Legend of the Purple Dinosaur

STOP RIGHT THERE!

This is NOT a post about THAT purple dinosaur (aka He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named).

Nope, this is a post about ICE CREAM (and head CTs and messy eating. Read on.)

Bruster's Ice Cream offers a free kids-sized cone to anyone under 40 inches tall.
Free ice cream = SWEET! (Especially when it's big enough for a small adult = LEFT-OVERS FOR MOM-E AND DAD-E)

One of the flavors is called "Purple Dinosaur." I assume it's named for it's purple color, because I don't think it tastes like a dinosaur. (In fact, it's actually pretty bland, but the name makes it exciting.)

Despite it's lack of great taste, the flavor is still AMAZINGLY popular with our boys. After all, what boy wouldn't want to eat a purple dinosaur?

About this time last year, we went to Bruster's with our friend Rosi and her family. Big Brother was very proud and excited about his Purple Dinosaur cone. He went to sit on a (NARROW) bench to enjoy his cone, when he proceeded to fall over backwards (from a distance of about 2 feet) and hit the back of his head on the concrete.

He cried immediately and didn't lose consciousness. Within 5 minutes, he was eating his ice cream and happily running around, giggling, and playing with Rosi's daughter.

When we got home about an hour later, it was bedtime. Big Brother seemed a little tired, but he hadn't napped that day. We started to get him ready for his bath.

Mom-E asked if there was anything that we should watch for with Big Brother. I no sooner uttered the word "vomiting" than a stream of "Purple Dinosaur" came spewing out of his mouth.

This bought us a late-night trip to the ER for a head CT. Fortunately, Big Brother was just fine (Okay, if just fine means he screamed hysterically and had to be held down by me for the head CT, but was calmly watching Thomas and Friends the rest of the time in the exam room).

Big Brother still talks about the time when "the purple ice cream came out of my mouth."

We went back to Bruster's the other day for the first time since the famed incident. Amazingly, Big Brother wanted another Purple Dinosaur cone. (You'd think that after what happened the last time, he'd have a conditioned response not to eat one of those things.)

Instead, Big Brother calmly enjoyed his ice cream started running around like a wild man the moment the sugar hit his bloodstream.

Dad-E calmly enjoyed his ice cream freaked out about Big Brother's every move. "No, he can't sit on the bench. He might fall again." "No, he can't play hopscotch on the grass because there are 3 manhole covers, and he might fall and hit his head on one of them." "NO MORE HEAD CT's PEOPLE!"

"HE JUST NEEDS TO STAND PERFECTLY STILL AND EAT HIS ICE CREAM OR HE'LL RUN IN FRONT OF A CAR."
(Sure, tell that to a 4 year-old.)

Or, I just needed to take a "chill pill."

We also got Little Brother a Purple Dinosaur cone.

Little Brother calmly enjoyed his ice cream sucked the cone till it was flimsy, had purple ice cream smeared all over his face (and hair and hands and shirt, and my shirt, and Mom-E's shirt), all while I'm holding him.

We couldn't keep the napkins coming fast enough.

Again, I thought another one of those neon signs was appearing over my head. "I can multitask. Just not now."

We took a picture of his shirt, which actually made him look like a purple dinosaur. Hope you enjoy it.


And so, the Legend of the Purple Dinosaur lives on.

Live long and eat ice cream (without having to go to the ER).
(And buy stock in Shout.)

Cheers,
Busy-Dad-E

Cell Phone Repair Man

I put Mom-E's cell phone through rigorous aerodynamic testing on Friday. (It did surprisingly well--good for you Motorola Razr.)

And now for a description of the test procedures/results:
I was vacuuming out my car before leaving for work on Friday, owing to the boss would be riding in my car later in the day. Mom-E's phone was conspicuously sleeping in the driver's seat. (She says it accidentally fell out of her pocket, I think the phone had volunteered to be a test subject, and spent the night in the car to get my attention).

Either way, I put Mom-E's phone on the deck of the trunk while I vacuumed out the car (a prelude to this Friday's post, "Fun with Car Seats"). The problem was that I forgot Mom-E's phone was still on the trunk after I finished. We'll blame it on a combination of "it was 6:45 am" and parenting-induced chronic fatigue syndrome.

Shortly therafter I left for work.

As I'm walking in to work, I get this funny feeling like "I know I've screwed up, but I don't know what I did." (As you can see, marriage has trained me fairly well). Slowly, my hampster wheel starts to come around, and I begin to think "did I bring Mom-E's phone inside? Oh, no, tell me I didn't." (I did.)

