The Reward is Finally Here!

My daughter has become the carrot at the end of the stick.

If I am having a tough day at work, I think of her. I know once I get through the day, she is waiting for me, smiling and laughing. In fact, some days I even leave a little earlier than normal so I can see her sooner.

Yes, the REWARD is finally here. She finally knows who I am and smiles and laughs with me. I was a little worried for awhile. Drowning in spit up, living life in a sleep-deprived fog and holding my nose through bouts of explosive ass disorder, I was convinced this whole baby thing was not my cup of Similac. I kept looking at her for some sort of confirmation that she even knew I was her daddy, let alone that she wanted to establish a long-term relationship with me. All I got were blank stares and scream-cries. It was like telling Alec Baldwin to turn off his I-phone.

But now we have turned a corner. The Gregg household is looking up. Sydney is smiling and laughing. She particularly likes when I recite her ABCs to her or when I sing Christmas carols while forcing her to dance along. But her favorite is when I move her legs in bicycle fashion and sing a song about “riding the bike to see the daddy!”

Her smile melts my heart.

So, it is easy to think of her as I navigate through another work day. She makes it all that much easier.

It is not that I don’t like work. I have the work ethic of a pack mule. I earn two weeks of vacation a year and have six saved up as of right now. That means in the five years I have worked at my current job, I have taken less than a week of vacation a year.

It has been like this since I was 13 years old. Yes, you heard that right – I was putting in 60-hour work weeks when most kids were discovering their Atari video games.

We had a sweet lady in our neighborhood, Ann, who put a crew of kids together to help sell products made by the blind. These were brooms, lint brushes and ironing board covers made by blind folks that she would buy and then resell at a higher price, pocketing the profit. She supported people who needed it and made a living at the same time.

Members of her crew received $1 for every item sold. She’d pick us all up in the morning, drive to a random Ohio city within a three-hour drive and put us out for the day. We would walk the streets all day, going door-to-door and trying to convince little old ladies that straw brooms and silicon ironing board covers were exactly what they needed to make their life complete.

I set about every sales record that existed. I was a sweet little blonde kid with big blue eyes who had somehow learned the gift of gab at a young age. I averaged 30-40 sales a day when 20 was considered good. I once sold 60 items in one day working the streets of a town called Shelby! We did this six days a week, so I was raking in about $200 a week, tax free. I paid for everything myself. My food, my school clothes, my trips to Chi-Chis with my girlfriend. (What the hell ever happened to Chi-Chis? THAT was a good Mexican restaurant.)

So, Ann picked me up about 7 a.m. every morning and dropped me off at about 10 every night. That’s 15 hours, six days a week. My work ethic was formed in 90-degree summer days carrying brooms and lint brushes for blocks on end.

I could write a book about those days. Six teenage boys with raging hormones packed into a car all day. You can imagine the discussions and fights that took place. The crew would change off and on, but it was always full of characters. We actually had a kid who freaking shot and killed a girl! He didn’t show up for work one day and we were like, “Where is Harold?” Ann says, “Well, he was playing with a gun last night and accidentally killed a 10-year-old girl.” “Well that sucks. Can we stop at McDonald’s for breakfast?”

Seriously, we were a bunch of idiot kids whose biggest concern was getting a hot, bikini-clad 17-year-old to answer the door on one of our sales calls and invite us in, 1970s-porn style. Some of the things we said were extremely disrespectful to 50-something Ann. That poor, sweet woman eventually gave up on us and let her husband take us out.

He turned out to be one of us. He’d jump in with stories of his own youthful indiscretions, always one-upping us. And he was addicted to gambling. He’d spend $50 a day on the lottery! He even started playing it for us, taking our money and putting it down on our birthdays or whatever. I’m pretty sure that was illegal. Sure, I was only 15, but what the heck, give me $5 on 7-1-0. Too bad Powerball wasn’t around back then.

Bob was great. He even taught me to drive. But he eventually drove me out of the broom business. He got this idea that, instead of driving to a new town every day, we would rent rooms at a fleabag motel and stay somewhere for a week, working out of the motel. Think Bates Motel. Think roach motel. Think gunshot wounds.

Not only were the motels nasty, but this led to free time. We started playing late-night card games. I loved playing cards – until I caught Bob cheating! I caught him dealing off the bottom of the deck in a game involving 15-year-olds! Out of respect for him – and probably a little fear -- I never said a word. But I never played cards again and that was my last summer selling brooms.

But the hard work continued in college. I worked at a huge water park. It was a ski resort in the winter and then converted to a water park. We spent the first couple weeks of May getting the place ready for the summer. About two weeks into the job, I was using a sledge hammer to tear up concrete filled with ribar. Believe me when I tell you this is manly work, the kind of work your Uncle Phil does. The kind of work you went to college to avoid.

