Losing the Battle, but Winning the War?

                                                             Comfortable Sydney


Well, it’s official. My daughter prefers my wife over me.

Sometimes it is subtle. She’ll sit and play with daddy, but she’s always stealing sideways glances at mommy to make sure she is still there. Other times, it is more obvious. The second mommy places her in daddy’s arms, the lower lip protrudes and the crocodile tears start flowing.

Ouch.

I guess I am just not the nurturing type. Who would have thought it?

As heartbreaking as it is to me to lose this contest with my wife, I am not the kind of guy to hold a grudge or seek revenge. I won’t punish my wife or my daughter for my failures. I am the kind of guy who rolls with the baby punches.

So, I penned the following email to my wife this week. I will let you know how it goes.

Honey,

It has become clear to me our daughter prefers your company over mine. This is heartbreaking to me, but I must accept the truth. You are number one in the race for her heart. I am chopped liver; you are scrumptious baby formula.

For the sake of our daughter’s future, we have to make her as comfortable as possible as often as possible. It will impede her development to force her to spend time at her most uncomfortable moments with anyone other than the person who absolutely soothes her best.

We must always make her feel as safe and secure as possible. As you know, I often worry about screwing up and raising a serial killer or a strung-out drug addict. I refuse to let this happen because of my selfishness. I will not force her to be with me at her most vulnerable times, the times when she really needs the person whom she prefers to comfort her.

Therefore, I propose we split the baby-rearing duties along the lines of “Duties Where Sydney is Uncomfortable” – those would be yours – and “Duties Where Sydney is Comfortable” – I will humbly accept these less-important tasks.

Clearly, Sydney is most uncomfortable when she has gone to the bathroom and needs her diaper changed. How embarrassing and shameful for her when daddy must answer this call. She is completely vulnerable at this time and absolutely must have the person with whom she feels most comfortable come to her aid. As much as it hurts, I cede this duty to you.

She’s also very uncomfortable during those 2 a.m. wake ups where she needs a bottle and a hug. Think about how scary it must be to wake up in the middle of the night to total darkness, the only sound being her mama snoring in the nearby room. I picture her little mind thinking, “Where is my mama? Where is the one person in the world I am most comfortable with?” I know I have come to adore these early-morning moments with her, but, for her sake, I will allow you to be in charge at these times. I promise to not get in the way and will force myself to sleep through them.

Her recent bout of double ear infection made me realize how uncomfortable sickness can be for a baby. She cried long and loud. My eardrums hurt more than her’s. I clearly did a horrible job soothing her. It is times like this when a young lass needs her mama. Again, as much as it pains me, I will stay out of your way. Maybe I will spend these nights in the spare bedroom with earplugs so as not to intrude on your mother-daughter time.

I only ask that you are as accommodating when it comes to my time with her.  She clearly has a great deal of comfort when she is playing, whether it be in her Jumperoo or with one of her many toys. Because this is a “safe” time for her, I will take on these duties. This is a time when she will be more likely to accept someone she is less comfortable with.

She also seems pretty comfortable when she is watching TV. She loves those colorful cartoons. I’ll take this duty. This requires someone who can sit with her for long periods of time and remain quiet, so as not to bother her. It won’t be easy, but I think I am the man for the job.

Nap time is also a very secure time for her. She even smiles sometimes when she sleeps. Clearly, she is happy and clearly this is a time when she would accept being watched over by #2 instead of #1. You can count on me.

I can see this method of operation working long into the future. You can take on the duties where she’ll most need you, such as potty training, menstruation and learning to drive. I will take on the less important tasks of reading bedtime stories, teaching how to hit the softball and chastity during the dating years.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. For now, let’s see how we adjust to the here and now. As I thought about how we might split these duties up, I realized that not all of the parenting duties can be listed. There are many moments not easily captured in a paragraph.

So I think we need a fallback. It is obvious to me that anytime Sydney is crying, she is uncomfortable and needs the loving arms of her mother. I propose that in those instances, I step aside. You feel free to do the same anytime she is giggling and smiling, as this is obviously a very comfortable time for her.

I hate losing, but I am not the kind of guy who doesn’t shake hands after a defeat. You seem to have won her heart. Let’s roll with it and make sure she develops in the most positive way possible. I think this is the blueprint for success when it comes to raising a healthy, happy daughter.

Love you!

Who is Tim Tebow?

I don’t know who Kim Kardashian is dating, whether Alec Baldwin has torn someone a new one lately or if Charlie Sheen is still WINNING.

