Black Hole in Cyberspace

Despite what many of you may believe, I've been blogging a lot lately. A whole lot. I'm talking hundreds of posts. All you have to do if you want to read them is get inside my head. Seriously, I find myself thinking about stuff I'd like to write about all the time. Then, I don't do it. Oh, I'm online plenty. I've got free time, some anyway. I could get the job done, but I choose not to.

And yet yesterday I'm reminded of the power of the internet. Xav had a friend over yesterday who asked whether I owned the MCG. "Umm, no, not me. I like it though, go all the time. Why do you ask?" "Because when you search it you see a picture of Xav and Mar." Sure enough, the kid was right. WTF -- I DO own the MCG. And even though I can't call myself a blogger anymore, it's clear the power of the blog lives on.

Doc and I were talking a while back about my lack of written flow. She commented that she thought the reason I don't post anymore is because I don't need it. Interesting. She knows I'm a blabbering sort and figures that back when I was getting into this mess I needed an outlet to express myself. I am more comfortable with this whole SAHD deal and thus do have less to talk about on the whole anxiety front. The Frasier in her may have been onto something. I didn't want to write a diary blog about the daily antics/cuteness of my kids (though I admit to travelling down that road on occasion). The struggle with personal identity, missing work -- all of that is, for the most part, gone (emphasis on "for the most part). But I'm not sure I should wax so poetic about it all. Rather, I see myself as rather pathetic. I like blogs. Read them all the time. And I like stay-at-home fatherhood. Two-and-a-half years and counting. But deep down I know the real reason why I haven't blogged as much is likely more to do with pure laziness than it the fact I have little to say. Those who know me know best -- I ALWAYS have something to say.

No promises, now. I may disappear out of cyberspace and back into real space, to be heard from but rarely. I don't pretend to think y'all miss me. But I do miss blogging. Unfortunately, it typically rests in the mid 20s of a to-do list that I rarely get past ten on.

If I Start Acting ANYTHING Like This, Take Me Down

Managing Mommy Rage

An excerpt:

"Move out of my way. Help me, please. Hold a door. Offer my kid your seat on the bus. Walk faster. Why so slow? Out of my way, I’m a mom! Yes, I have mommy rage. I don’t hide my feelings, and if you make me angry you will know it."

Yikes. I mean, I'm all for common courtesy, but ever hear of killing people with kindness? It actually works. So seriously, please, if this is me, tell me to cool down or slap me. Hard.

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On a different note, my multiple times a week to a few times a month to monthly to bi-monthly blog posting habit . . . it's ridiculous, I know. I admit it, I'm a slacker. Apologies, all.

I've Been A SAHD For All Three Birthdays

It's 10:26pm. Mar turned three today. I've been a stay-at-home dad for each of her three birthdays. Two plus years out of work yet engulfed in work, or is it work? I don't know. I fold a lot of laundry. Make a lot of meals. Buy a lot of groceries. Work? I don't know.

The years are literally ticking by. Mar is three? Xav . . . six? Really? And my role is so . . . traditional. Ok, not in the "I'm a housewife" sense -- if that's the tradition, then I'm not it. But I do all of the traditional things. I vacuum mindlessly in the middle of the day. I slip over Mar's head her favorite princess dress (why oh why must daughters like princesses?). I color and color and color -- Xav loves to color. I mediate arguments and play games of Uno, do the Little Bill "I Got A Letter" dance and wipe poop. I do all of this and more. And I've been doing it for a long time now.

I got a Christmas card from my old boss the other day. It was nice. We got along 90+% of the time, really good for a boss-employee relationship, I think. I liked my job 90% of the time as well.

And this job? I like it as well, though I'm not quite prepared to put a % on how much I do. But that's parenting, right? Some days -- just so very solid. The love they give just drowns out everything and makes it all so very worth it. Others . . . the love they give couldn't extinguish a match let alone the frustration building in my chest. But that's parenting, right?

My ace-in-the-hole? Doc. Heck, she's the one up before 6am and home just before 7pm. She's draining infected boils all day. I'm boiling eggs. She's telling a 60 year old on every med known to man that if he doesn't quit smoking soon he's going fall down and die. I'm telling two kids that if they don't stop standing on that bench, they're going to fall down and die. And yet she stares at me EVERY SINGLE NIGHT when she gets home with this look of sympathy like it's me who has had the rougher go of it. And I appreciate it. I don't deserve it, but I appreciate it. Men like feeling appreciated too, in case you haven't heard.

Mar turned three today. She's so beautiful. Funny as hell, too. I think it's in my best interests to keep doing this SAHD thing until she hits four. At least.

Of Lessons Learned, Skills Enhanced and Hello Kitty's Boobs

As I meander through the muck of stay-at-home fatherhood, I would say that these two nuggets have helped me the most thus far.

1) Never, ever forget the juice and Goldfish when picking up your daughter from preschool. Preschool-aged daughters are not the most understanding bunch. "But Mar, I was busy suturing up Sally's throat from a nasty raccoon bite!" "BUT YOU FORGOT MY JUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUICE!"

2) You are going to become a far better colorer than you ever thought possible. Christmas decorations, silverware holders, maps -- we color them all around here. Xav visits the Crayola website daily and is always kind enough to print me out something so I can color with him. I guess I can go thirty minutes without visiting Huffington, the Wake Forest message boards or my email accounts.

