Candyland shark.

Spelling.

Pink eye is running rampant at day care. Groan.

Junior has apparently discovered she has lungs. She likes to scream now, often for no reason. It’s a bit annoying for us and for the dog it’s excruciating. So, the other night she starts screaming. I say to her: Let’s not scream inside. We use our quiet voices in the house. She says outside. I said she could go outside and scream all she wanted. So, she did. She was standing on the front porch screaming at random intervals while me and the Mrs. were watching from the door having a good laugh. So, if you see a child outside screaming, that’s probably why.

Last night, the Mrs. says she’s going to take the kids with her to the in-laws for dinner and for me to have some alone time. Cool. She tells me to take it easy and enjoy myself. So, I get in and plop my skinny ass on the couch. And stay there for about two hours, catching up on some TeeVee.

The Mrs. and the kids return. She says: I took out the trash.

Me: Oh, is trash day tomorrow. I forgot.

She says: Did you make the kids’ lunches for tomorrow?

Me: Err, no.

Her: [groans].

Me: Obviously, our definitions of take it easy and enjoy myself are different.

The Second has started crawling. That means I get to spend this weekend installing baby gates. He did it last night for the first time. I arrive at day care this morning and tell the teacher that he’s crawling. She says Yeah, he started that this week. So, it wasn’t his first time. Kind of a pitfall of daycare that you may miss a few firsts.

The kids continue their record long streak of passing colds around to each other and other kids. Sigh. A while back, someone asked me:

How much do you spend on daycare?

I told them. But I have to rescind the comment and say to take that number and add about $180 per month to it for the increase in doctor’s visits, prescription medication, and other stuff you have to buy because you basically send your children to a den of plague every day. But, no worries. I mean, they either get exposed to this stuff at daycare or in kindergarten. So, get it over with sooner rather than later.

In other news, this morning I was preparing The Second to go to daycare. He looks at me and says mamamamamamama. I said to him No, I’m dadadadadadada. Can you say dadadadadadada. He smiles real big and says dadadadadadada.

Junior said dadadadadadada first and The Second said mamamamamamama first.

I wish Junior would realize that my morning dump is not a team sport.

I found it odd when I read over at BusyMom’s that there are actually online allowance managers. Allowance is in parents give their kids allowances.

I guess you can wrap any concept up in a webpage and someone will buy it.

On the work involved with two kids, Les says:

* We wash six or seven loads of dishes a week.
* We wash six or seven loads of laundry a week.
* We take out six or seven bags of garbage a week.

That’s nothing. We run the dishwasher at least once daily but mostly twice. We one load of laundry per day just for kids. And one trash bag out of the kitchen per day (and two every other day) and usually one from downstairs weekly.

And by we, I mean my wife mostly. She does a lot more around the house than I do. And I do appreciate that.

Terry, noting that in Europe they’re paying people to have kids, wonders why people aren’t having kids:

Is it culture? Is it religion? Is it greed? Is it modernity? Is it selfishness? Is the West too prosperous? Narcissism?

No. It’s because at some point those people were around babies. See, babies are a pain in the ass. It’s true. Examples:

They smell bad (newsflash folks – and women cover your eyes – but that baby smell you love so much is a mixture of lotions, ointments, vomit, and baby shit. It’s true, sorry)

Can’t do a damn thing for themselves. Seriously. Can’t get around, can’t eat, can’t hold their heads up. And my personal favorite is that they can’t even keep a pacifier in their own mouths. If they can’t do it, no one can.

When you have babies, forgot about getting a good night’s sleep until the kids go to college.

They’re expensive. Do you realize I have to pay for two college educations, one wedding, two first cars, maybe some braces, and who knows what else? That’s in addition to food, clothing, enough diapers to fill a landfill, and toys.

Etc.

In short, they’re not easy. Me and the Mrs. contemplate often whether we want to have a third child. And let me tell you, that during that three in the morning scream-fest that occurs about twice a week, the case for that third child is pretty weak.

But they sure are cute:

That said, I love my kids and would do anything for them. But I often wish I was single again, just for like a day or two. You know, get up in the morning, kick whatshername out, sit on the couch in my underwear watching TeeVee all day. But that won’t happen again for, like, 18 years.