We were planning on going to an INXS concert that night and I wanted to get out early. The boss said I could leave when the concrete was ripped up. So I was working my ass off. The boss – an Uncle Phil-type -- even said something like, “You must really want to go to that concert, I am not sure I have ever seen anyone rip up concrete that fast.” I could tell he meant it. Now when a manly man tells that to a college kid, that is quite a compliment.

So, I am plugging away when the BIG BOSS drives up on his four wheeler. This guy was a NAZI who rode around the park all day yelling at workers to ensure everything was exactly as he wanted it. You know the type. We have all had them in our past. They are mad at the world and seem to get a kick out of bossing people around.

When he pulled up, I didn’t notice him. This happened to coincide with me needing a short break from the back-breaking work I was performing. So I stopped and leaned on my sledge hammer for a few seconds.

“You’re not going to get much work done standing there all day,” he said to me with his smug attitude.

Now, if you know me, you know I am the reason anger management classes were invented. I have a switch that goes from zero to 60 in a twitch.

I turned around and yelled, “Fuck you, Art! I have been working my ass off all day. You have no fucking idea what you are talking about.”  I glared, seething, waiting for him to say anything. Mostly I expected him to utter “You’re fired. Pack your shit and get out of here.” My weasly little boss – not Art, the middle manager -- just stared, his mouth agape. He later told me he was too flabbergasted to talk. 

Art stared at me but never said a word. He got back on his four-wheeler and drove away. I couldn’t believe it. My boss couldn’t believe it. Two hours later, I was singing along to Listen Like Thieves with Michael Hutchence and the band.

The next day, I found out I was banished to the campgrounds for the rest of the summer. Instead of a great job like handing inner tubes to bikini-clad water parkers, I would help build the park’s campground. I was stuck doing Uncle Phil-type work all summer. But I had legendary status among my teen-age co-workers as the guy who cussed out Art.

To this day, if I met Art out on the street, I am pretty convinced I would challenge him to a fight.

But not every job I have had has been back breaking or filled with long hours. One summer, my friend and I decided to drive to California and live for the summer. We had visions of Beach Boy songs dancing in our heads. We figured we would live with a relative for a couple of weeks until we found jobs and picked up our first pay checks. Then, we would move into a beachfront apartment.

Well, that happened. But not without a few detours.

We arrived in Burbank, California to find no beach in sight. In fact, it was all concrete jungle. We were staying with my aunt and grandma, sleeping on the living room floor. That first night, we went out for dinner and a few drinks to celebrate our safe arrival. The next morning, at 7 a.m., we were greeting by my grandma popping the tab on her Pabst Blue Ribbon and saying, “You boys better get up and get out there and get you a job. You are not going to be lying around this house all day.” Right. Our stay with grandma wouldn’t last long.

We somehow made it down to Oceanside, which had a real beach and looked like what you would expect of California. We picked up jobs as construction workers. The guy told us to show up at 8 a.m. the next day. So we happily drove the two hours back to grandma’s so we could get a good night’s sleep and a shower before starting our new job.

The next day, we left at 5 a.m.. Unfortunately, we had no idea about I-5 traffic. California is absolutely freaking crazy when it comes to traffic! Our two-hour drive took three hours and 15 minutes. We were 15 minutes late. We walk in and the guy says, “I have no work for you.” Welcome to the real world, college boys!

We decided to stay in Oceanside and find jobs. Grandma’s lectures were too brutal. We lived in our car, parking it at a busy rest stop. Luckily, it was one of those old 1970s models, so it was pretty big and had long seats that we could sleep across. At this point, we had no money, so a hotel was out of the question. In fact, just eating was an adventure. We found a place that sold hamburgers for a quarter and would order four for a meal. The rest stop actually had a food cart where the food was free. Well, they had a suggested “donation” jar, but I was sleeping in a car and washing my hair in a rest-stop sink, so they weren’t getting a donation from me.

My buddy, Kevin, found a job as a roofer. I found a job signing people up to be solicited to attend “college.” California has a million of those “colleges” that prey on people who don’t know better. “Get your degree from ITT!” “Learn to be a nurse in 13 easy years!” Holy Rosetta Stone, how do people fall for this stuff?

I worked for a company that sold names and phone numbers to those colleges, so they could call people personally and make their sales pitch. I earned $2 for every valid name and phone number I turned in. This is where my training as a broom salesman came in handy. All I had to do was get someone to trust me enough to give me their phone number.

I got the great idea that I would stand in front of the unemployment office all day. People actually thought I worked for the unemployment office, so when I asked, “Are you interested in a good-paying career? Let me sign you up.” they felt they had to say yes or they would lose their unemployment checks. Yeah, that’s right. I’m TRICKY.

