The Great Pukesby

Parents have to develop thick skin--literally--when it comes to children sharing various excretions.

And for each of my children, I definitely have a moment that will forever be ingrained on my hard drive.

As a baby, Big Brother once fired a #2 cannon at me while on the changing pad. Fortunately, I had pulled my head out of the way moments before, and he did not have radar lock on me. But the wall was not so lucky.

Not to be outdone, Little Brother saved his moment for his newborn pictures. I was holding him (in the buff--him, not me) for one of the shots, and in a span of about 5 minutes he managed to douse me with #1, #2, and spit-up (the latter just for good measure).

So, unsurprisingly, Bab-E Brother grew tired of "waiting in the wings", and decided he was ready to make his mark.

And oh, how did he make that mark.

Mom-E was out of town, and the boys and I were just batchin' it together. After work, I picked up Big Brother, and then we went to pick up Little Brother and Bab-E Brother. By that time, it was about 6pm, which is also known as the "hour in which small men get hangry".

So we took a vote, and it was decided that we would go to McDonalds (or N-Donalds, as Little Brother calls it) and play on the playground for a treat.

Bab-E Brother finished off his milk bottle during the van ride there.

We no sooner get in to N-D's than Bab-E Brother gags (probably on some boogers), and then pukes.

And then he puked again because he puked.

And then he puked because he puked because he puked.

You get the idea.

Don't get me wrong, I've been spit-up/puked on countless times. They all PALED in comparison to this one.

I mean we're talking about being filmed for a sequel, "The Exorcist Goes to N-Donalds".

I felt like the kids on "You Can't Do That on Television", except with puke, not green slime.

Damage report:
Bab-E Brother's romper is completely toasted.

Dad-E's romper shirt is completely toasted.

Dad-E's pants are completely toasted.

Dad-E's SHOES are completely toasted.

Of course, the diaper bag is still in the van (hey, it's pink, and I figured we'd be cool). But at least he HAS a change of clothes.

I handled the situation well. I didn't puke myself. I remained calm. I gathered up the other boys, and we all headed to the bathroom.

To find that there were NO paper towels.

So we used the sink to semi-rinse Bab-E Brother, who was stripped down to his diaper.

My shirt was so bad that I took it off, leaving only a Hanes undershirt. I could do ABSOLUTELY NOTHING about my pants or shoes.

Meanwhile, Big Brother and Little Brother were still at a loss as to why they hadn't gotten their kids meals yet.

And so with screams and protests (and even a promise to go through the drive through) we left.

"Why are we leaving, Dad-E?"

"Because your brother and I are covered in puke, dudes."

I must've looked "awesome" sporting an undershirt and puke-covered pants & shoes, holding a puke-smelling Bab-E wearing only a diaper, and trying to get 2 boys with sensitive noses to follow us.

In fact, I'm sure you can expect to see our commercial for N-Donalds air soon. I know I was lovin' it.

We made it home and everyone got fed and bathed. (Bab-E Brother must've felt fine afterwards, because he practically tackled his brothers to get ahold of a chicken nugget.)

And not to be upstaged, Big Brother had the comment of the night. When we got in the van, he looked at me and very calmly, pensively remarked: "Dad-E, I don't think I want to have babies."

I hope that Mom-E's not scared to leave us again. :)

Have a good, puke-free, weekend,
Busy-Dad-E

Lost In Translation

Big Brother's writing abilities have improved immensely over this kindergarten year.

His class has focused a lot on phonics. As such, when they write in class, the children are encouraged to attempt to spell words by sounding them out. The teacher purposely doesn't help them in this phase.

This is interesting to Mom-E and I. Overall, I think it's good for his learning. But it's also up to Mom-E and I to go over his writing to help correct words.

And from time to time, the results are--well--pretty funny. Don't get me wrong: we're quite proud of him. But sometimes his writing makes us chuckle.

Sometimes it's pretty easy to understand what he was saying.


"Some children dream of world peace or purple unicorns. Apparently our future engineer is very focused on automobile safety."

Sometimes it takes a little more work.


"The knife is sharp, but apparently it juliennes (or something else), too."

And other times we're pretty stumped.


"Just like the fan, Big Brother's favorite part may also be forever lost."

And last, but not least, there's still the occasional wtf


"This one reminds me of the Eddie Murphy Buckwheat Sings SNL sketch, particularly the song ???? (Bette Davis Eyes at 0:30)"

We asked Big Brother what this last one said, to which he angrily replied, "Read it to me."

(We would if we could, buddy).

