A Fine Farewell

It's been 179 days, or apparently 257,760 minutes since my last post. Since then a lot has changed and a lot is still the same. Some of it good and some bad and some of it neither here nor there. If that's not colloquial enough for you then I don't know what is. Why has it been so long since I last posted? Mostly laziness, since lack of subject matter would be an impossibility. I just lost interest. I needed this blog to be therapeutic, but it was never enough to simply get my thoughts onto the screen. So this is my final post and I plan to make it an open one and a good one.

Parenting has gotten tough, really tough.

A mash-up of the boys being in stages that drive me up a wall, one constantly pushing established boundaries while attempting to manipulate the Mrs and I and the other constantly testing boundaries yet to be set while rocking the terrible twos tantrum train like a champ. Combine that with me questioning if this stay at home parenting gig is still for me and you have yourself some really awesome FML soup.

The Mrs and I decided four years ago that me staying at home was the best decision for our family. I was already having to call out of work or to leave work early regularly to pick up the Little Man from day care and that was causing a riff between my boss and I, so I started working from home as a contractor. A year later, I had had enough of being tied to a work phone that seemed to ring only when I needed to be paying attention to my son, so I dropped traditional work altogether for full time stay-at-home dad-dom.

Like anything, I have had some ups and downs in this role. And like a typical man, I tend to internalize all of the struggles. Even when with other dads, I often blow off how hard something is for me and joke about it as if my laughing it off would make it all better and I was over it. But I never do just get over it. It's just building stress. That coupled with the fact that it is often just the boys and I from breakfast to bed time, as the Mrs can be working 80-100 hour work weeks with many of those hours falling over the weekends (Mammas, don't let your babies grow up to be lawyers…I think that's how that old Willie Nelson song goes), was making things even more difficult. It stopped feeling like I was a stay-at-home parent and I had now become a single parent. I have to play the role of the fun dad as well as the judge, jury and discipliner when it's needed, which seems to be the vast majority the time. Then when I share my parenting frustrations with the Mrs, she often sees some sort of triviality in whatever event it is I am upset over. And that's no fault of hers. Hearing that the boys were trashing their room instead of napping, or that our two year old has been nothing but disagreeable or that our four year old has been complaining about being bored all day as I cleaned the house; none of this comes off as crimes punishable by infinite timeouts. Unless, of course, you are dealing with it all of the time.

So like anyone unhappy with where they have found themselves lately, I've fallen into a self-pitying funk. Yup, the best kind. Oh, and because I know you are probably saying "well the other option is to buck up and get over it, that's an option too, ya'know", you're right, but that's not what I did. Sometimes you don the rally cap and will your team to turn it around and sometimes your team is so far behind that you just get drunk up in the stands and say 'fuck it.'

But before you get on my case here or stop reading. There is light at the end of the tunnel, or at least I think there is.

I just read this eye-opening article in The Atlantic, The Overprotected Kid by Hanna Rosin. The basis of the piece is centered around this new type of playground (though not in the sense you are thinking) in Wrexham, Wales (that's the UK for some of you geographically challenged). It's called The Land and it apparently looks more like a junk yard than a place I would take my kids for a fun morning or afternoon. It is filled with discarded or donated…well…crap. Pallets, mattresses, couches, shopping carts, tires, shipping containers, an open fire pit (yes…I said fire) and a myriad of other things you would not typically find at a place you would label a "playground." But at it's heart the article is about how parenting has changed since, you guessed it, we were kids.

As the article's title implies, children are overprotected by their parents today. Parents constantly trying to ensure their child's safety at every turn and through all of life's obstacles. Furthermore, Hanna Rosin, goes on to suggest that we as parents have also tried to fill our kids lives with not just safety but with constant entertainment from extra curricular activities, endless supervised play dates and of course TV time. She also makes correlations, through research, that all of this 'overprotection' is adversely affecting our kids. They are becoming less creative, less independent and less confident than we were when we were their age.

