Life Knocks You on Your Ass

My son won’t have a normal start to life.

Minutes after leaving the womb, he’ll be whisked away to a waiting ambulance that will transport his tiny, fragile body several blocks away to one of the best children’s hospitals in the world. A spot in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit will be waiting.

There is a 70 percent chance he will need surgery immediately. There is a 100 percent chance he will need a second surgery within months.

And that is the best we can hope for.

I still am not to the point where I can say or write this without tears welling up.

I won’t glaze your eyes with the medical jargon that even I don’t understand. He is among the one percent of children who are born with heart defects. In fact, the odds are much smaller than one percent on some his defects: hole in his heart, two valves coming from the same spot and performing the same function, and narrowed arteries in two places.

My son is broken.

I ache for him to be fixed.

Doctors say it is possible. The surgery that is likely upon the day he arrives in this world can fix the narrowed artery at the top of his heart. The second surgery, which will definitely take place, will fix the hole and the two valves.

The other narrowing, which they are monitoring, may not be fixable. Brooke and I heard different things from the doctor. We were both so stunned at the news, I’m not sure either of us heard anything completely right. Brooke thinks it is fixable. This is one argument I hope she wins.

What I know for certain is he will spend many days in the hospital and undergo at least one open-heart surgery. More days in the hospital to recover, and possible follow-up surgeries. Then he will spend the rest of his life being monitored by a cardiologist.

But, if everything goes right, if the fixes take and the other narrowed artery heals, he could be a fairly normal kid.

I’ll take it. I’d love if he is able to play competitive sports and run freely, without a care, with his dog and neighborhood friends.

But mostly, I want him to be alive and healthy enough to have a decent quality of life.

I was angry when we got the news. I’ve spent many days since telling myself what a good life I have.

I grew up poor, but loved. And being poor was a positive. It sharpened me, made me a fighter. I would not be the person I am, or achieved what I have, without that foundation.

I had more fun in my 20s and 30s than the law should permit. In my 40s, I met and married a beautiful woman with a heart so tender saints move aside for her. Seventeen months ago, I was blessed with the best thing to ever happen to me, a beautiful daughter who is smarter than her age and as fun-loving as they come.

No one I have ever been close to has been murdered or died tragically young.  I’ve lost grandparents to debilitating diseases, but only after they’d lived long lives and showered me with love. I lost my dad to leukemia, but I had him with me into his 60s.

As a poker player, I understand skill is trumped by luck. Sometimes the odds are against you. This is simply my time for bad luck. I’ve had my good streak; now I have a challenge to overcome.

Or it could be karma. Lord knows I have done enough bad things and hurt more than a few people in my life.

But what about my wife, a special education teacher who takes care of the world’s most vulnerable? A selfless woman who lifts up everyone around her?

She doesn’t deserve this bullshit.

Neither does my innocent little son, who will be only minutes into this world when faced with life-or-death situations.

Fuck you, karma.

I don’t know if I am a good dad. I try my best, but without my wife to prop me up, I’d probably be lost. I’m better than my dad, but I am nowhere near the super dads I know, like my brother or a stay-at-home friend, Rory Glynn.  

But I know I am a LOVING dad. If love were water, a titanic swell would swallow Sydney daily.

If love can get us through, that little boy has a really good chance.

I’m glad Sydney is not old enough to know what is going on. A time that should be joyous and full of anticipation has turned to depression and nervousness.

I’m not an optimist or a pessimist. I am a realist. That means I study the situation, understand the odds and outcomes, hope for the best and prepare for the worst.

We all know what the worst is here. I’ll be prepared.

My wife is another story. Being prepared is cheating on the notion that our little boy will be anything but fine. Mothers don’t cheat their kids.

I’m worried about her. Her heart will break when they whisk that boy blocks away to Cincinnati Children’s Hospital Medical Center. She has to stay behind for three days, recovering from a C-section. She won’t be there for that first surgery, if needed. Normal breast feeding and bonding will be difficult.