I don’t know if the Miami Heat are on track to give Lebron his first championship (I hope not), whether the Massillon Tigers will be a playoff contender next high school football season (I hope so) or if Tim Tebow has ever had premarital sex (With the ladies he can pull, if he has not, he is indeed God on earth).

I am a parent of a 4-month-old. I know spit up, Enfamil and onesies. I know 4 a.m. wake ups, jumperoos and binkies.

I am daddy. Hear me roar.

My nights used to be leisurely. Stroll home about 6 p.m., kiss the wife, have some dinner, spend a couple of hours surfing the Web for interesting tidbits, watch a little television, hit the sack. I don’t even want to tell you what my life was like when I was just a single dude in a loose mood. Let’s just say doing what you want, when you want, never gets old.

Now, I hustle home as fast as I can to relieve my beleaguered wife, wolf down dinner during my daughter’s evening nap and spend the rest of the night alternating between the jumperoo, the activity floor mat and making funny noises to keep my daughter entertained.

Time for fun? I am the master of playing Words with Friends in one hand while feeding my daughter a bottle with the other.

(Speaking of Words with Friends, how about some of the losers on there? I am a former newspaper writer. I have a better vocabulary than 80 percent of the people I know. But somehow I end up playing people who can play a dozen words I have never heard uttered. The other day, a guy plays "ohed" and "hm" on me. Seriously? You are either cheating or a competitive Scrabble player who should be ashamed of yourself for stooping to play Words with Friends.)

Back to my new life. I haven’t read Deadspin.com in four months. Great site for crazy sports stories. They broke the story about Brett Favre texting a picture of his schlong to a co-worker while with the New York Jets. Who the hell does this stuff? Listen guys, if at any time you feel the need to take a picture of your schlong and text it, you are 1) really, really confident and 2) a COMPLETE IDIOT.

Anyway, I never read deadspin without laughing. I love to laugh. Yet, I have not visited the site since about September. I love to keep up on happenings in the journalism world, but I rarely visit Poynter’s media gossip site anymore and I haven’t even seen Jim Romenesko’s new site.

ESPN.com? Yes, still a daily must. But reading my hometown newspaper, the Massillon Independent, has gone by the wayside. I no longer know when some of my high school classmates get divorced, foreclosed on or busted for drug possession or drunk driving, depriving me of my right to feel superior to all those kids who thought they were cooler than me 30 years ago.

I do read the Cincinnati Enquirer still, but that is because it is a must for my job and I can get away with reading online at work. But I don’t have time to read my buddy Paul’s blog and see if his kids are still scoring soccer goals with Pele-like precision.

I do catch a little news every now and then. I know Rick Santorum is bat-shit conservative, Newt Gingrich is full of bull-shit for thinking African Americans make up the majority of people on food stamps, and that the working man is going ape-shit over Mitt Romney’s 15-percent tax rate.

I also know some chicken-shit Italian cruise captain abandoned ship early.

But now I get my info from the first 20 minutes of the Today Show while stuffing a morning bottle in my daughter’s mouth. No in-depth analysis for me. I haven’t studied enough to vote for American Idol, let alone a Republican presidential candidate.

What else am I not doing enough of?

Going for drinks with friends. People stare at you funny when you bring a baby to a bar.

Cleaning my house. When I have a few precious seconds of down time, I refuse to spend it with a vacuum in my hand. If Children’s Services wants to take my kid away for a dirty house, they’ll have to fight through a mountain of dirty clothes and dishes to get to her.

Making love to my wife. I’m 45 years old. I have a choice between five hours of sleep a night or four hours and fifty minutes. That extra ten minutes of sleep means a lot.

The understatement of the day would be to say my life is different. Even with my wife doing the bulk of the work, parenting is time-consuming. You don’t ever want to start anything new because you never know when you are going to hear the words, “How about Daddy takes over and plays with you for awhile?”

You don’t ever want to get too engrossed in a television show, because the next thing you know she is plopping off the couch and landing on her head.

You don’t ever want to use BOTH hands to play Words with Friends because the second that bottle drops from her lips, the blood-curdling screams start.

You get the picture. 

The other day I worked on staff evaluations all day on a Sunday. Talk about feeling guilty. My wife looked like Nick Nolte’s mug shot by the time I got home.

This parenting thing is a sacrifice. I accept it. I love my daughter. For the next few years, I am prepared to miss Kim Kardashian’s next marriage, Lebron James next failure and Lady Gaga’s next Madonna rip off.

But please, if Tim Tebow finally does get laid, somebody email me a picture of the chick.

Daddy Turns Into a Softie

A guy in my office told me having a child will expand my range of emotions. He said I will feel everything deeper and I will feel things I’ve never felt before.