Here in UncleLand, it’s about 70 degrees out. So, outside with us all. The second gives a class on swinging. Start out in the back:

Then move to the front:

Repeat for minutes of fun.

Today, at Junior’s and The Second’s school it’s PJ day. They wore pajamas to school this morning. I think it’s a great idea and think workplaces should have a PJ day too.

I’ve been complaining about my children being sick lately. They’ve had a variety of ear infections, coughs, sniffles and every other assorted contagious thing that kids bring home from daycare. Last night, a friend told me that in the next few months he’d have to get his four-year-old little girl a wheelchair. And that she was not expected to make it past the age of nine. I can’t imagine how horrible that would be to know. Made my complaints seem utterly insignificant.

Our house has been invaded by monsters. And bumblebees. At about 2 to 3 in the morning, Junior starts screaming because either monsters or bumblebees are in her room. Me or the wife then has to go and tell her there are no monsters or bumblebees. And that monsters aren’t real but bumblebees are, only there still aren’t bumblebees in your room. Because it’s cold outside. This is confusing to a two-year-old. And it’s a difficult conversation to have in the middle of the night when you’re not at your best. I’m personally of the opinion it’s a trap by Junior to get in our bed and the Mrs. falls for it every time.

I’m not sure where she picked up monsters. And I sure don’t know where the bumblebee thing is coming from. So, last night I asked. I asked Junior if it was one of the kids at school and she said No. Instead, she blames her teacher. I’m sure the teacher isn’t trying to scare her with monsters or bumblebees but there’s probably been a story or two told about them in class.

She doesn’t believe me when I say there’s no such thing as a monster. So, now we tell her that some combination of the dog, her teddy bears, and the pastel-colored butterflies painted on her walls repels the monsters. Somehow, the fact there are no monsters isn’t believable but that they are repelled by paint, fabric and an uninterested dog is. Well, when you’re two.

USCitizen tells us to be careful what kind of lists you put your name on. Good advice.

The wife just called and said So, where’s the secret bank account?

Heh.

I love you.

And judging by comments, I should apparently try one of those pumpkin spice lattes.

I sympathize with respect to teaching little ones about their bodily functions. But we’ve not quite made it to sharts. That post made me laugh out loud. You should read it all but here’s a snippet:

Last week, out of the blue, L’il Fat started crying. Wailing really. She had sharted.

With Junior, we’ve had many ups and downs with the potty training. Lately, it’s mostly downs. She’s almost two and a half now. She was actually peeing in the potty regularly at about 18 months. Then, she made a horrible mistake. She dookied in it. It scared her and she didn’t sit on the potty again for months.

Now, at daycare, she’s catching back on. She will, on occasion, request to use the potty on her own. Otherwise, we try to remind her to go on the potty and not in her diaper or pull up. That’s the other thing, she was wearing pull-ups all day for about two weeks. And, without cause or reason, she started asking for diapers again.

She still won’t doody in the potty. But will pee in it regularly enough but not every time.

So, we’re trying bribery. If she pees in the potty, she gets one of her favorite foods: one gummy bear. If she poops, she gets two. Me and the Mrs. have decided that the terms Number 1 and Number 2 must have come from thousands of years of parents trying the same thing.

I’m not homophobic and I’m not filled with angst against metrosexuals or whatever we’re calling well-groomed men these days. But I’m with this guy. Bonus points because the original article is written by a gay dude. A man should know how to do certain things (like how to operate tools, build a fire, set up a secret bank account that his wife doesn’t know about*, drive a stick, fire a rifle, clean a dead critter for consumption, etc. You know, basic things). Many men lack enough male influence in their lives and don’t learn these skills.

And, ferchrissakes, I can’t stand to see a grown man order a pumpkin spice latte. I don’t care if it is a seasonal blend of holiday goodness.

* I’m kidding. That’s just in there to see if my wife is reading.

Spent most of the long weekend not doing any. Put up the Christmas lights, ate, watched football, tended to sick kids, shopped, and did a few chores. So, I’ll catch up on the old email and the blog feeds. Did I miss anything important?

