Vomit Part I

Let's just say the Vomit series will probably go on longer than the Rocky series. Let me set the scene. Thanksgiving 2006. 9 PM. In the parking lot behind a sketchy liquor store. I'm getting ahead of myself. I'll back up. Thanksgiving is probably my favorite holiday. Football, wine, unbelievable food. We go to my grandparents house. We usually get there around 1. There is a constant flow of food. The kind of food that a 3-year old can really eat as much or as little as he wants. Of whatever he wants. Who knows what he ate. If I had to guess, I'd say chips, nuts, cheese, crackers, pepperoni, pork paté, goldfish crackers, turkey, squash, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, stuffing, squash, bread, carrots, cheesecake, butter tarts, pumpkin pie, apple pie, whoopie pies, fudge, beer, wine (no wait, that's me) all with gravy. We watch some football, laugh with family and then head home. 8:55 PM. As Boy gets tired he demands milk. I have no idea what he's eaten and I can't stand whining. Sure, here ya go. He fills his belly with milk in a sippy cup and we hit the road. About a mile or 2 down the road (\'oerwgujkpkkp\\\\---Sorry, Girl is interrupting me with typing, back to the story) Boy starts coughing. Then a wretch. A dead giveaway. His belly is full of God-knows-what. PULL OVER! We're never in time. This one is particularly bad. It hits the back of my seat. Velocity. I'm shotgun. Mommy is driving by cause of the wine. Then wave 2. Oh no. It's always in waves. We make it into the back parking lot behind said sketchy liquor store. Middle of November New England. Boy is half naked. Vomiting like a 60 year old wino. I'm holding him up. I'm good in crisis mode. We have a 20-minute drive in front of us. About a year ago I decided to keep a spare pack of wipes in the car. They, of course are missing. You ever try telling a cold, sick 3-year old that they must get back into the vomit covered seat for safety? The smell? Not good.

Give him about 9 years

I take the train to and from work. Mommy, Boy and Girl pick me up at the station. I walk to the car from the train. Boy asks what's in my hand. Why, that's a magazine, Boy. Here, look at it. Thanks, Daddy. I get a whole bunch of magazine subscriptions. I'm in advertising. I love looking at magazines. Especially with the amount of time spent on trains and planes. This one happens to be ESPN the Magazine. He's flipping through it. He gets excited when he sees baseball. "Big Papi!" Then I hear tearing. "Are you tearing the magazine, Boy?" "No," he says. He clearly is. He is tearing out an ad he wants me to see. Magazines are pretty disposable, so I really don't care that he is ripping it. I do not appreciate the lying, but now is not the time. He hands it up to me. I show it to Mommy at a stop light. It's an ad for Old Spice. Look, here it is. I start laughing. That's my Boy. Mommy is annoyed. Boy yells up from the back seat, "Look at the fish Daddy. Look at the fish."

Things I've found in my acoustic guitar sound hole

lego
guitar pick
matchbox car
block
crayon
plastic fireman badge
tiny strips of torn paper
Cheerio
pasta
barrette
Superball
action figure
animal cracker
harmonica (is this the definition of ironic?)

These items are very awkward to retrieve as the strings cover most of the space of the sound hole.

You sit at a restaurant

Boy sees the Dunkin' Donuts logo on the outdoor signs a good half mile before I do. That kid loves munchkins. Who doesn't? Usually the nice people at D&D provide the boy with free munchkins. Keep 'em comin' people. We have a pretty consistent routine. 3 munchkins for Boy. Various flavors. We encourage independent decision-making. Hot coffee with milk & one sugar for me. Occasionally I'll add a glazed donut. I could eat those things everyday if they weren't less than good for you. One day we went to the neighborhood D&D to grab a quick coffee. Auntie & Nephew were on their way over so I didn't have much time. Boy says he wants to go. I enjoy the D&D bonding so I say "what the heck". Put some pants and shoes on and let's hit the road. Oh, our house is apparently pants-optional. That's a whole other story. I get to the counter and place my coffee order. I look at Boy. He orders the donut with the chocolate frosting and sprinkles. Manager's special. I think that it's out of character, but OK, nice call. Make that two I say. He then turns around and walks to the cooler, grabs a bottle of chocolate milk and takes a seat in the back. We have a pretty good routine, get the coffee and munchkins and hit the road. What's going on here? For some reason, today is a restaurant day. He doesn't want to hit the road. Let's sit in the restaurant he says. The stray stools in the back of the shop aren't really a restaurant, but OK. Honestly, I have zero control. We sit until he finishes every bite of that donut. Half an hour. Mine was done in about thirty seconds. Then he falls asleep in the car on the way home. It's not like we have nothing to do. Plan ahead, kid. A rule has been established this day. Munchkins are to go. Donuts are for sit down. It helps for Sunday planning.