I call Mom-E's cell phone and get the voicemail. Okay, there's a chance she's still alive.

I call Mom-E at the house. (Of course), her phone is not there. I alert her to the "possible situation", all the while my accumulated cache of "husband points" are dropping faster than the stock market.

Mom-E bundles up the boys, puts them in the stroller, and goes down the street looking (to no avail) for the phone. I'm now running a negative balance in the "husband points" category. Mom-E believes her phone to be dead and gone.

About 9:30 am, I get a call from Mom-E's cell phone! "Yay, it's her, she's found it!"

It's not Mom-E. It's a construction worker, who found the phone about 15 miles from our house, near an exit ramp off the highway. Apparently, the phone was run over, but it had enough life in it to power up and make a call.

And that was the last call her phone ever made. Mom-E was able to reclaim her phone and pay "last respects", but that's about it. At least the phone had one heckuva final ride.

And sweet Big Brother, the same Big Brother who tells us "I have to play with my Play-Doh because it's sick and that'll make it feel better", consoles Mom-E on her loss.

He quickly said, "Mom-E, when we get home, we can get some tape and fix your phone."
What youthful optimsm. Don't ever let go of that Big Brother. If only everything could be fixed with tape (or superglue).

And when Mom-E showed him the broken phone, he said without hesitation "Mom-E, we can go to the 'girl store' and buy another pink phone." Spoken like a true "Repair Man". It's even better when you can create a store that only sells exactly what you need. When all else (i.e. tape) fails, Big Brother knows to get out the toolbox (a.k.a. wallet).

You're such a sweet helper, Big Brother. It's too bad you fell asleep in the car for an hour while Mom-E was in the "Girl Store" getting a replacement phone.

Don't worry though, we'll call you the next time.

See you Friday,
Busy-Dad-E

Bribes Я Us

Okay, I admit it.

I bribed Big Brother (with good intentions), and it basically blew up in my face.

As discussed previously, Big Brother is quite the picky eater. That said, he's made a few gains as of late. For one, he rediscovered a previous infatuation with corn muffins, eating a total of five over the last two batches.

Meat and other non-yogurt sources of protein are still off limits for him, and I got a little impatient about his protein coming largely from Flintstones.

You see, Big Brother used to like peanut butter. I mean he LOVED his PB crackers. Then one day, about 2 years ago, apparently peanut butter was no longer en vogue, and it hasn't touched his lips since. We still don't know what happened.

And so, about a week or two ago, I told Big Brother if he tried peanut butter that he could go to Target and pick out a small toy (READ: INSERT BIG MISTAKE HERE). I figured a little extra incentive wouldn't hurt, and I already know he likes peanut butter. (I FIGURED WRONG).

Although the idea of a Lightning McQueen car piqued his interest, he didn't take the bait. Every now and again, I'd casually remind him, "if you take a bite of peanut butter, just one bite, we can go get that toy."

Out of the blue on Friday, he DID take the bait. A switch must've flipped, and he decided he was going to do it. I didn't even have to ask him. He said, "Dad-E, if I eat peanut butter on a pretzel, can I have that toy?" "Sure!" I said with excitement.

We ate peanut butter together, feeding each other PB-dipped pretzels. He ate about 4 pretzels. He even ate PB on a cracker. It was a great father-son bonding moment. I was THRILLED, and so was Mom-E.

As promised, we went out to pick out the toy. It was initially delayed by a trip to Verizon (SUBJECT OF THIS COMING WEDNESDAY'S POST--STAY TUNED), and Big Brother falling asleep in the car (for an hour after not napping all day).

We then stopped for a sandwich before going to Target, and at that point a now awake Big Brother LOST IT! He was tired of waiting and he wanted the toy NOW!

The stares of tens of pairs of eyes in the resteraunt burned like steaming hot guilt on my conscience. "My intentions were good, but now I've created an ungrateful monster (and a tired, groggy monster at that)," I thought.

We survived dinner (barely). We did go ahead and get him the toy (decided not to break a promise to a 4 year-old, even if he did throw a tantrum). The difference was night and day. Mom-E and I have never heard quite such a constellation of "thank yous" and "I love this car" and "wow that's a great present." There was enough gratitude left over to bottle up and sell.

But the story doesn't end here.