Also, on Black Friday, I ran into Late for Dinner and his charming wife, who were also making an emergency Christmas decoration run. I think that’s the first time I’ve been out and heard someone yell Hey, Uncle. But that’s not why I mention it. The reason I do is that about three years ago me and the Mrs. met Mr. and Mrs. Late for Dinner for, err, dinner one night. We said we’d have to do it again. And never got around to it. Seeing them made me realize that. And I thought to myself Self, why is that? Oh, now I remember. I had kids.

That’s what insty calls it. Here it is. Simpler version: Ooh, pretty.

We just bought a plasma on Sunday. Should be here Wednesday. I was sort of disappointed as the the mantle above the fireplace (which I had a media slot put in) was about 1.5 inches too short for the 50 incher. We got the 42 incher.

Here’s my bizarro psychology: Back in 2000 when me and the Mrs. decided to live in sin, our first major purchase together was a big screen TeeVee. Not just a big screen, the biggest screen. We bought a 60 inch projection set (a month later, the 72 inch came out and I was pissed). This was when HD was not as popular and we saw no point in that kind of bling for 4 HD channels. We still have that TeeVee in our rec room. It’s a great TeeVee, with a good picture. Honestly, me and the Mrs. really like that TeeVee a whole lot. But a part of me kinda wishes Junior would throw a hammer through it or something so I can get a plasma for the rec room.

The Second, who is 5 months old, likes to sleep on his belly. He sleeps more soundly and for a longer period of time on his belly. When he sleeps on his back, his naps are short and he gets cranky due to lack of sleep. Trouble is, since he’s a big boy, he has a bit of trouble rolling from his back to his belly. He can roll from his belly to his back just fine. So, when we lay him down for nap time, we place him on his belly. So did daycare. Until two weeks ago.

You see, appropriate sleeping procedures vary from decade to decade. One decade, parents are told baby sleeps on his tummy. The next, it’s on his back. And this flip-flops all the time. That’s what my parents tell me. Apparently, this is the decade where it’s on the back. When The Second first got in daycare, they asked us to fill out a form telling them it was OK to let him sleep on his belly, which we did.

Now, some arbitrary state agency with nothing better to do has decided that parental permission isn’t good enough. No, you see, The Second needs a note from his doctor stating that the daycare staff can put him in his crib on his belly. Yes, that is correct. Let me repeat the stupidity: In order for him to be placed on his belly and get an adequate nap, parental consent isn’t good enough. You need a note from a doctor. If baby rolls on his belly by himself, that’s fine. But he can’t be placed there.

We call the doc and say Hey, doc, this is really stupid but can you sign a note saying it’s OK for the second to be placed on his belly for nap time? Doc says Well, I would but current guidelines say I shouldn’t. So, I can’t really. I’m not sure what guidelines he meant but I’m sure it’s some other arbitrary state agency with nothing better to do.

Well, you can use our copy when we’re done:

Picking what to call grandparents can be trying but, ultimately, the kids decide. My dad wanted to be called Poppa. And that worked because it was easy for a young child to pronounce. My mom, on the other hand, wanted to be called Grandmother. Not sure why, because that’s hard for kids to pronounce. I think it’s because my mom’s side of the family is a bit, err, country. And everyone called my grandparents on her side mamaw and papaw (it’s a Southern thing).

Needless to say, Junior never could not pronounce Grandmother. But she’d say Poppa all the time. Poppa this, poppa that:

The Wife: Say poppa!

Junior: Poppa!

The Wife: Say grandmother!

Junior: *blink*

And on it went. One day, we’re over at Poppa and Grandmother’s. And Poppa, wanting grandmother for something, yells Hey Honey. Ever since then, Junior calls Grandmother Honey. So, that’s why my little girl calls her grandparents Poppa and Honey. Honey doesn’t seem to mind.

Right on:

Youngsters in a suburban Fort Worth school district are being taught not to sit there like good boys and girls with their hands folded if a gunman invades the classroom, but to rush him and hit him with everything they got – books, pencils, legs and arms.

“Getting under desks and praying for rescue from professionals is not a recipe for success,” said Robin Browne, a major in the British Army reserve and an instructor for Response Options, the company providing the training to the Burleson schools.

Indeed. Hiding makes you an easy target. When confronted with violence, your response should be one of two things and those two things only:

1 – Run
2 – Attack

Or fight or flight, if you like. That’s it. Nothing else. It’s the natural thing to do or else we wouldn’t be conditioned to have those two responses.