I won't tell you that I bought into this article hook, line and sinker. For at least half of the article I thought that Ms Rosin was off her rocker, one of those parents that lets their kids do whatever, whererever and whenever. The type of parent I can't stand. But as my background thoughts began to churn and I read on (it's a long article and I'm a slow reader), I started seeing more to this than just what a 'Return to Thunderdome'-esque park would mean for our kids. I was able to boil down my current state of parental dismay to two primary problems, an over controlling personality and my assumption that the best parent is the parent who does the most with their kids and is physically involved in every little activity from the time the kids eyes open just enough to crack the sandman's nightly delivery until the time their little heads hit the pillow for bedtime.

Then I started thinking back to my own childhood.

Since my parents divorced when I was three, my mom has raised me as a single parent. Going back to kindergarten, I have always had a lot of freedom. I remember when we lived in Massachusetts, I would just disappear with other neighborhood kids into the woods behind the house to set up kingdoms and fight dragons in places I know my mom never saw. When we moved to Arizona, I remember riding my bike to school with a friend in 1st grade (it was maybe a mile or two away from the house). And not just school, we rode everywhere, in and out of our neighborhood. We used to go over into these small tree groves on these farms and set up forts with whatever junk we could find (I think we may have messed up some homeless peoples 'tents' on an occasion or two, thinking that this stuff was just there by chance). We played stick ball with real sticks and if you wanted a shorter bat, then you broke the stick (which I did once only to launch the half I wanted straight into my thigh and then used my tube sock…it was the 80s...as a tourniquet). We were wild, but so was every other kid in the neighborhood.

But the point of all of this is not the shenanigans I got into or that I knew it was time to come home when it was dark; but the fact that I had the freedom to do any of this at all. I don't recall my mom ever being stressed about the little things and maybe she just hid it well, but I don't think so. She worried about money and how we could afford things, but not about what I was doing, how I was doing it or when I would be done (unless of course it was schoolwork, but that's a whole other topic), she just let me be me.

When I thought about it, I realized that a lot of my frustrations with my own boys has been that I'm not only always overseeing their playtime, but I am often directing it and figuring out what we'll do next or signing the Little Man up for sports, lessons of some sort or camp. All of the moving parts and the fact that the outcome, often one of the boys being bored or getting hurt or simply fussing about not liking what I have set up, only infuriates me and leaves me with little patience for additional activities. Then I feel like a shitty dad and try to get through it only to be hit with another age appropriate tantrum and it all falls apart. I am not just overprotecting, but I am also over controlling, over assisting and over entertaining my boys. The kids are unhappy and unengaged while I am also unhappy and feeling ill-equipped to be a stay at home parent and sometimes a parent at all.

So in the interest of the scientific method, I am going to test this theory. I am going to work on letting go of my over controlling nature, letting my kids experience reasonable risk and their own self created play. I want to be less careful and more carefree. I want to be less involved but more immersed. And I want to be happy, and not just during that brief period of time in the morning before anything has happened.

I'm not sure what's going to happen. I've been this way for a long time, so change won't come easily. I've been working so hard on making my kids be who I think they should be or working on things I think they should know, and maybe I've lost us all in that asinine desire to have the best kids (whatever that is) instead of just having my kids who are already the best as they are. It's trite, I know, but it's true. I've gotten so wrapped up in the bullshit of my own mind that I have forgotten to appreciate my kids for the often tender, sometimes beastly, always curious, currently contrary and cool kids that they are. And while two days ago, if you had asked me if I would allow my kids in a place like Hanna Rosin describes of The Land I'd have told you 'no way in hell', but now…who knows? And while the title of my blog, To Live And Diaper, was meant as a joke, maybe that's just what I should be doing.

Breaking Bad: Nap Time Edition

Yikes! It's been near two months since my last post? To tell the truth, I have become a little consumed with Instagram and editing each picture. I've also spent a ton of time working on my photography site (www.craftedfocus.com), as well as second shooting my first wedding. Now that I write it out, it doesn't sound like a lot. But I assure you it felt like a million things at once.

