Adult Costume Shopping.

It was beautiful Sunday. The Weather was sunny and hopes for a great day were high. The morning started off innocently enough and I even took the time to make eggs for the beasties. And toast.

Frozen waffles and syrup are for weekdays when we can run out of the house as the nanny arrives before the bath salts that are sugar kick in and faces get eaten. There could have been a tantrum or two before we got to the car and our routine 'weekend adventure' began but I was happily not taking notes as I hadn't yet been kicked in the groin.

First up was our family obligation to visit the University Village shopping.. 'Mall'?  It's basically an egregiously overpriced outdoor strip mall that carries 99% of the crap you can buy online. It DOES, however, allow you to drag your beasties along for the fun of it. Screw internet shopping. Plus they have a covered playground to expunge you of guilt for dragging the kids on a shopping trip. We do this EVERY weekend. FML.

After 30 minutes at Banana Republic (did I mention FML?) we boogied over to the playground for a bit of kid time activity. After about 20 minutes, I realize we'd worn our luck out and a kid on kid confrontation was imminent (that I'm going to run away from) So... It's lunch time! Yippee!!

Off we go- food is disposed of, some of it in my kids bellies, some of it on the floor, some inevitably in my lovely wife's purse.

Here's where the day turned into 'Dad's gonna get drunk tonight'....

We had a birthday party to go to the next weekend. It's a costume party. 1920's. There no faking that stuff. Its now close to 3:00. We decide to skip naps and forge ahead to secure costumes for my lovely wife and myself at the risk of putting our kids on tilt. In hindsight, boy did we.

Upon arriving at the 'Vintage Costume Shop' parking lot I noticed we were basically in a driveway. Like, someones house kinda driveway. There was a dusty redish Camaro and and a 1950's era Ford pickup quasi parked in front- both in questionable working order. I joked to Sarah that we were walking into the set of Paranormal Activity 4. That didn't go over well with her from the stare I got.

Upon entering the shop, which was in fact a dillapitated turn of the century craftsman home, I realized my assumption wasn't far off the mark. The place smelled like a homeless person took a dump in a bucket of horse urine, then paused to smoke a carton of Parliaments before throwing up.

To top it off it the owners had turned hoarding into a business. There was NO room in this place. Before I got my bearings, Miller disappeared. Literally, he was invisible being about 3 feet tall- there were little corridors carved into this hell hole and crap was either hanging or stuffed into shelves, ceiling to floor. By the look on the owners face, I know he at least got a glimpse of Miller- his furrowed brow told me as much.

 I spent equal time trying to find an outfit and trying to police the constant flutter of fabric that would swirl past me at waist level. After 30 minutes, I couldn't take any more of the madness and threw whatever I had picked out on the counter area- I had to get the kids out of there. My lovely wife was lost in another generation and in a fitting closet trying on 30 pound sequin flapper dresses- one painful outfit at a time.

The Beasties and I went out to the yard. They were in another dimension of rowdy, pissed-offness that I had not ever thankfully seen before. Miller was running around like a wild man while also trying to inflict as much harm on Quinn as possible. It reminded me of a swarm of bees, 3 minutes of spastic exertion followed by a flyby to swat his sister at full speed, followed by more spacsticness. rinse repeat.

I was doing absolutely nothing about this because a short while earlier, I remembered I gave Miller my keys when we first walked into the door. I had frisked him on the way out and he was clean.

I spent the next 10 minutes going inside to look for keys to back outside refereeing an MMA match on the front lawn. Quinn was in the wrong weight division but was putting up a valiant effort.

I was now on my hands and knees in the yard assuming Miller had flung the car keys away during one if his spastic episodes. Ah- HA! I found them and looked up at the progress of the grappling show- just to see Miller catch up to Quinn at a full sprint and whack the back of her head. By the time I got to her he had smashed her face on the grass so hard her lip was bleeding and I was seconds away from being a Jerry Springer candidate for reckless endangerment of my kids.

I don't recall the message I left on Sarah's cell once we were in the car but it did make her come running out to the car in mere seconds.

Costume shopping is for adults only.