No, now Big Brother is in the process of trying extrapolate our deal, in an attempt to garner more toys.

The next day he asked "If I eat peanut butter on a cracker, can I get A-NOTH-ER toy?" "No," I replied. "You already ate peanut butter on a cracker." "No, I didn't," he retorted.

I started to feel like I was riding in a truck that's lost its brakes without a runaway truck ramp in sight.

He tried it again at dinner last night. "Dad-E, what do I get if I eat a peanut butter cracker?" "We'll be proud of you, that's it," Mom-E and I said in unison.

Without prompting, he even took a bite of a fruit and grain dinner roll (something he'd otherwise never do), and basically asked "what do I get for that?"
"We'll be proud of you, that's it," Mom-E and I again said in unison.

I should know by now that a test of wills versus Big Brother is doomed to fail. This child does (many) things on his own schedule. I'm not at all saying he's oppositional. He's a very good boy, very sweet and loving. There are just certain things that he's not going to do until he makes up his mind he's going to do it. Trying to push him into it will only delay the process. I can't think of ANYONE ELSE in the family who is like that.

*Ahem, ahem, ahem* (Sorry, some more guilt was stuck in my throat).

Food is just one of "those things" for him. Since then, I've offered him PB pretzels, which he now wants NOTHING to do with. Ouch.

Morals of the story:
1. Don't bribe your children. It's not worth it, and better on everyone if you don't.
2. Pass the Flintstones, please.

See you on Wednesday,
Busy-Dad-E

Play With Dad-E at Own Risk

My sister-in-law recently graduated with her master’s degree. While the rest of the family went out to a “fondue restaurant”, I stayed with the boys (knowing that after a two-hour dinner with them, we'd have to rename it the "Melt Down Pot"). I decided it'd be fun to take the boys to a playground/park. The park is at the municipal complex, which includes the local courthouse and police department.

To set the stage, little brother is strapped to my belly facing forward in the Baby Bjorn, while big brother is free to run amok.

As soon as we start to play, big brother says "I've got to go potty." Guess what? There's NOT A SINGLE POTTY at the whole park (obviously it was NOT designed by someone with children). Since the place is crawling with people, I have to walk with big brother to a fairly "remote" area. Although, we find a suitable tree to water that is obscured from view, I'm still expecting a police officer to walk up on us (given the location of the park) to see me squatted down with a baby strapped to my front and a half-naked toddler now guilty of public urination. Not a pretty sight.

Okay, mission accomplished, let's go slide!

Ten seconds later as we're walking back to the playground, big brother says "I just went poo-poo in my underwear." WHAT? You've been potty trained and haven't pooped your pants in months, why now? Big brother says "that's okay. I'll just go play." OH NO YOU WON'T! Of course, although I have a diaper bag in the car, big brother has just soiled his last pair of skivvies. Fortunately, big brother's shorts are swim trunks with a built-in underwear liner, and I decide that'll just have to do. So, back we trek to the car. Meanwhile little brother is entertaining himself with the wrapper from the spoon from the Wendy's Frosty I'd bought big brother, who was too busy soiling himself, I mean playing, to eat it (thankfully little brother is a Type B, easy to please child). We get to the car, big brother strips from the waist down, and we get him cleaned up. Again, I'm waiting for a police officer to come by and see me sitting on the pavement with a baby in my lap wiping the butt of a half-naked toddler, with an ever-growing pile of dirty wipes and turds next to us.

Okay, mission accomplished! Toddler has eliminated solid and liquid waste, solid waste now disposed of, and baby brother is STILL content to play with the plastic spoon wrapper. CAN WE PLEASE SLIDE NOW?

We slide! And we slide! Everyone slides! We slide together, big brother on one side, little brother on my lap on the other. We laugh, we pretend, we climb, we cross the suspension bridge. Everyone is having fun. We slide for an hour. Big brother has a tiny fall trying to climb up the slide, bumps his left eyebrow, but keeps on playing like nothing happened. We repeat the mantra, "WE ONLY GO DOWN THE SLIDE, NOT UP" until it soaks in.

