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.

Ain't No Party Like A By Yourself Party

I just returned from my SAHDcation (what I like to call my solo vacations) this year, all of which was spent in Asheville, North Carolina going on runs, walking around the city, enjoying the great breweries, sitting by the French Broad River reading, driving the Blue Ridge Parkway, eating amazing meals and generally getting lost in thought and sometimes the lack of. I went alone, no friends, just me. And sure it was lonely for the first 24 hours. The little voices and screams that I come to be irritated by so quickly, I almost longed to hear. And the Mrs, who is always asleep before I go to bed, was not next to me when I woke up. But I got busy, even if "busy" was doing nothing more than enjoying a delicious brew in the sun and reading a book. The batteries were set to charge.

When I got home, I was happy, I was relaxed and I was ready to be "Dadda" again. But while on my trip, a few of my stay at home Dad friends were texting me to ask me how I pulled it off. Specifically, how I got the Mrs on board with such a thing. That's when I realized that maybe I have it even better than I thought and that maybe I can help shed some light on why some extended time to oneself is priceless and necessary.

When I left my last job in sales to be a stay-at-home Dad, my boss told me that while he thought what I was doing was stupid and that he'd be surprised if I lasted a year, that I must make sure to take time to myself. To get away from the family and just have time to and for me, be it with friends or solo. That just 4-5 days away could be the difference between straight-jacket-cushion-walled-room insane and triple-bond-in-your-underwear happy, not just as a Dad but as a husband too. He couldn't have been more right. We tend get caught up in the things we feel we have to do, or should do, far too much and we forget about the things we want to do. We plan family vacations and weekend trips to spend together. We have to have babysitters, back up babysitters and backups for our backups, just to get a date night out with our spouses. There is always an itinerary: a go time, a nap time, a bed time, a lunch time and a snack time, and that can be taxing. I feel that I get to a point in the year when I start becoming a less effective parent, that I give in or blow up more easily, and I know then that it's time to get away.

I took my first SAHDcation two months before the Taz was born. The Mrs was not pleased with me, not even a little bit. She was fairly busy at work, feeling very pregnant and I was about to leave for four  and a half days to NY to see friends, drink and eat like a king while she had to juggle everything at home. Now, before you start calling me an asshole. I did do a ton of proactive work to ensure that back up day care was secured for three days, sitters were notified that we may need them and were more or less ready to help if called, pet sitters were hired to take care of our animals and I left the fridge fully stocked with anything the Mrs could need so she did not have to resort to her specialty, cheesy toast (melted cheese on toast, in case you were curious). But when I say she wasn't happy with me, I mean we fought about it. Her argument was that I should wait until she was on maternity leave in two months, but I was certain that she would need me more than ever at that point, with a two year old and a newborn. When she said goodbye to me the morning that I left, it was not a happy one. I don't think we even kissed.


Aside from the icey send off, the trip was great. I did what I wanted, when I wanted. It was great to have adult conversations with all adults and no interruptions besides waiters asking how the food was (delicious) and if we needed another round (I am feeling parched, so yes, by all means). While I love the guys in my Stay At Home Dad groups, we naturally talk a lot about our kids. And while this can be therapeutic, sometimes it's just nice to talk about something else. Above that, there were no nap schedules to follow, diapers to change, baths to be given or bed times to be fought over. It was wonderful. Of course, I stayed in touch with the Mrs and the Little Man by calling every night to say hello and to see how all was going.

And as it so happened, the Mrs' work schedule relaxed over these days as well, by pure luck, but nevertheless her work schedule was not as hectic as she originally thought it would be. She was able to enjoy the weekend with the Little Man and no extra help besides the pet sitters were needed. I remember when she picked me up from the airport she immediately mentionned how happy and relaxed I seemed. And I was relaxed. I was happy. But more importantly, I was ready to get back to being "Dadda."

