Wobbler Strike

Sawyer’s classroom at daycare is referred to as the Wobbler Room. The kids in this room are at the developmental stage where crawling is their preferred method of self-transport; they are eating solids—actual food we can recognize; and climbing is becoming a past-time, along with standing, exploration of their surroundings, and escape from the classroom is attempted daily. Walking will soon be checked off their physical development list, and once that is their consistent mode of transport, the kid is bumped up to the Toddler Room. The Toddler Room is where they stay until they reach 2 years old, when they then start pre-school.

Two of our son’s classmates were bumped up within the last few weeks, and neither is happy. Every time I see them in their new room they are crying and begging to return to the Wobbler Room. One kid was sending SOS smoke signals somehow with the bottle warmer and a bib—smart girl! I get it though. In the Toddler Room you are down to one scheduled nap per day; you are discouraged from drinking a bottle; the kids are all nice, but they do move faster; and there’s a rumor going around the Wobbler’s Room that they have no method for heating up food in that classroom. Sawyer is pissed—he loves eating leftovers for lunch, especially vegetarian Tikka Masala. 

The Wobblers hear their friends’ pleas, and a few of them know that they are next on the list to move up (literally, and figuratively)...Sawyer being one of them. Before the other two moved up, Sawyer would be caught dancing on the table in front of his peers in the Wobbler Room (I told him to save all the dollar bills for college). Since those two classmates moved up and you can hear their miserable cries, Sawyer is no longer dancing on the table, and he and his remaining classmates are doing their best to stay as Wobblers. At home, Sawyer walks (he still crawls when he wants to pick up speed), he hikes in the mountains with us, climbs mini boulders, dances and gardens. At night he foam rolls in order to maintain flexibility. One of his other Wobblers has some major dancing skills as well; a few have started walking; and one kid solves the Rubik’s Cube before lunch every day. They are moving and grooving!

Now, in order to not become a Toddler, the Wobblers are on strike and faking physical regression whenever the Daycare Director is present. A few were walking in the classroom chasing a ball, and as soon as the Director walked into the room they all flopped to the floor on their backs with all four limbs wiggling in the air, as if they are beetles stuck on their backs. Sawyer only dances on the table at home now not bringing home ANY money for college, and sadly, the Rubik’s cube is left unsolved, just hanging out in the corner of the Wobbler Room.  

Every morning starts with the Wobblers making sure each of them has returned, and each day ends with them promising each other that they’ll return as a Wobbler, not as a Toddler. It’s amazing the camaraderie these Wobblers have, but they have also been together since 6 months of age and have months of friendship developed over numerous bottles under their beltless diapers. I know to not put anything past them! 

Credit to Andrea Ruygt for the kickass vignettes! 

'Push' Gift

In March we swung by to visit our friends. They had just given birth to their first child, an adorable baby boy, a month earlier. When we pulled up into their driveway we noticed an additional Tesla, which is a car Dana has her eye on when her current lease is up. (I keep saying "no" to that dream because of how fast she drives.) After our hugs, hellos, and coos over the baby, and them commenting on how much Sawyer had grown since they last saw him, we asked why the second Tesla.

Dana: How come you have a second Tesla? Is that a rental?  

Friend: That's my wife's 'push' gift. 

Dana and I: WOW!!!  

Dana looking at me: How come I didn't get a Tesla as a 'push' gift?  

Me: Because you didn't 'push.' You had a c-section.  

(I got punched in the arm by my wife for that one.) 

Sleep Training

Our son reached 12 months of age at the end of April. That's right folks! We have kept him alive for 365 days on this earth, i.e., he has survived having us as his mothers for 1 year, and on his birthday we celebrated that he is a healthy and happy boy...unless he's hungry, sleepy, or sick--then he's unhappy for a brief bit. Hey. Nobody's perfect. 

