Shotgun Daddy

Unattended Baggage

A family of five can accumulate an awful lot of junk, enough junk to overwhelm even the most diligent efforts at organization. The problem, of course, is the exact opposite of our nation's economy: there is always more coming in than going out. If this imbalance continues unchecked, you will drown in the sea of your family's debris.

Does this problem sound familiar? If so, here are a few tips:

1. Purge
Have you been to an airport recently? Everywhere you look there are warnings against leaving your baggage unattended lest it be swept away by guard dogs and SWAT teams. You must adopt this zero tolerance policy towards the toys in your home immediately. Unattended or forgotten toys are quickly recycled, especially the cheap ones. Fast food kids meal prizes are usually out the door before the accompanying meals are even digested. But you can't stop with the Happy Meals, because toys (and the well-meaning people who give them) are your enemy.

2. Like a Band-Aid, Quick is Better than Slow
You can't go half-way, something we've learned the hard way. The things we recycle, like newspapers and alumimun cans, usually sit on our counter until I take them out at the end of the day. More than once we've made the mistake of putting a plastic toy or two in this pile only to have it discovered by curious eyes. At this point the toy is suddenly interesting again and it returns to the toy supply without any discussion. A few times, though, Alison has discovered one of her toys in the trash can. The conversation invariably goes like this: "Hey, who put this in the trash?!!?" Me: "Oh, my gosh, how did that get in there? Henry must've put it in there. It sure is a good thing you found it!" The moral of the story: if you're throwing out toys, throw them away outside.

3. Goodwill is Good
I don't want you to think we're wasteful people. We've take bags and bags of toys to Goodwill, completely without the knowledge or consent of our children.

4. Share the Wealth
If at all possible, convince the grandparents to keep some of the toys at their place. A while ago my parents told us about a nice table train set that was on sale at Costco. We said no. My parents then bought the set anyway, then asked again if we wanted it. We said no. The train has been on the floor of their living room ever since, and the kids love playing with it every time we visit. Everybody wins, especially us.

5. Beware of Party Favors
Last week Leslie and Alison came home from a baby shower with three helium balloons. Helium balloons are nice, because they usually only last for a day or so, but the damage they can do to your family in that short time cannot be ignored. Even if each child has one, there will still be arguments about which one is bigger, which one floats the longest, which one has the prettiest string attached, etc. These particular balloons raised the bar. The morning after the balloons arrived, Henry woke up and asked for his immediately. I had seen it in the hallway the night before, but he assured me that it wasn't there. We searched the entire house, but it was no where to be found. Just when I thought that maybe it had somehow floated out of the house, I spotted its true escape route. We're in the middle of painting our hallway, and the screen covering the cold air intake for our heater had been temporarily removed, leaving a two-foot wide hole in the ceiling. Evidently the heater had inhaled Henry's balloon (and Kate's, we'd realize later) during the night. Since the heater didn't explode, I figure everything's okay.

6. Do as I Say, Not as I Do
I wish we did a better job following these rules. We're drowning in toys right now, with no relief in sight. In fact, you'll have to excuse me -- I see an unattended toy right now, and trash day is tomorrow...

Dancing in the Dark; or, Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

If there's one thing that most parents will agree on, it's this: potty-training is a pain in the ass. If this isn't your first time stopping by this site, you know that I've written about the gory details of the whole process, ranging from public restrooms to late-night wake-up calls. In many ways, it is the defining experience of parenthood.

And you know what? Just like Yogi once said, it ain't over till it's over.

Over the past few weeks Henry has begun wetting the bed on an almost daily basis. The odd thing about it is that during the day he has a bladder of steel, often drinking fearlessly while going as long as eight hours between trips to the bathroom. Tuck him in bed, though, and everything changes.

He'll take care of his business before going to bed at about 7:30, and we'll turn in some four hours later, hoping against hope that the night will be uneventful. It never is.

Henry typically wakes up somewhere between midnight and four in the morning, squealing in a pitch which is apparently measured perfectly to rouse me from the deepest of sleeps. I stumble towards his room, again full of hope, hoping that he's just been awoken by the cold after kicking off his covers, but I'm never this lucky. I'll gently rub his back to settle him down, and in the process I'll usually discover the truth told by his wet pajamas and sheets.

We struggled with what to do for a few weeks. The solution was obvious, but we wondered if a return to diapers -- even if only at night -- might cause Henry to regress. And even if it didn't, would we be sending him the message that we still thought he was a baby? (Afterall, he turns four in just over two weeks.) It only took a few more moonlight laundry trips for us to arrive at an answer.

