Daddy's Little Tax Credits

Excessive Celebration

2009-03-11T19:12:00.004-06:00

The video that you are about to see features my oldest son David doing some excessive celebration that probably puts to shame Chad Johnson and Terrell Owens, at least it would if either of those guys were capable of the emotion of shame. So that you can better appreciate the video allow me to set it up for you. David and Graham (red shirts in video below) had been sitting on the sidewalk watching in awe as the bigger kids played basketball down the street. After almost a half hour of watching they finally got an invite to play, they were thrilled just to get an invite and to have a chance to take some shots. David’s first shot missed, but his second shot... well... the video below is his second shot. I LOVE his reaction.

Be sure to click HQ for best quality.
Sometimes a shot is so good that you just have to leave the game, run all the way home and tell your mom that you made a basket. I suppose eventually that will wane a bit until it becomes the standard “hi mom” into the camera that you see from college and professional athletes.

After he went back to the game he made 7 shots in a row, and that’s when I started jumping, celebrating and running up and down the street like an idiot. Cut me some slack, I had just found out that I could stop saving for retirement, you know, since my son is going to be a pro basketball player.

Thanks to those of you who have left DLTC in your reader waiting for me to resume posting, even though I know you probably intended to delete it but never got around to it. I’m lazy like that too. This is the spot where I apologize for not posting more regularly and promise to do better in the future but I think that we can both see through that façade at this point so I won’t lie to you again. I will however tell you that I gave Candis (my wife) posting permissions here and she might provide some updates too from time to time, in fact, that last post down there about the pinkie, that was her.

I Know My Pinkie

2009-03-02T12:32:00.005-07:00

This is Graham's new song he learned at preschool.

It's the cutest song I've ever heard.

There's just one minor detail...

That’s My Boy

2008-10-16T20:33:00.000-06:00

I was sitting at my desk trying to look busy the other day when I received a text message from my wife, although calling it a text message is a little misleading because it did not contain any text whatsoever. Instead it contained a picture of Graham, my youngest son, at the department store making some new friends. It instantly caused me to burst into laughter at my desk, because... well... you just have to see for yourself.

“Hey there tootse, mind if I sit here?”
Imagine that, he shares the same interests as his Dad, although I was never brave enough to actually go up and talk to the manikins, let alone stare so brazenly or touch them.

In the moments before my wife answered her phone to explain the picture I imagined her wandering around the department store looking for the child she had misplaced, and then finding him chatting up some lingerie models just as cool as could be. “Oh, hi Mom. This is Amber, Cinnamon and Tiffany, they’re working their way through med school. Hey, can I offer you guys some chocolate milk? Maybe a goldfish cracker?”

My wife answered and informed me that no, she hadn’t misplaced our child and then found him in the lingerie section. Well, excuse me. I guess I’m still the only one who loses children in this family. It turns out that this lingerie display was situated right next to the cash register, and while my wife was paying the cashier, Graham wandered over to the models, ignoring my wife’s pleas to “get back here,” and “stay close to me.” When I was a kid the only thing that we lusted over at the cash register was the candy display, now they’re tempting kids with all kinds of new things.

Upon leaving the store Graham looked up my wife and said “Mom, those were girl’s underwear, right?”

Yes Graham. Those are most definitely girl’s underwear, but again, it’s good to know you share the same interests as your Dad.

Bath Time

2008-08-01T10:14:00.003-06:00

I’ve never really cared much for baths. It always seemed to me that once you have washed all the dirt and sweat off, you were just left sitting there brewing in your own filth. That can’t be sanitary. Needless to say I don’t take baths, I take showers, and at least once a week. My kids however, absolutely love bath time, and it has provided me with a great number of stories to tell, none more amusing than the following one.

This incident occurred a couple of years ago when David was 3, and like many of the incidents here on DLTC is being recorded for ~~posterity~~ material that I will include in my speech at his wedding. My wife had David in the bath, which you probably saw coming thanks to my incredible foreshadowing skills. Graham was in bed and I was ~~watching SportsCenter~~ doing something sophisticated in the living room. All of a sudden there came a shriek from my wife, “Iaaaaaaannnnnnnnn!” That’s my name for those of you who don’t know me. I jumped up and ran to her assistance, without even waiting for a commercial break (please hold your applause ‘til the end). “Look,” my wife exclaimed pointing at the tub. It took me a few seconds to see it, but there it was, a small chunk of poo floating in amongst the bath toys. It was trying to disguise itself like E.T. in a closet full of stuffed toys but it stood out like the luminous finger that healed a sore thumb. “Watch him, while I go get something to clean up with,” my wife said. I stood at the bathroom door as instructed, but my attention had wandered back to the highlights that I was missing. I could almost see them down at the end of the hall. If only I’d waited until a commercial break. Curse these good husbanding skills of mine.

This wasn’t David’s first time pooping in the tub so he knew what was about to happen. Bath time was about to meet an abrupt, sanitized end. The HazMat Team were already on their way, bath toys were about to be bleached, sterilized, and disinfected before being burned and then hermetically sealed in a biohazard bag to be disposed of in an ecologically unfriendly manner. My wife’s a germaphobe. Had it been me watching over David I’d have probably fished the offending poop out of the tub, flushed it, and added some more soapy bubbles to the bath to make up for it. David wasn’t ready to be done with bath time, so he decided to solve the problem himself. If that last sentence didn’t just scare you to death, then you’ve probably never experienced first hand the problem solving acumen of a 3 year old boy.

My wife returned with bottles and wipes stacked chin-high that were labeled with more warnings than a nuclear missile silo and David began pleading his case. “No, Mom!” Alas, David’s protests were to no avail, the contamination was already more widespread than the Exxon Valdez catastrophe of 1989 and my wife was in full cleanup mode.
“Out of the bath please David,” she said. And then he responded with the scariest thing he’s ever said.
“No, Mom... It’s gone!” The house started spinning. The momentary silence that engulfed the three of us in the bathroom was as barren as the bleachers at a Marlins game on a rainy day. He was right. The little floating nugget was nowhere to be seen. The possibilities of what had happened to the chunk of poo washed through my head and they were not pleasant, especially since it had happened on my watch. My first thought was that he’d scooped it into the toilet, but then I realized that this was the logical solution and I knew that he would not have chosen the logical solution. What did he do with it? Was it stuffed into a bath toy? Stuck underneath the soap dish? What does the mind of a 3 year old think is a logical solution? At this point I was just praying that he’d tell us where it went so that we didn’t discover it six months down the road. “David, what do you mean it’s gone? Where did it go?”

