How About Two? - A Daddy Blog

Ah Reckon, Pard’ner…

2010-08-08T20:36:00.006-06:00

This weekend we were invited down to West Pueblo, CO to spend time with some of P.Pie’s relatives whom – for the sake of this post and personal enjoyment – we’ll call Aunt Callejón, Aunt Grammy, Uncle PopPop, Hot Tub Cowboy, Miss Priss, and Bush [ed. note: see below for exact familial relationship].

Personally, I wasn’t all that thrilled with going as there is always things that need to be done around the house, at work, or in an attempt to have a social life. But I always worry when the family travels alone, so I drove us all down there.

West Pueblo is, as you might imagine, west of the town of Pueblo. As it turns out, it’s quite a bit west; I was beginning to think we were in Monument Valley, Arizona. But when we finally got there – among the scrub brush, stunted cedar trees, and low mesas, plateaus and buttes – I was awestruck. The beauty of Southern Colorado is often overshadowed by the majesty of the Rockies to the northwest, but it should not be.

The property is in a ‘subdivision’ of large lots (think 40 – 400+ acres) made up of small herd cattle ranchers, equestrian ranchers, alpaca/llama ranchers and people who just like wide open spaces. The home we visited was perched on top of a small mesa looking over sparse cedar trees across a plateau and a valley beyond that. Amidst the scrub, large limestone boulders surrounded the house punctuated with sparse curves of lush St. Augustine grass.

The particular slice of heaven we were visiting belonged to Hot Tub Cowboy (so called because we set up his hot tub while we were there) and besides a gracious nature and a beautiful home, he also has three horses. So after dinner, HT Cowboy, Bush (HTC’s son), Squeak and I took a walk to feed said horses.

After a skidding fall in the dirt and the shale, resulting in dirty hands, a slightly skinned knee and a few tears, we made it to the horse stalls. Squeak sat on the top of a fence rail, in awe of the massive majestic animals. After a dumping of hay and hand feeding of corncobs, we were joined by Axe, P.Pie, and Aunt Callejón.

HTC asked who wanted a horsey ride. Have you ever seen a 3.5 year old girl turn down a pony ride? Yeah, me neither. She was in absolute heaven and Axe would not miss his turn. They both did great.

While the entire trip was great and the horse ride was probably the cherry on top, my favorite moment was after the kids had had a quick swim in the above ground pool. Squeak was naked in the kitchen, changing from wet Disney princess bathing suit to dry shorts and Axe was grabbing her from behind in a rough/tough brotherly hug, to which Squeak replied, “Axe! Don’t love me while I’m naked!”

[ed. note - here's the familial stuff]

Aunt Callejón is P.Pie’s cousin, Miss Priss is Callejón's 4 year old girl, Aunt Grammy/Uncle PopPop are Callejón’s Parents and related to P.Pie on her mother’s side while Hot Tub Cowboy is Callejón’s boyfriend and Bush is HTC’s six year old boy.

Clear? Good. Now explain it to me.

Let’s Put a Smile on That Face

2010-05-31T14:58:00.002-06:00

How about a prequel to Batman Begins? You know, a sort of Batman Begins Begins with Batman and the Joker as kids. And Axe as The Joker, of course.

The photo above was taken just the other day while eating the frosting off of the top of a cupcake, but before he fell out of the chair and onto the tiled floor.

There were tears, but in the end no bruises, cuts or scrapes that, years from now, he would have pointed to and said, "You shoulda seen the fall that caused this!"

He and his sister both are impossibly big, improbably old; In a single breath, they will swear they know it all, yet look on the wonderment of the toy aisle as if they were Lewis & Clark, the first to ever lay eyes on them.

Yes, it’s been a while since my last post.

I regularly have dozens and dozens of ideas for posts – a trip to the mall, the first taste of raw onion, a scraped knee - but the day gets away from me and it’s filed in the idea folder in the filing cabinet that is my mind. Writing is a skill that gets better with practice; it also atrophies from lack of use. This blog is not only meant to chronicle the kids’ life, but also exercise my writing muscles.

Enough of my grousing, here is a quick update on the kids –

They both had well-toddler check ups a couple of weeks ago and the doctor says they are progressing like champs! Everybody is healthy and well-adjusted, in spite of their oddball father. The Doc was particularly impressed with Axe’s vocabulary; like The Squeaker, his tongue is tied in the middle and loose at both ends.

There will be more updates. Soon. I promise.

As Surely as Night Follows Day

2010-03-02T21:25:00.002-07:00

Here we are 11 days after the twins’ birthday so that can only mean one thing; the anniversary of the day we let Doss go.

An interesting thing happened a few months ago that I’ve been saving to write about on this anniversary.

As with most, if not all, companies that have computers, my work has a 60-day password policy. So every 60 days I must come up with a new password using upper & lower case letters and at least one number and one character.

I tend to move through family member names and when the “your password expires in X days” reminder popped up on my computer, I had been thinking about Doss. So I took that as a sign and used his name as part of a cryptographic password.

So for 60 days, I typed his name several times a day. Now it’s fair to say that I normally reflect on him a couple of times a week anyway, but this two month period had me doing it all the time.

I get in to the office in the morning, I type my password.

I get up from my desk to get coffee/soda/snack, I lock my computer (we have a little competition going on where if you leave your computer unattended, you wind up with a different wallpaper on your desktop), so I have to type my password.

I get back from a meeting, I type my password.

I get back from lunch, I type my password.

So as you can imagine, there is a lot of typing of passwords.

Then, all of a sudden, I get the “your password expires in X days” reminder again. And I’m suddenly wracked with remorse; I’ve got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I tell the system to put it off for a day.

I’m horrible depressed for the entire day. And I cannot put my finger on it. So I cut out a little early and head home.

The next day my computer reminds me again that I need to change my password and again I’m hit with another wave of melancholia. And it dawns on me, losing my everyday contact with Doss’ name was just like losing him again. And while it was a little “easing” to know where the feelings were coming from, it was still a swift kick in the gut.

So there it is.

Three years later and you still bring me to tears, boy.

King of Cool, part II

2010-02-27T20:06:00.003-07:00

If you haven't seen Steve McQueen in his final film, 'The Hunter', portraying real-life bounty hunter Ralph 'Papa' Thorsen, then stop reading this, go rent it (Netflix has it) and then come back.

It's okay, we'll wait.

Welcome back.

Saw it? Cool. While it's no 'Bullitt', the Firebird chase scene is still pretty good.

Anyhoo, this is a picture of Axe channeling all the cool that is Steve McQueen; wearing the green waist jacket with dark jeans, looking back over his shoulder, glinty look in his eyes and to top it off, a lollipop stick hanging from between pursed lips.

Too cool, Axe.

Too cool.

Squeaker at Three

2010-02-22T20:32:00.006-07:00

Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Squeaker, happy birthday to you!!!!!!

Unfortunately Axe has a mild case of RSV, so we had to do a low-keyed celebration – just the family. But that didn’t stop us from having a four-person party, replete with top-your-own English muffin pizzas and individual, create your own, single serving birthday cakes (aka cupcakes with sprinkles).

And presents, of course. What birthday party would be a birthday party without presents?

It’s worth pointing out that as the recipient of presents, I am generally not allowed to hold said presents prior to moment that they are to be opened. I have a knack for being able to guess what the present contains.

It’s a curse, really. And for many years I did it as a parlor trick. I’d turn the present over a time or two, give a gentle shake, and announce the package’s contents. I thought everybody thought it was clever.

Everyone did not.

Particularly PPie. I once made her cry for guessing a gift and, in her words, “Taking the fun out of giving me a gift.” I don’t do it anymore. In fact, I’m so out of practice, I don’t think I could do it anymore even if I wanted to.

Back to the party.

So Squeak gets a her presents – one from Mommy & Daddy and one from Axe – And picks them up, one at a time, and she says, “I got a Barbie and a baby doll!”

The Bath Barbie and Strawberry Shortcake were both still wrapped in their respective gift wrapping.

I beamed. PPie was less than pleased.

(He doesn't look sick...)

Squeaker-isms and the Return of the Muffle Bag

2010-02-14T15:40:00.004-07:00

Long before the invention of the snack bag, my mother threw a handful of King Vitamin cereal into a thin sandwich bag to munch on during our car trips to some store or the longer rides from Ft. Worth to Dallas to visit my maternal grandparents.

For reasons unremembered by me and unknown to my mother, I labeled these travel snacks a “Muffle Bag.” Perhaps they were so-called because that was the job they accomplished – keeping my mouth busy so I was muffled. Although, quite honestly, I don’t know whether I was a jabber jaw or not. But no matter.

The Muffle Bag has made a glorious return in the Barron house and we use them when we’re going anywhere. In the morning when we’re heading to daycare, the bags are filled with cereal or cut up bite sized waffles. If it’s an afternoon trek, the snack might be crackers or Cheerios with a smattering of craisins thrown in for variety/flavor. The beauty of the Muffle Bag is that it’s snack agnostic.

The Muffle Bag is a big hit and has, in fact, been in use for a quite awhile – at least a year, maybe longer – I just haven’t written about them. I’ve been waiting to use it as lead-in for another topic, sort of a teaser for another piece. And in this case it’s the lead-in for Squeaker-isms.

Just as I had a penchant for naming things, The Squeaker has a knack for pulling new names out of the box. Here are just a few –

Mickeys – Ponytails. Not sure how this one came to be; she came home from Shell's (daycare provider) one day using it. When I ask about it, Shell assumed we called it that. Weird.

Zurt – Dessert. Pretty straight forward.

Paper Toilet – Toilet Paper. Seems to a simple transposing of words, but it's super-cute coming out of her mouth!

Water in My Eyes – Tears, Post-Crying. Also super-cute!

– of course, now that I put them down on paper I can only come up with four big ones. So that these sayings do not sink below the waves of memory into obscurity, I will make short posts with pictures and a Squeaker-ism when they come up.

The Boy Explosion

2010-01-10T20:29:00.007-07:00

Axe has been blowing the doors off of 2010!

First, as the pictures point out, we have had success on the potty! Don’t get too excited; the first time, Tuesday morning, he woke up with a dry diaper and I had the forethought to place on the throne. The second time, Saturday afternoon, he was standing in our bedroom and concentrating really hard.

“Axe,” I said. “Do you need to potty?” He looked at me, then in the direction of the bathroom and trotted that way. So scooped him up, undid his britches, and plopped him on the toilet. Shortly thereafter, we had our first poop on the potty.

A round of applause and ‘hip, hip, hurrahs’ went up throughout the house.

Of course, one peepee and one poop do not a trained potty’er make. We are not drill sergeants about potty training, but rather we like to ease into it. As a wise man one said, “The path of a thousand miles starts with the first pee.”

Axe’s vocabulary has also exploded in the first ten days of the New Year. Actually, he’s been gearing up for the last month or two, but at daycare when we came back after the weeklong break between, they were shocked at his language skills.

And frankly, so am I.

He’s become quite the Myna bird; if you repeat a word two or three times to him, he’ll say it back to you.

Repeatedly.

Axey’s favorite word is currently Elmo. Every fuzzy creature is Elmo. Most dogs are Elmo – except our dog, Beej, & Scooby Do.

Axe pronounces it Eh-moe... realllll slowwwwww. So, I taught him to say ‘brains’ right after Elmo.

So Axe walks around the house, arms outstretched saying, Eh-moe... braaaansss.

It’s like having a toddler zombie in the house. And I laugh at it.

Every.

Single.

Time.

Hopefully his pronunciation won’t improve anytime soon.

What We Aught to Do

2010-01-03T18:03:00.004-07:00

As we leave the ‘aughts’ and embark on a new decade, I am left wondering why the term “aught” didn’t catch on.

It wasn’t for my lack of trying; I used it in everyday life.

When someone asks me when we moved to Colorado, I’d say, “The end of double aught.”

What about those great pics of Mexico on the dining room buffet? “Those were take in aught one, our first (and so far only) vacation out of the country,” I’d boast.

When did we buy our house? “Aught two,” would be the reply.

What years were the best for the HBO series ’Six Feet Under’? “Aught three and aught four,” I’d declare.

The diploma in my office? “From the University of Colorado in aught five,” I crowed.

When were the kids born? “Aught seven and aught eight, of course,” I beamed.

My all time favorite? When filling out a check a person asks about the date, “December 3^rd, aught nine,” was the response.

Perhaps I am simply ahead of my time; the last time there were ‘aughts’, what did they call them while they were in it? Maybe calling them ‘aughts’ is something that is done after the fact. Maybe it’s only in retrospect that the single digit years can be called ‘aughts’.

So be it, then I am an innovator.

A Very Curmudgeonly Christmas

2009-12-27T21:16:00.003-07:00

I am not, by nature, a very Christmas-y kinda person. I am, in fact, a bit of a curmudgeon.

No, scratch that. I’m a major curmudgeon.

You may ask, what is a curmudgeon? The “according to Hoyle” (or in this case, Webster) definition is “A crusty, ill-tempered, and usually old man.”

But it’s more than that. I prefer to think of a curmudgeon as a person who sees the world for what it is - trouble.

I’ve always had curmudgeonly tendencies – sort of a curmudgeon-in-training, if you will. But since I turned 40 (nearly a year ago!), I have officially hung my curmudgeon shingle outside my door; no longer an apprentice, but a full fledged journeyman with his eyes finally wide open.

My curmudgeonly ways come to me by way of a black streak of curmudgeonliness that runs in my paternal line. In fact, I dare say that even if Axe didn’t want to be a curmudgeon, he would have little ability to circumvent it.

Axe may deny that he is wired that way – heaven knows I tried. Axe may even delude himself into believing that that is the truth. But one day, he’ll be having a conversation with someone and that someone will say something so incomprehensibly ignorant that he will be force to speak out against it. And it may not even be a conversation; it could something someone on the television said. Or something he read online or in an article.

And he will be force to speak out against it.

Even if he is the only person in the room.

Curmudgeon runs deep in a Barron male. Axe, if you are reading this some twenty years from now and you still doubt me, ask your mother (or your Golly, or your Grammy) if it’s true.

The hot, tar like streak of curmudgeon sticks to a Barron male like crude oil to a pelican’s feathers.

On the bright side Squeaker should be spared, as Barron females carry nary a trace of the black streak. Go figure.

But I digress. Back to the point of the post.

This is the first Christmas we've had a Christmas tree since we've had kids.

Not for lack of money, or belief in the holiday or anything like that; it’s just been impractical – either the kids have been too young or we were Xmasing at someone else’s house (someone who had to have a tree).

But this year, we had to get a tree; if it had just been Axe, we could have pushed another year, but The Squeaker knows Christmas.

While Squeak knows Xmas, she hasn’t got the open-presents-on-a-specific-day part down. The first presents we put under the tree were savagely attacked weeks before the socially agreed upon time.

So we had to hide all presents until Christmas Eve. Until after they went to bed on Christmas Eve.

There were lots of presents for both the kids, but the big present for Squeak was a kitchen and for Axe, a ride on Mater (of Cars fame).

Both were big hits.

We did have a couple of surprise hits – A Barbie doll and Matchbox cars.

Squeak got a Barbie as a Christmas party gift and suddenly it was, “Barbie, Barbie, Barbie.”

She now wants everything Barbie. It was really weird, almost cult-ish. One day, she was oblivious to the 50 year old blonde bombshell, the next she must have it ALL. It’s like the initial doll must have a brainwashing mechanism in it… sorry, my curmudgeon-ness coming out.

Axe hasn’t gone “all things Matchbox,” but he did TOTALLY get them. He has a toy garage with a wrap around road (made for some other type of large plastic car) and he spent 10-20 minutes (an eternity for him) running the Matchbox cars around the loop.

It was a great Christmas and now that we’ve done it once, we’ll have to do it again.

At least until they're 18 or so.

The Patch

2009-11-01T18:16:00.006-07:00

Agriculture is a big part of life in Colorado.

That’s mostly cattle, but we do have a fair share of agro-soil stuffs. Here are a few facts about Colorado crops that I bet you didn’t know (& neither did I until I decide to write this post!) –

Colorado is the biggest producer of proso millet (a grass that's grown as a grain crop for livestock) in the country.

We’re number five in the country for the production of sunflowers (which, by the way, is P.Pie’s favorite flower).

The highest alpine valley that produces crops is the San Luis Valley in SW Colorado. They grow 60,000 acres if potatoes there.

Our leading veggie crop is onions and our leading fruit is peaches.

We even manage to grow a few pumpkins.

And at this time of year, they open their doors, give hayrides, have corn mazes, and sell fresh grown pumpkins that you get to pick yourself. All this comes at a fee, of course. $10 per adult, $5 for kids under 12 and kids under 3 are free.

So for $20, the four of us got the opportunity to ride a flatbed trailer pulled by a tractor, pick a pumpkin and pay a premium price for a fresh pumpkin.

Yes, I’m a little upset that I paid money to get it, had to harvest the pumpkin myself and then pay more for it than I would at my local grocers. But, I’m a fan of the free market system and if they can make a go at it, then so be it. There was a line of cars to get in every weekend leading up to Halloween, so apparently I am the only one who feels shorted.

To be fair, they did have a plethora of things to see and do, not the least of which is a corn maze, and all of that costs them money t set up and maintain.

And finally, the kids had a blast so that makes it all worthwhile (and I even managed to eke out some enjoyment watching the kids have so much fun).

Enjoy the pics.

Yes, there were animals in the pen...