Kevin would leave at 7 a.m. for his Uncle Phil-type job. I would leave at 8, so I was still sleeping when he left. When he got home at 4:30, I had already been at the beach for a couple of hours. If I didn’t collect a $300 paycheck every week, he would never know I had a job.

So yeah, I could write a book about my jobs. Nobody would buy it, but I could write it. Hell, Harold is probably doing time in some prison right now. I could probably sell one to him just so he had something to kill the time.

My point is, Sydney is a darling right now. If she is not crying because she is tired or sleepy, she is smiling and laughing. This is what I signed up for. Brooke kept telling me it would get better, and it has.

So, even though I am used to hard work and I enjoy the job I have now, I am finding my work ethic to be challenged by this little 12-pound spit-up machine. There are some days I can’t wait to get home to see her, so I might sneak out a little earlier than normal. That drive home is filled with anticipation of opening the door and taking her from my wife for those 15 minutes of “smiley” time that make the whole day worthwhile.

She’s the carrot that keeps this donkey pulling the cart.

The Night I Screwed Up

Ok, I did something this week that I had hoped I would never do as a dad. I seriously screwed up.

First, let me tell you that your emotions seem to grow when you are a dad. You feel things more deeply. When my little girl smiles at me, it melts my heart. I can’t wait to get home from work each day to see that smile.

Other emotions are more intensified, too. Particularly, the feeling of pain. If she hurts, I hurt. Believe me, when I tell a teenage Sydney “This hurts me more than it hurts you” as I punish her, she will scoff and call me a Mo-Fo under her breath, but it will be true.

I recently took her to the doctor’s for her monthly shots. I had to look away. I hate shots anyway, but this tiny girl barely has enough skin for a needle prick. I had to fight back the tears as they used her as a pin cushion.

Of course, Sydney did not. They heard her cries three blocks away. She has lungs like Bette Midler and the pain tolerance of Barry Manilow.

Have you ever really thought about the crying thing? I can understand crying from pain. But how do they learn that crying will get them fed or held? How do they know to cry those crocodile tears, the kind that pull at your heart strings and cause you to pick them up, which somehow miraculously ends the crying?  Do child care centers teach babies courses on parent manipulation?

My daughter is to crying as Herman Cain is to sexual harassment. A master. She will melt your heart when she sticks out her lower lip and turns on the emotion. She might be trying to manipulate, but daddy falls for it every time. When Sydney hurts, daddy wants to rush to the rescue.

Which makes what I did all that much worse.

Brooke was having one of those days. She deserves to have one of those days. When it comes to parenting, she pulls 85 percent of the weight around here. Part of it is my incompetence, part of it is my laziness. All of it is Brooke not trusting me to know what I am doing.

So it was one of those days. I was late coming home from work, so she had Sydney and dog duty to herself. She’d had some issues at work. She had more work to do from home. The house was a mess. (By the way, why didn’t anyone ever tell me that, along with a child, parenthood brings a house that perpetually looks like a tornado touched down inside?)

So when I do get home, she is starving. She puts a pizza in the over. As she is pulling it out to cool, the dogs surround her, bump her and she drops it on the floor. Pizza ruined.

For five minutes, Brooke becomes the Tazmanian Devil. I mean, she loses it. Not in an angry way, but in an I’m-so-frustrated-I-could-cry way.

That’s when hubby came to the rescue. I quickly seize my chance to be Superman for a change. First, I calmed her down. Second, I got dinner. Third, I offered to take Sydney upstairs with me for the night so she could finish her work and get a break. Reluctantly, she agrees.

So, I head upstairs and set Sydney up on the bed, propped against a pillow. I need to pay some bills, so I figure she can hang out next to me and watch television. For some reason, my daughter is fascinated with TV. I know…big surprise. But who would think TV watching would be an inherited trait? More likely, it is the vivid colors.

So I am sitting on one side of the bed paying bills. She is beside me. I get a little too interested in the bills and suddenly hear a PLOP.

Holy shit!!! My daughter has rolled off the bed!

Now, I generally move with the speed of a sleepy sloth, but I can tell you I would have passed Jamaican world record sprinter Usain Bolt if we had been racing to Sydney. I was there quicker than a Kardashian marriage and had her scooped up in about a tenth of a second.

But, this was too late. My wife had heard the thud and the immediate cries of her daughter, and she was standing in the bedroom yelling at me before I could get out the words “She’s OK.” She grabbed Sydney from me and rushed downstairs so she could comfort her away from my negative influence.

Now, the child was indeed ok. Thank God, she happened to land on a dog bed that is about four inches thick. It probably startled her more than it hurt her.

But I felt like the Jerry Sandusky of fathers. I had hurt my child! Like I said, your emotions are much stronger. I spent the next few hours mentally flogging myself.

