Where Go?

My daughter is a big fan of hiding her face. When she was younger she loved it when we played peek-a-boo and she would spend hours behind our curtains, pulling them aside with a flourish and cackling with delight.

Of late peek-a-boo has become a new game, a darker game. The games name is "Where Go?" and it seems to have no rules. No ending or beginning. You are always playing "Where Go?" and you don't always know what the object of the game is. 

At first, soon after she started playing with her Mickey and Minnie figurines, she came to me and said "Plu where go?" I didn't get it at first but my wife clarified, "She wants to know where Pluto is."

After a few moments of searching I found Pluto stuck into the corner of a bag we had packed for the next day. Not even twenty minutes later Pluto had found his way into the cracks of the couch, under the entertainment center, behind a book...and each time a distraught Toddler would come collect her father with pleas of, "Where Go?"

"Where Go?" is a fun game as far as watching her development is concerned. It's amazing to see how fast she learns and how creative she is. But it's also scary. I watched her hide Pluto under the Christmas Tree shirt and say nothing. We had breakfast, lunch, watched Frozen and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Not until that evening did she say, "Pluto where go?" This game has no rules. It is anarchy. 

The other day I was making her lunch and couldn't find her milk cup so I asked, "Baby, bring your milk! Want some milk?" To which she yelled back, "Where Go?"

Now there is nothing that I despise more then her milk cup. She leaves this thing overturned on the couch, rug, wood floor, dogs back, you name it. And every single time there's just enough milk to make a smelly mess. So you can imagine how disconcerting it was for her to have played "Where Go?" with a possibly still-full milk cup. Hours went buy, hours of distress and fear. A darkness swept over the room as my toddler continued to taunt me with those two hateful words. "Where Go, dada?" Where go?

Well, it went under the entertainment center, too far back for me to reach when I'd felt under it, and it caught on the bottom when I moved the whole damn thing. Instead, when I had finally given up hope, and collapsed onto the couch in shame, I saw a pink reflection on the wooden floor and army crawled my way to victory.

"Where Go?" hasn't slowed down. It's grown more complicated. We are constantly playing multiple games of "Where Go?" at once with a variety of toys. I don't know the current score of our ongoing struggle but I imagine she has a winning record. Especially considering that she'll hide a toy, lose it for real, find it a few days later and be excited to see it. The "self-pass" of "Where Go?" and honestly a cheap way to win, if you ask me.

I'm going to be sad when "Where Go?" becomes "Hide and Go Seek." Just like I'm going to be sad when book stops being "gook" and milk stops being "nook." There's an honesty to her development and a deep joy that I gain from watching it. It's a bittersweet moment whenever she loses some part of her babyhood and grows up. Its happening about as fast as I expected, which is to say, far too fast. I feel like one day soon I'll be looking at this grown woman, ready to take the World by storm and I'll be whispering "Where Go?" wistfully with her mother. 

Then again maybe our next child will be a boy. They never grow up.

Forgetful Coffee Break

Like many UCF graduates, I own a UCF mug. As a preface to this small post that mug has an all-black interior. 

I had just gotten home from the grocery store and hard jamming to Ke$ha and had begun unpacking my loot when I decided I would brew myself a cup of coffee, for an after chore reward. And I know what you're asking, "But Dave, didn't you have a Starbucks while you were out doing said chores?" Well, yes. But I digress.

I absentmindedly set the coffee station to brew a single cup and continued placing bananas in their spot and cheese in it's spot and so on. 

As my work came to its fitful close I pulled out some creamer from the fridge. I've decided not to buy anymore creamer and I'm working on killing the last delicious bottle of the stuff. I've been weening myself off of this sugary treat for awhile so I only place a small amount in the mug. 

The mug turned completely white. I stared in disbelief. When creamer goes bad does it overpower the coffee that strongly? I had seen that the coffee was near the top of the mug! 

I looked at the date on the creamer. Expires in April. 

I stirred the coffee. 

I stood there stirring the coffee and looking at the date and just being generally confused for a moment before deciding to scrub the whole thing and just have a glass of water.

So I go to pull out the filter from the coffee machine and...

I had never put any grounds in.

Oh...me. 

Some Trials of a Stay At Home Father

First off, I want to give a shout out to all the Stay-at-home-Moms. I know Bill Burr wants to say it's easy. He's not wrong about parenthood. That's just biology. We are hardwired to love our kids and do our best. But being at home? Twenty-four seven? With a baby? A toddler? Easy?