Look! Our holiday card!

"Daddy, Where do splinters come from?"

"Do we get all these pumpkins?"

"I know the way!"

Lunch break!

"Check out my Baby GQ pose!"

"Do I have to pose?"

"It's a bongo, right?"

"These are MINE!"

Boys vs. Girls - The Axe Man

2009-09-12T15:00:00.005-06:00

This post is an Axe update post, but I want to start with a Squeaker story… in a round about sort of way.

When Squeak was young and we’d change her diaper (a distant memory now with potty training pretty much complete), she’d generally stretch out in repose on the changing table, contemplating whatever infant/toddlers contemplate, and let us change her diaper with minimal hassle or complaint.

By comparison, her boy cousins, Gunslinger & O-Pickle, would thrash around, catch hands full of poop, jump up, run around naked and just generally be pains in the arses. I wrote it up to… well… not poor parenting, but poor planning. That is, when at home, we always changed Squeak on her changing table. Whereas, her cousin counterparts were change where ever was convenient – floors, couches, beds… anywhere.

I assumed – incorrectly – that’s why they behaved the way they did. Secretly I was patting myself on the back for proper example setting.

That is, until we had Axe.

Since there is only 16 months between brother & sister, we did diaper duty for the former as we did the latter. Only, Axe doesn’t lie in repose; he throws himself around, grabbing at his junk and the diaper and squealing like a wounded monkey.

Honestly, it DOUBLES the time it takes to change a single diaper; and talking with other parents of boys and girls, this is standard for boys.

And that’s only the beginning.

Squeak is a bit of shrinking violet when it comes to many things, including being thrown about, roughhousing, and even walking (here’s a previous post about it).

Not Axe - he has no fear (which gives me great fear). Crawling is a thing of the past; he walks everywhere now. He loves to be tossed in the air, to jump, to crawl up and stand on everything (including the kitchen table)! He’ll probably be an X Gamer or the next Johnny Knoxville.

He’s also not the talker that Squeak is/was… at least not yet. He has picked a new word that he’s been bandying about a lot lately - dog. But it sounds like dag… much the way Brad Pitt’s character Mickey O’Neil says "dog" in Snatch. He could also be saying his grandfather Cappy’s name, Doug, but he’s looking at Beej when he says it, so I’m pretty sure it’s dog.

And BIG; he’ll easily outpace his sister in the growth department any day now. He’s already started standing up to her (both literally and figuratively) and swinging back at her when she takes a poke at him or takes a toy he had.

Like his sister, Axe loves to laugh. And their laughs sound alike. His face usually sports a sly grin, like he's got the inside scoop on a funny story. Or a better description might be that he's got a joke he's dying to tell.

Blue eyes, a big grin and a dimpled cheek… I may have to change his nickname to Killer.

She’s a Big Girl Now

2009-07-05T20:15:00.002-06:00

Back in October, I mentioned that we were “easing” The Squeaker into potty training. I made it sound like we ordered her pre-potty trained from the factory.

Had that been a choice, we certainly would have taken it… but such was not the case.

During the intervening nine months, it seemed that with every two steps forward there was at least one step back. Fortunately, that still leaves a net gain of one step forward.

Today, all those single steps finally paid off; Squeak spent the day in real big girl undies! Well, not a real BIG girl’s undies rather, real panties like a grown up girl!

We’ve been at the Princess Pull-Up stage for a number of months, and it’s been sort of hit & miss – dry days, wet nights; wet days, dry nights. No real rhyme or reason, but we didn’t want to give her a complex about it. We simply praised her when she succeeded and poo-poo’d (no pun intended) the accidents.

But in the last week or so, Squeak had dry days and nights. The clincher happened at a friend’s July 4th party; Squeaker stopped us in mid-revelry and said, “I need to potty.”

This is a huge step. Normally when we’re out, she tells us she just went potty. In her pants.

But given the fact that the previous few days had been relatively dry, we decided a day of real panties was in order. In the interest of full disclosure, we did have an accident early on in the day in the backyard. But it taught her a valuable lesson – peeing down your leg is NO FUN. We stripped her down, cleaned her up and put her in a fresh pair of panties.

And I’m proud to say that we didn’t have a single accident the rest of the day.

We drove multiple miles and went to several stores and had no “accidents”. More than once we did have to RUN to a bathroom a time or two, but every time The Squeaker warned us of the impending event.

With a successful day of dryness in real panties, Squeak is sleeping in Princess Pull Ups tonight and tomorrow we’ll try for another day of dryness.

Next Stop, The Why Zone

2009-06-24T20:43:00.002-06:00

There is a fifth dimension, beyond that which is known to man.

It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition. And, it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Why Zone.

“Dinner This Evening”

Daddy: “Tonight’s dinner is mac ‘n cheese with li’l smokies and green beans.

Squeaker: “Why?”

Daddy: “Because you love mac ‘n cheese.”

Squeaker: “Why?”

Daddy: “Because it’s good for you.”

Squeaker: “Why?”

Axe: “Eeeee-aaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!”

Squeak has been pretty easy on the “Why”s for the last two years. In fact, if she had a why and you answered it, that was it. Done deal, question answered. On to the next thing.

Last Saturday, Squeak entered the Why Zone when she woke up.

And.

It.

Hasn’t.

Stopped.

I’m afraid this is a long term issue….

HowAboutTwo.com Picked Up for Another Season

2009-06-02T13:33:00.005-06:00

I know it seems like we may have been cancelled*, but it was just an extended break.

I’d love to use the burglary as the excuse for a three month hiatus, but that would be a cop out. While it took nearly four weeks to settle up with the insurance company (they lowballed us the first time and we had to fight to get the write $ amounts) and another two to three weeks to get replacement items, I did have the use of my work laptop.

No, there is no good excuse. All I can say is that life got in the way of writing about life.

Funny how that works out; but we’re back with tons of things to blog about. So here’s a quick rundown…

The Squeaker is in full terrible two toddlerism. I know, I know… A few posts back I wrote that being two was no big deal for Squeak. I was mistaken – she’s developed quite the tantrum skills.

TV has become Squeaker’s friend… Good? Bad? Only time will tell.

In 2+ months, Axe has gone from carpet shark to crawler to furniture walker; can full-on walking be far behind?

Axe has also moved from mushed foods to self-directed feedings of pasta, veggie/fruit slices, Cheerios, and the occasional pieces of kibble snatched from Beej’s bowl.

We had some pictures taken for Mother’s Day.

We took our first family car trip! (I’ll actually post about that later)

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg… more to come. I am going to try to get back on the once a week schedule of posting. No promises, but I am going to try.

We’ve Been Robbed…

2009-03-19T20:52:00.004-06:00

According to the Associated Press style guide, the proper term is “burgled”. The according to Hoyle difference is as follows:

Robbery is the taking or attempting to take something of value from another person by use of force, threats or intimidation. And Burglary is the unlawful entry of a ‘structure’ to commit a felony or a theft. Burglary is commonly known as a "break in," or, "breaking and entering." A ‘structure’ is usually in reference to physical buildings but not cars. Car break-ins or thefts are considered larcenies.

So, by definition, we were burgled.

Last Monday afternoon, a sneak-thief – or more likely thieves – broke into our house and stripped it of nearly everything electronic. Most definitely every piece of valuable electronica.

To add insult to injury, they thrashed the house, emptying every drawer, disturbing every piece of furniture in their larcenous lust for loot.

I was finishing up a five-day business trip to Oregon when PPie called me frantically, crying that we had been robbed, everything taken.

I grabbed my bags and headed for the airport, in hopes of catching an early flight home. Instead, I got to sit in the terminal an extra four hours. Yea.

In my absence, the cops came, took photos, asked questions, and before leaving, said the CSI would be by to take prints. PPie went to stay at her sister’s house with the kids and to wait for me.

My flight arrived at nearly midnight and I headed to our violated home, in hopes of making some sense of it, or at least putting out of my mind the idea that it was just some terrible dream or a horrible joke.

The house looked like a tornado had hit it. Rather than answering any questions, it simply opened up a whole new crop of them – why make a jelly sandwich, only to smear it on the carpet in the bedroom? Why take video games and not the DVDs? Why steal $100 in Jorja's birthday/Xmas money piggy bank, but not the $75 in silver change on my dresser? Why drink two beers, but leave two others?

Why, why, why????

I am not the type of person to say, “Well, I hope they can make use of it.” Or, “If they’d just asked, I would have helped them out.” Colorado has a “Make My Day” law; had I caught them in the act, I would have exercised that right.

As it stands, this is probably one of those crimes where the criminals are not caught, at least not for this crime. But, if there is one iota of justice they will go to jail for a crime they did not commit.

Finally, here is the partial list of missing items wrap up, SportsCenter-style:

Our 46” HiDef, flat panel TV? Gone

My XBOX360 and 20+ games? No longer in the house.

The Wii? Departed along with a half-a-dozen games.

Not one or two laptops, but all THREE laptops are history.

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I don’t doubt that three months from now I’m going to look for a specific doohickey and realize that I haven’t seen it since the EVENT.

For now, we have cleaned up and are back in the house, sans-electronica. We’ve made a claim to our homeowner’s insurance and I’m sure that is going to be another battle.

Another Year Past

2009-03-02T20:56:00.004-07:00

Here we are, two years past and it’s still fresh. It still hurts.

I thought that pouring my heart out to you, for you, last year would help. But it was only a Band-Aid on a bullet wound.

I talked to your brother about you tonight. Yes, I know he’s only 9 months old. We share a maturity level… that and he’s a good listener. He has started crawling, army style. His legs want to get involved but they’re a bit spastic yet. I’m sure he’ll the hang of it in a week or two.

I am occasionally concerned that he might feel shorted – that I love him less or I love you more or something along those lines. But I don’t. No more than I love your sister more than I love you or your brother.

Speaking of your sister, she’s doing great. We did the 24 month well-baby (really well-toddler) visit, and she got straight As. She’s very much like your mother; a constant talker that wants it all. She can string four and five words together into simple sentences, stringing those sentences together into day-long diatribes about the life of a two year-old. She's got her tongue tied in the middle and loose at both ends.

Your mom talks about you all the time. She points out that you are a constant thread that runs through our lives… never seen but always felt. Always acknowledged.

My thoughts are sort of all over the place; one moment I want to rant and yell and curse at the stars for your loss, and the next I just want to cry.

But neither does anyone any good. So I will keep on keeping on, care for your family, and keep your spirit alive.

Anyway, we’re here and missing you.

Sickness, Birthdays & a New Favorite Toy

2009-03-01T10:10:00.005-07:00

The Squeaker is back and better than ever! We spent two nights in the hospital and then week at home breathing oxygen when she slept. But she is now off the O2 and just being Squeak.

For those of you who are regular readers, you may have noticed that the twins’ birthday was several days ago and I wrote nothing about it. Due to The Squeaker’s illness, we decided to cancel our party plans (a party at a children’s habitrail place) and just do a small family thing at Auntie & Uncle’s house.

Auntie made a FABULOUS cake, fit for a princess, and Squeak opened a bunch of presents.

Squeak got socks, a couple of puzzles, some Lego Duplex, a few outfits, and a magic drawing board (you write on it and then pull a lever and it wipes it clean). But her favorite present – and new favorite toy – was a child sized umbrella stroller.

The little pink stroller has held all of her babies, including Elmo and Cookie Monster, and has served as a napping place as well as a feeding station for the aforementioned toys.

She pushes it in her room.

She pushes it in the kitchen.

She pushes it in the living room.

She pushes it in the front yard and in the back yard.

Sometimes she even pulls the stroller, dragging it on its side, babies still safely buckled in.

I suspect this toy will be with us for some time to come. Good gift giving, Auntie.

Happy Valentine’s Day… Let’s Visit the ER!

2009-02-15T20:54:00.002-07:00

Squeaker woke with a miserable cry so early on Friday morning that at one point in my life I would have called it Thursday night.

Long story short, she had a 101.5 fever. A shot of Tylenol later, her fever was down but she was sleeping restlessly.

Go past calling in sick and spending the day with kids, collect $200 and land on Saturday. She just can’t quite kick the fever, but she’s responded to the Tylenol, so we’re not overly concerned.

That is, until late Saturday afternoon. She became listless and her breathing was rapid. After a quick consult with “The Mothers”, we decided to visit the local Quik Stop Docs (it’s not really called that, but you know what I mean).

15 minutes after that, we were on the way to the emergency room.

Fortunately, the Quik Stop Docs called ahead for us (kinda like call ahead seating) and got the ball rolling so that when we walked in the door, we were shown to a ~~table for four~~ a exam room.

A short wait later, Squeaker was diagnosed with viral pneumonia. A few shots of liquid steroids, a dose of ibuprofen and a round with the weights, she was feeling more herself. We played a rousing game of “can’t get out the ER exam room door” while the ER Doc called Squeak’s regular pediatrician.

After a consult, the ER Doc recommended that Squeak stay overnight to keep an eye on her O2 level (which had been low when we came in). So she & P.Pie checked into Hotel Hospital while I went back home to relieve the sitter.

Fast forward to now (Sunday night) and Squeaker & P.Pie are still in the Hotel Hospital ‘cause her sleeping O2 level drops below 90.

When I know more, you’ll know more.

Life on the (Sesame) Street

2009-02-09T20:37:00.005-07:00

The Squeaker has discovered Sesame Street.

Specifically, she has found that lovable red haired, googly-eyed, mop topped monster affectionately know as Elmo. And while it’s better than a certain purple annoyasaurus, I am a little concerned with her zealousness for Elmo.

Whenever a muppet comes on the TV – any muppet (including most Star Wars characters) – she begins to chant “Ehmo! Ehmo! Ehmo!” and pirouettes around the room.

And then there’s the toy issue.

Every Elmo toy in her collection is hers.

Everyone else’s Elmo toy is hers.

Elmo is hers. If she could get to Sesame Street, she’d hang around on Sesame Street corners, frequenting Hooper’s store and writing a barrage of multicolored crayon scribbles professing her undying love.

And if that was all, hoarding Elmo toys and daydreams of living in a one room NYC-style walkup with Elmo, we’d be a-okay.

Unfortunately, her demeanor deteriorates rapidly when Elmo doesn’t appear on the screen - the chants become questions and the pirouettes turn into lumbering stomps, each thud of her tiny foot punctuated by angry denials.

Ehmo…?
The lower lip quivers.

Ehmo!
Sadness turns to anger which quickly becomes tears of rage if we don’t divert her attention quickly with some bright, shiny object. It is a small window of opportunity and once the window closes, Katy bar the door.

Wailing and gnashing of the teeth ensues. Crying is certainly expected. Objects being thrown are not out of the question. Neither are wild arm swings.

I will say we are working on the ‘tude…

Two months ago, I mentioned that the terrible twos weren’t an issue for us. I may be rethinking that position… at least until the Sesame Street Police Department show up at my door with a restraining order for my daughter, the Elmo stalker.

XL

2009-01-13T20:08:00.006-07:00

No, the title of the post is not my waist size… well, actually it is; but that’s not the point.

Today (the 14th) is my birthday – my 40th birthday.

Four-Oh.

Cuarenta.

Vierzig.

Cорок.

Yonjuu.

It doesn’t matter how you say it or in what language, it’s still old. And I know what you’re thinking…

40 is the new 20

No it isn’t. It’s not even close.

First, there are the minor aches and stiff joints; when I was 20, I could lift cinder blocks all day, drink all night and feel fine the next day. Now my back goes out more often than I do.

Second, where’d all this extra weight around my midsection come from? The spare tire I’m carrying around could fit on a Mack truck.

Third, what’s with hair in my ears? That’s just weird. At least my hair hasn’t started turning loose from my head. Yet.

And my memory… well, I can’t remember what bothers me about that, but it’ll come to me.

And I have a number of typical middle-age self-disappointments – like what the hell am I doing with my life?

If life was all parenting/family, I’d be the best. I am one-half of a parenting duo that is raising a pair of the most beautiful children in the world.

And I’m also told I’m not a half bad husband.

But my work life is, well… lacking. I have the skills to do better than my current position, but am I getting to a point in my life where I have to settle for the position I've got?

Perhaps I’ll spend 2009 working on that.

Being 40 isn’t all bad; there is wisdom in the intervening 20 years. I am much less apt to open my mouth before engaging my brain. While not completely cured of chronic dumbassedness, the chances of me looking like a fool are diminished, however slightly.

And I have not lost my ability to imagine; some people feel the need to put away the toys of youth and focus on being an adult, on being mature. I have kept my toys in arm’s reach, which allows me to keep thinking young.

So all is not lost, nor is life full of woe.

And to prove it, we’re having a party where we can all act like 20 year-olds and we mix mirth with equal parts boozing and carousing to create a little good-natured debauchery.

Of course, we’ll still have to pay the physical price for it in the morning.

So, if you’re in Denver this weekend let me know and I’ll get you direction to the party. Be sure to bring your drinking hat.

The Axe Files

2009-01-11T21:49:00.003-07:00

It’s been a bit since I’ve written an "all Axe" post. As you might imagine, things are changing rapidly… in fact, he borrowed the car this weekend for his first date!

Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but not by much.

We’ve had a number of firsts in the past month (fortunately driving and dating aren’t among them), including sitting up and man-handling the bottle by himself.

But by my estimation the most important first his was the move to his own room.

Yes, at six months he was still sleeping in our room.

And not sleeping through the night.

