'Twas the Night Before Christmas

We got the stomach bug. The one that's making half of America vomit. In a house with seven people, it takes several days for even a 24-hour illness to make its rounds through the whole family. Unfortunately this time it reared its head the week of Christmas. We had to bow out of parties on both sides of the family, and while it was disappointing, it actually helped remind us of some of the many things for which we are grateful. Like triple ply garbage bags. And Gatorade. And clean bedsheets.

And it inspired me to pen this dilettantish pastiche of the world's most famous Christmas poem. I think I may need to lay off the egg nog.


The Virus Before Christmas

'Twas the night before Christmas, and finally somehow
Not a creature was barfing, at least not for now;
The laundry was running, checked the labels for care,
In hopes that the stains would no longer be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds;
With trashcans strategically placed near their heads;
And mamma in her sweats, and I in my shirt,
Tried to settle down while remaining alert,
When somewhere upstairs there arose such a clatter,
I sprang to my feet to see what was the matter.
Away to the bedroom at once I took flight,
Tore open the door and turned on the light.
The lamp was blinding, but my eyes did adjust
as I scanned the room to see who had fussed,
When what did my listening ears clearly hear,
But a cough, not a retch, I had nothing to fear,
Flipped the light off and crept out the room just as quick,
Thankful at the moment that no one was sick.
Had this bug run it’s course or would I catch the same,
I surveyed my drug cache and checked them off by name:
“I’ve got DayQuil! and, NyQuil! some Advil and Vicks!
Zicam! Sudafed! Theraflu and Mucinex!
No matter the symptoms to which I befall
I’ve got big pharm to cover them all!"
So back to the TV, in a matter of clicks,
in search of a marathon to stream on Netflix;
I’ve got wrapping to finish, no time for the flu
With a floor full of toys, clothes and books too—
And then, in a twinkling, I heard from my throat
The rasping and scratching of a slightly off note.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
I felt a bit dizzy, my head started to pound.
On came an aching, from my head to my feet,
The signs I’d received my own viral treat;
A bundle of nerves were pinched in my back,
And I looked uneasy, I was all out of whack.
My eyes—how they watered! my tonsils, not funny!
My cheeks were all rosy, my nose it was runny!
The back of my neck began to act twitchy,
And the stubble of my beard was feeling all itchy;
On came the shivers, I chattered my teeth,
Sinus pressure, it encircled my head like a wreath;
My stomach was crampy, I started to bellow
I knew that tomorrow I’d be living off jello.
I was chubby and plump, a right sickly old elf,
And I cried when I realized what I’d done to myself;
A blink of my eyes and a touch of my forehead
Soon gave me to know I should be off to bed;
I spoke not a word, but trudged straight upstairs,
Grabbed a few tissues; and mumbled some swears,
And laying in bed with a stopped up nose,
Feeling all clammy, my temperature rose;
Then I sprang to my feet, ran right to the can,
Away the chunks flew, I spewed like a man.
But I managed to whisper, in the midst of my plight—
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

A Salty Salute

My days of caring for a pregnant woman are over, but the scars remain. Here's a throwback to when Julie was pregnant with baby number four.

Inherit the Breeze - originally posted February, 2009

Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your time and attention today. Over the next few minutes we will be discussing a topic of grave importance, one that affects not just the parties involved in the incident I am about to describe, but all of mankind. What you are about to observe is not just the retelling of single garish episode of manipulation. Rather, it is but a window into the world of exploit that is the dark underbelly of married life. The mistreatment of married men by their wives, especially the pregnant variety, has gone on long enough.

My client, me, has risked everything to bring this case before you today. No government, no police force in the world can protect him from the blowback that will certainly arise from nothing more than his appearance before you today. My client's bravery, determination and outright selflessness are to be commended. No. Revered. Today my client risks everything for the mere chance at a better humanity.

What you are about to hear may be disturbing, but please listen closely.

The following diagram (Exhibit A) shows the general set up of the second floor of my client's home. Please note the location of the bed and TV in the bedroom, the desk in the office and the stairs that lead to the first floor.