Brooke made sure to rub it in. She claimed that Sydney’s inability to sleep that night was probably due to internal injuries. She made sure I felt like the Grinch who stole Christmas from Sydney Lou Who.

Side note: the night before, Brooke had cut Sydney while clipping her nails. The baby cried more from that then she did nose-diving off the bed. Did I make a big deal out of that? Well…yeah. But not as much!

She couldn’t make me feel worse than I already did anyway. This is one of the things I never wanted to do as a father. I know it won’t be the last time I screw up, but you never forget your first.

I hope she forgives me.

Say It Ain't So: My Life Has Become a Vacation Movie

My buddy, Joe Jones, once told me a man should be able to throw everything he owns into a duffle bag and hit the road at a moment’s notice.

I wish I could say it ain’t so, Joe, but those days are long gone for me.

A trip to see my family for Thanksgiving turned into one of those “Vacation” movies with Chevy Chase where everything that could go wrong did.

Let’s start with packing. Before Sydney, traveling was fairly easy. I pack my bag. Brooke packs here three. I pack some food for the dogs, put their beds in the back of the SUV and off we go. The dogs are in the back, the luggage in the back seat, Brooke and I captaining the ship up front.

After Sydney, life gets a little more difficult. Now, I pack a bag. Brooke packs ONE bag. Then she packs THREE bags for Sydney. Then she packs a breast pump. Then I pack a Pack and Play. Then I pack a stroller. Then I pack her bathtub. Then I pack food for the dogs. Then I pack the dogs’ beds. Then we pack Sydney herself.

What does the car look like now? Well, the dogs are still kings. They are lying in the back by themselves. Sydney is in her car seat. Brook is now in the backseat with her. We stuff a couple of Sydney’s smaller bags on the floor of the back seat. This leaves the passenger’s seat for our bags, Sydney’s stroller, Sydney’s tub, Sydney’s other bag, the Pack and Play and the bathtub. When it is all said and done, I can’t see the side view mirror over there and we have to rearrange everything just to be able to pull out of the driveway.

We hit the road by 2 p.m. Wednesday. I know this is the biggest travel day of the year, but I figure we are leaving early enough to make the 3 ½-hour trip in 4 hours. I am allotting a half hour for bad traffic in Columbus.

The first hour is uneventful. But as we approach Columbus, I can see the cars lined up, bumper to bumper, like they’re waiting for the start of the Indianapolis 500. Interstate 71 has become a parking lot.

Now, those who know me know I am not a patient person. If we go to a restaurant on a Friday night and there is a wait, chances are I am moving on. I absolutely won’t wait more than 30 minutes. It is not just that I hate to wait, it actually makes me angry. I will start to notice open tables and wonder why the restaurant has not hired or scheduled enough workers to open up the WHOLE restaurant. After all, that is there business, right? Friday night crowd catch you by surprise? Were you expecting around the same numbers you have on Wednesday mornings?

Talk about letting money go to waste. Can you imagine the Bengals or Reds telling fans they can’t come in because those 20,000 seats over there are being left open?

But I digress.

So, we are sitting in traffic for about 30 minutes before I proclaim that every Wednesday before Thanksgiving for the rest of my life will be a vacation day for me. I will NOT travel on this day again.

I get the idea to call one of my Columbus buddies to see what my options are on getting through Columbus on a route other than 71. He refers me to 315 and that looks like it is moving fairly well, so I hop on. And for about five minutes, things are going smoothly. Then I hit another parking lot. Have you ever been caught in traffic after a concert? Where you crawl inch by inch toward the exit for about a half hour? That was my situation.

To cut the suspense, we were in bumper-to-bumper traffic for about two hours. We then were in slow-moving traffic for another hour. But that is not the interesting part of the story. Remember, I am traveling with a BABY.

Babies mostly sleep when they are traveling. But when a 3 ½-hour trip turns into a 6-hour trip, babies wake up. And they get antsy. And they get hungry. And they have to go to the bathroom. If all of this happens while you are angry about sitting in traffic and your two dogs are going crazy because they are cooped up in a small space….well, things can get a little tense.

Here, in no particular order, are the things that happened during our two hours of moving about 10 miles.

·        Brooke realized we were going to be in the car much longer than she had planned. She’s a breastfeeder. I don’t know the exact science behind it, but apparently you have to either feed or pump at certain times or you start leaking like the plumbing in a Section 8 rental property. She decides she needs to pump, because she doesn’t want to wake Sydney, and Sydney must remain in her car seat for safety’s sake. The problem is, we are sitting nearly still in traffic. It is bad enough she has to pump in a car, but nosy truck drivers can get a good show as they zoom by at 3 miles per hour.