There will be two people in this family with broken hearts.

No, make that three.

No Adam or Mark or John for Us

Picking a name for our son has been excruciatingly difficult. We just can’t agree on anything.

Really, we can agree. But then Brooke runs it by her family or her friends and if she gets any negative reaction, it is back to the drawing board. Essentially, she is crowdsourcing our name to her family and friends. When can you ever get agreement like that?

(Since she is going that route, I think I will, too. Read to the end to learn our current list of finalists and then cast your vote.)

Picking a name for Sydney was rather easy. Once we got passed the whole stripper argument, we settled on a few final candidates, talked it out and came to fairly quick agreement. With this one, we have narrowed it to a few candidates, talked it out, came to blows, slept in different rooms, threatened divorce and are still trying to come to agreement.

Names are important. We are the type who like something a bit different than the norm, but not weird. I don’t want something so unique they make fun of him, yet I don’t want say, the traditional Biblical names either.

I have friends who name their kids Jack and Mary and Charlie and Sally and I am OK with that. I also have friends who name their kids Sundance and Petunia (not really, but I don’t want to give an actual name here to avoid breaking up a friendship). I’m not ok with that.

Picking a really unique name can lead to a lot of teasing on the playground. Sure, your kid can turn it into a positive and become resilient and tough and a leader and literally turn the name into a synonym for “cool.” But he could also crumble like stale bread and spend the rest of his life on a psychiatrist’s couch wondering why his mom and dad thought Arsehole Gregg had a nice ring to it.

I’m also not necessarily enamored with names that can be shortened to something that I don’t consider equal to the given name. For example, Brooke likes Jackson. I think Jackson is cool, but I have a feeling everyone will call him Jack. Then he is just another of 22 million Jacks in this country. (Actually, according to howmanyofme.com, there are 498,107 Jacks in this country. It is only the 115^th most popular name. But John -- the name from which Jack is often derived -- is #2 with more than 5 million!)

And, of course, on the playground, he will be Jack Off, or, worse, Jack MeOff.

I also don’t want my kid named after me or anyone in our families. I want him to have his own identity and not have the burden of carrying any legacy. Brian is a cool name (the 29^th most popular in the U.S.!) as far as I am concerned, but one is enough.

Brooke likes a lot of sissy names. I won’t repeat them here, in case your kid has one of those names. But some names just conjure up prep school wimps more than others. Names like Chauncey and Kip and Grayson. I don’t want my kid to carry that burden.

Being a teacher, Brooke rules out a lot of cool names because she has encountered a student at some time whom carried that name and pissed her off in some way. Yeah, elementary school teachers can carry a grudge, too. Somewhere out there is a teacher who hates you because you put a tack on her seat as a devious little sixth grader. 

So let me run through our latest list of candidates. I will give you the pros and cons, but try not to bias you in any way. Nor will I release which is my favorite or which is Brooke’s favorite. The truth is, we are still entertaining new names; this is just the current list.

You can cast your vote in the comments section. Of course, it will hold no sway in our decision whatsoever (unless you pick my favorite – then I am marching the results right to Brooke!) But it will be fun.

Here they are, in no particular order:

Braeden: Pro: I like the “Br” sound, as in Brian and Brooke. Con: Sydney would be left out of the “Br” game.

Tyson: Pro: Even the shortened Ty is cool. Con: Tyson’s chicken.

Kellen: Pro: Rather unique, without being crazy. Con: Keenan and Kel?

Tate: Pro: Sounds manly. Tate Gregg. Con: It is rather unique, but is it crazy?

Max: Pro: Manly. And has an X, which is just cool. Con: Certainly the most common name on our list.

Jax: Pro: Again, it has an X. Con: Will it be mistaken for Jack? Is it too prep-schoolish? Is it crazy?

That’s it for now. I am interested in your opinion. Crowd sourcing is always a good idea, right?

