of my stuff in some back room of an airport. I’m sure out there somewhere there is clear footage of me picking me nose while speeding along the freeway. What gets me is the safety issue and how it affects my kids.

The TSA says they’ve done studies and the findings show that there is “minimal risk” from the machines. Depending on whom you listen to the scanners give anywhere from one thousandth to one fiftieth the amount of radiation one would receive from a standard chest x-ray.

I want to believe that these machines are safe, but the cynical part of me doesn’t know if I should be so sure. Airport security has been a frustrating joke over the last decade. Our government’s reaction, over-reaction and sensitivity to any threat to national security have only made things worse. Its like they don’t really know how to keep us safe, but they’re really good at making it look like they’re keeping us safe.

In September 2001, I was working at a building where there was a security booth to the entrance of the building’s parking lot. Employees had company-issued ID cards that granted us access to the facility. After the shock of 9/11 wore away and the panic set in, security got tight. Suddenly our ID cards weren’t enough. We had to show photo IDs while the guards used mirrors to check under our cars. What used to take anywhere from 15 seconds to 2 minutes to enter the lot would now take 30 to 45 minutes.

This was back in the pre-kid days when I actually worked out instead of making excuses why I couldn’t. I showered at the gym and would drape my towel over the front seat of my car so it wouldn’t get all funky inside my gym bag, which I placed on the front seat. As a result, the bag would end up being covered by the towel. Despite all of the newly installed “security measures” at the building, not once did the guards ever ask to see what was under the lump that was obscured by the towel in the front seat of my car. If I had wanted to do damage to that facility, it would have been laughably easy. It incensed me that all of the security that was eating up precious time was all for show.

I find myself thinking about this whenever I’m queued up in the terminal, shoes and belt in hand, pants sagging, digging through my bags to fish out my electronics. I realize that there are real stakes when it comes to airport security. I would be naive to think that there isn't a need for it. However, from the vantage point of the average passenger, modern airport security seems like it’s all defense and no offense. It can also be frustratingly inconsistent from location to location. I can't help but stand there in line wondering how much of it is like the security of my former workplace—just for show.

The new big, scary scanners aren’t helping. They make a bold statement about the lengths being taken to keep us safe, but are they really safe? Was the old system so flawed that we have to go to these measures? Or are we being asked to trade our health for perceived safety? There’s no way to be sure that sometime in the future these machines won’t be found to be bad for us. It wasn't too long ago that people thought cigarettes were ok.

This is really the crux of my problem—it boils down to the safety of my kids. I care less about x-rays bouncing off my middle aged skin, but how will it affect my young children? It feels like us parents are facing a Sophie’s choice this holiday season: Do we expose our children and ourselves, both literally and figuratively, to potentially harmful rays? WonderWife™ and I strongly believe that the alternative—having our kids fondled by some bored TSA agent in rubber gloves—is actually more harmful.

There are people who say that the solution is not to fly. But that’s incredibly impractical when you live 3000 miles away from your closest family and only have a scant few days off in which to see them. It’s a shortsighted solution that would rob my kids of their grandparents and cousins. Sadly, the TSA and the airlines know that we passengers don’t have any other choice and they don’t seem to be making it any easier on any of us.

But they put on a good show, don’t they?

Table Scraps Volume #6: Outgrowing Stuff

2010-11-18T21:07:00.000-08:00

I do a lot of writing. Sometimes the words don't add up to full blog posts, even though I like what they have to say. Occasionally, I will put them out as little bits I call Table Scraps.

____________________________________________________

I was tucking Sprout in on one of those rare nights when she actually let me tuck her in. I turned on her noise machine--the one that plays ocean sounds that she has been using since she was first born to help her get to sleep. She suddenly bolted up, pointed at it and said, "off". She had outgrown the noise machine.

