One Year of Blogging in the Books

A lot can happen in a year.

I know it is a cliché. But this has been the most life-changing year in the 46 I’ve spent on earth.

Sometimes I feel like a coked-out teenager. Other times, like a grandfather on his last legs. Always, like a contestant on the Biggest Loser, sweating through my exhaustion to make it just one more step.

I live a life of schizophrenia. Parenting has a lot of highs and lows.

My original goal for this blog when I started it one year ago was to capture Sydney’s life so she could someday look back on it and understand what she was like as a baby. Somehow, that goal morphed into providing a humorous take on parenting that every parent can relate to. Rarely are my posts specifically about Sydney and how she spent her day; they are mostly topical about experiences all parents share.

I still think Sydney will get a good idea of what her life was like. She’ll probably be embarrassed by the many mentions of poopy diapers, crying and other every-day baby experiences. Hopefully, she will laugh. I know Brooke and I both like to laugh – especially at ourselves – and I assume our daughter will be the same way.

One thing I hope she will surmise is that she was a baby who was loved and cherished beyond any words I can express in this blog.

I don’t know how long this blog will last. The posts are sporadic now. It seems like every-day life is a little more mundane after the baby is born. Wake up. Change the diaper. Feed. Play time on the floor. Play time in the Jumperoo. Change diaper. Feed. Play time…..you get the picture.

We’ve had teeth break through. We’ve had the first words. We’re waiting on the first steps. None provide enough fodder for a really funny blog post. I am not thrown into as many absurd situations (bloody delivery room, breastfeeding classes, black-tar poops, etc.) as early on. Maybe the absurdity kicks back in with walking and talking and getting out in the public. I’m sure the first playground fight will make for a good column, especially if I have to punch out a fellow father who is not controlling his bratty kid.

So, if this is the lull, it is time to reflect. What have I really learned as a first-year parent? Here we go:

·       The “you’ll-never-sleep” warnings are absolutely real. I can count on one hand the number of times I have slept more than six hours at once in the past 11 months. We were blessed with an insomniac. She wakes up at least once, and most often twice, between the hours of 9 p.m. and 7 a.m. (which is about her wake-up time). She has recently started fighting us about even going to bed at 9.

And it is better now than it has ever been for her. We used to have three or four wake ups a night.

I used to have a problem sleeping. I have an unused bottle of Zolpidem sitting on my night-stand, enticingly calling out to me for a night when there is no Sydney or work the next day. I had trouble falling asleep and trouble staying asleep. In fact, once I woke up, I was up for good. But getting up once or twice a night with Sydney has changed that. Now, I can fall asleep faster than Ann Curry’s career fell apart.

·       Children progress at their own pace. Nearly every week, my wife is ready to take our daughter to a neurologist. “The book says she should be doing this by now and she is not! There is something majorly wrong with her!” You would think someone educated and skilled in the subject of child development would know better, but when it is your own child, you tend to panic a bit.

I on the other hand, am much more nonchalant. She’ll crawl when she wants to, talk when she wants to, eat when she wants to, etc. No worries. Be happy.

I never cracked a book on baby development. The only Dr. Spock I know is that guy with the funny ears on Star Trek. My wife has all these magazines and books she reads and all it does is drive her crazy with worry. I proudly go with my gut on parenting. Call me Daddy Instinct. If she is turning blue, I check to make sure she is breathing. Other than that, it is all good.

·        Everybody is a parenting expert. We get advice from everyone. Some of it is good, mind you, and I appreciate it. But each child is different and you have to handle them differently. It is easy to say “just let her cry it out when she wakes up at night.” But after you’ve tried it once or twice, and she cries for two hours in the middle of the night, you realize that feeding her a bottle for 15 minutes and then putting her right back to sleep is a better way to keep your sanity.

Some of the people who are giving advice have done a shitty job of raising their own children. “I always gave junior a little whiskey in his bottle to help him sleep through the night. Just a touch.” And you wonder why Junior is on his third DUI arrest? If your kid is a drug user, habitual criminal, pathological liar, high school dropout or member of the Tea Party, you forfeit the right to give me parenting advice.

You’d be surprised how many older people look at us like we have no idea what we are doing. “Well, when I was raising my children back in the 1960s, we always let them sleep on their bellies, ride in the car without a car seat and we weren’t afraid to give them a good shaking if they didn’t listen.”

