Unfinished Dad

New Home

2009-04-30T08:36:00.001-05:00

Come join me over at my new home. Here or here. It'll be fun.

A Little Outage

2009-04-15T14:15:00.002-05:00

Hello all, please stay tuned for further instructions and some new toys. I can't post while the work proceeds-even this note is unsanctioned-but trust that I will be back sooner rather than later.

Babies and Blossoms

2009-04-07T10:22:00.006-05:00

We live in DC, it's a law that we visit the cherry blossoms.

California, Part II

2009-04-06T14:31:00.009-05:00

Was it the bourbon or the feel good vibes of Virgin that did the job? While my stomach just entered my mouth when we took off, and I am clutching my open phone with a picture of Annie and Tilda on it for support, things are progressing smoothly. I don’t know if the fear comes from wishing I could control the outcome of this flight, or from knowing that I can’t.

For the next five hours my plan is to somehow limit the amount of times I picture the plane breaking up over the heartland and fireballing into a field somewhere. This works for the first hour or so, because I am absorbed in that Iceland article. Elves, really? Now though, the turbulence has started. I think I need something a bit more distracting. I attempt to turn on the television and find that mine doesn’t work. This always seems to happen to me on flights. I don’t feel like listening to music yet, so I fiddle with the fancy seatback system that Virgin uses. Most of it is useless or inactive. It basically amounts to various attempts to get me to buy shit. Without TV, I end up engrossed in the flight map that has kindly been provided for us by those nerds over at Google.

A little red version of our plane sails across America. I watch towns that I will never visit pass cartoonishly beneath me. Chillicoth, Ohio would be a nice place to die. I jot down a quick note to pay a visit if I make it through this.

With my Iceland article (and other financial gloom-and-doom) out of the way, it is time to put on my headphones and settle in. We are less than halfway there. Oh, and still no visit to the bathroom. I am too embarrassed.

I have been on too many flights this year already. Consequently, I have developed a bit of a music routine. My iPod has 83 Death Cab for Cutie songs on it and I play them on shuffle hoping to hear some of my favorites before we crash. Invariably, I skip half of them out of sheer nerves. The best part about this routine is that most Death Cab (I hate this shortened moniker by the way, and will never again employ it) songs are either crazy pick me ups like Long Division...

crazy downers like I Will Follow You Into The Dark...

“Love of mine. Someday you will die, but I’ll be close behind. I’ll follow you into the dark.” You may not be an emotional mess like me, but this song better speak to you. Otherwise, we can’t sit next to each other on any future flights. There is no way I can comfort you if your heart is that dense. Anyway, the Death Cab for Cutie catalog lasts about two hours—it’s technically five and a half long—with me frantically skipping the songs that don’t either depress or thrill me.

Unfortunately, it’s time to use the bathroom. I make my way to the back of the plane, where things sway a bit too much for my liking, and wait in line. Of course, who is sitting right outside the door reading a magazine? She gives me a knowing nod when we make eye contact and small talk ensues about life on the West Coast. I find myself biting my tongue when I want to mention my planned trip to In-N-Out Burger. In a minute, it is my turn to enter and I make the executive decision to hold in the goods for LAX. Instead, I pee as fast as I ever have, thus sparing my pride and my acquaintance.

Back at my seat I can’t bring myself to check the time, or open the window, or my eyes, so I quickly find the next band that will help me cope. I settle on Jimmy Eat World. There is a moment in Table for Glasses, the opening track on their only truly great album, Clarity, in which my iPod starts to skip.

I have listened to this song for years now and, to this day, don’t know if the skipping is an aberration or part of the original recording. At this point it doesn’t matter. Like the faded sweatshirt I’m wearing, it gives me comfort.

Okay, I’m almost through this. As you might have guessed, when it comes to flying, my brain is not normal. Get this; I am not at all afraid of landing. As soon as we start our descent, I am completely relaxed. I can now bask in the knowledge that I am further west than I have ever been. California. Is there a person in this country who doesn’t get excited about the prospect of traveling west? I am a 49er, or a frontiersman in a wagon train, I am Lewis and Clark, all wrapped up into one nervous wreck of an explorer.

I can now shift gears into the celebratory portion of my musical journey too. I queue up songs that commemorate my having survived. Fortunately, both catalogues I have relied on contain strangely fitting tracks about crossing The United States.

We touch down in Los Angeles. Despite my first taste of smog, I breathe. Smog is onomatopoeia.

The excitement I feel is only slightly dampened by the hundred person line at Hertz. It takes almost an hour to sort out the rental car, but in that time I meet a wonderful woman from Bakersfield. Somehow it doesn’t surprise me at all that she and her husband once lived in Washington, DC. This is how the world works when you cheat death. Things are just enlightened a little. Once I am in the parking lot and the man shows me how to start my state-appropriate Prius, I declare out loud, “I am in California. I have to change my shoes.” I don’t even try to explain this to him. As he drives away, shaking his head in his golf cart/limo, I giddily shed my socks and slip into my Birkenstocks.

California, Part I

2009-03-28T09:09:00.012-05:00

The cups hit the bar in a clatter, Jack Daniels sloshing around in their spotted, airport half-cleanliness. The bartender peers down at me as if staring at a degenerate finishing off a bender. When it comes to flying, no time is too early to drink, a sentiment not shared by my host. The men at the bar around me pick through their eggs and sneak glances at my choice of breakfast, while pretending to watch random highlights on the television above our heads. I can't tell if they admire what a man I am or share the bartender's sentiment that I am a mess. No matter, I am only a few minutes from the requisite buzz to get me through takeoff.

After quietly paying my tab, I head out to let the whiskey take its effect. I'm not someone who gets drunk often and after a short time my brain calms down. I start to get the feeling of having a secret that no one, save the judgemental bartender, knows. The rest of the passengers all walk around as if approaching the gallows, and only I have the solution; it jostles gently in my belly and needs a bit of greasy bacon to keep it company. I can't bring myself to eat what Starbucks considers a bagel and so wander the terminal in search of a better option. Halfway down the row of brightly lit stores, I notice a line of people at Five Guys Burgers and Fries. Now, I sometimes indulge in a pre-dinner little bacon cheeseburger if I pass a Five Guys while out, but even a guy who drank a couple of whiskeys before dawn has to set limits. It occurs to me that this is the only secret I keep from my wife.

A sudden thought hits me; bacon, egg and cheese would go nicely on a squishy Five Guys bun. I stare longingly at the red and white checkerboard facade. Dreaming. Ah, I am not the only person to hatch this idea. A dutiful line of patrons wait, mouth watering, for the same classic combination. I join them silently. The line creeps closer to the grill and I observe a Five Guys twist on this breakfast classic. They don't simply add a couple strips of bacon to the top of the sandwich, they stack the egg and melted cheese on a half inch bed of crumbled bacon. I swoon.

Something stops me from ordering coffee here, so I head out in search of a decent cup. While this may counteract the effect of the Jack Daniels, it is too ingrained in my morning ritual to skip. I may only drink half the cup. Two customers in line before me admire my partially eaten sandwich and stare in simultaneous jealousy. The woman prods the man to skip breakfast here and double back for some of what I've got. We make pleasant conversation over a shared love of bacon, with only the man talking about the detriment it can have on one's waistline. I can tell that she will relent and settle for the dried scone sitting before us in the case. I pay for my coffee and take leave, knowing that she will regret letting him talk her out of her plan.

It's time for me to head over to the gate and await boarding. Despite the drinks, I dwell on the idea that I am knowingly walking to my own death. Somberly, I take the furthest seat from the jetway. A Virgin America employee is leading some kind of contest in which passengers compete for a set of hot pink headphones. A plainly dressed woman in a blue flannel shirt wins and dutifully gathers her prize. It will clash horribly with her. It is obvious that the feel good vibe of the women at the counter—who aren't going to board the plane I might add—is having the desired effect on the passengers. They smile. They relax. The same employee is now offering early boarding to anyone who can guess where she went to college. She dangles the familiar white and blue logo of North Carolina from a lanyard around her neck. People are calling out answers all around me and they are rewarded with places at the head of the line. They feel like they are flying first class.

My section, E, is called and I slowly move towards row 6, seat A. I'm about to take my place, when a familiar voice says, "Hey, Five Guys guy, how was your sandwich?" I look up to see the pretty face from the coffee shop. She and the self conscious man are our flight attendants. In a flirtatious manner that I have whenever I'm alone, I rub my belly and say satisfyingly, "It's brewing." Her face mirrors mine in that we both realize I just alluded to the fact that I will soon have to take a very large shit in a very small public bathroom. Hopelessly, I continue on about the technical merits of the crumbled bacon, but I have lost her. I sheepishly take my seat and immediately forget my gaffe. It is time to start thinking about death.

Whoah, did you see how well manicured that bush hedge is?

2009-03-25T07:49:00.005-05:00

Let us return to a recurring theme here at Unfinished Dad. The following is not a commercial I hate, in fact it's quite effective, in that it will certainly spark debate. It took my rewinding it to actually believe that I saw it, but that's what they wanted, right? I'm posting it here because, someday in the nearer-than-I-would-like future, my daughters will want some kind of explanation. And I'll say confidently...go ask your mother.

The Hazards of Love

2009-03-24T08:57:00.003-05:00

Yes, it's a rock opera originally conceptualized as a stage piece, but when it comes to their albums, it may be, "ask not what the Decemberists can do for you-but what you can do for the Decemberists."

Annie Burps and Hiccups the Family Tree

2009-03-22T14:06:00.002-05:00

The Picture of Chaos

2009-03-20T15:00:00.000-05:00

T...

2009-03-20T09:27:00.003-05:00

We are a nickname family—as those who had to endure the phase where my wife and I called each other "puppy" can attest—and the kids have had their fair share of quirky monikers. These nicknames usually evolve over time-I wouldn't dare tell you what came before "puppy."

As such, Matilda became Tilda, which became Tildabear, which developed into Tilda-Bear-Workshop, which inexplicably morphed into TB, which then turned into T-bone, and currently, my second daughter goes by the befitting name T. Bone Pickens.

My Daughter the Elitist

2009-03-18T08:10:00.002-05:00

When companies craft commercials, they do so with a target demographic in mind, no? Millions of dollars are spent honing the message in order to get a specific person to open their wallet.

Apparently the people behind The Ladders—who once said their website was “only for 100K plus people”—are still working out their spiel. When we wake up in our house, we have coffee and watch Morning Joe on MSNBC. The Ladders air their commercials often in this time slot. Every time Annie sees the ad with the little dinosaurs running around, she says "blesh you" to the teeny one at the end who coughs. Minutes later, when the spot with the ridiculous hunters lassoing office chairs in Africa airs, Annie puts down her eggies, points at the screen, and laughs at the absurdity of it all.

The idea of commercials is to stop people in their tracks and slap them into attention. Good news for The Ladders...it works. Annie will be sending in her application post-haste.

This just in...

2009-03-16T19:42:00.003-05:00

Baby befriends food.

The Rain Falls Mainly On...Chevy Chase

2009-03-15T19:15:00.005-05:00

Ugh. Rain, rain, and more rain. We managed to get the kids out between downpours and you know what, even cold, bundled, and red, their cuteness amazes me. And I'm not even biased.

The After

2009-03-13T11:01:00.003-05:00

Two and a half days of non-stay-at-home-dad labor, and this is the result. We have gone from an unusable yard to one that will give us nothing but joy this summer. A quick list of what we accomplished: Raked and blew the whole yard, pruned all of the old bushes/hedges, rebuilt sections of two small patios, rebuilt the pond, fixed two holes in the fence, fixed the gate on the fence, tore the skin off the palms of six hands. Now we sit back and wait until all of the unknown trees and flowers bloom. I may have to start a gardening blog.

Nana, really?

2009-03-12T07:10:00.002-05:00

Nana, really, when you put my eldest daughter to bed, you have to comb her hair.

Dirt under my finger nails, yuck!

2009-03-11T15:26:00.003-05:00

Our yard, depending on how you fancy cleaning dirt from all of your crevices, is either heaven or hell. The woman who owned this house for fifty some odd years was the quintessential English gardener. There are trees on top of shrubs on top of flowers.

My parents are in town, so I immediately put them to work cleaning and pruning. my father and I also tackled the task of cleaning up our festering cauldron of a pond in the backyard. Annie was a great help too, as she can step on a pile of dirt like no other. Here are the before pictures. Tomorrow and Friday I will post the afters.

Run!

2009-03-08T14:14:00.004-05:00

Watching Annie, and her mother, duck out of every incoming plane's way, reinforced how amazing Gravelly Point is. How is it, exactly, that thousands of people are allowed such intimate access to landing jets?

More Sun

2009-03-06T14:04:00.002-06:00

The weather gets better with each passing day here in the nation's capital. Annie and I continued to celebrate the trend by getting out and gobbling up the fresh air. Tilda remained stoic.

For Dani

2009-03-05T10:18:00.003-06:00

I know this one is cliche. She just loves trees so much.