Three days after his birthday we were at his pediatrician's office for his one year wellness check-up. Lots of questions, lots of answers, measurements, a few escapes out of the exam room by our son, vaccines, and 1/2 a PB&J sandwich later, we somehow get on the topic of his sleep. Quick background here: from 8 weeks until 8 months our son slept through the night in his own crib. Then object permanence set in, and when he would wake up in the middle of the night he would no longer fall back asleep because he remembered that we were somewhere nearby. So with a map, GPS unit, night vision goggles, and a good cry, he locates us from the depths of our dreams and determinedly pulls us into his room. If it's early in the night, we rock him back to sleep and then we go back to sleep. If it's within a couple of hours of when we need to wake up for work, it's a lot easier for all of us to just bring him back into our bed and we all fall asleep quickly for a short bit before the damn alarms start beeping. 

Yes, I know. According to some of you excellent parents whose children never wake up in the middle of the night because you did exactly as the sleep training books suggested, we shouldn't do that. I have even been told, "You will regret that." Thank you. Now shut up and let me get back to my story. We told the pediatrician all of this, and he understood. He's a parent. He did ask us if we were referring to any of the sleep training methods, and we told him we had. Dana informed him that I can not handle the "cry it out" method. I confirmed this because I do not think that there is enough antidepressants and alcohol in the world to help me recover from the feeling that I am hurting and abandoning our son by doing this. And yes, I am in therapy for this. Moving on...

I then suggested a better sleep training method that I thought would work very well with our son, and all other babies: 

Allow me to explain...actually, Andrea Ruygt is such a kickass illustrator, that I'll let her explain it: 

Now, just so some of you wankers know, we did not actually do this for our son in order to help him sleep through the night in his own crib. We are not that desperate yet. It's also illegal, which is why there is no actual picture.

Our son's doctor laughed at my idea, but did point out that whisky can get to be expensive. I then realized that we would need to actually have a hamster in a cage to take the bottle from, but Dana turned that idea down immediately. She hates rodents. Probably a good thing because the hamster would then become dehydrated. 

So, it looks like if we actually try the "cry it out" method I will be walking the streets with Lincoln until I receive a text from Dana letting me know that it's ok to come back home. Until we get to that point, I'm fine with how we handle his wake-ups in the middle of the night. I leave the house for work before Dana and Sawyer are awake in the morning, and it's very cute to see them both lying in the same sleeping position in bed. It brings a smile to my face, which is a great way to start the day.

Now He'll Never Be a Professional Athlete

We received a text message from the daycare Director yesterday: 

Director: Just a FYI your little man was playing in the playhouse and a little friend shut the door on his finger. He is good just wanted to let you guys know. 

 -->Immediately, when I read this text, my first thought was, "Oh no! How bad is it?" Then I was thinking..."Nah, it can't be too bad with a plastic playhouse." I then read between the lines and noticed how they referred to the injuring party member as "a little friend" instead of naming the child. This is smart, because the parents are then unable to retaliate by ostracizing the child, slashing the child's parents' tires, teaching their own kid how to bully that child and offer paybacks...things like that. An eye for an eye...a finger for a finger... 

Me: Ok. How is his finger? 

Director: Sorry about the delayed response. Yes it is fine a little cut but they put a band aid on it. 

Me: Ok

-->When Dana brought Sawyer home after daycare I greeted him in the usual way by smothering him with kisses and hugs, asking him how his day went, and then checked on his finger, which was a little swollen with a cut from being pinched in the door. I asked Dana what happened to the band aid (I was a little excited to buy him boxes of cartoon band aids for his finger if he showed interest in the band aids). She said she had thrown it away because he kept removing it to eat it. I then asked her if they gave her anymore information regarding the incident, and she said no. I'm starting to think that my wife doesn't gather information very well.  From here on out, I will do all of the questioning. 

It's not a lot of fun when your child gets hurt, especially when it happens on your watch, but when it happens at daycare, school, the grandparents' house, etc., then it's extremely frustrating. You immediately ask for video evidence of the event. When they claim that they do not have it, then you start to drill the adult who was present (or so they say) with questions to find out all the information you need in order to satisfy you on whether or not it truly was an accident, or if someone is to blame for their negligence/fucking stupidity, lack of caring for your child that they said they truly love but apparently don't and therefore you know that you will no longer allow that person to spend any time with your child, or if it was an intended hateful act. Luckily, this was just an accident. Besides, we love his daycare, and we know that all of the teachers, instructors, the director, and parents have the best intentions for all of the children. We know this because of how much we pay monthly for him to attend this daycare. 😐

Luckily his injured finger doesn't hold him back from ringing the singing bowl for meditation.  