1.) Insanity 

This is the first struggle of a stay at home. Eventually your kid won't need to eat every thirty minutes to an hour. Eventually they won't need to nap every two hours. Eventually they will want to go outside and play and be able to do so with minimal supervision. Sadly for you, stay-at-home-parent, that day is at least four years away. During the first four, maybe three years, you will spend the vast amount of your time at home. Alone. Staring at your phone and doing mindless chores. Laundry takes a long time, sure, but most of it is loading and unloading. There's downtime you have to fill.

When your child is first born, you can watch what you want, when you want and talk to who you want to talk to. Your child will ignore all of these things or sleep and you will get sucked into this lie that this is going to be easy. That you have this. You will say things like, "no problem." And then you will brush dirt off your shoulders.

Then Mickey Mouse Clubhouse becomes a must watch. Mickey Roadster Racers follows.

There are only so many seasons of these shows.

You can finish these seasons in less than a week. Repeats become a factor quickly.

But your child never tires of them.

They never. Ever. Tire.

This is where the armchair parents tell you to turn the TV off. But they are liars or masochists. At some point you have to do something and that stupid show becomes the only solution to the problem of juggling a baby, and the baby's lunch and cleaning up the snack she threw on the floor. Or in my case, wiping down the floor that the dogs have drenched with slobber after eating the aforementioned snack.

Once this grim reality sets in, you begin to lose sense of things. Just small things at first. But then someone asks you how your Monday was and you break down and cry because you honestly believed it was Wednesday and the truth is just too difficult to accept.

But you carry on because you love your child. She or he is everything to you and they are going to be healthy, happy, productive members of society that won't ruin other people's day on Facebook.

Now that you are deprived of both sleep and adult interaction and have accepted the reality of your life...your child discovers the word "no."


2.) Toddlers don't make really good friends.

Before Emma was born my best friend was an adult. It was a coveted position of honor. People used to talk about me and say things like, "Dave, yeah he's an adult person who does things."

Now that those "friends" have abandoned me to die at the paws of a miniature she-wolf who is also my best friend. My new best friend is a toddler. A toddler who is out to destroy everything I love. Up to and including herself. She keeps climbing on our really tall kitchen chairs and then standing up and that is just destroying my skin with the worry.

We only watch what she wants to watch.

We only eat when she wants to eat.

We only do what she wants to do.

We are "ow-sigh" and "wal-keen" basically all the time. You'd think I'd be losing weight but she tends to stay in a really small area or take two hours to walk the length of a street and I eventually just give up and pull out my beach chairs. I don't care if you judge me, neighbors. I'm trying to live my best life.


3.) Did I mention your friends will abandon you? 

They will. They will go to their "jobs" and they will not answer your calls and texts no matter how on the brink of absolutely losing it you are. You will call your mother and you will be able to hear the "I told you so" in her voice.

4.) The mall is great!

The first five times you go that week. Before Wednesday. Eventually the poor Barnes and Noble staff will get tired of you. And your cute baby.

Oh and if you buy two Starbucks drinks a day for two months your bank account starts to reconsider it's relationship with you as well.

One more friend gone.

5.) Eventually you turn to social media.

This is a mistake. Facebook is a breeding ground for hatred and insanity. It does nothing but push you further down the Rabbit Hole. Sure, you can find funny videos and every now and then you see a cute baby but even then...you know the truth of that picture. You know what it took that poor mother to get her infant dressed in clean clothes and stationary on that blanket long enough to take her "6 month" progression photo. You know the movie magic and it is all a web of lies.

6.) Even ESPN is political now.

Is it naptime? Want to relax and watch some dudes talk about sports? Nope. Not gonna' happen. We have protests and Presidents and stuff affecting our country. If you didn't get enough on Facebook or Twitter, come here! Now, I'm not going to levy an opinion on the various going-ons. I hate it when people tell athletes to "stick to sports" but then turn around and post their own beliefs in a never ending cycle of nonsense. Our country has a lot of changing to do and athletes and sports analysts have the unique ability to get their opinions out to a group of people who normally don't watch the news.

But I really just want some highlights of the Bucs (or Jags this year) and to hear more "MJ vs LeBron" debates.

Also the Patriots are the worst and they get a lot of air time. If you don't like the Cowboys or the Patriots, then ESPN might not be your best source of football news.

7.) I don't care about a distressing number of typical 'stay-at-home' things and that's hard on my wife. Poor lady.