“I smooshed it!” His face beamed with pride, my wife’s face beamed with a look of repulsion, and I left the bathroom so neither of them would see me laughing hysterically. Somewhere in his mind the best option for dealing with poop in a tub was to ‘smoosh it’ until it dissolved into the bath water. If you can’t see the poop in the tub, then there must not BE poop in the tub, right? Needless to say bath time was over and if I remember correctly, my wife was considering putting the house on the market because it would never be clean again.

Spank Me

2008-07-01T18:31:00.003-06:00

This video doesn’t really require much of an introduction, but I’d feel lazy if I just put a video up without typing anything at all. This is Graham a couple of nights ago. He doesn’t want to eat his hot dog. In fact he doesn’t want to eat his hot dog so much that he’d rather have... well... I’ll let you watch it to find out for yourselves. (Sorry about the quality of the video, it was filmed on my camera phone.)

For those of you who don’t have young kids and are therefore not adept at understanding constant whining I’ll go ahead and post the transcript of the video below.

Me: What do you want Graham?
Graham: [Crying] A spankin’
Me: You want a spankin’?
G: [Still crying] Yeah.
Me: You want one now?
G: [Still crying] Yeah.
Me: Because you don’t want to eat your hot dog?
G: [Still crying] No.
Me: Can you eat your hot dog please.
G: [Still crying] But I don’t want to.
Me: What do you want?
G: [Yes, still crying] I want a spankin’ now.

Perhaps someone told him what they make hot dogs out of, or maybe there are just some days where you’d rather have a spankin’ than eat a hot dog. Some things never change.

Also, I’d like to point out that nothing says “loving father” like videoing your kids crying and laughing about it on your blog. It’s OK though, I really think that this will be one of those things that we can bond over and laugh about later on in life... probably during an extended therapy session.

My Own Paparazzo

2008-06-12T09:37:00.007-06:00

David is learning to use our old digital camera. He walks around snapping pictures like some 41 inch paparazzo. You might think that I’m being mean by describing him as a paparazzo but that’s because you haven’t finished reading this post yet, besides paparazzo is just a fun word to throw around. Almost as much fun as magniloquent.

Here are some of the first pictures that David took. They are of course copyright David 2008, all rights reserved, although I can’t imagine that you would have any interest in duplicating any of the works below, I won’t even hang them in my office.

That’s his brother’s T-Shirt which is clearly more interesting than a picture of his brother whom he sees every day. He only sees that T-Shirt once every couple of weeks if he’s lucky. The good news here is that he has good aim with the camera, he intentionally cut off Graham’s head.

This picture, I’m afraid to tell you, was staged. He used his sports whistles to hang his Bob the Builder toys on the back of that chair before taking the picture. (Helpful parenting tip: Don’t buy whistles for your kids.) The picture doesn’t make any sense to me but that probably just means that it will soon be considered high art and sell for thousands of dollars to some idiot with a pipe and suede patches on the elbows of his jacket.

This is the train track. This is the most important thing in our home, I know this by the 40 odd pictures of it that David took. I actually kind of like this picture, it has a certain je ne sais quoi about it or as the French like to say... No... Wait... That IS what the French like to say, that and “donnez-moi le fromage, s’il Vous Plaît.” (See Mom, 8 years of French is finally paying off.)

Not pictured: Me in a state of undress. I had just returned home from work and headed into the bedroom to change out of my suit when I heard David proudly yell “I’m going to take a picture of Daddy naked!” I double checked that the door was indeed locked and listened as my wife set some rules in place for proper camera etiquette. The number one rule was no taking pictures of Mommy or Daddy in a state of undress. It’s a good rule for him to learn because it turns out that it’s one of the more inflexible rules around here. I once found out the hard way that even I’m not allowed to take pictures of his Mommy naked.

Happy Father’s Day to my Dad and to all you other Dad’s out there reading this. I’m already working on another post that will probably go up next week sometime. It’s a story that happened a while ago, but one that I don’t want to forget so it will soon be immortalized here, and don’t worry, it’s much less magniloquent than this one was.

Apologies

2008-06-11T16:22:00.004-06:00

Just a quick word of apology to any of you who regularly check in on Daddy’s Little Tax Credits only to see the same post at the top of the page that was there the last time you were here, and the time before that, and the time before that and etc. Things have been a little busy for me lately, and DLTC is the ‘second’ blog that I write, which means it’s the first one to get ignored. Hey, it’s kinda like Graham! (I kid, I kid!)

Anyway, if you ever find yourself longing to read another post and it’s been a while since I’ve posted one, head on over to Half-Fast (my running blog) where I’m a little more committed to a regular posting schedule, or use Google to find one of the millions of more talented writers out there and go read their blogs. Fortunately you don’t have to resort to that today because I’ve got another post coming right up, and I’ll try not to go so long between posts in the future. Stay tuned.

Also, thank you to the ~~thousands~~ several of you who voted for DLTC in the Best of Blogs contest for Best Daddy Blog. I took second place! Woo Hooo! I’m number 2! I’m number 2! Anyway, thanks for voting, 2nd place was far better than I expected and immeasurably better than I deserved. The first place winner was Literal Dan but he totally bought the vote by offering a free tote bag to his readers and he doesn’t even have his own domain name. This is important because it means that I was the best Daddy blog who has his own URL. Take that Dan! In reality Dan is one of those writers I was referring to above so be sure to check out his blog. (I threw that sentence in at the end because I wanted to seem like a gracious runner up. I hate Literal Dan!)

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

2008-05-15T08:56:00.001-06:00

This tiny little blog has been nominated and is a finalist for the Best of Blogs award in the category of Best Daddy Blog. Who nominated it? Obviously it wasn’t you, so I had to do it myself. I originally wanted to enter it under the category of Best Sex Blog, but that was due to a misunderstanding on my part. I wondered how I was going to prove that I was the best at THAT. The good news is that you can vote for me without any qualms, because you’re not voting that I’m the best Daddy, just the Daddy with the best blog about being a Daddy.

My kids are crying in the background as I type this because I’m currently losing pretty badly, you don’t want that on your conscience do you? What you need to do is click on this link and then vote for Daddy’s Little Tax Credits. You can vote everyday from as many different computers as you have access to and you really should because the wailing in the background is becoming unbearable. All you have to do is check the box next to Daddy’s Little Tax Credits and then click the “Vote” button, the ballot is so simple and Chad free that even you Florida residents will be able to figure it out.