·        Sydney woke up and screamed for food. Brooke gives her a bottle. She doesn’t want to drink a bottle. Sydney has a serious case of nipple confusion right now. She can go from meal to meal and change her preference, sometimes wanting the bottle, sometimes wanting the breast. This is particularly a problem when her dad is doing the feeding and she doesn’t want the bottle. Anyway, Brooke finally gets her to eat after much fussiness. Miss Crankypants returns.

·        Sydney spit up half her food. Now, this is not unexpected from Sydney, but it necessitated a outfit change, which was not easy to do in the back seat, but somehow Brooke managed.

·        The car filled with a horrible odor. I immediately accuse Brooke. She immediately accuses me. After quick denials, we look at the dogs. They are always likely culprits, but what if it wasn’t them? We have to check Sydney. A couple seconds later, I look in my rearview mirror to see a look of horror on my wife’s face. Then she starts gagging. It is clear. Sydney has experienced an episode of explosive ass disorder while we are stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic with nowhere to turn off.

The highlight of the trip was Brooke changing Sydney while sitting in a back seat with a car seat, breast pump and several other bags stuffed back there.  It was as tight as my belt after a Sunday meal. She discovered that Sydney’s explosion had exceeded her diaper line and was actually half way up her back. Nice. Another outfit. At about this time, I say, “Honey, I wish I wasn’t driving so I could help you back there.” She shoots me a dirty look. By the time she is done, Sydney has poop in her hair and on her clothes, and Brooke has it all over her hands. And there is no bathroom in sight!

· Right about this time, the dogs decide they are too antsy and they need to get up and prance around the back of the SUV like reindeer on Christmas Eve. This was a great capper to Brooke’s diaper episode and she let loose her anger on everyone within earshot, including her innocent, just-trying-to-get-his-family-home-safely, nice-guy husband.

Suddenly, my impatience with the traffic was the least of my concerns.

About a half hour later, we had crawled close enough to an exit that I could take the whole family to the bathroom. Brooke cleaned up herself and Sydney, the dogs found a nice patch of grass in the parking lot of an office complex and I breathed a sigh of relief. We still had another hour in traffic and another hour and half of driving after that, but I had survived the worst of it. Even Chevy Chase never had it this bad.

I passed the next couple hours thinking about my buddy Joe Jones. I think he has a wife and two daughters now. I imagine he traded his duffle bag in for a Pack and Play a long time ago.

Rappin' Lullabies at 3 a.m.

The things I do when it is 3 a.m. and my daughter won’t sleep. My sleep-deprived mind searches for ways to remain sane. The other night, I made up a rap song to help Sydney sleep. The key is getting the cadence down, I guess. Yo, ya Yo, Yo, Yo….

My name is Sydney Grace,

I got spit-up all over my face,

But there’s no way that’s gonna keep me down

Someday I’ll own this Cincinnati town.

I may cry and scream a heck of a lot,

But chalk it up to being just a normal tot.

Life right now is full of drama,

Thorns for daddy; roses for mama.

But someday soon I’ll be all grown,

Preparing for college and taking out my loans,

And daddy will look back on these tough days,

Wondering if there was any possible way,

He could jump in a ship and go back in time,

When he was sleep-deprived and making up these rhymes.

Because he will miss his little princess girl

Who has finally made it in this world,

But I will never forget him, so he shouldn’t be sad,

Because he will always be the king of dads.

Life at 45: Hangovers Without Alcohol

My, how my life has changed.

Let’s look at a typical Friday in the life of Brian Gregg at…

Age 20:  Every college student who likes to get his “party on” schedules classes to end as early as possible on Fridays. If I could have somehow taken all the classes I needed to get my journalism degree on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I would have.

I’d meet up with my roommates early Friday afternoon and bust out a “suitcase” of Old Milwaukee. Every group of young guys has that “go-to” cheap beer that they rely on when money is a factor. Old Mildoggy was ours.

If it was nice out, we played wiffle ball in the yard of our apartment complex while polishing off our brews. I was the king of hitting Bonds-esque homers over the building across the complex. Let’s face it, I had a Barry Bonds-like physique – at least in the later, blown-up, steroid-scandal, Michelin Man years.

Wiffle ball was always cool, but we mostly invented our own games to keep us occupied while drinking.  We had something called “handy ball,” which consisted of batting a Nerf basketball around while drinking.  Think volleyball without a net. The person who let the ball fall needed to guzzle.

In our dorm room, we invented a baseball game that used a crushed beer can as a ball. We wore real baseball gloves and used a makeshift bat to hit the can. It is amazing what you can do with beer cans. Someone I know made a coffee table out of Old Milwaukee cans. They also make great Christmas tree ornaments.