Henry's been in diapers for two nights now, and he actually seems to enjoy it. He gets excited when we put his diaper on before bed, and seems to understand that it's only temporary. In fact, both nights so far he's awoken me to take him to the potty -- and his diaper has actually been dry. Very odd.

So even though we're not out of the woods yet, I think we'll survive. As long as he beats Baby Kate out of diapers, I think we'll be okay. And if not, at least I'm sure I'll have something to write about for the next few years.

So I've got that going for me, which is nice.

The Best of Blogs

Well, bust my buttons! Our humble little blog has been nominated for an award! While most of the thanks has to go to Alison, Henry, and Kate for providing such winning material (I am merely a conduit for their daily genius), I'm still pretty thrilled to have been named one of ten finalists for "Best Daddy Blog" by the good folks running the 2nd Annual Best of Blogs Awards. Alas, there doesn't appear to be a need for me to clear any space in my trophy case. In what may prove to be a scandal complete with hanging chads and biased Supreme Court justices, I've somehow landed in a thick fight to avoid finishing in last place. If you're interested at all in keeping the ShotgunDaddy out of the cellar, please head on over and vote! (And while you're there, check out the other nine guys. Good stuff there.)

The Sins of the Father

It's said that the sins of the father will be visited upon the son, and I guess that means that sometimes you can do something that's so bad that your children end up having to pay for it. The reverse of that, I suppose, is when your childhood sins are visited upon you, courtesy of your children.

My guess is that most parents experience this to some degree, whether it's something simple like having a baby who cries through the night just like you did, or a bit more complicated like a sixteen-year-old daughter whose boyfriend bothers you just as much as your girlfriend bothered your parents.

So if you're enlightened enough to call it kharma or more comfortable explaining that what comes around goes around, it's a fairly universal experience, and right now it's my turn.

When I was a child my diet consisted mainly of peanut butter. There were countless foods I wouldn't even sniff, and I refused to eat dinner at my friends' houses for fear that their mothers might serve pasta that was twisted instead of straight. I was a mess.

My parents adjusted to this. They tailored the nightly menu to my draconian standards, eliminating things like fish and green beans from our rotation, but I was "particular" even about the food that I liked. My favorite food was pizza, but there couldn't be anything on it but pepperoni. I loved peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but not if it was made on wheat bread with grape jelly or crunchy peanut butter. (Okay, all of that's still true. Apparently I'm not done growing up.)

I teetered on the edge of food insanity. My orange juice had to be strained, brownies could never have nuts, and the only acceptable flavor of ice cream was vanilla. Mushrooms were forbidden, hamburgers had to be ordered plain and dry, and I had to have Cheerios for breakfast every morning.

Somehow I managed to live through all that dimentia without contracting scurvy or causing my parents to strangle me, but now I'm paying the price with interest.

Enter dear, sweet Alison.

Compared to her, I was about as finicky as a billygoat. In no particular order, here's a complete list of the meals that Alison will accept without a fight:

1. Teriyaki chicken
2. Rice (white, never brown)
3. Musubi (with salt, not spam)
4. Oatmeal
5. Waffles
6. Peanut butter sandwich (no crust)
7. Peanut butter toast (again, no crust)
8. Peanut butter and crackers (yes, this is a meal at our house)
9. Quesadilla
10. Kraft Macaroni & Cheese (only Kraft, nothing else, especially not homemade)
11. Chicken McNuggets
12. Grilled cheese sandwich
13. Pepperoni pizza
14. Pasta (plain)

We can sneak a few other dishes into the rotation if she's in the right mood, but those are her staples. Worse than her limited menu, though, are her exacting standards. When we set the table, we might as well put a spoon on the right side of her plate and a magnifying glass on the left. Take last night, for instance. The entire family (and by that I mean Mama, Daddy, and the human garbage disposal we call Henry) was looking forward to hamburgers grilled on our trusty George Foreman grill.

And then there was Alison. As we sat down she said that she didn't like the french fries we had cooked and wanted something else for dinner. When I refused, reminding her that she liked what we were having, she turned her attention to her burger. Within a few minutes she announced that she couldn't eat that either -- she had a problem with the charred grill lines. She would eventually eat a few bites, but that was about it.