We took down the last baby gate in the house. The covers have come off of the oven knobs. The colored blocks I used to motivate the Bean to crawl sat in a pile with slightly chewed board books ready to be donated. These are the last vestigaes of my kids' lives as babies. Each milestone we pass and each thing we remove from our house is another piece of their childhood that will never come back. When we dismantle the swing and take the high chair to the curb, I realize that I will never use them again.

We took down the last baby gate. And as the covers are taken off doorknobs and as locks are removed from cupboards, I realize that these are the last vestiges of my kids’ lives as babies. Each milestone we pass, each thing we remove from our house is another piece of their childhood that we won’t get back. The last time we’ll need it. Sprout is the last child I will have and as she grows up and no longer needs baby things, they will be gone from my life forever.

I’m counting the day until we can get rid of the diaper genie.

Sleep Study

2010-11-15T05:00:00.000-08:00

It seemed like an ordinary hotel room. It was small and simple, adorned with the basics—a bed with crisp white linens, dresser, TV. I lay in the unfamiliar bed, my struggle to sleep complicated by the series of wires that were attached to various parts of my body and connected to a machine that would monitor my vitals. I couldn't help but notice the faint glow of the video camera mounted to the ceiling of the room, an unsettling reminder that somebody would be watching my every nocturnal movement. As the clock slowly ticked, I knew that I was very far away from sleep.

I was doing this as a last ditch attempt to save my marriage. Okay, that may be a bit drastic. But I need to find a solution to my problem for myself and the woman who shares my bed...most of the time.

You see, I snore.

Loudly. Obnoxiously. Incessantly.

I awaken every morning groggy, confused. I feel heavy, as if a wet blanket is holding me down. I always look next to me to see if my wife is still sleeping, or if my sonic bellowing has chased her from the bedroom to the couch. Those mornings leave me feeling guilty and helpless. WonderWife™ seems to take this all in stride, but often says that if we had the means, we would have separate bedrooms. This, along with the fact that I am prone to wake myself up with my snoring, bothers me to my core. Her attitude is great, but I’m secretly afraid that another 10 years of her being constantly chased out of her bedroom will start to cause untold damage on our relationship.

This is why long after the sun went down one night, I drove to a medical building in order to be hooked up to medical equipment machinery and sleep in a foreign room while being watched all night. The sleep study will show if I have sleep apnea—a potentially dangerous condition where one stops breathing periodically during sleep. I'm not a medically trained professional, but I'm confident that not being able to breathe rates pretty high on the list of things that are bad for you.

If I have apnea there are a few treatments available—none of them pleasant. They include wearing some sort of oxygen mask every night or a surgery where they would slice my soft palate and remove a part of my uvula, which not only has the distinction of being incredibly painful but has only a 50-50 chance of working. If I don’t have apnea, these options are still available to me, but not covered by insurance, meaning it would probably be cheaper for me to buy that extra bedroom for my house than it would to pay for any treatments out of pocket.

The sleep study is a last ditch attempt to find a snoring solution. Not to be too glass is half empty, but I’m confident that I don’t have apnea. A sleep study years ago showed that I didn’t have apnea. I don't think much has changed.

I slept fitfully through that night and woke up groggy and confused as usual when the technician rousted me at 5am to remove the wires from my body. It will be about two weeks before I learn if there’s anything that can be done to give everyone in my house more peaceful sleep. At this point, I’m willing to try just about anything.

Being Me

2010-11-11T14:57:00.000-08:00

“So where are you going tonight?” WonderWife™ asked me as I shed my work attire and donned my customary jeans and t-shirt.

“To Don’s house,” I said.

“That’s unusual. What are you guys doing?”

“I don’t want to tell you.”

“There’s no way you're leaving the house without telling me what you’re up to,” she said with a smile.

I covered my mouth with my hand and mumbled, “Mgoingtoplayvidgames.”

“I’m sorry…what?”

I took a deep breath. This was inevitable. “I’m going over to play XBox. A group of guys are getting on line to play. It’s Halo Tuesday.”