I became a stay at home dad almost three and a half years ago. It's one of the best decisions we have made as a family. Sure, it has had some ups and downs and still does. Sure, the Mrs and I have had spats over whether it was the right decision as I would be melting down from the sometimes seemingly never ending solo hours with the boys when she is working 80+ hours/week (and weekend) for five weeks on end. But at the end of it, I do love my time with the Little Man and Taz. Though just like any job (and yes, being a stay at home is most certainly a job), you get tired and need a reboot. As a stay at home, we wake up at work and go to sleep at work. When we go on family vacations, we are in essence, at work while our spouses are getting away from their jobs. Just as our working spouses need to get away from their bosses, coworkers and daily grind sometimes, so do I. I'm not looking for sympathy, I'm just laying it out there.

Some parents I have spoken to about this say that being a parent means giving up yourself and your interests until your kids are old enough to take care of themselves. I'm sorry, but that's a load of bullshit. Sure, you have to put some things on hold. You can't stay out until all hours of the night anymore. And you have to watch your mouth (luckily my kids can't read yet). But parenting isn't about what of yours that you must sacrifice, it's about how you balance everything; and the time away is like hitting the tare button on the scale.

Solo vacations are not just for stay at homes. Working parents need it just as much. I often encourage the Mrs to get away from it all and do something with her friends. She hasn't yet, but I am hopeful that she will soon; she deserves it. And so do you other working parents and stay at homes. So find the time, pick the place and just go. If you get back and don't feel new again, I'll eat your road map (paper maps only, please...Garmins make me constipated).

   

The Slow & Inevitable Death of Cool

I recently posted a picture to Facebook of my car with my newly purchased Yakima Skybox on the roof. A friend from college, who had just had his first child, commented that this was the slow and inevitable death of cool (thanks for an entry title, Brendan). It wasn't a remark on what others think of you, but more what your younger self might think of you or at least that's how I took it. He was right, in that once you have kids there is a certain youth and freedom that is lost, there is simply no escaping it. It got me thinking back to what my life was like before the Mrs and I had kids. Not just the usual stuff, such as never having to diaper anyone, the ins and outs of creating schedules you can live with and your child(ren) can sleep during or finding the right time and place to get frisky with your spouse that can last more than three minutes and without fear for being walked in on. No, I was thinking about some of the other specifics and some of the intangibles.

Tally: 100 cool points.

Before kids, I drove a manual Nissan Xterra. I loved that car. I remember when I was deciding whether to buy that car or to buy a Subaru Outback, a not so sage friend offered me some advice. He said that you're only going to be young once, so why get the glorified mom mobile? We scratched out crotches, chest bumped, grunted and then spit into a spittoon. Not really, but maybe we should have. The Xterra took us on some great adventures. It was even the car we drove our first son, the Little Man, home in. 

It was then that my thoughts on cars started shifting. I started to think that maybe an SUV wasn't the safest vehicle for kids. Then we got into an accident (with the Little Man in the car) and totaled the Xterra. We were all fine. She held up well in the accident and kept us safe. Suddenly, I needed a new car. Ironically (or maybe not so much), I bought a Subaru Outback...the glorified mom mobile...automatic...with two car seats...and the above mentioned Skybox. It's like I never even saw it coming. 

- 5 points for the car, - 4 points for the Skybox and - 1 point for the kids toys and books mess that is my backseat. 

Current tally: 90 cool points. 

In my BC life (before children), I used to go out, and not just on the weekends. Wednesday was just as good as Friday. Weekends were almost entirely spent at my friend's house on the boardwalk of South Mission Beach, San Diego: people watching, enjoying cheap beer, partaking in the ganja (marijuana, to you non-initiated), throwing horseshoes and jumping into the ocean just to bring my core temperature back down to comfortable. I rode my bike most of the time and carried some cash and my ID, that's it. Fundays weren't just for Sundays back then and they started at 10/11 AM and ended around 2/3 AM the next day, but not before a breakfast burrito was gobbled up before passing out falling asleep. If it was a weekday and you showed up to work with a little hangover, chances were that you weren't the only one, and if you were, you could just close your door. 