Yeah, sounds like a plan.

·       You can forget about your own desires. I’ve recounted my lost life here before. I like to watch a tiny bit of TV every now and then. Now, the only thing that is ever on in our house anymore is the Sprout network. I like to play a little poker, too. Not happening. Weekends with friends? Once every six months.

My life is pretty much work and Sydney. I RECENTLY added the gym to that schedule, at my wife’s pleading. Yeah, I really desire that.

My point is, there’s someone else in your life now who is far more important than you are.

·        My wife is a freaking parenting goddess. I’d be lost without her. She handles the bulk of the caregiving. She’s changed triple the number of diapers, prepared double the number of bottles, handled almost every bath and is the go-to parent when Sydney is upset. My main responsibility has been late-night feedings.

When we get a divorce, I’m going to lose custody to her because I can’t even make a good argument that I have been an equal parent. (Just trying to see if you are paying attention, honey! No plans for divorce.)

·       Poop and puke become just another normal part of your day. I’ve handled more Explosive Ass Disorder (EAD) events than a bedpan in a nursing home. Poop flies everywhere when you have a baby. The other day, I was being a little nonchalant while changing her and a turd dropped on the couch. Ho hum.

Puke is not as frequent, but it is funny how quickly you become immune to watching your daughter send everything in her stomach right back at you. We have bought special bibs that actually CATCH THE PUKE at the bottom when the texture of Sydney’s green beans are too much for her to handle. Whoever invented those things should be an absolute millionaire. I think that might be my gift for every friend who has a baby between now and the end of my life.

·       Speaking of gifts, you get a lot of them. It is unbelievable how generous people are when you have a little one on the way. Essentially, it is a free pass to ask for anything you want. How do you think I got my big-screen television? We said we needed it to watch Sydney’s home videos and some sappy relative fell for it.

Ok, I exaggerate. But believe me, I am extremely grateful that having a baby has not put me in the poor house and that is where I would be if my friends and relatives had not been so giving.

·       Mommy will always be #1. This stinks worse than an EAD, but it is true. I’m as popular as a tax increase some days. Sydney’s first instinct when she is hurt or disturbed is to yell “ma-ma.’ I think she actually says “da-da” more often, but I’m not sure it means much to her. Looking at the wall? Da-da. Looking at the dog? Da-da. Looking at the mailman? Da-da.

When she needs something, it is ma-ma.

I’m chalking it up to breastfeeding. We all know the person with the biggest breasts always wins.

·       Having a child is the greatest thing to ever happen to me. I’ve made no secret that I wasn’t hot on having children. I’m closer to the grave than the cradle and I was hoping to ease into an early retirement. Now, the chances are I will be working until I am 70. And I’ll be the grandpa-looking-dude chasing kids around the soccer field while fathers half my age let me lean on them for support so my back doesn’t give out.

My wife says I never admit when I am wrong. Brooke, I was wrong.

Sydney has brought absolute joy to my life. I think about her a hundred times a day. She’s not even out of diapers and I think about her first day of school, taking her on college visits, her career choice, being at her wedding.

Most of all, I can’t wait to get home each night and see that smile when I walk through the door. I have been to press events at the White House with two different presidents; conducted interviews inside NFL and Major League Baseball locker rooms; talked with, and written about, music and film stars. I can honestly say I have more anticipation of seeing that little girl’s smile every evening than I did any of those.

My emotions are deeper than they have ever been. There is not a day goes by that she doesn’t do something that makes me laugh out loud. I read a story about a child dying or catching a disease and I’m immediately nervous for Sydney. I see some event in the newspaper that I would previously never get caught dead at and I excitedly think, “Maybe I should take Sydney to that. She would love that.” I think about all the great events ahead in her life and fear that I won’t last to be a part of them.

Sydney, with apologies to my wife, has become the love of my life. All in one year.

If this is the lull, I will take it. It has been a hectic year. I’ve learned about baby showers, $450 strollers, crapping in the delivery room, dastardly doulas and nipple confusion. I’ve changed dozens of diapers and prepared hundreds of bottles. I laughed. I cried. I danced. I slept…well, maybe not so much.