I'm a Hit in Romania

If you are one of the half dozen or so regular readers of this blog, you are probably wondering where I have been for the past month and a half. Certainly something exciting must be happening in the world of Sydney that I have neglected to tell you.

You would be wrong.

I don’t really like to write unless there is something funny to write about. Have you read some of these blogs where people just post braggy stuff about their kids every week? “Johnny got straight A’s this week.” “Millicent was chosen to be the lead in the school play this week.”  “Billy scored two goals in last night’s soccer game.”

Yawn.

I’d much rather read a blow-by-blow account of how Johnny tried to stuff a whole McDonald’s cheeseburger in his mouth at once and ended up puking in the back seat of the mini van. Or how Millicent got in a cat fight with the school bully and dad scolded her in the principal’s office, but high-fived her once they got in the car. Or how Billy scored two goals in a soccer game, but is so directionally clueless he scored them in the other team’s goals.

Those stories, I can laugh at.

Sydney has been quite the joy lately. At 17 months, she’s getting a touch of the Terrible Twos. We will have a melt down every now and then. But nothing major. Just regular kid stuff. Not really any blog stuff.

We have had some milestones. She can count to 20, with a little help. She has about half of the alphabet down. She had a nice first Christmas, where she delicately opened each gift with one hand and one hand only, thereby making Christmas morning a three-hour affair.

We had our first haircut this week. She wasn’t scared. She didn’t throw a tantrum. Cute, but boring.

It is nice that she now can communicate with us, even if it isn’t in words. She can call out for Daddy when Mommy is annoying her and vice versa. I can always count on a “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” when Sydney gets out of the bath tub because she hates when Brooke dries her off. She wants daddy to come to the rescue.

She smiles and laughs a lot, now. She likes to go to the park and swing and slide, shouting “Whee!” as she glides down. Her favorite show is Caillou and she will stop all playing when it comes on, sitting still and watching intently. She likes pizza, hot dogs, yogurt, cottage cheese and cheese and pretty much spits out everything else.

She’s been sick a couple of times, but recovered quickly. She seems to like child care and gets along with the other kids. She can climb a flight of stairs in record time, ensuring mommy and daddy have to be alert at all times. (I once put the gate down and then went to get her glass of milk that sat in the refrigerator. In the time it took me to retrieve it, she was nine steps up and daddy almost had a heart attack.)

None of this makes for real funny blog fodder.  

As I have said before in this blog, we have settled into parenthood. I am sure there will be upheaval in May when Baby Gregg 2 comes along, but, for now, our lives are blissfully unbloggable.

But I realize I have regular readers who may want me to check in every once in a while, so I will try to pick it up.

For the six of you.

(I actually just checked the stats.) I have more than 14,000 page views all time. While the majority of those views are in the U.S., I have nearly 700 from Russia, more than 400 in the United Kingdom and almost 200 in Romania.

Russia? Romania? Apparently my comedy plays well in the Eastern European bloc. I’m glad the Iron Curtain no longer exists.

I’m not sure how my blogging translates in any of the dozen or so foreign countries that have registered more than ten views on my blog. Perhaps I am viewed as an obnoxious father in France. Maybe I’m laugh-out-loud, Benny Hill funny in the UK. I have to believe I am a little scary to the Taiwanese.

But they are reading. So I need to be writing. Sydney needs to start doing more funny things. The pressure is on, child. You might as well learn to deal with it at a young age. Deliver.

Your Romanian fan base is waiting.

Finding Out the Gender

We know what the gender of our baby will be.

We think.

Let me explain…

I am a reporter by nature, so I like to know everything before anyone else does. Obviously, given a choice, I am going to want to know if it is a boy or a girl. Plus it makes the planning much easier. I admire people who can wait nine months, but it is not me. If I am taking a trip, I want to know the train schedule ahead of time.