Now I get out for runs by 6:30/7 AM most mornings and I'm in bed by 10 PM. I stopped going to the beach, just too many issues: parking, drunks, nap times and now we live hours from any beach at all. If I was to smoke pot today, I'd probably just fall asleep, eat all the kid's Fig Newtons or have an anxiety attack...and perhaps all three. I haven't been to a party without kids, or not for kids, in almost three years (the Mrs and I went to one wedding and good times were had by all, but we paid for it dearly the next day). And my wallet is chock full of crap like kids shoes store/haircutters/frozen yogurt frequent buyer cards, all of our insurance cards and kids museum memberships. I look like I am carrying a brick in my front pocket. 

- 10 points for early mornings, + 5 points for healthier living, - 5 points for an overstuffed wallet.        

Current tally: 75 cool points.

I used to watch a lot of sports and the usual mix of major network sitcoms and dramas. I didn't watch a ton of TV though, mainly because I was usually out of the house. Now I am just as happy to watch House Hunters, Property Brothers, Ellen, This Old House or Chopped as I am to watch The Daily Show, Modern Family or Happy Endings all usually while folding laundry or cleaning up the living room. I might watch one game a week, but I usually have to DVR it, avoid Facebook for spoilers and watch it after the kids go to bed. Either that or I am reading a book, updating the blog or spending far too much time admiring friends on Facebook who are traveling abroad or just having a delicious meal in a not-so-kid-friendly establishment. I now find it weird not to see a crayon in pictures of dinner tables. Yep. I'm there.

TV is kind of a big thing these days. I know that TV is this big taboo in the parenting world. Some parents wear the merit badge of not owning a TV, some own TVs but don't allow their kids to watch any of it, some folks use the TV as a babysitter all the time and then there are those like me who let their kids watch some TV but not too much. I know every episode of Curious George, I know the secret words to open the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and I am starting to memorize lines from Wreck-It-Ralph. This past week at bed time, the Little Man exclaimed that he didn't like sleeping in his room anymore and that he didn't like his bed. So I stuck him in our guest room and shut the door. He wasn't happier with this situation either (the desired effect), and proceeded to try to sneak back to his room on several occasions. I warned him not to leave the room again, of course he did and so TV was banned for a week. It was awful for all of us. 

- 5 points for expansive knowledge of children's programming, -10 points for my love affair with HGTV/The Cooking Channel/The Food Network/Travel Channel, -3 points for watching DVR'd sports, -10 points for having to ban TV, + 10 points for limiting my kids TV time.

Current Tally: 62 points.

Travel used to be fun too. When we went to New Zealand in 2008, we took a sleeping pill and eight hours of the flight were gone *poof* just like that. A few cocktails, a light snack and the fourteen hour flight was over. When we planned travel it was where we really wanted to go. There was no thought of noise level, how large the rental car would be, was the furniture in the rental house white because we'll stain it, or had we checked out the list of "things to do with your kids in ______". You picked a place and you went. Voila! Even if you were a little under the weather, you took some cold meds, sucked it up, downed a drink and you had fun; rallying (i.e. if you're down, get your ass back up) was a term I took seriously and a skill I had honed over the years. You made a few playlists, read a book, did a crossword puzzle and maybe watched a movie on your computer to get through the flight. The things you didn't have were a lack of appreciation for the size of the bathroom on the plane (I never even noticed that there changing tables in the bathrooms, and now that I do, they are nearly useless as you can do the same thing on your lap) or a care for how clean or filthy the rest stop bathroom was just outside Anytown, USA on your way to Joeschmovington, USA.

Travel these days is a hassle. We have to schlep two car seats, up to four bags of luggage, a stroller, a  diaper bag, a pak'n'play, two blankies, a stuffed animal, snacks for the drive/flight, both iPads, a camera, bag of childrens medicines, Little Mans light up alarm clock and a random selection of small toys and books. Before we travel, the first thing I do is to load the iPad up with new content and usually a few full length films. If you haven't traveled with kids, the key is keeping them distracted. Obviously, the longer the better. And if something goes wrong with the iPad, then your iPhone better be the back up or some really great coloring books, toys, or snacks. Even then you are not guaranteed a peaceful adventure. 