The Grass (or Hotdog) is always Greener

This is a little ditty that was recorded during a typical dinner with the beasties last week. It could have been recorded last night, or even tomorrow as its not remotely out of the ordinary. Quinn has dashed into her 'Terrible Two's' with gusto. While I do feel slightly bad for Miller's predicament, she has had a great muse and mentor to hone her skills, namely Miller himself.

What is not seen in the video is the rest of the hotdog that I put behind him on the dining room table- but Miller had already gone down the rabbit hole of hysterics and there was no saving him.

Enjoy....(I kinda did)

Caillou is going down

Caillou has become an institution in my sons TV library. I'm not sure how or when it started- possibly during the early years of complete parental ignorance and confusion, and having 2 children within 17 months might have contributed to it as well. There must have been a time where relative peace and quiet trumped quality of parenting. I hope my lovely wife and I were just too exhausted to pay enough attention to what we put on the TV for him.


Regardless, Caillou has infiltrated our household like methamphetamines has to Applachia.


Bottom line- I hate that little @#$% Caillou. 


First let me start with the name. There have been 108 episodes featuring that whiny flesh toned Jack in the Box. I guarantee there is not a child on the planet named after that kid. I think we parents have all learned from the iconic Johnny Cash song 'Sue' to not give our children ridiculous names (unless you're a celebrity, of course). And lets face it- 'Caillou' is impossible to spell. In fact, I had to look it up on the 'ol internetz for this post. And every time I mention the name again I have to look up and see how I spelled it the last time. (Close your eyes right now and try it- betcha' can't do it).


His name seems more appropriate as a character in Dances with Wolves. Perhaps as Kevin Costner's reliable but mute side kick. (Kevin Costner: 'Caillou, get the fire ready!' Caillou: mmmmmmmm'.) Maybe there's a sequel in the works. Run with it, Orion Pictures, this one's on me.


Now lets get to the looks. I'm not one for pointing out shortcomings of children but not only is Caillou a blatant rip off of Charlie Brown, but in a more dumbed down way. My son draws portraits of Caillou every day- accidentally. If you can draw a vague rendering of a circle and manage to leave a dot or scratch inside of it- you have a pretty decent likeness of Caillou. 


And man...does that kid WHINE. This is something I don't need any more of it in my house, we're at full capacity for that behavior as it is. It seems the only person having a good time on the show is the grandmother, who also happens to be the narrator. (read: not really in Caillou's presence, she's apparently in the sound studio doing voice over, so why wouldn't she be happy?)


I have an alternate and more realistic title for this show. How about 'Birth Control'. This seem to get the point across more effectively. At the risk of putting MTVs show '16 and Pregnant' out of business, just have you sex- aged children watch a few hours of Caillou and we'll nip this teen pregnancy crisis in the bud. Thank me later President Obama.


For the first time in my life, I rued the day DVR was invented. Caillou can be watched ANY TIME. Whenever I'm forced to pick up the remote and scroll around to find Caillou (its either watch whining on TV or experience it real time with my son) I am pleasantly reminded things could be worse.


He hasn't yet found Spongebob Squarepants. Who also should have a starring role in that Wolf Dancing movie, I think.

Will Pee for Soup.

Quinn is weeks shy of turning 2. In the last month she has loudly proclaimed 'POTTY' no less than 100 times and actually gone the the bathroom and successfully peed in the toilet 3 times so far. (Pretty far below the Mendoza line for you baseball fans)

I'm not one of those parents who thinks this borders on precocious behavior.

In fact, I'm amazed that her potty training started before she was, say, 14. Miller started the potty training process a few months before his 3rd birthday and now abuses it like Jay Z does to a Black AMEX card. And while I'm happy to not have to put diapers on him anymore his use of it has become a tool of psychological warfare that makes me understand the increasing number of frown wrinkles on my forehead.

No matter where we are, He will proclaim 'I HAVE TO GO POTTY!!" Usually the declaration happens in the car once everyone is strapped in and we're about to pull out of the driveway. Or when its guaranteed there isn't a bathroom within a few miles- I swear he has some sort of bizarro reverse GPS navigation system built into his bladder.

We were fairly diligent about his potty training as he was the first child. Now that he's so recently out of diapers, I haven't had a chance to recover quickly enough to jump back in and do the same work for Quinn.

I think she started the process earlier because she learns by example from mimicking everything Miller does. For potty training this has been beneficial I guess. For temper tantrums, hitting family members and general pissy behavior, not so much. I've learned to take the good with the bad.

