Monday, October 10, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Saturday, July 23, 2011
"JACK, SLOW DOWN!" "JACK, PLEASE STOP!" "NOOOOOOOOO JACK!" "JACK, DON'T TOUCH THAT!" It's about mid-morning and I've already said that name 432 times. I guess I'm thankful it's such a simple name to say. I'm also quite thankful I just "holed" myself in the computer room to write you a column. I needed a cave.
About this time last year, I opined about the "terrible twos" not being so terrible. As Jack sprints towards his fourth birthday, all I have to say is WHO-AH! The year of three has been quite adventurous. Don't read me wrong, he's not a bad kid at all, he can just be way too wiggly. If I took 10% of his energy, I could have already run two marathons this morning.
The year of three has been very chatty. This is a good thing, but it can be an obstacle. Forget that certain letters sound nothing like they're suppose to, because you've gotta pick-up what he's saying, and quick. When "tire" means "fire" and "loger" means "yogurt," you've gotta be sharp minded. It's like playing a game of beat-the-clock, because if you don't quickly comprehend, a meltdown is very possible.
Over the past year, repeating myself has become a second hobby. I can be three feet away and Jack hears nothing. I can holler his name fifty times and get no response. Of course, if I whispered the word "cookie," he'd come flying around the corner, open-mouthed. Not to mention, Jack hears everything at night. If there's a thunderstorm in Seattle, he'll let you know...and let you know with a very serious look.
On a more innocent note, Jack had his first huge crush over the past year. You might be thinking it was a classmate, a teacher, or maybe even a babysitter. Nope. My son is head-over-heels for Daisy Duck. I'm serious, the boy is smitten over a cartoon character. Of course, like a friend recently pointed out, better Daisy Duck than Daisy Duke. That's when you've got trouble.
Speaking of "trouble," while writing this column, I've heard several smashes, crashes, thuds, and yells. I've heard a lot of fast-moving footsteps. And, of course, I've heard the word "Jack" another 432 times. As you can imagine, it's been very relaxing being holed-up in the computer room writing you a column. I'm sorta scared to finish it. I've enjoyed my cave.
Whenever I vent to my mom about how wild Jack can be, she just smiles and says, "That boy is mild compared to you." I'm sure there where many moments when my mother wanted to crawl in her bed and get in the fetal position. Who could blame her, I did have the nickname, "Bad News."
Thursday, July 14, 2011
You wanna hear some more drama samples? Sure you do. A few Sundays ago, I was concerned 'cause Jack was still in his bed at 8:30. This dude wakes up EARLY, so this was way out of the norm. Finally, I went over to his bed, bent down, and stared at him to make sure everything was okay. Right about that time, his eyes opened and he said, "Daddy, what time is it?" I replied, "I don't know, maybe around 8:30." He then made a classic Jack response, "You can go on now, Daddy, I'm gonna sleep through church." If I didn't drag him out of bed, I think he would've stayed there.
He's not only pleading his case to me, he's taking it straight to the priest. No joke. Recently, about 10 seconds before mass started, my boy walked up to Fr. Mike and asked for a favor. "Would you please shorten mass...it's just way too long?" The priest responded, "Well, how would you have me do that?" Jack quickly added, "You can get rid of the communion part and maybe some singing." Fr. Mike laughed, but didn't take his advice.
Okay, so lets be honest, what kid loves church? I would probably be concerned if he was excited about sitting still for an hour. And "sitting still" is not the easiest thing for Jack. The boy isn't bad, he's just busy, especially with his mouth. Everyone who knows him, knows that. He's a communicator and certainly loves to have conversations during church. There's no telling how many times I hear, "Is it almost over?" He'll even shed a few tears asking his favorite question.
As you can imagine, 60 minutes of a Sunday service can turn into a tense experience. I can't tell you when the last time I was able to pay attention to an entire mass. I gotta be honest, these days church can be quite exhausting. After admitting that, I just may need to schedule a confession. Pray for me.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
When I look up "communication" in the dictionary, it reads..."The successful conveying or sharing of ideas and feelings." Okay, I'm having a problem with the word "share." I'm pretty sure a woman dominates the dialogue. So here's my definition of communication..."the unsuccessful conveying of ideas and feelings that usually leave a man glazed-over and a woman irritated." Does that sounds about right?