I felt that life was getting too crazy. I had stopped running. I was getting more and more grouchy. I was less inclined to go out and do things with the kids. I was looking forward to the Mrs being home more and more, but since she was working 100 hour weeks (nope, not kidding...think long and hard before becoming a lawyer kiddos) we never saw her.

So two weeks ago, I decided to kick myself in the ass and get up, get out and do something. I started running again. We got back out for play dates. I was cooking healthy meals again. But I was still feeling tied up. That's when I realized that maybe I was trying to control too many aspects of the boys lives. Too much of "don't do that", "don't touch that", "don't climb up there", "stop fussing", "stop jumping off the ottoman", "don't throw your toys", "no splashing", "go to sleep"...my blood pressure is rising just writing it out! Instead of walking quietly and carrying a big stick, I was stomping around and screaming through a bullhorn. So I decided to stop.

The first situation I have chosen to tackle is nap time.

Nap time (and bed time for that matter), while albeit I cherish, has been a thorn in my side. Our routine has been to go to the bathroom, change diaper, read 2 books and off to dream land. The first three went off without a hitch. The last one? Not so much. Taz would be screaming, Little Man would be banging, books would be thrown, beds would be destroyed and occasional crying would ensue. I would tromp up there 3-5 times every afternoon for nap and every night for bedtime, aggressively open the door, demand silence, then slam the door and return to folding clothes, finishing my dinner or just trying to relax. Eventually they would stop and sleep, but not before I was worn out and feeling completely frazzled.

So yesterday, I decided that I would no longer scream. I would no longer creep up the stairs like a ninja so as to surprise them and put the fear of Dad in them. I would no longer react.

It's 4:27 PM now and the boys have been upstairs for 3 hours. Nap time ends in 3 minutes. All three hours have been filled with screams, cries, crashes and thuds on repeat. I have said nothing. I have done nothing besides fold laundry, make a few phone calls and watch Judge Judy drop the hammer on some unsuspecting derelicts. I have nearly reacted. I have fought the urge to react. My calves and quads have twitched, like spurs in a horses side, just prepping for me to make a quick move. I have been grinding my teeth at every noise. But I have stood (or actually sat) firm.

I warned the boys that there would be no treats, no TV and no toys if they chose to cause a ruckus. I am hopeful that after a few days of essentially no fun that the lesson will be learned and quiet times will return. However, with every fiber of my being going through the ringer right now, I don't know if I can make it another day. The boys just came downstairs and got the bad news. I explained that we have rules, and nap time and bed time are quiet times not crazy times. And in this house if you follow the rules, you win. If you break the rules, you lose.

The boys finding out that no fun will be had tonight.

Needless to say the Little Man is not happy. At four, he can mostly wrap his head around the concept that not getting to play with his toys, not getting to have a treat and no TV is a crappy deal. At 2, Taz doesn't get it at all. My hope is that while in their room, the Little Man will show his little brother that it needs to be quiet or otherwise they lose everything that is fun. Since I don't have to plan activities, head to a playground or entertain them in any way, this gives me time to catch up on the ol'blog.

Silver lining, found.



 

Dear Son, You Know How I Know You're Almost Four?

10. You make people and consequences disappear when you cover your face or close your eyes (also known as the Ostrich Effect). Just because you can't see me, doesn't mean that my evil Dad glare isn't honed in on you. Also, when you are embarassed or feeling shy, walking behind me and placing your face between my cheeks is less than enjoyable for me and potentially dangerous for you. Jus'sayin.

9. Helping out usually consists of doing things that are the opposite of helpful. Like when you take off your shoes and dump all of the sand out on the floor instead of outside. Contrary to popular belief, this does not make your dad happy.

8. You just realized that money grows on trees, and apparently Mom and I are redwoods.*

(*yup, I am now saying the same crap my parents said to me. To be released this summer: "No, I will not open the windows. I'm not paying to air condition the world", "What? You writing a book? What's with the all the questions?" and "Do you have a plane to catch? Sit down and relax.")