The sooner that I take the lead in the voting, the sooner you’ll get another post about my kids, which is probably why you were here anyway.

Finally, in a note that seems moderately related to this site, at least to the title, we finally received our stimulus check from Uncle Sam. $300 per kid for these two lunatics? It is SO not worth it. I bet I could get much more than that for them on the open market.

A Tale of Two Boys

2008-04-29T13:59:00.004-06:00

The collages below were created from the pictures that we have of David and Graham playing soccer. They are a good representation of all of the pictures that we’ve taken at the games. See if you can spot any differences in the way they play the game.

David, the happy child, is always smiling when he plays. Graham, the angry child, is always upset. David has scored 5 goals in 4 games. Graham has punched a kid, shoved a kid and violently shaken a girl by the shirt, and he’s easily the shortest kid out there. His wrath has generally been reserved for those who have legally taken the ball from him. We’re beginning to think that he might have a future in hockey, as the worlds shortest but meanest enforcer, or maybe boxing.

Naturally when my wife and I reviewed all our pictures from the games we decided that it was time to have a little discussion with the boy. I drew the short straw and sat my son down at the computer to look at all the pictures. “Can you point out your face in these pictures?” I asked him. He silently pointed to himself in all the pictures. “Can you tell me what is different about your pictures and your brother’s pictures?” I asked.
“He looks angry and I’m smiling.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I want you to be more like Graham. We’re not out there to have fun, we’re out there to win at any cost. Just think how many goals you could have scored if you cared about winning as much as your brother does.”
“Yes Dad,” David answered.

We’ll have to wait and see how things go this Saturday, but for now I think we’ve got this problem licked. I just better not see any smiles this weekend, especially not after last week’s drubbing.

In a related note, people often say that Graham looks more like my wife, and David looks more like me. Never has this been more evident than in these photos, and never has it been more likely that I’ll be sleeping on the couch.

Soccer Stars

2008-04-08T14:47:00.002-06:00

Graham and David had their first soccer game this past Saturday. They play in a 3 & 4 year-old’s pre-kindergarten league, which is convenient since they are 3 and 4 years old respectively. They have a half hour practice before the games begin, which is much better than a mid week practice because they don’t remember things from one day to the next. I know this by the number of times I repeat myself.

At the first practice, Coach Peter introduced himself and began with some very important, technical drills like ‘look at me when I blow the whistle’ and ‘you must not touch the ball with your hands.’ Personally I thought that the drills were a little advanced for these kids, but he blew his whistle and 9 heads snapped around to look at Coach. The final drill involved a story about how the hungry goal liked to eat soccer balls, and how they needed to feed the goal. During this drill Graham, who either had the biggest jersey on the team or was the shortest person out there, actually scored a goal. He was ecstatic, I’m pretty sure that he thought they’d already started the game.

That’s Graham in the middle. Yes, the one in the dress.
We were ready for the game to start, and I use the word game in the loosest possible sense because under league rules they do not keep score. The point is to teach the kids about playing as a team, to teach them to follow rules and for them to have fun. Afterwards everyone gets congratulated on a job well done and everyone’s a winner. There are no losers in this league, except for all the kids on the opposing team who lost the game by a score of 5-2. That’s right, I kept score!

Two of our team’s goals came off the talented left foot of my son, David. I was worried when he didn’t score in practice but I guess he’s just my little Allen Iverson. “Practice? We talkin’ about practice?” I couldn’t have been prouder. Two goals puts him on pace for a 16 goal season which would obliterate the single season record. The record, of course, is not official for fear that it might make some kids feel bad about themselves, but it is whispered among the parents on the sidelines. Apparently, four years ago little Timmy Parker once scored 11 goals in a season, but there are rumors that he was juicing. One of his former teammates claimed that before games he’d often notice that Timmy had a red juice mustache.

After the game we celebrated by going to the park right next to the soccer fields. When David and Graham were done playing at the park we headed home, but not before stopping at a sporting goods store to purchase a whistle. TWEET! All eyes on Dad!

David on a breakaway.

Dirty Rockin’ Egg

2008-03-27T10:43:00.008-06:00

The last time that my wife and I were on time to any kind of appointment was almost 5 years ago, before we had kids. It doesn’t seem to matter how hard we try or how early we attempt to leave the house, something always happens to slow us down. Someone needs a snack before we leave and then gets it all over himself, someone needs a chocolate milk before we leave and then gets it all over himself, someone needs to go pee before we leave and then gets it all over himself... you get the picture. That ‘someone’ is David or Graham, and occasionally me.

Easter Sunday was no different. We were a few minutes behind our scheduled departure time for the short drive to my In-Laws’ house where we planned to hunt Easter Eggs. In an attempt to get the boys to hurry up I used the old turn-it-into-a-competition trick and told them that “The last one in the car is a dirty rotten egg!” David and Graham bolted for the door. Now, I had intended that this would be a competition for the two of them, but they decided that it was for all four of us, which is totally unfair because I have to buckle Graham into his seat and that made me the last one in the car.
“You’re a dirty rockin’ egg, Dad!” yelled Graham. Somehow it didn’t seem quite so bad to be the dirty rockin’ egg. Candis thought that Graham was mispronouncing ‘rotten’ but I’m convinced that he really does think that I’m rockin’.

My Father-In-Law and I were put in charge of hiding the eggs in the expansive back yard, which turned out to be a mistake because neither of us counted the number of eggs that we’d hidden or remembered exactly where they all were. Apparently these are things that are important, because it’s difficult to ensure that you’ve retrieved all the eggs without knowing those two facts. I readied myself to play the role of referee and hoped that I wouldn’t have to call any Technical Fouls while David and Graham each took a basket and commenced Operation Eggs Traction. (Extraction - get it? I came up with that one all by myself!) *PATS SELF ON BACK* The boys would routinely spot an egg on the far side of the yard and sprint past 5 or 6 easily visible eggs to get to it. Aside from the fact that these two kids apparently couldn’t find an egg if it was screaming their name, the game went smoothly. They played fair and even showed each other where stashes of eggs were hidden so that they could both go grab some. Candis thought that this was nice, well-mannered behavior, while I made a mental note that they lacked the competitive spirit and killer-instinct to be champions and quietly devised ways to instill this in them.

After they had found all of the eggs (I think) David and Graham decided that they wanted to hide the eggs for the adults to find. This was when the underhanded tactics and cheating began, and unfortunately there was no one to play referee. Contestants were spilling other’s baskets to slow them down, they were stealing eggs from one another’s baskets, there were even rumors of one team adding eggs to the game to increase their final count. It was despicable. It was competitive spirit and killer-instinct. It was men against women and the fairer sex did not fair so well despite all their Machiavellian machinations.