It's time to toss out an example of a typical man/woman conversation. The man says, "Hey, where's the mustard." The woman replies, "Speaking of mustard, I was in McDonald's today, because I didn't wanna go to Wendy's, anyway, I grabbed a packet of mustard, remember I'm watching my weight so no mayo, anyway, um, where was I....oh yeah, and across from me was a girl I hadn't seen since my high-school cheerleading days and she was telling me about this teacher we had that always.................(I'm glazed over at this point)..........yadda, yadda, yadda, yadda.
How is a man supposed to follow that? We went from mustard to cheerleading in a matter of seconds. I just wanted something to squirt on my hamburger. I was starving and wanted to stare at the wall and eat. I didn't really want to run down memory lane and follow a story that had about 15 side-stories.
I can't tell you how many times I have a woman shaking her finger at me, telling me I'm just like every other guy. That every time they get a little wordy, I look like a clueless caveman. Of course, "wordy" may be the understatement of the year. Woman get paragraphy. Hey, what can I say, I like to get to the point, not avoid it.
Of course, you really have to admire a woman's gift to gab. Life would be boring without it. And I love the ladies in my life, no doubt. However, there needs to be a compromise in the conversing. I'll work harder at following your side-stories, if you work harder at getting to the point. If we can accomplish that, men might just have more to say.
Monday, March 7, 2011
It's a good thing I'm a simple man, especially when it comes to needing space. I remember when I first got married and we had to share a tiny bathroom. About 3 days into that, I took my stuff to the kitchen sink. There was only so many times I could maneuver around 56 womanly things to get to a stick of deodorant. I say this with absolute sincerity, my wife's beauty supplies outnumber my bathroom stuff by about 445 to 4. You give me a toothbrush, some paste for that, a razor, some deodorant, and I'm good to go.
You think I would have learned as a young dude. I shared a house overflowing with womanly things and womanly moods. Between my mom and two older sisters, I was taught what to say and when to get the hell out of the way. Knowing certain days of the month was marked on my calendar (as if I needed a reminder). I was well trained, to say the least.
However, I never had to share a bathroom with my sisters. Of course, I was quickly taught the toilet seat rule, but I wasn't quite prepped for the hundreds of beauty supplies. I mean really, you ladies get a little extreme with the cream. There must be a lotion for every portion of your body. And don't get me started with the spray. Or the cotton products. Or the gadgets that get hot. Or the things that pull, pluck, and powder. I mean, really?
After 9 years of marriage, maybe the most important thing I've learned is to have your own space. I will NEVER share another bathroom or closet with my wife. EVER! I love her more than anything, but I don't love that look she gives when I'm invading her "getting ready"space.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Since I'm now the proud owner of a 1000 worms (see previous post), I've been reminded of a Saturday not too long ago. You wanna read about it? What? Of course you do.
It was one of those rare Saturdays when none of us had a single plan. Nothing. It was awesome. My wife decided she wanted to test-out her "green thumb." Not me. I was gonna "test-out" the couch. I was in "no go" mode. I was gonna sit on my butt, drink some beers, eat a steak, and drool at the TV. I was gonna make Al Bundy proud.
About 10 minutes after sinking into la-la land, I heard an ear-piercing scream. That was quickly followed by a body (arms flapping with pruning shears in hand) running light-speed for the backdoor. There stood my wife, breathing heavy and looking pale. She finally managed to get a few words out...well, sorta. "Sn...sn....sna...snake in my face." My very insensitive response went something like this..."What Sweetie, a little grass-critter got you all jittery?" After she impersonated the thing a few times and swore how big it was, she even had me a little jittery. Next thing you know, I'm tiptoeing in the backyard with a shovel cocked and ready. Just behind me is my wife, with knee-high boots, clawing into my back. If only the neighbors could have seen this snake-slaying duo.
Of course, after several laps around the yard, the HUGE snake was never found. Following an investigation via Google, my wife swears it was a copperhead. And the legend lives. My wife's a bit animated. Every time the tale is retold, that copperhead gets much bigger and this husband get much lazier.
In other words, I'm a lazy husband and we have an anaconda (with babies) nesting in the backyard.