My life as the stay-at-home is admittedly charmed in some areas. My wife still does a lot of the chores. I'm not allowed near her clothes. My policy on folding clothes has always been one of "well it fit in there, I'll iron it later." But then later arrives and I need the shirt so I actually just throw a few ice cubes in the dryer and hope everything works itself out in the five minutes before I head out.

I'm not one for vacuuming or mopping until things are out of hand. It's not that I'm okay with living in a mess. It's just that I don't notice until someone shows it to me.

I do cook dinner every night but even then I have to fight the urge to order pizza almost every evening.

If there's a 50% off coupon literally anywhere I am losing that battle. Every time.

8.) Your wife doesn't understand your woes.

Your wife wants to be home with the child. She does not get it when you give her strange looks when she says things like, "how was our little angel today?"

I'm not sure how this works with husbands, but I'm willing to bet it's pretty close.

And complaining to someone that works all day that you didn't get to catch up on your four missed episodes of NCIS: LA because the baby wouldn't nap just doesn't seem to fly.

9.) That dog (probably) don't hunt. 

I realize that most of my complaints sound so inane...to someone who doesn't go through it. But once you've lived this life you know.

I've come a long way with this whole "adulthood" thing and I'm super excited (and a little sad) that my child is now getting interested in numbers and colors and puzzles and things I can actually do with her. But I'm also 100% sure that I'm messing everything up and that I'm a total and complete disaster.

I'm sure there are some of you ladies (and gents) who will read this and have all kinds of strategies and solutions to living a healthier happier life with your babies at home.

Feel free to share your secrets.

I promise I'll write about them and steal all of your fame and fortune you rightfully earned with this precious knowledge.

Disney Shows Present Some Odd Philosophical Problems

I'm trying to decide what I should let my kid watch on television. She's young enough to where really I could watch what I want and just hope she picks up some words, but old enough to where she's begun to count and I didn't teach her that outside of threatening her to come here right this instant or else.

Since she has become well practiced at ignoring me and any form of leadership I try to present, it's safe to say she's getting her "1, 2 and 3" from Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, not Daddy's meaningless threats. That has to be a good thing, right?

Right?

Why it's probably Not:

Let's talk about Pluto, Mickey's lovable yellow canine companion. But before we talk about Pluto and his antics, let's point out the obvious:

Mickey and Minnie are mice.

Donald and Daisy are ducks.

Goofy is a dog.

Who is dating a cow, Clarabelle.

Pete is a cat.

They all talk. They all wear clothes. They all have homes and they seem to  have various interests and jobs they perform or pursue. They are basically humans, just as animals. In art this is called, anthropomorphism. To Disney this is called profit.

This is super cool and all except that they all own pets. You know? Other animals.

Pluto is basically some kind of weird slave companion to Mickey.

I'm willing to let this go because I didn't notice it until I began to watch a show for children as an adult. Honestly, modern day facebook probably has me too 'woke' to such things to be healthy anyway.

But then...

Mickey Mouse Roadster Racer's come along.

Now let's immediately toss out the wacky world of cartoons. You can ignore the fact that Pluto can drive but can't talk (when needed) or that car accidents rearrange cars into comical, yet functional, versions of the same car. No one dies in these races, which might set a bad precedent for your child when they come of age and get behind the wheel, but it's a safe bet that the driver's test won't have loop-de-loops and shower-powered vehicles. I think your kid will survive.

But let's get down to brass tacks. Money. No one ever uses money. In fact, the "Happy Helpers" is a clearly defined business where two unprepared, inexperienced young women go do random jobs they  are wholly unsuited for...and somehow always succeed!

And then never get paid!

I'm not sure I want to set a precedent for that. Value yourself, girl! You do the work, you collect the bill.

Lastly, Puppy Dog Pals. This is a world where dogs take themselves to the dog park, go to Egypt in the morning because their owner said something that hinted at the Pyramids, go to France to find some bread, etc. So I think we can go on a limb.

But then there's A.R.F. Now this is an robotic dog who can clean the house in a variety of ways, so long as the dogs make the mess, he can fix actual holes in the wall. He runs on some kind of black hole technology, this thing can clean up literally any mess, with no downtime, and never has to dispose of the waste afterwords.

Where A.R.F. becomes a problem is in language. Bob, the owner of the pug puppies, invented, built and programmed A.R.F. Bob does not know how to speak "dog." He speaks English. The show makes this clear when we see the dogs talking to him in "dog" which we, the audience, hear in English, but when it cuts back to Bob he just hears them barking. Meanwhile, A.R.F. can talk to the dogs just fine.