This morning I decided to have a bit of fun with the director, so I sent another text to her regarding Sawyer's finger injury yesterday: 

Me: Sawyer's finger last night was a little sore. I showed him a lineup of his fellow students' pics and asked him to point to which classmate shut his finger in the door. Unfortunately, it's his pointer finger that is injured, so he was unable to identify the culprit. His classmate seems to have gotten away with this! Poor Sawyer...he kept mumbling last night in his sleep over not being able to ever play a stringed instrument, any major ball sports, or even being able to learn how to count to 10... 

Director: Ohhh dear... as a parent of several musical children playing instruments I assure you that I will have him playing his instrument in no time (I have accidentally squished many fingers but I am quick at repairing them)... in fact I think my middle child broke her toe on the door once but with the encouragement of "nothing's wrong, keep moving we are going to be late" paid off! She plays lacrosse now and college is helping pay for her lacrosse talents to play for them...

In fact we are working on our drumming as we speak!

Sawyer definitely loves drumming! Either that, or he just likes to hit things.  

11 Month-Old Seeks Part-Time Job

I was picking Sawyer up from daycare the other day, and I remembered that I needed to tell them that he might be missing a few days from daycare starting next week. His teacher asked if we were going out of town, and I said, "No. I wish. I told him this morning that he has to start working part-time next week to help cover his expenses." "Oh really? Where will he be working?" I had to admit that he didn't have a job lined up yet. So, being the caring parent that I am, I asked Sawyer where he wanted to start working next week. He mentioned working at Whole Foods. I thought it was a great idea, until I realized that he would probably eat all the groceries before he finished bagging them for the shoppers to take home. His teacher agreed with me because she knows how much he loves to eat.

The three of us put our heads together to figure out where he would work. Twenty seconds later, when we couldn't come up with anything, I put the idea out there that he might have to start working a corner. He would be cute wearing his t-shirt, jeans, sunglasses and little shoes. It dawned on me that he would need some education though, so I asked his teacher if she would please explain STDs to him before he starts working a corner next week. She laughed, and luckily agreed. I don't know if she realizes what she's agreed to yet, and perhaps I should clarify how much knowledge she has in teaching the transmission of STDs to small children, but I'm just going to have to trust her. After all, the Director of the daycare has promised that she has hired the most qualified teachers for the daycare, and so far she has fulfilled that promise. 

Sawyer insisted on wearing his Patagonia vest and enjoying a double espresso before working his first corner. I agreed to both requests as long as he brought back more money than what the espresso cost us. 

P.S. Oh, and for those of you who find this offensive, THIS IS A JOKE! Yes, this was a conversation I had with his teacher at daycare, but NO, we would never encourage him to work a corner for money prior to the age of 18 years, nor after. Look at him. HE'S ADORABLE!! Besides, according to my friend Joel, nepotism begins at home, so we know that Grandpa has something planned for him. 

Sibling Love...and Rivalry

Lincoln and Sawyer absolutely love each other, but as all sibling relationships go, there can be trying times. At least once each week Lincoln still gives us the questioning look, "He's still here?" He typically gives us that look after Sawyer has been following him all over the house for a few minutes and just won't give him any peace. But in Sawyer's defense, Lincoln doesn't give him any peace whenever he's eating, so Sawyer claims that they are even. I personally think that both of them do a marvelous job teasing the other into full meltdown mode at times.

For example, when one has a bone, and the other one wants his bone, but the former refuses to share with the latter, crying occurs. If one is enjoying a cupcake, then teases the other with a chance to lick his fingers full of icing, but quickly puts them in his own mouth while giving his brother a reminder look that he is on a diet and that the icing would go straight to his hips, the look of despair WE get forces us to give the other bites of our cupcakes. Did you follow all of that?

Then there are the times when they lick each other incessantly, share bites of food, stuffed animals, clumps of dirt and worms from our garden, and equal love for steak and shrimp forcing us to realize how expensive BOTH of our children are. I mean, seriously...how does anyone afford to have kids these days? 