We’d jam Springsteen while we played. These were the years of Madonna and Prince, but my roommate, Pat, turned me on to Springsteen and I wanted to be a little harder than my 20-year-old counterparts. Material Girl, my ass.

About 11, we’d head to the bars. We spent part of our freshman and sophomore years doing cheap happy hours where we would drink 5-cent cups of Black Label (a Canadian beer, I think) for hours, but quickly realized this life was not for us after several nights ended by 11 p.m. with us lying in bed holding a trash can to our face.

Down at the bars, we’d make our play for “ladies.” This generally consisted of standing around talking to the few female friends we had (we rarely were bold enough to migrate outside our own circle) hoping we could convince one to go home with us. About once every two months or so, we’d get lucky.

On the way home, we’d spend our last $2 on a gyro from a guy who probably put three children through college by running a food cart outside the Kent State bars. Then we’d do an after party and drink Old Milwaukees until we passed out.

The next day, I usually had a hangover.

Age 25: This was my golden age. No longer bound by the constraints of money and not yet held down by the affects of age, I spent my 20s living a Hugh Hefner lifestyle. Blessed with a shift where I covered the police beat from 2 p.m. to 10 p.m, I was able to do all that a young man should do: get off work in time to go to the bars, party all night, sleep late and spend my mornings playing basketball and softball to stay in shape. I worked in a one-man news bureau my first year and even had a cot in the office so I could take a nap if I had a particularly tough night.

My buddies and I would spend our Friday nights at a place called the Quark, grooving to tunes that would make Springsteen cry. Hammer Time. Ice, Ice Baby. I like big butts and I cannot lie… Sorry, Boss.

Most of us would stand at the edge of the dance floor and hope some woman we barely knew would be drunk enough to take a liking to us. I hoped for slow dances, because my actual dancing resembled an epileptic seizure.

About once a month, we’d get lucky.

On the way home, we’d hit up Uncle Nick’s gyros to eat while watching late night television until we passed out.

The next day, I usually had a hangover.

Age 30: Age starts taking its toll on me here. I can no longer treat a weeknight like a Friday night because the next day at work feels like a ride on a Kings Island roller coaster. Also, despite my once-a-week basketball games, the pounds start to accumulate toward Michelin Man status.

I’m back to doing happy hours. That’s because I hope to be in bed by midnight, although most of the time I still see closing time. I’m mostly hanging in bars that play classic rock, because the music of the mid-1990s was horrendous. Mariah Carey? Celine Dion? The freaking Macarena??? Put a bullet in my head. 

I’m also back to primarily hitting on women who are somehow in my circle. Women at this age usually want to have some knowledge of who the guy is before they head home with him. I’m getting lucky about once every two months, just like in college.

On the way home from the bars, I stop at the sandwich cart for a barbeque pork sandwich, mostly to suck up the alcohol. I hit the bed as soon as I walk in the door and hope for the best the next morning. If I mixed in enough glasses of water throughout the night, I avoid the hangover.

Age 35: Girlfriends have always come and gone, but at this age, I am doing a lot more “dating.” Let’s face it, that is the only way I am getting lucky. Friday nights consist of a nice dinner, glasses of wine, maybe a trip to a comedy club or to hear some live music. I’m getting lucky almost every other weekend! Of course, with the same woman or two.

I don’t eat on the way home because I already stuff too many calories into this body. I’m usually in bed by midnight. Hangovers are rarely a problem.

Age 40: Serious girlfriend time. Dating a girl 15 years my junior. That means returning to my glory years. Pretty much guaranteed getting lucky every weekend!

I start each Friday with a pre-game at her or her friend’s house, drinking a higher-class beer than Old Milwaukee, usually some micro-brew that makes me look cool to her friends who are still drinking cheap beer because that is all they can afford. We head out to some dance club and listen to horrible music. Justin Timberlake? John Mayer?  Who the hell is Jesse McCartney? Was that Justin Bieber’s older brother?

We make it to closing time most weekends. On the way home, we hit Taco Bell. This is fun. But I am too old for this. It only takes a few months for me to say, “Honey, how about if you go out with your friends by yourself and I will be here when you get home.” Then I watch TV and hit the sack after the 11 p.m. SportsCenter. No drinks, no hangover.

Age 45: Well, here it is.

I get home from work about 5:30 and my wife wants to know if we should order a pizza. The big debate is if we have enough money for something like that. Every penny counts now. Bars are out of the question.  

Music? The only music we listen to are the lullabies that play on Sydney’s swing. Getting lucky? Yeah, like back in college, about every two months. Who has the energy?

I spend my evening playing with my daughter, trying to keep her stimulated and away from crying. This usually requires my total attention, so there is not a lot of time for say, writing a blog post, or watching a DVR-d episode of Man vs. Food, which, at this point, I could star in and win every challenge.