7. You make the most annoying sounds in the world and are never more confused than when I tell you just that, as if there is a key to the joys in the universe and only you get it. This concept will probably be in the forefront for the next eighteen years. I suppose I should just get used to it.

6. It's always an accident when you do it, but it's never an accident when it happens to you.

5. Going to a baseball game means eating ice cream and playing on the playground, not watching baseball. I am thankful for minor league ballgame prices.

4. "When are we going to be there?" is a legitimate question as soon as you get in the car and then every 3-5 miles afterwards. Yet another reason that all cars should have the option of a limo window or the Jetsons' bubble pods, can someone make that happen...soon?

3. Pulling your brothers diaper out to look for poop is a fun activity and not at all weird. I guess I should be happy you haven't stuck your finger in there yet...or have you?  

2. Having to eat your vegetables in order to enjoy dessert is an absolutely ridiculous notion. Equally ridiculous: washing your hands, brushing your teeth and not wiping your ass with you bare hand.

1. The biggest injustices of the world include such things as: I had that toy first, I wanted to wear my superhero shirt so why isn't it clean, the boy in school roars back at me when I roar at him, I don't want to take Dad's car I want to ride in Mom's car, the dog (a 60lb Golden Retriever) knocked me down when I pulled his tail and you weren't supposed to win the race because I'm super fast. The world is an awful place. Your life must be rough.

You know, buddy, Grams always tells me how she never thought I would make it to see my fifth birthday. Somehow I did. You'll be four in a month. As for five, well, let's just see how four goes.

Love you,

Dad

A'camping We Will Go

I may look like a mountain man, but I assure you that I am no Paul Bunyan. I don't own an axe. I have a golden retriever named Baloo, but no blue ox named Babe. However, I do look pretty good in flannel and I was once a wiz at Oregon Trail. So I got that going for me, which is nice.

I have never been camping in my life. Save your exasperations. Yes, I was deprived as a child. It's horrible, I know. Blame my parents.

I have been determined not to let my kids be as sheltered as I was (I kid, mom, I kid.) But in all seriousness, I have wanted my kids to be able to enjoy some of their youth camping. What's better than spending a few days getting dirty, negating baths, eating over a fire and sleeping under the stars? Says the guys who has never camped before...though in all fairness, what is better than that?

So over the last two weeks I have spent enough time in REI to earn some recognition. After walking in for the third time in as many days I was greeted with: "Good afternoon, Mr Brophy". Not everyone can say that, and now I can...so eat that Ed Viesturs. But alas I was set. Solid tent in the Big Agnes Flying Diamond 6. Great sleeping bags from Poler Stuff. A solid stove from Camp Chef in their two burner stove and just about every other accessory one could need or want for a car camping trip.

The weather report for Hanging Rock National Park over the weekend was not ideal to say the least, with thunderstorms and tornado warnings for the area on Friday night and near freezing temps (albeit clear) for Saturday night, however I was optimistic that we'd be fine. Even as we were driving through Greensboro, getting sacked by torrential rain and watching clouds roll like I've only seen in Storm Chasers, I thought we'd be okay. Then as we seemed to move out of the eye of the storm and further out into the country, it all seemed to be getting better. That is until we reached the campsite and drove by three sites within 300 yards of our own with snapped, downed pine trees. And what was standing above our campsite like Mother Nature's own mace? A pine tree.

Have I mentioned that I have never camped before? Did I also mention that I have the Little Man and Taz in tow? Have I admitted how neurotic I can be?

A hotel was not far from my mind at this point.

After viewing six other open sites, driving around, checking out the closed visitors center, talking with park rangers, getting the inside scoop from the lovely old couple at the registration trailer, hemming and hawing, I finally decided we would stay with our original site. So I got the tent set up with a little help from another SAHD who organized the trip, our goods moved in and the stove lit up to cook hot dogs for dinner in mild winds and intermittent rain. Not bad for the camping novice I am.