She gave me her signature “you’re such a geek” reaction, which is to roll her eyes, sigh ever so slightly and internally question how she could have possibly ended up with a guy like me.

“Have fun being you,” she said to me as I kissed her and headed out the door.

The Force May Be Strong With This One

2010-11-05T22:53:00.000-07:00

WonderWife™ pulled an unexpectedly cool move today.

As I walked in the door this evening, the kids came running over to me and reached up their hands to show me what was inside. Sprout beamed as she showed off a pair of bunny figurines. In the hand of the Bean, I spotted a R2D2 figure.

“The Candy Fairy came!” he screamed. The Candy Fairy is WW™’s ingenious plan to get rid of the pounds of extra Halloween candy. The CF comes, takes your candy and leaves you a small (read: inexpensive) gift. The Bean had been diligently waiting for the Candy Fairy to arrive all week. He was actually aching to give up his sugary loot for a toy. “Look what she left me, Daddy! Star Wars!”

I looked up quizzically at my wife. She was wearing a sly smile—rather proud of herself.

The Bean immediately started asking questions about R2D2. Where did he live? Could we meet him? He told me that R2 fixes ships. When I asked him how he could have possibly known that, he said he remembered it from our ill fated Star Tours ride last Spring (a move that I feared would turn my kid off Star Wars for a few extra years).

Later on during a quiet moment, I turned to WonderWife™ and asked, “So why’d you do it?”

“I saw it,” she said. “And we didn’t need another car. So I bought this.”

She smiled at me and I smiled back, wondering if she knew that she had purchased the key that would allow me to open the door to Star Wars for my son.

Bacon Flavored Update

2010-11-04T16:03:00.000-07:00

We interrupt this blog to bring you breaking news in the world of bacony goodness:

The mad scientists at Jones have apparently created a bacon soda. I repeat, bacon soda. The people behind Bacon Salt have partnered with Jones on this one. Jones Soda is infamous for their annual holiday soda assortment, featuring flavors that were never meant to be carbonated (such as broccoli souffle and turkey with gravy).

If I may editorialize for a moment...Being somewhat ~~insane~~ daring I once tried the Jones holiday sodas. Once. Never again. So as excited as I am to find and try the bacon soda, I'm not optimistic that it'll be very good. (Kind of like bacon vodka all over again.)

That said, if there are any sightings of bacon soda out there. Please let me know.

In the Wake of a Sugar Rush

2010-11-01T23:17:00.001-07:00

The Bean was a fire fighter. (“With suspenders,” as he would tell everyone.) Sprout was Strawberry Shortcake, whom she refers to as “Strawberry Girl.” Two days before, I told the Bean that it was almost Halloween. He gasped. “It is??”

The Bean began to instruct Sprout in all things trick or treat. “You knock on the door and you say ‘trick or treat.’ You pick out your candy. Sometimes they will just give you candy and you can’t pick. After you say ‘thank you’ and you go to the next house,” he patiently told her. Sprout nodded her head and seemed to get it.

By the third house, she really got it. Though she was struggling to keep up with the Bean. We had met up with a few friends in the neighborhood and the Bean was running a quarter block ahead yelling, “Come ooooon guys! Let’s gooooo!”

Sprout lasted a half hour on the mean suburban streets, dragging her oversized bucket filled with candy lethargically behind her. The Bean and I stayed out for an hour. It took fifteen minutes more to walk back to our house. It took me nearly that long to convince him that it would be okay for me to carry his heavy candy bucket.

The next morning, I awoke to the sounds of rustling. The Bean and Sprout had overturned their buckets and were surrounded by piles of sweets. They were rifling through their spoils, sorting them by color and smelling the candy through the wrappers. Together, they plotted which pieces they would eat that day and what they would eat the day after.

I watched them from a distance, smiling and thinking of the post-Halloween mornings I spent with my sister doing the exact same thing.

