Though it is no surprise, given her history of brilliance, young Matilda took first place in the fifth grade for her science fair project comparing the effectiveness of top soil versus composted soil (using our homemade compost!). She did, I must say, a brilliant job of reviewing her data and writing up her analysis.
But, there was something even better. She was awarded the prize for the Best Life Sciences Project in the whole school. Out of 75 projects or so, hers was deemed the best for Life Sciences.
Next year we start with middle school projects. She's already working on some ideas. She ruled out time travel, because she's afraid of paradox. Instead, we're building a cylcotron in the basement.
Update: Mom has a picture.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Because I have a Fever, Man
Poor Gert is sick again. This is the third (and fourth) illness in the past three weeks.
It started three weeks ago with a horrible, rattling cough that kept her awake all night. Followed the next week by a dual ear infection (only her second in her short life, so that's surprisingly good). Less than a week later? Pink Eye.
Then, on Friday night, she came into our room complaining of being itchy. Four hours later she's laying in a warm bath with red splotches all over, begging us to make the itching stop. The doctor said it was an allergic reaction to the antibiotics for her ear. And yes, after a week of taking the medication, it's not unusual.
Saturday night the rash was clearing up, but the high fever started. Yesterday she was a wilted mass of goo in our arms. She lay on my lap for three hours, just a little limp furnace. She was so hot, I was sweating.
"Hey kid," I said, "you're making me hot."
"That's because I have a fever, man."
"Man" is her latest catch phrase. She's goofy even when she has an entire medical dictionary of symptoms.
Now the cough is back. And the rash is making a comeback. Along with a runny nose that is producing glorious amounts of toxic green snot. When we talked to the doctor I half expected him to give us, the parents, a diagnosis of Munchausen's by Proxy.
Oh. I forgot to mention the hallucinations due to the fever. She just told me a few minutes ago that Mom's pillow was talking, but that she didn't want tell it to stop. She didn't say why. Right now she's greeting the toilet before she goes potty.
And . . . looks like we'll be going back to the doctor today. I wonder if our insurance has a frequent flyer's program, man.
It started three weeks ago with a horrible, rattling cough that kept her awake all night. Followed the next week by a dual ear infection (only her second in her short life, so that's surprisingly good). Less than a week later? Pink Eye.
Then, on Friday night, she came into our room complaining of being itchy. Four hours later she's laying in a warm bath with red splotches all over, begging us to make the itching stop. The doctor said it was an allergic reaction to the antibiotics for her ear. And yes, after a week of taking the medication, it's not unusual.
Saturday night the rash was clearing up, but the high fever started. Yesterday she was a wilted mass of goo in our arms. She lay on my lap for three hours, just a little limp furnace. She was so hot, I was sweating.
"Hey kid," I said, "you're making me hot."
"That's because I have a fever, man."
"Man" is her latest catch phrase. She's goofy even when she has an entire medical dictionary of symptoms.
Now the cough is back. And the rash is making a comeback. Along with a runny nose that is producing glorious amounts of toxic green snot. When we talked to the doctor I half expected him to give us, the parents, a diagnosis of Munchausen's by Proxy.
Oh. I forgot to mention the hallucinations due to the fever. She just told me a few minutes ago that Mom's pillow was talking, but that she didn't want tell it to stop. She didn't say why. Right now she's greeting the toilet before she goes potty.
And . . . looks like we'll be going back to the doctor today. I wonder if our insurance has a frequent flyer's program, man.
Friday, January 27, 2006
I Take it Back
I apologize to Gert. Monsters do exist.
Holy crap. I can't tell if he's a man or a comic book character. Jeez. Talk about strong like bull. That man is a bull.
Edit: Looking at the picture again, I could hear Fezzik say, "It's not my fault being the biggest and the strongest. I don't even exercise."
Holy crap. I can't tell if he's a man or a comic book character. Jeez. Talk about strong like bull. That man is a bull.
Edit: Looking at the picture again, I could hear Fezzik say, "It's not my fault being the biggest and the strongest. I don't even exercise."
It's a Hunch
But I'm beginning to thing that Kevin Federline isn't too bright. My personal theory is a combination of brain injuries and lead-laden paint chips. Or, maybe he's just a genetic dumbass.