Tonight, I was sure, would be different. I went out to pick up dinner, and Henry actually jumped up and down and clapped when I came back home carrying two pizza boxes (#13 on Alison's list). After inhaling her first piece, Alison hit a roadblock. Somehow she had discovered that there was a tiny bit of charring on the bottom side of the pizza, smaller than the pea under the princess's matress. Worse than that, there was a bit of cheese on the top that was a little too brown for her taste. I wasn't able to help because I was busy digging my fingernails into my scalp while watching my culinary life pass before my eyes, so Alison performed a pizza bypass, cutting out the offending section and eating the rest.

So what exactly is going on here? Did Alison inherit the rung of DNA responsible for irrational food attitudes, or is this just the fruition of a wish my mother made decades ago in response to her son's pickiness? Science can't help with the former, and I doubt my mom would admit to the latter, so I guess I'll never know.

One thing's for sure, though. As soon as I get done here I'm buying some stock in Skippy peanut butter.

Sherman, Set the Way-Back Machine...

As long as I can remember, I've been thoroughly fascinated by the concept of time travel, whether it was a Twilight Zone episode, Back to the Future, or even the classic H.G. Wells novel.

The natural attraction, I suppose, is the ability to travel back in time to correct mistakes, an ability every one of us has wished for at one point or another. And so instead of wishing, I thought I'd just take the plunge.

Anyone who paid attention to Doc Brown and Marty McFly can tell you that making contact with your alternate self is dangerous (space-time continuum, you know) so I thought I'd just write a letter to myself and drop it off on March 9, 2000 -- the day before my first child was born. Here goes:

Dear ShotgunDaddy-To-Be:
Well, tomorrow's the big day! I'd ask if you were ready, but since I know that you aren't -- even though you think you are -- I thought we could just cut to the chase. Here are a few tips to help you on your way through your first six years of fatherhood.

1. At some point during the delivery tomorrow, the doctor will try to encourage your wife by saying, "We're all pushing with you!" You won't say anything because you're smart enough not to agree with such a ridiculous statement, but your silence isn't good enough. In fact, for years to come your silence will be seen as complicity. So here's what you say: "No, doctor, we're not pushing with her. She's pushing all by herself and doing an absolutely amazing job. You and I are about as important here as clocks in a casino." If you say that word for word, you might be okay. Trust me on this.

2. Over the next six years, you and your wife will be lucky enough to have three children -- a girl, a boy, and another girl. Right now you're asking yourself the question that parents aren't supposed to ask: which one will I love the most? If you ask another parent, you'll just get the party line: I love all my children exactly the same. This, of course, is a crock of shit. All parents have favorites, and so it shall be with you. The catch is that you'll have a different favorite each day. Sometimes it will be the one who's sleeping while the other two are screaming at each other about whose turn it is to play with the tape measure. On another day it might be a tie between the two who don't wake up in the middle of the night while their sister is pretending to be hungry when all she really wants to do is play with the bottle and giggle. Yes, parents have favorites.

3. This one's important. You probably think that you won't have to worry about boys chasing after your daughter for at least another ten to fifteen years, but you're wrong. When your daughter starts kindergarten, there will be a day when she'll ask you if she can wear her hair down instead of in ponytails or braids. If you allow her to wear her hair down, the boy who sits next to her in school will run his hands through her hair and tell her that it feels soft. We'll call him "Jerry." (Okay, Jerry's his real name. An ounce of prevention is certainly worth a pound of anonymity.) Anyway, you must never let your daughter go to school with her hair down. Never.

4. Soon after your son is potty-trained, you'll think that it's a good idea to take him to the public library without a change of clothes. What could happen, you'll ask yourself. Here's the answer: a lot can happen. A LOT.

5. This one doesn't have anything to do with your children, but when you stop at Starbucks to get a cup of coffee on the way to work one morning in September of 2003, your wife will warn you as you're trying to swing into a parking space that it looks like you're about to hit the car parked in the next stall. Instead of saying, "No, I've got plenty of room," you should listen to her.

6. When buying gifts for your first child, you'll think that toys that play music will be great because the music will stimulate her creativity. I don't know if that's true, but here's what I do know: those toys will drive you absolutely insane. Avoid them like the plague.

7. Speaking of plagues, there is A LOT of vomit in your future. And you know what? Somehow, it won't be a big deal -- not even when the vomit is pouring down your back in the middle of a restaurant.

8. Five years from now you'll decide to write a blog about your experiences as a father, and when you're stuck for a hook one night you'll decide to write a letter to your past self, which is you. If you could, please try to make it a little better than this one.

And finally...

9. You think you know that your life is about to change, but you have absolutely no idea.

Shotgun Daddy Knows Best

I was driving someplace last week, listening to my favorite radio station, Indie 103.1, when a voice came on to tell me that what I was listening to wasn't live, but actually a recording. "Best of the Mighty Morning Show," he called it. My first thought: those lazy bastards. My next thought: those BRILLIANT lazy bastards!