On the night in question, my client's wife, "Hoolie," was in the bedroom watching TV shows about parents with way too many kids, people with mysterious, unsolved illnesses or some other reality rubbish about births, deaths or autopsies. Meanwhile my client was at the computer doing work of great importance to the family, like managing finances or something, not say, reading sports pages, updating his Facebook status, or browsing YouTube videos of people hurting themselves. This diagram (Exhibit B) shows the location of Hoolie in red and my client in green.



At approximately 9:35 PM, Hoolie left the bed and made her way to the office (Exhibit C). She proceeded to call to my client, "Hey. Come here."



Before my client could even respond, Hoolie returned to her original position in the bed (Exhibit D).



My client, being the devoted husband that he is, left his location in the office and proceeded to make his way to the bedroom (Exhibit E). He then climbed into the bed and snuggled up to Hoolie in an affectionate manner, fully expecting that she was in need of some alone time with her hubby (we can all agree that he is quite the specimen) or, at least, that there was something obscenely gross to be witnessed on TV. Surely there must have been some reason to drag my client from his work in the office to join Hoolie in the bed.



And there was a reason, my friends. There was.

For it was at this moment that Hoolie leaned in close to my client and whispered into his ear, "Go downstairs and get me a soft pretzel."

That's right folks. My client was called to bed to take a food order. Had my client's wife not just made the trip nearly halfway to the downstairs kitchen herself? Yes. And, if she didn't want to carry out the task herself, could she not have simply made her request while my client was sitting a few feet from the stairs rather than calling him back to bed (and further leading him on) to place her order? Yes.

And did my client refuse? No! My client, being the selfless marital supporter that he is, then fulfilled Hoolie's request by proceeding downstairs to carry out her order for one, mildly tasty, microwaveable soft pretzel (Exhibit F).



But it doesn't end here, ladies and gentlemen. Upon return with the requested soft pretzel, the following conversation took place:

"Here's your pretzel."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
"You didn't put any mustard on it."
"You didn't ask for mustard on it."
"But you know I like mustard on my soft pretzels."
"But you didn't ask for mustard on it."
"But you KNOW I like mustard on my soft pretzels."
"I'm sorry."
"It's fine. I guess I'll just eat it like this."

There you have it. Undeniable proof that women are crazy and men are their unwitting pawns stuck in a game of psychological mistreatment and manipulation in which they have no real chance of satisfying the whims of their oppressors.

And for these reasons, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask that you award my client damages in the form of the March Madness package on DIRECTV and one PlayStation 3 game or Blu-ray Disc movie of his choosing.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Three Down, Two to Go

Rules of Engagement

Unfortunately for me, Amelia already likes to argue. And she doesn't follow the rules of arguing as spelled out in any of the 117 Yahoo! relationship articles on the top ten ways to fight fairly and maintain a healthy marriage. Does she not get relationship advice from the internet like the rest of western civilization?

Most of my arguments with Amelia occur when she's been busted for one misdeed or another. Her first line of defense is to remind me of my own failures as a father, husband or human being in general. She apparently catalogs these things for later use when I confront her about her actions. Sadly, she's quite good at it -- she may be the one who wrote on the wall but somehow I'm the one in timeout for sneaking a piece of candy before dinner two nights ago. She hasn't even reached her fifth birthday and she's already a formidable opponent. I really don't need more women in my life who can run verbal circles around me at will. By the time she's thirteen I may just go into hiding.

I often use this blog to document the things my kids say, but mere written words would not do justice to Amelia's retort from a few days ago. I was reprimanding her for something (which I've already forgotten -- see how good she is at this???) when suddenly she turned into Jerry Stiller with a photographic memory of my past transgressions. Here is my impression of her response.




What could I say? Sunflower seeds are disgusting.

Things We Love

Jameson loves to make books. A few days ago he made a book about our family and our favorite things. Here is one of my entries into the book.

Sounds about right.

Old Man

I am now 35 years old.

I weigh 185 pounds.

I cannot run 5 miles without stopping.

I can eat a Big Mac in 6 bites.

I cannot do 20 push-ups.

I can take a nap any time, any place.

I cannot carry my kids up to bed without panting.

I can collect ludicrous amounts of lint in my bellybutton.

That all changes this year.

Except the nap part. I love naps.

Oh, and it will all be made more dramatic by taking ostentatious self portraits.