I know that these two will always look out for each other, but perhaps Lincoln is keeping an eye on Sawyer just a bit more right now.  As long as one of them can afford to support us in our old age (which will be starting next month), all of this craziness will be worth it. 

P.S. I would also like to extend a "WTF?" to our oldest child, Lincoln, for teaching Sawyer how to beg for food. Thanks a lot.

3.21.17

I was home sick today, and even though I did rest, I accomplished a lot. I organized paperwork, went through our bookshelves looking for books to donate, did laundry...whatever my symptoms allowed me to do. Dana finally noticed some of the things I did right when I was crawling into bed.  

Dana: You washed the sheets and stacked the pillows so nicely to make them look taller! That's very cute honey. Thank you.  

Me: Well, I wanted to show you how great I would be as a stay-at-home wife...while Sawyer is in daycare. 

Dana: Oh! So I'll just come home from work to you in an apron (I interject and tell her, "Just an apron, no other clothes."), dinner is ready, the kids are in bed, and when I sit down you immediately light a cigar for me? 

Me: Why do we now have cancer?  

Looks like I'll be returning to work just to insure my wife doesn't start a nasty smoking habit.  

FMIT

It's a Tuesday folks, and I spend all day replying "FMIT!" (Fuck Me It's Tuesday) with a grin on my face to whoever asks, "Hi! How are you today?"

You might think Mondays suck, and sure, waking up early after two days of sleeping in is rough, but then that day keeps flowing with the help of coffee. Tuesdays...Tuesdays are a whole 'nother animal. It's even harder to wake up because you're tired from waking up early on Monday. It's also the LONGEST day of the work week...I swear...and the busiest. Tuesday is not half-way through the week like hump-day Wednesday, and Thursday is the nice day just before Friday, AKA "the home-stretch." It's just a Tuesday damnit. 

In my next life I will schedule Tuesdays as one of my days off, along with Saturday and Sunday. A four-day work week is the way to go. 

Until then, just being home with the family is my recovery from EVERY work day. 

Our son is wise beyond his years. 

Bedtime Conversations

As a married couple, bedtime conversations aren't the most exciting...What time will you be home from work tomorrow? How was your day? Any chance we can afford to quit both of our jobs and sleep in tomorrow? 

Now, as parents, I don't know if our bedtime conversations are much more exiting. For example, tonight's conversation: 

Dana: I have my wax tomorrow, so I need you to pick Sawyer up from daycare.  

Me: Well I have a client from 3-4PM, and another client from 5-6PM, so I can pick him up between those clients and you can meet me at the gym to pick him up before I start the 5PM client.  

Dana: Oh honey!  

Me: What? What time is your wax? 

Dana: 5:30PM. 

Me: Well, can't you take him with you to your wax?  

Dana: No. He doesn't exactly sit still these days.  

Me: It'll be fine. Just play airplane with him while you're getting your wax.  

Dana: No.  

I thought my idea was brilliant, but she wasn't too thrilled. I don't understand why though. She's in the same position for her wax that you are when you play airplane with him.  

Letter to Lincoln

2/25/17

Dear Lincoln,

Unfortunately yesterday was a shit day for everyone in our family, but you know that already because this letter is being read to you by a volunteer at the animal shelter where you are being held for a 10-day quarantine. You might have forgotten this already, but yesterday you bit our mailman in the ass while we were out on a walk with Sawyer. Yes, I understand that the mailman walked closely by the stroller and you felt the need to look after Sawyer by swiftly moving around the front side of the stroller to bite the mailman just as a warning that he got too close. However, not only did your nibble of the mailman get you (and us) into trouble, your leash also had wrapped around the stroller and pulled it over into the cement wall...with your baby brother in it. This was why I couldn't stop you from biting the mailman and preventing this whole fiasco from occurring. Don't worry, Sawyer is ok. The stroller protected him when you and I failed to, and your bite on the mailman isn't too bad either. No stitches, nor a new pair of pants are needed. You pretty much just bruised his ass. (Just in case you were worried, I took a picture of his ass cheek to show you...and in case we need it as evidence in court.) Because of your poor reaction, this is why you are in doggie jail. 