So how did Bob program "dog." It would be pretty easy for an English speaking programmer to program Spanish or French, there are already programs in those languages, not to mention massive dictionaries, etc. But the same can't be said for "dog."

A.R.F. can learn.

This is how you get Skynet people. Wait, does Disney own the Terminator series now?

None of Us Really Know how to Save the Ornaments

Today I found myself disciplining my child over hoarding Christmas ornaments.

While I was cooking us lunch she decided that she wanted Minnie, C-3PO and a few other decorations to join her collection of toys. I, being the observant father that I am, didn't find out until I was picking up her purses and putting them back on their hangers, hours after lunch. I noticed Minnie, sitting in a pile of blocks, no longer with her hook, no longer on her branch.

As I found the other 10 or so ornaments she had hidden away, my daughter came into view. I pulled her up close to me and I pointed at her stash and said, "Baby, these are for decoration only. No touching."

To which she responded with her characteristic, "No touch, no touch."

So I put all the hooks back on the ornaments and turned back around to the tree to put them back on their branch pedestals just to see her casually removing my UCF candy cane with a mischievous grin.

Now I have a conundrum facing me. Do I applaud her choice of ornament or spank her for obvious insubordination? I mean some of these things are glass and we've already lost half a dozen to my clumsiness...I decided to go halfway and placed the black and gold plastic candy cane back on the tree and told her again, "No touch. Not for Emma."

I sat down on the couch and turned on a Christmas episode of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse I've already seen twenty times this week but she has infinite patience for. And wouldn't you know it, she's at the tree, grabbing down Winnie the Pooh and Friends.

So I take the ornament away from her, place it back on the tree and spank her hand lightly. "Emma, no touch."

Now, I don't know if you have children. I don't know what kind of children you do, will or would want to have. But my child is going to compete for an Oscar.

She opened up that mouth as far as it could go, squinted those baby blues and let out a soundless yell before beginning to choke out a wave of tears that would break your heart if you weren't laughing at the silliness of  the situation. She's obviously not hurt, she's just so sensitive to me raising my voice or being displeased that she can't contain the tears...

But she also really wants to play with the Christmas Tree and my opinion on the subject doesn't matter.

So here I am, holding my sobbing, calculatingly manipulative little girl, thinking--not for the first time, not for the last time--about what kind of parent I want to be.

We all ask ourselves these questions of personal philosophy and morality (about parenting and life in general) and I think we all fall somewhere on the line of "disciplined, but cool." Like, I'm going to spank her when a spanking is needed, but she's going to love me for it in the end. Or maybe, I'm going to be so intimidating at my worst, and so understanding, lovable and funny at my best, that I'll never need to physically discipline her. She'll just be awesome because I'm awesome. She'll be a perfect angel because I'm willing it to be so. But we never really know what works and what doesn't. We just take our best guess and swing for the fences. I'm pretty sure I've struck out with the ornaments and I'm resigned to losing a few more over the course of this Holiday Season. (Which, if I have my way, would last sometime until mid-March.)

I think I have to come to terms with the fact that my kid is going to be who she wants to be and my job is to keep her as close to whole and happy as possible.

If I can keep my ornament collection intact that's just a really sweet bonus.

A Letter to my Father

Dear Dad,

As it is often pointed out to you, to my great dismay, you are not my biological father. There was a time when my mom had to go it alone, and she did a kick ass job. But you stepped up and stepped in and I'm grateful every day for that. Because of you I know how to do things. Like all kinds of things. I don't, but that's not your fault. It's not like you taught me things and then said, "Son, it would be best if you never used any of these skills and just continued to play video games." Or as you put it, "killing terrorists." 

Let's get into examples. You taught me about the importance of expectations. You knew it would be difficult coming into a child's life and just being Dad. I'm sure you had yourself psyched up for the task. In your case it ended up being pretty easy because I had never known exactly what a Father was or what your job was, I was just excited about the process. It gave you room to screw around and have fun while mom was trying to kick ass and take names with my new-found siblings. But the idea behind the message is still there. Expectations are important. Go into something like you mean it. It may turn out to be easy, it may turn out to be hard, the people you work with or for might be the best, the worst or some odd in-between kind of deal like most Presidents. But if you go in with a goal in mind, a plan set and a positive attitude. Good things have a chance to happen.