When your baby is not sleeping through the night AND in your bedroom, you tend to do whatever it takes to get them back to sleep. In Axe’s case, we would bring him to bed, feed him, and let him sleep with us.

As you might imagine, this quickly became a habit. A bad habit.

From the get-go, Axe would wake up once or twice a night. The first time, we’d feed him and put him back in the co-sleeper. He’d wake up a second time, we’d bring him to bed and sometimes he’d sleep, usually with me. Sometimes on my chest, other times curled up against me.

If he didn’t sleep – which was as often as not – Axe had a one man party. And I was the chaperone.

I’d love to say that we kept him in our room because we wanted to. But that’s not the truth. The truth is I was lazy about setting up his room. We realized spoiling the boy was not doing him any favors.

So last month I finished his room and he moved in. In the movies, this is the point where we all lived happily ever after, sleeping comfortably through the night. But such was not the case.

He continued to complain and we continued to answer to his beck and call. So we decided on a plan.

The plan was to stop being at his beckon. He was fed, warm, clean, and safe. Axe was complaining just to get attention.

So here we are at week two of “The Plan” and already we’ve noticed a big improvement. When Axe gets up, we feed him in his room, in the dark. And he usually falls right back asleep. If he doesn’t, he cries it out.

So here’s the plan – we put him down for the evening at a specific time. If he cries, he cries for 10 minutes the first time. At the end of 10 minutes, one of us goes into his room, comforts him (no more than five minutes) and puts him back in his crib. If he cries again, we wait 15 minutes and repeat the process.

So far we haven’t had to go beyond the second 15 minutes. And he’s getting used to his crib/room. I’m sure we’ll have him on the same schedule as his sister in no time – in bed by 7pm, awake no later than 6:30am.

At least that's the movie ending.

Holiday Leftovers

2009-01-04T19:28:00.004-07:00

Santa came and was good to all, despite the occasionally questionable behavior - paricularly from me.

Squeaker received several new toys and an assortment of coloring books and new princess colors. The big hit of the gift season for her was an Elmo laptop; she carries it everywhere and when it’s not in her possession, Squeak asks, “where ‘Lmo?”

My favorite part of the Elmo laptop is the computing noise Elmo makes. When you insert a 3x5” plastic card (punch card?) with a picture of a Sesame Street party and pull the lever on the side, Elmo’s eyes at the top of the laptop go left/right/left/right and, in Elmo’s voice, says beep-boop-beep-boop-beep-boop-beep.

Well, reading it doesn’t do it justice, but trust me, it’s funny.

All of Axe’s toys were opened by Squeak, which I think was a bad precedent. Of course, I guess it wasn’t that bad of an idea since The Squeaker thinks that everything is hers (mine, mine, MINE).

We also had family in town for the week between Christmas and New Year – one of P.Pie’s brothers (Eeyore) and his two daughters (Glitter Barbie 2 & Moon Unit), as well as P.Pie’s mother.

Nana gave all three of the families a Wii for Christmas. I don’t mind saying, I love the Wii, but as I write this, P.Pie is down with a bad back… strenuous Wii play (specifically, bowling) is thought to be the culprit.

The family visit went well, with one minor exception - Nana had a cold and Moon Unit caught a raging case of pink eye; both of which The Squeaker caught. Truthfully, I’m surprised everyone didn’t get the pink eye since the kids touched all the toys… especially the Wiimotes.

New Year’s Eve was spent at P.Pie’s sister’s house and ended around 8:30 (the New Year comes earlier when you have kids).

But we did get lots of pics, so here’s a little something for everyone -

The Spoken Word and the Terrible Twos

2008-12-23T21:15:00.006-07:00

According to the National Institute of Health, there are several points every 18-23 month-olds must reach in their speech and language development.

Here is the U.S. Government’s official list –

Enjoys being read to
Follows simple commands without gestures
Points to simple body parts such as "nose"
Understands simple verbs such as "eat," "sleep"
Says 8 to 10 words (pronunciation may still be unclear)
Asks for common foods by name
Makes animal sounds such as "moo"
Starting to combine words such as "more milk"
Begins to use pronouns such as "mine"

At 22 months, The Squeaker has hit all of them out of the park. Especially the “Says 8-10 words” part. 8 to 10?! 8 to 10!? Squeak has, at a minimum, 40-50 words. And I think that’s a conservative estimate.

Squeaker can string together up to four words in a simple sentence and understands complex sentences like “put the doll in the bucket,” or “don’t hit your brother,” or “pick a book and let’s go get ready for bed.” and even, “I can’t understand you with the ‘fire in your mouth, take it out and tell me again.”

Maybe I should compare her to the two year old bracket. More after the photo jump.

Does the “terrible twos” also include goofiness?

Don’t get me wrong, The Squeaker is definitely feeling her oats; she’s refusing a number of things…

“Do you want to take a bath?”

“NO!”

“Do you want to eat dinner?”

“NO!”

“Let's put our jacket on.”

“NO!”

…and the list of NOs goes on.

And don’t even get me started on her sideways looks at things she doesn’t want to do and the frequent stare-offs we have in our battle of wills.

But she’s also developed a goofy streak; long, maniacal laughs at simple daddy jokes (Why is 10 afraid? Because 7, 8, 9). Also, she spins herself in circles until she falls down, dizzy with the giggles.

So the twos are not so terrible. In fact, dare I say, I love the “terrible twos”.

Of course, we're still two months away from two...

Arlo Guthrie Thanksgiving Wrap Up

2008-12-03T21:36:00.017-07:00

Our Thanksgiving Day started when the alarm clock went off at 3:30am, so we could shower, dress, get the kids up and get to the airport for a 7am flight. By 10am, we were firmly ensconced at my sister’s house in Houston, Tx.

The whole weekend was a blur of cousins, siblings and at least one first (Axe started solids!), all of which are better expressed in pictures.

I will tell you one quick story; The Squeaker had a problem understanding that Uncle Esquire & Aunt Tintin were different than Uncle Picasso & Aunt VP, but still Uncle & Auntie.

But by day two, she was onboard with the concept of multiple Aunties & Uncles and enjoyed herself thoroughly.

So, without further adieu, here is the Arlo Guthrie Thanksgiving Wrap Up (you know, an eight-by-ten color glossy pictures with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one… get it?):

My boy, myself, & my dad... straight off the plane and all of four hours sleep (just Axe & I, Cappy drove in).

Cousins 'round the table - Chunkalicious, Prince of Wails, & The Squeaker - enjoying a pre-Thanksgiving snack.

Day after Thanksgiving - cousins playing in the sand box of what is possibly Houston's best Mexican food restaurant, Lupe Tortilla's.

Axe's first solids! Well, as solid as rice cereal can be...

This started as a blanket for Axe and turned into a Cousin scrum... Axe is obviously getting the better of the group.

By Saturday's bathtime, the girls were BFFs.

My sister and her husband took us to their favorite Italian restaurant - Collena's - where it's BYOB... we took three bottles of red wine & wished we'd taken a fourth. Mom (Golly to you regular readers) watched the kids and Axe wouldn't sleep for her... why should he be different for her?!

My sister's family is a big fan of Christmas, so the tree goes up right after Thanksgiving... so on our last day, we trimmed the tree and exchanged presents with the cousins.

It was a wonderful visit that we have sworn to do more often and I certainly hope we do!

An Open Letter to My Son

2008-11-23T21:49:00.010-07:00

Axe –

Shortly after you were born I was showing off pictures of you and your sister, which lead to a discussion of siblings close in age and then to a discussion of your brother, Doss.

In short, she said that you were your brother, coming around again. And while she meant well, I think that sells you short. You are your own person. You are special in your own right and I will never, ever think of you as your brother.

Let me give you a few examples:

Unlike your sister, you like to have a one-man party between 2-4am. You wake up, eat, and then coo and giggle and squirm. I don’t really mind the one-man parties, except I have to chaperone…

Two weeks ago, around your five-month birthday, you got your first teeth! The Squeaker didn’t get her first teeth until 10 months.

You giggle. A lot.

You like to sleep in our bed; your sister’s not a big fan. In fact, you have a habit that your mother has – when you sleep next to me, you get as close as you can. So I scoot over. And you scoot over. And we keep doing this until half of me is hanging off the edge of the bed and you are pressed up against me on the other side.

There are many more, but that’s not the reason for this letter.

At some point in your life, probably some where between the years of 16-18, you are going to say, “I am not related to these people…”

I am here to tell you – you are.

And if there is any question, the photos below should dispel it. The first photo is you at about four months… the second is me at three months.

Starting to notice some resemblances?

Even though you carry the visual stamp of your forefathers, we are not rubberstamps of the other. Just because I succeed or fail at something does not mean you will do the same. Or that you even have to do the same things.

You have a long journey in front of you and it will be filled with up and downs. I am going to try to be there to hold your hand as long as I can.

But, far sooner than I care for, you will have to walk down your own road, either by preference or by necessity. When that time comes, I hope our time together will help you make the right choices.

In the meantime, we’re gonna play games, go places, and do things, all in the name of fun.

And let me pass on one piece of advice… be nice to your sister. I know that right now she’s a little rough on you, but she means well. Very, very soon you are going to out size her (as I write this, you’re and she are both wearing size three diapers!) and you will be able to push her down. But don’t. It only comes back to haunt you.

I Love You,

Your Dad

A Sickly Weekend

2008-11-09T20:46:00.003-07:00

The Squeaker and I shared a virus this weekend that came from daycare; the highlights include a low grade fever and upset belly, which for Squeak meant throwing up chunky milk and grape juice… sort of a purple cottage cheese.

I managed to dodge the throw up bullet and merely burped a nasty tasting sulfur/rotten egg taste. Really both are awful, but I haven’t thrown up since I was 17 (and that time involved alcohol, but that’s just between you and me).

So she and I spent the weekend laying low – just watching tv and drinking Pedialyte (well Squeak drank the ‘Lyte, I had water and juice).

We also played a few rousing games of Hi, Daddy. The rules of the game are pretty simple - player one says, “Hi, Daddy.” Player two says, “Hi, Squeaker.” And repeat. You may know the game as "Yes/No".

The Squeaker’s leading, 1,375,683 to 987,624. I’m planning a catch up strategy using a computer program written in basic –

10 say “Hi, Squeaker”

20 goto 10

(wow, that was really bad computer geek humor)

But I know my readership, you just want the pretty pictures; so here you go…

All Hallows Eve

2008-11-02T21:12:00.007-07:00

Actually, on Halloween we just answered the door* but, the weekend before we went to our local amusement park, walked around and got free candy.

Yes, they loved it. Well, Squeak loved it; Axe just came along for the ride… since he called shotgun, he didn’t want to let it go to waste.

We also discovered we LOVE candy. To be fair, I actually knew that I liked candy… The Squeaker got her first taste. After three suckers, we had to hide the Elmo head bucket.

Next year Axe will be almost the age Squeak is now and Squeak will be almost three (YIPE!), so we’ll have to go all out and do a family group costume. Maybe the Wizard of Oz?

I do look good in ruby red slippers….

____________________________________________________

*Where I told the following joke to EVERY kid who came to the door:

"You want to see the best costume ever?"

"Yes!"

Pointing to the dog, "That's my cat!"

And I'm still laughing...

Coach & Eeyore - Like Father, Like Son

2008-10-20T22:28:00.005-06:00

Today is the third anniversary of P.Pie’s father’s death and the second time I’ve covered it on the blog; you can re-read it here. I was considering reposting the original when I received a text message from P.Pie’s brother, Eeyore.

And that got me to thinking.

A few weeks ago, I was in Portland, Or. for a few days on business. And as it happens, Eeyore and his twin brother, Dog, live in Portland. We made plans to get together; unfortunately Dog was out of town at the time. So it would just be he and I and Eeyore’s youngest daughter, Moon Unit.

I had never really thought of Eeyore as looking much like his dad or even being much like him personality-wise.

They were definitely different people; Coach was, well a football coach. Coach was an outstanding person who showed great love for his family and mentored hundreds, maybe thousands, of young men on many high school and college grid irons.

Eeyore was (and still is) quite the tie-dyed free spirit.

Eeyore definitely marches to the beat of a different drummer. He was never a football player, at least not American football. Eeyore has followed the Dead, beat bongos in a drum circle, and finally made his way to live in his personal Mecca, the Pacific NW.

I have not seen Eeyore in at least three years. And not because I didn’t want to, as some people are prone to do with troublesome in-laws. When we both lived in California – and I was merely dating his sister – we hung out often. I even helped him get a job waiting tables.

I do not use the term “brother” lightly and I use it when I talk about Eeyore.

So when I sat across from him at the Rouge Brewery & Public House for a few beers and a burger, I realized how much of Coach I actually do see in him. I don’t know if it is something in his eyes, or perhaps it’s in the facial structure. And their demeanors are very much alike; both of them caring more others than themselves.

I not sure what it was, but it nearly knocked me down with a flood of memories about Coach and how much he is missed by all (and even now, I am nearly over come).

So to wrap up, I will leave you with Eeyore’s words, send to family & friends via text messaging –

To all my family: his love is alive and with us always. Just look at the glimmer in the eyes of our young and you can see all the good work he has done.

My Girl Likes to Potty All the Time

2008-10-13T21:15:00.004-06:00

Yes, the photo makes The Squeak look like an old hand on the ol’ ~~porcelain~~ plastic throne but photos can be deceiving. She’s really just in it for the book reading.

We started the path to potty training* sort of by accident; we receive a potty as a gift. Rather than force it on Squeaker (the pediatrician said two years is about the time to start, so we’re still four months out), we figured we’d put it in the bathroom and let her ease into it. Figuratively speaking, of course.
*the path of a thousand miles starts with the first pee

A couple of weeks ago, she started pointing at her diaper and saying, “Poopies?”. We’d check and nothing would be there. A few minutes later, there would be a distinct odor.

Putting two and two together (no pun intended), we decided to offer the “potty experience” the next time she gave us a sign.

When the sign came we scooped her up, stripped her down, and sat her on the throne. Squeak wasn’t very interested, standing up every few minutes. So we grabbed a book (one of the great toilet pastimes) and read to her.

And finally, after 10 minutes, we called it quits.

But on the next try, we got gold! Well, yellow really.

And since our first success, we’ve repeated it a few times, even scoring a true poopies.

We’re not hardcore about it. We are trying to build a routine – when we get up in the morning, when we get home from daycare and before bed. If we get results, we applaud and practically put it in a jar for display; and if The Squeaker doesn’t want to sit on the potty, no big deal.

But I won’t lie. It would be nice to not have two in diapers.

There's Something About Axe

2008-09-28T21:53:00.002-06:00

We are about a week away from Axe’s fourth month. Four months! Axe is growing like the federal deficit and developing his own little personality.

I haven’t given much thought to his budding personality until this weekend. Yesterday was Picasso’s 34^th birthday and to celebrate we over-imbibed Saturday night then recuperated with a surprise barbeque in Picasso’s backyard.

Anyway, at the barbeque one of the partygoers mentioned how quiet Axe was being. In fact, I realized that he is usually somewhat reserved around strangers (unlike his gregarious sister, to whom a stranger is only a friend she hasn’t met yet). So we may have a thinker on our hands… I guess only time will tell.

So what else is new? In the past four months, Axe has reached a number of important milestones… sleeping through the night, rolling over and holding his head up. He also has an interesting habit… throwing up on his father.

Yes, I know there’s difference between spitting up and throwing up. And to be honest, he does like to spit up on me… a lot. But Saturday it was a full on throw up.

P.Pie was out and Axe was fussing, so I made a bottle of formula – a full six ounces. Now normally I’d just make four ounces, but in the last couple of days he’s been eating more so I was loading for bear.

And it turned out to be the right thing to do because he gobbled it down.

A word of note – no matter how rapidly a child is eating, stop halfway through and get a burp.

Can you guess where this is going?

So we go for the after dinner burp (I’ve even got the burp rag on my shoulder) and I get a burp. Along with six ounces of body temperature formula. All. Over. Me.

Yea for dad.

A Gunslinger Repeat, of Sort…

2008-09-21T21:15:00.014-06:00

Rather than thinking that Axe has suddenly grown up, this photo is of my nephew/buddy, Gunslinger. Because of his love of skate boards and Star Wars, I call this picture Obi Wan Kan Skate.

If you’re a long term reader of HowAboutTwo.com, then you are well aware of just who Gunslinger is as well as his birthday preferences.

He LOVES Pump It Up Palace for birthday parties (an inflatable bounce house business).

He loves it so much we’ve gone there for his last THREE birthdays (and yes, he just turned four). So, rather than bore you with stuff you can read at this post, I will instead entice you with pictures (mostly of my kids at Gunslinger’s party).

P.S. Be sure to check out the NEW header at the top of the page!

No, We Didn’t Fall of the Face of the Earth

2008-09-17T21:16:00.002-06:00

We had another child.

Two children in diapers. Two kids with limited language skills. Two humanoids with restricted abilities to care for themselves. So my time is a little…taken.

But, much like many of my readers, I have been chastising myself for slacking off on one of my favorite pastimes…~~motorcycle riding~~ er, blogging. So, I have a ton of topics to expound on and I will seriously try to post AT LEAST once a week.

Or at least not once every six weeks.

Anyway, here is the first topic that I have “stored” in the vault (and started writing a month ago!)…

When Axe was born (over three months ago!), The Squeak was nearing 16mos and crawling. She was a speed crawler. Much like the Olympic sport of speedwalking, she moved her hips in a funky way and is faster than I can run…almost.