Let me restart this letter to you by letting you know that we miss you terribly. The house is just not the same without your furry, four-legged, loving and barking presence. Every time I walk by the couch, I look for you. Every time Sawyer drops food all over him, his high chair, and the floor, I look for you (by the way, our floors and your baby brother currently have a shit ton of food all over them, and you've only been gone for 24 hours!). Every time I go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I expect you to follow me out of the bedroom and whine in the kitchen for your breakfast. I was up three times last night between Sawyer's coughing and my bladder, and I looked for you each time to be on my heels. Hmmm...perhaps I should make an appointment with a urologist. We miss you terribly! You are our oldest child, and we can't stand not having you here. 

Last night, after two margaritas, two glasses of wine, and a double espresso, I was able to come up with a plan for how we are going to break you out of doggie jail. Yes, you did something wrong, but let's face it, you won't remember what you did wrong three hours after the incident, and since you're up to date on your rabies vaccination, and the mailman DID walk on the other side of the stroller too close (I still hold him a bit responsible), I understand that you felt that you were protecting Sawyer while he was in the stroller, and so I want to protect you from the emotional hell you are going through right now. Besides, my own therapy is expensive, so I can only dream of how expensive therapy for you would be. That's just something we can't afford right now, so ask Grandpa for money at Christmas to put towards your therapy. 

Okay, moving on to the plan...

Yesterday I sent one of your blankets and two of your suckies (owl and pig) with you to provide comfort, but later this afternoon we are going to bring you one of your doggie beds. I will be hiding in this doggie bed, i.e., your doggie bed will be a Trojan horse. Come to think of it...this might be the first horse ever in doggie jail...hmmm. After I am snuck into your indoor-outdoor jail cell (which I hear is larger than our house), at midnight tonight I will break you and every dog out of the doggie jail, and we will run north along the river trail, through downtown, and eventually end up in Yountville to hide out in the outdoor eating space at Ad Hoc. No one will see us there because we will easily blend in with the out-of-towers who are there on a daily basis praising Thomas Keller's geniusness and food. It's a brilliant plan, and we'll all eat well while we are hiding out.  

If this plan fails, it will be on me. You're already in jail and can not be held accountable for tonight's jail break. We could always blame your baby brother. After all, he's not even a year yet, so as a minor he can get away with anything right now.  

We miss you, and I hope to see you in a few hours. Get your rest now, because we'll be running tonight to Yountville.  

Love, 

Your Crazy Mother

P.S. Let's do our best to not nibble any more postal workers or ANYONE for that matter unless we are being physically attacked by someone. Then you can go hog wild on their ass, and you'll get all the bacon you want afterwards.  

Bubbles

Sometimes, after a shit of a day, the only reprieve you can get is via bubbles. 

May you find bubbles on rough days...unless you support the orange shit in the White House. For you, I hope you are buried by bubbles and your own shit. 

Lessons

Have you ever had your ass handed to you by an infant?  

We have. 

Thankfully he's cute.

Our love for him extends beyond the essence of our souls.

Only Mamas, Mommies, Moms, Mothers...

Oye vey...does Sawyer need a speech therapist? Instead of pronouncing the "m" sound ALL the time, he's also pronouncing the "d" sound. I just feel the need to correct him. That's okay, right?

Sawyer is lucky to have two Mommies! 

Perhaps Sawyer just needs a heart with "Moms" tattooed on him. Since he's so young though, we'll start with a temporary tattoo. 

Higher Ground

We've had the pleasure of enjoying quite a bit of rainfall here in Napa Valley these last few days, which has brought about some flooding issues. Roads are shut down due to flooding and/or mud slides, thereby increasing the traffic on Hwy 29 and helping people come up with creative excuses for exiting work early in order to avoid rush hour traffic. This evening we had the joy of finding out our garage, despite the number of sandbags Dana set up at the door, likes to allow a steady stream of water in. Luckily, we didn't have too many items to move. One gym member was complaining this morning how his pool at home was overflowing. I told him to pretend it's like an infinity pool and be happy he doesn't have to fill it anytime soon. It's a fucking pool!!! 