Why does he aim for the middle?

Remember, we've already thrown modesty out the window. Our house is set up where there is a bathroom upstairs in between our room and Boy's room. This is the bathroom I shower in. It's pretty private, so I don't always take the best care in covering myself up in between the bathroom and my bedroom where I get dressed after a shower. I used to wear the towel around my waist but I'm not consistently responsible. I wouldn't hang the towel up back in the bathroom after I was finished getting ready. Apparently, Mommy doesn't "appreciate" picking up after me. So I adapt. I walk in "God's vision of man" back to the bedroom. Out of nowhere Boy comes bursting in. "I'm going to bang your bum! I'm going to bang your bum!" he screams and tries to slap me on the ass. I'm not the quickest in the morning and sometimes he gets me. It's all in good fun, but he doesn't aim for the meaty cheek. He aims for the middle. That's just uncomfortable. I guess when you think about it, the line acts as a target.

Keep track of the sippy cups

Boy has a couple of routines when it comes to drinks. First thing in the morning I must get him orange juice. After dinner and before bed, he gets a cup of milk. And various beverages in between. If we forget, he gets insistent. I want my juice. His inflexibility is particularly difficult on Sunday mornings. usually around 6. Anyway, he has this horrible habit of dropping his cup when he is finished with it. Whether it is done or not. Right where he is. "I am finished. I no longer need cup. Open hand. Cup fall." You can imagine what this leads to. Sippy cups found in various places around the house. You do your best to keep track of them but you just can't. I happen upon them all the time. Digging through the toy box to get Girl a specific toy. Uh-oh. Lifting the couch to find Girl a specific toy. Uh-oh. I've found them outside. I've found them in his bed. Behind the toilet. In my closet. In my shoe. At the bottom of the laundry basket. On the stairs. In the kitchen cabinets. Oh, and the car. Always under the seats. Those are the worst because the change in temperatures wreaks havoc. If you're curious, orange juice gets pungent. I can't really add to that. Pungent says it all. And yes, solids form in the milk.

Daddy Tip #1

Let your children pick out their own clothes. There are things in their drawers and closets you never would have imagined.

That's not Elmo

Boy has always had a fear of people in mascot suits. That goes for Mall Santas as well. He just won't go near the things. I really don't blame him. He's a pretty perceptive kid. We're at his preschool Halloween Jamboree or whatever the heck they call it. Boy is dressed as a fireman. Again, I call attention to his love of occupational uniforms. It's time for the costume parade down the halls of the school. All the kids line up for the photo-op. And look who they drag out to lead the parade. It's Elmo! All the kids are very excited. Who doesn't love Elmo? Even Boy loves Elmo. Girl can't get enough of that Elmo TMX. Boy is excited when he hears Elmo is in the building, his own school building. Then sees him. Of course it's one of those furry costumes with somebody inside. His face drops and he grabs me. "That's not Elmo." "What do you mean that's not Elmo?" "Elmo is small." I've got to agree. Can you imagine how freaky it must have been for Boy to imagine cute little 2-foot Elmo and out comes gigantic diorama crushing Elmo-zilla. The scale really is not correct. How come none of the other kids have a problem with this?

Luke, I am your father

I am a man. Therefore I urinate standing up. I usually go to the bathroom first thing in the morning. I get up, I walk into the bathroom and I go. Kids mean zero privacy. Zero shame. Zero pride. I can't tell you how many times I'll be at the toilet, the door bursts open and Boy comes running in with his pajamas at his feet, saying, "I want to go to the potty with you". I have no choice. It happens so quickly. I'm not the most alert first thing in the morning. The next thing I know, he's standing next to me at the toilet going with me. Streams crossing. What bothers me the most is that he usually finishes before me and says things like "I beat you". It's bad enough I get no privacy in the bathroom, but why does it always have to be a competition?