She could give a crap about my armchair quarterback method during her latest conquest. 'YEAHHH QUINNY!!' I ridiculously squealed like a high school cheerleader yelled the first time her pee landed in the toilet bowl. (I thought those life moments should be met with a ridiculous level of parental positive reinforcement.)

It was not needed I soon found out. Instead, she gave me a look of icy indifference as if she had been doing this forever. I thought about reminding her about the dump she took during bath time the week before but thought better of it. I'll be the bigger person. I'm so pathetic, but back to pissing stories.

We were all now on heightened watch. Anytime 'POTTY' was screamed, My wife and I would drop everything and run with her to the bathroom, yank her pants and diaper off and plop her on the toilet. And wait. And stare. And bribe.

Usually the way to get to Quinn's heart is thru my lovely wife's purse. Mascara, lip gloss, lip balm, you name it- if it goes on your face and makes a mess, count Quinny in.

This was met with little success. Quinn knew she could sneak over anytime we weren't looking and get the prize without performing. In hindsight, we should have thought of more obvious alternative forms of bribery, but keep reading.

On the third successful attempt I was greeted with one of those ' AH-ha!' life moments that are so simple yet never cross the mind until it actually happens and you realize what an idiot you are.

After peeing in the potty Quinn looked up and proudly said, "Soup now, Daddy?'

If only I had known.

'Eff the Easter Bunny.

It's been 3 days since the worst best day a toddler can have- Easter. I'm still recovering and don't expect to be able to carry on intelligent conversations until the wine cellar runs dry.

This Easter holiday took me by surprise. I didn't fully invest in the same amount of pre- holiday paranoia as I did before Christmas. I had so many nightmare expectations in December that thankfully never materialized. You see, at the time, I over thought every present I purchased (Is this Hello Kitty going to cause someone to lose an eye? Can Quinn swallow this 4' fire truck? Who's going to burn the tree down??...and so on and so on, ad nauseum).

Ultimately my stress level was raised to a comfortable enough point that Murphy's Law took it as a generous sacrifice and ironically afforded our family a magical time to share presents, eat great food and enjoy all around harmony. In other words- A Perfect Holiday.

The Easter bunny just delivers candy. How hard can this day be?

Well, with minimal presents and a ridiculous focus on sweets, it's fucking VERY hard. And lets face it- Saturday's sit-down to color eggs was a nice tradition to pass along to the kids but no toddler is going eat the shit out of 3 dozen colored hard boiled eggs when there are Jelly Belly's in the house. Protein- 0, high fructose corn syrup- 1.

What they will do is try to inhale their body weight in sugar over a 2 hour period like they've never see a Peep before. Wait- they hadn't and that was part of the problem. (I do occasionally have standards)

Parental instincts are an interesting thing. For example, any owner of a 3 year old knows something's fishy when their child goes silent for say, 8 seconds. There were several times on Sunday where I lost (mental) sight of Miller for several MINUTES.

The first time I could hear myself think I bolted upright from the couch to find the source of suspicious peace and quiet. I immediately saw a shut bathroom door and my lovely wife was in sight so I knew we were in trouble. This happened way after Easter baskets had been collected and stored on top of the fridge for a sugar moratorium.

I went to the bathroom and opened the door.

Miller was sitting on the floor leaning against the wall with the lights out. Shoving his sister's jelly beans in his mouth like a smack addict.

The funny thing about jelly beans is that they stick to the back of your teeth (I forgot this until I caught him) Another thing about jelly beans (when you're 3) is that they make you drool- upon turning the lights and seeing this depravity I focused on the purple hued spit string extending from his lower lip down to the puddle resting on his half prone belly.

'What are you doing Miller??' I asked.

'Noshing Daddy' he replied.

He looked pathetic enough at this point but now he had a jelly bean induced lisp. 30 or so of those suckers attached to your molars can have that effect, I guess. He now reminded me of a cat who had gotten a fur ball stuck in its throat and was trying to cough it up.

I 'gently' grabbed the remaining candy from his clutches and told him to go downstairs and get ready to go visit his grandparents. Round 2 was about to begin.

I had no idea what was in store for the rest of the day.

'Eff the Easter Bunny.

