It's only 'cause you've got a hand to lend

Kitchen tongs or my hand? What a gloriously curious dilemma for Sunday morning coming down. I've typed it before, and I'll type it again, Easy my ass, Lionel Richie was full of shit. As was our toilet. You see, Dear Reader, the Elder Boy was perched over it, howling. Me. Well up until a few moments ago I had been enjoying my first cup of coffee for the day, and trying to make sense of my quarterly 401(k) statement. So engrossed was I, that I vaguely remember Ethan announcing that he had to go poop, and inviting Wyatt to join him. That's not uncommon at our pad. Wy Wy almost always goes to the bathroom with Ethan. Ethan poops and Wyatt sits on a little stool and watches and reads magazines.

The howling by the Elder Boy isn't common however, so off I ran with a cup of coffee in one hand and my 401(k) statement in the other. Super Dad storming into the shitter. Ethan was still howling, perched over the kid toilet seat (it has Sponge Bob on it) and raising an incredible ruckus. Clearly agitated, he was holding his body up off of the seat, as if he was trying to get off it, backwards. Screaming like some jungle monkey. Wy Wy was over at the sink, on the stool, completely oblivious, brushing his teeth. I gave the Younger Boy a curious look, figuring he might have something to do with this situation. Wy Wy simply gave me his gee aren't I cute smile and said, "Hi."

Considering that I was set to go to Church in less than an hour, I'm not proud to say, that the first thing out of my mouth was this: "What in the hell is going on in here!" Nothing. Ethan kept right on howling, as he continued his backwards dismount off of the seat, which was smearing feces all over said seat and his buttocks. Wy Wy. He kept right on brushing his teeth.

Right about now, you might be asking yourself, where was the Boy(s) Mom? My Lovely Bride? She was on strike. She had sequestered herself in our bedroom, after having a difficult moment with the Elder Boy in our kitchen over a cup of hot chocolate and an ice cube. I was on my own.

"What in the HELLis going on here." Again, nothing. Ethan was trying to get it together, but still having a difficult time, speaking in that crazy jagged crying speak. Wy Wy. Brushed his teeth.

"Wy (sob sob sob sob)...Wy (sob sob sob sob)...Wy (sob sob sob)..." was all Ethan could say.
"What?!?"
"Wy (sob sob sob sob)...Wy (sob sob sob sob)...Wy (sob sob sob)..."

Frustrated, confused, and, well being the tremendous dip shit that I am, I turned my probing over to my 22 month old Boy, who was busy brushing his teeth.
"Wy Wy...WHAT did you do to Bubba?"
"Hi." was all I got.

Ethan was calming down enough by this point to get his point across.
"Wy (sob sob sob sob)...Wy (sob sob sob sob)...Wyatt (sob sob sob)...Wyatt threw (sob sob) truck (sob sob sob) into (sob) toilet."
Wyatt, sensed the conversation was turning toward him, and turned around on the stool, and pointed his tooth brush at his accuser, and said, I shit you not, "Hi."

Ethan lost it. More mad than sad, he erupted into what can best by described as a Muad'Dib yell at his brother, if you dig that nerdy Dune reference. Wyatt returned the yell. Me. I stood in the middle, looking down between Ethan's legs into the toilet, which did in fact, have a fire truck in it. Right next to a turd. Thus, I asked myself this: Tongs or my hand.

Until I BLOG again...My hand.

They can feel it all over...

A very long time ago, in a place far far away, I was but a Boy named Stu, shuffling at Skate World to Sir Duke by Little Stevie Wonder. I'm not sure if he was still Little in 1976, but he'll always be little to me, but, as usual, I digress. Shuffling...do you know shuffling? It was sort of roller skate disco dance type thing, I was good at it. I was quite the skater. Preternatural. My ability that is. One of the two things in which I am quite gifted. Pardon my second digression, and lack of modesty, but would you care to know the second skill in which I excel? Typing. I can type my ass off - fast, accurate, without even looking at the keys.

Back to the BLOG, and my point. Sir Duke. Stevie Wonder. Shuffling. To quote Little Stevie, from that very song, music is a world within itself, for all to sing, dance and clap their hands. Amen. I've always been into music. I currently have 3,022 songs on my iPod. All flavors too. Eclectic. That is why one of my favorite things as a breeder is to see what kind of music the Boy(s) dig. What they gravitate too. You see, Sir Duke was the first song I remember liking. Really liking. All on my own. I wasn't exposed to that much music as a kid at home. Not like the Boy(s). Music music too. None of that kid fare. We don't do that. Why?