It is ironic that my 3 and 4 year old boys were better behaved than the adults. David and Graham managed to share, to be polite and to genuinely be well behaved. This tells me that we haven’t screwed them up yet, but don’t worry our actions later that day assure me that it’s only a matter of time before we do.

The Mess

2008-03-13T12:40:00.005-06:00

This story happened a while ago but I’ve been wanting to write it down so that I would never forget it. Once you read it you will wonder if it’s even possible to forget such a story, but I’m still going to write it down for posterity nonetheless. It’s one of my favorite stories to share with expecting parents because of the horrified, what-have-we-gotten-ourselves-into look that they give me as I convey the details.

Candis had not been feeling well for the past couple of days, and when I left for work on that particular morning she was still in bed. She was running a fever, extremely nauseous and completely drained of energy, what she needed was some rest. I sternly lectured the boys before I left for work making sure that they understood that Mommy was sick, that they were to play quietly, that they could get snacks out of the pantry so long as they just left Mommy alone. They agreed that they would be good and help Mommy to get some rest.

It actually worked pretty well for several hours, either that or Candis was too hopped up on Day Quill and other over the counter drugs to realize what was going on. Sometime before noon however, there was a knock on Mommy’s door. David entered with Graham in tow, “Momma,” he said, “there’s a really, really big mess out there, but we didn’t make it. Do you want us to clean it up?”
“Yes please.”
“OK, but we didn’t make it,” said David attempting to proclaim their innocence once again.
“Well who else would have made it?” asked Candis. This is a logical question and the answer would have been useful if 3 year olds were logical beings. They are not, so instead of a logical answer David again proclaimed their innocence before leaving to go clean up the mess.

After a few minutes curiosity prevailed and Candis went to go look at the mess, all the while imagining that she was going to have to reprimand David for lying about who made the mess. Unfortunately for Candis, David had been telling the truth. They did not make the mess. No. The dog made the mess.

My poor wife went out to the front room to discover that ‘the mess’ was in fact the dog’s vomit. Worse yet the boys were busy cleaning it up per her instructions and when I say “cleaning it up” I of course mean “spreading it all around.” David being the resourceful boy that he is had decided that he would need something to scoop up the mess, and when you need to scoop something up what better device than a spoon? I’m not sure how many spoonfuls David had transported from the front room, through the dining room to the trashcan in the kitchen, but it was enough to leave a visible trail. Graham was not tall enough to reach the silverware drawer and was cleaning up without the benefit of a spoon, to this day we’re not sure what he was using to carry vomit to the trashcan.

Both boys looked at their Mom, their faces beaming with pride. Not only had they had helped her “clean up” the mess, but they would like it noted for the record that it was indeed a mess that they did not make. Of course that’s a technicality because while they didn’t make the mess, they did make the mess bigger.

This would be a horrendous situation to be faced with as a healthy parent, let alone one who was already nauseous and feverish. The situation was probably made worse when Candis called her husband to ask if he could come home early to help out. I listened to her retell what had happened. I laughed, I cried, I almost rolled around on the floor, it was an unbelievably funny story to listen to from the safety of my office. Then when the story was over, I politely informed her that I was regrettably unable to leave work early.

Just Me & The Boys

2008-03-04T12:06:00.005-07:00

My wife is a Wedding and Event Coordinator which means that there are times when I have to watch the boys by myself on the weekends. It’s a scary prospect and one that we all try to avoid as it’s not in anyone’s best interest for me to be the lone parent for any length of time. I’m not fit to watch the house by myself let alone two boys who are looking to get me into trouble; “Yeah Dad, Mom always puts the banana peels in the disposal.” It’s OK though because they’re in bed by the time my wife gets home and then I just blame them for everything.

This past Saturday was one of these occasions. Candis left the 3 of us at the house and informed us that I was in charge by virtue of being the only one who didn’t need to be constantly reminded to flush the freakin’ toilet when you’re done!

The afternoon went quite well. Graham (our 3 year old) napped, I played video games on my Xbox and David (our 4 year old)... well... I’m sure he entertained himself with something. At one point he did come and ask me what side of the house he should put the trees on (he was drawing a house), “the right side or the wrong side?” I tried to tell him that he meant “right side or left side” but he was insistent that it was either “the right” or “the wrong.” Thinking that he was trying to engage me in a political discourse, I ignored him as I do with everyone who attempts this.

At 4:30 Graham woke up from his nap and the world ended. From what I could tell the following is a list of items that Graham was upset about:

Mom was not home.
Dad was home.
Someone had put Dad in charge.
He had to go to the kitchen to receive milk.
Aforementioned milk was in the WRONG CUP!

I’m sure I’m missing some because I don’t speak caterwaul, but it eventually subsided and we moved on to dinner. Instead of just making something I made the mistake of asking “what do you boys want for dinner?”
“Pancakes” came the immediate response which was quickly seconded by the younger accomplice. Not wanting to disturb the peace or provoke the neighbors into calling social services I looked in the freezer before saying no, to see what I could make. Lo and behold, frozen pancakes. Cooking time: 45 seconds in the microwave. Effort on Dad’s part: minimal.
“OK, pancakes it is.” I was a hero.

I was still beaming with pride at having made dinner for my kids as I helped them wash up afterwards. David wanted to play ‘Mom and Dad’ (which makes me nervous on so many levels), but he wanted to pretend that they were a “Mom and Dad with no kids.” I know where he gets this from because Candis and I play this all the time, it really is a fun game.

As they played happily I decided that it was time for me to change the light bulb on the front porch that has been out for some time. This was a strategic move on my part, I knew that my wife would come home and in the course of asking how everything went we would eventually get to the question “what did you make them for dinner?” My plan was to change the subject and fake being upset. “Did you even notice that I changed the light bulb on the porch? I do all this work around here while you’re off at your fancy parties and then you don’t even notice. It’s like you totally take me for granted, I don’t think you really appreciate what I do around here.”

Unfortunately the plan hit a snag when I couldn’t find where we keep the new light bulbs, but I managed to wrangle one from a lamp in the basement to accomplish the mission. She won’t be happy the next time she turns on that lamp, but hopefully I’ll be at work when that happens.