Sawyer attends daycare while we're working, and I just felt the need to text and check in with the Director to see if the school was experiencing any flooding.  

Me: "Hello! Just checking on Sawyer. Any flooding at the daycare? Do we need to get him a life jacket and a kayak?" (I really want to buy a kayak, and Dana just won't cave in.) 

The Director sent these two pics...

Me: "Oh shit. I'm glad he's moving to higher ground though!" 

Director: "We are training him on how to get over bridges." 

Me: "Whew! That's a good skill set."

Thank goodness daycare is covering all of the bases, but will they cover our deductible when we take him in for stitches? Now...if they would only require the kids to bring a kayak in on rainy days... 

Playground Birth

Dana's pregnancy went smoothly for the first 36 weeks, until her blood pressure decided to climb as our son was preparing to drop. Our OBGYN monitored her closely and when her BP continued to stay high, we were instructed to check into Labor & Delivery at 38 weeks for induction. Unfortunately, our son's stubborn side showed up that day, proving that he was definitely Dana's biological son. He refused to be born vaginally, Dana's body was being stubborn refusing to start the birthing process, and so we had to schedule a C-section for the next morning (which made Dana's stress drop considerably, along with her BP...funny how that is). The C-section delivery went very well, Sawyer immediately stretched all of his limbs out once he was out (Dana's only 5'1", so he didn't have a lot of room in the womb), and we were finally able to hold our son.

In Kansas City this past week, while visiting my parents, we took Sawyer to a playground, and I immediately knew two things I wanted him to experience: the slide and the tunnel...the closest activities to vaginal birth...although a water slide would be a more accurate simulation. Hmmm...

Technically, if he had experienced a vaginal birth, I might have been the first Mommy he saw, but this is still fun for him AND for Dana. 😉

Definitely faster then the tunnel...and a vaginal birth. 

When is a kid old enough to ride a water slide? We don't need to try and simulate his c-section birth as well, do we? 

Sawyer, are you a Starboy?

On December 10th, we were in the car winding our way back to sea level with our 4.5-ft Christmas tree from Moon Mountain tied to the top, and our son in the back seat with shattered candy cane on the belly of his jacket. The song Starboy, by The Weeknd (feat. Daft Punk) came on the radio, and I started singing the refrain (the only words I know) and doing what little dancing you can do while driving and staying on the proper side of the road.

Here's their music video if you don't know the song: https://youtu.be/34Na4j8AVgA

Dana turned to meet Sawyer's reflection in the mirror on his seat's headrest (the kid is under 20LBs, so he's still rear-facing folks) and asked him, "Sawyer, are you a Starboy? I think you're a Starboy." To which I responded, "Yep, he's a Starboy. Wait...what exactly is a Starboy?" "Good question, we should look it up and make sure it doesn't mean a male prostitute." Dana looked up the definition while I continued to drive and sing the refrain. Within 9 seconds she found the definition on Urban Dictionary: 

Starboy (n.) a womanizer, a philanderer, a man who has sex with many women.

I looked in my rear view mirror, made eye contact with Sawyer via his reflection in his mirror and told him, "Sawyer, you are not a Starboy. You will never be a Starboy."   

"I'm a Starboy."-Sawyer

Now every time the song plays on the radio I have a small anxiety attack over our son possibly turning out to be a Starboy...damnit. 

Lincoln's Holiday Letter

November, 2016

Dear Hoomans,

It is with much sorrow that I tell you I was forced to grow up this year. “Why?” You may ask? Well, it all started this Spring. Quick, start a fire and get all cozy while I tell you this nightmare that I’ve been living through this year…

I was just brought home after a nice 5 day vacation at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, and then WHAM! Moms arrive home, just in time to interrupt my 3-hour nap, and plop this ‘bundle of joy’ (as they call him) right in front of me. Now I’m a fairly positive dog, and so I sniffed him, gave him a few licks, and thanked him for the stuffed red bone he brought me thinking he would only be with us for a few hours…BUT HE’S STILL HERE. Moms say I have to take care of him, guard him, lick his face and hands when there is food on them, check on him at night to make sure he’s still breathing (even though he sounds like a baby goat when he’s sleeping at night, so obviously he’s still alive…duh), and apparently I’m suppose to do all of this without barking and sharing my opinion. My Moms are such inconsiderate assholes at times.