Still, when Stereogum posted this video yesterday, I was shocked. SHOCKED. I personally had no idea that a) music could suck that much and b) one human being could be so wrapped up in his own greasy shell that he's completely blind to the fact that not only is he not contributing to humanity, but he's actually degrading it. Seriously. Monkeys are sitting around right now thinking, "Well hell, even I'm smarter than that and I touch my own feces." I don't know. Maybe Kevin touch his own feces too.
It seems as if he doesn't even have the intelligence to toast a piece of bread, much less string together a coherent thought. I'm beginning to think that PopoZao is Portuguese for half-witted, drooling dipshit.
I think it's a shame that he's married to one of our most treasured . . . whatever Britney is.
P.S. I'm going to be punished for this vitriolic missive. I will do something nice for someone today. Namely, myself. Because I need to scrub out my ear canal to remove the memory of this horrible song.
Still, when Stereogum posted this video yesterday, I was shocked. SHOCKED. I personally had no idea that a) music could suck that much and b) one human being could be so wrapped up in his own greasy shell that he's completely blind to the fact that not only is he not contributing to humanity, but he's actually degrading it. Seriously. Monkeys are sitting around right now thinking, "Well hell, even I'm smarter than that and I touch my own feces." I don't know. Maybe Kevin touch his own feces too.
It seems as if he doesn't even have the intelligence to toast a piece of bread, much less string together a coherent thought. I'm beginning to think that PopoZao is Portuguese for half-witted, drooling dipshit.
I think it's a shame that he's married to one of our most treasured . . . whatever Britney is.
P.S. I'm going to be punished for this vitriolic missive. I will do something nice for someone today. Namely, myself. Because I need to scrub out my ear canal to remove the memory of this horrible song.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
You Can Teach a Kid to Fish
Gert and I had an argument before bath time last night that involved shoes, socks, and the fact that she was pushing her boundaries about whether or not she needs to pick up her things when we're cleaning up at night. I say yes. She says, "I only have two hands!" Of course, both of those hands are usually occupied with more fun things.
Well, last night she got in trouble and daddy was the one who scolded her. She was mad. Really mad. However, I thought we had made up.
After bath I went looking for her and found her in the bathroom digging through the bath toys and holding a toy fish net.
"Gert, what are you doing," I ask.
"Looking for a fish."
"Why?"
"To hang on my door."
"Why?"
"Because I'm mad at you."
"Oh."
Given the circumstances, I thought it best to drop the subject before the gave me the evil and started speaking in Romanian.
Well, last night she got in trouble and daddy was the one who scolded her. She was mad. Really mad. However, I thought we had made up.
After bath I went looking for her and found her in the bathroom digging through the bath toys and holding a toy fish net.
"Gert, what are you doing," I ask.
"Looking for a fish."
"Why?"
"To hang on my door."
"Why?"
"Because I'm mad at you."
"Oh."
Given the circumstances, I thought it best to drop the subject before the gave me the evil and started speaking in Romanian.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
New Cat Power
That's right kids! Chan Marshall (a.k.a. Cat Power) has dusted off her insecurities once again and managed to sit without melting into a puddle of regret and self-doubt long enough to offer a new album.
And it's pretty good. I've been listening to it all morning and find it to be, perhaps, her most listenable effort. As much as I love Chan, and her vulnerable-yet-slightly-psychotic-voice, I often find myself getting tired of her before the end of an album. (Though I can listen to The Covers Record without that issue.)
Chan Marshall's albums are much like a first date gone very, very wrong. At the salad stage of dinner she's this adorable person, filled with strange quirks, but funny, smart and enjoyable. By the time your tiramisu arrives she's a jumbled mess of nerves, weepily telling you how she has been dumped by more men than you could ever imagine, how often she's been hurt. As you're asking for the check she's looking at you puffy-faced, with tears pouring down her cheeks asking, "Why won't anyone love me?"
With The Greatest she seems to hold it together, thanks to a fantastic backing band schooled in Memphis Soul rather than indie-rock slop. Perhaps the discipline of the old-timers gave Chan the stability she needed. Though, she does chant that she hates herself and wants to die in the penultimate song. But you can forgive that vulnerable moment because she warns you up front that she's not exactly the greatest. She just wants to be and she's trying. And her voice is boozey, smoky and sad throughout. A voice, at times, reminiscent of a young Dusty Springfield (see "Lived in Bars").