Thinking of Highland Lakes

2009-03-05T10:09:00.004-06:00

The sun is shining, the snow melting, and the crocuses are out. This makes me think of spring, and Highland Lakes, and my mother. As far as Annie learning that you can eat snow, I only have one thought on that. Bob+Snow=Heaven

Grrr...

2009-03-04T09:25:00.003-06:00

Your day is always a little cheerier when you play some Bishop Allen on the hi-fi. They have a new album titled Grrr... out next week, with the digital version available now. And bonus, they are playing a DC show on the 13th of March, which, yours truly, has tickets to. Here is the first track, Dimmer. Enjoy.

Aha!

2009-03-02T14:21:00.001-06:00

Dear Wife (who sometimes leaves her suits out for me to hang up),

I told you so.

Love,

Joe

Fish. Fish.

2009-03-02T13:56:00.002-06:00

We went out to the Aquarium today for our last activity in Myrtle Beach. We head home through the snowdrifts tomorrow morning. We had a great time, though pushing one baby in a stroller and keeping up with the other on foot is not easy. Fortunately, the Ripley's Aquarium has a couple of places where an unwatched toddler could actually drown, so my reflexes are considerably honed.

I was planning on posting the only picture I could muster during the day, but realized at the last second that the photo shows a bit of unreleased baby gear that my family is fortunate enough to be testing. Sorry. I can describe the picture well enough though. Fish, fish in the background and Annie in the foreground looking sullen, with a dash of Tilda looking content.

Beach Pics Redux

2009-02-27T19:06:00.004-06:00

Beach Pics

2009-02-26T12:50:00.002-06:00

Beach House Fever

2009-02-26T08:21:00.001-06:00

Saw Things...

2009-02-25T19:27:00.003-06:00

Everyone goes through moments in their lives where it becomes time to pick up and go. At least I think they do. For those of you that know me, I once plotted a ridiculous trip to Wyoming that lasted all of two days. I plotted this trip because I hated my life at the time and thought that something reckless might reset things. The excitement I feel when putting things in my rearview mirror still holds, even though I now love my life and have two wonderful children and a stunningly understanding wife.

Consequently, I find myself in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. My children are sound asleep upstairs, I have a cold beer open and am watching golf on television. My wife is alone in Chevy Chase, basking in the glory of feeling like a single woman again. I called her at 7:30. She was asleep on the couch.

I will be here for about a week, enjoying the weather (70 tomorrow!), and taking the kids down to the beach. If I'm lucky, a neighbor who is friends of my in-laws will find me a babysitter for Friday or Saturday and I will play the beautiful Wacheshaw East golf course. I will post pictures of our adventures, and thoughts on truly being a single dad for the first time. Enjoy the winter chill.

The Cheeks Have It

2009-02-19T11:31:00.004-06:00

Matilda and Annabelle have been compared in more ways than you could imagine. I've thought a lot about their poop cycles, their sleep cycles, their respective bald spots, and the size of the fat rolls on their thighs. What I have found is that for the most part, they do almost everything completely opposite of one another. Tilda poops once a day; Annie pooped three times a day. Tilda's bald spot was on the back of her head; Annie's was in the front. Tilda sleeps through the night; Annie...

There happen to be many times where people tell me they look exactly alike. The picture that my wife took of Tilda this week (the one where she looks like Alex Karras) made me think of one of my favorite photos of Annie. They happen to be the same age, so they are sitting in the same position. After close review on my part, I think their eyes are the only major difference, with the cheeks being the best and most similar feature between them.

Vieques

2009-02-17T19:01:00.005-06:00

The first thing that comes to mind when I think of Vieques is wild dogs. Droves of wild dogs. If having to avoid stubby little families of homeless dogs while you drive isn't your thing, then you can stop reading now. Vieques isn't for everyone. If traveling the Caribbean via cruise ship, waiting for the ~~dinner bell~~ horn to sound is how you like to vacation, then you also should stop reading now. Because when you are in Vieques, you need to enjoy, well, nothing.

There isn’t much to do when you are in Vieques. The restaurants are few and far between—though the distance shrinks a bit when you are driving with a Medalla in your hand—and the supermercados are in the habit of having very little of what you might need—unless, of course, you are out shopping for canned bacon. If you are willing to spend a little extra, there are a handful of top notch boutique hotels that you can stay in. If you aren’t willing to spend the money, there are plenty of places to stay for under $100 a night that consequently resemble a college dorm. We chose to spend the money and stayed at Evamer. While I don’t mind roughing it during the day, I want my head to hit a well linened pillow at night.

When you wake up in the morning, you have two options after you eat breakfast. First, you can drive out of town on one of the myriad winding, rutted, dirt roads, through the jungle, and out to the beach, where you will promptly find no one there to greet you. The second option you have, is to drive out of town on one of the myriad winding, rutted, dirt roads, through the jungle, and out to the mountain, where you will promptly find an abandoned sugar cane factory or abandoned army bunker to explore. After you have spent an hour trekking around and poking your head in doors that haven’t been opened in years—thusly finding an alarmingly creepy bunker full of…coke machines—you then head out to the beach where you belong.

If you didn’t already know, Vieques was home to the United States Navy from 1941 until 2003. Strangely, I have never read all of the details that are linked to here. However, skimming the articles, particularly the one about the dangers of depleted uranium—Wait they were using nuclear weapons on a 100 square mile island? And people were still living there? Okay, if you haven’t stopped reading yet, then Vieques is definitely for you.

When the Navy left, one half of the island that they “used” was cleared of any “ordinances” and opened to the public. Left over is mile after mile of open land and pristine beaches, other than ruined families and radiation poisoning, that is. Think about this, if you wanted to use the beaches on much of Vieques before 2003, you had to be lucky, crazy, or a high ranking government operative. This means that the reward at the end of the drive is as sweet as you can imagine. When my wife and I went to Vieques for the first time, in November of 2005, we would leave any beach in which we saw a single other person.

After you have spent the day on the beach, there are now almost three options for a nice dinner. They are all simple in fare and light on the wallet, but if you have a good guide—like the incomparable Mark at Evamer—you will find yourself sated and ready for either bed, or a few more Medalla’s. Should you find yourself on the island on a Tuesday or Thursday, eat at Coqui Fire. Order the carnitas, unbutton your pants, and watch the restaurant’s namesake hop amongst the trees that surround you.

Last week, we were lucky enough to be sharing the island with 80 of our closest friends. We were all attending a wedding, so we got to see parts of the island previously hidden to us. The house where the bride and groom stayed all week was straight out of Scarface. It was the perfect setting for a wild reception, in which the normally easygoing police were called to the scene, and the normally easygoing blogger was the first into the pool—in his wife’s bikini bottoms, no less.

When all was said and done we had one of the better weeks of our lives. Did I mention we left the kids at home? Naturally all of the sleep we accumulated was swept away upon our return to a house of puking babies, no computer, and much less sleep than we quickly grew accustomed to.

Oh, you want to here about our escape from Vieques that I alluded to earlier? In brief, here goes. Vieques has a few airlines that fly to and from San Juan. Some are larger than others. On the way in, we hopped a flight on Vieques Air Link, a reputable outfit with something near eight planes. On the way out however, we decided to fly one of the island’s less celebrated airlines, MN Aviation. We arrived at the airport and saw all of our friends, in different stages of readiness and drunkenness, getting ready to board other flights. Our “counter” however, was dark. Knowing the pace at which things move on Vieques, I called the airline and made sure we were still flying that day. The woman on the phone assured me we were and then transferred me to, well, a guy with information. The guy let me know that the pilot was on his way from a neighboring island with three other passengers. He was in a rush. Evidently, there was a storm approaching. When a surprisingly new plane emblazoned MN landed, we hustled out the door to meet the pilot. We had yet to show an ID, check a bag, or see another MN employee. Nonetheless, the pilot shooed us up into the cabin while carrying our bags himself. Once onboard, we met our three co-passengers…a stoned-looking beach bum, a rottweiler, and a German shepherd. Seconds later, the plane lifted off, out and over the ocean, a full 45 minutes before it was scheduled.

Hello

2009-02-17T12:50:00.004-06:00

So much has kept us apart over the last two weeks. I was on vacation for awhile and then my laptop decided it was on vacation for awhile. But now, loyal reader, I am back. I think the separation was good for me. Was it good for you?

A lot has happened since we last spoke. Vieques was beautiful. If you have never been, you should go. Like, I mean, today. I will sit down and give you a full rundown of the week later tonight. You should wait with baited breath for a recap that includes undercooked local cuisine, abandoned beaches, purple feet, Unfinished Dad in a bikini, and a harrowing escape from the island in which, other than a beach bum and two very large dogs, my wife and I were the only ones on the plane. Needless to say, none of us were ticketed passengers.

To tide you family members over, here are some photos from the last fortnight.

I'm very in tune with the technology

2009-02-11T21:50:00.002-06:00

Um, yeah, I am twittering now. To the right, read about how boring my life is without a computer.

Ah, HP DV 9000 You Reliable Old Fool

2009-02-11T21:31:00.002-06:00

Well, the old laptop is on the fritz for the second time in a year. It mysteriously stopped turning on two days ago. I won't have access for the next 10 days or so. Know that the babies and the parents are very well. I will try and touch base now and again, but please don't waste your time on me, go ahead and read some other dad's blog.

Andrew Bird and Vieques

2009-02-03T22:42:00.002-06:00

Okay, I just got back from the single best concert that ever was. My lovely wife found me a ticket to Andrew Bird at 9:30 Club here in DC, and I am still a bit tipsy from the whole experience. Word is, NPR was there recording, so maybe your future has a little A, Bird in it. If I am still glowing next week I will detail it all for you.

Also, we will be in Vieques, PR for the next five days and I will check back in with ya'll on Monday the the 9th. Wish me luck on a week without my girls.

Dude

2009-02-02T16:16:00.008-06:00

Okay, so secretly I dislike most people I don't know. This isn't the place to go into it, but I especially dislike people who have loud, neanderthal-like conversations while sitting in a public place like Starbucks. This guy next to me is in the middle of a pitiful attempt to woo the girl sitting with him. In an act of passive retribution for my having to suffer through this, I am posting his portion of the conversation here. Sorry King Kong loving, boxing guy.

Yeah, it’s cool. She lives like 15 minutes from me. I don’t think I could have her right down the hall, or definitely not living with me. I could never do that.

I started Boxing, but it sucks, you can’t workout when you are doing it, because you can mess up your muscles working too hard.

I go to Eastern Market a lot, and I want to buy this expensive painting there. I’m not so good with money. So, am I too young to buy like a $250 painting?

Whaduuuuuup!

Yeah, a fajita combo plate. Word. Sweet.

So, yeah, the painting, I love it. It’s of King Kong. But, it’s cool. And it’s worth 500, so I could just sell it later.

Nah, that’s good dude. You need some You time! A year is a long time.

Damn Dude, it’s like you’re fourteen. (This was said in reference to the girl he was sitting with saying she still has to sneak out of her house at 25)

Man, that looks like one comfy ass coat.

Do you want to walk a little bit? Where’d you park? Hey, do you like Hot 99.5? The samples they play of Michael Jackson are money.

Nature or Nurture?

2009-01-29T19:48:00.002-06:00

So, Nature or Nurture? I have a feeling that this topic will find the population split down the middle. I also have a feeling that it is one that might get everyone’s dander up a bit. On the one hand, you Nurturers out there would like to think that you have a hand in shaping your mostly wonderful children, and the thought that their paths may be out of your control troubles you. On the other hand, you Natures out there have a ready excuse when your child hits mine over the head with a big orange ball—I’m guessing you don’t want to hear that you may have something to do with this behavior.

As a parent of two children, I believe that I am currently witnessing the answer to this debate. It is well chronicled that Annie has what I would call a distinct willfulness. She has often decided that sleeping through the night not only wasn’t for her, but fought for hours on end proving it. She is also prone to frequent tantrums in which she either throws whatever she is holding—food, toys, Tilda—or quickly rolls on the ground and kicks around until the bout passes. The latter version is getting funnier as she gets older, because she now realizes that hitting your head on the floor hurts. Accordingly, in the middle of her red-faced fury, she gently goes to the ground via hands and knees and then properly freaks out.

Tilda on the other hand, is the serene child that I believe most seconds are. When Tilda cries, it is for one of the three natural reasons: I’m hungry, I’m sleepy, I need to poop. Even when one of these events occurs, she cries for just a minute or two, and is then back to her easygoing self. She is not yet to the true age of reason—I would put that at eight months—but she is at the dawn of it. It is certainly possible that she will be every bit as obstinate as her sister. Instinctively though, I think she will continue on her monk-like path.

If it is not already clear. I am in the Nurture camp. I take full responsibility for the fact that the above story about the big orange ball was actually reversed, and Annie whacked some girl in the head today at play gym. I apologized profusely for my role in this to her mother. You see, Annie was lovingly pampered for the first 13 months of her life, as most first and only children are. She always slept in my arms. I was convinced that letting her cry would damage her future psyche. I thought it was cute when she threw the remote at my head. As a ~~wiser~~ more tired parent of two, I realize that all of those little indulgences have lead to who Annie is today. Don’t get me wrong; what Annie is is not bad. It’s wonderful and exciting…sort of like snowboarding on steep terrain; you aren’t always sure of the final outcome, but you definitely enjoy the possibilities along the way.