But still, it was only crawling.

Yes, she’d cruise on the furniture; if there was a line of couches from here to Texas, Squeak could cruise there. But ask her to walk (read: take her away from the support) and her knees would buckle like a cheap leisure suit and she’d crumple to the floor in a heap.

I thought something was amiss when, at her cousin’s house while playing with a “popcorn popper” push toy, she would walk behind the push toy. You’re probably thinking, “Well, the push toy was supporting her.” Not exactly.

If she came to an obstacle, she’d pick the popcorn popper up, walk around said obstacle, and continue on her merry way. But remove the push toy and down goes Squeaker, down goes Squeaker.

We were concerned (silly parents), so we took her to an orthopedic specialist. Said specialist told us her legs were strong and she should be walking anytime.

Two days later, she walked four steps. Day three, a baker’s dozen worth of steps. After a two weeks, we had no idea where she was.

Just kidding.

Now she walks everywhere; sippy cup in one hand, toy/blanket/personal item in the other. Sure, we have the occasional trip up (well, frequent, really), but she definitely has her legs under her.

Oh, and you should see Axe! He’s… in the next post.

Introducing…

2008-08-11T20:59:00.005-06:00

We finally have a blog name for Atticus!

Not that it has been critical, since I haven’t posted in almost a month. I don’t even have a good excuse, other than the fact that we have two children under the age of two and in diapers.

Yeah, it’s a lame excuse… but still.

Anyhoo. We bounced around a lot of nicknames, but nothing seemed to stick.

And Atticus wasn’t helping any; unless we wanted to call him “Wailer”. And now that I think of it, that’s a pretty good name for him given his penchant for crying.

It’s not that bad; he only cries when he’s hungry or his diaper is dirty.

Or he’s tired.

Oh, and at bath time.

Also when the sun is up.

And most the night.

Truthfully, he’s gotten better in the last couple of weeks. But we still have frequent flair ups.

No, Wailer won’t do. Neither will anything else P.Pie or I could come up with.

Instead, we are going with the name that The Squeaker calls her brother – Axe… with a little modification. Squeak adds the sh sound to the end, so it comes out Axsh.

And she elongates the middle of it, so it sounds like Accksshhh. But who wants to be called something that sounds like a flat tire at low speed when you can be an implement of destruction?

Welcome to the show, Axe. Brace yourself.

Good brace!

Hey, Macarena!

2008-07-15T06:51:00.005-06:00

Most major hospitals have a baby picture service and ours was no different.

A quick word about the photography equipment and the “photographer”; the camera was a basic digital jobber mounted to one of those infant carts and the whole thing was operated by a young gal that was really nothing more than a candy striper.

Anyhoo, the ‘striper let us put Atticus on the table while she tried to get his attention by waving toys at him. A 24 hour-old. Waving toys and calling his name.

As you might imagine he wasn’t having any. So I stood over him and called his name. He looked up and she snapped the photo. It’s the only one with his eyes open.

Now that we are a month into it, I have a couple of thoughts on parenthood, version 2.0:

I don’t remember so much crying.
I suspect that there was crying with The Squeaker, but the brain has a way of forgetting about it. In fact, I can hardly remember the 11pm, 1am, 4am, and 6am feedings/cryings from last night… or the previous 29 nights. It must have something to do with the promulgation of the species… because if you remembered, you’d only have one.

Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold that head up!
Holding a new born is a lot like holding a fish out of water. They both flop around a lot.

No! Not there! Not there either! Push! Push!
Dressing an infant is different than dressing a toddler. The toddler knows how to put his/her arms/legs through the proper holes – the infant does not. In fact, an infant has spaghetti arms and legs that have to be threaded through arms and leg holes. I’m not really sure when Squeak got to be such a helper with dressing, but I’ll be looking forward to it in Atticus.

Who knew you could live without sleep for weeks on end?
P.Pie & I have fallen into something of a routine with regards to the boy; she usually does everything before 3am, I do everything after. This is not a hard and fast rule, but it’s generally how it works out.

All that being said, he’s a good boy and these things will give way to other issues, I’m sure.

There is much to tell in the world of The Squeaker, so look for another new post with lots of new photos in a few days.

Toddlers Who Say “Nee!”

2008-06-29T22:26:00.004-06:00

Today, we saw our first film in a theater as a family. And as an extended family, no less – P.Pie’s sister and her whole family came along, so there we eight of us.

I have a thing about going to see a film in a theater; I rarely see it on the opening weekend. The lines are long, there are throngs of people and hardly ever more than two seats together unless you get there an hour early. But if you wait a week or three, the crowds thin out and it’s usually no problemo.

Of course there are exceptions to that rule, exceptions that revolve around science fiction series films and possibly comic book related movies. But the older I get the further apart those exceptions come into play.

My lack of desire to see movies on an opening weekend ESPECIALLY applies to kids’ films. Don’t misunderstand, I love a number of kids’ films including, but not limited to, Pixar movies.

Anyway, I bet you can guess what movie we saw.

We threw caution to the wind and saw WALL-E. Well, we saw MOST of the film. To Squeaker’s credit, she hung in there for an hour and a half. Unfortunately, there is at least 30 minutes worth of previews before the film, so we were doomed from the beginning.

Also at 16 months, she’s not yet a big TV watcher (not that I’m complaining), so expecting her to sit still through a feature length movie is not realistic. But it was worth a shot and she did pretty well.

My only complaint is that now I have to see WALL-E again so I can find out how it ends. And no, I don’t want you to spoil it for me.

*************************

In other news, Squeaker has picked a new word; and that word is “Need”. As in, “I need _______ ” (fill in the blank with whatever is in her line of sight, especially if it is not hers).

Except she drops the “I” from the first line of the sentence and the “d” from the end of the second word, as well dropping the entire word of the item she wants. So it comes out as simply a frantic “Nee! Nee! Nee!” as she points to the item that has caught her eye.

So whenever she does this in a public place, I say (a little too loudly), “Are you saying nee to that old woman?” in an English accent. To add insult to injury, I will usually go on to lament living in the dark ages as a schrubber.

If you are unfamiliar with the quote, click here to watch the clip on YouTube.

This sort of behave used to turn P.Pie bright red. Now she just rolls her eyes and ignores me.

I can’t wait until The Squeaker gets older so I can have someone new to embarrass.

Packing the UV Suitcase

2008-06-25T20:40:00.006-06:00

Okay, let’s get everyone caught up, shall we?

Last week, Atticus went for his one week check up and his bilirubin count was a little high, making him more like one of The Simpsons than one of the Barrons.

Oh yeah, and who the hell is Billy Rueben anyway?

Actually, calling it “a little” high is me downplaying the situation; his count was 18. If it had been 20, they would have admitted him to the NICU for phototherapy under the UV blue lights. And while we didn't have to go to the NICU, it still brought back memories not that far removed.

But, since Atticus was just under the count, they sent us home with a UV suitcase.

What, you might ask, is a UV suitcase? It is EXACTLY what it sounds like. It’s a self contained grow light system that bombards the person laying in it with UV rays (the non-tanning varietal).
So, for 24 hours, unless Atticus was eating or being changed, he was under the lights.

The first hour I kept him company as he wore the little cloth eye patches to keep the light out so he wouldn’t stare at the lights, effectively blinding him. And I can see how that would happen.

After an hour of looking into the UV suitcase, everything looked yellow. It took 10 minutes for the effect to wear off; from then on, I tried to wear my sunglasses every time I sat with him. It’s a funny sight, me sitting in the master bedroom, wearing my sunglasses inside, at night.

What a difference a day makes.

His bilirubin count was down five points the next day and his color was much better. The next day he was well within the realm of normal.

Well, as normal as any child of mine could be.

Other items of note:

We’re still working on a blog name for Atticus; currently, At-At, Scout, and Finch are in the running. The geek in me likes At-At for the unspoken Star Wars reference, but Scout rolls off the tongue.

At the two week check up, Atticus had grown a ¼ of an inch and was above birth weight.

Fresh out of the womb, I thought his eyes were brown. But, they appear to be Barron Blue (actually, they should really be called Schlather Blue, because my mother’s side of the family has a darker shade of blue. But, since my last name is Barron, it’s Barron Blue).

Atticus is not the sleeper The Squeaker was… nor does he squeak like she did. He sounds like a Howler Monkey in a vise. Actually, he has gotten better… more of a squawk than a howl. Perhaps he should be The Squawker?!?

And finally, over all The Squeaker seems to like her little brother. Overall she plays nice and we only have to tell her “Gently!” every other minute.

Greetings, Little One

2008-06-09T14:18:00.004-06:00

Entering the world at precisely 7:32am and weighing in at 7lbs 15.6oz with a body length of 21.75in, please welcome Atticus to the world!

We arrived at the hospital this morning at 5am (which means a wake up call of 4am!), got checked in and changed into scrubs, then rolled up to the operating room. As par for the course, the temperature in the OR was just a hair above meat locker temperature.

After it we get into the OR, things move pretty fast. They strapped PPie to the table, put up a drape (to save me from seeing the gore) and got busy.

10 minutes later, a gooey, hairy, bloody boy popped out, peeing immediately on his mother and the doctor. They whisked him over to the Star Trek sick bay-esque warmer and cleaned him up.

As soon as they pulled him out, they all recognized the boy as a Barron. In fact, at first glance, he could have been The Squeaker (except for the boy parts, of course). While Atticus definitely bears the mark of his sister and brother before him, but at the same time he is uniquely his own person.

His blood oxygen level was a little low as was his blood sugar level. So we got to sit under the oh-two hood and had formula dumped straight to the belly.

After a couple of hours of oxygen huffing, we moved to the clean up area and then to mom’s room, which is where we are now, working on the nursing skills.

More to come!

Kismet

2008-06-05T21:53:00.003-06:00

Yes, it’s that time – the eve of the eve of the eve of the birth of BBC.

We are on the cusp of welcoming the newest Barron into the world. P.Pie and her mother, The General (aka Nana), are busy with sticks and twigs nesting the house up.

As they scurry about – sorting clothes, putting things away, buying new stuff, etc. – I thought I’d take a moment to share and interesting happenstance.

Neither my mother nor my father have taken a shine to the name Atticus. I imagine it’s because A). they haven’t met him yet (I think he’ll definitely wear the moniker well) and B). it’s not a run of the mill name… like, oh, I don’t know…Robert.

Anyway, all the nay-saying about the name had, for the briefest of moments, given me pause. Then I received a sign. No not a clouds-parting-hand-of-God-anointing kind of sign. Rather, a radio signal.

I was listening to a morning radio show on Sirius and out of the blue, the host started talking about the Atticus Finch character in Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. Now, if I was listening to the NYTimes' Book Review podcast, I might not have been too surprised. But this particular talk show host NEVER talks about literature.

So what does it mean, really? Probably nothing.

You can take it as a sign, or kismet, or happenstance, or coincidence, or whatever. But in my mind, it reaffirmed the name.

In for a penny, in for a pound as they say.

Fun On Saturday

2008-06-01T21:34:00.005-06:00

The Squeaker LOVES to get up early on Saturday and Sunday. Monday through Friday, she’ll sleep until it’s time to leave for work (7:00-ish). But come the weekend, she’s up by 6am and rarin’ to go.

And this Saturday was no different.

Squeak was up at 6 and her pj bottoms were soaked. We ran out of our usual diapers and had to pick up a new brand and they do not keep her dry through the night (I won’t mention the brand name, other than to say it starts with a P and ends with an Ampers).

Anyway, I got her up, changed her diaper and brought her to bed with us, sans pants. We played. We wrestled. We laughed. By 6:40 we were out of Mommy and Daddy’s bed and on to breakfast.

I won’t bore you with a blow by blow of our entire morning, but suffice it to say that we went down early for our late morning nap, still sans pants.

When she woke, I found this –

Well, the picture doesn't do it justice, but

Oh.

My.

God.

Apparently, before she went to sleep she pooped AND pulled her diaper off.

Of course, she was in the middle of it and covered.

Poop was everywhere. I grabbed The Squeak out of bed and toted her over to the changing table for an initial “once over” before we hit the tub.

And, yes… it gets worse.

Because she had removed her diaper and played in the poop prior to falling asleep, it had set up harder than concrete in August.

So I managed to pick some of the crusted poop off of her before soaking her in tub full of warm, soapy water and scrubbing her down.

So we have a new rule in our house…. if you’re you’re sleeping, you’re wearing jammies.

Another Photo Monday

2008-05-11T20:30:00.003-06:00

Welcome back Photo Mondays!

If you're reading this after 6am MDT, I'm on a plane heading to Phoenix. So, here are a few photo of The Squeak doing generally cute things. Hope everyone had a great Mother's Day.

Enjoy the pics!

A Boy Update

2008-05-01T21:09:00.009-06:00

Look closing at the sonogram - the picture almost looks like he’s smiling. He’s probably smiling about his bill of health from the doctor… which is a definite A+!

According to the ultrasounds, he’s large for his gestational age – about two weeks larger. This can be something of a concern, as large babies might be a sign of diabetes in the mother. Fortunately, we’ve (and by “we,” I mean P.Pie) had a couple blood sugar tests and all is normal.

We’re expecting a big boy. In fact, Squeak has been but on alert that her status as the large child is probably going to be short lived (no pun intended). But she will always be the big sister.

With the due date only five weeks away (June 9th!), we are rounding pregnancy’s third base and heading for home. In the final stretch, we are very close to where we were with the twins – freaked out, stressed and ~~my office~~ the nursery still isn’t ready.

Another similarity is that we met with the doctor who will be doing P.Pie’s c-section; the same doctor who delivered the twins.

This has caused P.Pie some consternation; yes, she knows that what happened to Doss was not the doctor’s fault. And yes, we could have another doctor. But she’s really a great doctor. What’s more, I was not feeling these same.

Until we actually went to the doctor’s office.

As I walked through the office door and into the waiting room, I was flooded with memories of the twins’ pregnancy as well as P.Pie’s concerns and anxiety. The office staff as well as the doctor’s have been very understanding, going so far as to make sure that we would not be in the same operating room, recovery room, or hospital room. We even get to pick our own nurse.

We have asked that Mary be there and she has graciously accepted.

Other notes of interest:

While we have not finalized a name, we’re leaning towards Atticus. My dad’s not a big fan; he wants something more blasé – a John or Douglas or George or Robert. All good names, but they're no Atticus.

I’m trying to sell P.Pie on Oil as a middle name, to match The Squeaker’s tycoon-style middle name, Rail (short for Railroad). I really like Robber, but that has been removed from the table.

If we were going to have a natural childbirth, the anticipate DOB is June 16th, the same day the twins were conceived.

Not Sleeping With The Fishes

2008-04-20T20:52:00.003-06:00

Merely napping.

I know, I know… where the heck have I been? Your emails have not gone unheard. Even TheBlogFathers.com sent me a warning… I found the head of Squeaker’s Radio Flyer’s Rock and Bounce Toy Horse was in my bed this morning.

I have heard you and your ~~warnings~~ concerns have not gone unnoticed.

Weekly posts are back! In fact, I think you’ll even see a post or two over at The Blog Fathers… you know, to keep peace in the family.

So a quick update about what has been keeping me away from ye olde keyboard –

Since entering the third trimester, P.Pie has had to stop almost all of her strenuous activity; including, but not limited to, picking up The Squeaker. Apparently I slacked a lot in the area of bath time (Squeak’s, not mine) and general picking Squeak up off the floor.

Work has offered me a promotion (which I accepted), but it doesn’t become official until June 1st. Between now and then, I’m basically doing both jobs… serving two masters with different goals. So yes, I’m doing two jobs for the price of one (it seemed like a good idea at the time).

Anyway, look for another post this week, an update on Barron Baby C.

The Silent Revolution, Clothing Edition

2008-03-17T21:05:00.003-06:00

There has been something of a change in clothes around our house; really, more a change in clothing style. Perhaps we should call it, The Garment Leap Forward.

Not my clothing, of course. I’m something of a clothes horse… albeit one that is destine for the glue factory.

I know that in another 10 or 12 years, the Old Curmudgeons’ League will be sending me my catalog. A catalog through which I can order clothes from my preferred decade for the rest of my life – long after they are even remotely cool and/or stylish.

There’s no such catalog, you say?

Where do you think your grandfather got his polyester, zip up jump suits with the built in adjustable belt and three-diamond crown logo over the left breast pocket? Did you think those just grew on trees? No sir. They came from the catalog and I’m getting mine soon.

Anyhoo, The Squeaker has slowly departed from the cute, solid colored onesies and has migrated to stylish, patterned two piece attires. It wasn’t like P.Pie & I went to the clothing store and said, “It’s time to get Squeak big girl clothes.”

In fact, I’m not real sure how these clothes came to be in Squeak’s clothing repertoire. I simply noticed the other day that we had gone a week without wearing a single onesie. Not a one.

From playtime outfits to nightwear - everything, it seems, has a top and a bottom.

Of course, now might be the time when I question where my baby girl has gone and what am I to do with this little girl that has taken her place?

But I imagine there will be lots of opportunities for such lamenting when she gets really big. Next month.

One Year Ago

2008-03-02T20:11:00.001-07:00

Doss –

Do you remember our talks? I spent most of the day thinking about you and our short time together.

You are always in my thoughts, one way or another; whether at work or at home, I see, think, or do something that reminds me of you. But today, on the anniversary of your death, I pulled together images and reread the posts from those days.