So, a thoroughly enjoyable song from Cat Power:
Cat Power - The Greatest
Buy the album.
And it's pretty good. I've been listening to it all morning and find it to be, perhaps, her most listenable effort. As much as I love Chan, and her vulnerable-yet-slightly-psychotic-voice, I often find myself getting tired of her before the end of an album. (Though I can listen to The Covers Record without that issue.)
Chan Marshall's albums are much like a first date gone very, very wrong. At the salad stage of dinner she's this adorable person, filled with strange quirks, but funny, smart and enjoyable. By the time your tiramisu arrives she's a jumbled mess of nerves, weepily telling you how she has been dumped by more men than you could ever imagine, how often she's been hurt. As you're asking for the check she's looking at you puffy-faced, with tears pouring down her cheeks asking, "Why won't anyone love me?"
With The Greatest she seems to hold it together, thanks to a fantastic backing band schooled in Memphis Soul rather than indie-rock slop. Perhaps the discipline of the old-timers gave Chan the stability she needed. Though, she does chant that she hates herself and wants to die in the penultimate song. But you can forgive that vulnerable moment because she warns you up front that she's not exactly the greatest. She just wants to be and she's trying. And her voice is boozey, smoky and sad throughout. A voice, at times, reminiscent of a young Dusty Springfield (see "Lived in Bars").
So, a thoroughly enjoyable song from Cat Power:
Cat Power - The Greatest
Buy the album.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Monsters What Walk The Earth
As my lovely wife has mentioned, poor little Gert has been having monster problems. It seems that, once the sun goes down, the world turns into a kaleidoscope of terror for the kid. She’s terrified of everything. Positive that the world will come crashing down and destroy all that makes her happy.
In that sense, she’s exactly like her father.
Not too long ago I was tucking her in and assuring her that there were no monsters in her closet, under her bed, in the bathroom. She had been fighting a cold and let loose a torrent of coughing that would make a consumptive ballerina blush. “Am I going to die,” she exclaimed.
Um. So we started an existential conversation about the circle of life and how the universe has set in motion a series of events that are immutable and unavoidable. In essence, I assured her that she was not going anywhere. “Besides,” I said, “if you went anywhere I would miss you.”
“I would miss you too,” she said pensively. “Can we stop talking about this? It’s making my eyes wet.”
Cue sound effect of my heart shattering into a million tiny pieces.
So, to battle her monsters, I got her the one artifact from my childhood that I have managed to cling to. My “Mickey”. It’s a white blanket with silky sides that I used to carry Linus-style everywhere I went. I only gave it up begrudgingly when I started Kindergarten.
“Take good care of it,” I said. “It’s been through a lot.”
I showed her the blankets scars. The places where the silky part had been ripped and torn off, the worn fibers where I stroked the blanked for comfort, the giant tear from getting it caught under the wheel of a Radio Flyer. “My mommy sewed it up for me so that I wouldn’t be sad,” I said. “And let me show you a secret. When it gets cold, you can rub your fingers on the silky part. It feels really nice.”
Thus began the reign of the Mickey. She sleeps with it every night and, somehow, it keeps the monsters at bay. That is, until last night when we discovered it was left at Grandma’s house after a sleep over. Gert approached me with sadness, guilt and panic in her eyes.
“Daddy,” she said, “I left my Mickey at Meme’s house. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay honey, Meme will take good care of it.”
“Can we call her?”
So we called Meme to ensure that the blanket was okay. Gert took the phone.
“Hi Meme. I can’t sleep with out my Mickey. When you find him will you put him in a special place? Oh, and if he gets dirty will you wash him? I promised my daddy I’d take good care of him. Thank you Meme.”
We tucked her in bed. She had her stuffed animals, her “Mommy” blanket that her mommy made for her and a baby blanket that is yellow and soft. We call it “Ducky”. She was nervous, but good.
After everyone had calmed down and settled into bed, I went to the kitchen and was checking my email.
“Daddy,” a tiny voice said behind me, “will you hug this please?” She handed me Ducky and I gave it a big hug. She went off to bed with a little pep in her step.
“Ah,” she said from the darkness of her room, “all filled with Daddy love.”
And she went right to sleep.
In that sense, she’s exactly like her father.