You taught me about the importance of discipline. Specifically in regards to chocolate covered candies. As you know all too well, your wife is a woman of iron discipline and mental fortitude. She is a woman who can buy a massive bag of M&M's and put them in a glass jar (you know, the kind you can see through? So the M&M's are just sitting there, looking at you, whispering to you, calling your name lovingly...) and eat one. That's right one. My mother can eat one freaking M&M at a time like she's saving them for the upcoming famine. She eats them one at a time like she didn't buy six more bags because they were on sale for 5% off. You taught me that this was not a real thing, that my mother was obviously some kind of devout priest of some yet-to-be-unveiled Voodoo sect and that I could not live up to her insane standards. You taught me that M&M's, when bought in mass, are to be consumed with the use of a bowl and cupped hands. You taught me that buying M&M's is a really bad idea, and I probably shouldn't do it. Because you, like me, have financial discipline. It is very easy for me to go into a grocery store, walk past the candy isle, and buy nothing. It is impossible for me to have candy, that I know is mine, and not eat all of it immediately. We share in this. We know the struggle. 

You taught me doityourselfitiveness. That's a new word. See, I'm practicing the art as we go. I made up a word for something, all by myself. Could I have used a word like "self-sufficient" "handy" or "tool-capable?" Sure. But it wouldn't have fully encapsulated the idea that I'm trying to get at. When my Jeep broke down in a swirl of heat and steam and I had to push the thing three miles through a rainstorm with a tiny friend with no leg strength and another friend with no desire to help (he steered) you taught me that water pumps were freaking expensive, unless you bought it and installed it yourself. I'm sure you realized your mistake eight hours into pulling out random parts of a half-ton (or more) engine trying to get to a water pump that the book said was here, but clearly wasn't, so we better remove this and see if it's there. But we did it. Did you get a lot of sleep before work? Probably not. But dammit I knew how to replace a water pump. A skill that no longer exists in the computerized world of automobiles, but don't feel bad about it, Dad. The idea of doing something on my own unless it was cheaper to pay someone else to do it, or easier or faster, stuck. Now I look at something and say, "Well, I could do this on my own for $50, or I could pay this guy to do it for $300..." before I pay the guy three hundred bucks and feel really guilty about it. You gave me that guilt, Dad. Thanks for that. 

But, in reality, because of the many instances like the Water Pump Debacle of 2005, I am not a person that stresses out--to anyone but my wife, constantly, over and over again while she listens patiently but seethes on the inside. Over the years I spent with you (and my mother, of course) I learned that I really am a capable man, that things look worse and feel worse when they first happen, and that after sleeping it off you don't really know what you were worried about in the first place. I can handle this. A lot of that I got from you, and years of making me do it myself, but being there when I needed a hand, guidance, or, you know....money and a place to stay for to do things for myself. Millenial Wisdom: To do for ones-self, one must first have a place to do for ones-self. To have a place for ones-self, one must be able to do for ones-self. 

You taught me a lot about family, and not just that family photos are lame. You taught me that family matters, and that you have to put up with family photos no matter how lame they are because they make the people you love happy and that's worth it. But you also taught me that you should complain about the family photos pretty much constantly and make sure that everyone knows you hate photos so that they too know that you're only doing this because you love them. Very much. Now move in front of me, Erin, I want them to see as little of me as possible. Take the picture, dammit! No, I will not move to the side. Well, if I have to move, David has to move. Heh, suck it, David. Cheese. 

And with that you taught me about the Buddy System and how it never works. Whether it's a father betraying his 'buddy' by forcing him, his son, to also be visible in a family photo, or a best friend ignoring your pleas to go to the gym, or a husband not wanting to go to the grocery store with his wife...if you wait for your 'buddy,' you'll do a lot of waiting, and not a lot of doing. This lesson wasn't your call to arms to go friendless and partner-less throughout my life. No, it was a simple way of letting me know that I had two options. I could make plans, and do them, on my own, in a timely manner. Or I could talk about my plans constantly, wait for a partner to pop up, and just never do anything. It's a hard lesson, but a true and valid one. Most people have some level of codependency that they have to get over to be successful in life, it's just more crippling for some than others. You recognized my desire to be social and friend-reliant early, and tried to ingrain in me this idea of, "It's OK to do something on your own." Now I'm relatively anti-social but still extremely codependent. I'm just now realizing that I got the message but missed the core concept of your lesson. Shit. 