Tilda has had a tougher road in her first six months. There have been so many times that she has had to wait patiently for me to feed or change or hold her. Often, the best I could muster were loving words and a quick kiss while trying to feed or change or subdue Annie. This dynamic has always weighed heavily on my conscience, but I am slowly realizing that she may be all the better for it. She already seems to deal with ~~neglect~~ challenges in a manner not befitting her age.

Am I giving myself too much credit as parent? Am I being too hard on myself about Annie’s tantrums? I can only look to the small case study that is my family and say that children seem to respond very strongly to the environment that is provided them. If you are involved in every second of your child’s day, she will probably be needy as she grows up. If you leave her to her own devices, she will probably learn to cope with the world around her. Before you call me naïve or inexperienced, let me say this: The preceding is my opinion as of January 28th 2009. One thing I know is that things change. With kids they change almost every day. There is a good chance that at this time next year my position will be reversed, and I will write a post about how it’s all Annie’s fault that she is still hitting that same girl over the head with her orange ball.

An Alfred or a Jack?

2009-01-29T08:11:00.003-06:00

I've been holed up in the ice reading Ken Follett's The Pillars of the Earth, figuring out my beliefs on nature vs. nurture. Will my children grow up to be Alfreds or Jacks, and can I do anything about it? For now, Annie is trying to type at the same time I am, so we can table this discussion for later today or tonight.

Here though, is a photo taken by my wife, that I love.

Freshies

2009-01-27T13:19:00.006-06:00

Washington, DC and Annie saw their first snow today. For Annie, it was the first time she had ever seen freshies, and though it may seem that way for DC, I think it may have snowed here back in '84. Annie also went sleigh riding (only after I left high school and Vernon, did I find out that no one else called it that. We also kind of called mischief night, uh, goosey night) for the first time as well, and as is her wont, she made the most of it, taking some some good tumbles in the process.

Matilda

2009-01-26T20:22:00.003-06:00

There has been a lot of commentary on the Tilda sitting up video. I think this must have something to do with what a cherubic figure she cuts. My favorite sentiment was that of my sister-in-law Dani, who rightly assumed that Tilda's big sister would be jealous of the attention that the video camera afforded. She didn't push Tilda over, but simply rolled around on the ground screaming until I stopped my foolishness. This is surprisingly effective.

There have also been a lot of complaints about he lack of pictures here. Please accept the below photos as an apology.

A Milestone

2009-01-22T19:21:00.003-06:00

Today was a big day for little Tilda Claire. She sat up for the first time. As this short video shows, she wasn't quite as excited about this as I was. And, uh, neither was Annie. Depending on your outlook on life, this clip is either very sad or very heartwarming.

What a Week

2009-01-22T09:26:00.000-06:00

It has been a very exciting week here in DC. You may have heard that we had an important guest milling around. I wasn't able to go downtown and see him, but I hope to in the beginning of February. He will be appearing at 9:30 Club on the 3rd, and if I can get tickets I will be swooning just like the rest of America. Here for you as a sneak peak, are two of my favorite highlights from that all important day, January 20th 2009.

Inaugural

2009-01-20T12:33:00.002-06:00

There are many people out there who, with more eloquence than I can summon, will describe the events that took place here today. They will transport you with their words to Washington, DC from your homes in Shreveport, Hamburg, Raglan and beyond. I felt lucky to simply sit on the couch with my two daughters—and a box of Life cereal—taking it all in from afar, while my wife was celebrating within steps of the capitol with her mother. Though, every time the camera panned over the crowd, I found myself wishing for Annabelle and Matilda’s sake that they could have witnessed this in person, affording them the luxury of telling their future schoolmates that they were on the Mall for the swearing in of Barack Obama. One thing I can say with confidence—today feels different than yesterday.

A Sentence of Sorts

2009-01-18T20:51:00.008-06:00

I’m a huge fan of commercials. Not those overwrought, behemoths that they produce for the Super Bowl, but the everyday commercials that either make me want to put my foot through the TV, or make me want to know more about the actor who just gave me 30 seconds of joy. I’ve told you before; I watch a lot of TV. Therefore, I’m pretty good at both spotting commercial trends and picking up things that your average consumer may not care enough about to pick up.

This weekend I was watching football and a Comcast commercial came on that touted whatever shoddy package they are currently hocking. The spot was predictably boring, but the real fun started at the end when the music they chose rose high enough above the fatuous voice over for me to identify it. The section of the song they used had no lyrics, but it was unmistakably Of Montreal’s A Sentence of Sorts in Kongsvinger. Either Comcast assumed no one would know this relatively obscure song, or they didn’t dig to deep into the Of Montreal catalog before selecting it.

Here are some samples before I get to the specific track they chose. My favorite four album titles from their nine LP discography are: The Gay Parade, Coquelicot Asleep in the Poppies: A Variety of Whimsical Verse, Satanic Panic in the Attic, and my favorite album, Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer. The last of which happens to be the greatest breakup album of all time. If I had to choose their best lyric, I'd go with: I guess it would be nice to give my heart to a God/But which one, which one do I choose?/All the churches filled with losers, psycho or confused/I just want to hold the divine in mind/And forget. Searchingly plaintive and disparaging at the same time, no?

So, I’m not to sure that Of Montreal is exactly the sort of band that a corporation would have play at their annual Holiday Party. Maybe I’m wrong and their CEO is really into the indie music scene. If that’s the case, I will write another 2500 word letter defending these thieves.

A Sentence of Sorts is certainly not Of Montreal’s most risqué song. However, in the spirit of full disclosure, I will include all of the lyrics for you here.

I spent the winter on the verge of a total breakdown
While living in Norway
I felt the darkness of the black metal bands
But being such fawn of a man
I didn't burn down any old churches
Just slept way too much, just slept

My mind rejects the frequency
It's static craziness to me
Is it a solar fever?

The TV man is too loud
Our plane is sleeping on a cloud
You turn the dial, I'll try and smile
We've eaten plastic weather
This family sticks together
We will escape from the south to the west side

My mind rejects the frequency
It's just verbosity to me

I spent the winter with my nose buried in a book
While trying to restructure my character
Because it had become vile to its creator
And through many dreadful nights
I lay praying to a saint that nobody has heard of
And waiting for some high times to come again

My mind rejects the frequency
It's static craziness to me
Is it a solar fever?

The TV man is too loud
Our plane is sleeping on a cloud
You turn the dial, I'll try and smile
We've eaten plastic weather
This family sticks together
We will escape from the south to the west side

My mind rejects the frequency
It's just verbosity to me

Dirty old shadow, stay away
Don't play your games with me
I am older now, I see the way you operate
If you don't hurt me then you die

My mind rejects the frequency
It's static craziness to me
Is it a solar fever?

The TV man is too loud
Our plane is sleeping on a cloud
You turn the dial, I'll try and smile
We've eaten plastic weather
This family sticks together
We will escape from the south to the west side

My mind rejects the frequency
It's just verbosity to me

Okay, that probably wasn’t necessary. As you can see though, Comcast would not have picked this particular song if they had to use it in its entirety. Interestingly, when we last used Comcast, I was on the verge of a total breakdown while living in Louisiana.

Originally, I also planned to write about my favorite trend in commercials—what I call the Bob Stephenson trend—but this post became more about a band I love than the television. We will have to revisit commercial repetitiveness and the man who spoke Fight Club's best line. ”Of course it's company policy never to, imply ownership in the event of a dildo... always use the indefinite article a dildo, never your dildo.”

If It Was Good Enough For Dinosaurs

2009-01-14T06:19:00.002-06:00

This story makes me feel so manly. When you couple it with the other new scientific find in which it was discovered that early cavemen are thought to have cried at the end of You've Got Mail, I'm on a regular manliness roll.

A Slippery Slope

2009-01-12T15:25:00.003-06:00

Over the holidays, at “home” in Northern New Jersey, I found myself walking down the street in Montclair. It was Christmas Eve, and though the ground was white, the sky was gray. The freezing rain that fell chilled my bones. It pooled on the sidewalks, collecting on top of everything, including the ice and snow from a storm days before.

Just south of Valley road, I began to pick up speed. My feet skimmed the surface of the ice covered bricks that replaced the traditional sidewalk in this up-and-coming section of town. I found myself starting to lose control, and remembered navigating the old, perpetually unplowed hill, that was my route to and from the bus stop as a child. My muscle memory told me that trying to stop would surely result in disaster. It also told me that speeding up, should the end of my makeshift ice rink not appear soon, would result in a brief hospital stay. While contemplating a quick dive to the right into a nearby snow bank, I spotted the end of my red brick luge, and decided to push forward, impending traction be damned. I narrowly made it to the end, heart racing, legs flailing like Fred Flintstone, walk-running in simultaneous slow motion and silent movie haste.

Back in the warmth that is the Barnes and Noble on Bethesda Avenue here in Maryland, it dawns on me that my trip down the icy sidewalk of Montclair is not dissimilar to my efforts to get my daughters to sleep through the night. Once you start down a certain path, changing directions is nearly impossible, and stopping will surely result in similar disaster. Can you wind up in the hospital from lack of sleep?

If you will recall, I declared victory over Tilda’s sleep patterns nearly four weeks ago. Since then, we have taken that trip to New Jersey for Christmas, dealt with a head cold, and held our noses through a particularly malodorous stomach bug. These events all conspired to undo my hard work. And like the first step onto those glaring bricks, feeding Matilda in the middle of the night sent me sliding down the path to sleep deprivation.

Since our return to Chevy Chase, and that first bottle, this is exactly how my nighttime life has played out. That first time, I fed Tilda around four in the morning, because her nose was clogged. Then I fed her at one in the morning, because her diarrhea had breached her size two Pampers. The next thing I knew, she was up at the ungodly, and decidedly infantile hours, of ten, one, and four. Five months down the drain in two short weeks of bad breaks.

I have always maintained that a parent doesn’t decide to sleep train—in any capacity—until they are at the end of their rope. Last night I reached that frayed end, and let my darling, chubby cheeked, pink skinned little girl cry herself to sleep. She pulled off the feat at bedtime, but failed at ten, crying for over an hour until I fed her. At four, she cried for an amount of time between five minutes and forty-five minutes—I passed out on the couch—and slept until nine o’clock this morning.

Within that topsy-turvy night, there were victories and defeats. At this point I know better then to call it one way or another. You never know when the next virus or cold will spring up. Or, for that matter, when Tilda will decide she likes to sleep with no intervention at all. When it comes to sleep in our house, it has always been a bit of a crapshoot, and it has always been a slippery slope.

A Public Service Announcement from Unfinished Dad

2009-01-08T08:39:00.010-06:00

Dear Readers,

As someone who suffers from a sort of forced sleep deprivation, I thought it important to detail for you the signs to be weary of should you suspect you are sapped of this most precious resource.

1. If you fall asleep on your stomach and your beard fills with drool, thusly soaking your pillow...your are tired.

2. If you fall asleep on your stomach and your beard fills with drool, thusly soaking your pillow and you don't even bother to shift positions...your are beat.

3. If you fall asleep on your stomach and your beard fills with drool, thusly soaking your pillow, and your arm falls asleep because it is wedged awkwardly underneath you...you are tuckered out.

4. If you fall asleep on your stomach and your beard fills with drool, thusly soaking your pillow, and your arm falls asleep because it is wedged awkwardly beneath you, and you still don't shift positions despite the immediate, real possibility of losing a limb...you are exhausted.

5. If you fall asleep on your stomach and your beard fills with drool, thusly soaking your pillow, and your arm falls asleep because it is wedged awkwardly beneath you, and when you finally shift positions due to the immediate, real possibility of losing a limb, your arm isn't just asleep, but dead, and when you lift that arm above your head to see if the feeling will miraculously comeback, only to find that is just sort of folds at the elbow, hitting you in the face like a wet steak...you have kids.

Hope this helps,

Unfinished Dad

2009-01-07T02:41:00.002-06:00

It is 3:40 in the morning, and for the first time tonight, neither of my two children are crying. I cannot reiterate for you again how this makes me feel. I am choosing not to go to sleep so that I can spite my body and seal the deal on this being the worst night ever.

A Normal Part of Growing Up?

2009-01-05T12:28:00.002-06:00

There are certain subtle clues that your child is entering the terrible twos. They may begin to resist your utterance of the word no. Or, they can get frustrated easily when attempting to stack blocks. Maybe your child became a picky eater when they entered this infamous developmental stage, forgoing fruits and vegetables for crackers and cookies. When these harbingers of true toddlerhood show themselves, your parenting skills are finally put to the test.