And I have come to a conclusion that we were greedy to try and keep you around. We kept giving you drugs, sticking you with needles, and running test after test in the hopes that we could fix whatever ailed you.

We clung to any hopeful word; the promise of a brighter tomorrow was always just around the corner. We greedily hung on to those wishes, ignoring your physical deterioration and, what is only now evident to me, the increase of your discomfort.

As I sorted through the hospital pictures, your pain screamed at me; I do not know how I missed it. I am so, so sorry.

This does not mean your life was without purpose; its purpose was simply different than the average person. I have not yet gleaned that purpose, but I have a few ideas:

We may have been blessed with you in order to teach us about love. The true meaning of love is hidden from most people and can only be revealed in the eyes of your children.

You might have been sent to us to teach us about the true meaning of loss.

Perhaps you were meant to give us strength; before you, we would not have had the strength to withstand all that we have been through.

But what if you weren’t meant for us all? What if your purpose is somehow tied to your sister?

Whatever the purpose, it will not be in vain. You will not be forgotten. When we see each other again, I will have tales to tell you (everyone else has heard them all. Twice).

Also, I want to hear what happened after the last time we talked.

First Birthday Party

2008-02-25T20:08:00.002-07:00

Let’s face it, the first birthday party is more for the parents than it is for the child.

So we vacillated about what kind of party to have for The Squeak; do we invite just family and have a low-keyed celebration, or do we really ramp it up – invite friends, break out the bar-b-que, crank up the tunes and have a P-A-R-T-A-Y?

The decision was to have a low-key thing. But as is wont to happen with the best of plans, things changed. We (and when I say we, I mean P.Pie) decided to invite some friends. In fact, there were more friends than family. But mostly the modest crowd was friends with infants, toddlers, and grade school kids, rather than the beer and BBQ crowd.

C’est la vie.

From the revelers standpoint – and the guest of honor’s – the party was a success; wine was sipped, munchies were nibbled on, and presents were opened. But there was a downside.

A downside that no one knows until this post.

You may recall around the two month old mark, I bought a nice digital video camera. A very, very nice camera, with all the bells & whistles. I had visions of documenting nearly every moment of Squeak’s growth, with the hope, in a decade or two, of turning it into a documentary of the effects of daddy bloggers on their offspring.

Right before the party, I took the video camera off the shelf and dusted off about 10 months worth of non-use, charged the battery and got it set for the party.

I know what you’re thinking… I either a) left the lens cap on, b) forgot to put a tape in, or c) forgot about it all together.

Well, you’d be wrong if that’s what you’re thinking.

I got great footage of everybody under the age of seven helping The Squeaker open her presents. And I was perfectly poised to capture the Happy Birthday song and first bites of cake. I even positioned the kids so that they were in a chorale-perfect semi circle behind her; tallest in the middle, descending to the shortest on either ends.

I set the camera up so that I could both watch the display and sing at the same time. It was a perfect moment. Almost pastoral, really.

After it was all done and Squeak had taken a few tentative bites of the cake before spreading it all over her face and eventually knocking it to the floor, I looked at the display screen and noticed the counter wasn’t moving.

I had forgotten to push “Record”.

Good job, dad.

An Open Letter to My Daughter on the Occasion of Her First Birthday

2008-02-19T22:26:00.006-07:00

Today is the first anniversary of the day of you and your brother’s birth; and so much has changed in a short 365 days, that I thought it might be appropriate to recap and perhaps glimpse to the future.

Normally a letter starts with a salutation, or at least a name; but you, dear daughter, have many names.

Before you much more than a couple of cells bumping around with your brother, the doctors were calling you Twin A. Your given name, Jorja, is a tribute to your maternal grandfather, whom who never met, but I can already tell you share his strength of character.

The name that everyone on the blog knows you by is The Squeaker because in the first few months, you squeaked a lot; but that hardly fits now, my little chatterbox.

At home, your mother calls you Peaches because the name peaches flows so easily after Jorja and because you are as sweet as; and when your mother and I talk about you via email, sms, IM, or text, we refer to you as BG, short for Baby Girl.

Your many names speak volumes about your first year of life.

You’ve gone from an infant that I could hold in one hand, feed with a one ounce bottle (three times a night) and had to be carried everywhere, to a big girl that that is feeding herself, sleeping through the night, pulling herself up, and learning the bare bones of a spoken language.

There have been some bad time too; the first two weeks of your life – a time that is normally spent sequestered at home, getting to know one another – was a blur of cars, hospitals, and people. And while the end result was sad, I think that it has made you stronger.

And you’ve had a couple of bouts with colds and the ilk that have been less than pleasant for all involved, but we’ve come through it a-okay.

You are a gregarious baby that does not withdraw from moments of newness; people always comment how wonderful you are, or well-behaved, or cute. People are drawn to you like a bee to honey.

This can be problematic as you get older, before you know how to navigate such waters. But just as I steer you away from the stereo controls or the computer wires, or the short step from the kitchen to the laundry room, I will always be available, in one way or another, to offer you guidance.

Until I met you and your brother, I did not know I could love so much. And every day that I see you, my love for you grows exponentially.

Happy Birthday, Squeaker.

Fatherhood, It’s More Than Just a Way of Life

2008-02-17T19:46:00.004-07:00

Now it’s also an online magazine called TheFatherLife.com!

By fathers, for fathers, TheFatherLife.com is designed to help both new and experienced dads with tips, tricks and ideas; not only from TheFatherLife.com’s staff, but also from their readers through forums and online discussions.

Based in upstate New York, TheFatherLife.com runs in true startup fashion – its founders and editor-in-chief all hold day jobs. But the small staff are all fathers and share in the belief that the role of fathers is an important one that is meant to be shared with other dads.

They also have a "spotlight" article that highlights someone in the daddy blogger community who TheFatherLife.com thinks is noteworthy.

Yeah, you guessed it… I’m the spotlight dad for February! (it will be be up Monday, the 18th)

So if you didn’t already know enough about me, now is your chance to head on over to TheFatherLife.com and read just a little bit more.

In fact, make it a regular stop on your perusal of all things dad; you might just discover something new!

Health & New Skills

2008-02-12T20:56:00.004-07:00

Thanks to everyone for wishing Squeak well. She had 25 breathing treatments over the course of a couple of days and was her old (young?) self in no time.

Since the illness, she’s picked up a couple of new skills –

Pulling herself up on a number of things
Pretty self-explanatory, but worthy of note is her favorite item to pull herself up by – the dog feeder (a large bone-shaped food holder with a removable food and water dish). I think this has as much to do with The Beej as it does with pulling herself up.
The beginnings of a new word
She’s got the Ma and Da down (of course, you could argue that they’re simply monosyllabic vocal exercises of someone learning a new language… but why hurt her parents’ feelings?) and that’s sort of a no brainer; and the new word is also a proper name, but I think it qualifies as a new word.
Squeak will pick up The Beej’s chew rope, hold it over her head and say, “Beeeeeeeeeeee.” Beej will hop off of the couch/chair/bed, come over and grab the toy and return to his resting place. She’ll crawl over and try to take it back.
The Squeaker and Beej are definite BFFs.
If she cries hard enough, she might get what she wants
Yeah, we’re nipping that one in the bud.

That’s just the tip of the iceberg; she’s getting so big, we’ve had to lower the crib to its lowest setting. She’s fast on all fours – so fast we can’t turn our backs for a minute. She’s feeding herself; so much so that it’s almost all she’ll eat.

Anyway, changes abound… stay tuned!

A Sickly Squeaker

2008-01-30T21:06:00.000-07:00

The first hint of a problem came last night with a slightly warm body and a light, raspy cough. It blossomed into mini-crying jags and a need to be constantly snuggled.

Late last night, she finally allowed us to put her to bed for a fitful night’s sleep.

This morning, she seemed okay and didn’t need to be constantly held. So we went about our normal day, getting ready for work and the sitter’s.

The Squeak’s condition deteriorated during the morning, so it was decided that P.Pie would take her to see the doctor. Around lunchtime, P.Pie called to say that Squeak had CRV.

“Squeak has a Cash Return Value?” I wondered if they’d pay more in California and Michigan.

But it was not CRV, rather RSV, Respiratory Syncytial Virus.

Here is the according to CDC definition –

Respiratory syncytial virus (RSV) is the most common cause of bronchiolitis and pneumonia among infants and children under 1 year of age. Illness begins most frequently with fever, runny nose, cough, and sometimes wheezing. During their first RSV infection, between 25% and 40% of infants and young children have signs or symptoms of bronchiolitis or pneumonia, and 0.5% to 2% require hospitalization. Most children recover from illness in 8 to 15 days.

So, the doctor prescribed a nebulizer treatment of Albuterol (which, during her first treatment at the Dr’s office, all the nurses commented how well she took to it).

Unfortunately, the order for the home nebulizer got lost in the electronic ether between the office and the medical supply company. Needless to say, P.Pie was a worried wreck by the time I got home.

After some reassuring of P.Pie and few phone calls to the on-call Dr. (who just happened to be Squeak’s Dr.), we were able to get the equipment delivered to the house.

It’s a mild case of RSV, so we should get over it pretty quickly without any lasting effects on The Squeaker.

Of course, her parents will be reduced to rubble for a while.

BBC Update

2008-01-27T20:22:00.000-07:00

There is news on BBC (Baby Barron C). Initially, I was trying to write this post so you had to read with a cockney accent... you know, so the whole BBC joke sort of came together, but it was too far to go for lame joke.

First, our ADB (anticipated date of birth) is June 14th. But since we're planning on a C-section, 06-07-08 is not out of the question.

We also know the sex of BBC. With the twins, I vacillated about whether or not we should know the sex; but there are so many more surprises, the least we can do is get the new nursery’s color right.

And truth be told, we’ve known the sex for more than three weeks, but I’ve been holding on to the information to spite my little sister, Tintin.

When she learned that we were going for the all important 16-week check up and ultrasound, she immediately told me I had to call her when we found out the sex. Had to?

I don’t have to do anything. Besides, that’s the whole point of the blog. HowAboutTwo? was started, in part, to keep everyone informed about the goings on with the our first pregnancy.

“No, no, no…” Tintin complained. “The blog’s for other people. I’m family.” I countered that if I told all family members via phone, I would be on the phone for a month.

This wheedling went on for days and would still be going on except Tintin did an end-around and asked P.Pie directly. To my chagrin, P.Pie spilled the beans. Fortunately, I plan for just such an emergency by keeping a trick or two up my sleeve.

You may recall that as children, I tormented my sister; I wove convincing tales of doom and gloom that, no matter how fantastical, she always believed. Now well into our 30s, and she with multiple higher education degrees, my little sister can still fall for a good con.

When she called to tell me that P.Pie had already told her the gender of BBC, I acted as if it all part of the plan; I laughed knowingly.

“Oh yeah?” I replied, the smugness practically dripping off my lips. “What did she tell you?”

My nonchalance threw her off. “What? What do you mean?” She stammered. “You know… Right?”

She was nibbling on the bait, but I really wanted to set the hook. “I knew you were going to try and get the information directly from P.Pie,” I lied. “So I told her to pull the wool over your eyes and make you read the blog.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes. I did.

“I don’t believe you.” But the slight quake in her voice told me she was afraid I was telling the truth.

So here’s the truth (which you knew all along, Tintin) – BBC is a boy. At least, that’s what the ultrasound technician thinks.

Here’s a couple of images; tell me what you think, guv'nah (see, the cockney thing written out just doesn't work).

Apparently he was twisting his head when this ultrasound was taken and he is not an "Alien".

This one looks like he's giving us the finger... I wouldn't expect anything less from my boy.

Well It’s About Time

2008-01-20T19:47:00.000-07:00

You probably think that the title of this post has to do with the fact that I haven’t posted since the first week of the New Year.

Well it’s not. At least, not so much.

If you were really sharp – or related to me – you might remember that one year and one week ago I posted about my 38^th birthday. So the thought might have occurred that I recently celebrated my 39^th birthday and I might be talking about that.

But I’m not. In fact, this year's birthday has been called off due to a lack of interest.

You may recall our ongoing issue with teeth. (now can you guess where this is going?)

Have you ever noticed that the old adage about a watched pot never boiling is pretty much true for everything? It’s even true for teeth.

Look closely at the picture of The Squeak and you may notice two brand-spanking-new teeth poking through. Two of 20; two that caused more than a few sleepless nights and high fevers; two that continually threatened to pop out of Squeaker’s gums at any moment, but wouldn’t.

Every morning at breakfast, we’d peek at the two lumps on her gums thinking, this will be the day. But it wasn’t. And finally, last Sunday, we quit looking.

But, curiosity got the better of us and we took a peek two days later. And lo and behold, there were two new teeth where none had been before.

With less that a week with the new teeth, we have not had any biting of fingers, cheeks, tongue or lips, but I expect to see a few tears from it soon.

Time Marches On

2008-01-06T18:17:00.000-07:00

Groucho Marx once said, “Time flies like an arrow, fruit flies like a banana.” And the first part is particularly true when it comes to kids and how quickly they grow up.

It’s sort of a double-edged sword. You want them to grow up, but not too fast. You want them to reach that next milestone, whether it’s sleeping through the night, crawling, walking, talking, feeding themselves, or whatever.

But when they reach that milestone, you suddenly get nostalgic for the days when they couldn’t sleep through the night, crawl, walk, talk, feed themselves, or whatever.

And as much as I love the old HowAboutTwo.com header of a laughing little Squeak, she has gotten bigger (relatively speaking, of course). Plus, very soon the blog won’t just be about her trial and tribulations.

But for the next five months or so, it’s all about her.

And in celebration of that, here’s a new header all about her.

Hunger Strike

2007-12-31T00:22:00.001-07:00

The Squeak has been on something of a hunger strike. Well, a modified hunger strike – if it doesn’t come out of a bottle or it’s not a Cheerio, she’s not having it.

Hunger strikes are generally used as a method of non-violent protest, usually for political causes but sometimes to bring attention to some other injustice, real or perceived.

So what it the point of Squeaker’s strike? Would she like better accommodations? This started the day after Christmas… is this her way of saying she is unhappy with her gifts?

No demands have been made, no TV crews have shown up at our house.

Maybe there’s a concert in the works; a big outdoor event headlined by U2 or some other socially conscious band. Maybe REM will get back together. Oh, maybe Plant, Page, & Jones can be coerced to do another Zeppelin concert.

Could I buy tickets even thought I am her jailer? No matter, concert tickets have gotten way too pricey these days.

We have tried everything – hot food, cold food, same food, different food, right before sleep, right after sleep, liquids before solids, solids before liquids… and nothing seems to work.

I’m not so much concerned that she won’t be getting enough nutrients; she’ll drink nearly 8oz at a sitting. It’s the sleeping (or the lack thereof).

Well, not lack of sleep; rather the lack of sleeping through the night.

Without the heavy proteins of solid foods, The Squeaker wakes up between 1-3am needing to be fed again.

I miss her sleeping through the night.

(!) UPDATE (!)

I started this post on Friday and Saturday afternoon, we had a break through! P.Pie cut mild cheddar cheese, ham, & turkey into small pieces and Squeak ate it up.

Well, she ate a third of it. The dog and her lap got the other two-thirds.

But, after she fed herself the protein apertifs, she was much more amiable for the other stuff.

Now let’s hope she goes back to sleeping through the night.

Lessons From Our First Christmas

2007-12-26T19:50:00.000-07:00

Well, our first Christmas with The Squeaker was a rousing success.

And probably our easiest.

If you watched your local news – specifically your local weather forecast – then you probably noticed that the Colorado received some snow. Initially, the majority of weather prognosticators said it was a slim chance of a white Christmas. The local ABC affiliate went out on a limb by intimating that we might, might see 1”-3” of snow.

Six-plus inches of snow later, we had a very white Christmas. Of course, that much snow makes it a pain in the ass to get around.

Or to get to your sister- and brother-in-law’s house.

But we did manage to get there and were warmly greeted by The VP, Picasso, Gunslinger, O-Pickle, and P.Pie’s mom, Nana (formerly known as The General).

I should point out here that I started to write a long post about the pony The Squeaker got as her big present, but she wasn’t really into the pony, so we had to get rid of it.

And that would be why she could never have another pony, so don’t ask thank you very much.

I’m pretty sure she’d see through that in a New York minute.

Anyhoo, we torn open a few presents and had some breakfast before tearing open more presents. After that, we opened even more presents.

Squeak raked in the toys & the clothes as any 10 month-old should. The best present she received by far was a 46” flat panel, 1080i, hi-def television.

Okay… that’s not completely true either; the tv was the gift that P.Pie & I gave ourselves.

But it’s funnier the other way.

Next year, Squeak will be nearly two and have much higher expectations about the season of giving and receiving. Especially, I imagine, the receiving.

PS - has anyone noticed the metal twist ties they're using to ~~weld~~ tie toys to the box?! Seriously, I had to get a pair of tin snips to get some of the toys out!

He Shoots, He Scores!

2007-12-16T19:33:00.000-07:00

I’ve been keeping a secret. For 14 long weeks, I’ve keep my trap shut, not saying a word.

Oh, I’ve wanted to say something. I’ve wanted to shout it from the rooftops; but, it’s been snowing here and I might slip and fall.

So I might as well come out and say it here – we’re pregnant again.

Yes, I agree… that was a pretty quick turn around. And truth be told, we weren’t really planning on a third so quickly.