Maybe the Native Americans Will Save our Asses

We planted a potato this year. And despite our Irish ancestry, our harvest was less than, um, bountiful. If we were among the original settlers in the New World, you could pretty much guarantee we would be the last of our line. Forget making it through the winter, we wouldn't have made it to opening week of the NFL season. (I wonder if the Bengals were as terrible then as they are now?)

Here are the whopping three delicious looking potatoes we hauled in this year.

Not exactly enough to feed a family of six.

And by family of six, I mean six mice.

Yes, those are actual Idaho potatoes (as grown in Ohio).

Julie thinks it's hysterical. Truman wants to know if I grew them small on purpose. Jameson thinks we're going to starve. Personally, I'm optimistic. By this time next year I bet I'll be growing potatoes the size of quarters.

Photo Op

That's not what I meant by, "go stand next to Snoopy so I can take your picture..."

Now in IMAX

Has anyone ever mentioned how big, bald heads are great for shadow puppeteering? Well, they are.

My Graphical Life

Resume Material

I just turned 34 and apparently I still have talents that until now had gone undiscovered. For example, I had no idea that my big, fat, bald head made such a perfect backdrop for shadow puppeteering. Sweet.

You're Messing with Me, Aren't You?

A recent exchange...

Hoolie: You'd better get moving or you'll be late.

James: What? We're fine.

Hoolie: You'd better get the kids ready now or you're going to be late.

James: No we won't.

Hoolie: You're going to be late. It's quarter till eleven.

James: No it isn't. It's quarter till ten.

Hoolie: Oh. Well, all the more reason.

It's official. I cannot win.

Size Matters

Taxation without representation, indeed.  The kids brought in quite the Halloween haul this year and I've had to familiarize them with the "dad tax" on their trick-or-treat bounty.  Unfortunately for them, since I made their costumes and took them on their beggar's night rounds, they fall into a very high tax bracket.  Current tax legislation also applies the "dad tax" to Easter baskets, ice cream cones, bowls of popcorn and, of course, McDonald's french fries.  Sure it sounds like an onerous burden, but c'mon, those piggy back rides and really high pushes on the swings aren't going to pay for themselves.

Freedom isn't free, baby.

Regrettably, it doesn't look like tax rates will be easing any time soon.  Have you seen the atrocities that are being passed off as "fun size" candy these days?  It's a joke. They're an abomination.  The Great Pumpkin must be rolling over in his patch.  And who pays for these crimes?  The children.  I have to dip into their candy bowls dozens of times a day just to keep my blood sugar up.  The kids are left with little else than Tootsie Rolls and marshmallow peanuts.  Maybe a half-melted Jolly Rancher if they're lucky.

I have a feeling things are only going to get worse.

Based on current trends, this will be a "fun size" Snickers in the year 2018.

Point! Truman!

This very morning...

Truman: "Can I hab a cupcake?"

Me: "No."

Truman: "Tlease! I want a cupcake!"

Me: "No. You can't have a cupcake for breakfast."

Truman: "Tleeeeeease!"

Me:  "No. No cupcakes for breakfast."

Truman: "WHY NOT?!"

Me: "They're not good for your body."

Truman:  "BUT THEY'RE GOOD FOR MY MOUTH!"

Jedi Mind Tricks

Truman and Amelia love to get into silly arguments and fights. No subject or object seems to be off limits. Even imaginary ones (which I'll get to in a moment) are fair game. I'm not surprised and I'm pretty sure it's especially common among siblings that are close in age (or in this case, the exact same age). But even I have had to laugh at some of the things they've been arguing over lately.

One afternoon I was loading all of the kids into the minivan for some typical afternoon jaunt to the park, the grocery store, or some other routine destination.  I was putting Amelia in her seat while she jabbered away about who knows what.  As I finish buckling her seatbelt, she decides to announce, "I'm talking to dad."  Truman, who previously did not seem to be paying attention to her ramblings, shoots back, "Noooo, I'm talking to dad."  This, of course, quickly turns into a shouting match over who is in fact talking to dad.  At this point, I close the minivan door and head back into the house to get Jameson.  Back at the car, I slide open the door only to find that the argument has continued despite the fact that I've been nowhere near them for the last few minutes.  "No I'm talking to dad."  "NO, I'm talking to dad."  "NO, I'M TALKING TO DAD."