David’s First Book

2008-02-24T19:41:00.003-07:00

My son wrote his first book. I have often toyed with the idea of writing a book, but I never expected my 4 year old to beat me to it. That’s it that you see pictured there on the right side of this post. He read the book to my wife first which is funny because I do the same whenever I write a post for this site or for Half-Fast. She didn’t correct his grammar or his spelling, or give him any suggestions for improving it, or question his conjugation, or tell him that anything was inappropriate, which is not funny because she always does that stuff to me. Quite frankly I think that some of the posts that I’ve written are way better than his book. But no, my wife was beaming with pride, whose side is she on anyway?

What was really impressive was that after he read the book to my wife, he read it to me and the story didn’t vary at all. He read the story several times including backwards once, and each time it stayed the same. For those of you who don’t have kids (bite me) let me explain that 4 year olds don’t actually write. The book is just a series of ~~scribbles~~ pictures which is why it is so remarkable that each page corresponded with the same sentence at every reading. I mention this because before I had kids I would have read the first paragraph of this post and imagined a 4 year old having written a 400 page manuscript without even realizing that 4 year olds don’t really read or write, at least not enough to write a book. Anyway here is the story in full, as read by David:

Once upon a time there was a knight, but down came another knight and he fighted him down.
Then there was a dragon, but down came a knight and he fighted him down.
Then there were some scary birds, but down came a knight and he fighted them down.
Then there was a moose and down came the knight and he gave him a muffin.
Then there was a mouse and down came the knight and he gave him a cookie.
Happily ever after.

Please note that I don’t have the author’s written permission to reprint the above book (because he can’t write), and he wouldn’t give verbal permission but if he tries to take any kind of legal action I’ll promptly revoke his TV privileges and send him to bed early. I guess I’m like one of those controlling parents of child actors.

When I first heard the book I thought that it wasn’t long enough, but then I realized that it was a kids book and by the time you add illustrations, supersize the font and then break each sentence over 2 pages you’ve got a fantastic kids book that will retail for $9.95. I love John Grisham but has anyone told him that he could write roughly 43 kids books in the time it takes to write his next legal thriller which will sell in paperback for $7.95?

On first glance you might think that David conjugated “fighted” incorrectly, but I think he’s just taking artistic license there to make a point. Also, I like the twist in the last few sentences. I thought for sure that the moose was going to get fighted down didn’t you? But then out of nowhere the knight gives him a muffin. The best part about the book for me was the ambiguity of the first three sentences. Take another look. “There was a dragon, but down came a knight and he fighted him down.” Who just got fighted down? “He” could refer to the dragon or the knight. The book leaves it up to you, the reader to decide but David was a little more subtle about it than Frank Stockton was in The Lady Or The Tiger.

Bye Bye Titty

2008-02-14T19:09:00.002-07:00

David, my 4 year old, found the above note taped to our front door the other day. As always you can click the image to enlarge it, the names and phone numbers have been hidden to protect the stupid. It would appear that someone in my neighborhood is missing their cat and also that a village is missing their idiot. It is so sad to see things like this; parents allowing their kids to name the family pet “Titty.”

Yeah, I get it. It’s cute to have your infant name your new kitten and it was probably funny when she mispronounced “kitty” but that’s where it should have ended. It’s one thing to name a stuffed bear “Email,” because the kid keeps saying it, but it would be nice if parents possessed the common sense to veto names when they crossed the line. “Titty” definitely crosses the line.

As a parent, it’s important to remember that you are in charge here. This would have been a good opportunity to use your veto power, after all if you don’t exert your parental authority from time to time then you are really just the tall people that live in the house and pay the bills. That’s no fun. Sometimes I like to veto things and exert my parental authority for no other reason than to feel the rush of being powerful. The adrenaline surges to my head from having supreme executive power in my household. “This is not a democracy, it’s a dictatorship!” I like to say. I rule with an iron fist. Justice is swift and unmerciful. I have absolute dominion... you know... as long as that’s cool with my wife and all. She’s not reading this is she?

I can’t help but think of some of the conversations that must go on at Titty’s (Titties?) house. “Don’t chase Titty!” “You have to be nice to Titty.” “Have you seen Titty lately?” Those must be fun times.

Does anyone else remember when you were in middle school and you’d play a game where you combined the name of your first pet with the name of the street that you grew up on, and that was supposed to be what your “adult film” stage name would be? Yeah, this kid is going to rule that game. I don’t think that anything beats Titty Sunset.

It’s easy to forget in the midst of all this mocking that a family has lost their pet. I really do hope that they find Titty. Even though I’m not a cat person I would never wish any harm on Titty because I remember how sad I was when we lost our pet dog “Nipples.” I remember running around the neighborhood in tears yelling “has anyone seen my Nipples?”

Open Mouth, Insert Foot

2008-02-01T12:26:00.000-07:00

About a week or two ago a friend of ours asked my wife to meet her 6 year old daughter as she was getting off the school bus and watch her for a couple of hours. To protect her identity I’ll call her Emma because it’s such a ridiculously popular name that it might as well be ‘Anonymous.’ With apologies to the millions upon millions of you out there who have named your daughter Emma. And yes I realize the irony in me writing that when my firstborn son is named David.

My wife has trouble saying “no” to anyone, a trait that has often worked in my favor, and so she agreed to watch Emma. My boys enjoyed playing with Emma at our house and she even helped my wife bake some cookies. Yes, things were going swimmingly until my wife announced that it was time to take her home.
“Awww, can’t I stay longer?” Emma pleaded.
“No honey, I have too many kids to take care of already,” replied my wife. That’s when it happened. Emma cocked her head to one side with a puzzled look on her face and thought for a second.
“But you only have two children,” said Emma who is from a family of three children, “how hard can that be?”

I am pleased to report that the doctors were able to successfully remove the spatula from Emma’s colon and she has been moved out of intensive care. She is expected to make a speedy recovery, and I’m assured that the emotional scars will heal in time too. Frankly, I think the experience will do wonders for her when she reaches the corporate world. If you openly mocked senior management like that you’d be packing your personal effects into a box within minutes. Maybe not literally within minutes, but you’d be gone just as quickly as senior management could find someone to tell them who you are, what department you’re in and how much they could save by replacing you with an intern or an easy button. (See, that’s how you take shots at senior management; from the brave anonymity of a pseudonym on an internet blog.)

David’s First Football Game - Part 2

2008-01-25T21:08:00.000-07:00

This is the second part of David’s First Football Game. If you haven’t read the first part, then I suggest you read it first.