If this is a lull, I can use the break. It might not lead to good blog fodder, but it will keep me sane.

There will be a lot of highs and lows in the future. I just pray I’m around to experience them. 

If Chuck Norris isn't Available, Grandma is a Good Choice

My wife and I recently went on a six-day trip to California wine country.

Notice I said my wife and I. No Sydney.

Six days with no Sydney!!!You would think that would elicit excitement. Instead, I was full of dread.   

Leaving your child with someone else for an extended period of time is a scary experience. Even if that someone is your mom.

There isn’t anyone in my life I trust more than my mom. But we are talking about the most precious thing in the world to me. Leaving Sydney with my mom is like jumping out of a plane with Chuck Norris. It isn’t something I really want to do, but if I have to, I want Chuck Norris beside me. Chuck Norris is indestructible.

My mom could be in the Mom Hall of Fame. This is a woman who almost single-handedly raised three children. I was born when she was 17, my brother came along three years later and my sister three years after that. At 23, she had three children and, soon thereafter, a broken marriage. Those are nearly insurmountable odds. I would certainly crack under them.

But my mom is Super Woman. She worked, first as a waitress and then taking care of mentally ill people, and she sacrificed. She tried to do everything she could for her kids. You don’t realize it when you are young and asking for a toy or money to get something to eat, but those dollars were very scarce in our family. Mom would do without so we could do with.

It wasn’t easy. I remember eating huge pots of ham and bean soup or potato soup for a couple weeks at a time because that was all we could afford.  We would move from apartment to apartment because the rent would go up or we couldn’t pay the rent or some other landlord-related reason. For much of my childhood, we didn’t have a phone in the house. I’d use the corner pay phone to chat up my high school girlfriend, sometimes standing in the cold and snow for hours trying to get my love on. You know how teenagers are on the phone.

“I don’t have a quarter. You make sure you call me tomorrow at 5:30 on the dot, that is when I will be standing by the phone.” Could I be any less cool?

Now, that I have a kid, I know how much you want to give them everything you can in life to make sure they are successful. I imagine there were many nights my mom cried herself to sleep because there were things she couldn’t give us.

But she gave us the important things. The things that really matter and the things that make a person successful in life. We all turned out to be quality people. No wife beaters or child abusers. No thieves or robbers. No drug addicts. None of us have spent time in a jail or committed any crime worthy of mention in any newspaper. All three are contributing members of society who work hard to take care of their children and teach them the very same values mom taught us.

My mom shouldn’t just be in the Mom Hall of Fame, she should be the first bust you see when you walk in the door.  

So, if I have to leave my baby with someone, it is going to be my mom. She is the Chuck Norris of moms.

But it wasn’t easy.

My wife and I were kind of basket cases about leaving Sydney. My wife wrote a detailed schedule of Sydney’s daily routine, down to the minute. She stocked up on Sydney’s food and diapers and baby wipes so my mom would have no need while we were gone. She walked my mom through the whole house, explaining how Sydney used this toy or what she did with that gadget.

I’m pretty damn sure my mom was thinking, “I have done this three times, you know. Started when I was 17, long before you came into this world. You see that slug over there who you are married to? He is only still walking this earth because of my skills as a parent.”

I decided my role would be to talk to my 14-year-old nephew – who was along to help grandma – and explain that if he shook or dropped my baby while I was gone he would have a hard time getting out of the cement shoes I was going to make for him just before I dropped him into the Ohio River.

He got the picture, believe me.

Leaving was emotional. Brooke cried. I might have had some mistiness in my eyes. My friends have been going through this for years. I used to think my buddies would be happy to get away from the kids and party it up for awhile on our out-of-town trips. Now I know leaving your kid is difficult.

But lord, Brooke was 100 times worse than me. We were in San Francisco for a couple of days and then wine country for a few and all she ever talked about was Sydney.

“Hey, honey,” I said, as our boat approached Alcatraz Island, one of the most notorious prisons in our nation’s history. “I see why they call this place The Rock. It looks like it was built on a pile of rocks dumped in the bay.”

“I hope your mom remembers to rock Sydney if she gets cranky,” she responded.

Or, when we traveled over the Golden Gate Bridge and I remarked about its rusty-orange color and she replied, “Aww, it is the same color as the carrots I feed Sydney.”