Of course, we weren’t trying not to get pregnant… but the last time we tried, it took 2+ years and a helping hand from science.

So I kinda figured it would take a real effort to make it happen again. I mean, at least a week of, well, you know… concerted effort.

I feel like an after school special.

The funny thing is, I always – ALWAYS – tell friends that getting pregnant the first time is the hardest part. It’s kind of like an internal medicine version of riding a bicycle.

Apparently that applies to us as well.

Without further ado, here are pictures of Baby Barron 3…

‘Tis the Season

2007-12-11T20:52:00.000-07:00

A picture is truly worth a 1000 words and 1000 words is more than enough for a post.

But, as always, I have to add my $.02.

I was concerned that our first trip to meet Santa would be fraught with crying, screams, and general misery. And while I did grouse about going to the mall during “The Season,” I managed not cry or scream once.

True to form, The Squeak was perfect – she smiled at the people in line, beamed at the helper elves, and laughed at Santa’s tickles.

But, if I were to find something to complain about – and I can always find something to complain about – it would be about the Santa.

This Santa was more of a Jack-Skellington-dress-as-Santa, Santa.

Not that he was scary, or that his beard was merely a faux chin strap; rather, it was that he was tall and gangly… one might even say gaunt.

In an attempt to appear heavier, he wore a padded vest. But the effect was the opposite. Knowing the vest was padded only served to make him look even frailer.

I’m sure I’m the only one who noticed.

I’m also sure that the thousands of child who have passed – and will pass – over his lap this season will only remember that he was Santa.

Sit Up and Take Notice

2007-12-05T20:27:00.000-07:00

Just over a week ago I wrote about our pediatrician’s admonishment that The Squeaker should be sitting up.

Let me just say what a difference a week makes!

Squeak is an upstanding – well, upsitting – member of society. It was a pretty easy transition; we simply did what the doc told us – set The Squeaker up and put a few pillows around her.

The pillow back up was a short lived safety device. We only used it the first time and she didn’t even need it. Her back is as straight as an arrow and she’s rock solid steady. It’s like she’s been doing it her whole life.

Of course, she still shows signs of beginner-itis…

She hasn’t quite figured out how to get down from sitting up. We’ve had the hard fall over and the hard fall back (two of the former and one of the latter), all three of which produced tears.

Currently her preferred method of getting back to the prone position is to lean forward until she’s folded up like a pocket knife, torso and legs touching (ahh, to be that flexible!), then slowly, slowly, rolling herself over until her legs pop out from underneath her.

So, long story short – our pediatrician was right.

And The Squeaker’s world just got a little bigger... and a little smaller.

Tales From The Daddy Detective Agency

2007-12-03T21:17:00.000-07:00

The Case of the Rebuffed Bottle

Of all the nurseries in all the towns in all the world, she crawls into mine.

She was a short dame that was tall on looks; Uneven chestnut hair, like it never seen a single snip from a pair of scissors.

And those eyes… eyes so blue you want to dive in and swim around. Personality? She had that in spades. She was the…

Okay, enough dime store detective novel prose and on to the actual post.

It’s weaning time in the Barron household.

It was a tough decision, but Squeak is really growing and needs more that P.Pie is producing. Plus, as we wean The Squeak off the source and on onto formula fulltime, it reasons that I will be able to do more feedings.

You’d think, anyway.

When Squeak first came home, I would often pick up a late night feeding, using warmed breast milk. It was a great bonding opportunity for Squeak and I, plus P.Pie got a little extra sleep.

But not now.

The Squeaker has been unwilling to take a bottle from me… she’ll break bread with me, eat pureed food with me, and munch on rice puffs with me. But she won’t take a bottle from me.

I know, I know…maybe she’s having issues making the transfer to bottle fulltime. Nope, it’s just me. A very hungry girl will push away the bottle in my hand, but eagerly take it from P.Pie.

What gives? Why would a beautiful baby girl who otherwise loves her daddy refuse to take a bottle from him?

This looks like a job for the Detective Daddy!

So I threw on my deerstalker cap (see picture above), grabbed my cape and magnifying lens, then set about the chore of solving the Case of the Rebuffed Bottle (du-du-duhhhh-dummmmm).

I'd love to tell you that I put CSI agents to shame with my deductive reasoning.

I’d love say that I found the answer through hours and hours of research and theory testing.

Actually, I could tell you that and you’d just have to take it as gospel.

But the truth is, I practically fell over the answer while having a Daddy/Daughter night while P.Pie did a little shopping/bonding with a few of her friends.

After our usual evening routine (floor time/dinner/bath) I made Squeak a whopping 8oz bottle, scooped her up, and headed for her bedroom.
[ed. note: we’ve recently increased portion size from 4-6oz to 8oz… initially we didn’t think she’d eat that much, but she has repeatedly proven us wrong.]

I turned the lights down low and we relaxed into the recliner. Squeaker immediately bowed up; she did not want the bottle. She and I fought for several minutes – a back and forth of take the bottle/I don’t want the bottle.

The Squeaker won the battle, so we returned to the living room and plopped down on the couch. Just for giggles, I tried to give her the bottle again… lo and behold, she took it! In fact, I dare say she took it eagerly!

So it turns out, it was Colonel Mustard in the study with the… no, wait… that was a different Daddy Detective case.

After another test – recliner feeding vs couch feeding – with the same results, I have developed a theory; nine months worth of mom feedings in the recliner, she associates the recliner with P.Pie and no other will do in that chair.

So from now on, if Daddy’s feeding it will be on the couch.

And with that, Daddy Detective says, “Case closed!”

A Moment of Silence

2007-12-02T10:18:00.000-07:00

In the ‘70s, my favorite toy was my Evel Knievel Stunt Cycle Set.

It was a pretty basic toy - you placed Evel on the bike, you put the bike on the platform, you revved up the winder and let’er rip. Depending on his placement on the bike, Evel would pop a wheelie, go straight, or jump a ramp.

Hours of fun for kids of all ages.

It was such an immortal toy they re-released it a few years back.

By now, I'm sure that you all have heard that Robert 'Evel' Knievel passed away Friday. Every newspaper and television news program in the country carried the news and a report on his life and his stunts.

But no one has mentioned his indelible mark on history. Nobody has said (at least not that I’ve read) that we can thank Evel for the entire “extreme sports” genre.

What’s that you say? How can that be? A multi-billion dollar a year industry that has spawned everything from sub-cultures, movies, videos, video games, the X-Games and an Olympic sport (snowboarding), all thanks to one man?

Yes sir, all thanks to Mr. Knievel.

You might argue that the Z-Boys and the Southern California skateboard culture of the mid-1970s spawned extreme sports. I would counter that unless you were a skater/surfer, you didn’t know who the Z-Boys were before the 2005 movie “The Lords of Dogtown”.
[ed. note: see the documentary Z-Boys and Dogtown, it’s much better -rb]

But Evel, on the other hand, was on national television for an entire decade – from his first televised jump in 1969, to his last in 1980. He took a “sport” that was relegated to amusement parks, carnivals, and local stock car races, and brought it to the national stage.

Because of those glowing images of a man, a motorcycle, and long rows of school buses, every boy in America wanted to be Evel Knievel.

Especially a chubby 8 year-old boy in Ft. Worth, Tx, with a Schwinn Stingray bicycle sporting mini-ape hangers and a banana seat.

A bike that was definitely not made for stunts.

I still sport scars from attempted jumps on crudely constructed ramps of plywood and haydite blocks.

Every extreme sports star – from pro-skateboarder Tony Hawk to Olympic snowboarder Shaun “Flying Tomato” White – extreme sports star wannabe, and extreme sports fan should bow their heads a give a thanks that Robert ‘Evel’ Knievel created their passion.

9 Month Doctor Visit

2007-11-26T21:01:00.000-07:00

Apparently having a (seemingly) happy, well-adjusted child is not the be-all, end-all to good parenting. I could beat around the bush and drag my feet in telling you the details, but I won’t.

The Squeaker’s pediatrician said she wasn’t gaining enough weight and she should be sitting up on her own by now. Normally I’d just blow it off. After all, doctors are like auto mechanics; they’re specialists at what they do, but their opinion is just that, an opinion. And another doctor at another shop will give you another opinion.

The only problem is that I appreciate our pediatrician’s opinion.

To date, we’ve kind of let Squeak guide us as to her needs. If she wants to eat, we feed her. If she doesn’t, we don’t. And when it comes to crawling, she’s a speed demon – little sonic booms follow her as she races from toy to toy.

And she loves to prop herself up on her side when she’s got her toys spread around here in some sort of Abercrombie & Fitch meets Kids R Us photo layout.

And, and, and…

Well, it sounds to me like I’m trying to justify my parenting style. Well, I’m not.

At least not much.

But since the Doc went to all the trouble to make some helpful suggestions – increase carbs & proteins, sit Squeak upright with pillows around her, etc, etc. – we’ll give it a try.

You'd think I'd be a natural at packing on the pounds... well, I am. But only for me. So any suggestions for helping the little missy put on a few lbs would be appreciated.

PS – Sorry for no Turkey Day post; P.Pie & I were sick. All we did was cough and hack around the house – no turkey, no stuffing, no nothing. Just sick.

Yeah, it sucked.

Maybe I Should Have Called Her The Hisser

2007-11-20T20:45:00.000-07:00

The Squeaker’s newest sound is the Sssss; much like Sammy the sidewinder snake, who says the super syllable “S” with a supercilious sneer (some people say Sammy can be something of a snob).

Except she hasn’t yet learned that the tongue must be place at the top of the roof of the mouth to produce the perfect, soft “S” sound. Instead her tongue pushes to the very front of her mouth, right up to her gums and comes out with a “ttthhhhhhhh,” like Thammy the thnake ath a lithp.

It’th thuper cute.

She pushes herself around the living room (great room, for those of you in the Midwest), occasionally raising her upper body on her arms in baby version of the yoga downward dog, looking around to make sure the toy/cord/item she was working towards is still there.

And of course, she’s ttttthhhh’ing all the way through a gummy, open mouth grin.

Sorry Gunslinger, Disneyland Burned Down

2007-11-14T21:03:00.000-07:00

Saturday before last, The VP hosted a jewelry party.

As you might imagine, a jewelry party is not fit for man or boy; and since Picasso was out of town, I volunteered to get Gunslinger out of the house.

So what can a 3 year-old and his significantly older Uncle do that would be entertaining to both? Given my propensity for childish humor, it turns out a lot.

For starters, we both wanted to eat.

Gunslinger wanted MickeyD’s, but since Uncle was both buying and flying, we bargained for Japanese food. Besides every 3 year-old needs to sit at a sushi bar and watch somebody slice fish. It makes them well rounded.

Sushi was ordered. And to be on the safe side, I also order tempura veggies.

Gunslinger’s favorite was the tempura yam slice. In fact he ate a little bit of all the veggies, but he didn’t care for the sushi.

Gunslinger does deserve a little credit for at least nibbling on a small corner of a piece of salmon and on a slice of California roll before loudly proclaiming, “YUCKY!” to the entire restaurant.

As part of the sushi bargain, I promised Gunslinger we’d go play Skee-Ball, air hockey, and a video game or two (unbeknownst to Gunslinger, I wanted to play the games! A double score for uncle!).

So we jumped in the car and headed for a video game/restaurant called Jillian’s. Gunslinger could hardly contain himself. He sang the Skee-Ball song.

All.

The.

Way.

There.

When he wasn’t sing the Skee-Ball ball he was asking, “Are we there yet Uncle Rob?”

As we pulled into the parking lot of the arcade/restaurant we got a parking spot in the front row. In retrospect, that should have been a clue.

Lifting Gunslinger out of the carseat was a lot like trying to hold onto a greased chicken, which is why I didn’t notice that the neon sign was turned off.

As soon as Gunslinger’s feet hit the tarmac, he nearly took my arm out of its socket dragging me towards the front door.

Before we were even on the wide, wide sidewalk, I realized something wrong; the there were no lights on inside the arcade/restaurant - taped to the front door was a 8½” x 11” sheet of paper with three little words in a sea of white, “OUT OF BUSINESS”

Gunslinger cried. I felt like a heel.

Now it was too late to drive across town to another arcade. All we could do is go home.

But to make it up to him, we’re going for tattoos next week.

Well, Would You Look At That

2007-11-12T20:52:00.001-07:00

Some of you may recall a little poem I put together for The Squeaker’s animosity towards sleep called, “The Sleepfighter”.

CroutonBoy commented that future high school freshmen might be required to recite said poem in English class; the distant future, I’m sure. And as an odd happenstance, I received an invitation to submit poem or prose to an online literary journal.

The truth of the matter is that poetry isn’t my forte (no comments from the peanut gallery, thanks). In the 4.5 years (over the course of 18 years) it took me to get a BA in Creative Writing, I took exactly one poetry class.

That’s not to say I don’t appreciate poetry. I do, really. But I prefer the drug-addled poetry stories of Coleridge over more pedestrian love-esque fair in iambic pentameter.

Long story short, they liked it enough to publish it. No one was more surprised than me.

Check it out at the Wazee Journal.

That Dust Bunny Looks Familiar

2007-11-05T21:22:00.001-07:00

It’s official; The Squeaker is mobile.

Yes, we've been inching to crawling (really, rolling to crawling) for sometime, but in the last ten days or so, we have gone to the true crawl. It's something like a soldier crawling under barbwire, using elbows and feet to propel her along on her belly.

So she’s mobile and likes to be under the couch.

Fortunately, her head is too big – or the couch is too low to the ground – for her to fit under it head first. If she could, we’d never get her out of there.

In fact, I have visions of the future…

“Have you seen Squeak?” P.Pie would ask.

“Nope,” I’d reply, looking up from working on my latest post. “Did you check under the couch?”

“Of course!” She’d say, laughing at her forgetfulness.

At first, it’s cute and funny - we take pictures and tell friends.

But as the years wear on, she begins spending more and more of her free time under the couch. We have to tell her to “TURN DOWN THAT MUSIC!” and threaten to take her phone away.

When she’s mad at us, she stomps into the living room, throws herself on the floor and slides under the sofa.

Eventually, we catch her either a) sneaking out from under the couch late at night, or b) having her boyfriend under the couch.

Either way, we will be forced to sell the couch and replace it with several highboy stools.

I’m hoping she’ll grow out of it.

A Word About Common Sense

2007-10-29T21:03:00.000-06:00

Does anyone remember the woman who sued McDonalds for some extravagant amount of money because she burned herself when she spilled hot coffee on her lap?

She won her multi-million dollar lawsuit and now we have warning labels on coffee telling us that “contents may be hot”.

Do you ever wonder why there’s a warning sticker hair dryers that says not to use them in the bathtub? Or how about the warning on metal ladders that says not to use them around power lines?

Don’t these things seem, I don’t know, obvious? Like don’t put your finger in a light socket or turn on the garbage disposal while your hand is down it.

Common sense tells you not to do these things.

I’ve received a number of emails and a few comments about the recently recalled* Bumbo Baby Sitter.

A while back I wrote the praises of the Bumbo and I stand by that post; I also stand by my assertion of the misnomer product name. It is not a BABY SITTER. It’s a seat for babies.

A seat that does not have any sort of lock-in mechanism, or even a basic hook to tie your child to the seat. So common sense would dictate that, perhaps, leaving your child unattended might not be… well… wise.

I do not mean to question anyone’s parenting skills, nor do I wish any child harm. In fact, I feel awful for any parent whose child was hurt while using the Bumbo and wish them all a speedy recovery.

But c’mon people… let’s use a little common sense; don’t leave your unbuckled child unattended.
Otherwise, the Consumer Product Safety Commission is going to make up slap a warning sticker on infants before they can leave the hospital.

*it’s not really a recall, you simply call the Bumbo company and they’ll send you a sticker telling you how not to use their product.

The Uncomfortables, Continued…

2007-10-25T21:33:00.001-06:00

Since the last post, I’ve slept a total four hours.

In 10 minute increments.

Like many of you, we, too, were hoping it was tooth related. But it really didn’t feel like that, so P.Pie took her to the doctor on Wednesday.

Have I mentioned I like our pediatrician?

P.Pie picked our ped (which should be spelled peed for the proper pronounciation) prior to the birth of the twins and she was there during the whole ordeal and was very supportive. She was able to connect with us on a personal level and helped through the super-rough time.

So doc took a look at Squeak using the pointy-stick-in-the-ear light slash magnifying lens thingy; and she pronounced it an ear infection.

In each ear.

We had a choice – wait 48 hours and see if it goes away on its own, or get a prescription now.

The Squeaker was miserable. She cried constantly, couldn’t sleep, and was just plain ol’ miserable. Why would we wait two more days? Rather than put her and us thru that misery, we had the doc write us the ‘script.

Jump to today, Thursday.

P.Pie hadn’t been to work all week, so I stayed home with Squeak, administering medicine every 8 hours. She slept a lot and when she wasn’t sleeping, I was forcing liquids down her throat.

But, by the end of the day she was more like her usual chipper self. And the whole day together was great, even though she was sick.

When P.Pie came home, she pointed out that Squeak couldn’t take her eyes off me. Even as I folded some of the laundry, she looked at me with adoration.

P.Pie said, “Wow, look at her look at you!” Then to Squeaker, “Don’t look so surprised, he does occasionally fold the laundry.”

Yeah, they love me.

A Case of the Uncomfortables

2007-10-23T21:28:00.000-06:00

Last night, I took The Squeaker out of her car seat and noticed she was warm; dare I say, hot. P.Pie thought it was because she was heavily bundled.