When I flew back east in August with the boys by myself, the Little Man was taken care of as long as I could feed him and the iPad battery lasted on the flight. However, the Taz would not be so easily appeased. I was that guy on that flight. You know the one. I had the kid who would not stop screaming or crying except for occasional moments when he would take a bottle, eat a snack or if I let him crawl around on the floor (though having to be watchful as he kept trying to eat old food droppings). Otherwise it was pure hell. Of course it couldn't have been a nonstop flight, nope. We had to layover in Atlanta, thanks for nothing Delta, before getting on our final leg. Thankfully the people around me had a collective heart and literally gave me a round of applause when we reached the gate. And the kids aren't to blame. They're kids. I hate being confined to my seat, but at least I fully understand why and I can also order alcohol to get me through it. I dread travel these days. It's a love/hate relationship, but more to the latter than the prior, because even when you reach your destination, there is no sanctuary. Sure, the Mrs and I are planning a trip by ourselves, but that's for our 10 year wedding anniversary which is in three years. For now it's playgrounds, day trips, kids museums, high chairs and making sure we pencil in some nap time...that's how we travel these days.

- 15 points for the shear amount of luggage needed to travel, -10 points for our first sans kids adventure to be set almost six and a half year out from our last trip, +10 points for our tantrum diversionary pre planning, -5 points for getting applause for making it through a flight.

I'll be 35 this year. It's not old by any means, but it's old enough. I like to daydream sometimes that I would be out and about doing this and that if we didn't have kids, but the reality is that's just crazy talk. I'd be working full time, probably hating my job, saving for the day I would eventually have kids and probably getting caught up in the minutia. At this point in my life, I just wish that the bubble pod technology seen in the Jetsons was available today or that all cars came with an optional limo screen. I wouldn't use them that much. But alas, no technology or standard car option like that does exist. The slow and inevitable death of cool is upon me and so it goes. I listen to a lot of Paul Simon, particularly the older stuff. There is a great chorus in "That Was Your Mother" from the 1986 album, Graceland that sums it all up nicely:

"Well, that was your mother

And that was your father

Before you were born, dude,

When life was great.

You are the burden of my generation,

I sure do love you,

Let's get that straight"

Final Tally...who cares? I was never that cool anyways.

If It Growls In Your Bowels, You Had Better Run

I had no intention of posting this story or even telling close friends about this wily adventure face-to-face.  It was too personal and frankly a little on the too much information side of things.  But then I read a great story, somewhat similar but far worse than my own situation here at one of my favorite blogs.  After reading their horrific story, I had commented and posted how I understood their plight and shared a bit of my story with them.  However, my comment never posted.  Not sure if it was a glitch or if they have some form of approval system where they check out comments before they post and mine was perhaps not the cut of cloth they were wanting.  I certainly was not trying to upstage them in any way, as you will read below, I think I was far from it so they can keep the trophy.  But it got me thinking, eff it...I'll just share with everyone.

A quick note or disclaimer here, I will be sharing a story about poop (if you haven't figured that out already from the title of the post or if you hadn't read the above link).  If you don't like to hear about poop or poop in any form then you should disembark here.  You have been warned.

I decided to surprise the family with a trip to Disneyland over the last weekend of Mrs Griswold Wanna-Be's maternity leave back in December.  I went to pain staking efforts to hide this whole trip from the Mrs.  The kids, no problem.

