The 4am Train

The tracks are just a little over a mile from my house.

Every morning around 4am a train goes by.

This train, for some reason, believes that it can only go through this part of town if it lays on the whistle/horn/what-ever-you-call-it (I’m not a train person) the entire time.

At 4am every morning the baby hears this train whistle/horn/what-ever-you-call-it, sits up in his bed and loudly announces “TRAIN! TRAIN!”.

Somedays we can get the baby back to sleep.

Somedays we can’t.

I would like to tell everyone what kind of things go through my mind at 4am every morning.

But I won’t.

Because I don’t want to land on some sort of federal watch list.

No Baby!

That title? That has been the most commonly used phrase in my home in the last month or so. Also, “No baby don’t…!”, “No! Put that down!” and my personal favorite, “That’s not yours! It doesn’t belong to you! Just stop! Stop! For the love of god why can’t you just… Just…! No, no, NO!”.

So what I’m saying is that the baby’s going through a stage. A “if I can reach it, I will take it” stage.

And he seems to be able to reach everything. I guess he’s tall for his age. He also has figured out how to drag chairs around and use them to climb on counter tops and tables.

Oh, and he also has decided that clothes and diapers were made to come off. That’s another fun stage he’s going through right now.

That’s how, just the other day, I had to quickly run into the bathroom for a few minutes due to an unfortunate encounter with some “Mexican” food, to come out and find a baby, who was previously completely dressed, naked, standing in his own bodily waste holding a large kitchen knife.

I was in there for maybe, maybe, two minutes. But it was enough time for him to strip naked, pull a chair to the counter, climb up onto that counter, pull a knife out of the block, climb back down and then poop in front of the bathroom door.

I’m not sure if either of us will survive this stage.

A Letter to the Meanest Daddy in the World From Your Little Baby

Dear Daddy,

WTF bro?

Seriously, what’s been up your ass lately?

We had a real good thing going on while I was trying to get on my feet but now that I got my shit together and am mobile your like all up in my business.

Like the other day when I wanted to carry around that big glass baking dish I found in the back of that cabinet, you know the cabinet you so uncoolly try to keep me out of all the time but I keep going back in because I know that must be where you keep most of the awesomeness in the house, and you totally ganked it from me and you were all like “No baby you blah, blah, blah, break, blah, cut and hurt, blah”. Man, what’s the point of walking upright if I’m not allowed to use my hands to carry stuff.

Oh, and what about the time the other day when you found me splashing in that big white bowl of water in the room where I take baths. I was having a good time all by myself seeing what could fit in and what would soak up more water, a sock or that roll of paper you leave in there, and then you bust in there all freaking the fuck out about germs and yelling about my brothers not closing the door or the lid to the bowl.

Honestly I think the only people in the house that care are my brothers. They leave the good stuff laying around; the little colorful plastic squares that I like to put in my mouth, the two piece metal thingy with the bright red round handles that make that “shicka-shicka” sound when I open and close them, balls just big enough for me to shove all the way back in my mouth to where I make that weird gagging sound…

All those things you say no to are the things that bring me joy dude and you just want to take all that joy away…  Joy killer.

You suck,

The Little Baby

It’s Finally Over

The end didn’t come easily.

My oldest cried from the time he woke-up to right before getting on the bus.

Demon Spawn cried because he didn’t want his momma to go back to work.

And my wife, in a lateness induced rage, kicked the baby in the face for getting in her way as she was trying to get out the door. (Okay, she didn’t actually kick him in the face as much as trip over him as he toddled in front of her while she had her hands full, but I am going to use the “kicked the baby in the face” later in a “Oh yeah? Well do you remember that time you …” moment.)

Like I said, it wasn’t easy, but Christmas “vacation” officially ended this morning.

The house is mine again.

No more people in my way… Well, there’s fewer people in my way.

No more horrible cacophony of multiple electronic toys and entertainment devices going off all at once.

No more weekday mornings filled with the screams of the two oldest children as they fight like a couple of coked-up honey badgers over who had what first.

No more “Daddy can I use the computer?” or “Sweetie, I need to use laptop when you get a minute.”

No more “help” when I try to do things.

Oh no, no more of any of that…

Or at least until the weekend gets here.

The Dog

About 45 mins after my wife should have been at work she showed up at the door of our house holding what looked like the illicit love child of a black fox and a chihuahua.

“He ran right up to me in the parking lot. He’s so sweet. He’s clean. He seems to be good with kids. He has a collar but there’s no tags. I’m going to try to find his owner. He’s your responsibility until I do. I’ve got to go back to work. Love you, goodbye.”

And then I was standing there holding a small fluffy black dog while two small children ran/crawled around me excitedly yapping.

“Daddy, I want to hold the puppy! Daddy! Puppy daddy! Pup-puppy, puppy puppy, daddy daddy, puppy, let me hold, let me, puppy, daddy hold, puppy pu-puppy pup puppy puppy puppy!”

“SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEE!! SCREEEEEEEEE!!!!! BAH! GAH GAH BAH! SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

So I put the dog down and Demon Spawn gently petted him and spoke to him in a quiet, calm voice and told him how this would be his new home. I then explained to Demon Spawn that he was lying to the poor dog. Then Demon spawn cried  and cried.

The baby crawled close to the dog and screamed as loud as he could at it. The dog walked away. The baby crawled close to the dog and screamed as loud as he could at it. The dog walked away. This repeated for a bit. Then the baby felt completely comfortable with the dog and the dog decided that the baby was no real threat, that’s when the baby decided to try and eat the dog.

The baby still somehow has all his fingers.

It’s must be a really good dog.