Anywho, life has changed for me now that I’m all grown up, and so my perspective on the world is different. I no longer see passersby as fellow walkers on the sidewalk. Nope. They are potential kidnappers. And liquid that splats on the floor after flying from my baby brother’s mouth often tastes like curdled vomit, but I lick it up anyway just because I don’t want my Moms to slip on it while walking. And for some odd reason, after this election hell came to an end, I now hate the color orange, I chase anyone away who is wearing orange or red, and we always have ‘Go’ bags packed with our passports. Are we at war and I wasn’t told? Am I going to be drafted? A lot of great and wise dogs have fought in the wars and when they returned (if they returned) they were never the same. This worries me…I might need therapy and a Xanax.

So, I guess what I’m trying to tell you is that life has changed for me, and even though I don’t like this ‘older brother’ crap so much, I’ve taken to it with gusto. He’s a cute kid, and he’s learned to slap/pet me  on the head. It’s…nice. And whenever he’s sleeping I do my best to bark at my Moms and tell them everything they are doing wrong, and to remind them that they owe me multiple bones for this shit. For some odd reason they get really upset with me for this, but it does make them move quickly to get me a bone…and sometimes the bark collar.

Happy holidays to you hoomans, and please keep me in mind this holiday season. Feel free to send me treats, bones, a BarkBox, stuffed animals…anything to help me remember what it was like to be an only child. And if I can figure out how to work the tape dispenser and get the mailman to pick Sawyer up without being too scared of me, I’ll ship you my baby brother.

     Happy Holidays!!

    Lincoln

P.S. v. B BN\                                           

  /',÷≥,zÒÚ{a

“)+_i,p/

Love, Sawyer

Sawyer's Emergency Pizza Fund

We've arrived at the point in our lives when you give your child's daycare lead teacher $30 cash for an Emergency Pizza Fund. What?!?! You've never heard of an Emergency Pizza Fund? The Emergency Pizza Fund is simple. When your child runs out of formula/breast milk, and or blended baby food during the day and is still hungry, the teacher orders a pizza for him/her to eat and share with the other babies and teachers in the classroom. It's just like the Emergency Coffee Fund and Emergency Beer Fund you carry with you in your wallet that you can access using a credit card that your wife has no knowledge of so she can't use it, nor limit your ability to use it. We all run into these problems folks. Get with it. I mean, even our dog, Lincoln, has an Emergency Bone Fund. 

Anyways, this Emergency Pizza Fund was started because Sawyer kept going through the food we would send with him at the beginning of the day. Before we were finished with work, we would receive a text message from the Director of the daycare informing us that we are horrible mothers for starving our child and not sending him with enough food. Honestly, we send him with plenty, but his excuse is that he's a growing boy, who is also trying to grow a penis, and therefore he needs to eat more then what the online parenting articles and his pediatrician says he needs to eat in terms of calories for the day. In the next four years we will need to buy a farm so we can have a cow, goat, lamb, chickens, and acres of gardens to feed this kid.  

When I arrived to pick him up one day at daycare this past week, the lead teacher again asked that we send him with an extra bottle and a pot roast just in case he runs out of food. I told her, "Sometimes when he's fussy, it's because he's tired and he needs to go down for a nap, not eat again. He'll eat even if he's not hungry just because he absolutely loves food. We also would like for him to eat every 2.5-3 hours, not every 1.5-2 hours." Then one of the assistants in the room piped up and started giving me her opinion, but at that point I was already done discussing it because...well, because I'm one of his mothers, and with the amount of money we are spending monthly on daycare, I think the teacher and assistants can work a bit at getting him to take a nap, etc., instead of relying on food to wane his fussiness. Instead of sharing that thought out loud I said that I would bring cash for an Emergency Pizza Fund. If Sawyer eats ALL of his food and is absolutely starving before the end of the day, then that constitutes an emergency, and they have my permission to use the $30 to order an organic vegetarian pizza from Food Shed that they will carefully feed our son, share with any of Sawyer's classmates that are allowed to eat pizza, and enjoy themselves. That seemed to make them happy, and when Sawyer arrived the next morning with the envelope of cash and this letter, it made them even happier, and they laughed until they realized that A) it's an EMERGENCY fund, and B) there was no cash for beer. 