Who is worse than me with surprises? My wife. This is a woman who introduced me to the concept of telling people what you want for Christmas. I always assumed everyone tried to surprise their family and friends with a gift that was just right for them. (Although I will admit to at times shopping on Christmas Eve in I-71 gas stations as I traveled north for my family Christmas.) Her family takes all the surprise out by simply saying, “Buy me a Ke$ha CD for Christmas.”

Heck, she even wanted to shop for her own engagement ring. Being the highly romantic guy that I am, I wanted the whole “Will you marry me?” thing to be a surprise.

(By the way, I not only bought the perfect engagement ring myself, but my popping of the question was indeed a grand affair I am quite proud of. Feel free to ask her to tell the story sometime.)

So, between the two of us, there was never any argument as to whether we would find out the gender. But, my wife somehow cooked up a way to learn it even earlier than we planned.

There is a spa-like place in the community of Mason, just outside Cincinnati, that specializes in moms-to-be. Becoming Mom offers maternity clothes, massages, skin care, nail services, the ever popular “waxing,” and, finally, ultrasounds to determine the gender of your child.

A friend of Brooke’s told her about it and from that minute on, she was working me for a visit.

“Wouldn’t it be nice to know before Christmas? What a gift that would be.” Or, “Your mom is coming down in December and it would be great to take her so she can be a part of the experience.”

Yeah, she played the mom card on me.  

While we could wait another month and get this info from the doctor for free, I agreed to pay $70 – we had a coupon. My wife has a coupon for EVERYTHING! – and get it early.

My main concern was that we would get the wrong information. Brooke assured me they would get it right – after all, they guarantee to give you your money back if they are wrong.

Well, of course.

How’s that for a business model? I don’t know what an ultrasound machine costs, but I could buy one, charge parents $100 a pop, guess at the gender and make some dough. Even if I am wrong half the time, it is all profit.

(Forget what I said. As I am writing this, I looked up the price of an ultrasound machine. $135,000 freaking dollars! We wonder why health insurance is so expensive – medical equipment companies, doctors, hospitals – they are all marking things up thousands of percent and lining their pockets.

It would be easier for me to pass myself off as some sort of supernatural belly reader. No upfront investment and all profit. You pay me $100. I rub my hands over your belly and a gender pops into my head. If I am wrong, I give you your money back. If I am right, I am one Ben Franklin richer.)

Despite my concern about accuracy, we forged ahead. We showed up on a Saturday morning -- mom, dad and Sydney -- eagerly anticipating word of whether Sydney would have a little brother or sister.

Now, despite my declaration pre-Sydney that I 51% wanted a boy, this time around I really did not have a preference. My experience with Sydney has been so positive I would happily welcome another daughter into the fold. In fact, I feel a little like “I’ve got this,” when it comes to raising a girl, while a boy would be a whole new world to me. I’m especially worried about whether it would require more energy than an old geezer like me – two months away from my 47^th birthday when the baby is born – has to give. 

At the same time, I like the symmetry of a son. And there are things a son brings to your life that are different from a daughter. Part of me wants to experience those, too.

So, I really, truly had no preference as we passed through the “waxing” department and made our way to the ultrasound room of Becoming Mom.   

The place was nice. They escort you into a little room that is very clean and family friendly. Toys for Sydney, lounge chairs for daddy and a comfortable table for mommy. They dimmed the lights for a calming effect. It felt warm.

It did not calm Sydney, however, as she roamed around the room Gangnam Style while the technician lubed up her mother’s belly in preparation. In fact, the whole time the supernatural belly reader, I mean, ultrasound technician, was rubbing the magic wand over mom’s belly, daddy was chasing Sydney around the room, trying to get her to stay away from breakable items.

In the middle of my quest, we heard the heartbeat. Always a nice moment, even if Sydney was babbling over it. 

A few minutes later, the technician pointed to a tiny spot on the screen and said we were having…

A boy.

Yes.

A boy.