In Chinatown?  “I wonder if Sydney will like Chinese food when she gets older? We are going to make sure she tries lots of different food so she experiences everything.”

It was a little different in wine country. There, the Sydney discussions took place over wine tastings which often brought out the tears. And maybe some hiccups.

“I miss our little girl,” she sobbed. “You don’t care about her and you don’t care about me. I can’t believe you would, hiccup, separate us for this long. You are the worst husband in the world. Now pass me, hiccup, another bottle of wine, honey.”

These discussions were often followed by questions of “Are you sure you are ok to drive home?” and, a little later, declarations of “Take me you big stud!”

But I digress.

Thank god for Facetime. Do you remember when we were kids and the Jetsons could see the people they were talking to on the phone? Who would have ever thought that would happen?

Every day, my wife would Facetime my mom so she could see Sydney. Each time, I would pray Sydney didn’t have any bruises from falling or she didn’t immediately cry at the sight of her mother. If either one of those things occurred, Brooke would have had me ponying up $200 to change our tickets and fly back early.

She was always good. And it was clear we thought about her far more than she thought about us. She seemed to be having fun, bouncing in her Jumperoo or rolling around on the floor or going to the park or visiting a restaurant with grandma.

In fact, she pretty much ignored our Facetiming efforts. Occasionally, she would look our way and smile or laugh. But most of the time, her attention was on her rusty-orange carrots or Sprout TV or even my 14-year-old nephew who was busy consuming enough candy, soda and pizza at my expense that I could have paid for a third flight to California.

(On the subject of said slacker nephew: I’m surprised she even knew he was there. We spent 144 hours away and he spent 100 of those hours Facetiming with his girlfriend, my mom said. They would fall asleep at night together, while Facetiming. Good lord. You know how teenagers are on the phone.)

But at least the Facetime gave Brooke peace of mind. I was concerned she wasn’t having a good time because she was so preoccupied with Sydney. But she did manage to enjoy herself.

When it was time to head home, however, she made sure I drove 100 mph to the airport and she threatened a hijacking should there be any delays with our flight home.

When we finally got back, Sydney was safe and sound. She actually looked like she had some fun and bonded with grandma. She sure didn’t look like she missed us.

So, one trip down and dozens more to go over the next 18 years. But it was tough. I almost look forward to the teenage years when she hates me and skipping town will be a relief for both of us. But that will bring a whole new set of worries, such as locking the liquor cabinet and hiring Chuck Norris to guard the house from boys.

Soon, I Will Eat on the Floor With the Dogs

I used to have a pool table. It sat in my dining room and served as both a diversion to boredom and a topic of conversation. I was cool. I always had the pickup line at the bars…"You want to come back to my place for a game of pool?” Yeah, baby. It worked as often as sinking the 8-ball on the break, but at least it gave me a shot.

Now, I have a dining room table sitting where the pool table once stood, a stark symbol of my changed relationship status and loss of coolness. To make matters worse, it doesn’t even function as a dining room table. It is my wife’s scrapbooking table.

Life as a married man.

But, even with marriage, I still watched what I wanted on television (we have two different TVs), I still played cards when I wanted to play (mostly) and I got my drink on with regular gusto.

They say life changes when you get married. For me, life didn’t change much. I married a younger, independent woman who didn’t need me clinging to her 24-7 and was fine with my chosen methods of having fun.

But then came the baby.  

I heard Tiger Woods hit a hell of a shot to win the Memorial golf tournament the other day. I say “heard” because I wasn’t watching, despite the fact I was home and the TV was on.

We were tuned to Sprout, the children’s learning channel. We are pretty much tuned to Sprout whenever the TV is on. I have lost control of my house to a 9 month old.

I no longer watch what I want on television. I have played cards one time since Sydney was born, and that was couple of weeks ago. You don’t get your drink on when you 1) have a daughter to care for and 2) know you will not sleep through the night or get any naps the next day because she demands your attention.

Life as a father.

I’m not complaining. I love my little princess and I’ll sacrifice the TV or playing cards or a few beers to make sure she is happy. But life if far different from when I was single, or even married. Brooke and I used to rock and roll baby, living the nightlife on weekends. Now, we find ourselves using the word “potty” far more than “party.” With apologies to the favorite band of my grade-school years, KISS, I want to sleep all night, and potty every day.