Time to mumble something in Greek and fake having to go potty.

See you on Fatherhood Friday,
Keep writing,
Busy-Dad-E

First Haircut

The 80's have been calling our house (repeatedly) for a while now.

Apparently they wanted their mullet back.

And so, in order have the boys looking their best for Easter, everyone—Bab-E Brother included—got a haircut on Saturday.

If it weren’t for the mullet—okay, it’s not truly a mullet, just really long, curly hair in the back—he really didn’t need a haircut.

And while Mom-E was just a touch sad about saying goodbye to those curly locks, even she was on board with the idea that he needed a haircut to shut me up from my persistent requests that it was time for his first haircut.

He seemed to have an idea that something was a little different, because he was a little antsy while waiting. When it came time for his turn, Bab-E Brother sat in my lap. He was a little apprehensive, but wasn’t particularly fussy or squirmy.

It seemed like with Big Brother and Little Brother, their first haircut had a bit more celebratory feel to it. We did remember to bring the video and still cameras. But neither the haircut place nor Mom-E & I had anything to keep some of his hair.

We’re very fortunate that Bab-E Brother is our ultra-happy baby. We often joke that things are so chaotic with 3 young boys, that he’s happy because we remember to feed him. And so his first haircut was squeezed in because the salon was right next to the next set of errands at Target.

With a quick sweep of the scissors, his curly locks were no more. And Mom-E constructed a make-shift bag out of a piece of paper. (We needed a hair bag, much like Big Brother’s “Car Bag”. If only we’d bought some chips beforehand.)

It was almost like the scene when Eddie Murphy gets a haircut in “Coming to America.” One cut of the scissors, followed by, “That’ll be $8.”

Needless to say, Mom-E and I weren’t terribly impressed. His hair was definitely shorter in the back, but I’d bet that Big Brother could’ve given him a similar quality haircut.

“Umm…do you think you could taper his hair up in the back?”

“Well, he has so little hair and it’s so thin, that it might make him look bald.”

(Whaddyoutalkinbout?!?!?!?) I thought to myself.

“Let’s taper him up, please.”

A bit begrudgingly, she clippered the back of his hair, such that it actually looked like he did not have his first haircut with safety scissors. She must’ve been disappointed that we reduced her dollars made-per-cut ratio from 8 to about 1.

But he looked good.

And the transformation that goes along with a boy’s first haircut is amazing to me. Just a few locks of hair make the difference between “baby” and “little boy.” He looked so handsome, so “grown-up”.

Congrats on your first haircut, Bab-E Brother. We’re glad you’re such a happy, handsome guy. Love you.

Have a good week,
Busy-Dad-E

The Tamponinator

Bab-E Brother has a penchant for two unrelated things these days: cinnamon raisin toast and tampons. Yes, I said tampons.

During a recent trip, he discovered this new breakfast (and lunch and dinner) food (the toast, not tampons). He likes it so much he'd probably go anywhere if you told him there MIGHT be cinnamon raisin toast.

In you inadvertently leave the bread on the counter and he sees it, he'll fuss until you give him some.

And my "some", I mean he double fists it. Handing him the first piece only calms him for a few seconds while you get him another piece.

And occasionally, he'll try to put two pieces in one hand and beg for a THIRD piece.

Once his belly is full of cinnamon raisin toast, Bab-E Brother is off to Tamponinate (newly-coined term).

What does it mean to Tamponinate? So it's kind of a "Raiders of the Lost Tampon" scenario. If he's in our bathroom, he makes a bee-line for the cabinet and the tampons, and stats pulling them out. All. Over. The. Floor.

Fortunately, he doesn't open them; he just likes the crinkly sound.

But it's uncanny: if he's in our bathroom he always goes for the tampons, to the exclusion of everything else.

Perhaps we could do an experiment where we put a piece of cinnamon raisin toast in one corner of a room, a box of tampons in the other, and Bab-E Brother in the middle. To which corner will he go first?

Have a good weekend,
I'll be back (as sure as Bab-E Brother will raid for tampons),
Busy-Dad-E

Hope

"And not only so, but we glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope" - Romans 5: 3-4

We miss you Great-Grandpa H, but even in death you give us hope.

Busy-Dad-E

Chocky Juice Mind Tricks

So this weekend we had the "Great Chocky Juice Standoff of 2011".

A true battle of wits between a certain 3 year-old and his Dad-E.

WARNING: Jedi mind tricks abound. This post is not for the feeble-minded.

It went down like this:

I put Little Brother's chocolate milk (henceforth termed chocky juice) on the table this morning, and sat down in the chair next to him.