You see, Dear Reader, I have a very vivid memory of a friend of mine, an old and gold friend. He was road tripping with his young family from a far away state. A red state. Most are these days. Anyway. They stopped by to see us, with their small child, who must have been around 3 at the time. We to were breeders at this point in our journey, but still pretty new to the game. Wyatt wasn't even in My Lovely Brides womb yet. So, being a new, inexperienced parent at the time, I paid extra close attention to those that went before, us, as it were. Unsolicited guides if you will. That is why, I will never, ever forget the dead, vacant look in my friends eyes as he got out of his car. He looked like a pod person. Not wanting to be impolite, I put my Invasion of the Body Snatcher thoughts aside, and gave him a hug, said hi to his bride, and his child.

Later, over beer(s), somewhat by ourselves, I decided to ask him, what was up, if he was alright? Maybe they were having marital problems? Financial issues? My mind was cooking up all of these gloom and doom scenarios. I had to know, not only because I was his friend, and care about him, but also, truth be told I was curious. In that sicko, let's all turn our heads and look at the car wreck, sort of way.

I took a pull on my beer, a little liquid courage, and asked. You know what, he answered. It wasn't marital problems. Money. Sexual dysfunction. Nope. Everything was pretty damn blissful in his life. Boringly so actually. His problem was self created, and he decided then and there to be a good friend to me, and issue a warning. "Stu," he said, "don't be like me. Do yourself a favor and never, I mean NEVER, let your kid listen to kid music on the car stereo."

"Excuse me?"
Shaking his head, he said more to himself than me, "Barney"
Again, I had to say, "Excuse me?"
Still shaking his head, with a glazed over look, he continued, "Barney. We listened to Barney for 6 hours. Across two states."

Sweet mother of all that is good, Barney? Purple dinosaur Barney?
You got it. And if that wasn't horrible enough, he went on to tell me it wasn't even a full CD. Just one song. His kid wanted to listen to the SAME song over and over and over. Non-stop, across two states. I can't imagine the horror of driving over the hills and through the woods to grandma's house (an 8 1/2 hour round trip drive for Team Tinsley) listening non-stop to kid music. It sounds tortuous to me, and after seeing my friends dead eyes, I know I can NEVER go there. I must heed his warning. I won't listen to Barney Sing The Blues, or Elmo's Rocking Roll Revue, or sweet mother of all that is good, The Hi-5 Kids Greatest Hits in the car, EVER!

Now, you might be thinking, Stu, you butt, your poor kids are missing out on music. That's the great thing. Our (my Lovely Bride actually can share the blame here too, cause she feels the same as me) selfishness has produced some early, and very distinct musical preferences in the Boy(s).

Take Wy Wy. Headbanger. Turn on some AC/DC and he's in heaven. I first figured out that he was a hard rock guy while watching the movie, School of Rock. The part where Jack Black's character first learns the kids can play music. He teaches them Smoke On the Water by Deep Purple. A famous and influential rock song if ever there were. I'm sure you know it, or have heard it, even if you don't know the name. It has a very recognizable, crunching four-tone minor key blues progression (I looked that up) that is perhaps the single most famous riff in heavy metal music history. I'd hum it for you if I could. Anyway, the first time this song came on the TV, Wy Wy stopped what he was doing and walked up in front of the TV and stood, transfixed. Slowly, he started doing, what can best be described as a monster of rock stagger. Left leg to right leg, and back, sort of teetering, and picking up speed as the song progresses. He also sort of sung, more of hum actually, along with it too. When it gets good and cooking, he usually finishes it off with his famous War Cry. I hope the Boy never smokes, but I can so see him at some concert, bic lighter in hand, wanting MORE!!! ENCORE...as he erupts into his war cry!

Ethan on the other hand, is a punk rocker. Take School of Rock again. It is a classic, in our house at least. Ethan loves Pick Up the Pieces. Well, that's what he calls it. The actual song is Bonzo Goes to Bitburg by The Ramones. Ethan will listen to it over and over, singing along w the chorus, and doing his 3 1/2 year old version of a slam dance.

