Glitter-pants . . .

So I'm standing there in front of 34 college students trying to explain the dire socio-political and ecological effects of America's dependence on fossil fuels, and I notice my pants bespeckled with glitter from the afternoon's craft project with my dear clumsy four year old. At this moment a number of things go through my head-- don't look at it or try to brush it off in case they haven't noticed it/everybody must be staring at it/maybe it looks cool in a sort of Michael Jackson This Is It kind of way/now I have to burn these pants because this stuff doesn't come off.
Ultimately, this is a lose/lose situation. I really liked those pants.

Box out!

While playing legos on the living room floor with the kids earlier today, my meta-cognitive antenna was up and I observed some disturbing behavior in myself. I don't know what it means, but I'm a little bit ashamed. I think. As the two year old reached for the tricked out off-road vehicle I was constructing, I boxed him out with a bony forearm and said, " No, this is daddy's car."

Wax off. This off course came after I had stashed all the coolest lego parts behind me so I wouldn't have to share the lame boxy stuff and have a sub-par product-- the kids can't maximize the potential of helicopter wings and the eight pronged "long pieces" like I can anyways, right?

This is not the first time such events have taken place. I've made some wicked awesome castles with oversized foam blocks that were worthy of an A&E series, only to be wrecked by little dragons who have no appreciation for architectural mastery. I don't care how old you are or how many degrees you have-- somebody messes up your castle, they're getting . . . boxed out next time.

The ever elusive nap time . . .

We are not a "baby wise" house, meaning we don't fit our lives in between immovable nap and meal times. It doesn't work for us like it does for many others-- we're too active to even consider it. So wife and I go with the flow, which fits our personalities and lifestyle far better. The kids have therefore learned to live accordingly, and seem to be as happy as the next gaggle of 2,4, and 6 year olds.

Yet this parenting style means that one must learn to perform certain dances with the clock, food, room temperature, car rides, and sounds to successfully accomplish that all-important afternoon nap. Generally speaking, any car ride after 10:30 is going to get it done, like it or not. Of course a two year old can be kept awake with loud music and obnoxious singing along by the parent, ice cold air conditioning, a sucker or otherwise extraordinary piece of deliciousness, or persistent shaking of the body using the reach-around technique while driving with the left hand.

The problem arises when it gets later than 1:30 or so and the Terrible Two toddler is still rolling with no signs of slowing down. This generally leads to a late crash and burn nap that ends around dinner time and leads to a late night with a perky gremlin.

So on days like this when my little Energizer bunny doesn't give himself a chance to take a glorious nap that every adult wishes they HAD to take every day, I am forced to do the unthinkable-- keep him awake at all costs. This often leads to pitiful images of children sleeping face-first in a plate of spaghetti. I don't care. I think that's beautiful. Target time: 8 pm.  I cannot be defeated.

Nothing Is Sacred . . .

It seems inevitable that as soon as I sit down to read some ESPN magazine on the throne near of the laundry room (aka daddy's bathroom), one of two things happen. First, all three children suddenly want to talk to me or tell me something that to them cannot wait until I'm finished with my business, or secondly, all hell breaks loose-- someone kicks someone else in the face while the third kid falls off the table, all to the sound of the doorbell and the phone ringing. How is this possible? I do not know or understand why my colon has so much sway on the universe, but I wish it didn't. You would think that going potty would be one of the only getaways for a dad in a house full of ankle biters, but it is quite the opposite.

Construction worker vs. diaper changer

So last week there were three construction workers re-siding the exterior of my house. We woke up every day to hammering, ate lunch to the hum of drills, and generally got used to the steady screech of power saws. The guys used the bathroom off of our laundry room and were thus occasionally in the house. My favorite confluence of hired testosterone and misfired testosterone (me) was when I was screaming at the kids, "Pick up your Barbies and your babies before you make another mess! I'm sick of just picking up after your messes all day every day!" At just that moment, one of the guys rolled out of the bathroom and back outside, leaving a smell of sawdust and sweat to counter my baby wipe musk.

"What are they doing out there, daddy?"
"They're fixing the house. They'll be done in a few more days."
"Oh. How come you don't fix it?"
"Well, it's a big job and this is what they are really good at." Then my two year old son bangs on the sliding glass door and looks out at the stereotypical picture of what a man is, phallic hammers and chisels dangling from a leather tool belt half way up a ladder, and says, "Using hammer! Using tools!"
"Yah, buddy, tools. Okay, it's nap time dude. Come sit with me and watch Design on a Dime."

To make my impotence-inducing day everything it could be, the gardeners came later and did the lawns. I just closed the blinds so they wouldn't see me folding laundry.

And so it begins . . .

And so a new season of life begins, complete with a daily reconsideration of my life's purpose and my re-evaluation of established gender norms in the American family. My two, four, and six year old children can be counted on for perpetually creating opportunities in self-examination and psychological fortitude, be it from stepping on yet another spill on the kitchen floor, turning off lights behind them all day, mediating fights over who gets to use the freaking Care Bears plate, or overcooking the mac and cheese.

To round out the poetic nature of our family dynamic, Super Wife is a collegiate head coach of a highly competitive program. I have a Ph.D. in literature, currently proving to be best applied to the reading of countless classics such as Go Dog. Go!, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, and the tear-jerker Love You Forever (gets me every time).

I generally view this blog as a cathartic outlet and means of processing my daily misadventures; generally, I can laugh about them once I hear myself retell it. Feel free to laugh with me.