Little Brother didn't want to sit at the table. "Bring me my chocky juice!" he exclaimed, repeatedly, while sitting on the kitchen floor.

"I will not bring it to you. You will come to the table to drink it. And you will speak to me nicely, with please. " replied Dad-E ~*hand-waves like a Jedi*~

"I willn't." (Yes, he used the word 'willn't".)

I proceeded to finish my breakfast, amidst cheers of "Bring me my chocky juice!"

"No."

Finished, I got up from the table.

To up the ante of our chess game, I put his chocky juice on the floor behind his chair.

From ten feet away, Little Brother continued his protest.

"I can't walk. I'm tired."

"I'm tired, too." I thought. That isn't going to score any points with me.

I proceeded to start to walk towards the stairs.

Little Brother, of course, proceed to get up and chase after me. (Apparently he can walk after all.)

Unrelentingly, he continued to protest "Can you get me my chocky juice?"

"Uh, no." I replied. "If you'd walked towards your chocky juice instead of me, you'd be drinking it right now."

Screaming fit ensued.

Tired of the screaming, Big Brother kindly walked the chocky juice over to his brother.

WARNING: Here comes the "twist" in the story.

Little Brother, continuing to scream, proceeded to carry the chocky juice and set it down on the floor behind his chair, in the exact spot where I'd placed it. This followed with a "Dad-E, get me my chocky juice!" ~*now he's waving his hands like a Jedi*~

(Oh my young friend with an iron clad will. I hope you apply this same stubbornness and tenacious will to resisting future peer pressures.)

Unwavering, I stood my ground.

Finally, some ten minutes after the ordeal started, Little Brother got really hypoglycemic finally caved and picked up the cup.

We proceeded to go upstairs.

FINAL SCORE: Dad-E 1, Little Brother 0

Yet somehow I feel like I still "lost", just for having to battle the young Padawan.

~*You will have a good week*~,
Busy-Dad-E

Bab-E Brother Takes Flight

So last week Bab-E Brother made his maiden airplane voyage.

Given how things went with Little Brother's inaugural flight, I'll admit Mom-E and I were a little apprehensive.

And the fact that that the ~3 hour flight didn't leave until pretty darn close to Bab-E Brother's bedtime, well that nudged us from "a little apprehensive" to "downright panicky".

I'm sure some of you are saying "give him some Benadryl". That's just something we're not comfortable with. Plus, knowing our luck, the Benadryl would have the opposite effect and he'd be wired.

Turns out, he was wired anyway.

And being pretty new to ambulation, he wanted to walk.

Down the middle aisle of the plane.

For the entire flight.

He didn't care about the snacks we brought, the toys, the crayons, or the barf bag. Apparently our laps have invisible "don't sit here" tattoos.

And if we didn't walk with him, he pretty much screamed. (And it probably wasn't his ears, because we did give him some motrin to help with that.)

I know this seems like I'm picking on Delta, but I promise I'm not trying to single them out. I'm sure the same applies to other airlines. And I promise I'll end with a compliment.

But the flight attendants didn't help.

Apparently they need a little more education about children.

Like how to tell the difference between boys and girls.

The flight attendant kept asking us (multiple times), "Does SHE take a pacifier?"

Okay, 2 things here:

1. In case you need a refresher, if the child is wearing these, they're probably a boy


And if the child is wearing these, they're probably a girl


Not to mention that as a boy, Bab-E Brother, well, looks like a boy.

2. Don't you think that if he did take a pacifier, that we would've already given him one. (Everything we did try to give him was thrown at 23B. Sorry, sir.)

3. Okay, three things. Maybe it's just me, but if you park the snack cart in front of a 15 month-old and hand out cookies and drinks to everybody BUT him, he MIGHT get a little fussy and protest. Maybe. I'm just sayin'.

And if we weren't already a little perturbed that the flight attendant kept calling him a girl, she then proceeded to ask us "Wow, is he the most hyperactive of your boys."

"Umm...No. Actually he is the most easy going. He's happy that we remember to feed him."

"And apparently there's a whole world of people who must be unmedicated for ADHD because they...I don't know...LIKE TO WALK, or something."

Time to put ritalin in the water, apparently.

Needless to say, I was quite relieved when we de-planed, so that the steam pouring from my ears could evaporate more easily. Even if that meant having to install 3 car seats at 11:00 pm in the dark, being "cheered on" by tired, screaming small men. (Fortunately, no one learned any new words.)

And despite the challenges of the return flight home, we had a much better experience.