Other times, the evidence of your child’s burgeoning temper is placed directly on your lap. In my case, this happened earlier today at the doctor’s office when the nurse politely stapled Annie’s physical stats to a leaflet entitled Temper Tantrums: A Normal Part of Growing Up. If you asked her, she would tell you that it had nothing to do with Annie's being sprawled out on the floor naked and crying. She would, I’m sure, reassure you that they give “The Tantrum pamphlet” to all parents of 18 month olds.

Many of the tips that the pamphlet contained are tactics I use at home, not always to the best results. Encourage your child to use words. Avoid situations that will frustrate your child. Be prepared with healthy snacks when your child gets hungry. Over my child’s normal part of growing up, I posed a few questions that were inaudible amidst the din. What happens when the only word your child utters is no? How do you avoid frustrating situations when that includes, well, all situations? Also ma’am, are snickerdoodles considered healthy snacks? Sadly my inquiries went unanswered.

Overall, Annie was doing great physically. Her stats were as follows: Height 31.25 inches, Weight 24 pounds, 13 ounces, Head Circumference, 18.6 inches. The head stands out above the rest. Is that not huge? It must be all brains. Or, if not brains, then certainly spirit. When she puts her mind to it, that girl can wail.

The Mysterious Production of Eggs

2008-12-31T22:05:00.003-06:00

Remember when I used to post five songs for you to listen to every week? I don't think I want to take that on again, it is time consuming and expensive, but every now and then something comes along that has to be shared. This is Andrew Bird. Enjoy.

The Greatest Civilization Ever

2008-12-30T12:55:00.004-06:00

Dear Japan,

My family and I will be moving to you immediately. Please have a Matsushita toilet ready for me upon my arrival.

Joe

PS-by the time we arrive, both of my now diapered children will be full fledged Pants Men

Whatever

2008-12-29T21:48:00.003-06:00

There’s a lot of talk around here about how to get a baby to sleep longer. It seems every other month I’m writing about STW this or STW that. No one ever talks about how to wake a baby. From what I can gather in speaking to other parents, getting your kids to sleep through the night is no more difficult than say, doing the dishes, or brushing your hair. Everyone else’s little babies go to sleep both willingly and often. Since mine don’t do this, I thought we might talk about the little understood art of baby waking.

This was going to be today's post. Then, true to form, Annie woke up before it got going. It was to be filled with witty, ironic ways of waking children. Such favorites as napping, blogging, cleaning and watching re-runs of Top Gear would have made appearances. I was to come back to this post tonight, but my wife got home late from work. So, Tilda went to bed at 7:00, then Annie went to bed at 8:00 in order to spend some QT with her mother. By the time I was done cleaning up after dinner I realized that the can of formula I had would not make it through the night. The time was 10:21 and the night was already over. I got back from Giant at 10:47. A quick switch of the laundry. A lickity-split setting of the coffee pot...And Good Night.

Home Sweet Home

2008-12-28T21:38:00.002-06:00

There's nothing quite like knowing that your children are sleeping soundly and safely in their own beds. We are back in Chevy Chase tonight. This house becomes more and more our home every time we step through its weathered, blue door. Our trip to New Jersey was much less stressful than its Thanksgiving predecessor, mostly because my darling Annabelle has finally realized that when exhausted and screaming, with tears pooling under your eyes, the best bet is to take a little cat nap. Matilda of course slept the whole way, waking up every now and then to give us a wide-mouthed smile. I do, truly, have a beautiful family.

Merry Christmas

2008-12-25T19:06:00.003-06:00

From mine to yours.

New Jersey Christmas

2008-12-23T18:49:00.004-06:00

We left Chevy Chase this morning in that hour between when footfalls behind you make your heart skip a beat and when you realize those same steps are just your neighbor taking out the garbage. Everything is different when you are outside two hours before dawn. I was loading the car when Annie's learning puppy started singing one of her Broadway style tunes and I nearly found myself using one of the many diapers I happened to have handy.

It looks like we got out just in time too. I'm not sure I have ever seen anything like this. The folks caught in this impromptu river must be counting their lucky stars tonight.

The trip back today was a good one for a couple of reasons, most notably that it didn't take seven hours. But also because neither my wife nor I found ourselves crammed into the 11 inch space that passes for the back seat of our Mazda 3. Annie kept her cool for most of the four hour trip (five if you include the snack/diaper break) and we water main surfed into town feeling good about a road trip for the first time in months.

It almost fits...

2008-12-19T17:01:00.003-06:00

Long day of shopping and errands. I leave you for the weekend with Annie in her Dad's favorite vest. Some might even call it Super.

Around the Block

2008-12-18T13:24:00.002-06:00

Confession Alert: Warning, if you are a member of the local police department, social services, or my family, please stop reading and visit Unfinished Dad again on Friday, December 19th 2008. Thank you.

Last night when I returned home from my five hour Wednesday reprieve, I forgot to move my car so that our babysitter could pull out of the driveway. She had made it all the way down our sloping front lawn before I remembered that I was blocking her in. I didn’t think it was fair to have her come back into the house, take her coat off, and watch the beasts for another five minutes while I jockeyed our cars.

Instead, I did what any sensible parent would do. I bundled up Annie and carried her out to the car so that she could sit with me while I backed out of the driveway. She gets a great kick out of sitting on my lap and trying to honk the horn, so the trip would also curtail the performance of her daily six o’clock freak-out. We slowly pulled out of the driveway to give the babysitter enough room to back out and then I saw multiple sets of headlights crest our little hill. Consequently, I had to pull about fifty feet down the street to let them all pass.

Once I was out there though, I realized that because I live on a one way street, I would have to back all the way up to our driveway. It was at this point that I weighed my options. One: Drive backwards up a hill, in the dark, with a baby on my lap. Two: Drive around the block, in the dark, with a baby on my lap. I chose option two, even though while completing option two, I continuously thought about both the death of my beloved Annabelle and the maximum prison sentence for child endangerment.

Three right turns, two minutes, and three attempts to hide my secret from walking neighbors later, and we were home. My heart was racing at my utter stupidity. I truly never considered option three: stop car, put baby in car seat utilizing high tech, five point safety harness, and continue around block. Once safely inside, I was soon rationalizing my actions as something parents back in the day did all the time. You know, before the curtailing of regular beatings and lead paint. Sadly, I was not to be convinced.

Hopefully, some of you readers out there asked yourselves the only relevant question regarding my idiocy and this post. Where was Tilda this whole time? Uh, sitting in her swing in the house, in front of our very see through, glass front door.

Chevy Chase

2008-12-17T15:28:00.005-06:00

We moved to the haven that is Chevy Chase six weeks ago, and since then most of the space here has been taken up by the ladies of the house. It dawns on me that many of you may not know why the town we now live in was named after the man who portrayed Clark W. Griswold and the Landshark to such fame in the 70’s and 80’s. Truth be told, despite knowing that our town came first, I wasn’t sure if the actor was born here or not. I will tell you more about the connection between the two later. For now, let’s delve a bit further into Chevy Chase, the municipality. Or, as I like to call it, Chevauchee Chace.

I believe the linked document will pretty much explain it all to you. However, if I must, I will continue on afterwards with more facts, history, and miscellany. Oh, and just so you know, I wouldn’t normally call in a consulting arborist, but the one that we keep on staff has been out on disability since we moved.

Okay, let’s move on, sort of. Chevy Chase takes its trees very seriously. Our yard would actually be a great one for the arborist to come see. Every neighbor I have met has asked if I would continue the policy of allowing them to come and suburban forage our fig tree. I haven’t said yes or no yet, because I’m told it’s a rare yellow fig tree, and that the fruit it bares are quite tasty. I may want them all to myself. We also have a Catalpa tree, or what I think is a Catalpa tree, and two of the most magnificent spruce trees that you have ever seen.

Now we can actually move on. Chevy Chase was formed in the 1890’s and derives its name from—Bum Ba Da Dah—its “historic associations to a 1388 battle between Lord Percy of England and Earl Douglas of Scotland. At issue in this "chevauchee" (a Scottish word describing a border raid) were hunting grounds or a "chace" in the Cheviot Hills of Northumberland and Otterburn.” Of course.

Mystery solved. Well, half the mystery solved. What of this man who derived his name from our town? It turns out that Cornelius Crane Chase, the son of prominent New Yorkers, was nicknamed “Chevy” by is grandmother who got the name from the medieval English Ballad of Chevy Chase. Naturally, the ballad drew its name from the same battle in the Cheviot Hills that bestowed its noble name on the residents of our Maryland town.

One last note on Chevy Chase. We have the greatest freaking listserv ever created. Since our arrival, we have used it to obtain a free futon—a clean, free futon—freecycle our refurbished vacuum and four bags of rotting mulch, and to donate a kidney. We could have anyway…if you go through the trouble of registering, check out post number 63240. Now that is an active community.

Many thanks to Chevy Chase dot Org and the Cheviot Hills of Northumberland and Otterburn for information on this post.
Many, many thanks to the person who invented the word freecycle. It’s not exactly a term they used in Louisiana, so I really like to use it whenever possible.

Montgomery County

2008-12-16T19:16:00.004-06:00

I'm not much of an organizer, or a participator for that matter. Now that I have children, this is something that I'm trying to change. I'm comfortable being alone, but they should make up their own minds about such things. So far I have been quite successful in the endeavor, as Annie makes friends wherever she goes. If you are the lucky recipient of a random hug on a playground in New Jersey or Maryland, then you know what I'm talking about.

Montgomery County, our new home, threatens to take me from a person who was involved in nothing, to someone you'd see around town toting his kids and his latte, organizing play dates, or getting playgrounds built, or, I don't know, running for town council.

Today I took the kids to the Leland Community Center for an "open gym" from 10:30 to 12:00. They do this twice a week and get inundated with about 50 hopped up children, who run and scream and thankfully exhaust themselves for an hour and a half. Sidenote: Annie napped for three hours later in the day. Bonus. While I was there, I found out that my $25 annual fee gets me the playtime and use of all of the other Montgomery County facilities. There are too many to list here, but one of the Dad's that was there plays basketball twice a week at one of five different gyms in the area. In New Jersey I used to drive 40 minutes to play basketball. This fat Dad is going to play some ball tomorrow night. That sounds like a post all by itself. If I live to tell about it, that is.

You may have noticed that I put the words "open gym" in quotes. I was expecting a small group of moms and their kids, docilely playing on wooden slides, climbing through multicolored tunnels. Um, no. We walked in to a literal open basketball gym buzzing and swarming with children, from infants to five year olds. For this throng of children there were two trampolines, a gym mat, a donut thingy to sit in, a slide, and about 20 basketballs. It was a freaking free-for-all. I was happy that Annie is not only social, but kind of, ah, aggressive? She didn't take any crap from anyone. Not even the boy who kept taunting her with his toy fighter jets and yelling at her when she had the nerve to reach for them. Little creep. All in all it was a great trip. You do have to factor in the nap you know.

Let's get back to the new, more sociable, Unfinished Dad. Our new home just seems to be in this vortex of civic pride. We know most of our neighbors, who know the ones we don't know. We've been invited to crafting parties for the kids. Yes, I went, and met all the other moms. We dished recipes with a smattering of town gossip. Chevy Chase/Bethesda seems to be filled with people who care, a lot. Let's not forget that we had our lawn raked by a group of local business owners, who happen to be a 11 year old girls. Provided that all of this doing doesn't wear on me, I think that this will be a perfect environment for the girls to grow up in. Keep your eyes peeled for Annie and Tilda's House Cleaning Service: We Wear the Bibs, So You Don't Have To.

VICTORY! cont'd

2008-12-15T20:29:00.004-06:00

Okay, let's jump right into the meat of this. Unbelievably, Tilda was a harder nut to crack than Annie was as far as sleep is concerned. By the time we reached our fourth night, Annie gave up and slept for twelve hours. Tilda on the other hand, cried for over an hour on Saturday night and I still had to feed her. Consequently, before we put her down last night I was a little nervous.

These weren't the same old nerves about knowing that I would be up four times in a night. These were the nerves that come from knowing that you are going to have to listen to your daughter cry for, what, and hour and ten minutes? That is a stupid number. There is no way I was prepared to go over an hour. Instead, my plan was to continually give her a pacifier and a kiss until she fell asleep--no matter how long it took.

Instead, when I heard a cry at 6:08 it was Annie and not Tilda. Life isn't perfect, I guess. Everything worked out well thought, because there aren't many things I enjoy more than a little sleep time with my baby. Pretty soon, Annie will be in bed with us, and I will be sneaking upstairs to steal some Z's with her sister.

NB: I should have been much more excited about this post. After all, my new life (fingers firmly crossed) has begun. However, tonight was budget night, blech, and I'm on a post money talk low.

VICTORY!

2008-12-15T07:06:00.001-06:00

I don't have time to dish all the details just yet--I am sitting with two completely rested babies--but just know that this Dad had his first full night of sleep since July 29th 2008.