Early in the 2nd quarter with CU ahead 14 - 7, CSU had the ball on the CU 4 yard line and they were about to go for it on 4th down instead of kicking the field goal. It was a critical play. Naturally this was the time that David turned to me and said “Dad, I have to go pee.” I contemplated making him wait until after the play, but CSU called a time out to think about it and I did the same. You see, 4 year old boys wait until the very last second to go to the bathroom. David has this kamikaze attitude where he frequently goes running to the bathroom at full speed yelling “oh no, oh no, oh no” and then barely nanoseconds after he gets his pants down, pee erupts forth. (If I really wanted to be mean I’d put a belt on him when I got him dressed in the morning.)

I looked at David and all I could see was a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. I picked him up and carried him up the steps to the concourse, but quickly realized that I was breaking one of my cardinal rules; never point a loaded gun (or bladder) directly at yourself. We would have been faster if I carried David, but that would also be more dangerous. Still hoping to make it back for the 4th down play I set David down and we ran to the busy urinal. In his usual manner he dropped his pants around his ankles and grabbed on to the side of the urinal for support. You probably don’t have to hold the edge of the urinal when you pee, but that’s because you probably don’t stand there with your pants around your ankles either - show off.

We heard the crowd roar, signaling that we’d missed the play but given the 50-50 split between CU and CSU fans I couldn’t deduce what had happened. Before going back to our seats we washed his hands and then washed them again. David wanted a hot dog from the concession stands, but apparently not the bun which he peeled off and handed to me once we were back in our seats.

If you’re a normal human being you eat hot dogs as an occasional treat, one that is not particularly healthy and you’re actively avoiding learning the ingredients. If you have already learned the ingredients then you don’t eat them at all. As a parent (which puts you in a group that is diametrically opposed to being a normal human being) a hot dog counts as something nutritious because it falls under the meats and beans section (I think) of the food pyramid. So I was pretty happy that he was going to eat something that was outside of the sugars and fats section of the pyramid.

I’ll take one hot dog, hold the bun.
Late in the 4th quarter David finally finished the hot dog, waited for another critical 4th down play and then once again asked if he could go to the bathroom. I kid you not. It was like his bladder was an alarm for crucial plays. There was less than 2 minutes left, CU was down by 3 and going for it on 4th down. For a second I debated telling him that it wasn’t funny to joke about needing to pee on 4th down, but you know what else is not funny? Carrying your 4 year old on your shoulders back to the car while he’s wearing pee pants. So off we went to the bathroom again, but this time to a stall.

We got back to our seats and David was really ready to go home, unfortunately for him CU had converted the 4th down thanks to a pass interference penalty and the game went into overtime. As overtime started I helped him find some candy in his back pack and he was content to sit and eat candy while the entire rest of the stadium stood with bated breath.

Dad! There was candy in my backpack too!
The Starburst in his hand occupied his attention despite my best efforts to get him interested in the game. Having intercepted CSU in overtime CU needed only to kick a field goal to win. I picked David up so that he could watch the kick and explained to him that if the ball went between the yellow posts not only did CU win, but we got to go home. He was instantly energized and yelling “go buffs” again. The kick was good and he was genuinely excited! He was cheering and high-fiving everyone around. CU had won and my son was excited about it! So there you have it. My son: Big football fan, even bigger snackfood fan.

It’s Party Time!

2008-01-21T13:23:00.000-07:00

It's party time! P - A - R - T - Why? Because I gotta!
If you’ve ever wondered what sheer, unbridled joy and excitement looks like then this is your answer. Graham turned 3 this past week at Chuck E. Cheese and judging from the look on his face I’d say it was his best birthday party ever. I’m not sure what the exact opposite of this look would be but I’m pretty sure that I was displaying it when I was talked in to a Chuck E. Cheese birthday party. I did however totally rock the Skee-Ball game.

David’s First Football Game - Part 1

2008-01-14T21:10:00.000-07:00

This is Part 1 of a two part story, largely because I suck at editing my own writing and couldn’t get this story down to a manageable size. Part 2 will be posted soon.

One of the moments that I had always looked forward to as a dad was taking my sons to their first football game. Every red blooded American male can recount with incredible accuracy their first outing to the ballpark and I was excited to be taking David, my 4 year old, to his first college football game. It was the September 1st Rocky Mountain Showdown between the University of Colorado Buffalos and the Colorado State Rams.

My wife was thinking ahead and packed some snacks in his little backpack that he likes to carry. Usually I like it too because it means it’s less that I have to carry, but we parked far enough away from the stadium that I ended up giving him a ride on my shoulders while he “carried” his backpack.

As we walked into the stadium I was anxious to see how excited he would be upon seeing the field. I specifically remember my first college football game with my father. How green the grass looked, staring in wide eyed wonder at the band, the college kids, the sheer pageantry of it all. I remember holding his hand and asking all kinds of questions and I remember him shaking his head ashamedly because I was 17 at the time.

We found our seats and I was asked for the umpteenth time “now can I have a snack?” I had no idea that half the fun of attending a football game was opening your backpack to see what snacks your mother had packed. I do now. He must have opened and closed that backpack a hundred times before the game even began, each time equally impressed by the snacks that he found in there. “Dad look! Goldfish Crackers!” He’d eat a couple and then put them back.

During breaks in the snacking action David filled his time by watching the football game and occasionally shouting “Go Buffs!” He was mildly interested in the game and that was the best I could have hoped for considering the fact that he’s only 4 years old. Secretly, I had hoped that he would be over-the-top excited about football. That he’d declare his lifelong goal to play quarterback, and begin a life dedicated to football that would culminate with a string of Super Bowl rings, supermodel girlfriends and interviews that end with “I couldn’t have done it without my Dad.” Maybe next year.

Dad! Did you see that I have pretzels in my backpack!

Read Part 2

The Mr. Potato Head Saga

2008-01-06T17:44:00.000-07:00

Every now and then I worry like any good Dad does that my boys are acting too effeminate or that they’ve spent too much time playing with our friend’s kids, who are almost all girls. I worried when David asked me to paint his playhouse pink, and I worried when he told me that he was going to marry Graham, his brother, but in those times it helps to remember the things they do that are “all boy.”

The following Mr. Potato Head story that just unfolded before my teary eyes is one of those “all boy” stories. My wife and I were sitting in the living room ~~watching~~ tolerating Toy Story for the 41,589th time, which of course prompted the Mr. Potato Head’s to be brought out. As you probably know Mr. Potato Head has a flap in the back that opens so that you can store all of the extra parts inside the toy when you tidy it up (yeah right, like that’ll happen).