Now, this is where the “we think” part comes in. To be completely assured I am having a boy, I would have to wholeheartedly trust that this ultrasound technician is indeed an ultrasound technician – I didn’t see any license hanging on the wall – and that she really knows what she is doing. That little spot she pointed to was not distinguishable to me. These ultrasounds are all Rorschach blots to me. That spot could have been an elbow or a nose and I would not have been able to tell the difference.

Plus, I have a Fantasy Football team called the Big Anacondas after a nickname I have acquired over the years. So I was expecting the “spot” to be a bit larger than it was.

Ok, maybe it is a self-given nickname.

My wife, however, was sure. She said she knew before the technician knew.

I trust my wife more than I trust the technician. She had a gut feeling going in that it was a boy. She accurately predicted a girl with Sydney. She is the real-life supernatural belly reader.

So, I am having a boy. The perfect family gets more perfect.

I am one lucky man. I get to experience the joy of bringing up both a son and a daughter. I am blessed beyond anything I ever expected in my life.

Am I worried? Sure. There are more sleepless nights ahead. I have no idea how I will afford the bigger house. When it’s time to teach him how to turn the double play or post someone up under the basket or throw the perfect spiral, I’ll be in my late 50s, with a bad back and creaky knees.

But I now will have two children who give me a reason to get up in the morning. I’ll have laughter echoing through my home. I’ll have tea parties to attend and football games to watch. I’ll have double the hugs and kisses.

Being a dad has been the greatest experience of my life. Now, I get the pleasure of doing it again.

I can’t wait to meet my son.

This is Going to be as Painful as a Root Canal

We have hit another baby milestone and this is not going to be pleasant.

Most milestones are positive. They are things you celebrate. The first tooth. The first words. The first steps.

I couldn’t have been prouder when I got Sydney to do her first high-five.

We’ve sailed past most of them without a mention in this blog. Sydney has about eight teeth at this point. Honestly, I stopped counting. I still get nervous that she is going to choke to death on my watch, but I think she has enough choppers to chew her way to survival.

Verbally, she is ahead of the game. She repeats just about any word you emphasize for her and she recognizes familiar things and calls them by their name. She can’t say her own name – she actually thinks her name is “baby” and says that every time she sees a picture of herself. I guess that is better than monkey, which someone I know recently said her newborn now answers to.

I also don’t think she can make the “s” sound for Sydney. In fact, some of her words come out funny because she can’t make the sound. She can pronounce happy or apple, but chicka – her favorite toy – comes out ca-ca. Still, she syas a lot more words than others her age.

As far as motor skills go, she is behind. She is walking, but she toddles around like a drunken college student. She is unsteady on her legs and probably falls down about every five steps. I have never seen anyone hit their head so many times without getting a concussion. She could teach NFL players something. She definitely inherited her mother’s hard noggin.

Those were milestones we happily awaited. Now we are dealing with one I dread.  

We are probably starting late on this, but we are going to do away with the bottle. The doctor scared us the other day by saying Sydney “will need a root canal” if she keeps drinking from a bottle.

What kind of doctor tries to scare you like that? As new parents, we are compliant as overmedicated puppies. You tell us what is best for our child, we are all over it. No need to terrify.

I don’t think this is going to be an issue, except at night. As regular readers of this blog know, my daughter does not sleep through the night. She is up at least once, and often twice, every night. This has been going on for 15 months.

Sigh. 

Please spare the advice. More than once we have let her “cry it out.” Two hours or more later, she is still crying and not sleeping. She rants and raves like Donald Trump discussing the “birther” issue. We have found it much easier to give her a bottle; she is back asleep in 15 minutes. That means we are back to sleep in 20.

Getting her to drink from only sippy cups during the day should be easier; she already does this several times a day. But my nights are about to get even more frightful.

She falls asleep every night drinking her bottle and then has one or two more by morning. For months, we have been cutting her night-time milk with water. She gets a 50-50 mixture. (Imagine how that tastes.) So, I am convinced it is not the milk she needs. I think she likes the soothing nature of the bottle and it helps her go to sleep.

