Laid-Off Dad

Emission: Possible

Robert’s been using the toilet during the day since July, but he wears a sleep diaper at night. Nighttime toilet training has been an easy thing to put off, mainly because it will most likely involve Daddy stumbling around in the dark, muttering and wringing bedsheets. We always knew Robert would work without a net one of these nights—and that night is tonight. Because after Robert’s shower-bath, Daddy reached up into his diaper stash and found a whole lotta nothing. Fate has intervened, and sent the boy freeballing into history.

We’re going to bed early, and we’ll sleep soundly, knowing that your thoughts and prayers are with us.

Breaking the C-O-D-E

Robert is pathologically averse to having his nails clipped. I suppose I’d understand if he had suffered some sort of toe trauma, but thanks to my superior surgical skill (honed by years of playing Operation), our little clipper has never drawn blood. My theory is that he resents the temporary immobilization as an affront to his inalienable civil liberties.

We’re also at the point where we tend to S-P-E-L-L everything, whether we N-E-E-D to or not, because the path of least resistance is to shield him from anything that could be construed even remotely as bad N-E-W-S.

This leads us to a snippet of tonight’s post-dinner conversation:

Me: “After he’s finished with his dinner, I’m going to C-L-I-P his N-A-I-L-S.”
My wife: “G-O-O-D.”
Robert: “And then I’m gonna E-R-P-I-V!”

The spirit of giving

There we were, Grandpa and Grandma and a smattering of extended family, distending our bellies and sharing embarrassing stories about my wife. And we were so overcome by the blessings of the season and/or the buzz from the merlot that we scooped up all of the food Robert let tumble to the floor and donated it to a nearby soup kitchen. From the looks of it, it easily fed a family of four.

Lucky man

Tomorrow morning, I’m off to join my wife and child at my in-laws’ for Thanksgiving. Which is a good thing, because every time they get on a plane without me, my mind can’t help but conjure a fleeting image that I might never see them again. Just one of those stupid, macabre habits I can’t shake.

I’m feeling especially thankful this week. I’m on the other side of a layoff that sucked the entire spectrum of ass, and my wife’s support never wavered. So thank you, sweetie, for the comfort and friendship that anchors me when I feel adrift, and for the life and family that we’re building  together.

I feel like the wealthiest debt-ridden galoot that ever walked the Earth. Sorta like Trump.

Four oh four oh

I’m reporting in for several reasons.

Firstly, I’m proud to report that I am as rested as I’ve been in several months, and I have Robert to thank. Each night, after the boy and I drench the bathroom and each other in a quixotic attempt to wash off the day’s supply of toddler gunk, my wife is in charge of getting the boy to sleep. For each of the past two nights, however, the honor has fallen to me, and I’ve responded by passing out on the floor beside the car/bed at around 8:45pm. Wonderful for the psyche; less so for those fickle neckbones.

Secondly, our proud little progeny has vaulted his way into the 40-40 Club. He is 40” tall, and he weighed in at an even 40 pounds at the laundromat this morning. This is why my lumbar region quietly whimpers to itself when Robert and I are on walkabout and I hear those magic words: “Carry me!”

And thirdly, it’s great to be out of the baby closet. The world now knows of our new Intrafamilial Adult-Child Parity Directive, and the always-helpful blogosphere has responded. Thank you all for your kind sentiments and your trenchant number-crunching, all of which makes the imminent pandemonium just a little easier to think about.

Burying the lede under a series of Darling Vignettes

INT: The kitchen. DADDY returns home from work to find MAMA and ROBERT preparing dinner.

ROBERT (singing): Hubba-ludda! Hubba-dubba-do!
DADDY: What song is that?
ROBERT: It’s the “Hubba-ludda hubba-dubba-do” song!

INT: A public bathroom. ROBERT is peeing while his friend CHARLIE, who is not yet toilet-trained, looks on with his FATHER.

CHARLIE’S FATHER: Wow! Robert is using the potty all by himself!
ROBERT: Actually, this is a toilet.
CHARLIE’S FATHER: You’re right. Do you like to pee by yourself?
ROBERT: I love to poop and pee all day long!

INT: The living room. ROBERT plays with his parking garage. DADDY is on his hands and knees,  holding a little sneaker and looking under the desk.

ROBERT: Daddy, what are you doing?
DADDY: I’m looking for your other shoe.
ROBERT: Oh.
DADDY exits to look in the kitchen, then returns.
ROBERT: Hi Daddy. How’s your shoe problem going?

INT: The bathroom at home. DADDY bathes ROBERT, who soaps himself vigorously.

ROBERT: I can see my testicles! I’m looking at my testicles!
DADDY: Yup. There they are.
ROBERT: I’m holding my testicles! Now I’m washing my testicles!
DADDY: Take care of them, and they’ll take care of you.
ROBERT: I like my testicles!

INT: The coffee shop. DADDY and ROBERT are eating Bagels With Butter.

ROBERT: Where’s Mama?
DADDY: She’s at home sleeping.
ROBERT: Why?
DADDY: She is very tired, because there’s a baby in her tummy.
ROBERT: Oh. Can I see it?

When you close the door on a part of your life, sometimes you can still see through the walls

As usual, Robert was kind enough to let me sleep in on Saturday morning—by a full 15 minutes past the time my alarm usually goes off—before whispering into my ear, “I have to pee.” Soon afterward, we were dressed and headed out for Bagels With Butter, a weeks-old Saturday morning tradition whereby the men of the house venture to the cafe across the street, break bread, and discuss weekend plans.

When we reached the lobby at around 7:30am, we ran into Allison, the fabulous babe down the hall, coming home from “a great date.” Allison is young and smart and has a smile you can read by, and we’ve been seeing a lot more of her lately since she broke up with her last boyfriend, a sommelier with long sideburns. She was grinning that smitten grin as she wavered there, teetering on her heels, and as she brushed past us into the elevator, she trailed that unique bouquet that says “Yes, I have fabulous taste in perfume” and “Yes, all of those $14 chocolatinis are seeping out of my pores.”

It’s a little alarming to think about how far removed I am from that lifestyle. You want to know just how far removed I am? When I first saw her, in those few seconds before  the morning-after booze-waft reached my nostrils, my instinctive thought was, “Wow. She’s up early.”

No toddlers were intoxicated in the making of this blog entry

Over the weekend, Mama skipped town for the day for a baby shower. So what else are a couple of red-blooded, unsupervised American boys supposed to do on a Sunday afternoon?

Can I mambo dogface in the banana patch?

Have you ever had one of those moments when you come across a sentence and wonder if this is the first time, in the history of human communication, that someone has endeavored to put those particular words in that particular order and conveyed that particular thought?

Here's a random quote from my wife, taken completely out of context:

"It wouldn't have escalated if I hadn't found that frozen cheese."

You be the judge.

Update: Extra points for anyone familiar with the sentence, "Hold the newsreader's nose squarely, waiter, or friendly milk will countermand my trousers."

Homespun metaphors R us

Lately, my job is making me feel like I'm building a bridge out of marmalade.