ONLY TO BE USED IN AN EMERGENCY!! 

That day, I got a text from the director with this picture of Sawyer enjoying his last bottle, and informing me that Sawyer was on his last bottle and was pointing at the Emergency Pizza Fund envelope.  Holy hell...I've created a food monster. 

Now, you'll have to excuse me. I need to use my Emergency Beer Fund and purchase some beer.  

Damn Bingers

You've really got to keep your eye on these little ones. As soon as you turn your back, they down their bottle without even an ounce of worry if it will come right back up. It's as if Gandalf is standing at the entrance to the stomach and whenever Sawyer eats, Gandalf is slamming his staff to the ground and shouting, "You shall not pass!"  

If we're lucky, we are able to direct his spit-up down the drain...as if we're training him for college parties already. 

He doesn't even bat an eye when he marks his territory. I now permanently smell like our son's gut microbiome. 

"I totally just coughed up 1.5 inches of bread crust they had no idea I had eaten."

Now that Sawyer is eating more solids, less liquid seems to come back at us. He does like to keep us on our toes though... 

"I think I'm going to vomit." 

"Ha ha! Just kidding!" 

Kids these days... 

Sciamachy

I danced, my fists up, a sciamachy at dusk with my mirrored image. A daily battle which impedes sophrosyne. Unfettered with others’ presence, the mask is dropped when I’m alone. This downtrodden feeling cloaks what is seen to others a happy person. There is no explanation…well, maybe a small one. Sometimes it is tragic points in my past that troubles and pulls me in one direction, but I do believe my lack of footing  also stems from generations before me, for there are times when hypophrenia hits. I just feel. It just is.

It’s interesting how when I’m kept busy with work and family life I am able to avoid the negativity I apply within myself. At times I almost feel full of joy, as if I never question my reason for being. Those are the great days. I want more of those days. I need more days like that.

I almost have an intro to the climax of ache, and if I can get to the trails, or home to be with my family, I am able to stave off that overwhelming and sneaky life-sucking force. It’s not like I want it to happen. I know that it holds me back from who I truly am, and can be. I know that it affects those I love, and that is something I absolutely never want. And when I start to think about this, and everything that is plaguing me, I almost seem to spiral down the rabbit hole faster. A slippery slope of seconds…minutes…hours…days…weeks…months…years. Time where everything is personal to me, and I feel as if I take on the emotions and repercussions of others’ words and actions. It’s like I’m more of a sponge than our son, and that terrifies me because I do not want him soaking even a smidgen of this from me. And as I think more on that, I spiral faster then before, guilt overtaking me, adding to the weight of EVERYTHING.

The smart thing would be to actually end talking about that, and mention the bright forces in my life: my wife, son, dog, and even the fish we bought for Sawyer last week when we found out Trump is the President-elect. Shit. That was a negative thing. Alrighty, let’s start again…

Wife, son, dog, and fish—they elicit from me an overwhelming joy for life. My clients. Sure, I’m exhausted from working long hours and worrying about them, but they truly bring happiness to my life, especially when they are able to accomplish a goal they never thought was possible. I helped with that. Being home to cook, bake, garden, read, write, spend time with my family, and sleep. Yep…sleeping in our own bed is a wonderful gift that I appreciate and understand a lot of people do not have the luxury of enjoying. Trails…give me a trail, and I can shake off just about anything. From whence I came, to that I return. Being in nature reminds me of the vast knowledge and life I have yet to attain and appreciate.

I only hope that one day the sagacious love my wife, mother, and other strong women in the world have for themselves, regardless of history, genes, and emotions, will one day be a gift I am able to offer myself in regards to self-love, acceptance…and even forgetfulness. There are just some memories we need to not keep re-living. At the very least, to be more fluid between my own thoughts and emotions, allowing the chance to recover, experience all, and still love myself as opposed to constantly shifting between two opposite sides of the spectrum: self-hate versus self-love.

This is what pure and innocent joy looks like folks. Soak it up.