STW 2008 Night 4

2008-12-12T19:03:00.011-06:00

Last weekend, my wife and I were driving home from a friend’s house in Northern Virginia, simultaneously listening to the kids scream and NPR. I’m not usually much for their news coverage, but I love some of their “slice of life” style programming. I get such a kick out of how every presenter, man or woman, speaks in the same monotone, slightly interested, slightly disinterested voice. It's very comforting. On this night we were enjoying a program about psychology and health, the name of which I can’t recall. In traditional “Pete’s Schweddy Balls” voices we were treated to a fascinating story about SIDS.

It seems that in the 1920’s doctors thought they had solved a new medical mystery that was afflicting infants in the United States. Children under six months old were mysteriously dying and no one could figure out why. Once the death toll reached into the thousands, the autopsy results started coming in from around the country. Doctors noticed one common theme in all of the infants. They had unusually large thalamus glands.

They concluded that the large thalamus glands were pressing on the infants tracheas if they rolled over in a certain manner. At the time, radiation treatment was just discovered, and they decided that as a precautionary measure, parents should start radiating, and thus reducing, their children’s thalamus glands. Of course, a generation later, with a whole subset of the population stricken with cancer, their folly was discovered. SIDS wasn’t cured and thousands more were essentially killed.

You see, back in the early part of last century, the search was on by hospitals for cadavers to perform autopsies on. There was a shortage of usable bodies for this burgeoning science, so the field of grave robbing was born. The practice was soon rampant and the wealthy started to protect their recently deceased with guards and fences. Naturally, the grave robbers had to turn to more off the beaten path—some would say extremely poor—cemeteries for their corpses. There was no money to protect these graveyards and the hospitals were soon back up to speed in the dead body department.

The link between all of these cadavers and the new study concerning sudden infant death lay in the financial well being of the bodies being studied. Apparently, the more stressed a person is, the more ragged their thalamus gland becomes. It stands to reason that the poorer a person is, the more they scramble and fight to stay afloat, worried about their job, and their family. The more stress they carry around with them, the more they also carry around the physiological symptoms that come with it. As it turns out, doctors were only studying abnormally small—overworked—thalamus glands.

Sadly, when they autopsied the infants, they discovered abnormally large—in actuality normal—thalamus glands. There were no healthy bodies to study; therefore doctors never knew what a normal body looked like. They made the natural leap, and sought a way to combat a perceived problem. Their error now seems so obvious. The question is what are we studying and “healing” today, which down the line new science will reveal to be archaic and ultimately uneducated.

Okay, as you have seen before, I like long segues. This story was well timed in that it coincides with Sleep Training Week 2008, and the fears that come with it. As I type this, I listen to Tilda screaming, no doubt while lying on her belly. Soon she will pass out and I will be left to wonder about SIDS, and life, and life without her. Everything is just a little fucked up at night. Your senses are wonky. Your imagination runs wild. SIDS isn’t a monster under the bed, but the rationalization of it works just the same. I know the odds are that Tilda will be fine; that doesn’t let the mind rest any easier on the pillow.

Last night, when Tilda finally fell asleep after 45 minutes of crying and a well timed replacing of her pacifier by me, she was out until 5 A.M. Sweet. A full night’s sleep. Oh no, that’s right, I was up on the couch until 12:45 waiting for my wife to come home from her firm’s annual Holiday Party and then Annie woke up at 2:30. I didn’t want her to wake up Tilda, so I indulged her with a nice long hug, and boom, full night’s sleep up in smoke.

STW 2008 Night 3

2008-12-11T13:09:00.005-06:00

Three days into Sleep Training Week 2008, and here I sit in my pajamas at 2:10 PM. Last night was both successful and unsuccessful. Matilda went down to sleep more calmly than usual and didn't really make a sound until just after midnight. This is a longer first stretch than she has had of late, and with it came an old fear. You get very used to hearing your children. People often talk about the theory that when they are silent they are getting in the most trouble. I don't have too much experience with this yet, but I can tell you that when your children don't make a sound at night, you always think the worst.

One of the very strange effects of sleep training with Annie was that I began to miss spending the very personal time with her that was our middle of the night feedings. I'm determined not to get caught up in this with Tilda. However, last night when she woke up just an hour into my beauty rest, I was something less than distraught about going up to see her. She was, naturally, alive and well, and eagerly awaiting my arrival. Not to worry, I was completely distraught at 5 O'clock when I had to get up again.

I'm not sure if there were and tangible victories in sleep training last night. We will see tonight if the quiet beginning was a fluke or a byproduct. So far I would say that the best part about STW 2008 is that Annie has finally gotten used to Tilda's crying and no longer wakes up every time her sister does.

Tonight we move to 30 minutes--25 seems pointless--an interval that really started to get results with Annie. I'm torn about this. My wife has her holiday party at the Law Firm and is sure to be home quite late. Consequently, I will most likely deal with the first 30 minute stretch all by my lonesome. I may need a beer.

I have an added bonus for you today. Anyone who can properly guess what the below picture depicts gets a special prize from the Unfinished Dad vault. I'll give you a hint, the prize does involve time with children and does not involve time with me.

STW 2008 Night 2

2008-12-10T13:41:00.005-06:00

If you ask my wife, I am the more tolerant, possibly heartless, member of our parenting team. Unlike her, I am able to listen to one, and sometimes two, children cry at the same time. When we did STW 2007 with Annie, I had to send her out of the house while I listened to Annie wail. Part of this is my training, I have to listen to a lot more crying than she does at work, and part of it is my teeming maleness.

In my experience, there seems to be a physiological reaction that many women experience when children cry. Part of it is linked to breast feeding and the physical need for mother and child to connect. However, the phenomena seems to cover all ages. Annie is beyond what most would consider breast feeding age and her crying can still sends shivers down my wife's spine.

Consequently, sleep training Tilda should be easier the second time around, no? Well, last night we upped the ante to 15 minutes and I was kind of a mess. At 11 O'clock we listened simultaneously to The Hills and Matilda's desperation--ironically they sounded one and the same--and when I finally went up to feed her I was crying. What a mush I have become. I found myself kissing Tilda's head over and over again until she fell asleep.

At 2 O'clock we went through the same routine, only with my wife giving me a mid-nite break and handling the duties. I was thankful for the respite, but no less distraught while laying there in bed listening. At this point we were five feedings into STW 2008 with no measurable results. We were both taking things worse than Tilda I think.

My turn in the rotation would be coming up soon enough. I dosed off and awaited my fate. At 5 O'clock I heard her stir and was soon whimpering--Tilda was that is. However, she never fully woke up. She peeped now and then for the next two hours and woke for the day just before 7 O'clock. Our first measurable success had occurred. Never before had Matilda woke up and gone back to sleep without either of us giving her a pacifier, holding her, or feeding her. Tonight is a new night, we up the stakes to 20 minutes, but I go into it with new hope. Also, I'm not sure if you caught it, but technically I got a full night of sleep out of the deal. That definitely sounds like success.

Editor's Note: If you don't know what The Hills is, and consequently don't know the joy of hating Spencer, the provided link should get you up to speed.

STW 2008

2008-12-09T09:47:00.005-06:00

Gather round kiddies and bring your sleep deprived parents with you. Collect your binkies, your pacies, your bobs, and your soon to be water logged little thumbs. It's time for Sleep Training Week 2008: The Tilda Edition.

Tilda has been breaking out of her swaddles lately. Thanks to her new found strength, she now has to sleep with her arms unfettered. This is a huge adjustment, and she is having a lot of trouble relaxing, as her arms still bust out the old Moro reflex from time to time. Too bad evolution isn't perfect and this reflex doesn't disappear before babies shed their swaddling cocoons.

With Tilda's arms out, she has more trouble getting to sleep, but once down, she is much more comfortable. Like her sister before her, she has already taken to sleeping on her belly. This is scary, yes. However, when babies roll over on their own, the only alternative is to sit bedside and keep flipping them back over. That would be stupid. If Tilda wants the comfort of having her chubby little cheeks pressed into the mattress then so be it. That's why we spent the big bucks on an organic mattress made by the Amish. Hmm. Should I be worried that the previous company's website is no longer selling these mattresses? Note to self: look into this.

Let's get down to the meat of this post. Last night was night number one of STW 2008. We let Tilda cry for 10 minutes before going in to feed her at 11 O'clock and then again at 4 O'clock. Tonight we up that time to 15 minutes, then 20 tomorrow, 25 on Thursday and so on. When we did this with Annie, she was sleeping through the night by the fourth day. She of course has had well chronicled regressions, but I can say pretty comfortably that she is a good, okay mediocre, sleeper. Here's to Tilda and the hope that by the weekend this Dad is sleeping through night right along with her.

Antiques Are Sometimes Better Admired Than Used

2008-12-08T08:00:00.003-06:00

We paid a visit to Annie and Matilda's great great Grandmother's yesterday and had a nice family dinner that I didn't have to cook. We didn't bring a high chair with us, so I assumed that Annie would be sitting with me while we ate. Then my wife's Aunt Katy broke out her antique high chair/stroller/torture device. The chair has been in the family for forty years and is almost certainly older than that. I found some pictures of similar chairs from the early 1900's. One note: this high chair was cool to look at, but was dangerously unstable. I spent the whole meal with one hand balancing the chair and the other feeding mac and cheese to Annie.

Every Girl Needs a Good Pair of Boots or So I'm Told

2008-12-05T15:00:00.004-06:00

Annie got a new pair of rain boots last week and she never wants to take them off. She says they go with everything, even pajamas. The kind with tags that is.

Is Your Child Wearing Their Tag On Their Back?

2008-12-04T19:51:00.008-06:00

Annie woke up today with a disturbing rash on her upper back. Fortunately for us, the culprit has been on our radar for a while now, so we knew exactly what caused it. She has a few pairs of Carter's tagless pajamas and said company has been in the news lately for the chemicals they used in their Fall 2007 product line. Despite the reports, we never thought that this would happen to us. She has been wearing all three pairs for over a month now. The pajamas we own were purchased at Costco last spring, so it is certainly possible that they are from last Fall's line, however there are reports of rashes from multiple seasons of Carter's clothing.

The rash itself doesn't seem to bother her--though it looks scary--and everything I have read says that it will clear up in a few days. This description, on the other hand, is a bit disturbing, "It was bright red. It was oozing, weeping. It was just bad. I started to pull and the skin came off with his pajamas."

The main issue that I have with this is that tagless clothes don't seem to be made for the reason that we all might think. Comfort is the clothing manufacturer's stated rationale. However, from everything I read, cost is the only factor in the switch. Tags cost money, or maybe the extra stitches needed from a child in a Chinese factory cost money.

Now, I'm not a very reactionary parent, and I don't plan on suing Carter's, but what the Hell? Because of a children's clothing company's decision, my daughter has a disgusting red rash on her back. If her skin had peeled off with her clothes I may have thrown a bit of a fit. I certainly would have written a nice long letter and demanded my money back for the skin melting items I purchased. Well, that Grandma Liz purchased. No matter, the point remains the same.

TV, Dusty Corners, and a Bloody Big Toe

2008-12-03T11:09:00.005-06:00

I’m a true stay-at-home-dad again, and I’m trying to get back in my groove. Between two children, house cleaning, cooking, and writing, the days have been a little full. So what did I do today? I added Gymboree for Tilda to the list of things to do. Annie benefited both physically and socially from our weekly Gymboree dates and the guilt I feel over Tilda’s developmental learning curve was just too much to bear. The added bonus for Tilda is that today is a babysitter day and she gets me all to herself. She really deserves this. Granted, I love—I mean really love—to be alone, but she has never had the opportunity to experience the super stay-at-home-dad that I can be.

I know there are other parents at home with multiple children, so I have some questions for them. One, how do you keep your houses clean? My house is just getting by, what with the dog hair in the corners and the dishes in the sink. So how is it, exactly, that you aren’t embarrassed to have friends over? Two, how much do you look forward to your night on the couch with the Television? I know that it isn’t cool or progressive to love TV anymore, but in the tradition of Dolores Price, I worship at the altar of our television. I’m just too tired to pretend that I don’t. Take last night for instance. When I was making dinner and baby juggling, I was comforted by the idea that once bedtime was over I would be pacified by the stellar Tuesday night triple of House, Fringe, and Eli Stone. No matter what, they would be there for me and I could vegetate for a little while. Oh, and don’t even get me started on Thursday nights. I live for Grey’s Anatomy—I’m kidding, this life hasn’t softened me that much. But the thought of Alec Baldwin’s wry quips and a little Jim and Pam romance is enough to make me swoon.

I do have a some serious business today. Annie got her first real boo boo. She dropped a toy truck on her toe and bled enough to warrant a Band-Aid. I don’t count the time she got her black eye because she couldn’t see it. In the mind of a toddler that means it doesn’t exist. This little cut was very real, I’m sure she’ll be pointing to it all week. The black eye, fortunately, was forgotten about in an hour.

Coming Soon to Theater Near You

2008-12-02T07:19:00.002-06:00

The actors in this one truly were spoiled brats. You should have seen their catering bill. And forget about their entourage. In the end though, their collective genius really came through. Many thanks to my wife for the most of the shooting and all of the editing.