Apparently these flight attendants had taken the course.

It's amazing, but some eye contact, a smile, and a few kind words make a HUGE difference with children on the plane. And no questions about if "she needs a pacifier" make a huge difference for Dad-E's. For that, thank you.

And an A+ on your gender-specific jammie recognition skills.

At the end of the flight, the boys were presented with "pilot wings" that they promptly pinned on their shirts (and have yet to remove).

So, congrats to Bab-E Brother on earning your wings. We'll fly with you again (so long as you're buying.)

See you on Fatherhood Friday,
Busy-Dad-E

Have You Ever Been to IHOP?

After waking up 3 children at 4:00 am; finishing packing; checking out of the hotel; getting briefly lost on the way to the airport (twice); getting through security (and repacking the 15 bins it takes to x-ray all of our "gear"); fighting small men to pee BEFORE getting on the plane; flying for 3 hours with a 15 month-old who does not want to sit but rather walk up-and-down the main aisle and the President (age 6) and Vee-Pee (age 3, pun intended) of the Small Bladder Club; retrieving luggage and carting it a mile to the minivan in long-term parking; driving the "wrong way" on an outerbelt such that you add an extra 15 miles to your trip; baby pooping in his car seat such that it creates a mold of his bottom crafted out of poop spackle; small children chanting in unison "I'm thirsty. I'm hungry."; wife with plummeting blood sugar and increasing inability to tolerate above-mentioned chanting; everyone screaming as you pull-off the interstate; 6 year-old begging for McDonald's kids meal, and then protesting when no golden arches are in sight; mom racing into IHOP with a 3 year-old who has to (vee-)pee emergently; dad wrestling a 6 year-old (while holding a (foul-smelling) poop spackled diaper-wearing baby) who REFUSES to go into IHOP (despite promises of whipped cream-covered waffles), such that you hope he didn't dislocate his shoulder when he falls limp in the middle of the parking lot while still holding your hand; alternating ordering while changing poop spackled diapers and taking Small Bladder Club leadership to pee (again) after they inhale 12 ounces of chocolate milk in 0.7 seconds; food arrives only to have baby start flinging pancakes, milk cup, and crayons everywhere, while his older brothers practice somersaults in the booth; mom wolfing down her meal faster than Chris Farley's Conehead girlfriend (which causes you to pause momentarily in admiration); mom taking baby to walk in the entry-way, while Dad-E tries to eat about $12 in extra pancakes/waffles that older brothers have left on their plates; dad tagging out with mom to take his turn walking with baby, white t-shirt covered in a mess of red granola bar filling, syrup, and snot, while baby dances to U2; finally paying the bill, and heading back to the minivan and looking forward to another 2 hours in the car.

Well, I suggest doing so at your own risk.

(As you can see, we've been on vacation, which means lots of new blog material.)

Have a good week,
Busy-Dad-E

I Ate Myself

Being away from home, even if only for a night, is hard on Mom-E's, Dad-E's, and Brothers alike.

Recently, I was away from home for a night due to work.

I was talking to Mom-E on the phone. Or should I say attempting to talk to Mom-E over the perpetual screaming--sometimes polyphonous, and sometimes a series of consecutive solos--by my "Three Tenors".

(I knew that a text from Mom-E that consisted of "aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh" was a HINT that things were a little wild down at ye olde homestead.)

I tried to help in the only way I could at that point: to talk to the boys individually and hear out their frustrations.

(Big Brother was angry that candy was not one of the main entrees at dinner. Little Brother was screaming because he'd gotten himself stuck while hiding in the pantry, and scraped his ear while trying to get out of the aforementioned 'can opener'.

You know, the usual stuff that happens around the house.)

Big Brother was willing to chat, and venting appeared to help him calm down.

Little Brother finally stopped screaming long enough to eat something, which helped him calm down.

Bab-E Brother had joined the group after his own screaming fit nap, and was also happily munching away.

I had just enjoyed a moment of actual, intelligible conversation with Mom-E, when suddenly Little Brother screamed and cried at the top of his lungs:

"I ATE MYSELF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

(Apparently, his teeth mistook his tongue for waffle and took a bite.)

Mom-E came to his rescue, although both of us had to restrain ourselves from bursting out laughing and risking mild urinary incontinence.

Poor guy. No blood, though. And within moments he was back to waffle munching.

Nothing like a little comic scream relief, amidst the chaos.

Sometime, all you can do is sit back and laugh.

Have a good weekend,
Don't eat yourself,
Busy-Dad-E