One last slide. "Daddy I want you to slide with me," says big brother. OKAY WE'RE COMING! As we start to come up the steps, Big brother spins around, starts to come back to us, loses his balance, falls forward, and BAM! His forehead sails into the hard plastic frame around one of the slides. He cries. In the second it takes me to get him, half of his face is covered in blood. OH NO, NOT ANOTHER HEAD INJURY! PLEASE NOT ANOTHER ER TRIP FOR A HEAD CT! We get down off the playground. Some nice lady sends her husband to get their first aid kit. I use little brother's burp towel to apply pressure to the wound. My pant leg, little brother, and the burp towel are slightly covered in blood. The right side of big brother's forehead swells to the size of a golf ball, but it stops bleeding quickly. The laceration is about 1 cm long, but superficial. Doesn't look like it'll need stitches. The nice lady gives big brother a sugary drink, which he downs. We wash off the worst of the blood from big brother and little brother. Five minutes later, big brother says, "I want to play some more." NO WE DON'T! Daddy makes an executive decision that we're going home.

We drive home. Thank goodness little brother is content to eat a biter biscuit on the way home, and big brother acknowledges the need for a bath.

We get home. Suddenly, now I have to go potty (BAD!), the dog wants out of his kennel to pee, little brother is ready for his bottle and bedtime, and big brother wants to watch Ice Age on DVD. WHAT DO WE DO FIRST? Everyone (except the dog), comes to the bathroom to "help" me go potty. Except that before I can go potty, big brother has to go pee-pee again. Now we have two boys naked from the waist-down (at least now we're in private), a baby screaming on the floor, and a dog in his kennel who still has to pee. We both take care of elimination. Big brother is now roaming the house pantless. While the water for little brother's bottle is heating up, I get big brother's DVD starting (I'D PROBABLY LET HIM WATCH A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G RIGHT NOW). AT LEAST HE'S SITTING ON A TOWEL ON THE COUCH!

I'm ready to heat up the milk in the water bath. I open the fridge. WHERE IS THE MILK! I quickly scan all of the shelves to no avail. HONEY YOU FORGOT TO DRAW ME A TREASURE MAP TO FIND THE MILK! PLEASE, I DON'T WANT TO HAVE TO CALL MY WIFE TO ASK HER WHERE THE MILK IS, BECAUSE SHE'LL HEAR LITTLE BROTHER SCREAMING IN THE BACKGROUND AND SHE'LL KNOW FROM THE TONE OF MY VOICE THAT EVERYTHING IS NOT OKAY. Okay, there it is behind the feta. Finally, little brother's bottle is ready. In the meantime, I've prepared an icepack for big brother's head. We all sit down on the couch together. Little brother's on my lap. I feed him a bottle with my left hand while I apply an ICE AGE pack to big brother's forehead with my right hand. We finish the milk. Little brother screams because he's still hungry. Big brother assumes responsibility for his ice pack. We get little brother some more baby food (at least I hope it was baby food that I gave him). Manny, Sid, and Diego have successfully returned the baby to his daddy. It looks like we will live happily ever after too.

With minimal resistance, big brother agrees to a bath. I get both boys in the tub. Fortunately for me, I realize this requires some advanced planning, namely having towls and pj's for both boys ready. Big brother gets in the tub. I take little brother's diaper off to put him in the tub. One big glob of poop drops to the floor, and another hangs delicately from his backside. I clean him up as best as I can, and get him into the tub. Blood and poop are successfully removed from both children. NOTE TO DISINFECT TUB PRIOR TO NEXT USE! I get both children in towels on the bed and ready to get into pj's. Little brother is rolling over and over, making him a difficult moving target to dress. Big brother, who by the way napped a grand total of ten minutes today (in the car), is exhausted and finds this behavior hysterical. I get little brother dressed and put him in the center of the bed, which will give him more room to roll while I dress big brother. I start to dress big brother, only to realize I didn't rinse the shampoo from his hair. BACK TO THE TUB WE GO! Big brother voluntarily sticks his head under the faucet (the swimming instructor, would be so proud) and rinses off. We get him dressed. I get neosporin and another bandaid for his head. As I cut the bandaid in half, Big brother looks at me terrified, saying "Please don't cut my hair. I don't want you to cut me up." I reassure him. His head is bandaged.

The mood is finally calm. Oh no, we forgot to let the dog out! OKAY, YOU CAN GO OUTSIDE AND PEE NOW! Big brother wants to watch Ice Age again. FINE! I start to rock little brother to sleep, and my wife calls me on the cell phone to let me know they're coming home from dinner.

"How was your evening?" she says. I proceed to explain.

Morals of the story:
1. PARENTHOOD IS NOT FOR THE FAINT-HEARTED
2. PLAY WITH DAD-E AT OWN RISK!

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