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.

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.

Some Thoughts and a Holiday Well Wish

Friends, Floridians, Countrymen, lend me your ears...or don't! I won't be posting much this week because...Holidays!

We live in trying times. Issues are thrust upon us as a Nation that we have never had to handle before. The internet and social connections due to the internet have allowed us to branch out in our understanding of relationships. In so doing we have become the an inaccurately over-informed people. We have nearly infinite information out our fingertips, but rather than searching for (and thinking about, and deciding if...) 'good' information from valid sources, we have decided, as a culture, to take our Facebook newsfeed as law.

I feel deeply troubled by the burgeoning race-war that seems to have so very little to do with race and so much more to do with accountability, training and cultural understanding. Ferguson has shown us that there is more than just a single issue hurting us at home. While the current craziness is being brandished as a riot against police brutality, we all know that that simply isn't true. While ignorance is more common than I'd hope, no one is stupid enough to think that rioting against police will actually lower police brutality. Bullets for peace, condoms for children, etc. It's one of those things that has an inverse reaction. The more violent our populace, the more combat ready our police. If a community values violence, toughness and anger, they will get police that can handle that, and are trained to handle that as best as possible. (A small example, ask any military or former military man who the best fighter they know is. It will be a Military Policeman. Because the question always becomes: who do you send to arrest someone? Answer: Someone whose bigger, tougher, and more likely to win a fight.)

I don't want to get into this debate again I simply want to say this: I love my friends, I love my family and I love my country. I very much hope that we get by this together, as opposed to being forced to live in a situation that no one desires. The Holidays are upon us and despite the corporate goals that we have being force-fed to us with a side of cranberry and a dash of holly...it really 'tis the Season. We should be able to celebrate our holidays, celebrate those we love, without fear for our own safety or the well-being of our neighbors.

America is a great place. It might not be the best place, but it's really, really great. We owe it to ourselves to keep it that way.

So I end with this: get involved, if you want, in the ongoing debates about Ferguson, but please, read up. Find the facts. And make sure the facts are relevant to the real world, i.e. come from a reputable news source. Not some asshole like me who happens to operate a blog that sounds trustworthy.

But more importantly, enjoy your life. Take responsibility for yourself and your family, but have some fun. Don't drive drunk, but enjoy a drink!

Happy Thanksgiving. I love you all!

Congratulations are in Order

If they don't name him David, maybe they'll go for my second idea, Darth Davgen.
Future Dark Lord of the Galaxy, parts known and unknown.

Grandmommy's Gifts, When I'm Right, I'm Right.

Like most Christmases, this Christmas was over by the 26th, and it now being the 27th means that I only have so long to write about it before it becomes old news, or worse, old fake news.

I don't know why I was so surprised to be exactly right about something, as I so often (Ha!) am--yet again, my grandmother managed to fill up multiple boxes worth of gifts, wrap them in Holiday themed paper, and hand them over to us with a huge smile on her face while she sung out the oh-so-familiar chorus of "this Christmas is the last Christmas I'm doing." I have a feeling that just as she said that last year, and this year's Christmas still arrived with a doting Grandmother in tow, so too will next year's Christmas drag her into the Holiday festivities, kicking and screaming--or, entirely more likely, she will find herself at a garage sale, or in front of a product at a store that she knows one of her grandchildren just has to have, and she will buy that product saying: "This is the only thing I'm buying so-and-so this year. And they can just deal with getting only one gift." She is likely to repeat this process two dozen times (per grandchild) throughout the year until this happens yet again:

You might notice the very practical nature of some of these gifts. I'm relatively sure my cousin got six pairs of scissors. Well, five. I stole a pair. I think she noticed, because she gave me a very questioning look that asked: wait, you actually want one of them? Go right ahead. How do you feel about this whisk?

It might sound improper, or even borderline rude, to complain or joke about a gift, and sometimes it is, but in all seriousness, I have a paring knife sitting at the bottom of my shorts drawer, that has been sitting there since I was twelve. It's not that we don't like the gifts, it's not even that we don't need them. What it comes down to, in truth, is that she gives me and my cousins these incredibly useful packages, for that mythical day she just calls "the day you own your own home." While it may be a buyers market, none of us are, or anytime soon will be, in the market for an actual house. And yet, each and everyone of us are now the proud owners of a fully stocked and decked out gourmet kitchen, even if the kitchen itself is (and for the near future, is like to remain) entirely imaginary.

We all love these gifts, we always have and always will, and seriousness, that paring knife will find use someday, maybe even in paring, if I ever figure out what that is. It's almost impossible for us to even consider not getting "grandmommy's boxes."