 

The Forgotten Child

I pulled this directly from my wife’s Facebook status.

I may have changed a few things for the sake of clarity.

The most embarrassing incident ever in my life, worse than the time my wrap skirt unwrapped itself and fell off at Cotillion, happened at Christmasville today. My husband Dadgitated, god of love-making, had been pushing the stroller with the baby, while I kept score for the oldest and Demon Spawn as they played mini golf. He, my husband, the worlds sexiest man, stepped across the street to get hot chocolates from the hot chocolate busker, who was totally into him because of how handsome, funny and awesome he is , while the boys kept playing. I moved on with them to the next hole and my husband, the most perfect man on Earth currently and throughout the annals of history, came to give us the cups. I am talking to the man I married, he with the Adonis like good looks, as the boys putt when suddenly a voice from behind us says, “excuse me, is this your stroller? And _baby_? And, and… Oh my! Is THAT your husband? Oh my God! No wonder you can’t remember your children with a specimen like that to distract you. Yummy!” Um. Yeah. I managed not to sink into the earth when I collected the baby under the extremely disapproving and lustful eyes of the family behind us. I commented to the woman who was barely able to resist pouncing on my husband and pregnant with her second, “third kid. It’s always like that, poor guy.” (To be clear, these holes were in the blocked off street and were wooden rectangular platforms about the size of a bathmat, so we weren’t far, but we did totally forget him.)

Things or Stuff

The baby doesn’t want me to do either of the above.

I’m not allowed, as far as the baby is concerned, to do anything involving anything.

Well, that’s not exactly true. I can sit quietly in the recliner awaiting the moment that he demands the use of my lap for milk and naps. I am allowed to do that.

I’m not allowed to stand at all. That is standing to clean, to cook, to make his highness a fresh bottle, to get up to go to the bathroom, ect..

Sitting is also a problem if while in that position I seem as if I’m accomplishing things.

Excuse me, are you doing stuff? You know how I feel about you doing stuff.

If I do have the audacity to attempt things or stuff I get screamed at for the duration of time those things or stuff take.

If my reaction to the screaming is not sufficient he grabs my leg and bites me until I take notice. I now have no beard due to him exhibiting this behavior during a routine facial hair trim.

I seem to be living beneath the drool covered iron fist of a tiny tyrant…

And there’s nothing I can do about it.

A Week of Halloween Hell

It started last Wednesday when my wife brought home the costumes.

“Look Daddy! I’ma Mario, I’ma gonna win!”

“Daddy, It’s a me, Luigi!”

“Dum dum dum da-dum da-dum, da-da da-da da-da dum da-dum da-dum! Did you hear Daddy!?! The Mario theme! Daddy, Daddy, did you here!?! DUM DUM DUM…”

“Look Daddy, a Koopa. I’ll jump on it!”

“OW! Daddy! He called me a Koopa and jumped on me!”

Thursday we hid the costumes.

Friday we went out and got decorations and pumpkins and apple cider and we told the kids that we were going to carve pumpkins and decorate on Saturday and the kids cried and fussed and asked why we couldn’t do it “NOW!” and they wanted to decorate “NOW!”.

Saturday I went and got a bottle of good dark rum to spike my apple cider with.

Sunday we broke out the costumes so we could head to the local renaissance fair for their Halloween weekend festivities, which was sort of like a drug free, candy filled Dead show if the show was held in a village deep within the boundaries of the Nerdling Realm.

Monday was more costume mayhem, but this time fueled with candy acquired from the ren fair.

Yesterday was pretty quiet.

That brings us to today, All Hallows Eve.

The morning started with confusion regarding the rules about my oldest wearing that fucking Mario costume to school, but we managed a compromise that made sure no one was happy and sent him off.

Since waking up my middle child has asked me once every five minutes if it’s trick-or-treat time yet.

And the baby has a case of the poops that has caused him to scream as if he’s been passing razor blades all morning.

I’m not sure what the future holds for the rest of this day but I’m guessing it will include more tears, poop and possibly some vomit.

Happy Halloween.

 

The Family Pet

Something funny/disturbing has recently come to my attention; my two oldest sons, my wife and I seem to have a baby as a pet.

For the longest time our youngest, know around these parts as “the little baby”, was just that, a little baby. He spent all of his time sleeping, eating, pooping… You know, baby stuff. Then he started to crawl and eat food. Somehow these two abilities slowly morphed him from our precious little bundle of joy and the pride of our family to the family pet.

He has all the tell-tale signs of a pet. Much like a dog he spends most of his time on the floor looking for scraps of food that were dropped. Like a cat he almost never comes when you call him. We always have to watch to make sure  he doesn’t get into the trash. He crawls around our feet at dinner time (after he starts screaming to get out of  his highchair, we do try to do these things in the proper manner) begging for food from our plate. He bites, scratches and makes incredibly annoying noises in the middle of the night, once again, like a cat. And like some the more exotic pets out there he has the ability to grasp objects which makes his destructive force disproportionate to his size. Oh, and he likes to chew on shoes.

These pet-like quality’s have caused some confusion. I’ve told my wife to” just crate him” , when I meant to say put him in his play-pen, on numerous occasions. I’ve  found the two older boys calling for the baby by going “here baby, baby, baby” while gently patting the floor in front of them. Also I have to constantly keep watch to make sure my three year old isn’t putting food down on the floor to feed the baby. We seem to be just short of the point where we’re scratching the baby behind the ear and telling him what a good boy he is.

It’s not all bad though. So far he seems very loyal and really likes a pat on the head from the older boys. He likes to play fetch. And he is very cuddly and loves to curl up in a warm lap to take a  nap.