I moved the coffee table in my living room to the basement so my daughter has room to roam around the floor. The coffee table served as my defacto dinner table during my wife’s quest to be the Martha Stewart of scrapbooking. Now, I find a spot on the floor for my glass while my plate of food teeters on my knee.

If you think it is bad for me, you should see my poor dogs. They used to be the “babies.” They were used to getting attention when I came through the door. Now, they’re second-class citizens. They don’t understand why this 18-pound scream machine whom they could knock over with their wagging tail is more important than them.

They clamor for a little scrap of love after Sydney gets her smothering. My German Shepherd is so jealous he has taken to eating the baby’s toys.

Sorry bud, we all have to make sacrifices. You don’t get enough petting. I eat dinner with my plate on my knee. Who has it worse?  

When do I get my house back? You experienced parents can answer that better than I. But I have to believe at some point I can bring back the coffee table, watch true crime on the ID Channel or catch a sporting event on weekend TV.  

Until then, I’ll stay up to date on the Wiggles and Bert and Ernie and rely on YouTube to catch all of Tiger's great tournament-clinching shots.

Daddy's Main Goal: Keeping Baby Alive

Women and men take care of babies differently.

I’m being nice here by simply differentiating. The fact is, women are just plain better at it.

Taking care of Sydney is an EVENT for me. If that is my job for the day, that is pretty much all I do. Plan on hunkering down in the house, with a pile of toys to one side and a stack of diapers to the other. This is a job that requires 100 percent of my focus, for fear I screw it up.

But it is not unusual for me to come downstairs and see my wife with Sydney in one arm while she does the dishes with another. Or, she has no problem taking Sydney with her to the store, or incorporating her into other normal parts of her life.

For her, Sydney is just part of her daily routine. For me, I won’t even make a sandwich if I am watching Sydney. When Brooke went away for a weekend bachelorette party, I lost seven pounds.

Why is it like this? Why are the genders so different when it comes to baby rearing? I realize I am generalizing here, but in my conversations with other mothers, I’ve discovered many dads are just like me: inept at multi-tasking with the baby.

Why can I never miss a beat at work while simultaneously taking a call from the media, writing a speech for my boss and directing one of my employees on how to handle a client complaint, yet I can’t seem to keep an eye on my daughter and feed the dogs at the same time?

My attempts at multi-tasking usually end up with the daughter crying. Loudly. Either she has a dirty diaper for four hours or she has plopped off the bed onto the floor or she is choking on a piece of debris she mistook for a tasty treat while rolling around on the carpet.

Seriously.

I can be sitting there with my daughter for two hours and my wife will enter the room and within 15 seconds say, “She needs her diaper changed.” I check and she does. Mommy wins again. Daddy 0, Mommy 1,247.

Sigh.

If we decide to go out to dinner, Brooke has no problem packing up a couple of bowls of baby food and feeding Sydney dinner while she is eating her own. I would be completely uncomfortable doing this and would opt to feed Sydney before or after the restaurant. That way, I ensure she is not a distraction from my own eating (very important if you know me!) and I decrease the chance of her causing some sort of scene in the restaurant.

But my wife nonchalantly feeds Sydney her sweet potatoes and peas with one hand while nibbling at her Frisch’s Big Boy with the other.

I once took Sydney outside to sit on the porch and wait for her mother to come home. Easy enough. It is like being inside; we just sit here and play.

Well, there is sun outside. And babies are fair-skinned. And there was a huge yellow jacket burrowing its way into my wooden porch railing, so I got distracted tracking down a can of wasp spray and flooding the hole. Next thing I know, Sydney is sweating and turning lobster red.

Dad of the Year strikes again.    

I wouldn’t even attempt to take my daughter on some kind of adventure outside the house without my wife. I’m just grateful I have managed to drop her off at the day care every morning on the way to work without forgetting her in the car.

Someday, this will change. A day with daddy will be a trip to the museum or the playground. But for now, I am not taking any chances. When mommy is not around, the living room becomes command central. Sydney alternates between the Jumperoo and her toys on the floor while daddy stands at the ready, diapers in one hand and baby food in the other.