Watching them both, doing their thing, to the music they like, simply amazes me. Sitting on my throne of impotence, as they sing, dance and clap their hands, I'm reminded of the Boy version of me, shufflin' his ass of at a roller rink in Sand Springs, Oklahoma, a long, long, time ago. The circle of life or some such. More to the point, it makes me happy to see them happy, music in their heart, dancing, singing, clapping - even if it is to AC/DC's Highway to Hell.

Until I BLOG again...Music is a world within itself, With a language we all understand, With an equal opportunity, For all to sing, dance and clap their hands!

I'm wide awake

I have a bad sense of humor. You might agree. Hell, you probably do agree since my bad usage can go either way, including poor. Still, I use bad in the sick sense. I find certain things funny, that other do not. Some of things that I think are really funny, actually might horrify some people.

Take this as an example.

A week or so ago in the rearview at work, I got a call from My Lovely Bride who was at home with Ethan (Friday is her and E's special day, Wy goes to Mother's Day Out up at the Arapaho Methodist Church.) She told me, she was sick, and could I please go and pick up Wy from the school, and then bring him home and watch both Boy(s) for the afternoon.

My Lovely Bride and I have very defined jobs in our life. One of the things she always handles is school with the Boy(s). In fact, even though Ethan who is fast approaching 4 has been going to AMC since he was younger than Wy, I've never ever picked him or Wy up from school. I've actually never even taken them to school. I've been to their school. So, I know the layout and all that, but anything else was voodoo to me.

So, as promised I roll up to the Church at 1:45pm and head to the toddler room. No one is there. Hmmm. Confused, I back track to the front office area to find someone who might know where The Little Warrior is at, when I'm stopped by another Mom (Wy Wy is, how can I say, infamous up at the Church for his warrior like ways) who recognizes me and tells me they are in another room for rest time. Ok.

So I head back to this room, which is where I pick up the Elder Boy from Sunday School after church (yes, we've been going to church, but I'll save my thoughts on that for another BLOG entry, just note, most of these people know me or who I am.) The room has one of those strange daycare type half doors that always confuse me. Its like a childproof top for a bottle of pills. The door knob at least. I can never get those damn things open. You know the type, the top half opens, while the bottom stays shut, by design, which keeps the kids inside and allows the care givers to talk to whomever is wanting to come into the room, and again, it has that pull while you turn kind of knob that confuses my goofy ass.

Anyway...I walk up to this McChild like window waiting for the lady in front of me to collect her kid when I notice Wy's teacher, who I had just met the previous Sunday at Church services. Of course I can't remember her actual name so I just say Hi, when another much younger, helper lady who I recognize from Wy's daycare (during Church Services) also sees me and comes up to tell me that Wy has been saying "Daddy?" all day long. I think she is telling me this to make me feel 'good' about being a Daddy. I'm not sure. I didn't get to really think it through that far, because that is when I turn and actually look into this room, or look down upon the floor, and die laughing. I'm talking out loud, loud laughing. The two nice ladies who know my Boy(s), my poor Lovely Bride, and me (kind of because of the Church connection) give me an uneasy look, to which I can only continue laughing.

You see, what you can't see, was what I saw, and coupled with that bad sense of humor I was telling you about, I was laughing my ass off at what looked like a crack den for toddlers.

I'm serious. In 38 years on mother earth I've never seen anything like it. There were 12 to 15 toddlers, in various stages of consciousness, on these little bare toddler mattresses that were scattered all over the floor of this room. Each kid had what the younger lady later called a 'lovey' or 'loveys' with them. A favorite blanket, or toy. Most had been crying thus they were snot nosed and red eyed. All were asleep, but doing that active toddler kind of sleeping which is fitful, so they are moving around a bunch, thus half of their dirty little mattresses.

It was the strangest thing...and as I've typed, funny, to me at least.

I laughed hard and to long, until I finally came to my sense and realized that these two nice ladies who go to our church were freaking out that I was laughing, and would never get the joke if I explained. Not to mention the Moms in line behind me. I'm afraid Wy Wy got 86'd from a few bday party invite lists based on my sick sense of humor that fine Friday.

So, trying as hard as I can, I pulled myself together, to play Dad, and stopped laughing. I was doing so good too, until I finally saw Wy in this den of inequity, who saw me, half asleep, with his blanket, he popped up and started doing a very clumsy, zombie like stagger toward me, and well Dear Reader, I lost it again.

Father of the year. That's me.
Until I BLOG again...Just say NO!