Of course, she did wake up the other night screaming “Milk!,” so I could be wrong.

I’m wrong about a lot of things when it comes to parenting. I incorrectly predicted she could sit in the middle of a bed without somehow rolling three feet and bouncing off. I was wrong that my child would somehow like me more than her mother. And I was certainly wrong about not draining the tub after every bath.

So maybe she does need the milk to get her through the night. Hell, I would like a steak sandwich to get me through the night. But just as daddy goes sandwich-less, Sydney is going to have to give up her milk.

We are going to do this on the weekend, so when we only get two hours of sleep, it will not impact the next day's work performance. 

Like I said, it is a milestone I am not looking forward to. I predict a lot less sleep in my future. But root canals are not good for kids, so it needs to happen.

Baby 2.0

I’m on the die-before-you-retire plan.

Anyone who really knows me, knows how much this depresses me. I am a man of leisure. I certainly look forward to a time when I can sleep until noon and play poker late into the night. Hell, I might even take up regular exercise when I retire because I will have so much free time on my hands.

But that when is now a lot more of an if.  I don’t see it happening.

I’m having another baby.

That means I will be 65 when my second – and last (I plan on getting the snip job!) – graduates high school. Then, I will have four years of college tuition to look forward to. Multiplied by 2.

I guess what I am saying is, if I was a betting man, I’d pony up to the window in Vegas and place my money on the chances of me dying before I retire.

But the truth is, I’d probably die a lot sooner without these kids in my life. Kids reinvigorate you. They give you a reason to live. I’m excited I have a second one on the way.

Sometime in mid-May of next year, little baby Gregg will arrive! He or she will blast into this world via c-section, just like sister Sydney.

Will it be a boy or a girl? Doesn’t matter. Last time, you will recall, I was 51 percent hoping for a boy. This time, I really am 50-50. My experience with a girl has been so positive, I would happily do it again.

Either way, I should find out in December. We already have names picked out for either gender. That’s better than last time, when we could only agree on girl names. By the way, I proposed no stripper names this time.

As I have stated many times in this blog, I never had a strong desire to have children. Brooke wanted two and I wanted zero. We compromised on two.

My fears are the same this time around as last time. I’ve done nothing for the last two months but obsess about a bigger house and adding an additional income stream. I’ve also wondered what would be the best line of work for someone who doesn’t want to be forced out before age 70.

I have zero energy now. How do I add another little Tasmanian devil to the mix? Sydney doesn’t even sleep through the night yet. Now comes another one who wants to party deep into the night, ala Lindsay Lohan? I don’t have enough money to go around now. How do I add another day care bill, a mound of diapers and 50-gallon drums of baby formula to my monthly tab? I have the patience of an angry bee now. How do I mix in another child who will spend nights tormenting me by sticking their hand in the VCR every five minutes, chewing electrical cords when I am not looking and pounding my computer keys while I am trying to check my fantasy league progress?

But what is different this time around is I know the reward. Having Sydney in my life has truly been the greatest experience of my 46 years. That smile can turn my day around in an instant. She does something silly every day that makes me laugh out loud. Her daily development provides a deep sense of interest and pride. I’m sure all of the same will occur with Baby Gregg # 2.

Plus, I know what to expect. When the baby does nothing but cry, sleep and poop for four months and has the same expression for me that he or she has for a brick wall, I will know that somewhere around the corner is coming that first hint of recognition of daddy and it will be accompanied by a smile that melts my heart.

In fact, this is my chance to get a kid who actually likes me. Sydney does nothing but call for mama and cuddle with mama 24/7. I’m as popular as Mel Gibson at a bat mitzvah with my own daughter. Maybe Baby Gregg #2 will have an affinity for daddy.

That is just one of the things that is going to be different this time around. I’m going to assert myself. No baby classes. No more taking the heat for not being excited enough. No nipple confusion. No $400 strollers. No letting the baby bounce off the bed.