What better way to come up with a new post when there isn't really anything new to write about? So as we take our first steps into 2006, let's pause for a moment to look back at the year that was. And so I give you the Best of ShotgunDaddy, 2005 -- ten of my favorite posts listed in chronological order. I hope you find something you like.

Honey, I Shrunk the Bank Account
A swarm of bees, a broken washer, a flatscreen TV, and an ill-fated trip to the post office. High-larious.

Walk of Shame
What do you do when your child won't follow you, even when you threaten to leave him behind?

U Can't Touch This
Is there any place on Earth more fraught with danger than a public restroom? I think not.

I've never been so happy to wipe someone else's ass...
Because sometimes when you tell people that your child is potty-trained, you know in your heart that he isn't.

Let's See a Penguin Do This
A day spent driving from one birthday party to another is compared to a trek across the Antarctic.

I See Metaphors
My daughter makes her first basket. Of all the pieces I've written for this site, this is probably my favorite.

Land of the Living
Leslie and I get a reminder of what it's like to sit down to a nice dinner with friends without three children sitting across the table. You can even have coffee!

R&R is neither Restful nor Relaxing. Discuss.
A family trip to San Luis Obispo becomes a bit stressful.

I've Got a Secret
A father and three kids take a trip to Victoria's Secret. Chaos ensues.

Santa's Watching
Sure, we know Santa's watching, but how exactly does he do it?

The Ghost of Christmas Past

So where was I? I had promised to tell the tale of our Christmas past, and I left off just as things were getting good...

In the days leading up to Christmas, Henry had developed a deep, congested cough which had at least one of his parents concerned. A quick word here about how I tend to deal with stressful events. If the roof of our house were on fire, I might decide to wait to see if it started to rain before calling the fire department. Why worry? Leslie, on the other hand, is much more sensible. She would dial 911.

So here's what happened on Christmas Day. A few hours after we had finished opening presents, Henry's cough seemed to worsen and his breathing became wheezy. Leslie was concerned. My response? Don't worry, he's fine. Yeah, he's got a cough, but kids get coughs all the time. Nothing to worry about.

After about half an hour of discussion and wheezing, we took him to the Emergency Room where he was diagnosed with PNEUMONIA. There was a television playing "A Christmas Story" in the exam room, and when the nurse came and gave us the results of the x-ray, Miss Shields was talking in the background and warning Ralphie Parker that if he got his Red Ryder BB gun, he'd probably shoot his eye out. So in that moment two timeless maternal warnings were intersecting; all that was missing was a reminder not to play ball in the house...

Long story short. We took Henry home with an antibiotic prescription, then returned the next day with Kate, who would be diagnosed with bronchitis. Over the next few days we only ventured out of the house once, on the 27th for a trip to the doctor's office -- where the nurse actually shook her head and laughed at us for bringing our sick children for medical attention. "There won't be any change in only two days," she said. (We scolded her, then ratted her out to the doctor.)

All of this brings me to my point. Because of the pneumonia and the bronchitis in the early part of the week, and then a few rainstorms towards the end, our entire family has been cooped up together with very few opportunities for relief. We were able to have short visits with both sets of grandparents, but that was about it.

And here's my confession: even as the last days of my vacation have been slipping away like sand through my fingers, in many ways this has been the longest week of my life. On the one hand, I know that I should be grateful, that I should be happy to spend my entire day with my three dear children, but on the other hand...

The bickering between Alison and Henry begins about two minutes after they wake up. Perhaps Henry has the blue plate that Alison wants, or maybe Alison makes the mistake of looking at Henry through the steam of her oatmeal. Whatever the cause, the result is the same. One screaming at the other, the other screaming back, and all I can think about are two things: the possibility of naptime, the certainty of bedtime.

The worst part is that I know I haven't been a good father over the past seven days. Those who know me would probably describe me as patient, but my patience has deserted me recently. I've raised my voice at Alison and Henry each day during our self-imposed quarantine, even though I know that loud words are easily ignored, and I haven't given my youngest daughter the time she deserves.

The rain will eventually stop falling, the illnesses will fade, and life will return to normal soon enough. I'm positive that when I go back to work on Tuesday I'll wish that I were home in the middle of the chaos, part father and part referee, but until then I have no choice but to search for the silver lining in all of this coughing, wheezing, and pouring rain. At least I know the roof isn't on fire.