Seriously, so long as I handle these two things with grace daily, I'm good to go. The day breezes by uneventfully.

And now a story. Mar was resting on Doc's chest yesterday when she started poking around. "What's this?" she asked? "My boob," Doc answered. "You'll get them when you get older." Mar's response: "Can I get Hello Kitty ones?"

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

I Can't Peel Hard Boiled Eggs

I can't. And don't say it's because I'm not cooking them right because I am. Doc peels them like a champ (it's her cooking method, actually). I just suck at it.

In other news on this otherwise worthless little blog, I'll never go to Disney World again in the summer. We just got back from a late October getaway. Wow -- short lines, great weather . . . it was awesome. Oh, Disney, do me a solid and have that free Disney Dining Plan available in October, 2011 (I imagine that is when we'll head back -- take note, burglars). Need to gain a few pounds? Eat on the dining plan -- I ran a few mornings and walked the parks yet still gained weight. Oh, and the food was great.

I dropped a carpet powder bomb on our house yesterday. Walking in after our trip, I was overwhelmed by the scent of our dogs. So I bought some stuff w/ baking soda in it and went to town on every rug that our dogs come into contact with. Moral of the story -- dog scent in many ways smells better. I'm now trying to cover it up with the scent of Mrs. Pumpkin's chicken pie -- that should do the trick.

Most relevant to a blog about the trials and tribulations of being a stay-at-home dad, I hit the two year mark on Halloween. Two years in the house, changing diapers/pullups, preparing meals, running a dad taxi, doing laundry, buying groceries, blah blah blah. Honestly, it's flown by. I can't believe it's been two years since I put on a tie and headed to a job that I liked quite a bit. Our house runs like a top now -- much better than it did when both Doc and I were working. Xav and Mar -- I can't imagine telling them that I was going back to work. They love their lives now. 

Me? I'm making it. Honestly, I am. My family digs the work I do for them -- they tell me all the time. I like being digged. Two years down, how many more to go?

Living In That

I recently commented on a friend’s Facebook status that I too was feeling rather uninspired lately. Worse, I noted that I’m sort of content living without inspiration.

I’m struggling as of late to determine what it is that motivates me. There are some things, for sure, but not many are of value as I see them. I’m motivated to run and am enjoying running, despite the aches, pains and downright strains it is putting on my body. Being inspired to run is, I believe, a good thing. But the rest . . . I don’t know. I’m inspired to keep the house running in tiptop shape. You know, get the laundry done, keep stuff tidy, shop, make sure Mar and Xav get to school, get home, get their fun in and their homework done.

After the relay (no post race write-up, but we won, the trip was great, my body held up -- good stuff all around), I finished The White Tiger. I’ve always been fascinated with India. I remember writing a big report on it in 3rd or 4th grade -- won a prize and everything. One of my favorite schoolboy crushes was an Indian girl. Such an amazing country -- sad and happy at the same time. So, yes, books inspire me at times as well.

I don’t think I’ve been a very good husband lately. That’s not to say I’ve been a bad one, but I haven’t done much to deserve merit of any sort. Doc gets home, we smile at each other then care for the kids. We do our own thing before bed and then smile at each other one more time before falling to sleep. It’s not pretend or fake -- we do love each other. But she’s tired and I’m, well, uninspired.

So this is it, huh? I’ve been a stay-at-home dad for just short of two years now and this is what happens? Stay-at-home parents, without mental challenges or problem solving skills put to the test, turn into task-oriented zombies (simple tasks at that)? Or, is this what happens when one lets it happen? It's not as if I sit around the house all day, watching tv or surfing the internet (ok, I probably surf more than I should). I'm doing stuff. As it stands, I can’t see the light at the end of the whenever it is that this will end -- Mar’s still two, for crying out loud. More importantly, I’m not even looking for the light. I’m in a routine that is comfortable -- I’m getting stuff done, the kids are happy, and that’s that. That’s that.

That’s that. That is why I haven’t blogged for a while. For all you folks wondering where I've been, that is where. That.

HEY BUD!!!

HEY BUD! It's always been our rallying cry. We always greet each other with a loud "HEY BUD!" Drinking? "HEY BUD!" Really drinking? "HEYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY BUD!" For our spouses, our significants, our children, the poor old souls sitting next to us at the bar -- it gets annoying, I'm sure.

This weekend, HEY BUD! takes on a whole new meaning in the lives of my friends and myself. In 20 minutes or so, CDL will pick me up and together we'll head to the airport for a trip to Boston. There, we will meet up with 12 of our best friends, guys with whom we drank, studied, read, ran, fought, and did more things I'll never talk about with anyone else but them (I'd rather die -- seriously). Guys with names like 8-Ball, Riverbark, Ween, Danger, Hammer (that's me, actually). A dangerous group? Only to ourselves. We'll drive up to New Hampshire and participate in the 200+ mile Reach The Beach distance relay. I'm sure to die there, actually. The running is going to be hard, as will be the laughter. Thanks be to Doc for supporting me throughout my training, the physical and financial workouts (therapy, orthotics, massage -- ugh). I wonder if the promise of me not returning spurred her support?!?

So, if you're relaxing on the couch and enjoying a beverage sometime around 10pm on Friday, feel free to raise your glass and shout a hearty "HEY BUD!" as it will be then when I will be embarking on my first of three relay legs. And if you're still drinking at 4am when I start leg two, well, get some help.