This was not just a day trip.  We would be spending the night in one of the Disneyland hotels and I needed to pack for everyone.  If you have two kids then you know this is no small feat.  We needed clothes and backup clothes for both boys, plenty of diapers (two different sizes and nighttime diapers for the big guy...not me, smartass...my son), toothbrush, toothpaste, sound machines, pea pod for the little guy to sleep in, blankies, bottles, formula and vitamins.  And that's just for the kids.  I had to pack a small bag for myself and my wife and be sure to bring her make-up as well.  However, I couldn't do all of this in one fell swoop.  So the night before, I readied everything I could while the Mrs went out with the girls.  The trunk was packed and trunk cover was pulled over in case she happened to look in.  Now we just needed to get everyone out in the morning.  The lie was that we were taking the big guy to school as a family and then afterwards the three of us (the little guy, the Mrs and I) would head out to breakfast to use a Groupon deal we had purchased months ago.  I had it all under control, but the morning was going to be tough.

Needless to say, everything did not go as planned in the morning.  The little guy was a little fussy and the Mrs was reaching the point of not wanting to do this family trip to drop off our son at preschool.  Normally, if this wasn't all some big ruse I would have understood, but I was not taking no for an answer.  Seeing as I wanted to drive by the freeway exit for the preschool and then let everyone know where we were really going, I also could not tell her why I was so adamant about all of us going to drop off and breakfast.

And this wasn't even the hardest part.  I still had the matter of getting some extra last minute things: makeup, sound machines, blankies, etc. out of the house and into the car without her knowing what I was doing.  Luckily, the Mrs had asked that I stuff the car with things for Goodwill so I knew I could shove everything in a garbage bag and walk out of the house.  However, this all had to be done as she was getting the boys into the car and inevitably this took me longer than I thought it would.  I finally wrapped up my scampering around the house and when I opened the door to come out the Mrs was standing there asking me what was taking so long.  I was a little out of breath but I pieced some dingbat story together of the bag being in the garage and having to toss a few extras into it that I had forgotten about - she bought it...sort of.  Thankfully, she knows that I am a little obsessed sometimes and take longer to do things because I get sidetracked easily, otherwise she may have called my bluff.

So we were off and...oh shit!  I forgot to pull out the check for the dog sitter that I had written and hid the night before.  We were only 20 yards from the house so I stopped, couldn't come up with a lie, mumbled some BS and ran inside to unhide the check.  When I got back in the car I could feel the sweat on my back now.  I was sure she was onto me, but all she said was "we're going to be real late to drop off."  Yes we are.  Yes we are, my dear.  MMMMWWWAHAHAHAHAHA!  (good place for an evil laugh?)

I felt like the real Clark Griswold.  Well, not the real, I know he's just a character.  But you get the idea.  The alpha family man taking his family to the second happiest place on Earth (sorry Disneyland but DisneyWorld has you beat by miles - Tomorrowland is no Epcot and California Adventure, aside from the alcohol, is questionable at best and Walt would've punched you in the eye for that build).  I was giddy with excitement, and if you know me then you know this is not something I normally feel.  I don't get excited about stuff like most people.  But I had pulled off some pretty incredible shit over the last 14 hours...I was feeling good and I had yet to blow the doors open to everyone else.

As we were coming up to the exit, I found myself looking a little more towards the Mrs just so I could see her reaction.  Here it comes.  The exit is only 100 feet away and I am not in the exit lane.  Zzzzzoooooooom!  There it goes!  Now ask me, ask me, ask me damnit!  Why is no one asking me anything?  Finally, the Mrs says "Which way are you taking to preschool?".  "We're not going to preschool" I said.  "Seriously, where are you going?" she asked again.  "Anaheim" I said casually.  "No, seriously, where are you going?  We're going to be really late."  Did she just miss what I said?  So I said it again, and much like when I proposed to her (instead of a resounding "yes", I got a lackluster "thank you") the response was emotionally drab at best.  "Really?"  she asked.  Uh yes, really.  After about 30 questions of did I pack everything we needed, did I arrange for a dog sitter, did I call the school - she finally came around and started to get happy.  Not excited like I had imagined in my head, but happy.  Which is better than not happy I guess.

So we were off to the second happiest place on Earth.