While I knew that the weather would get cooler by the evening, I thought our tent would be more insulating. Not so much (and I also left the vents open...I'm a freaking genius). The temps dropped into the 40s and the Taz was in his pak'n'play and was refusing to stay under his blanket as well as the extra blanket I brought for him. He woke up four times during the night at about two hour intervals. That combined with the wind coming over the ridge every 30-40 minutes like a jet approaching from the distance and I got maybe three hours of sleep. Each time I was listenning for branches or, god forbid, whole trees snapping with each mighty gust. I was game planning for the pine tree (a.k.a nature's mace) just 40 feet away to come crashing in on us and how I would attempt to protect the boys and thinking I could somehow grab the pak'n'play, flip it over all of us in some sort of Hollywood stunt as razor sharp branches missed us all by only inches. Have I mentioned that I am crazy?

Morning came. We survived. I am dramatic.

After a good Entenmann's coffee cake breakfast we headed out to find cell phone reception, just a mere fifteen mile drive, so we could let our wives know we were alive and to also find out any updates on the Boston Marathon manhunt. With the wives nerves soothed and the second suspect caught, we headed back to Hanging Rock for a hike to the park's namesake peak.

The hike is a relatively short one at 2.6 miles (roundtrip), but mind you we have a near three year old, a near four year old, a 20 month old and it's about a mile and a quarter up steep hills. This may as well have been 26 miles. But everyone did well. The Little Man became Little Bighorn after about a half mile into the hike, as he casually bounded up the stone steps and asked to climb every rock in sight. Everyone seemed to be elated to make it to the peak. The views were unbelievable with visibility as far as the eye could see. And being that the site is called Hanging Rock, you can dangle your legs over the edge of a various number of cliffs while enjoying a snack if you so decide.

After the hike, the other SAHD and I decided that trying to get our kids through near freezing temperatures would be silly. If we were sans kids and could set up a fire, drink some beers and just hang out, things may have been different. But seeing as the kids started fighting over sharing bubble sticks while taking a trip to the nearby lake, we decided to call the trip over. There would be no merit badge for getting our kids through the night without frostbite. With only a two hour drive home, it made a ton of sense. So we packed up the cars, took a few last looks and headed home.

I learned that I am in no way, shape, manner or form an outdoorsman. However, I love the outdoors. It's relaxing. But I barely know my ass from a hole in the ground when it comes to camping. At least I have room to grow. The boys seemed to have really enjoyed the trip, though I know the Taz will never remember it and Little Man will need pictures of the weekend to potentially recall anything. As for camping again, we're already planning our next trip in a few weeks, but we'll aim for a warmer weekend and a closer destination for attempt number two. This move to the east coast seems to be getting better and better with each passing month.

Take Me Out To The Ball Game...

I don't know what it is about going to baseball games that always make me feel that I am participating in something much large than myself. That by going out to any game, be it tee-ball or a major league game, you are engaging with history. It's as if baseball is programmed into our DNA. The sight of a baseball stadium makes me smile. The smell of the hot dogs, the taste of a cold beer and watching a little 9-on-9 while shared with friends and family is about as good as it gets. The funny thing is that, as far as sports go, I don't really care for baseball all that much. I almost never watch it on TV and if it weren't for listening to hours of ESPN radio everyday, I wouldn't have a clue as to what was going on in the sport.

While in San Diego, we went to roughly four to six games per year over the ten years were there. The Padres are notoriously awful, but the stadium is the draw. It's right downtown with plenty to do before, during and after the game. If you have kids, I would wager that there is no better major league park in the world and certainly no better weather to enjoy it in. Petco Park is truly a special place. There are no banners there...at least none that anyone cares about. No real superstars have been a part of the team since Tony Gwynn, though I guess closer, Trevor Hoffman, could be added to the short list. And more often than not the fans are for the opposing team. Maybe that's why I enjoyed it so much though. Since I don't care who wins and I have no ties to any baseball team, it's just getting outside and watching live sports.

Now that we have moved to Raleigh, we had to take advantage of the local minor league triple-A team, the Durham Bulls (if you are interested in the history of the team, check this out). And yes, this is the same team made famous by the 1988 Kevin Costner film, Bull Durham. That was, of course, filmed in the old stadium, Durham Athletic Park (DAP), which still stands and acts as the stadium for the North Carolina Central University baseball team. 