Graham, my 2 year old who is in the process of dealing with life’s first big challenge, potty training, opened up the flap and had an epiphany. His eyes got all big and his mouth hung open momentarily before he exclaimed “hey look,” pointing at the hole “so that he can go poop!” David joined in with his Mr. Potato Head, and the two of them spent the better part of 20 minutes dumping (pun intended) stuff out of Mr. Potato Head’s poop chute.

Playing the part of the toilet in this fun game was our big brown chair. Mr. Potato Head would squeeze out his contents and then he too would be summarily dumped (tee hee) into the “toilet.” Then they would “flush” the “toilet” complete with flushing sounds and brush everything from the chair onto the floor. I assume that this was everything going down the drain. I’ll never look at that chair the same way again.

The game resulted in a cacophony of side-splittingly-funny quotes; “Graham, my bottom broke,” “David, that won’t fit in his bottom,” “OK, don’t forget to wipe,” and plenty others that I’ve either forgotten or were simply too uncouth for publication.

So the good news is that my fears about my boys being too effeminate have been assuaged for the time being. I don’t think girls play those kind of games do they? To be fair those Mr. Potato Heads do look like turds.

And thus it came to pass that Graham's Mr. Potato Head was potty trained before he is. I’m still laughing about it, but that’s because I’m going to put Mr. Potato Head in their backpacks next time they go to Grandma’s house so that I can imagine my Mom playing ‘Mr. Potato Head Goes Potty’ on their fine living room furniture.

The Battle of Christmas

2007-12-26T11:00:00.001-07:00

One of the many gifts that my boys received on Christmas morning was a pair of Nerf guns. They ooohh’d and aaahh’d at them for a few minutes, fired off a couple of shots and then moved lustfully on to the next present like George Clooney at a speed dating dinner. As we opened the rest of our presents I often glanced enviously at the sleek plastic toys of destruction, my itchy trigger finger begging for a scratching. What I missed amid all the presents was that my wife was apparently casting an equally envious eye at the Nerf hardware.

Sometime in the afternoon when the boys were calmly drawing in their coloring books, my wife loaded one of the Nerf guns and attacked. I quickly grabbed the second weapon and drafted David, my oldest son leaving my wife with Graham. The battle raged throughout the house, David and I would take cover behind couches and doors and at one point in time I think we even tried to duck behind the dog for cover.

I would on occasion find my wife without any ammo, it was at these times that I learned a dark truth about myself. I am perfectly willing and able to shoot an unarmed woman, in fact I actually derived a great deal of pleasure out of it. In those times when I was without ammo, I found myself telling my first born to run out in the open as bait so that we could collect the balls that his Mother shot at him.

While David and I were laying prone behind a couch I looked at him and said “I’ve got a mission for you but it’s a Black Op, do you know what a Black Ops mission is?”
“No,” he replied.
“It’s the kind of mission where you earn medals, but they have to send them to your next of kin,” I explained. “I need you to go find out where Mom is and then report back to me with her position.” David took off running, not even giving me the chance to explain that if he was caught by the enemy I would disavow all knowledge of his mission. “Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do & die.” (Alfred, Lord Tennyson)

Pretty soon we had recruited the younger boy to our side too, and I had David feeding me ammo while Graham did reconnaissance to determine my wife’s hiding place. This was short lived however, as Graham was easily swayed by my wife’s use of biological warfare (candy from his stocking) and his mental faculties were rendered useless. He was powerless to resist her chocolatey charms. I would later perform a Code Red (swirly) on the little one for his disloyalty.

The battle ended when David went out to gather more ammo for me. I heard my wife yell “Hey! You cheater, you can’t do that!” and I knew that he was about to make me proud. Sure enough, he came running around the corner carrying my wife’s gun with my wife in hot pursuit. I jumped up and laid down a barrage of suppressing fire, stopping my wife in her tracks and causing her to duck into the office for cover. I set my gun down and hugged my son. He had gone above and beyond the call of duty. Never had I been so proud of him, and never have I been so glad that I have boys.

Shopping With Kids

2007-12-18T10:26:00.000-07:00

ORIGINALLY POSTED AT HALF-FAST 11/1/07

After work on Tuesday night I went out with my family to purchase a Garmin Forerunner because quite frankly, I deserve one. I have been contemplating buying one for some time now and I received a gift card to Road Runner Sports for my birthday so I planned on using that to pay for the new toy.

There are very few things in this universe that I don’t understand, but among them are the following: Why Monday Night Football hates my eardrums (see commentators Tony Kornheiser, Joe Theismann, Dennis Miller, etc.) Why people are paying upwards of $2,000 for tickets to see Hannah Montana. Why anyone feels that it’s OK to converse with me while we stand exposed at the urinals. And finally, why my kids lose all perspective of what constitutes socially acceptable behavior the instant we enter any sporting goods store. It figures that the one store that I don’t mind going shopping in is the one store where my kids become devil-children, or los niños del Diablo for those of you south of the border.

Tuesday night was no different. The over-eager sales associate came over to offer us assistance and while I was explaining what I was looking for, my oldest son was tugging on my hand demanding I remove his coat. The sales associate, whose name was Tom, glanced nervously at my kids and then back at me as if to say ‘I really don’t like kids very much.’ I hate it when people act like this when I’m with my kids. ‘Hey Tom, guess what? I don’t like them very much either but at least I possess the decorum to not show it in front of them!’

Tom quickly shows me to the Garmins and then leaves just as quickly. In what would turn out to be a horrendous mistake I remove the 4-year-old’s jacket which leads to me also removing the 2-year-old’s jacket, and I turn my attention to the Garmins. Not thirty seconds later a fight breaks out in women’s apparel in which jackets are being used like nunchucks. My wife and I separate the pair and she ties their jackets around their waists after declining my more radical idea of tying them around their necks.

I go back to looking at Garmins, debating if I want the one with the heart rate monitor or the cheaper one without the heart rate monitor. Cheaper wins out and I try it on to see how it feels. Somewhere on the other side of the store a jacket takes flight. I'm guessing by the size of it that it wasn't the sales associate’s jacket and I can tell from the trajectory that it was launched from somewhere around 2 feet above ground level.

My wife and I decide to divide and conquer. I take the youngest boy to one side of the store and she takes the oldest to the other side. This is a great strategy if you can put up with the downside: Going out with your wife and not ever seeing her because you’re afraid of the consequences of uniting the Gatekeeper and the Keymaster. This is also why I won’t be having any more children. We currently have two, which means that we can still play man to man defense against them. When the third child arrives you have to switch to zone defense and it’s just not as effective.