My smug, multi-tasking wife can look down on me all she wants. At least Sydney will be alive when she gets home.   

Oh Where Have you Gone Wile E. Coyote? Chica's selling for $250 a pop!

If you talk sprout to anyone my age, you are talking beans. But I have discovered a whole new Sprout as a parent.

As near as I can tell (and this whole column will be about my observations and thoughts as opposed to me actually looking things up…what fun would that be?) this new Sprout is like the old PBS we had when we were kids. It is a learning channel for kids. It is the station that plays Sesame Street.

Why Sprout? I have no idea. I imagine there is a lot of incredible market research behind it. Or, maybe it just sounds great to kids. These are people who are fascinated by furry puppets who eat a lot of cookies, so it doesn’t take much to make them smile.

I am not sure how we found Sprout, but now that we know where it is, it seems to run on an endless 24-hour cycle in our home. Most of you know I am an ID Channel addict. Not anymore. Now I am a Sproutlet. Yes, that is really what they call their followers.

Don’t get me wrong. My daughter doesn’t sit for hours and watch cartoons. It is more background noise than anything – something we turn it on to keep her entertained in between activities and naps and meals. And most of the time, if we are watching, we are explaining things to her, so it becomes a learning experience.

Kids take their Sprout seriously. I have even seen a Sprout Live insignia at the bottom of the screen while I was watching. Why in the world would children’s television need to be live? This is not CNN with breaking news. The Cookie Monster ate another cookie? Got it. No need to break into regular programming.

Over the past week, I decided to take some notes on what I was watching. I realized that I started to actually know some of the songs they sing on this channel and that led me to believe I was developing “mush head.” This is a disease I attach to parents who spend too much time around kids. Stay-at-home moms or dads are especially susceptible to this. They only talk about their kids, they frequently revert to baby language and tones and they tend to break out in kids songs on a regular basis. Try to discuss the nation’s debt crisis with them and you get a blank stare before they say, “Numbers? Oh, let me tell you about the Counting Song…1, 2, 3, 4 … one less than five, one more than three…” Yeah, I really don’t know the words, but you get the picture.

So, while taking notes to ensure my child was watching quality television, I came to the following conclusions:

·         Cartoons are much more educational than when I was a kid. They try to teach your kids life lessons, along with reading, writing and arithmetic. I watched something that had a bear family in it and they lived in a house that was apparently in the country. They were “rural” bears and the house next door went up for sale and a “city” bear family moved in. There was friction between the daddy rural bear and the daddy city bear because they did things differently. In the end, they became friends and the moral of the story was, just because someone is different, doesn’t mean they are bad. Good life lesson. We didn’t exactly get that kind of information from watching Wile E. Coyote try to blow up the Roadrunner.

·         There is some kid named Caillou who has his own cartoon show. Caillou? Seriously? Were Fred, Joe and Ricky already taken? What are we teaching our kids by giving main characters names like this? Caillou looks a lot like Charlie Brown, so why not call him Charlie? 

·         There is a show, called the Wiggles, about guys who dress up in funny outfits. I have no idea what this show is about, but Sydney seems to like it. They do a lot of singing. She likes anything with singing. But why are they called the Wiggles? Can anyone answer that for me? They need to keep this stuff simple for old guys like me. There is another show called the Pajanimals that features – yes, you guessed it – animals in pajamas. Now THAT is simple.

·         The old Thomas the Engine book is now a show. But he has seven or eight other engine buddies to help him out with his adventures. Cool.

·         There is this little bird called Chica who is apparently the rage with kids. Chica talks with a high-pitched squeak. Sydney loves her. You are supposed to “sing along with Chica and do the tweet, tweet, tweet!” I know Chica’s fandom has hit Justin Bieber-like levels because my wife got the idea to get on Amazon and see if she could find a stuffed Chica for Sydney. Average price? Are you ready for this? You are not, I promise you. Sit down for a sec. Ok, average price….$250. ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FREAKING MIND? Sydney will get version 6.0 of Chica, when the price comes way down.