Stay at Home Dad Part Two

2008-12-01T06:37:00.003-06:00

A new chapter in my life begins today. My wife is blow drying her hair right now for the first time in four months. You know what comes next? She goes back to work. If she will pardon my bluntness--things may finally go back to normal. There is a saying out there about too many cooks in the kitchen. In this man's opinion, it should be restated as too many parents in the household.

I like to make decisions regarding the day-to-day activities of our family without any outside help. This probably sounds selfish or overbearing, nevertheless it's true. So, today I get to start making the decisions about what we all do again. The first thing on our agenda will be to make a lunch date downtown with my wife. I'm going to miss her so much. I'm nervous to do this alone, and the idea of a day without her opinions and input and love sounds terrible.

I'll Spare You the Obvious Title

2008-11-18T20:15:00.003-06:00

Man I love this kid. Every day she grows into herself more and more. She is so happy and easygoing and fat. I love fat babies.

The house is almost done, really. We had our circa 1989 dishwasher fixed--amazingly--yesterday and now we take aim on the sad looking upstairs hallway, the basement with no door, and lastly, the sun room/hot tub area. I know, sweet. Following these improvements, I will try and tackle a description of all that we accomplished and maybe a few snippets about this ritzy town that we call home.

To Tide You Over...

2008-11-17T20:33:00.003-06:00

...until I have time to write. Can you believe how big she is getting? I mean, the exersaucer, for christ's sake?

Wednesday is the new Tuesday

2008-11-12T19:44:00.003-06:00

Okay, between the work around the house and the babies and RCN's less than stellar Internet connection, my plan to post yesterday went up in smoke. We have had a crazy first week here in Chevy Chase (did the actor get his name from us?) filled with more painting, some cleaning, and a little yard work. Fortunately our new neighborhood is chock full of wonderful, helpful, motivated children.

Five such children have started a local business called C.A.R.E.S. and they rake the lawns of lazy people on our street. They found an easy mark in me--two babies and a new house to play with--so I hired them to do the real dirty work around here. We also happen to have the largest lot on the block, so they really had their work cut out for them. Thank you Claire, Abby, Rachel, Emma and Suzannah, without your hard work I would have been the new neighbor with the messy yard.

Without further ado, here are some pictures of the outside of our new house (the inside isn't quite neat enough yet) with a smattering of babies and helpful neighbors.

Washington, DC

2008-11-07T19:35:00.002-06:00

Hello all. We have officially moved to the Washington, DC area (Chevy Chase, Maryland to be specific) so you may not hear from me again until next Tuesday. We are wrestling with numerous boxes and life in a house that is 82 years old. Next week I'll put up some pictures of the new place and your two favorite people in it. If you are lucky there will be pictures of Annie and Tilda too.

Too tired

2008-11-04T18:46:00.002-06:00

Okay, let’s get this out of the way early. I was too tired to vote. Take a second and deal with it and we can move on. I spent the weekend in our Nation’s capital painting many, many rooms in a house that hasn’t had any touch ups in a little over 80 years. To top it off, the traffic laden drive home took eight hours and I was greeted at the door with a crying baby. I finally fell asleep at 12:30 only to be awoken at 2:00, and then 5:00 and then at 7:00.

Like I said, I was too tired to vote. And you know what? I feel empowered. All of you out there have been casting your ballots (most of you for Obama from my extremely unofficial tally) and posting the importance of your actions on your Gmail away messages. One friend of mine greeted us all with the sentiment, “If you didn’t vote, kill yourself.” That pretty much sealed the deal on my attitude. I stopped caring about my role immediately.

I live in New Jersey and as I wrote a couple of weeks ago my vote counts about as much as a Democrat’s in Louisiana. So today I exercised my right not to vote. In many ways I made a much more difficult decision than you did. You have known who you were voting for since the summer. I deliberated long and hard and in the end realized I just don’t care or matter.

That being said, should we wake up tomorrow with Barack Obama on the outside looking in I will feel a little sick to my stomach. Millions of Americans will have chickened out and voted based solely on the color of a man’s skin. Say what you want about the strongish week that McCain had, but the truth will lie somewhere in our racist selves. I’m not sure that people lied when they were polled, but as we got closer to crunch time the fear may have started to set in; the fear of other, the fear of them. In the end, change is not something we need, it is something we are already experiencing. If we don’t elect Barack Obama we will simply delay the inevitable and then elect Hillary Clinton in 2012.

What Do You Get When You Put an Alligator and a Cow in a Stroller?

2008-10-31T20:29:00.005-05:00

Tonight we dressed up the kids and paraded them around the block so that we could get ourselves some candy. You'd be surprised how much chocolate a 16 month old can haul when she's blowing kisses and hugging strangers.

Dear Whole Milk

2008-10-30T19:41:00.003-05:00

Dear Whole Milk,

What happened to you? When I was growing up you were the only game in town. You dominated the mornings and you owned alone time with a sleeve of Chips Ahoy! We put you in cereal, and oatmeal, and chocolate milk and, well, in a glass, chugging you greedily down.

Then one day, an adult handed us some milk-like liquid in a green, or, god help us, blue carton that was supposed to be “good” for us. What about the calcium you had been strengthening our bones with for all those years, huh? That wasn’t good enough? What about the energy you gave us to run around like idiots and play half-field baseball until the sun faded over the outfield trees? Suddenly they were telling us that you were bad and that we would no longer see your warm red carton in the fridge anymore. Everyone was worried about us getting fat. How could that happen? We were out in the woods having rock fights all day and climbing trees. We would have had to drink a gallon of you a day to get fat.

Luckily my family fought pretty hard and at least had the courage to purchase your skinnier, but still respectable, 2% cousin. But so many kids were punished with 1% and in some cases—skim. Are you kidding? Skim? I wouldn’t be surprised if skim was just a cow’s pee, and watered down pee at that.

Well, I’m an adult now and I have two children, one of which is drinking you in her bottle before bedtime. So this morning, when I was pouring myself a bowl of Raisin Bran Crunch I saw you there, alone, in the refrigerator. I thought, well, maybe this once. No one will know. I have to admit, as I poured you over the flakes, and you stuck to them like cream, I was a little nervous. But then the spoon touched my tongue and your cold, silky way won me over. I greedily gobbled the rest of the bowl and poured another, wondering if the world knew what it was missing.

After a little research I have some answers for you. You have only 3.7% fat. Wait, I was just talking about drinking 2% as a kid. You aren’t even double that. Why didn’t you fight harder? You could have hired a lobbying firm and turned the tables on those skinny bastards. They would have sent some strapping Iowa farm boy to Capitol Hill and he would have used all of his wit and 6’5” frame to convince them that if he—a Princeton grad and star quarterback—could drink whole milk everyday, then why couldn’t the rest of us?

Sorry, back to the facts. I read here that “for many people, three eight-ounce glasses of whole milk provide more than the recommended limit of saturated fat for a whole day.” Huh? Who the hell drinks three glasses of milk a day? All I’m talking about is cereal, and pancakes, and a little glass with cookies. At least I don’t live in England where a national ban on you is in the works. Tell your cousin Nigel that he needs to move here, and fast.

So, on second thought, if someone out there drinks milk like the rest of us drink water, then he should probably stick the low fat stuff. But for those of us who simply want a respectable bowl of cereal, then I say go ahead. Treat yourself. You probably just had cream in your coffee and an inch of cream cheese on your everything bagel anyway.

Alright whole milk, I’ll see you soon. I’m lucky to have you back in my life and wanted to thank you for not leaving the milk game altogether. Oh, and don’t worry, these things are cyclical. They tried to tell us a while ago that Tab caused cancer. Who’s laughing now?

Warmly,

Joe

Pumpkin Picking

2008-10-28T06:44:00.005-05:00

We took our little pumpkins pumpkin picking yesterday. We went to Fairfield Farms right here in Fairfield, New Jersey. Who knew there was farmland tucked behind Route 80, just a few steps from every big box store in existence? I wonder if they ship any goods on horse cart to the local Target?

It's great when neither parent is working (I guess that goes without saying), because you can do all of the traditional weekend activities at 1 O'clock on a Monday. As you can see from the photos, we were the only ones in the patch. We left with two pumpkins that weighed more than Annie, so the pictures of the carving are sure to be a treat (sorry).

I Hate Cute

2008-10-24T14:11:00.002-05:00

11:30
3:00
6:30

Things were a little better last night. Tilda drank five ounces of formula at bedtime(the usual is four) and two scoops of cereal. This seemed to make her the desired degree of catatonic. Maybe tonight I'll go for six.

We took the girls to their Grandma's school today to show them off to all her friends and, as is her wont, Annie was a woman of the people. At one point she was walking down the hall through a sea of 12 year olds, slapping everybody five and blowing kisses. Maybe I'll write in Annabelle Poulas instead of Mike Bloomberg.

While we were there, one of the students was surprised to see us sitting in his classroom and upon being told that there was a cute little girl there he said, "I hate cute," and promptly took his seat. Even a baby has to work hard to win some of them over.

To Ferber or Not to Ferber, Or, To Use Some Variation That Eases Your Conscience

2008-10-23T11:21:00.003-05:00

10:30
12:00
2:00
4:00
5:45
8:45

A reader asked me yesterday, in response to my despair, whether or not we “Ferberized” our first child. My reaction upon reading this was disgust. The Ferber method is for callous parents who don’t love their children and for people who don’t want to take the time to let their children ease into their own comfortable sleep patterns. At least this is what my heart tells me about “Ferberization,” when in actuality this is exactly what we did with Annie.

As a rule I don’t read much about parenting and I never consulted anyone other than our pediatrician for sleep advice. Instead, once it was clear that not eating for twelve hours wouldn’t harm her, I did what I could to ensure that it happened. There were so many setbacks, both emotionally on my part and physically on hers, but eventually she started to go down happily and stay asleep all night. She is sixteen months old now and, despite her random setbacks, I would consider her a successful sleeper.

The Ferber Method is defined in part as “putting your baby in bed awake and leaving her (even if she cries) for gradually longer periods of time.” This holds true for the subsequent times she wakes up throughout the night. In a nutshell, this is exactly what we did for her. Does that mean I “Ferberized” Annie, and will I do the same for Tilda? Yes, only I didn’t know it at the time. I am still hung up on the title and the fact that the literature mentions the idea “that a baby who cries long and hard enough may vomit.” I can assure you of two things, one of them callous and the other reassuring. First, Annie definitely cried long and hard enough, sometimes for up to two hours. Second, she never vomited and if she had my sleep training would have ended right there.

Detractors of this sort of sleep training say that you can scar your children for life. I’m not entirely sure this is impossible, Annie is quite impressionable, but take a look at the list of times above. Eventually you realize that waking up this often can scar you for life. I will tell you briefly again about an anecdote involving a holistic birthing class that my wife and I took before Annie’s birth and a session we did involving “birth tigers.” When our class was asked what most scared us about childbirth, I followed up the responses of autism, death, and cesarean birth with, wait for it, sleep deprivation. At the time I was mocked, though now I suspect those other parents would feel that I was quite prescient in my fears.

So here I sit, a year later and our newest edition/addition is going through the same sleeping issues as our first. Why? Is it my fault? Who are these people with kids that spontaneously sleep through the night? Are they lying to me? Are they callous? Or deaf? If you have a child who sleeps through the night with little effort I encourage you to write in with very specific details. If you feel long winded on the subject email me and I will give you a guest spot in this space. In other words, HELP!

Ugh

2008-10-22T19:51:00.002-05:00

It occurs to me while sitting here on a Wednesday night in October that I’m pretty miserable. After showing early signs of being the fat lazy baby that I have always (since Annie’s sleepless nights) dreamed of, Matilda has now regressed to her worst sleep patterns yet. She is now twelve weeks old.

We put her to bed every night at seven, and half the time she falls asleep with little trouble, just a pat and a burp. Most nights she needs her pacifier put back in once or twice, but other than that she sleeps soundly until midnight…eleven…10:30. You can see where this is headed. From her highpoint of nine hours of consecutive sleep (about a month ago) she has come all the way back to her daytime schedule and is up three times a night. Fortunately, she goes back to sleep easily, which is unlike Annie, who needed at least a half hour of bouncing. However, try getting up at 11:00, 2:00 and 5:00 o’clock tonight and stay awake for 20 minutes each time. For good measure wake up at 12:00 (Annie likes to poop and freak out once a night) and then start your day at 7:00 A.M. Okay, now try this for the next week, or two, or a month. Fuck.

Really, that’s all I have to say right now. I’m tired. Annie is a handful during the day, and with bedtime changing from the only relaxing part of the day to the part to the day I dread most, I’m kind of bitter. I just want to move to DC and start Sleep Training Week 2008: Matilda’s Revenge.

Write In

2008-10-16T21:06:00.006-05:00

When you are standing in the voting booth on November 4th will you have known which lever/button/chad you are going to push for days/weeks/months? I grew up a Republican in Northern New Jersey and am married to a Democrat who went to NYU Law School. I know, life is interesting. As I've aged, my affiliation with the Republican party has faded almost as quickly as my affiliation with the Catholic Church. No, I'm not a Democrat, far from it (I think). It has taken me a while to get where I am, but I am now a staunch Independent. As such, I truly don't know who I'm going to vote for in two and half weeks.