But here it is: Dad, you taught me that a father goes to his son's baseball games even though he doesn't really like baseball. You go to his shot-putting events even though shot-putting is probably the most boring event a person could watch. Ever seen a movie that had shot-putting it it that wasn't actually about a group of Greeks getting stabbed to death with spears? You taught me that a Dad is THERE. Not just physically, but in the moment on an emotional and mental level. There was never a time you weren't available to listen. To talk, when I let you. I'm kind of big on oration. I essentially want my conversation partners to nod and tell me they agree with everything I say and laugh at appropriate moments.

You taught me that the best kind of love is the kind that is shown through a smile, a laugh, maybe a fart joke or a mutual understanding that Mom is trying to undermine what's left of patriarchal society through her daughter. You taught me to watch out for thrown elbows, especially in the kitchen. Often near chicken wings and pizza.

You taught me about the Laws of the Jungle. No leftover is safe. Did you know that I still haven't had my food stolen out of a work refrigerator? Because it never goes there. Ever. That's right. I bought a pretty baller lunch box to make sure the Laws of the Jungle would only ever apply to others. 

You taught me about sports, about sports Greats and sports Legends, you taught me that I was the worst kind of human for not knowing who Jim Thorpe was.

You taught me how to grill, and how to deal with complaints. I will forever remember the Burnt King Burgers and 20 Questions.

You taught me that fatherhood is in the moments that you're with family. Fatherhood isn't always about being right, smart, funny, happy or sad. It's about being there and loving the people you're with. It's about your children knowing they can look to you with something that has hurt them or made them happy and know you'll be there, that you've been there, and that you are ready to listen.

You watched me play every sport I ever played. You've read everything I've ever written and listened to me complain about every job and most of the bosses I've ever had. You've watched me open gifts. You drove me to school, jobs, the doctors office, half the Universities in Florida. You drove me to my wedding. You told me that it would be a blur. I thought then that you just meant my wedding but I'm seeing more and more that you mean life.

I'm going to be a father. Yesterday, I was throwing a baseball in the street. I was pulling a water pump out of a jeep I don't even own anymore. I was starting high school, playing football, graduating high school and going into college. Yesterday, I was meeting Amanda. Falling in love with Amanda and marrying Amanda and now I'm going to be a father. And while I am a little nervous, a little preoccupied with the, "how" of it all. I am not scared.

Because all I have to do is love my kid, and be there as long as I can.  You taught me that. That most important thing. You taught me about being a dad, by being...Dad.

That's a pretty big deal. 

For my personal safety I'd like to write an addendum to this note: My mom is a really kick ass woman. Dad, you married a great one. She has taught me more and loved me harder than anyone. My mom is basically the best person on the planet, and I know that my wife will be that kind of mother to my child, and I'm extremely grateful for that. But, Mom, when you read this (which you will because you're the best mom ever) know that I wrote this towards Dad because I'm going to be a Dad but that I really mean that the two of you taught me how to be a family. Through thick and thin. You two have waded through the miles of bullshit together. Made lemonade out of lemons and grenades out of horseshoes and churned out some pretty OK children. If I don't say so myself. 

Thank you, both, so very much.

My Dog's War on Christmas has Come to an End (or seems to...)

I had a really special post planned for this week guys.

You see, I'm like every pet owner, that is to say, I think my pets are the best and that they should be relevant in other peoples lives.

My dogs do a lot of funny things. The small one can't handle the wind so she turns tight circles and cries every time it gusts. The bigger one doesn't chew his food and apparently is not subject to the general laws of nature...he poops more than he eats, which if it weren't so gross, would be fascinating.

The larger one has spent the past two Christmases at war on a specific decoration or general thing. The first year I was with my wife he ate ALL of the fake cranberries. All of them. He would sneak down at night to get at them. Then he would poop bleached fake cranberries the next day. Like you and I would with corn. It was hilarious, and a little sad. I'll never forget his face.

The next year he ate the vast majority of the tags we had placed on presents. It took us awhile to figure out whose gift was who, but it we tried to re-tag said gift, the new tag would also find it's way into his gullet. He was a determined young dog, he wasn't going to let the Man keep him down.

This Christmas he began by consistently eyeing the lining we have on our TV stand. He places his entire snout in our Christmas tree. He nuzzles with our Santa Clause and paws at the bells on the throw pillows. And does nothing. Nothing with any of it. A year of build up, a blog in the works and he's grown up and isn't fun anymore.

I should be happy that my stuff isn't getting chewed up and thrown out. In a way I think we got used to it. It was such an easy way to get rid of the old and make room for the new. A guilt-free way. We secretly enjoyed buying new decorations and having stories to tell.

Oh well, new decorations can wait for a new house.

Or a new puppy.