The day Boy stopped opening beers

Since he was young, Boy has always been social. We like to have a bunch of friends over in the summer. I cook some meat. We drink some beers. Good times with some good friends. Boy is always right there in the mix. I go to the fridge and grab a beer and open it. Boy watches. Yes, I know I'm a bad influence. That's not the point of the story. He's always had a fondness for tools, therefore, he's always wanted to open the beers. What the heck, right? Mommy is in the other room. I'm in the kitchen with some buddies, let's see what happens. I set the beer on the kitchen floor. He grabs the opener. Excitedly. As if it's a characteristic he's been born with, he knows just what to do. I hold tight to the bottle. He pops the top right off. Not even any foam over.

Now this goes on for some time (no, not the same night). In fact, he starts enabling. Daddy, you want a beer. Sure, why not. It's called good parenting. I'm supportive of a skill. It's not like he's drinking the beers, he's just being helpful as is his want.

Then one day he gets lazy. As tends to happen the more comfortable one becomes with a skill. He bends down with the opener. It's a church key type. I'm holding the ice cold Sam Adams bottle on the kitchen floor. Boy is somewhat distracted. Probably full of sugar. He sets the opener over the top of the bottle. He pulls up. Excitedly. Whack. Right on his forehead. Big mark. Mommy was not pleased.

Cars in the oven

Boy likes to take cookie sheets, muffin tins, things like that and pretend that he is baking. He will fill all of the muffin tins with paper muffin cups. Then he will fill all of those cups with things like matchbox cars. We pretend to eat them. It's lots of fun. They are tasty. It's all good pretending. The problems arise when it comes to attention span. He puts these trays of cars in the oven then moves on to playing baseball, going to the potty, painting. Really, anything different.

Who checks to see if anything is inside the oven when they turn it on to preheat it to make Tater Tots? Well, not me. The cars get really hot and the wheels develop a flat spot where they melt. So I need to leave them to cool down, much like one would leave actual muffins to cool down. Some of the nicer cars are made of part metal and part plastic. Those are the best. The pipe truck has 3 plastic pipes on the top of a flatbed truck. They are all curled up. God forbid I throw any of the ruined cars away, though. He has four thousand of these things and knows all of them. We have bins of tiny matchbox cars, many with melted parts and wheels with a flat spot.

Mommy is not a job

Boy decides to offer this thought to Mommy the other day. Now, to remind you, Mommy is a stay at home mom. This could easily be perceived as some sort of politically charged comment. I take no responsibility for this. I have not taught him the stereotypical male chauvinism. Well, not entirely. Mommy decides to see where this is going. "What do you mean Mommy is not a job" she asks. The boy's answer, "you don't wear a uniform". Boy's entire view of the workplace environment is based on what uniform someone wears. Firefighters wear a uniform. Police officers wear a uniform. Mommies don't wear a uniform. So, how does Daddy pass this job test? I certainly don't wear a uniform. Unless you count jeans. Well, I take the train to work in the city. Somehow, a train ride supercedes the uniform rule. Well at least someone thinks I have a job.

Underpants

Boy wears his underpants backwards. Children's briefs for the most part have some sort of large character on them. Bob the Builder. Lightning McQueen. Firefighter Elmo. Being in advertising, I appreciate the thought that goes into these things. Anyway, the large "graphic" is always printed on the largest open area on the underpants. Seeing that they need to leave room on the front for the seams and access hole that no 3-year old will ever use, the characters end up on the back. So, why on earth would you want the character on the back? You wouldn't. You want him on the front so everyone cn see. So Boy wears his underpants backwards.

At first it was funny. Now it's gone on a little too long. Boy never seems to want to wear pants, so I'm faced with the sight of his skinny little behind hanging out of these things as he runs around. A 3-year old with a wedgie. He doesn't care, so I guess I shouldn't either. It just can't be comfortable. So, this is the story I have to tell people when they come to my house for a BBQ or something and Boy has no pants on.