·         They do some birthday songs on there and they recognize kids for their birthday. “Hap-pee Hap-pee Birthday to you, to you, to you!” I can’t get the damn song out of my head. I guess the idea is, if you are watching from home and see your name or picture on TV, it is a big deal. It is like Willard Scott for toddlers. But here is my problem with it: parents put their 2-year-old kids up there. They are 2! They barely know their name. They aren’t going to take time out from drooling to even enjoy it and they certainly will never remember it. These are the same kind of parents who take their kid to Disney at age 3 or have huge birthday parties for them when they are still in diapers. If you are going to do this stuff, make sure it is a time in life when they get maximum value out of it.

·         At night – which in kiddie land is about 6 p.m. – they have a Good Night show, or something like that. It features a chick who looks like Lindsay Lohan before the booze. She talks to what looks like a big couch pillow shaped like a blob. But his name is Star, so I think he is supposed to be a star. Makes sense with the good-night theme.

·         Even the commercials are geared toward kids. Sydney is fascinated by a commercial for lights that display images on your ceiling at night time. It looks like an old projection machine and you can project an image of hippopotamus or something like that into your room. When that commercial comes on, she stares intently throughout. I would buy it for her, but it would keep her up at night and if you follow this blog, the one thing Sydney does not need it less sleep. Let me correct that: the one thing Brooke and I do not need is less sleep.

The bottom line on cartoons is our parents had it a lot tougher than us for two reasons:

1) Cartoons were not as educational back in the day. We can justify all of today’s TV watching as learning. TV watching = learning = good parenting. Yeah, that’s it.  

2) We have smart phones and can play Words with Friends or surf the Internet to keep ourselves entertained while the Wiggles are wiggling away on the screen. This, my friends, helps ward off mush head.

To Bar or Not To Bar? That is the Question

Brooke and I have recently faced that question that torments every new parent: should I take my baby to a bar or not?

Ok, maybe not every parent. But certainly some. The fun ones.

I wanted to watch March Madness a week ago. Brooke had a friend in town. I proposed a sports bar for dinner and basketball before they did their thing. They agreed.

But what to do with Sydney? I’m no prude by any means. But even I had to stop at the thought of taking a 7-month-old to a bar on a Saturday night. What would people think? What stares might we get? What drunken sloppiness might Sydney encounter?

I think the key here was the kind of bar and the time of night. This was a BW-3s, which is known as much for its food as its beer. It also has become very kid-friendly over the years. Visit on a Friday night and you’ll find more 8 year olds there than at the corner day care.

It was also early. We left by 9 p.m. Granted, there have been many, many Saturdays when I and my buddies have been completely plastered and obnoxious by 9 p.m., but the chances of us encountering Courtney Love on a bender are less likely before midnight.

I grew up in bars. My dad, who was not a drinker, liked to play cards or just talk with his buddies at the local tavern. He came from a family of heavy drinkers who spent many a day and night on a barstool. One of his brothers prescribes to the work-8-hours, sleep-8-hours, drink-8-hours lifestyle. Another brother works as a bartender and has owned bars. He was manning the bar the night I saw my first ever knock out. I was about 12 and playing pinball when two guys got into an argument. With one punch, one of the guys dropped to the floor and was out cold. My uncle called an ambulance and yelled at the other guy to get the hell out of there before the cops came. I stared, wide-eyed and mouth agape, innocence lost.

Yes, bar life runs deep on that side of my family. My dad’s sister loves to party and doesn’t pass up the chance to hit a tavern on a Friday or Saturday. His dad died of cirrhosis of the liver. I believe they still have a stool with grandpa’s name engraved on it at his favorite hometown establishment.

And his mom, my grandma, loved her beer. As she got older and retired, my main memories of her revolve around her waking up about 7 a.m., camping at the kitchen table to watch television, a pack of smokes at one side and a can of beer at the other.

She lived in California with my aunt for awhile. I and a buddy drove cross country to the West Coast to see if we could land jobs and live on the beach. We would stay at my aunt’s until we got on our feet. I remember my first night in Burbank. We get into town about 3 p.m. after our long trip and decide to go to dinner and have drinks to celebrate our arrival. This turns in to an adventure that lasts until 2 a.m. in the morning. (Ahh, to be a college student again.)

We are sleeping on the living room floor – it was a small apartment and that was our only option – when my grandma wakes  at 7 a.m. and you hear the unmistakable popping of a beer tab. She no sooner takes her first gulp before she starts in on us. “You boys better get up and go find yourself jobs. You aren’t going to be freeloading here. You need to find jobs and get to work.” This goes on for a couple of hours.