The Bulls have a beautiful new stadium. Great choices for beer and food including Foothills Brewery which carries a great pilsner and IPA (Torch and Hoppyum, respectively) and Rita's Italian Ice (I truly enjoyed introducing Taz and the Little Man to what was such a childhood staple of mine). There is a playground behind the right field stands. Across the street is the American Tobacco Historic District, which is filled with businesses, restaurants, bars and tons of room for the little ones to run around (helpful tip: a great spot to tire out the kids for a little while before the first pitch so you can watch a little of the game before the kids are ready to go again). Beyond that, the organization goes out of its way to make these games not just family friendly, but family fun too. Between most innings, a kid is picked out and brought down to participate in some sort of game on the field while the crowd cheers them on.

Taz and Little Man hung tight for three and a half innings before dragging me to the playground. I even got to explain some of the aspects of baseball to the Little Man. I don't think he gets much if any at all of the positions, the games rules or its quirks, but he genuinely seemed to enjoy watching the home run we saw and that probably had more to do with watching the giant bull in the outfield blow smoke out of its nose. I can't blame him, it was pretty cool. The Little Man didn't make it a full inning without asking to go to the playground or asking to get some ice cream at least twenty times, but he's three, so I wasn't expecting to talk about ERAs or RBIs. Taz on the other hand was mesmerized by the game play of the first inning and half, though after that he seemed more content yanking on my beard, pointing at random things and trying to wriggle free of my grasp.

During the time we were there, I kept reminding myself to stay in the moment and not get carried away by the usual stuff the boys do to set me off. And for the most part it worked. I really enjoyed our time there. It felt almost ritualistic to be doing it, especially since this was our first time sitting in the stands and not on some grass beyond the outfield with limited views of the games. No, this was as close as we've been, just the boys and I. I have fond memories of most of the games my father took me to as a kid, from spring training sessions to games at the old Yankee and Shea stadiums. While I've never had much of a desire to check out every major league ballpark, for some reason this game got part of me thinking about maybe putting something like that on the bucket list and to do so with my boys. As for this game, I've got the images stored away in my head forever now and I can't wait to get them out to another game.

Killing Me, Slowly

If you haven't seen it, Jim Breuer does a great bit on kids and how they affect your life (start watching at 4:05 through 7:20).  Cliff notes version...your kids are slowly killing you.  One minute you are loving them and laughing about something silly they did, the next you are screaming at your older kid for punching your youngest in the head using a Duplo block like some brass knuckles and the next you are about to have a heart attack as your youngest decides that now is a good time to roll off the changing table as you get more diapers from the closet.  This is all in the span of a few hours, and this can often be an everyday thing (maybe not the changing table...hopefully you, and by you I mean I, only need to learn that lesson once).  Human beings were not meant to go through those sorts of emotional ups and downs in a single day.

A friend texted me the other day that he and his boys would be missing lunch with us at a local brewery (what? you don't have a few beers on a Wednesday afternoon?) as his older son was pushed off some sort of playground apparatus and that they were in the ER getting x-rays for what eventually turned out to be a broken wrist.  I can't tell you the number of times I have seen my kids take some tumbles and started worrying about broken limbs.  So far the boys have earned various merit badges of chipping a tooth, splitting upper and lower lips, a hyper extend knee (had to get X-rays for that), tongue biting and of course bruises from knees to forehead.  Thankfully, we have managed to avoid anything very serious.  But it hasn't kept me from worrying.

I told my friend that broken bones are a solid 7 out of 10 on my 'shit-my-kids-will-do-to-put-me-in-an-early-grave list'.  So I got to thinking, what would that list look like right now (as it will undoubtedly change as the boys get older and dumber  become freer spirits.  I give unto you my SMKWDTPMIAEG List (you didn't think I was going to write that out again, did you?).