Having settled things down, and after re-hanging countless shirts, shorts and socks back on the rack I headed to the cash register with my new Garmin. Well worth the hassle we’d endured. Unfortunately the gift card didn’t work, and Tom would have to... blah, blah, blah, -long list of excuses that don’t make any sense to me-... and long story short, I’ll have to order it online. This means that our pilgrimage to the running store was completely futile other than to raise my blood pressure a few degrees and cause me to sound like my father. “Don’t touch that!” “Put that back!” “Stop playing with that!” “No yelling!” “No running!”

Running Dad

2007-11-29T14:46:00.000-07:00

ORIGINALLY POSTED AT HALF-FAST 6/27/07

Last night my wife had to go run some errands which meant that I was watching the boys and could not go outside for my run. I tried telling her that the oldest one is capable of babysitting, but she insists that he's too young (he's 4). Whatever. I ended up getting on the treadmill and telling David (my 4 year-old) to keep an eye on Graham (my 2 year-old) so it all works out the same either way.

I recalled reading somewhere that it is easier to run on a treadmill (no hills, no wind resistance etc.) and that you should set the incline to 1% to simulate running outdoors. I decided to give this a try, but my ego got the best of me and I turned it up to 2%. It didn’t feel like too much of a difference so I kept plugging along. Somewhere around 0.21 miles I heard Graham crying, and not wanting to lose my rhythm or start over I yelled for David to come tell me what had happened. As it turns out "nothing" had happened. I guess he was just screaming bloody murder for the fun of it, I made a quick mental note to discipline him for that after my run.

If you know any 2 or 4 year old boys you know that they're all afterburner and no rudder, so it was only a matter of minutes before there was more yelling and loud banging. Not being someone prone to worry, I quickly came up with a solution. I grabbed the remote control for the iPod speakers and turned up the volume until I could no longer hear said yelling and banging. I enjoyed the remainder of my run in the peace and quiet of my eclectic 'running' playlist consisting of heavy metal, hip-hop and alternative.

Towards the end of my run I began to feel a little discouraged, this was supposed to be an easy run at a 9:30 minute mile pace and I was really struggling. My breathing was harder than usual, my calves were burning more than usual and I was seriously considering slowing down. What on earth was wrong with me? It was during this conundrum that I remembered that I had been running up hill the whole way. I completely forgot that I had set the incline to 2%. What can I say? I'm a genius.

As I was finishing up, both of the boys came down to the basement. Both a little sweaty but, no blood and no new bruises. They were exhausted from whatever they had been doing upstairs and quietly sat down at their coloring table. It was at this moment that my wife came home, took one look at our quiet children and me finishing up my run and exclaimed “how did you get them to behave so well?” I merely shrugged. She continued “they NEVER let me run on the treadmill without interruption!” I smiled at her. Some of us are just good parents I guess, and by ‘some of us’ I am of course referring to my wife.

Kids Ruin Everything

2007-11-24T08:43:00.001-07:00

ORIGINALLY POSTED AT SCOOP OF VANILLA 9/11/2007

For those of you who don't know me I have 2 boys. D is the oldest, he is 4 years old as of this writing and G is 2, which would make him the younger. One of the great things about kids is that they always speak their minds, unfortunately one of the worst things about having kids is that they always speak their minds. My 2 year old, G takes a no-holds-barred, take-no-prisoners approach to life. He doesn't think twice about anything before he does it or says it, and if I were totally honest I'd have to admit that he probably doesn't even think once about it, let alone twice.

I had a birthday recently and my wife had taken great care to keep my gift a secret from me. The only problem with her plan was that she wasn't able to keep it secret from G. You can't leave a 2 year old at home and go shopping, and the reason isn't because you're worried about the 2 year old it's because you're worried about your house. That kid can do some serious damage in a matter of minutes. To my wife's credit she waited as long as possible to buy my gift and she gave strict instructions and severely threatened G that he was not to tell me what they bought or where it was hidden.

Alas, I came home from work on a Wednesday evening (I would later discover that it was the very same day that they had bought the present) and as soon as I walked in the door G popped his big head around a corner and said "Daddy, Daddy..."
"NO, NO, NO!" D interrupted him. D is smart enough to know that G has been waiting all day to tell me the secret that he has. 2 year olds were not built to keep secrets, they were built to teach you patience and that you're not as smart as you think you are.

After that it became a game. Both boys would take turns telling me "we're not going to tell you what we got for your birthday!" and I would play along. If you know little boys then you know that EVERYTHING is a game. In fact, when I can't get one of them to eat their dinner, or go get ready for bed or pretty much anything, all I have to do is make a game of it:
"Your brother is going to be the first one to get into his PJs (finish his dinner, clean up his toys, etc.) are you going to let him win?" You can get little kids to do anything if you make a game of it, and it has the added benefit of teaching them that it's not how you play the game it's whether you win or lose that makes Daddy happy.

That's my parenting tip for the day - back to the story. Not 30 minutes later we were all heading out to dinner. I grab G and take him out to the car. As I'm buckling him into his car seat he immediately begins with the game again, "Daddy, I'm not going to tell you what we got for your birthday!" This was probably hundredth time I'd heard this in the last 30 minutes and I was sick of playing along so I stop responding to the playful taunts. G, of course, is not done playing the game and in order to entice me back into it he decides he needs to up the ante by revealing a little bit more information. Surely that would draw me back into the game. He decides he's going to reveal the location of the hidden present. The logic is sound, but the execution is lacking. He looks at me with a big smile and says:

"Daddy, I'm not going to tell you that your bike is hidden in my playhouse!"

I smile back at him. "OK, G." The G does not stand for genius.

My Kids

2007-11-19T13:39:00.000-07:00

I have two boys. David is my first born and is 4 years old. He is thoughtful and polite in his dealings with me but when it comes to his brother all bets are off. From birth he has always been genuinely remorseful when in trouble and is always very happy and content, which is how we were tricked into having a second child. Expecting the same result my wife and I were dismayed to discover that the amalgamation of our DNA did not produce the exact same boy the second time around. Graham is my youngest son and is 2 years old. I love Graham as equally as I love David, but he is evil to the core. From the start he was moody, fussy, and actually seemed to be happiest when he was in trouble. Both boys take after my wife in that they have big heads, I do not mean that to say that they are arrogant, but rather that they have abnormally large craniums. They look like Calvin (from the Calvin & Hobbes comics) and are similarly mischievous.