I had my doubts, but who wins an argument with mom?

So I took Squeak to her room, changed her diaper and got her into her pjs. The whole process, including toes tickles and missed snaps, took about 10 minutes.

Squeak was still VERY warm to the touch.

Out comes the thermometer. Fortunately, my sister Tintin gave us an ear thermometer that gives the temperature in less than 30 seconds.

And my fears were confirmed – 100.8°.

I know it’s not “go-to-the-emergency-room” high. It’s not even “call-the-doctor” high. Still, it’s her first true fever and nerve wracking for us.

Long post short, we gave her Baby Tylenol which helped the fever. A little. Her sleep was fitful with P.Pie and I taking turns consoling her every 45 minutes or so.

Just before 4am I picked her up, wrapped us both in a blanket and sat down in the recliner and patted her rhythmically on the back until 5:30.

P.Pie took over and I got ready for work.

Fast forward to this evening – P.Pie isn’t feeling well…

I’m popping zinc and vitamin c like there’s no tomorrow.

The Post of Shame

2007-10-22T20:11:00.000-06:00

Yes, I said I’d do 31 posts in 31 days.

No, I haven’t posted in four days.

But I have ~~a lousy excuse~~ a good reason.

It turns out that P.Pie & The Squeaker – along with The VP, Gunslinger, and O-Pickle – all went to SoCal for a family event.

I was invited, but it was time again for my motorcycle club’s bi-annual national meeting. You may remember the last meeting.

Pretty much the same deal, so go read that one.

New stuff tomorrow.

A Little Help, Please

2007-10-17T20:11:00.000-06:00

Mike over at Be A Good Dad pointed out that I haven't changed the "About Me" on the right hand side of the page (your right, as you face the computer... just below the picture). Ever.

The twins were born 8 months ago Saturday and I get plenty of sleep. Well, not plenty, but enough to function at a reasonable level. Reasonable for me, anyway.

So let's have a little contest - prize to be determined.

Come up with something witty yet poignant... something that says subtle refinement and taste.

So basically something that is the opposite of who I really am.

It doesn't have to be the whole thing, just a seed of an idea.

Okay, let the games begin!

When Is A Word, A Word?

2007-10-16T21:46:00.000-06:00

As a toddler, I attended a preschool called Children’s World, where they taught 2 - 5 year-olds the basics of learning.

Words, letters, numbers, sharing, foreign languages…

In 1972-ish, the aforementioned daycare taught Spanish words and phrases. Today, that’s a basic requirement of any daycare, but it the ‘70s, it was forward thinking.

So, I came home with a new phrase that was to be said after someone did something for you. That phrase was “Gracias” (for the uninitiated, that’s thank you in Spanish). Of course, what I said when I got home was not “gracias”.

I pronounced it “God sees us”.

My father assumed the private daycare had some previously unmentioned religious leaning that they were imparting to his first born. Let’s just say he was not particularly happy about it.

While my father is not anti-religion per se, he dislikes surprises.

Fortunately, my mother listened better and was more levelheaded. She was able to explain what I was saying before my father yanked me out of school and gave them a piece of his mind.

***************************

The Squeaker has moved beyond the “Ah” sounds and is firmly into the “Da” sounds.

So she frequently strings the Da’s together in a “dada, dada” fashion. It appears more so when I’m reaching for her and/or holding her.

Does this mean she actually associates the word with me? I’d love to believe that, but I don’t think it’s true.

P.Pie, on the other hand, thinks it does. Particularly when she’s on night patrol and Squeak says, “Da! Da!”

For P.Pie, this means Squeak wants her Daddy to put her to bed.

Funny how it always seems she’s calling for her daddy when mommy’s ready for bed…

Day 15

2007-10-15T20:37:00.000-06:00

This is the 16th post in a row, of a planned 32 posts in a row. And I’m freaking out, man.

It’s only the halfway mark and with my feeble attempts at “picture” posts, I feel like I’m running on empty, creatively speaking.

Speaking of running, The Squeaker’s cousin, O-Pickle (who, I might add, is approximately 6-weeks younger than Squeak) has an interesting little trick – he can stand up. Of sorts.

Okay, he’s got a little help. Well, a lot of help.

Picasso puts his hands around O-Pickle’s calves while he stands on Daddy’s knees. Sways, actually. Sways, smiles and laughs hysterically.

Squeak hates standing stiff-legged.

Grabbing her around the waist, the minute I put even a fraction of her weight on her legs, they buckle like a cheap polyester jumpsuit. She doesn’t cry or express her displeasure in anyway, but I know just the same.

The same way you know when your wife says, No, I'm not mad, that she really is. At you. For something you did in a dream she had. Last year.

It's a vibe. We men are good at picking up on things like that.

Anyhoo, she loves the jumperoo, pushing her whole body up and down with her little legs. And those little suckers are getting better at propelling her body towards toys that are inches outside of her teeny grasp.

Of course, she still prefers to role to things more than a couple of inches away; but I bet she doesn’t feel creatively empty over it.

Bath Time Photo

2007-10-14T19:50:00.000-06:00

Yeah, she’s gonna make me take this one down at some point…

You can click on the photo for a larger version, suitable for use as a desktop background.

Of course, this only really matters to family, but it's there, you know, just in case.

A Conundrum

2007-10-13T22:29:00.000-06:00

Have you ever noticed that when someone you know buys a new car, you start seeing that car everywhere? Of course it’s not that there are more of your friend’s type of car on the road, you’re just more in tune with that model. Your brain is sort of “tuned in” to that model, if you will.

The same is true, I think, for babies. People have babies all the time. But the minute you have one of your own – particularly your first one – you suddenly notice them popping up all over.

Since the birth of the twins, the following people have either had a baby or are pregnant - my sister, P.Pie’s sister and brother (not together, of course), my cousin, and at least three sets of our friends. And that’s not including a number of friends of friends or blogosphere friends who have recently added to their baby collection.

As you might imagine, recently our mailbox has been inundated with birth announcements.

And herein lies the conundrum.

You think that everyone knows what happened – particularly with the blog. But inevitably, someone you haven’t seen since before the twins were born asks, “How are the twins?” In fact, it happened less than a month ago and lead to some awkward silence after the explanation.

And I know it will happen again.

But I feel like both Doss & Jorja deserve to have their births commemorated; and what better place than here, where the whole world can see it.

I created the layout a few weeks before their birth, but never plugged in their stats and pictures.

Until today.

Home Alone

2007-10-12T20:34:00.000-06:00

I’m back from Arizona and only Beej is here to greet me.

P.Pie is at her support group meeting and The Squeaker is spending time with friends.

So it’s just me and the dog.

Alone.

I could have stayed in Phoenix to watch the Rockies. Unlike Denver, there were still tickets available. Perhaps it best that I didn’t; it’s tough to root for your home team in the house of the opposing team.

Day Two... It's Only Day Two?!

2007-10-11T23:20:00.000-06:00

3:45 am - I rise enough to listen for noises from The Squeaker; the only sounds come from the air conditioner.

6:00 am - After tossing and turning for an hour, I roll out of bed and head for the shower

It's day two away from home and the only thing on my mind are my girls. You'd think I would take advantage of the situation and catch up on some sleep. No wife, no daughter... heaven to some.

Unfortunately, without the buzz of the baby monitor and the occasional squeak from The Squeaker, I cannot sleep unencumbered.

I can't wait to get home.

It's a Dry Heat

2007-10-10T23:08:00.000-06:00

Today, Arapahoe Basin (A-Basin to the locals) ski area opened, setting an all time early open record.

To be fair, they sort of cheated. This was the first year they had snow making equipment. In their defense, every other ski area that competes in the first-to-open contest has had snow making capabilities for years. A-Basin has naturally won more times than not.

In years past, I have skipped work and hit the slopes, board in hand. Alas, not this year.

I am in the land of perpetual sun. They tell me it's a dry heat, but don't you believe it. Not for a minute; it's not true. Not a bit.

Contrary to what Arizonians might say, 97 with no humidity feels like 90, at best. The high in Denver was 77. Where would you want to be?

Travelin' Man

2007-10-09T20:24:00.000-06:00

This is The Squeaker waving goodbye.

I'm off to Phoenix for a couple of days. When I return, Squeak will surely have a dozen teeth, eating corn on the cob, and talking with a mouth full of food (hey, I gotta have something to work on).

Biting Humor

2007-10-08T20:25:00.000-06:00

There are a number of things I don’t want to do; until recently, a colonoscopy was at the top of that list. Since I can unfortunately say that I’ve been there and done that, I’ve needed a new number one don’t-want-to-do-that thing.

And I think I’ve found it.

I do not want to cut any new teeth.

Yeah, yeah, no worries there, I know. But they are doing incredible things with stems cells, like growing vital organ tissue. I even saw a picture of a human ear being grown on the back of a mouse (seriously; here's a link to the picture). Can new teeth be far behind?

You can probably guess why - we have entered the teething months.

Really, it should be called the inconsolable months. There is nothing we can do to make her happy when she’s in the throws of trying to cut a tooth (teeth?). A frozen chewy thing or a wet compress to gum seems to help. For a bit, anyway.

There are a number of “remedies” on the market for teething pain. But I fear they are nothing more than Doc Terminus’ Snake Oil Cure-All.

This has been going on for a few days and we have absolutely no teeth to show for it.

In the meantime, what are your cures for the new teeth blues?

Picture Weekend, The Finale

2007-10-07T20:29:00.000-06:00

Squeaker, with apple

Picture Weekend, Take II

2007-10-06T23:22:00.000-06:00

Weekend in the park and a Walk for Life.

P.Pie, The Squeaker, and The General did the walk for life to remember Doss and Coach.

It was, according to those that attended, a great time. I had to work.

Work was, well, a four letter word.

Picture Weekend

2007-10-05T20:14:00.000-06:00

(Post #6 of 32)

O-Pickle and Gunslinger came over for the evening while their parents, The VP and Picasso, go to see Brooks & Dunne in concert.

Add to that P.Pie's mom, The General, and we've got a full house!

More pics tomorrow!

Okay, Here's Just How Big of a Dork I Am

2007-10-04T21:18:00.000-06:00

(Post #5 0f 32)

What follows is an honest-to-god back and forth coversation via email, of which I was an integral part.

It started with a photo & a joke about Jabba the Hut; I have shortened what was at least two dozen emails.

Not even the names have been changed to protect the geeky.

Please don't judge me too harshly.

****

Reed Anderson wrote: Hmmm... We'll have to ask Kurt 'Princess Leah' Neumann why he decided to crop himself out of the shot and photoshop out the chains... Neumann?... Was the bikini not complimentary?

Mr. Incredible wrote: I think Rob Calrissian was Photoshop’d out too

Robert Barron wrote: Lando Egan? God, that is hilarious...

Rob Egan: that's cool. I can deal with being Lando. Just as long as I get that little wrist remote to control Reed "Lobot" Anderson with.

robert barron wrote: Rob - you want to be the one that sells the rebellion/Luke/Leia et al down the river to the dark side of the force? Âll I have one word - wow.

Rob Egan wrote: Let's not forget who flew the Millennium Falcon into the second Death Star to destroy the main reactor. Not to mention pulling Luke off the bottom of Cloud City after Vader handed him his ass, and infiltrating Jabba's palace in order to facilitate Han's rescue. Lando is no slouch. His methods may seem unorthodox at first, but he gets it done.

Robert Barron wrote: Have you never heard the phrase "One awwshit wipes out 10,000 attaboys"? Sure, he tries to make up for the fact that he got them in the mess to begin with, but it's a day late and a dollar short, thank you very much.

Rob Egan wrote: I prefer the "A man can build 1000 bridges..." version, but I see your point. However, you have to remember "Don't hate the player. Hate the game!" The empire did arrive in Bespin before Han was back in contact with Lando. I think under pressure he did the best anyone could ask for. And he managed to hit on Leia a couple times in the mix. All I ask is that you walk a mile in his boots before rushing to judgment.

Robert Barron wrote: Wow. I feel like the biggest dork in the world. I need a shower.

To Dream, Perchance To Sleep…

2007-10-03T21:49:00.001-06:00

(post #4 of 32)

Again, my apologies to the Bard for the title of this post.

P.Pie & I try and share parenting duties as much as possible, whenever possible. Of course, it would be easiest to just divide tasks along the perforated lines; that is, the things we do best.

But no one learns from doing the things they do best.

***

When The Squeaker first started on solids, P.Pie excelled at feeding her. Probably has something to do with the whole breastfeeding thing. She’d put the spoon in front of Squeak and Squeak would practically take the spoon from her and feed herself.

But when dad has the spoon? Squeak wasn’t having any of it.

It took a while, and P.Pie is still better at feeding her than me, but now I’m a fair feeder. All because ~~P.Pie wouldn’t let me~~ I wouldn’t quit trying.

The thing I do best is put The Squeaker to sleep. When it comes to getting the sleepfighter to go down, I am a rock star.

I ~~have bragged~~ may have mentioned my skills at getting The Squeaker to sleep as an infant. This is a skill that has carried over into her, errr… 7 month-edness (not an infant and not yet a toddler).

P.Pie asked if I could bathe Squeak tonight (bathing is a skill that we both score high on). So I agreed and in return, P.Pie would put her to sleep.

P.Pie sort of cheats when it comes to getting The Squeaker to sleep; she relies on the boob. A hit from the knockout juice and down Squeak goes.

But tonight Squeak wasn’t on the juice, she wouldn’t have any; a combination of the sleepfighter in her and a tooth working its way to the surface. So the P.Pie called in the pinch hitter to bat clean up.

Now, I could have played the “How-are-you-ever-going-to-learn” card, but there’s something special about putting a child – you’re child – to sleep.

Daddy swung for the fences and knocked one out of the park.

A sobbing Squeaker plopped her head on my shoulder and fell directly asleep.

I love the having a skill…

Meet A Great Dad

2007-10-02T20:24:00.000-06:00

(#3 of 32)

Mike over at Be A Good Dad would like to meet you.

A father to boy/girl twins and a girl on the way, I have been reading his blog for more than a year. And in that time, I have discovered that his site’s name is a bit of a misnomer; Mike is a great dad.

Apparently twins and a singleton on the way isn’t enough for Mike; he ~~wants~~ needs more blogs to read.

So click on over, say hi, and tell him about your blog, or about your favorite blog (mine is Mike Adamick’s Cry It Out. A truly talented dad, both on and off the page).

Let’em know The Squeaker’s daddy sent you.

A Letter from Our Local Post Office

2007-10-01T22:24:00.000-06:00

(Post #2 of 32)

Today we received a letter from the local branch of the USPS about The Beej; in the letter they accused him of keeping our local letter carrier from his appointed rounds.

In the letter they implied that, between the hours of 8am and 5pm, The Beej was threatening the postal worker.

Seriously.

Does the above dog look like an animal that would threaten anyone? And besides that, The Beej is a kenneled dog while we are at work. Between the hours of 8am and 5pm.

If that were the end of it, I probably wouldn’t care. Much. But, they want us to sign a letter stating, in short, that we understand that this is strike one of three (after three strikes, they can permanently stop delivering your mail and/or have your dog put down).

And, until we sign and return said letter, our mail will not be delivered.

No due process. No hearings. Just guilt.

And that’s what really pisses me off.

In this day and age of banned breeds, violent breeds, dog fighting, and dog attacks, this is an unfair attack on my buddy. On my best friend.

I fear that if I complain too loudly, they may see me as a troublemaker and use that as an excuse to clamp down harder on The Beej.

If I do nothing and go along, they might assume I’m a push over and want to make an example of The Beej.

There are a number of large breed dogs that escape their outdoor confines on a daily basis in our neighborhood, but no one is threatening their owners with killing their dogs and/or expulsion from the postal system.

And truthfully, I wouldn’t care if they told me I couldn’t use the USPS anymore; except they are the only game in town. Which is why they can be rude, surly, and inconsiderate when you visit their places of business to give them money.

Do I ever complain about this piss poor service from a former governmental bureaucracy?

Until now, no.

But you better believe that from here on in, for every mail carrier who doesn’t put my mail properly in the slot, their local Postmaster will hear about it.

Every time I’m greeted with a surly attitude at the counter, I’ll let powers that be know.

When a package arrives torn, bent, mangled, or otherwise in poorer condition than when it was sent, I will complain.

I will be the thorn in their side.

To quote Peter Finch, I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore.

On a positive note, how about those Rockies?!? A 9 to 8 victory after thirteen innings! And I don't particularly like baseball!

Warming Up...

2007-09-30T19:16:00.000-06:00

October is officially competition month in the world of blogging; there are two sites that proclaim this month "Post Every Day" month.

A year ago, I parcipated in NaBloWriMo (the self-proclaimed originator of the idea) and Amy was kind enough to ask me to participate again this year.

Since I've slipped from my pre-birth five posts a week, I thought this was a good opportunity to whip myself back into shape.

So, this post on September 30th is the warm up and on October 31, we'll wrap up with 32 consecutive posts.

Keep in mind they won't all be award winning posts. There are going to be a few picture-posts of dirty diapers, the car, the dog, etc. But I'll try to keep those to a minimum.

And away we go...

Girl, Uninterrupted

2007-09-26T20:32:00.000-06:00

Saturday was Gunslinger's third birthday. It was a lot like his second birthday. In fact, it was at the same place with many of the same people.

Only this time, Squeak was out of the womb.

