Wheel of Jammies

Welcome to the continuation of "Jammy Week" here at Busy-Dad-E.

We started a week ago detailing my boys' genetic infatuation with jammies.

Next, on Fatherhood Friday, we reviewed Big Brother's school play, and wished that we were home in jammies instead (okay, but only throughout the entire play for a fleeting moment.)

This week, we celebrated Little Brother's transition to a big boy bed, which, of course, requires you to wear jammies.

As an aside, this is going REALLY well. 3 nights in a row of successful sleep in toddler bed, and the last 2 we've gotten the boys to fall asleep in under an 30 minutes (take THAT Dominoes!)

And now today we attempt to "tickle the dragon's tail", by describing Little Brother's new favorite game:

WHEEL...OF...JAMMIES

Little Brother's obsession with jammies is on steroids has reached new heights.

I've never seen a child so fickle about which jammies he wears...

Well, maybe I have...

No, I haven't...

But there was that one time...

Anyway, speaking of genetic influences, I wouldn't know anyone who used to wear like 3 different outfits a day *cough, cough*.

The objective of "Wheel of Jammies" is straightforward: wear as many different pairs of jammies as you can in one night without requiring that any of the pairs be laundered.

Tonight we literally went through 5 pairs of jammies before finally settling on Elmo, despite Mom-E and Dad-E's attempts at "damage control".

The moment he got home, Little Brother ran into his room, stripped down to his diaper, and raided his drawer. He started with a nice pair of flannel Lightning McQueen jammies.

That pair lasted until we sat down to eat dinner, when suddenly we wanted Thomas jammies. (We let him throw his tantrum and sit on the floor through dinner wearing only his diaper--the best way to make the tantrums go away is to ignore them.)

Bath time followed with a ploy to change to cotton Lightning McQueen jammies.

Somewhere in the midst of playing with blocks, Little Brother reappeared wearing fire truck jammies.

And finally we settled on Elmo jammies for the night.

But not before laying complete waste to the nursery dragging out pretty much EVERY pair of jammies in his drawer.


(It only looks like we have sextuplets.)

Well, its time for the bonus round on Wheel of Jammies: sleep.

See you on Fatherhood Friday!
Busy-Dad-E

P.S. The "Wheel" reminds me of www.condron.us

Roomies

Well, it's official...

Mom-E and I are nesting.

As a part of that behavior, we are trying to have evicted Little Brother from his room, so that Bab-E can have his crib (and room). CAN YOU TELL THAT SOMEBODY'S ALREADY A MIDDLE CHILD, AND DOESN'T EVEN KNOW IT? (AT LEAST HE'S A HAPPY GUY.)

(No, don't worry, we didn't move him to Big Brother's "old residence".)

Big Brother was almost 3 when Little Brother was born. We were able to get Big Brother out of the crib and into a new room (converted guest room) with a toddler bed pretty easily, based on the lure of a "new, big boy room with a big boy bed." (Keeping him IN the toddler bed was another story altogether.)

Fortunately, even though Little Brother is recently-turned 2, he has been pretty receptive to the idea of boarding with Big Brother (temporarily, for about 3 months, until they get their own rooms in the new house.)

And Big Brother, that sweet and patient guy when he's not being an utter terror, was actually pretty excited about the idea of having a roomie. (They really do play together pretty well.)

Of course, we sweetened the deal by upgrading Big Brother to a twin bed (with new Transformer bedding for Christmas from Gramm-E and Grampap-E). Thanks to CY-Aunt-E (aka "Beast") for hauling the bed back to us.

And Little Brother is excited, albeit in an approach-avoidance kinda way, about his "new" toddler big boy bed. (He too, will score new Thomas bedding for Christmas, again courtesy of Gramm-E and Grampap-E.)

The first night, the boys were so excited about their new bed arrangements that they claimed they wanted to turn-in around 6pm.

That idea didn't last long. About 30 seconds later, Little Brother stood up in his bed to announce, "I still awake!"

Big Brother did exclaim, "I have a great, great, big, big bed! Can I have it forever?"

(I opted not to have the discussion that unless he marries Donna Reed, at some point he may be asked to upgrade to a little larger bed.)

Still, we knew this was going to be a hard transition for Little Brother. There's a strange security for a 2 year-old in a caged cell crib.