Just recently, Amelia banged up her shin while climbing some stone steps.  It wasn't too bad, but it left a nice little bruise.  The morning after her injury she's investigating her leg during breakfast.  She reminds me of her calamity saying, "I hurt my leg."  Not to be outdone, but without actually having an injury of his own, Truman also declares, "I hurt my leg." This infuriates Amelia and once again we are off to the races, this time with a shouting match of "I HURT MY LEG!!!"

Now this next altercation is the one that blows my mind.  This is the bottom of the barrel when it comes to pointless fights.  It's dinnertime and Truman and Amelia are seated in highchairs directly next to each other which puts them in arms reach of one another.  While watching dinner being prepared they begin to pretend that they each have a set of imaginary tongs in their hands.  IMAGINARY.  Neither of them actually have anything in their hands.  Nothing.  Everyone is being pleasant as Truman and Amelia interact with Mom and carry out various tasks with their imaginary tongs.  Until.  Until Amelia decides to "steal" Truman's imaginary tongs.  She grabs them out of his hand and then waves them in front of his face while chanting, "I've got your tongs.  I've got your tongs."  Truman gets upset, lunges for Amelia and grabs his imaginary tongs back while scolding, "NO MAYA."  This only encourages Amelia who quickly snatches the imaginary-invisible-nonexistent-ridiculously-not-real tongs again and starts up with her "I've got your tongs" taunt.  I cannot believe this is happening.  They are actually fighting over objects that are simply ideas conjured up in their little two year old brains.  But then it gets worse.  Truman swipes his imaginary tongs back from Amelia once again.  This time, however, she doesn't make a play to get them back from him.  At least not physically.  Which is pretty much impossible anyway since THEY'RE NOT REAL to begin with.  No, this time Amelia just looks over at him and says, "Truuuuuuman."  He looks up at her.  She starts moving her hand as if she's dangling something in the air.  "Truuuuman.  I've got your tonnnnngs."  He looks down at his already empty hands as if his nonexistent tongs had suddenly vanished into thin air.  And he flips out.  "NOOOOO, MAYA!!!!  MY TONGS!!!!"  He scrambles to get them back.  Before he has time to relish his reclaimed treasure Amelia summons them back into her hands and with the biggest, most evil grin on her face begins her taunts anew.  Realizing his tongs have been magically pilfered yet again, Truman flies into a rage while demanding I intervene.  "Daaaaaad.  Maya take my tongs!  No! No! No!"  I'm not even exactly sure what he wanted me to do.  Her knowledge of the Force is obviously great, but I had to step in and put an end to this.  So I just did what I usually do.  I took away both of their imaginary tongs and set them on top of the refrigerator until after dinner.  Then no one was happy.  Except me.

Can't wait to see what they'll fight over next.

I'm Not Surprised. At All.

I recently mentioned that snoozing on the at-home parent job can lead to problems.  (See #5.)  Well, of course, my comment about hair being cut turned out to be prophetic.  Less than two weeks later, a certain Miss Amelia took advantage of a moment of lax supervision to experiment with cutting her own hair.  I knew it was going to happen sooner or later and Amelia did not disappoint.  The funny thing is, her new haircut completely fits her personality.  Yes, it's a little ridiculous looking, but she's quite proud of her handiwork and it's now a constant reminder of the independent little teenager I'm raising.  Too bad she won't actually be a teenager for another decade.

So proud of herself.

If I hadn't caught her in the act, I'm sure much more hair would be gone.

Celebrating her achievement with some cold milk.
(Yes, in a Budweiser glass.)

Whenever she's asked what she did to her hair, she simply replies, "It's beautiful."

It's too bad she didn't start with the kid who actually needs a haircut.
Coulda saved me a trip to the barber.

Oh Yeah? Well Your Breath Smells Like Cheerios

My sweet little Amelia.

All tuckered out after a day at the park, the kids were all sitting peacefully in their car seats as we drove home. I couldn't help but admire them in the rearview mirror as the sun began to set on another amazing day. They all looked so content as we pulled into the driveway at home. As I got out of the car and headed to Amelia's door, I couldn't help but think about how lucky I am to be the father of these beautiful children. When I opened her door her eyes locked onto me with a look that was nothing short of adoration. I smiled at her as I reached over to pull her out of her seat. She smiled back.