*just a quick explanation, there are a lot of terrible things that can happen to a kid, this list is simply what can happen on a daily basis

And without further ado:

1.  Eating Food Off The Ground

I'm all for the three second rule, except when I'm not.  

2.  Eating Sand

As long as it's not glass or a needle, eating sand remains pretty low on my list.

3.  Kneeling Or Not Sitting Properly In Chairs/Standing On Couches/Jumping On The Bed

The Big Guy just reaffirmed my concern for this while we were recently on vacation.  Long story short, he was leaning too far over to one side of the chair playing with the Little Man, lost his balance, fell over, hit his face on the restaurant's slate floors and then the chair fell over and cracked him on the cheek.  Good times.

4.  Running Around The House

I know, I know.  I sound like an old so-and-so, but it's true.  If you have kids and they run around the house, they take falls.  Going bare foot, there is less of an issue but even the "sticky" socks don't solve this.  I have seen the Big Guy take some turns on the hardwood floors only to have his feet fly out from under him as I then watch his face bounce off the floor.  He has split his upper and lower lips so many times it's mind numbing.

5.  Learning To Kneel/Stand/Walk

Bruises.  Bruises.  And more bruises.  I've had more skipped heart beats than I care to count watching the boys go through these stages.  What puts this at the middle of the scale is that as a parent you are supposed to let them fall, because if you sit there and catch them every time, they never learn to catch themselves.  I have aged at least a month for every fall I have watched, and week for every teeter-totter I have prematurely leapt up from my seat in order to make a diving infant catch.

6.  Rolling Off The Changing Table

You can't turn your back or trust your children.  You do and when you turn back around they will be in the throws of death.  When the Big Guy was not so big, I went to remove the bag from the Diaper Genie while he was on the changing table.  I turned my back for three seconds as I tied up the new bag...THUD.  The Big Guy decided to roll right off the three foot high table and onto his back.  Luckily he managed to make it far enough out to land on the area rug, so there was no other issue than scaring himself as well a me a little more than half to death.  One of the worst moments of my fatherhood to date.

7.  Playgrounds

Playgrounds are breeding grounds for skipped heart beats, scraped knees, broken bones and other fun stuff.  We are encouraged, if not brow beaten, to childproof our homes, then we head out to a playground where ten foot climbing walls, wheeled monkey bars, fireman's poles and steep twisty slides await our little ones misstep or a hard push in a game of tag ends in a kid getting knocked off a five foot tall play structure.  The new spongey grounds are better than concrete, but they only do so much.  I loved playgrounds as a kid, I hate them as a parent.

8.  Public Restrooms

As I don't frequent the ladies room, and as I have two boys, I can't really speak to the cleanliness and sanitary concerns of using women's public bathrooms (though to be honest I have heard some horrific stuff - some of you ladies should be ashamed).  As for the men's room...well...they're all fucking nasty.  I don't care if it's the Ritz-Carlton or Bub's Bar and Grill...men round the world and of all levels of socio-economic status lack the ability to pee into urinals or toilets.  Most men don't believe in flushing either.  And worst of all, there are a good number of men who believe that the obligatory "shake" afterwards can happen anywhere between the pisser and the sink.  Taking my boys into a public restroom is near pure panic for me, and the boys don't make it any easier as they want to touch everything...and I mean ev-er-y-thing.


I technically have a 9 and 10 on the scale, which are birth at 9 (if you weren't scared out of your mind for your wife, your kid and yourself during those moments before during and after your child entered this world then you're either a liar or James Bond) and at 10 - kidnapping or terminal illness...no explanation necessary.  But both of those are things that don't happen on an average day...so I kept them out.

Sure, I'm a little crazy, a little tightly wound and perhaps a smidge overprotective.  You may see me in these places where my fears are growing and think "he looks cool, calm and collect - no problem here".  I'm not.  Inside, I am losing my mind.  Luckily, it's only the Mrs that is going gray right now and she's younger than me.  Though I suspect I'll just wake up one morning with a full head of white hair.  Hopefully the kids will be on their own by then.