On the surface Obama seems like the natural choice, but as this video shows, there's just something off about him. I'm kidding, of course. The only real issue I have with him is that he will almost certainly raise my (wife's) taxes. I tend not to believe his 250 thousand dollar a year spiel. McCain on the other hand is my kind of guy. If we weren't in a two party system he would almost certainly be a staunch Independent just like me. Alas, he is now a stooge for the Republican machine, so I think he's pretty much out of the picture based solely on his rather timely spinelessness.

So what is a smart, independently minded, handsome guy to do when he needs to make an informed choice? It's really quite an easy question when you think about it. He should vote for the candidate that has the guts to be himself. He should vote for the candidate who is socially liberal, fiscally conservative, and beholden to no one. He should vote for the candidate who unites races, religions, and lifestyles. He should write in Michael Bloomberg.

Don't waste your vote on a candidate your not sure of. Don't waste your time adhering to a broken system that creates candidates based solely on the money they can raise or the corporations they have in their pocket. McCain is right, Washington is broken, but it isn't "insiders" that need to be cleaned out, it's Republicans and Democrats. I can't believe in anyone who agrees with his party 100 percent of the time like our two candidates do. Where is the honesty and ability to think freely in that?

I didn't even know how disgusted with this whole process I was until I started writing, but now I want to vomit. Write in Michael Bloomberg or your own moral equivalent. Your vote doesn't matter if you live in New Jersey anyway, and for those of you in a swing state you can at least wake up in the morning knowing that you made an actual choice. You bucked the system and voted with your heart. Anyone can tell me if they prefer Peanut M&M's to Milk Chocolate M&M's, but can you tell me what your favorite candy in the whole world is? Figure out what that candy is (um, Butterfinger) and write that candy in.

As for me, my favorite candy is Mike Bloomberg and if he were here now he would be crushing Obama and McCain in these silly faux-debates. Forget that he is an economic genius and that with the state of our economy he would be a lock for President. Instead, think of a time in your life that you answered a difficult question with the confidence that you were answering it based on what is in your heart and not based on what a bulging, archaic group of homogeneous politicos told you was in your heart.

...Used to go to Camp Lake Winnipesaukee.

2008-10-14T18:52:00.004-05:00

Our family spent the weekend at Lake Winnipesaukee with my wife's paternal grandparents. They had yet to meet either baby due to our stint in Louisiana, so it was a much awaited trip with many tears at both hello and goodbye. Everything about the weekend went perfectly, because they love us very much (and vice versa), and because they did 50% of the child rearing work. They also have plenty of space and one of the most beautiful locations I have ever laid eyes on.

For those of you that haven't ever spent time in New Hampshire, or more specifically on Lake Winnipesaukee, you need to take a drive during the fall and see it for yourself. Of course if you have the means I highly recommend picking up a lake front house while you are there. It makes for quite the cozy weekend.

I'm a lame blogger

2008-10-09T21:25:00.001-05:00

I'm lame, but this (my favorite SNL clip of all time) isn't.

Some People Just Rock

2008-10-07T18:27:00.003-05:00

I like to think of myself as a pretty solid all around guy. After 32 years I am finally beginning to understand where my specific talents lie. I am great with people--if there were a job in which I just got to schmooze all day I would be CEO--and I am very good at rearing children. However, I am not very good at math and I am the worst salesman you will ever meet. Writing, well, we are taking a wait and see approach on that one.

My wife however, is good at everything she attempts. When we first met, I knew she was gifted in school and on the beer pong table, and as our relationship has progressed I have had the pleasure of witnessing her uncanny creativity first hand. She picked up knitting in hours, and was soon making clothes for Annie. She picked up quilting just as quickly, and now she makes quilts for friends who pop out babies.

Recently she entered a growth chart that she made for the girls in a contest on Ohdeedoh. You know what, she got second place. You can view her work here, and here. Oh, and I know I'm biased, but the winner used a pattern for her jumper, which was admittedly beautiful. Where are the originality scores?

So, kudos to you Kristen. May I one day have your ability to see something and follow through on it exactly as planned.

My Crew

2008-09-30T20:40:00.004-05:00

Crazy day, very little time to write, but a bit of time to snap photos of my little team. And if at first glance you thought it looked like Annie was pushing Matilda off the chair, well, you wouldn't, exactly, be wrong.

Love Over Argyle

2008-09-25T10:46:00.002-05:00

As you have no doubt noticed, I have not been writing as much as usual. Over the last two weeks you have been given cute pictures of my children (the real reason you come here I know) without having to put up with my ramblings. This isn’t right. The literary content has been lacking lately for three reasons. First, Matilda+Annabelle=Busy. Second, I was writing something for submission to a local magazine that I needed to finish before posting. And finally, my job opening boxes for “Hip local retailer” has taken up some time if not brain capacity.

The most important of these three reasons is that for the first time in my life I am pursuing the career that I have always wanted. This pursuit started with Unfinished Dad and now progresses with, strangely, the first written work I have ever submitted for public consumption/scrutiny. There is, of course, no guarantee that my piece will be accepted and if/when it isn’t, I will post it here. Its subject matter is one that I am passionate about—raising children without the influence of religion.

Today, I thought we could take a quick stroll down memory lane.

My first job after leaving college was at AT&T in Florham Park, New Jersey. I hated this job. My second job after college was at ADP in New York. I went door to door selling payroll—that just sounds shitty—to local business. I hated this job too. Needless to say, I quit both of these jobs ignominiously. Upon leaving the payroll job, I was strolling through my local mall and drowning my misery by purchasing unneeded argyle socks and sweater vests at JCrew. It was during this drowning process that my younger sister said, “Hey, don’t you love Jcrew?” “I do,” I said, and simultaneous light bulbs illuminated over both of our heads.

I first met my mentor and boss that day and we hit it off immediately. By the end of the week I was again gainfully employed, though poorly paid. If nothing else (and by nothing else I mean rent, car insurance, and food), I would at least be able to satisfy my clothing addiction. Plus, there were cute girls everywhere. My time at the store began with selling on the floor. I soon realized that standing on your feet for nine hours a day is much harder than people realize.

To break things up I would volunteer for any job that took me out of my selling role. I happily opened boxes in the stockroom (this is in my blood I guess) and organized the shoe closet. I even took on the role of that ridiculously annoying greeter you sometimes see at the front of the store. “Welcome to JCrew. Today, all of our rollnecks are $39.99 and socks, as always, are buy three get 20% off.” You may remember me, I invented the tandem greet. I would choose the most bubbly, least self conscious employee working and we would double team you with happiness and sale items as soon as you entered the store.

One such fellow greeter was a serious, but silly girl who liked to wave to people by opening and closing her hand, as if she were trying to pull some invisible object out of mid air. We would greet together for a few hours, then sell, and then greet some more. At the end of the day we would fold pile after pile of hastily strew sweaters while we lamented the meaninglessness of our jobs. It came to pass one night, while noticing her white ankle socks adorned with frogs sticking out their tongues, that I realized I liked my fellow greeter.

There were, however, a few problems. I was 25, she was 21. I worked at a low paying a monkey could do this kind of job, she was finishing college and on her way to one of the most prestigious law schools in the country. I snowboarded, she skied. I waved like a Homo sapien, she waved like, well, something else.

It came to pass that one day while greeting she casually asked me if I would teach her how to snowboard. I eagerly, but coolly said yes and we set a date. I’m still not sure if it was a “date” date, but it was an event out of our normal environment so we may as well assume that it was. If I had known then that perhaps our greatest difference would be our completely opposing levels of patience—mine infinite, hers something less so—I may have turned down her request. It was a day of stress and mild concussions, in which I think she wound up liking my best friend and not me.

I drove her home after dinner with my parents (what am I, stupid?) and we parted with an awkward hug. First girl met at new job, first girl lost at new job. We both went back to work and pretended that our day of winter sports was definitely not a “date.” Work was going well for me. I was well respected and actually kind of talented, and I started to think that I could make a career of it. She was getting ready to head back to school and thinking about friends and drinking and drinking.

The New Year had dawned. The college students would leave the store, trailing behind them all their skipped shifts and lockers filled with molding sandwiches. On January 11th 2002, I worked the closing shift. I couldn’t wait to get out of the store. When we all finished folding our respective tables of clothing we turned out the lights. On a hunch, and a belly full of nerves, I asked her if she wanted to grab a beer downstairs. I could sense her hesitation and I started to stammer something about how it was no big deal, and we could do it some other time, and how I was tired and had to work early, and how I had some sweaters to shave at home, and a nonexistent dog to walk. You get the point; I was sinking fast.

I decided to pull out my trump card. I took a chance and mentioned that my house had a beer pong table in the basement. Her eyes lit up like I had given her a 10 carat diamond, and the rest is history.

It’s almost noon and the babies are stirring. This is a story I enjoy telling and will continue for you next Tuesday. You will here all about the dawn of a new love and a transgression greater than any in the history of mankind, including the murder of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the inclusion of Spin The Black Circle on Pearl Jam’s greatest hits album, and the discontinuation of Rice Crispies Treats Cereal.

Next Stop, the Wild West

2008-09-21T10:22:00.004-05:00

Certain events require a breaking of the rules. I understand that posting outside of the new parameters (Tuesday/Thursday) of Unfinished Dad dilutes their effect, but Annie riding a Pony? C'mon.

Offensive? Yes. True? You betcha.

2008-09-18T20:51:00.004-05:00

The best laid plans...

2008-09-16T19:38:00.002-05:00

Well, the kids derailed my best intentions again. I should have a post ready for you tomorrow. In the meantime, I did keep one promise this week.

Independence+Concrete Steps=

2008-09-12T15:54:00.000-05:00

9-11-08

2008-09-11T20:57:00.002-05:00

First of all, I’m a total liar. I didn’t even consider getting out the camera over the last two days. I promise, that by Tuesday…

Anyway.

The local supermarket here in West Caldwell is about 200 yards from our house. In the summer months this allows us to live an old timey, French countryside sort of lifestyle in which we purchase our groceries daily instead of weekly. Given the distance most food travels, I have no idea if this makes our meals fresher, but it makes us feel fresher. Plus, these daily walks are chipping away at my now gargantuan belly. It’s getting to the point where, from my vantage point, my belt looks like the equator ceaselessly circling a very large, fleshy globe.

Having said that, getting to the store on foot is much more difficult than it should be. If you haven’t noticed, we don’t exactly live in a walking friendly country. Residents of most large cities can still walk to complete their essential errands. However, in a small, suburban town like West Caldwell, you are left feeling as if someone out there doesn’t want you to walk. The non-walking residents of our town definitely viewed us as something less than desirable. Instantly, our family of four was transformed into a disadvantaged clan of new immigrants from Moldova.

In the short distance we walked, huddled together and freezing, there were myriad obstacles out there trying to derail us. From dumpster after rancid dumpster that line the back of the ShopRite to the rocky path that made passing with our stroller impossible, we found ourselves turned back over and over again. Eventually we emerged from a garbage strewn alley onto Bloomfield Avenue facing five lanes of traffic without a crosswalk. This always makes me nervous, and if there were not a Dunkin Donuts on the other side I would never venture it with the kids. Sadly, this wound up being the easiest part of our trip.

With coffee fresh in hand, we decided to try crossing the street at the light instead. This seemed prudent given the sudden increase in traffic. I only had to press the “push here to cross” button 37 times before the light changed. I totally got it switch to green with my sticktoitiveness. I’m the guy who helps you out by getting the elevator doors to close by passionately hitting the glowing >< button too. You’re welcome.

Now we were on our way. The ShopRite was in sight and there was nothing left to stop us. Other than the lady on her cell phone who never looked right when exiting the parking lot. We had to dart behind her to avoid impact. Like the rest of America, she never even knew we were there.

The purchasing of groceries, as always, was wholly uneventful. That is, until checkout. For some reason the painted woman behind the register with the neon red bee-hive was giving us the stink eye the entire time. She hated our immigrant asses. All of her fears were validated when we told the bagger that we didn’t, in fact, need any bags. We had our stroller and our ubiquitous reusable bags, and asked to just have the goods handed over. The look we were given now went well beyond stink eye and bordered on outright hostility. She actually picked up the phone and haughtily asked her manager if we were allowed to leave without officially branded bags. Ridiculous. I wanted to punch her in her hive.

We were at last free to go and made our way back past the dumpsters, over the rocks, onto the gnarled metal walkway spanning the creek, past all of the cold, averted, bourgeois eyes, and finally to our home. We unloaded the groceries, smiled at our good fortune to live so close to the store and quickly enrolled Annie in a local ESL course.