And then she grabbed a hunk of my neck fat and whispered, "Heyyyyy, chubby, chubby, chubby."

God I love this girl.

Inglourious Childrens

The latest 'round here:

• Today the boys were playing with Legos. Which they turned into guns. Naturally. Amelia joined in. Naturally. They chased each other all over the house, each making their own unique "pew pew" sounds.
  
  I got the strange feeling that I was watching a scene from a Tarantino film when I realized Amelia was mowing people down with her Lego Glock... all while clutching her blanket wrapped baby doll. She's a great multitasker.



• When Jameson serves a meal, he says, "Dig up!" And when leaping from high places he says, "Jumpronimo!"



• You know those hopping marsupials found throughout Australia? Truman insists they're called "bangaroos."



• Mr. Darwin is huge. And he officially thinks he's one of the big kids now. He's almost got the crawling thing down, but it's tough with all that weight. OK, maybe he's not crawling. It's more... lunging and faceplanting. Repeatedly. But it gets him where he wants to go.



• Independent Woman. That's Amelia's official title. She potty trained herself last week. Literally. Julie and I hadn't even begun the potty training process yet so Amelia took it upon herself. One day she just decided she would only use the toilet for doing her business. She walked in. Took her pants and diaper off. Tinkled. Wiped. Got dressed. Washed her hands. It's unbelievable. If only everything was this easy.



• Amelia pretty much refuses help for anything. In the mornings she wakes up, climbs out of her crib and then announces to everyone (with her hands up in the air), "Maya awake!" She then proceeds to go to the bathroom, brush her teeth, pick out her clothes and then dress herself. Sometimes I think she's an adult trapped in a two year old's body.



• Speaking of Independent Woman, Amelia has also stopped calling me dad, dadda or daddy. She now addresses me only as James. And it's usually along the lines of "James, leave me alone," or "James, stay right there," or "James, I do it."



• Deep down, Amelia is still very much Daddy's little girl.



• We are slowly inching our way towards having our own home again. We've closed on our construction loan and are having our pre-construction meeting with the builder next week. We're loving the house plans, but it seems so, so, so far away at this point...



• Darwin is about to get kicked out of our bed. We've let all of our children co-sleep with us as long as it was practical. Darwin has reached the unpractical stage. He stretches out all over, hogs the blankets and likes to wake us up with early morning eye gouges. And he always forgets to turn off the TV when he's done watching Late Night with Jimmy Fallon. Sorry, buddy, but it's time to go.



• If we weren't busy enough with the four year old, the twin two year olds, the nine month old, the living with the in-laws, the building a new house, the starting school this year, and whatever else... Julie and I are also working on starting a new business. 'Cause that's how we roll.



• My dentist has "found Jesus" and I have a cavity. Not sure if those facts are somehow related. Maybe it just means I have holey teeth! (Thank you. I'll be here all week. Be sure to tip your waitress.)

No One Ever Crapped in My Office

Being a stay at home dad pretty much rocks. I get to gallivant around with my kids all day, taking hikes, eating ice cream sundaes, feeding goats -- you know, the finer things in life. I'm my own boss and the only people I really answer to can be wrestled to the ground with ease.

But every now and then, to keep balance in the universe, one of the kids will take a massive shit on my mother-in-law's brand new carpet and then track it around the entire room for good measure. We wouldn't want me getting too comfortable in this job now would we?

That Which Doesn't Kill Us

Hi there internets. Remember me?

I've been MIA for the last few weeks. Actually, maybe POW would be a more accurate description. Some things came up and, well, blogging had to be put on the back burner. So what happened?

We sold our house.

And moved in with my in-laws.

That's right. The house we've been trying to sell for three years is no more. And all six of us have now taken up residence in the oversized bedroom above my wife's parents' garage.

And we're living here for the next 8 months or so.

As an adult, did you ever have to move in with your parents or spouse's parents?

Will discuss more later.

In the meantime, here are some photos from the life about which I have not been blogging.

Ed. Note: The gorgeous first picture of Darwin is courtesy of Julie.