He was right.

I have a job that involves abused and neglected children. Thankfully, I do not do the real social work. Those people are true angels who have to deal with situations and people no one should ever have to encounter. I have the easier task of handling communications and dealing with the media.

Still, I am frequently involved in discussing the intimate details of cases where children die or are hurt. I cannot publicly discuss them, but believe me when I say what parents and others do to children would sicken you to the point of throwing up. I cannot stress this enough: there are people out there who torture children. If you think today’s child abuse is something along the lines of what happened when your mom or dad knocked you around a little to set you straight, you are greatly mistaken. Whether because they are drugged up, mentally ill or just plain violent, there are people doing things to children that is beyond comprehension.  

And that is my point. While these cases have always elicited great emotion from me, I feel it much deeper now. I picture my little girl every time I hear the details of a case, and that nearly brings me to tears sometimes. It always makes me extremely angry.

I now know how tiny a four-month-old is and how ridiculous it would be to say the beating you gave them was punishment. I now understand how bathing a baby works and find it inexcusable that someone would attempt it while high on drugs or drunk on hard liquor. I cringe when I hear a father has isolated their little one, making them sleep in the bathroom or not feeding them.

I get angry enough to fight.  

That’s just one example of the way my emotions have changed over the past four months.

I have already told you I am not the kind of guy who gets excited about much. But I greatly anticipate the future I have with my daughter. I’m eager for that day we can talk and I can teach her things. I wonder what it will be like to come home and have her come running for a hug. I can’t wait until we can watch a football game together and I can discuss the Cover 2 defense with her.  

I get angry and sad knowing that she will be picked on at some point in her life, or have her heart broken. I have already told my wife I will watch sporting events away from the rest of the crowd because if I hear someone criticize my daughter, there WILL BE a fight.

One of my biggest emotions is fear I won’t be around to experience all of these times with her.

At Christmas, my mother-in-law gave my daughter a gift from a great grandmother she will never know. It got me thinking about all the people in Sydney’s life who would have loved and cherished her and how she will never have the chance to meet them. Her mom’s grandmother. My father. Most of my grandparents.

What if something happened to me or her mom? How much more difficult would Sydney’s life  be. How would my wife or I handle raising our girl without the other parent? How would we keep that missing parent’s memory alive for our daughter?

These are things I never used to think about. Now, with Sydney, I do all the time. It chokes me up. Having a kid has made me a softie. I cry at Hallmark commercials.

It is both difficult and fun to feel highs and lows that I haven’t felt in a very long time. That’s a good thing. The great basketball coach Jim Valvano said everyone should laugh, cry and think every day.

I agree. 

Shaping a Baby the Wrong Way

Ok, so kids are a combination of their parents. I hope Sydney gets my smaller head over her mother’s coconut-looking noggin. Brooke hopes Sydney gets her feet instead of my Fred Flintstone-like paws. I regret that she got my door-knob of a chin.

But what will she learn from me and what will she learn from Brooke? How will we shape this little girl’s personality? I had a seven hour drive over the holidays, and I thought about it. Seven hours is a long time. And it was a Monday, so I couldn’t even listen to sports.

What she will learn from me:

·         to yell at the television during sporting events.

·         to eat six slices of pizza and still be hungry

·         to keep all the blinds in the house closed so no one can see her walking around in her underwear

·         to double down on 11 and split aces and eights

·         to draft the perfect team in fantasy football

·         to live as much as possible in one room so the others remain clean

·         to consider a slow stroll around the neighborhood brisk exercise

·         to communicate with everyone via Facebook, email, blog, etc. so she never has to pick up the phone

  

What she will learn from Brooke:

·         to yell at the television during reality shows

·         to shop for Christmas on the day AFTER Christmas (This is a smart thing women must learn at birth.)

·         to have a million pillows on the bed that serve no purpose

·         to buy all kinds of jewelry she’ll never wear

·         to lose her keys six times in one week

·         to buy a dining room table that she’ll rarely eat at, but will use for storage (For this, I gave up my pool table which could have held a lot more scrapbooking items than the table.)

·         to buy a phone plan with a gazillion minutes and still somehow go over her limit

Ok, maybe these are things I don’t want my daughter to learn. In the end, who really knows what she will turn out to be? That’s the excitement of it all.

All I really know is she will laugh a lot and make people laugh; she’ll be compassionate and kind to those who are less fortunate; she’ll be intelligent and street smart; she’ll be respectful of people from all walks of life and she’ll know the value of hard work and will work hard to get what she needs in life. These are all qualities both of her parents possess, so she’s a “can’t miss” on those.

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.