That first day was great.  The big guy loved being there and most of all he was getting into riding the rides.  We rode the Astro Orbiter, the Jungle Boat, the Haunted House (bad idea with a 2 1/2 year old), Roger Rabbit, Dumbo, Storybook River, Small World, Finding Nemo and we even played around on Tom Sawyer's Island (or whatever they call it these days).  After dinner at the Blue Bayou (overpriced, but a must do if you are there - and lunch may be better than dinner) we hit up a few more rides before heading back to the hotel.  It was an awesome day.  Until it wasn't.

I had brought my camera into the park to get some night shots, so the Mrs took the big guy and I strapped the little guy to my chest and wandered around the Astro Orbiter.  Every time I stopped to take a picture, the little guy would start to whine.  To be fair though, we were now at least a hour past his bed time.  We called it a day and started walking back to the hotel through Downtown Disney.  That's when it hit me.

My stomach made that awful noise that sounds and feels like it just opened up the gullet and let everything run for the intestinal tract as if to say "you fed me nothing but pretzels, ice cream, candy, questionable theme park food and some overpriced, undercooked meat?  I'm done with this fuckery, buddy.  You deal with it."  At first I was cool.  No big deal, I thought.  We're only a five minute walk to the hotel and our room.  I'll be fine.  But having the little guy attached to my chest and his weight just pushing in on my stomach was just making things worse.

About halfway there, I had to start clenching.  I was getting the "could be gas, could be poop" knocks on my  backdoor.  Then my stomach and intestines all gurgled at the same time...oh no...not that.  The sign of imminent fecal danger.  Like Indian Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark, there was a boulder coming my way and there was no stopping it.  The best you could do was hope to get out of the way.  At this point we were about 500 yards from the hotel and every step was getting harder and harder as my clench was losing the battle against the building pressure.  I told the Mrs. that I was in some real trouble and was going to move ahead.  I had to move quickly, but not too quickly otherwise I would lose my gluteus grip and all of my edible sins would come rushing out.

I made it to the elevator only to find about 7 other people waiting and the level indicator said it was on the 8th floor and not moving.  I started pacing back and forth all while trying to regain my cobra clench, but no luck and the elevator was still not moving.  That's when I saw it.  The bathroom down the stairs.  The Mrs was just walking in the lobby doors as I started down the stairs and shouted up that I would see her in the room.  She yelled something to me, probably something about taking the little guy from me, but I just yelled back "There's no time!"  And I ran in through the bathroom door.  Luckily there was no child behind the door as I would have likely maimed or killed him (just a note, bathroom doors should be hinged to pull out, not push in.  Nobody runs out of the bathroom, that's just stupid).  I then kicked (yes, literally) in the handicapped stall door (before you get your crutches in a bunch, I had the little guy on me and needed the room), dropped trou and hit the deck.

What happened next was both frightening and exhilarating all at the same time.  My ass made sounds it had never made before and you could almost hear all of the not-so-goodies flowing out of my guts.  Then the smell wafted up and that's when I re-realized I had the little guy attached to me still.  For just a couple of minutes, I had forgotten he was there.  Yet he was sound asleep (or knocked out from the sewer gasses emanating from my poop chute).  The kicking open of doors, the jostling around to get my pants down and the exaggerated drop to the toilet as my clench muscles finally exhaled - none of it affected his sleep.  Amazing.  I still had another several minutes of pressure relief to get through but the worst was over.  And wiping with a child strapped to your chest...not the greatest thing ever.  Clearly, Ergo and Baby Bjorn did not work in the ergonomics of ass wiping when they designed their products.

Alas, I was good to go.  Albeit 4 pounds lighter, but good to go.  I washed my hands and noticed I was sweating, and not just a trickle but profusely and all over.  So I cleaned up the face before heading back upstairs to my room.

As I walked back in the room the Mrs asked if I was alright and I told her "you don't even know."  Funny thing is that my night was far from over because if you read my blog regularly then you know that I went out shortly after this to take more photos and when I returned this happened.  Magic does live here, as do some well place bathrooms - thanks Walt!