I’ve learned some lessons.

This pregnancy is going to be all about me. When Brooke’s back hurts, mine is going to hurt more. When someone asks how she is feeling, I am going to blurt out my aches and pains. If there are any gifts to be doled out this time around, I am going to ask for something for my man cave.

I might even gain 50 pounds in sympathy weight. Oh wait…I did that last time.

I’m going to focus all the attention on me. The first pregnancy was for her. I’m going to enjoy this ride.

I better. For the next 22 years, I am going to work my rear end off, slaving decades past the issuance of my Golden Buckeye Card and AARP membership. It is going to be all about Sydney and her little brother or sister. I have to get them through college, or die trying.

A funny thing happened on the way to retirement…          

Daddy Screws Up, Version 2,652

OK, this is what happened:

Brooke had to pick up a friend from the airport. This left me in charge of bathing and putting Sydney to bed.

The normal routine is Brooke does the bathing and I read the bedtime stories and feed Sydney her bottle, after which, she usually falls asleep. On this night, I handled all three parts of the bedtime routine.

On the times I have handled the bath, I usually let her play for 20 minutes, then spend about five minutes cleaning her, then we are off for the stories. That was my plan this time, too.

Brooke threw me for a loop adding bubbles to the water (she prepared the bath before leaving). I don’t usually do bubbles, but, since they were in there, I figured I’d take advantage of it and let the bubbles self-clean Sydney. This would save me the five minutes of work at the end. The bubbles would clean Sydney while she was playing.

Now, while Sydney plays, I usually sit nearby scrolling my Ipod, setting my Fantasy Football lineups, reading the news of the day or playing Words with Friends. My job is to simply make sure she doesn’t drown. She loves bath time, so I let her play.

So I am scrolling and about 15 minutes into the bath, Sydney stands up. I immediately sit her back down and tell her “NO! We don’t stand in the tub.”

Sydney loves to get this kind of reaction from me. She thinks it is funny and it encourages her to again do whatever it is that drew the reaction.

So, a couple of minutes later, she stands up again. Same routine. I sit her down, tell her “NO” and go back to scrolling. A few minutes later, the same.

This time I tell her, “If you do that again, that is the end of your bath. We are getting out.”

Of course, she does it again two minutes later. I quickly whisked her up, threw her in a towel and walked her to her changing table.

End of bath.

I dried her off, put on her pajamas and read her a few stories. After her bottle, she was ready for bed.

Shortly after she fell asleep, my wife came home. She and her friend sat downstairs talking for a couple of hours and then came up for bed.

My wife goes in the bathroom and then comes running into our bedroom with a horrified look on her face.

“Did you see the tub??”

“Oh, sorry, I forgot to drain it. Sydney kept standing up and..”

“NO! There is poop in the bathtub! How long did you have her in there?”

“What? No, she didn’t poop in the tub. I was watching her and…”

“She pooped in the tub. There are three turds in there. It is disgusting. How could you not have noticed?”

“Well, there were bubbles and you can’t see below the bubbles and…”

“I can’t believe you. She is going to be sick from being in that water. You have to pay more attention. You are so non-observant when it comes to watching her. You have to be more observant.”

“Yes, dear.”

At this point, I was totally defeated and feeling like a horrible dad. How could I not have noticed something taking place three feet from me?

That’s the story. If letting her roll off the bed onto the floor wasn’t bad enough, my inattentiveness now has led to my daughter pooping in the tub and me leaving it there for three hours. While Brooke had a friend staying with us.

I’m sure my wife had a fun time explaining what an idiot her husband is.

Thank God Sydney didn’t decide to take a few swallows of bathwater, which she is sometimes apt to do.

Call me Daddy Disaster.

Despite my stereotypical ineptness, I really do love my daughter!

So, if you are used to playing Words With Friends with me, I’m afraid I will no longer be able to carry on a game between the hours of 8 p.m. and 10 p.m.

Sorry.