My wife and I pass her back and forth like a football, sharing the "stimulating duties." For some reason, she is generally quiet and happy when my wife has her. I get the screaming and crying Sydney. Roses for Brooke, thorns for Brian.

We get to bed whenever we get to bed. My daughter sets her own schedule. She usually sleeps a couple hours and then is up a couple of hours. All day long. All...night...long.

I never leave the house, yet I am worn the hell out.

The next day, I have a “baby” hangover.

Anyone Have a Trailer for Sale?

There are always those milestones you look forward to. The first smile. The first words. The first steps.

Then, there are those you dread. The first temper tantrum. The first bout of explosive ass disorder. The first tattoo. The first boyfriend you have to punch in the face. Can a 5-year-old take a punch?

This week, we hit one that was a little bit of both: first day of child care. We looked forward to Sydney spending time with others and beginning a life that reaches beyond the walls of our humble home. But we – well, really Brooke – dreaded the idea of Sydney facing a whole new world on her own and entrusting someone other than her parents to care for her.

Here’s how we prepared:

We set out with steely determination on the Friday before to conquer Sydney’s desire to sleep during the day and party all night. For some reason, when 11 p.m. comes around, Sydney turns into Lyndsey Lohan looking for VIP treatment at a Hollywood nightclub. She wants to rock and roll all night.

This was fine when Brooke did not have to work. She could stay up with her and then catch up on sleep when Sydney finally hit a wall and turned into Rip Van Winkle. But with Brooke returning to the classroom, it was imperative to put Sydney on a better schedule. Being the smart parents we are, we gave ourselves a whole two days to accomplish this task.

My cousin, Melissa, loaned me a book to help educate me on proper sleep habits. It is written by a doctor who is some type of sleep svengali for children. He gives great advice, but he also acknowledges 20 percent of kids will be difficult when it comes to developing good sleep habits.  Believe me, a 20 percenter is occupying my house.

Previous to this day, we had spent our evenings keeping Sydney up so she would be exhausted come sleep time. This obviously did not work and it required a lot of energy on our behalf as we spent the night tossing Sydney around,  teasing her with toys and even undressing and redressing her to keep her awake.

The book pointed out a different way. Dr. Svengali said to put the child to sleep EARLIER, shortly after the early-evening feeding when she showed signs of fatigue. He pointed out the early sleep time would actually help her sleep LONGER. This is fuzzy math to me, but I am no svengali. And I am desperate.

So this became part one of our strategy. Part two was advice we received from every parent we knew: shut the door and let your child cry it out. Sooner or later, she will fall asleep and after a night or two of this, she will go down easy and sleep through the night.

Getting my wife to agree with this was sort of like getting Chaz Bono to embrace his inner womanhood. She wanted to go a completely other route. I think there is an electric current that runs through her body every time Sydney cries. But I stood my ground and used the pressure from other friends to convince her we had to take this drastic step or she would roll into work every morning looking like, well, Lyndsey Lohan after a night of VIP treatment.

Armed with our two-part strategy, we roared into Friday evening ready to conquer the world. Twelve hours later, we crawled into Saturday morning ready for a six-hour nap.

Sydney went down around 8 p.m. when her eyelids looked like they were weighted down by 20-pound barbells. An hour later, she sprung awake with an indignant look of How dare you put me to sleep so early.

The next two hours consisted of Brooke and I cringing in our bedroom as we listened to our daughter scream-cry over the baby monitor. One of the worst feelings in the world. Brooke was saying things like, “I know her tiny little brain is thinking that we have abandoned her,” while tears welled in her eyes. Ouch. Take that, daddy!

Look, I am not an experienced parent. I have no idea whether we were doing the right thing. I did what I always do: I asked for advice, processed it and made a decision. I may not win any father of the year awards, but I was doing my best.

She eventually fell asleep, only to repeat the pattern a few hours later and to finally wake up for good about 5 a.m. Saturday night was not much better. By Sunday, we had abandoned our plan. Essentially, we decided to play it by ear. Put her to sleep when she was tired and hope for the best. You can imagine how that is going.

Nevertheless, Monday rolled around and it was time for our visit to Miss Amber’s house for Sydney’s first day of child care. Mom and dad would have been zombies on this day, but the nervousness over this new experience for Sydney was enough of an adrenaline rush to get us going. Our mood was somber, similar to what you might expect as you prepared for a funeral. Brooke had been crying since Friday, but this was D-Day.

I immediately started calculating our monthly obligations in my head to see if there was any way we could afford my wife quitting her job and being a stay-at-home mom. We can do it; we’ll just need to get rid of one car and move into a trailer. Brooke quickly nixed that idea.