I'm Happily Aiming Low!

Hi reader(s)


I wanted to share a happy moment with you. I was just picked up by the site Aiming Low. It's an awesome family, fun and friends blog collective that has been nice enough to think one of my humble posts is worthy of a little more attention. I'm honestly flattered and it makes me want to write more- funny how that dangling carrot works for humans too.


Speaking of carrots, I'm mid way thru a post about Easter but haven't been able to put the PTSD to bed enough to finish- more on that shortly.


You can see my post Here


A big thanks to the Aiming Low family and staff, especially JW Moxie who has had to deal with my email inquiries and couldn't be a better supporter of writers she's never met. :-)


Aiming Low has never felt better

I need to tip better next time...

I love to eat in restaurants. I have always appreciated the entire experience that an evening out with my beautiful wife has to offer.


We met in NYC and these liasons instantly became a part of our courtship. Partially because Sarah also enjoys my love of food but mostly because the apartment we lived in was less than 400 sq. feet and we shared it with a few mice. Who also generally helped themselves to our food.  (I still haven't gotten over watching a baguette wrapped in paper crinkle about without the help of human contact). But thats another story.


After moving to Seattle, the first few years were more of the same, minus our mouseguests. Nights out exploring our new cities abundance of bars and restaurants was a seamless transition to the evenings in New York we so loved and missed.


Post children, our dining frequency has barely skipped a beat. What has changed is the quality of the dining. Gone are the nights of saddling up to a bar at 11 PM, not a kid in sight, and ordering a bottle of wine and steak frites like the days of old.


Now our choices center around 2 very important things that have absolutely nothing to do with food. Crayons and play spaces. Yep- I just said that. Fortunately living in Seattle affords us some very nice non- franchised places to go- I've proudly never had to step foot into a ChuckE Cheese. I even had to Google the title of that place to make sure I was spelling it correctly. (I assumed it was 'Chucky' but apparently he has a middle initial- so grown up of him) I know its a matter of time before the inevitable happens but for now we happily stick to small, locally owned neighborhood hangouts.


The qualifying elements of these restaurants seem to be based on my children's needs. You might think I was putting them before me. That would be a dead wrong assumption. The crayons and play area are merely a ruse to ignore the beasties as best as possible while pounding a drink or 2 and inhaling what I would have compared to dog food a few years back.  Ironically I now find it generally enjoyable. Its no longer about the ambience of the interior (do you think those rafters are recycled Douglas Fir??) or the meal quality (this chef makes a mean roulade!) but rather increasing the odds that your dinner or beverage doesn't land in your lap and that no glass is broken. It's a far cry from the days of being blissfully married without kids but nowadays I convince myself theres a nice ring to it.


On a recent excursion to nameless 'dining spot' (possible paranoia and legal ramifications prohibit me from calling out the destination) we were meeting up with our closest friends who just returned from vacation. We were obviously happy to hear all of the news and catch up as it had been weeks since seeing them. This allowed for an unusually long period of play space time for our kids.


During dinner, our daughter Quinn kept us posted every 30-40 second on the status of what disgusting overly touched object she was putting in her mouth, which was very sweet of her. Why a public place would have fake baby bottles and plastic food replications is beyond me but I can now confirm she has essentially kissed every child under 6 in the greater Puget Sound area because of it.


Miller and our friends child had holed up in some kind of mini- dollhouse thingy but were not causing the rest of the kids in the asylum to riot- so all was good.


Dinner was mauled, conversations were had and when we all agreed we were pressing our luck we decided it was a night. Out the door we went.


Our car was directly across the street from 'dining spot' and it was still light out  As I began to put Miller in his car seat he reached into his pockets and began cackling 'HUHUHUHUHU'- it was a 'Dumb and Dumber' kind of chortle.


He proudly produces a restaurant stolen black and while plastic cow covered in enough crap to rival the underside of my car. I quickly looked over to the place expecting to see the waitstaff at the window, all calling 911 on their cellphones while pointing at us. Thankfully that was not the case.


My own peculiar style of fatherly instinct took over and instead of marching him back in the restaurant to the humiliation of being found as a thief, apologizing and learning from his mistake, I shoved him into his car seat and quickly drove off.


I'll make it up the them I promised myself.


I need to tip better next time...