Imaginary

2010-10-27T23:23:00.000-07:00

The Bean often hangs out with a baby mosquito. They’ve been together for a little while now. I’ve never seen Baby Mosquito, but the Bean often tells me when he’s around. He tags along when we’re playing cars. He comes with us to the park. His name is Nick Cooper, but he usually goes simply by “Baby Mosquito.” There are times when Baby Mosquito has baby mosquitoes. Sometimes the Bean will give these babies away to random friends he makes at the park. If he gives you a baby mosquito, that means he trusts you. Sometimes they will fly into his pants pocket and ride with us on the merry-go-round. Occasionally, they die. But the Bean doesn’t despair, because Baby Mosquito makes more baby mosquitoes. Baby Mosquito seems like a good friend.

Sprout hangs out with a baby mosquito as well. Hers arrived a brief time after the Bean’s. I think he might have given her one of his babies. Baby Mosquito rides in the palm of Sprout’s hand. On occasion, she will raise a cupped hand to me to show me Baby Mosquito nestled comfortably in her fist. He comes with us to the park and rides with us in the car. He doesn’t hang out with us as much as Nick Cooper, but often shows up soon after he does. Baby Mosquito seems like a good friend.

I hung out with a kid named Casper. We were together for a while. My parents never saw him, but I often told them when he was around. He came along when I rode my bike. He walked with me through the woods. I usually had conversations with Casper in the bathroom, though I couldn’t tell you why. I told Casper an awful lot about myself. He always listened. He liked the same stuff I did. He was a good friend.

The Wit and Wisdom of the Bean: Volume 5

2010-10-20T23:19:00.000-07:00

“There’s a toy in the waterhole!” (misquoting Toy Story)

"When we see Toy Story 3 at home, you need to skip the fire part because if I see it I will freak out!" (July)

“What if my tush had eyeballs? Then I’d be able to see when I was on the potty.”

“When I dream my eyeballs turn up inside my head to see my brain.”

“It’s cow flavored milk.” (after seeing a cow on a milk carton) (August)

“What a great day to be a person!” (August)

“Dad doesn’t know! He’s the father not the mother.” (August)

“When I eat this lollipop there’s water in my mouth that takes the sweet off the lollipop and puts it in my mouth. You hear that sound? That’s the water rushing down. I have a whole factory in my mouth that helps me eat this.” (9/8/10)

"Mommy, thank you for making me not a girl. I don't want to be a girl, because I don't want my tummy to be ripped open and have a baby come out." (9/17/10)

Pretending to be a cop: "I will give you one warning and if you're speeding I'll give you…... two warnings. " (9/19/2010)

Me: Why did the frog cross the road?
The Bean: What??
Me: Why did the frog cross the road?
The Bean: What frog?

Read past wisdom:
Volume 1
Volume 2
Volume 3
Volume 4

Rescue Me

2010-10-18T05:00:00.000-07:00

“I’m a fire fighter!” the Bean said to a group of cute teen girls as he walked next to them. The girls all giggled in the way that teen girls do. The Bean grinned at them. He had them in the palm of his hand.

This past weekend, the Geek Boy family participated in AIDS Walk. It’s a cause close to both WonderWife™ and me. I started walking in the event the first year WW™ and I were together. 10 years later, it’s become a family tradition. Not only does the Walk raise money, but it provides ample opportunity to interact with other people. Which is how I found myself watching the Bean work his 4 year-old magic on a gaggle of girls.

Since the Walk takes place in October, Halloween is very much on the minds of my kids. After shuffling through various costume ideas, the Bean had finally settled on fire fighter. Since this decision, being a fire fighter is all he talks about—hence his declaration to the girls.

“So will you save us from a burning building?” one of the girls asked the Bean.

“Um, no,” he replied matter of factly.

“You’re not going to save those girls?” said a guy who was in the girls’ group to the Bean.

The Bean shook his head.