The first thing I learned that Monday was introducing a baby into the morning routine means getting up earlier and moving around faster at a time when you’d rather plod. The second thing I learned is that you should always have a burp cloth on your dress shirt when handling a baby.

The handoff went smoothly. Miss Amber couldn’t have been nicer and more understanding of my wife’s inner turmoil. Sydney was oblivious. To her, this was no different than a trip to the grocery or doctor. Hell, it was a lot better than a trip to the doctor – no one at Miss Amber’s was going to prick her ass with a needle. At least I hope not...or we’d have a much bigger problem than day care dread.

Our drop off ended with me hugging a tearful Brooke good bye and praying everything went fine or I was going to have a basket case of a wife when I got home.

And fine it was. Miss Amber even texted us pictures of our smiling baby looking like she was spending the day on Sesame Street. I think Brooke went from worrying Sydney would be ok to worrying she liked child care more than her own home.

And the kicker? She somehow came home exhausted. We could not keep her awake. She slept for two hours. The kind of sleep where if you tickle her feet or play patty cakes with her hands she doesn’t even lift an eyelid.

Of course, that means she wasn’t tired when bed time rolled around.

Sigh.   

At Least She's Not Nicknamed Puff Baby

Sydney is 7 weeks old and has five nicknames. At this rate, she will accumulate 35 nicknames in her first year on earth.

How does this happen? Why are parents so quick to call their children anything but the names they spent dozens of hours debating and sweating over? Shouldn’t this be the time we spend working hard to get her to recognize her real name?

I already told you what we went through to pick Sydney Grace. It was quite the ordeal. So the fact that on any given day she might hear five other names come out of our mouths is a bit distressing to me.

But I can’t stop.

Sydney’s nicknames and the story behind them:

Snorty Magee: She snorts when she is angry and crying. One doctor said her nostrils just aren’t developed enough yet. I sure hope this doesn’t carry over into adulthood. We all know someone who snorts when they laugh….it is very annoying.

Tree Frog: She parks herself like a tree frog on my belly.

Crankypants: Pretty self explanatory. I did some figuring the other day. Sydney probably spends about 6 hours a day just feeding. She sleeps another 13. She is awake and pleasant for about an hour. That leaves four hours a day when she is crying about something or another. Thus, Miss Crankpants.

Porcupine: I gave her this nickname and I really don’t know why. I think “P” words just sound good for babies. Pumpkin Pie. Precious. Peanut. Pudding. Pudding pop. Poopy.

Peanut Butter: My wife gave her this name because she was singing a Raffi song called Peanut Butter Sandwich. I probably don’t need to tell you I have no idea who Raffi is, why he has such a stupid name or why he devoted a whole song to a simple sandwich.

I am confident and relieved none of these names will follow her into adulthood. As kids get older, baby names fall by the wayside. Sooner or later, she won’t be cranky, right? And no matter how big my belly is, she eventually will not be able to sit on it like a tree frog.

But we all know some kid who somehow managed to keep an embarrassing nickname into adulthood. Pee Wee. Bubbie. Buster. Bunny. Marky Mark. Puff Daddy.

Let’s not forget my brother, Little Dick.

I don’t know what nicknames I had when I was a kid. I did have a couple as I got older. I had hair like Leif Garrett in high school – hey, it was the ‘80s -- and one of my buddies decided it looked like a Tumbleweed on top of my head. He and another guy started calling me that. They even copied some signs with my picture and “Tumbleweed” written across the top and hung them around the school. Yeah, funny. Why couldn’t I be the Italian Stallion, Snoop, The Rock or even 50 Cent? Instead, I am nicknamed after some dry grass.

Another guy thought I looked like Tony Dow on Leave it to Beaver and called me Wally. It didn’t really stick, although my best friend who I hung out with all the time became known as Beaver, and that did stick. Later, I went to college and asked Beaver to keep an eye on my girlfriend. He kept his eye on HER beaver and they are married today, so now I have another nickname for him that I will not print in this family blog.

Brooke says the only nickname she can remember was one in college, where she became known as Breeko in some circles. This happened after a night when someone under the influence of an herbal product inadvertently inverted the vowels in her name.

I’ve always been partial to nicknames devised from initials. I always thought TJ was cool when I was a kid. I became known as BG after I got older. Brooke was Brooke Marie. I guess she could have been BM, as in, I just had a BM. Her brother is Blair Jason…BJ. Hmmm.

SG doesn’t really have a ring to it. And I don’t really like Syd. Too masculine. I hope Sydney ends up with a really cool nickname. How about the Fresh Princess? The Material Girl? Lady Gaga? No, I guess I’ll pass.

In fact, I am not sure there are really any cool nicknames for a girl. I think we’ll stick with Sydney Grace. Judging by Miss Crankypants’ first seven weeks, it will be hard enough teaching her that one.