Not too long ago I was tucking her in and assuring her that there were no monsters in her closet, under her bed, in the bathroom. She had been fighting a cold and let loose a torrent of coughing that would make a consumptive ballerina blush. “Am I going to die,” she exclaimed.
Um. So we started an existential conversation about the circle of life and how the universe has set in motion a series of events that are immutable and unavoidable. In essence, I assured her that she was not going anywhere. “Besides,” I said, “if you went anywhere I would miss you.”
“I would miss you too,” she said pensively. “Can we stop talking about this? It’s making my eyes wet.”
Cue sound effect of my heart shattering into a million tiny pieces.
So, to battle her monsters, I got her the one artifact from my childhood that I have managed to cling to. My “Mickey”. It’s a white blanket with silky sides that I used to carry Linus-style everywhere I went. I only gave it up begrudgingly when I started Kindergarten.
“Take good care of it,” I said. “It’s been through a lot.”
I showed her the blankets scars. The places where the silky part had been ripped and torn off, the worn fibers where I stroked the blanked for comfort, the giant tear from getting it caught under the wheel of a Radio Flyer. “My mommy sewed it up for me so that I wouldn’t be sad,” I said. “And let me show you a secret. When it gets cold, you can rub your fingers on the silky part. It feels really nice.”
Thus began the reign of the Mickey. She sleeps with it every night and, somehow, it keeps the monsters at bay. That is, until last night when we discovered it was left at Grandma’s house after a sleep over. Gert approached me with sadness, guilt and panic in her eyes.
“Daddy,” she said, “I left my Mickey at Meme’s house. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay honey, Meme will take good care of it.”
“Can we call her?”
So we called Meme to ensure that the blanket was okay. Gert took the phone.
“Hi Meme. I can’t sleep with out my Mickey. When you find him will you put him in a special place? Oh, and if he gets dirty will you wash him? I promised my daddy I’d take good care of him. Thank you Meme.”
We tucked her in bed. She had her stuffed animals, her “Mommy” blanket that her mommy made for her and a baby blanket that is yellow and soft. We call it “Ducky”. She was nervous, but good.
After everyone had calmed down and settled into bed, I went to the kitchen and was checking my email.
“Daddy,” a tiny voice said behind me, “will you hug this please?” She handed me Ducky and I gave it a big hug. She went off to bed with a little pep in her step.
“Ah,” she said from the darkness of her room, “all filled with Daddy love.”
And she went right to sleep.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Advertising Brilliance
It doesn't get better than this.
Trust me. If Australians had any reason to have commercials on the Super Bowl this would top the Apple ad of 84.
Trust me. If Australians had any reason to have commercials on the Super Bowl this would top the Apple ad of 84.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Oh What the Hell
Why not have all videos from 2004 today? Here you can watch Leslie Feist dance.
Feist - One Evening (WMV Video)
Something tells me when my wife keeps seeing me posting videos of writhing singers I'm going to get kicked in the face. In my defense, they are both excellent songs suitable for your next party to which I won't be invited. Because I'll be in traction.
Feist - One Evening (WMV Video)
Something tells me when my wife keeps seeing me posting videos of writhing singers I'm going to get kicked in the face. In my defense, they are both excellent songs suitable for your next party to which I won't be invited. Because I'll be in traction.
I Haven't Been Around
Have you noticed? Sorry.
But, as penance, I give you a video for a cool song by Jem (no, not the one who is Truly Outrageous).
Let's just say this song involves a stripping Welsh astronaut. Do I need to say more?
Jem - They (WMV Video)
But, as penance, I give you a video for a cool song by Jem (no, not the one who is Truly Outrageous).
Let's just say this song involves a stripping Welsh astronaut. Do I need to say more?
Jem - They (WMV Video)
Thursday, January 12, 2006
The Robot Ate Me
I'll be gone this morning and a repair man is coming this afternoon. So if you emailed me, I'll respond later. If you call me, I probably won't answer. If you drop by, I'll question your social skills for dropping by without calling first.
In the meantime, I picked up an album by The Robot Ate Me yesterday. I like it. It's not for everyone. Some of it is highly offensive, especially if you don't have a sense of satire. But the following song is great, no matter what.
The Robot Ate Me - On Vacation
In the meantime, I picked up an album by The Robot Ate Me yesterday. I like it. It's not for everyone. Some of it is highly offensive, especially if you don't have a sense of satire. But the following song is great, no matter what.