We didn’t last a week with grandma. We were living in our car and washing ourselves in a rest stop bathroom within three days. Try fitting your head under a rest stop sink so you can wash your hair. But anything was better than the wrath of grandma.

So anyway, my dad used to take me to bars when I was a wee lad. He’d throw me some quarters and let me shoot pool or play pinball while he hung with his buddies. I got to be very proficient at pool. When I was 12, he bought me my own custom five-piece pool cue, complete with case and all. I was a FREAKING STUD. I used that cue to win the Boy’s Club pool championship.

Dad loved to challenge his friends to a game against me. He’d bet $20 that they couldn’t beat his 13-year-old son. They always took the bet. Sometimes I won, sometimes I didn’t. If I lost, he made me walk home. No, just kidding.

My mom’s side has some drinkers, too, but not as many colorful stories.

I don’t drink that often anymore. I don’t have beer at the house and can go a couple months without touching one. But I can also get together with my buddies and down a couple of cases in a weekend. Depends on the time and situation.

My point is, I do not necessarily feel it is evil for a child to be in a bar. It did not turn me into an alcoholic or set me on a path to prison. But I am very cognizant of what I want my child to learn and see and how that will affect her. At seven months, there is more of a concern of what people will think of ME than there is of the affect on her, but I’m thinking more about the foundation I am laying.

Ultimately, I guess there is a time and place for everything. I will probably stick to the same thinking I had during March Madness: if the bar is also a restaurant and it is not late, we are good to go. We will not hit up Lenny’s Liquor Palace at midnight.

Isn’t it more about what you teach your kids, anyway? If you teach them right from wrong and how to act, they will get it, right? I sure hope so.

While I was at BW-3, I saw a 13-year-old boy and girl sitting in a booth across from a woman who appeared to be the mother of one of them. Not sure if it was the boy’s mom or the girl’s mom. But the two teens were glued together and sloppily making out while the woman watched the game. It was a pretty disgusting display of teenage lust.

Nevertheless, I was glad to see it. This meant that everyone’s eyes were on this booth and not the one with the 7-month-old rocking in her car seat. I was no longer the worst parent in the bar.

Half Zombie, Half Tazmanian Devil

The other day I came to work with my undershirt on backwards.

I regularly come to work with stains on my dress shirts and dried baby formula stuck to my hands.

I am daddy. I am dirty. I am disgusting.

Mornings are tougher with a baby. Hell, life is tougher with a baby. But mornings are particularly bad because you are going on less sleep than normal and trying to get a whole other person ready for their day. I’m half zombie, half Tazmanian Devil, if that is even possible.

I am waking up earlier than ever and still getting to work late.

Sydney is now falling asleep about 9 p.m. We have struggled mightily to get her into a sleeping routine. This earlier bed time is nice because we have time to ourselves before bed, but it means that her night-time wake ups start earlier. You can usually count on one at about 2 a.m. and another in between 4 a.m. and 6 a.m. So, when 6:40 comes and it is time for daddy’s shower, he is prying his eyelids open with a tire iron.

Then the sprint begins.

Shower. Shave. Brush the teeth. Dress. Wake Sydney. Change Sydney’s diaper. Dress Sydney. Start the car to warm up. Put Sydney’s bag together. Wash Sydney’s bottles and pack her formula for her day in child care. Pack my lunch. Feed Sydney her morning bottle. Gather my lunch bag, work bag, Sydney’s bag and Sydney into the car and drive to child care for drop off.  Drive to work.

If all goes well, I am there at 8:15. Only 15 minutes late.

Oh how I long for those care-free days when I could watch the first 20 minutes of the Today Show, hop in the shower after the first break and still be to work by.…8:15.

How do you veteran parents do it? I can’t imagine adding another kid in the mix or trying to prepare some sort of hot breakfast.

I guess I should feel lucky. My wife helps me. And, I haven’t yet had her throw up on me so that I have to change clothes. Nor is she cranky pants and fighting me in the morning. She’s generally pretty happy.

Things could definitely be worse. Remind me of that the next time you see me walking around with my shirt on backwards.