“Can you believe it?” I said to the guy. “It looked like he was in there for a minute.”

The girls picked up the pace and soon were lost amongst the sea of Walkers.

“Buddy,” I said to the Bean conspiratorially. “This is very important: when a group of girls asks if you’re going to save them, you always say ‘yes’.”

“Why?”

“You're just going to have to trust me on this one, buddy boy.”

A Little Redirection: Culture Brats

2010-10-14T10:21:00.000-07:00

I've got a double shot of posts over at Culture Brats today, plus one from yesterday.

In which I talk of the impending zombie apocalypse as noticed at the New York Comic Con.

In which I discuss the unfortunate casting choice of an iconic 80's flick.

In which I uncover nerds dancing like Michael Jackson.

Check 'em out. They're bite sized bits of pop culture-y goodness (that stay crunchy in milk!).

Favorite Dad and the Statue of Liberties

2010-10-11T22:01:00.000-07:00

It was just after midnight as I crept quietly into the darkened house, weary from my trip. From the hallway, I heard the Bean’s bedroom door open. He padded out, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

“Hi daddy!”

“What are you doing up, buddy?” I asked already knowing the answer.

“I wanted to come give you a hug.”

“I’m glad you did, but it’s really late.”

He gave me a solid squeeze, took a few steps towards his room and stopped. “Um…can I…um…have my gift now?”

The night before my business trip, I told the Bean I was headed to New York City and his eyes got wide. Predictably he asked me for a Statue of Liberty. The Bean's obsessed with the Statue of Liberty and since this was my second trip to NYC this year, I already knew I was required to get him one.

As I was tucking him in, the Bean got quiet and contemplative for a moment. “Are there a lot of statues there?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“Yes, they have lots of different kinds of Statues of Liberties.”

“Are they going to run out?”

“Of Statues of Liberty souvenirs in New York City? I’m pretty sure I'll be able to find at least one." I told him as I turned off the light.

The promised Statue of Liberty figurine was residing in my suitcase, tenderly shoved into my shoe with my socks. But it was late and we were both very tired. The gift would have to wait until the morning.

I smiled thinking about the Bean, who is ordinarily a heavy sleeper, excited enough to see me that the sound of the front door opening was enough to stir him.

As I tucked in the Bean he half-yawned, half-spoke, “You’re my favorite dad.”

“You’re my favorite son.”

A few minutes later, I was in bed too.

Flashback Friday: 10 Months

2010-10-08T04:00:00.000-07:00

Sprout's at that age where she is bursting with personality--not all of it screaming either. It got me thinking about when she first started turning a corner from difficult infant to precocious toddler.

This was something I wrote in May 2009, but never got around to posting it. But I've always liked it as a memento of that time:

Dear Sprout,

The months have been passing with a furious pace and I can hardly believe that you are 10 months old. But guess what? We’ve made it through the tough times. You are growing up to be quite a charming little lady. I like the way you’ve decorated your smile with four new, crooked teeth. It really brings your whole mouth together. I’m also very proud that you’ve become a champion crawler. You’re almost fast enough to catch the cats. Keep trying, you’ll get them soon enough.

You’ve been expanding your repertoire of party tricks too. You’ve got waving and clapping down pat. Your blowing a kiss still need some work, but that’s okay. That one is tough. And it appears that you’ve not only decided to start using one of the sign language words we’ve been teaching you, but you’ve said your first word. Though I don’t love having to leave you in the morning, I do love hearing you say “ba” to me as I go.

But the thing that I’m most proud of you for is drinking from something other than mommy’s breast. You had us fooled there for a while. You were drinking from a sippy cup but stopped. Now that you’re a little older, you’ve finally decided that you’re cool with drinking from a bottle. You even went ahead and learned how to drink through a straw. Already you’re an overachiever. You’re totally your mommy’s girl.

I can't wait for our adventures together to continue.

Love,
Dad (aka Daddy aka "da")