The Robot Ate Me - On Vacation
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
When Dogs Fly
Seriously, let the canine fly.
I can't stop watching this. It's like seeing pictures of rainbows when you're in a bad mood. You know what I'm talking about. You're getting pissed at the guy Borders.
"Listen you dirty son of a bitch. I'm already on your email list for coupons and I swear if you ask me again I'll grab by the . . . ooh pretty rainbows."
P.S. Listen to Laura Veirs. You have no exuse.
I can't stop watching this. It's like seeing pictures of rainbows when you're in a bad mood. You know what I'm talking about. You're getting pissed at the guy Borders.
"Listen you dirty son of a bitch. I'm already on your email list for coupons and I swear if you ask me again I'll grab by the . . . ooh pretty rainbows."
P.S. Listen to Laura Veirs. You have no exuse.
Friday, January 06, 2006
Stops the Tiny Voices and Strange Hours That They Keep.
I'd like to thank everyone for their kind words of support. I'll be responding personally soon. I haven't responded yet because, surprise, I've been busy.
So, go discover Joe Henry. I keep telling you to, but I get the sense that only a small percentage have. Go. Go now, damn it. Joe loves you, love him back.
Here, his record label wants you to love him too. They have two MP3s on their site for you to download and listen to. And you should, especially since the final disc from his back catalogue that I need is due to arrive here at my house today.
In fact, I won't shut up about him until more of you are converted. I'll even start posting poems written about his album covers if I don't get confirmed reports of people buying his records, or getting his face as a tattoo.
Plus, his sister-in-law is Madonna. But he doesn't like to mention that.
These tracks are from what I consider his artistic high point (in 2003 . . . he's a fancy schmancy producer these days). And, honestly, that's saying a lot. Listen (in the order below, too).
Joe Henry - Tiny Voices
Joe Henry - Sold
So, go discover Joe Henry. I keep telling you to, but I get the sense that only a small percentage have. Go. Go now, damn it. Joe loves you, love him back.
Here, his record label wants you to love him too. They have two MP3s on their site for you to download and listen to. And you should, especially since the final disc from his back catalogue that I need is due to arrive here at my house today.
In fact, I won't shut up about him until more of you are converted. I'll even start posting poems written about his album covers if I don't get confirmed reports of people buying his records, or getting his face as a tattoo.
Plus, his sister-in-law is Madonna. But he doesn't like to mention that.
These tracks are from what I consider his artistic high point (in 2003 . . . he's a fancy schmancy producer these days). And, honestly, that's saying a lot. Listen (in the order below, too).
Joe Henry - Tiny Voices
Joe Henry - Sold
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Our Shells Simply Cannot Hold All Our Insides In
I've been struggling with something for a while now. Maybe a year? Perhaps longer? I don't know. But it's been causing a mounting sense of dread, sadness, stress, anger and anxiety. Sleeping has become such a problem that in order to even get some rest, I have to take a pill. A pill that doesn't even allow me to hear that my daughter needs saving from monsters in the middle of the night.
That's wrong.
Worse, I've been considering that I might even need to talk to my doctor about getting a pill that allows me to make it through the day without worrying that stress and anxiety that is building up around me.
Again, that's wrong. The only things that are bringing me happiness are my kids, my wife and (only in the last three months) my bike*. What has my life become? What happened to the happy, relaxed dad that quit his job to spend more time with his kids?
Well, today when his lovely four-year-old was begging to stay with him and he was trying to explain that stress, obligation and all the people clawing for his attention wouldn't allow it, he snapped. He yelled at her. He unloaded and told her everything he felt, loudly and strongly. She just looked at him with big, blue eyes and took off her coat as he went into the kitchen. When he returned she ways laying limp, face first on the couch silently weeping.
This is not my life. This is not how I am and this is not who I want to be.
Fighting the urge not to burst into tears myself, I apologized to her. I told her that I was wrong, that I should not have yelled and that I was not mad at her. She didn't do anything. I told her that deep down, daddy was very, very sad and that he had to do something to fix it so that he could be the happy, silly daddy that he once was.
It was at that moment that I've decided to do what I've been silently considering for a week . . . a month . . . a year. Of course, I'm not going to say what it is on my blog, but I can say it has nothing to do with my marriage, drugs, violence or anything like that. But it will make me a better spouse and a better dad. Because those are what I want to be first and foremost. Everything else doesn't even take a back seat. It goes into a moving truck driven by other people and kept at least three car legnths behind us.