Seconds

2008-09-09T09:25:00.011-05:00

How different life with a second baby is. Matilda is six weeks old today and already I wonder how it is that we second children out there don’t all have complexes. If Matilda could talk what she would say is, “Joe, listen, I know that Annie is cute and that she can say ‘dog’ and ‘dada’ and make the sign for ‘more’, but really, do you think you could give me a kiss once in a while? You are going to be one sorry dad when I decide to say ‘mama’ first, and instead of signing ‘more’ give you a certain sign that I’ve seen on those HBO shows that you let me watch. Oh, and by the way, the sign for more is done with the fingers extended, not balled up into hungry little, yogurt covered fists like Annie does.”

I guess she’s right. I used to joke with my wife about giving Annabelle at least a thousand kisses a day and I find myself doling out just a few for Tilda. I don’t think we parents of two do this as some form of favoritism. I think we do it because, one, we have no time for 41.66 kisses per hour, two, that we realize a six week old baby gets as much pleasure from being held as having your unshowered, three-day-old beard touch her face, and three, that we are literally, in every nuance of the word, exhausted.

This morning as I sat down to write, I thought I would peruse the pictures we have of Tilda so that I could post them within this entry. I realized that there aren’t many to choose from. The folder on our computer from July 2007 (Annie’s first full month) has 436 photos in it. The folder for August 2008 (Tilda’s first full month) has, shit, this is bad, 154 photos in it. Before you tell me that these really aren’t such disparate numbers, I should tell you that just about half of them are of Annie, and at least ten are of me with a helium balloon tied around my head.

Just ask my father-in-law Steve, another second child, about the photos of him around his mother’s house. He’ll tell you there are none, or maybe one. I'm sure a little chat with my sister-in-law Dani would give us a better result? It’s no use. I’m sitting in her living room now and the only pictures of her are either with her older sister (my wife), or are remakes of shots that her older sister was in years before. Uncanny how both of them look so pensive on their prom nights.

I need look no further than myself for the anecdotal evidence that we seconds are a forgotten lot, that is until we find our outgoing, some would say off-the-wall personalities. When I got married we decided to frame one photo of my wife and one of me for each year that we were alive. These frames would then be numbered 1 to 25 and serve as table markers for our guests. My wife’s family pulled out 25 candid photos from the thousands to choose from in no time flat. My family, um, couldn’t find the album that my photos were kept in. They swore to me that this album existed. However, without a chronological, pristinely kept form of organization to choose from, we went with a smattering of awkward shots and yearbook clippings we found in a dusty box tucked under the bed. In all seriousness, I swear that one of the pictures we used—for my fifth year I think—was of my brother sitting on a rock wall in our yard, chewing on a stick. How cute.

So today, I start a movement to honor our second children and let them know with a thousand kisses a day and the camera flashes to match, that we love them just as much as their predecessors. From now on, every post here at Unfinished Dad will have at least one new photo of Matilda. And don’t worry Annie, you can keep mugging for the camera too. If nothing else, we can pretend that you and your sister are the same person when this conversation comes up twenty years down the road.

Can you guess which photos are of Matilda and which are of Annabelle?

Well

2008-09-04T19:57:00.007-05:00

As it was planned, you were going to be blown away by my prose right now. I was working on a story about my temporary hometown of West Caldwell and a few of its shortcomings. Instead you get a tired Unfinished Dad who is going to take a few minutes to tell you how I feel.

I should have stopped there, but I like to get things out of my system. If nothing else, I will go to bed comfortable...and sleep for 2.5 hours.

Annie's butt is so red that changing her has become a combination Greco-Roman wrestling match/Beaches marathon. There's a lot of crying and tactical positioning. Diaper rash has always been something she's struggled with, but this week's bout has come to red, open sores. My little girl shakes with pain whenever you have to delicately wipe away one of her colossal poops. If you don't have children you don't yet know what it is like to see someone you love so much in pain. Trust me. You love your husband or wife, but something different clicks open in your mind when have a child. You may offend your spouse by telling them this, don't worry they are thinking the same thing. The icing on Annie's butt rash cake is the fever she is running. This is most likely from all of the teeth she is sprouting. She's hurting.

Matilda, and her allergy to cows, is doing fine. Somehow though, I forgot that babies need to be held most of the day. When you have another child who is struggling this really wears you out. So while she is coping I find myself wishing I could set her down. When I'm standing I wear her in one of the 33 different slings/pouches that we own. However, when I sit down she struggles to get free. That kid has a strong inner gyroscope I guess.

The bottom line is that I have the pre bedtime blues. I used to get this way when Annie was a month old too. I'm too tired to stay up any longer and I'm to scared of how little sleep I'm about to get to go to bed. Let's just say I'm looking forward to the days when my wife and I look back on this and reminisce.

Wait, this picture makes me feel better.

Back from the beach.

2008-09-03T19:57:00.002-05:00

Well, as I have told ya’ll before I am wont to procrastinate. Despite my love of writing I really need to drag myself back when I take time off. Today, being a monumental day in my family’s world, I thought I would give you an update.

I started a new job this morning at what I will henceforward refer to as a “hip local retailer.” Many of you know that I had worked for JCrew for many years. However, while my wife is on maternity leave we are in need of health insurance. Cobra for a family is around $1300 a month. Wow. Consequently, I was looking to come out of retirement. My criteria were health insurance, very little responsibility, a limited schedule, and a fun environment. I thus landed in “hip local retailer’s” stock room, and at 7 o’clock this morning my life as a stay at home dad ended, albeit temporarily.

The more important aspect of this new turn of events is that my wife became a stay at home mom today. And I’m happy to say that she kicked staying at home’s ass. I remember how I felt last year when I embarked on this journey and my heart went out to her all day while I was folding abnormally small jeans. Who has ever heard of a 25 inch waist? When I got home from work the big sister was napping and everyone else in the house was smiling. It was a big relief.

So while I earned $12 an hour, my wife earned her keep in the traditional way. I’m such a man, no?

There are a couple of updates for you here at Unfinished Dad. First, Matilda is allergic to the protein in cow’s milk and after a little stint in the hospital while we were on vacation—everything is fine, I promise—we now have her on special formula. Yes, it is four times as expensive as the regular kind.

Second, I am going to reduce my posting schedule. From now on you can find posts here only two days a week. This is sad, no? My off days are Tuesday and Thursday, so this is when you will see new material here. The idea is that you will get quality instead of quantity. Of course, as with anything else here, if the schedule doesn’t work, we’ll just change it. I am, after all, the boss.

See you tomorrow.

Here! Now leave me alone.

2008-08-29T11:22:00.002-05:00

Vacation

2008-08-20T09:36:00.002-05:00

It seems like just yesterday that Unfinished Dad took to the internet, giving you soul searching, insightful commentary on the life of a stay at home dad. 185 posts later it is time for a vacation. The beach, two babies, golf, and a little game called Axis and Allies have proved too much for me to juggle...at least if I want to enjoy myself. Ya'll can check here on August 31st when we get back from vacation. There are already some crazy stories to tell.

Ooooooooh!

2008-08-17T11:16:00.007-05:00

When we first crested the dune at Surfside Beach Annie let out a spontaneous Oooooooh! I've never seen her do anything like this before. It made me realize how much of this world she's starting to understand. We weren't sure how she would feel about the waves, but at as you'll see below, it was a big success. I'm pretty sure she would be halfway to England by now if we had let her go.

Also, for all of you complainers out there you can see how red Mattie's hair is in the picture of all of us, even if you can't see her face.

Oh, and I finally have a shot of Annie underwater, though I need to get one with a waterproof camera for full effect.

Finally, for all of you parents out there who come to this space for sound advice, taking two children under 14 months old on a 14 hour road trip is neither fun, nor easy.

Thursday Night

2008-08-14T19:35:00.003-05:00

It's Thursday night. My family leaves for a two week vacation on Saturday morning at 4 a.m. We are headed to Surfside (just south of Myrtle) Beach. As you can imagine, taking two youngins on a beach vacation is going to be,um, eye opening. Somehow, I don't think that I will come back with an amazing tan. I wonder if I will ever leave the house.

We will have Internet access, so I'll make sure to post pictures of Annie eating sand and all of our bleary, sleep deprived eyes.

If I don't post as often as I do while in New Jersey, check out the blog of my sister-in-law Dani who now resides in New Zealand. I'm sure that she will have an interesting perspective on what should be a very interesting place. All I'll say is that in the etiquette section of her guide book there was a warning against using the toilet while standing on top of it. Weird.

A day in the life, or. Only three hours in the life

2008-08-13T12:47:00.000-05:00

10:39-Start witty blog post in which I detail to you, the reader, how it is that I am going to get through my first extended period alone with two children under fourteen months old.

10:40-Instantly cheat by having my wife put Annie down for her nap before she goes out shopping at Ikea.

10:40:30-Realize I got the better end of today’s bargain

10:45-Ask my wife to get my iPod out of the car before she leaves for her shopping tip.

10:45:03-Get dirty look…become martyr.

10:46-Get iPod for myself just so I can blog about it.

10:55-Use bathroom with Matilda in sling and wonder if DYFS can put me in jail for it.

10:59-Pick up The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou where I left off last weekend. Watching a Wes Anderson movie always leaves me speaking in a certain dry, direct manner. Funny.

11:06-Feed Matilda. Type with one hand.

11:23-God I love Bill Murray. “Remind me…we’ll send him a red cap and a Speedo.”

11:41-Good movie. Great soundtrack as usual. I feel stupid for waiting so long to see it, I loved Rushmore.

11:51-Put Matilda down for nap in her swing—pretty much the only place she consistently sleeps. She is already light years ahead of Annie who only slept in my arms. The second baby is forced to adjust so much faster. I feel a bit guilty about how much less Dad time the two of them are getting. I console myself by saying, “Self, this is how well adjusted children are made.”

11:55-Transfer newly downloaded music from emusic to my iPod. Today’s menu: Sufjan Stevens, My Brightest Diamond, Built to Spill, Bobby Bare, Jr, and Freddie Stevenson. I’ll put up some tracks later.

11:59-Why is it that when someone starts something in this internet age and wants a cool name for it they don’t capitalize the first letter? Is emusic that much cooler than Emusic? Is my iPod more cutting edge without the capital I? Who knew Capital letters were so establishment?

12:05 to 12:13-Take an online employment survey and laugh out lout at how many different ways they can ask if a person smokes marijuana. I almost got tripped up by “Smoking marijuana is just like drinking alcohol.” I worry about this country sometimes.

12:17-Matilda is up. Kind of a short nap. Annie shouldn’t be too far behind and then things get interesting.

12:32-Make one handed hot dogs for me and one handed mac and cheese for Annie. Boiling water with a baby in a sling is very, very scary.

12:52-Put Tilda in swing. Run upstairs. Change Annie. Marvel at disparity between size and smelliness of Annie poops in relation to her age. Run downstairs. Fix plates. Blog and eat and feed.

1:00-One handed eating, typing, feeding and baby soothing. If my back survives today someone better pat me on it.

1:07-Wish that my wife’s car had GPS so that I could see how close she is to home. This is not like having one kid.

1:11-Just spilled glass of water for Annie all over floor and utter first F-word of the day. I cleaned it up with one hand and one foot and then left the towels where they were. Should I be sweating like this?

1:13-Wipe hands on my pants because I just can’t get up again.

1:18-Fuck. The water spilled again and is now making a giant spot on the rug.

1:26-Infant crying.

1:34-Toddler crying. Make note to never feed them together again.

1:37-Never, ever, I mean ever, buy a Playtex sippy cup. What a piece of crap. Annie looks like she just went swimming.

1:41-Wow. My wife is home. She was only gone for three hours. That was not fun.

1:46-Skip editing. In relation to what I just experience, how could typos matter.

1:47-Realize that I actually did not get the better end of this bargain.

Frayed at the ends

2008-08-11T15:13:00.003-05:00

When you have a newborn you learn how to function on less sleep than you ever imagined. Suddenly, a typical night is about four hours of shut eye. At first you don't think that you can function as a contributing member of your family, let alone society. Then something strange happens and a two hour stretch of sleep starts to feel like a lot. I'm in this stage right now. Don't get me wrong, I feel like shit, but all I need is one continuous stretch of 120 minutes at night and I'm good to go. The rest of the night I'm up constantly, yet I can usually pass for a showered, clean clothes wearing adult the next day.

That being said, it doesn't take much to derail the whole thing. And I'm finding out that a one year old is the definition of much. If Annie throws the proverbial wrench in the day's proceedings, my wife and I are both done for. As I'm writing, she is zonked out on the couch with Matilda in her arms and I am sneaking in 20 minutes with you before Annie wakes up and kicks our asses again.

Today, Annie decided that her lunch would consist only of bananas. She managed to turn a simple activity into a one hour ordeal that ended with her in tears and me on janitorial duty.

I guess that most parents go through a phase where they feed their children one thing all the time in order to keep the peace. I am determined to avoid this...for now anyway. Annie of course has other ideas. More and more, anything that is not fruit gets rejected by my little Dikembe Motumbo. I'm quite sure that this photo says it all. Annie/Bananas:1. Dad/Vegetable Soup:0.