Kiddie Party!

I Hate Your Kid

That's right. Your little A.D.D. punk annoys the shit out of me. If they're not muscling their way between a toy and my kid, they're throwing things indiscriminately that end up hitting her. At a birthday party, they'll sneeze on a table full of food and open presents that aren't theirs. We need to revert to the days when jungle gyms were made of steel and action figures were made of iron. This way, when they get out of line, they'll get injured like they're supposed to - like our Forefathers!. Thin the herd, let them experience consequences. Keep those kids in traction so the rest of us can have some fun. These days, if a kid is doing something they're not supposed to at a playground and takes a spill as a result, there's no repercussion because there's no cement. The ground is made of sponges! By that same logic, we should all put helmets on our kids and have them beat each other with styrofoam mallets. This way, they learn that violence is fun and nothing bad really happens.

We make crayons and paste non-toxic but they eat Lucky Charms and Fluff. We complain that their education system is screwed up while they watch yet another 2-hour American Idol. It's coddling, hypocrisy, and laziness all rolled up into one and it's flavored with Rockin' Blue Raspberry.

Man up (or woman up) and be a fucking parent. I know it was fun when they were all cute and squishy and didn't roll over, but those days are gone. Get to work, people. Your kids are pissing me off and I'm going to start tripping them when you're not looking - which is basically all the time.

Baby #2 Update

I haven't been writing very much about Baby #2. Mostly because I already wrote about Katrina being pregnant and it has roughly been the same experience so far - retch, sleep, eat. A few different cravings and saving graces. Pancakes seem to be only carry-over from the last pregnancy that has yet to wrong Katrina's affinity for nausea. I don't even know what week she's in unless I think really hard about it. I used to be able to spout that statistic at any time of the day. Her tummy did pop a bit earlier this time, so that was new. For the record, we're in the second trimester now and will be doing the sonographical counting of fingers and toes in a couple of weeks - Week 20 of 40.

One thing that is changing is finding out the sex. She doesn't want to know, thus I don't want to know. My argument for knowing has always been that giving birth has enough unknowns, surprises, and complications. Why add another? I thought about complaining, but what can I do? In a stalemate such as this, tie goes to the runner. She's carrying it, I'm not. My sister was mortified by this choice because she has a garage full of blue and pink baby clothes, some of which we originally gave her. She is dying to send us a few boxes to clear some space, but can't until the baby is born. Thus, the first thing out of Katrina's mouth when she sees a doctor or technician has to be IDONTWANNAKNOW, as they have a history of slipping up a pronoun once in a while. He, I mean, It is doing fine.

We've also decided not to disclose our name choices. This pregnancy is already shrouded in mystery, ain't it? So, why did we decide this? First, it seemed that every time we decided on one, a virtual Fibber McGee's closet full of babies with the same name came crashing down upon us. Initially, we had a pretty good footing with the name Zoe Mae. In the weeks to follow, we met girls, boys, even dogs with the name and we just fell out of love with it after that. Secondly, everybody's got an opinion. And unless they're pointing out a fatal mockery-laden flaw embedded within the name that I may have missed, like converting Jackson Aronoff to JackOff, then I don't want to hear it. I'll even hear people say, "I know someone with that name and they're an asshole." Mmmkay thanks - I'll remember that in case I meet your friend one day and need him to save me a spot in line or something.

Of course, if you were to hear it from Katrina, she'd tell you that this pregnancy is very different this time around because she has to chase around a 2-year old. She gets tired fast. My usual response is, "Well stop chasing her then." Though I think when she says chasing, she's talking more about bookending her day by racing to and from daycare drop-offs and pickups while working 10 hours. Then when we're home it's make dinner, eat it, bathtime, stories, bottle, brush teeth, fix lunch for next day, dishwasher - oh look it's 11pm - CRASH!

Aarrrrggghh

I'm ...... planning a birthday party for a two-year old. It's .... cough ..... getting out of hand. Twennnty Seven .... people. People! Help! Gawwwwwwwd

Mini Therapist

Alina saw that her daddy was visibly upset. To make him feel better, she took him by the hand saying, "C'mon, Daddy. C'mon, Daddy" and brought him around the apartment to see all the pets. First, she led him to the fishtank and said, "Wook, Daddy. Fishies!" Next, she gleefully pulled him towards the acrylic enclosure that housed Ecko, the iguana. "Wook, Daddy. Ecko!" Then she tracked down the cat, Embers. "Wook, Daddy. Embers! Kitty!" She smiled. It worked. He felt a lot better.

The first time you save your kid's life, you feel grandiose. A true feat of heroism. She almost fell off the bed, afterall. Bad things could've happened had you not grabbed her ankle. After the 50th time you save your kid's life, you don't even think about it, except maybe to think, "I really wish this kid would stop almost dying. It's getting old." Your virtuous pomp is replaced by a nonchalant glaze. You could even do it while talking on the phone and carrying a plate of corn on the cob. "I'll take that Xacto knife, thank you very much."

Then there's that one time - perhaps #63. That one time when it's just too close and the results could've been worse than you can imagine. Then you can imagine it and you just lose it. Right there at the mailbox.

But ...

How can I be upset when I have all these pets? Right, Alina?