I've had this song by Colin Hay stuck in my head for a week and, well, it really sums up every feeling I've been having every day throughout the past year. Okay, it's really a Men at Work song redone by Colin (who used to be their lead singer). But it's better than it ever was in the eighties. Blame Scrubs. That's where I heard it. But it works. Well. To prove how well it works, you should go buy his album Man @ Work or Going Somewhere. Both are surprisingly good. Raw and cathartic as well as a bit nostalgic.
Colin Hay - Overkill (This link will be dead in five days)
And a note to Gert, who cannot read but will know this in her heart. You're daddy's girl, always. I'm truly sorry I took all of that out on you and made you cry and feel sad. I'll make it up to you every day, I promise.
*There is nothing like flying down an open road or trail at the very upper limits of your abilities, going faster than your body has ever been able to propel you and be able to think, "I can do this better if I just keep trying" . . . and a few weeks later you can. And nothing beats that feeling when you get off the bike, your lungs . . . your legs . . . Sometimes you're exhausted, but you want to get back on and give it one more go because, despite the pain--which you admit that you actually like--riding a bike is so much damn fun.
That's wrong.
Worse, I've been considering that I might even need to talk to my doctor about getting a pill that allows me to make it through the day without worrying that stress and anxiety that is building up around me.
Again, that's wrong. The only things that are bringing me happiness are my kids, my wife and (only in the last three months) my bike*. What has my life become? What happened to the happy, relaxed dad that quit his job to spend more time with his kids?
Well, today when his lovely four-year-old was begging to stay with him and he was trying to explain that stress, obligation and all the people clawing for his attention wouldn't allow it, he snapped. He yelled at her. He unloaded and told her everything he felt, loudly and strongly. She just looked at him with big, blue eyes and took off her coat as he went into the kitchen. When he returned she ways laying limp, face first on the couch silently weeping.
This is not my life. This is not how I am and this is not who I want to be.
Fighting the urge not to burst into tears myself, I apologized to her. I told her that I was wrong, that I should not have yelled and that I was not mad at her. She didn't do anything. I told her that deep down, daddy was very, very sad and that he had to do something to fix it so that he could be the happy, silly daddy that he once was.
It was at that moment that I've decided to do what I've been silently considering for a week . . . a month . . . a year. Of course, I'm not going to say what it is on my blog, but I can say it has nothing to do with my marriage, drugs, violence or anything like that. But it will make me a better spouse and a better dad. Because those are what I want to be first and foremost. Everything else doesn't even take a back seat. It goes into a moving truck driven by other people and kept at least three car legnths behind us.
I've had this song by Colin Hay stuck in my head for a week and, well, it really sums up every feeling I've been having every day throughout the past year. Okay, it's really a Men at Work song redone by Colin (who used to be their lead singer). But it's better than it ever was in the eighties. Blame Scrubs. That's where I heard it. But it works. Well. To prove how well it works, you should go buy his album Man @ Work or Going Somewhere. Both are surprisingly good. Raw and cathartic as well as a bit nostalgic.
Colin Hay - Overkill (This link will be dead in five days)
And a note to Gert, who cannot read but will know this in her heart. You're daddy's girl, always. I'm truly sorry I took all of that out on you and made you cry and feel sad. I'll make it up to you every day, I promise.
*There is nothing like flying down an open road or trail at the very upper limits of your abilities, going faster than your body has ever been able to propel you and be able to think, "I can do this better if I just keep trying" . . . and a few weeks later you can. And nothing beats that feeling when you get off the bike, your lungs . . . your legs . . . Sometimes you're exhausted, but you want to get back on and give it one more go because, despite the pain--which you admit that you actually like--riding a bike is so much damn fun.
Thanksgiving - The Aftermath
Sigh. I hate going back. Someday I'll be a fulltime stay at home dad. And I'll go to the park and to Mommy and Me and to tumbling classes and I'll be a room mother and everything.
Call me a wuss, I'd rather be taking care of these little dorks all day than reinstalling quickbooks and running 1099s.
One's important. The other is a pain in the ass.
Anyway, start with this picture and scroll through the rest to get through Christmas. One thing is for sure: my wife makes pretty kids.
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