I tend to be something of a roughhouser when comes to being a dad. I like to throw kids in the air, carry them on my shoulders, run, play, and generally be a big kid.

Unfortunately, The Squeaker is a girl who doesn't enjoy roughhousing all that much.

Small tosses in the air? No thanks.

Sit on daddy's shoulders? Maybe tomorrow. But probably not.

Slide down a huge inflatable slide? No, sir. Uh-uh. No way. Nope. There is absolutely no freakin' way I am going down a slide that is at least 30x my size! Unless of course, you're going to force me.

And force I did.

With Squeaker tucked under one arm, we climbed up a faux rock wall, dangled precariously from a rope ladder, and crawled on knees and elbow to reach the slide.

Did Squeaker laugh with delight at the adventure her father had taken her on? No.

Did she babble with joy at the sight of a slide? She did not.

Instead, she cried.

She started crying on the faux rock wall, wailed on the rope ladder, and was practically apopolectic by the time we reached the top of the inflatable slide.

If your personality-type is determined during infancy, I think it's safe to say The Squeaker will be a girly-girl, wearing dresses and eating finger sandwiches while drinking tea with her little finger raised at a 90 degree angle from the china teacup.

Yeah... I have lots of dreams.

Do I Need A Permit For This Add-On?

2007-09-25T20:42:00.000-06:00

You may have noticed the Google search bar that's been lingering above my picture (follow the arrow).

It’s a nifty little customized add-on from the 600lb search engine gorilla. But don’t think you can search the internet willy-nilly; no, this little sucker is strictly an internal search engine.

On more than one occasion I’ve asked myself, “Self, where is that post about x,” or “How, exactly, did I make a libelous statement about the dog?”

[ed note: at the request of the law firm retained by The Beej – Dewey, Cheatum, & Howe – the offending post in which I question his heritage has been removed – rb]

Now, rather than having to paw through my memory or hundreds of various posts trying to accurately remember what I wrote about, say, being a teenager, I can now simply use a few keywords and voila, I have the results.

It’s a nifty tool… check it out.

More Than Just Variations of Pink

2007-09-25T07:10:00.000-06:00

Friday night, neither P.Pie nor I felt like cooking, so we wrapped up The Squeaker and headed for our favorite Mexican food joint, La Loma’s.

Apparently it was infant night atLa Loma’s, and they were sticking us all in one section of the restaurant.

In the booth across from our table were two couples, one with a six week old and the other with a two monther. Squeaker was facing them and performing amazing acts of prestidigitation with her pacifier; too which, they ooh’d, ahh’d and giggled appropriately.

Of course, having small children puts folk in a special club and gives you carte blanche to start a conversation with the other parent(s).

***

Before the birth of the twins, I wrote about my apprehension of finding out the sex of the twins.

There were lots of reasons not to find out the sex of the twins, but the primary reason was because I didn’t want all of the twins’ shower gifts to be blue and/or pink.

But in the end, we did find out the sex and all the shower gifts were all blue and/or pink. Apparently there may be a reason for dressing girls in the pervasive pink.

In the seven months we’ve been toting The Squeaker around, unless she’s dressed in head to toe pink, everyone says “Awww, he’s so cute! How old is he?”

And the pair of couples at the other table Friday night were no exception.

The picture above is one of my favorite Squeak outfits (which she probably won’t fit into next week); this particular ensemble gets more gender questions than most others. [ed. note: maybe it just seems that way because I dress her in it so often]

But I don’t get it; look at the frilly arms and wide, blousy bottom of the shirt. And don’t get me started with the pink flowers around the waistband of the jeans. Who would dress their boy in this manner?

The Squeaker owns, and wears, of cute pink girls’ clothes. But I will continue to dress her in non-pinks and in order to circumvent the gender question maybe I’ll have a sign made that says, “Yes, I’m A Girl.”

Designer Baby Food

2007-09-18T20:07:00.000-06:00

There is much ado in the world of food these days; from genetically modified cows in America’s heartland to E. coli tainted veggies coming from the West Coast.

And the products coming out of China… dog food, toothpaste, toys… don’t get me started.

I grew up in the ‘70s eating lead-based paint chips, riding around unrestrained in cars, and playing with Weeble Wobbles, little egg-shaped esophagus stoppers.

So genetically modified, lead-based, antifreeze fortified food and drinks are fine for me.

But The Squeaker deserves better than that. So we are making all of her baby food from fresh veggies.

Okay, ‘we’ is a bit of a stretch; P.Pie does most of the work. I wash the dishes when she’s done.

Occasionally.

Okay, I really don’t have much to do with it but I like taking the credit.

We were recently at a parent-type get together and P.Pie mentioned that she makes all of Squeak’s food. Everyone was shocked and the comments were across the board –

“Where do you find the time?”

“How do you do it?”

“Is there a special recipe?”

“Seriously, is your husband always that obnoxious?”

Some people just don’t have a sense of humor. Anyway, P.Pie gave out the recipe, so I thought I’d share it with you all:

Take a fresh veggie of your choice*
Steam until tender
Puree (adding the water from the steaming process**) to a very smooth consistency
Then pour into ice cube trays and freeze

Once the pureed veggie cubes are frozen (usually overnight), remove them from the trays and store in freezer bags. For breakfast and dinner, along with nursing, The Squeaker eats one cube (nuked for 30 seconds) with rice or oatmeal to thicken and fortify.

Bon Appetite!

*as with any new food, clear it first with your pediatrician. Never, never take advice from me with checking it with someone who has some common sense first.

**this is the part that makes it super healthy; many of the natural vitamins in vegetables are lost through steaming… but they’re in the water! Genius!

Talkin’ the Talk

2007-09-12T19:40:00.000-06:00

The Squeaker may need a new name soon.

She has gone from making short, weak squeaks to long, loud attempts at talking.

But when do kids really start talking?

I have some experience at watching children develop language skills; my nephew, Gunslinger, was an early talker. In fact, I think he gave his first full oratory at eight months on the pros and cons of bananas as a finger food.

With Gunslinger, once he started talking he didn’t stop. His third birthday is coming up and I don’t think he has stopping talking in over two years. So I hesitate to use him as a guidepost.

I’ve done some high level internet research on the subject (i.e., read the three sentence blurb in the Google search results for 20+ websites on child development) and according to experts, it can be anywhere from 9-15 months on average. Late talkers can be as long as 18-24 months.

The Squeaker will probably fit somewhere comfortably within the average.

Based on Gunslinger, we're enjoying the nonsensical blathering that Squeak puts out and hope that she speaks it for a long time. In fact, it sounds like she’s talking in another language.

Her native tongue is a language that is apparently based on the letter “a” and the “ahh” sound. While her language is short on vowels and consonants, it is rich with tonal variation, inflection, and emphasis.

Sometimes she talks to her toy(s) for an entire car ride.

The conversation goes something like this – “Aaaaa. Ahh! Aaaah a a ahhhhhhh. Ah ah ahhhhh aaaaah? Aaaaaaaaa! Ah.” And it goes on and on and on.

Whatever it is she’s saying, she’s very vocal about it.

It also occurs to me that she may be making fun of me… well, probably all adults. I can hear you now, “How can a six month old be making fun of you?”

You’ve never seen anyone make fun of a foreign language? Sasha Baron Cohen has made a career out of it.

Have you ever seen the Saturday Night Live skit with John Belushi as the Samurai Warrior in mundane jobs (a cook, a bellhop, a secretary, etc.)?

John Belushi does an impression of the Japanese language with long vowels and heavy “H”s. While the impression is less than politically correct, millions of tv viewers laughed heartily.

Maybe millions of infants are laughing at us.

It’s a sure sign if they babble at you and then laugh hysterically.

And You Got Us... What?

2007-09-09T17:45:00.000-06:00

365 days
212 posts
1000s of comments
100s of new online friends

Today is How About Two?'s first anniversary!

Thanks to everyone who has perused, read, recommended, complained, commented, or otherwise looked at How About Two? during its first year.

And now, on to year two...

Oh Yeah, Pick Up Some Crawling While You’re at the Store

2007-09-04T21:34:00.001-06:00

The weekends at the Barron household are filled with trips to the Home Depot, Costco, and Bed Bath and Beyond… if we have time.

Sunday before last Sunday was a Costco run. We don’t go to Costco every weekend. After all, how often do you need a 55 gallon drum of mayo or 10,000 disposable razors in a giant vacuum packed clear plastic case?

After picking up the necessities, we jumped into the “short” line – and by short, I mean less than 50 people.

When you first get into the short line, you think, ‘Wow, what luck!’

Note to self: the shortest line at Costco is the same thing as the shortest line at the DMV – it’s not truly the shortest line.

Sure, there are fewer people in the line, but the line moves at a glacial pace.

There is something inherently flawed with that line; either it’s broken and no one’s telling you or it’s not the line that can help you. Maybe it’s the “500 item and under” line. Maybe it’s the “no coupon” line.

Whatever. The line never moves, but you don’t get out of it because it. might. move. That and you don’t want to get into another line.

Anyhoo, when you’re stuck in line, you start making small talk with the person in front of you.

The cart in front of us had a nine-month girl eating Cheerios by the handful. Obviously she was bigger than The Squeaker (age related bigger, not poor eating habits bigger) but she was no where near as cute as Squeak (well duh).

P.Pie started making baby talk to the Cheerio baby, which lead to adult talk with the dad. He gave us her vitals, and out of politeness, asked the same of Squeak.

We swapped stories – he sharing the mess they cause when they start to crawl, we, new skill of eating semi-real food – and the dad said (fairly off-handedly) ‘oh yeah, she started crawling at around six months.’

When someone tells you about their child’s development stage, deep down (or maybe not so deep down) you worry about your child’s development.

We didn’t need to worry for long. Or we won’t have to worry for long.

Once at home on the floor, The Squeaker put her butt in the air and rolled/pushed herself forward.

It’s not a true crawl just yet, but can asking for the car keys be far behind?

Six Months Means Three Shots

2007-08-27T21:57:00.000-06:00

Surprise! Happy half birthday, Squeaker! Guess what we got you?

A doctor’s appointment! Yea!

The good news is that she’s in the 25th percentile for weight and head size and in the 75th percentile for length. I must say, I’m a little surprised. Both of her parents are on the short side and I’ve got a HUGE noggin.

Seriously, it’s like an orange on a toothpick.

The bad news is she had to get a round of shots - the DTaP, Hib, and Polio.

Whether she’s getting shots or drawing blood, the doctor is always sticking her. Well, that’s not fair. The nurse has to be the heavy with the needle.

Now, while I did not actually take The Squeaker to the doctor, I do get the play-by-play from P.Pie. And it makes me think, is it any wonder why we grow up loathing trips to the doctor’s office?

My fear/dislike of the doctor has kept me from going to the doctor on more than one occasion. Once, when I was 28 and living in LA, I had an ear infection and a fever of 102 degrees. I was miserable, but I knew I could get over it if I just waited it out.

Did I go to the doctor to get over it? Well, actually yes.

But not before I was hallucinating and left a Rob-shaped sweat outline on my bed. Yuck. I was miserable, but I would have rather been miserable than go to the doctor (in the end, the doctor just gave me some pills and sent me on my way).

Doctors need better PR. Maybe doctors should have monthly parties with pony rides, balloons, and cake. So when Mom and/or Dad say, “We’re going to the doctor’s office” you get excited at the thought of a potential pony ride.

Surely that would transfer to your adult life.

In fact, for adults, doctors could have cocktail parties for their patients. Maybe even with passed hor d’oeuvres.

Wouldn’t you love going to the doctor if they had passed hor d’oeuvres?

The Sleepfighter

2007-08-24T02:30:00.000-06:00

Who is the sleepfighter?

Not some somnambulistic pugilist,
At a free-for-all fracas
Throwing punches in a night cap & gown.
Nay, not a feud of fisticuffs in fitted sheets

Neither is it a worshipper
In the sanctity of sleep
The sleepfighter is a heathen
At the altar of night

There will be no going with just
A story,
A rock,
And a kiss goodnite

To arms! To arms!
Cries the wee sleepfighter
To sleep! To sleep!
Answers the weary roots

But youth and daring will out
While age & love caves in,
And I rock my sleepfighter
Into that good night

Baby Camo

2007-08-21T21:51:00.000-06:00

This particular outfit is one of my faves because it blends into the bouncy so well.

One minute you're gently setting her down and like a baby ninja - she's gone! Swallowed up by the matching chair.

Except her head, arms and legs, of course. Still, too cute.

Little or No Responsibilty

2007-08-19T21:14:00.000-06:00

It was a bachelor weekend for yours truly...

P.Pie and The Squeaker (whom I'm thinking of renaming Jen and Juice) went to Las Vegas for a girls' weekend with her mom and some of their friends.

I spent the entirety of the 65 hours they were gone doing motorcycle club stuff. My nose is burned to a crisp in spite of multiple lathers of thick layers of sunscreen, the bike needs an oil change, I slept too little and I drank too much.

Man, am I ready for Jen and Juice to get home....

And The Firsts Just Keep On Coming

2007-08-15T21:10:00.000-06:00

Just last week I wrote about a first for The Squeaker; but here at 6 months, the firsts just keep on comin’…

This week is the raspberry.

To elicit excitement out of Squeak, we are constantly making faces and funny noises at her. Top on that list is the raspberry. To our shock, she has start to emulate the raspberry.

Well, try and emulate, anyway.

Basically it consists of her sticking her tongue out, putting it back in, and then blow air out of her mouth. Air and a lot of spit.

It’s not really a raspberry. Yet. But it soon will be.

And as soon as it is a true raspberry, we’ll have to teach her to not stick her tongue out.

Handy Daddy

2007-08-13T21:07:00.000-06:00

I have always said given the proper tools and instructions, I can do anything.

Of course most projects start sans instructions (when all else fails, read the instructions). If you doubt that, read the early posts... our efforts were all sans instruction.

Seriously, complete strangers approach me to put things together...

Need a bouncy put together?
I’m your guy.

Want the dishes washed?
I can do that.

Need to learn how to parallel?
Got you covered.

New stereo hook up?
Yep, that’s me.

Want someone to help you maximize your moving van space?
Well, sorry, I’m busy that weekend.

Actually, if they made an instruction book for brain surgery, I’d probably try it (which is why they don’t make ‘Brain Surgery for Dummies’ books).

The other thing is the 80/20 rule*.

I generally get bored with a project after the 20. So there’s a lot of unfinished projects around casa de Barron.

If I did have a ‘Brain Surgery for Morons’ book, there’d be a four or five brains in big glass jars stack around the garage.

“Honey, have you seen that brain I was working on?” I’d ask.

With an exasperated sigh, “It’s on the second shelf, behind the TV you took out of the neighbor’s trash that you were sure you could fix. Last week.”

Yeah. That’s me to a tee.

So several weeks ago we were at Kitchens, Kubbies, & Korners (hey, you want a mention on HowAboutTwo, you’re gonna pay for it), and P.Pie said, “we need a decorative shelf for Squeaker’s bath stuff.”

And again, she’s spot on. All of Squeaker’s bath items sit on the kitchen counter.

So we looked at shelves.

The good looking ones were too small, the big ones were too utilitarian, and all were too expensive. So besides sounding like a Goldilocks and the Three Stores, there was nothing worth picking up.

Enter Handy Daddy.

“Honey,” my soothing I-swear-I’ll-finish-this-project voice at full tilt, “I can make a custom shelf that’s better and bigger than anything we’ve look at for a fraction of the cost.”

And as usual, P.Pie believed it.

In my defense, when I said it I believed it too. And I did build a better shelf, cheaper than anything we looked at (less than $10 in supplies!).

In only five weeks. Granted, I finished 80% of the work in one Sunday afternoon (still, it does look good).

*also known as the Pareto Principle (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pareto_principle), it basically states that 80% of your results come from 20% of your efforts.

Eight Years

2007-08-08T08:07:00.000-06:00

I can quote tens of thousands of lines from hundreds of movies. This is a talent I develop as a small child when I drove my father crazy by repeating television commercials in the car.

I would extoll the virtues of housecleaning products and luxury American cars as we drove from home to school or to my grandparents' house and my father would beg me to stop. repeating. commercials.

Today, I can recite a quote for just about any occasion. Usually they are obscure references that only I find funny or, fo that matter, even understand.

But that’s okay; the quotes make me laugh, which is all that matters.

Of course, this ability comes at quite a cost… I can never remember other important things like mathematical formulas, phone numbers, historic dates, the 16th place of Pi, people’s names…

A friend once commented that if I spent half as much time on the world’s fuel crisis as I did on movie quotes, we’d have a never ending free fuel source by now. (In my defense, I don’t try to remember quotes, they just sort of… stick.)

As I say, my memory for other things is a little weak. But there are a few days that stick out in my head.

One of them happened eight years ago.

This particular day eight years ago was a Sunday and the weather was picture perfect in Camarillo, Ca. The sky was crystal blue with high wispy clouds and the temperature – which the week before was hitting the 90s – hovered around a breezy 75 degrees.

That summer in California had been a semi-wet one, so the grass was green and smog was kept at a minimum (how can you trust air can’t see?).

My nerves were a little jangled, but in a good way.

How is it I remember the day so well? Eight years ago today, P.Pie & I stood with 100+ friends and family members in a wonderful wedding ceremony. In fact, it was our wedding.

And this morning, for the first time in eight years, I managed to remember it before P.Pie.

Happy Anniversary, P.Pie!