Do not hide. Do not negotiate. Do not try to soothe. Do not comply. Do not try to ‘understand’ the murderous retard shooting up the place. Period. In a school shooting, if you can leave then get out. If not, don’t cower or hide. Fight enough to get out. Or you’re dead. If you attack, you could die. If you cower under a desk, you will die unless the nutjob runs out of ammo before getting to you.

Via insty.

Junior has started wearing pull-ups. In fact, she went all day yesterday wearing just one. For those without kids, this means that she went all day and used the potty instead of her pants for her, err, business. It’s a big day.

Also, she’s started sleeping in her big girl bed frequently. This is also good stuff.

As for The Second, he’s sleeping through the night. Unfortunately, his night starts at about eight. So, he sleeps until about 4:30a.m., which is awful inconvenient for me and the Mrs.

He’s also become very reactive to his environment. He smiles, laughs, and reaches for things. When he smiles, his whole body smiles.

Good times. Well, except that getting up at 4:30 part.

I’m not hungry. Good. My butt is dry. Better. I’m warm. Life is good. Cool, nothing to do but hang out and try to figure out why this starfish isn’t lighting up. Come on, light up . . . light up . . . light up or I’ll cry . . . li . . . oh, there you are. Woohoo. Happy day. Seems to light up whenever I kick those things on my . . . ooh, there’s dad. If I smile, he’ll be happy. See, he smiled back. Chump. What’s he doing? Hmm, at the fridge . . . getting a beer. Wait for it. He’s making his way to the couch. Wait for it. He has the remote . . . patience, it’s too soon. He turned on High Stakes Poker on the TeeVee . . . wait for it. He’s got his feet propped up. This is gonna be good. He’s touching the beer to his lips. Ok, now:

WAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

Sucker.

It’s the plague.

Two weekends ago, Junior got sick. She had a stomach bug. And the Mrs. caught whatever she had. The Second remained happy and mostly unfazed as was I.

Last weekend, Junior got sick, the Mrs. got sick, and The Second was sick. They all had, to use the Doctor’s highly technical medical term, the sniffles. I, again, was untouched.

Yesterday, the Mrs. calls to say she’s picked up Junior from school because she has a fever and green boogies (which is parent code for contagious, if you didn’t know). While on the phone, the Mrs. sounded a bit, err, snotty. I don’t mean like snotty as in mean, I mean snotty as in she’s probably got a fever and green boogies too. And, given how things work, this probably means The Second will get it too. And Politically Incorrect Dog has an ear infection.

In all of this, I haven’t come down with anything. I think the germs realize they can’t get to me so they’re going after my family.

Nothing is more sad than a physically ill toddler. Or baby. Or dog. And The Mrs. seems more troubled by the fact she’s tired all the time from helping deal with sick kids while being sick herself. Ah, parenting. You can’t just take a break from it.

The other night, the second child slept through the night. Woohoo.

The other thing is that, now that we have a boy, I realize the Mrs. has no idea how a penis works. For example, she says, while pointing to a spot on the kid’s penis:

I think something is wrong with his penis.

Me, I look at the spot and say: Honey, that’s the frenulum, it attaches the skin to the shaft.

Her: Never noticed it on yours

Me: I know.

Last week, Junior graduated to the toddler bed after trying to climb out of her crib. Now, at night, she’s not railed in. This worked well for about, oh, three days. Then she decided she’d sneak into our bed in the middle of the night and tell us we needed to wake up. And, there was the issue that we had to shut the dog door at night for fear she’d wonder out. Then, genius idea: I turned her door knob around so that it locks from the outside, which keeps her locked in her room.

Just thought I’d pass that on.

Update: Advice from Jay in comments

IMPORTANT SAFETY TIP: Leave one of the pin-key thingies somewhere in the room. Otherwise Junior WILL lock the door with you in her room at least once, and you’ll have to climb out the window and shinny down the farmer’s porch.

Like Katie, Junior has recently started school. She started last week and is having a good time. She’s learning a few words (such as sleep instead of night night) and some neat things such as when you take your shoes and socks off, you can stuff your socks into the shoes.