The only problem with my grandmother's gift giving system (outside of the obvious storage issues that inevitably occur) is what I've come to call "the Favre Effect." Brett Favre has long been one of my favorite players in the NFL, however, it is widely known that the man throws a put ton of interceptions. When you hold the record for touchdowns, and passes thrown, it's logical that you'd also at least be "up there" on "picks" as well. My grandmother has come across this same problem, in regards to her own unique sport. Each year, every one of her many giftees receives somewhere around a half-thousand individual presents. Statistically, not every gift will be a hit. And even if the gift is perfect, it might not be entirely applicable. For example, take one of the pictures above. It is widely known that I am an avid gamer. I enjoy the video games. However, I do not now, or have not ever, owned a Zelda game. Despite my love of that particular platform, I haven't ever owned a system with that series even on it. My experience with Zelda comes entirely through friends and their respective experiences. And yet, this Christmas Eve found me the proud owner of a Zelda strategy guide. (Strategy guides being one of the five great gamer sins non-withstanding) I had no way of using this. But throwing it away, or giving it away, seems somehow wrong. Plus, I find it entirely too cute that I got a video game guide from my grandmother. She clearly had the thought process of "He plays video games. So he plays this video game." But beyond even that, the cutest thing of all (or most insulting, depending on where you sit) is that she thought, well, if he plays video games, he probably needs help. And so I came into ownership of a guide, for a game I've never touched.

However, the awesome reality of it all still remains: I'm overjoyed that my grandmother continues to think of me, it's great to know that someone does, that there is a veritable wall of love always lurking, looming, somewhere in the distance, ready to shower me with gifts and mixed statements about what I should be doing with my life and who I should vote for in the next election, with a pinch of "I love you" thrown in for good measure.

Grandmommy's Gifts

My mother is talking to me about my Grandmother again. Or more accurately, talking to my Grandmother when I'm around (which in this case translates into the same thing.) Grandma is upset (again,) my older sister took some things (things that were also gifts) from my younger sister, and my younger sister gave them willingly. I would understand Grandma’s issue, if she were a normal person, that gave a normal amount of gifts.

But she’s not normal. She’s Grandmommy, and she is what I have come to call a "thriftaholic." She shops for deals, at garage sales and thrift stores, if it's cheap, she’s interested. My Grandmother personally kept the Salvation Army afloat from ’83-Modern Day. The day Grandma stops shopping for deals is the day we take away her car keys, her money and her cell phone (my aunts and mother are enablers to their cores.)

Don’t take this all negatively—it worked for her, a little too well. When I was five years old, I would sit down on her multi-colored carpet in front of the Christmas Tree, next to one of my cousins, and open a box I could fit my bed into (suffice it to say this was not a typical Christmas present.)

The children would spend the rest of the evening digging through our presents, trying to catalog what we got, a task, I might add, we nearly always found to be impossible unless we got incredibly general. “This is a box full of gifts,” one of us (the cousins) would say. And the rest of us would look on and say “She is wise, mine is also a box full of gifts.” Without this very political approach you could quite easily spend the rest of the year opening one Christmas gift.

I have a theory that somewhere in her house, is a secret room with about twenty or so cubbyholes, with my family's name tags taped across the top. Each one is filled to boiling over with random toys, books and gadgets. Each year, sometime in November, I imagine she goes down those stairs with as many boxes as she feels she needs, and just reaches in and pulls out whatever it takes to fill each one. She no longer has an inclination to even look at what she’s giving to whom.

This may seem like a very efficient system, but she has caught herself in what I think of as the “Thriftshopper’s Spiral of Doom that Leads into the Penny-Pincher’s Abyss." It's a Working Title. You see, she buys more than each family member needs in a year, so she is essentially buying in advance for years to come. This would work swimmingly, if she—at some point—stopped buying. But she doesn’t. Ever.

So each year, she buys half again what she actually gives each of us. So what’s the end result? Run-on gifts. You get gifts in 1994 that you were supposed to get in '93, and so on, until eventually you're getting gifts you were supposed to get three of four years previously.

So here we are, adults in our twenties and beyond, getting boxes full of action figures, Mr. Potato Head and friends-with a few priceless gems mixed in. When I was twenty, I got my older cousins gift. A ceramic vase, printed with roses and an actual gold-enameled rose. There were recipe books for women being in shape-and a small sweatshirt. Grandma claimed she didn't mix it up. I still have the vase, it holds my favorite pens.

It’s hard to say I have any actual complaints about her system. Every Christmas for 24 (and counting) years I’ve been getting a box that outweighs me (And this is no small feat! Hah! Puns!) of some of the coolest gifts you can believe. Grandmommy's boxes are always a joy to open, it’s the grab bag of Christmas. A recipe book about only PB&J, why not? A ceramic rose? Sure. The first model of camera Kodak ever made? Every year Grandma’s boxes serve as a reminder, firstly that my Grandmother is still alive, still bringing happiness to our family, and secondly that there is no such thing as a bad gift. We’ve been told since we were children, by every Christmas movie ever made, that it’s the act of giving that counts, the spirit of the Holiday. My grandmother is the pinnacle of this feeling, the epitome of what we should want to be during the Christmas—or whatever you celebrate--season.

I hope my grandmother keeps bargain shopping for the rest of her life, it's good to know someone's out there, thinking about me. And out-shopping the average Costco Corporate buyer on her slow days.