So far, we're batting .500. Little Brother took a nap in his new bed on Saturday (and it only took 2 hours, and rocking him to sleep in my arms, to get him to "fall asleep" in the new bed). We also had major success on Sunday night (this time only about 90 minutes, but he fell asleep on his own and I got a short nap out of the deal while hanging out in their room.)

Of course, Big Brother fell asleep long before Little Brother, who perked his head up to ask, "What's Big Brother doing?"

"He's sleeping buddy. You know, what YOU should be doing right about now."

And so, here's to a new era in our household. Those two boys already are are going to be thick as thieves, and this opportunity will no doubt contribute to that bond.

Lord, please help us.

Have a good week,
Busy-Dad-E

Blue Christmas Play

Happy Fatherhood Friday everyone!

Don't forget to check out the great bloggers over at dad-blogs.com, (and then come back :)

Well, last night was Big Brother's school Christmas play.

In the first 5 minutes after we arrived (5 minutes late), Little Brother had to pee, and I managed to bonk my forehead on the metal part of the urinal (while trying to suspend him, half-naked, in mid-air, such that if he did pee, he would not completely douse his pantalones.)

I seriously thought my forehead was bleeding, but alas it was just a foreshadowing of the rest of the event.

Meanwhile, a very pregnant Mom-E attempted to get Big Brother to join his peers in the staging/dressing area, of which he wanted NO part.

And at this point in the pregnancy, Mom-E chasing after Big Brother is about as fruitful as digging for rhinestones in a dung heap.

So, I tagged in, and Mom-E tagged out with Little Brother.

I dragged escorted Big Brother to the dressing room. He was to be a shepherd, and wanted nothing to do with his costume (a brown tunic and long hat).

With the help of a straight jacket persistence, I managed to get the tunic on (which was twice his height), but the hat remained a big “no.”

(Still, we managed to avoid winning the Oscar for “Refused to Wear Costume”, which was snagged by another kid who refused to transform into a lion.)

The poor kid looked like a tootsie roll, so I guess I can’t blame him too much for being dissatisfied with his get-up. To top it off, his sheperd's pole was missing. The teachers couldn't seem to locate it.

And so, when it came time to line up to enter the “stage”, Big Brother yelled refused.

He did walk in with me behind everybody else, but proceeded to plunk down in the row with Little Brother, Mom-E, Gramm-E, and GramPap-E (who traveled especially to witness this debaucle) in the “peanut gallery.”

Little Brother immediately started in with “Why is Big Brother wearing jammies?” (he was already mad that he didn’t get to wear jammies to the event.)

And so we sat there through the whole play (except for the time I had to take Little Brother potty again, and the other time that he got fussy and started to blurt out, “I wanna go home now” and I got up to walk around.)

(Me, too, little buddy. Me, too. )

After the play I was a bad parent, and we skipped out on cake & refreshments afterwards because I picked up both boys and made a bee-line for the minivan I didn’t particularly want to “reward” his behavior.

And while it might’ve been good for Big Brother to socialize with his peers, I really wasn’t in the mood to schmooze with the other parents (I’m a wallflower at parties/in large gatherings). I can picture the conversation with a total stranger:

“My child was one of the wise men, how ‘bout yours?” they’d say.

“Well, mine was supposed to be a shepherd, but he opted to play the role of the undercover, plain clothes policeman who hung out in the audience for crowd control purposes.”

I think that was in the version of the Christmas story from the Book of Lies.

Of course, not long after we got home, Big Brother was his usual, giggly self.

And of course he managed to stab me in the heart with a silver dagger by asking me, “Dad-E, are you still mad at me?” (At least he reads emotions well in others.)

“I was never mad at you.” I replied. “I love you. I was just frustrated that you didn’t want to participate in the play. Why did you get so upset?”

“Oh I didn’t like that my costume was brown. I wanted it to be blue. Blue is my favorite color.”

This is true. Meal time is much smoother these days if we have a blue cup and plate.

And perhaps the next time we go to a play, we’ll opt for Blue Man Group.

Have a good weekend.
Let me know if you find Big Brother’s shepherd’s pole. Otherwise, I want my 5 bucks back.
Busy-Dad-E

Jammy Time

One of Little Brother's favorite books right now is "Pajama Time" by Sandra Boynton, which we more affectionately refer to as "Jammy Time."


It's a cute, quick little read, great for toddlers.

Due to a growth spurt, Big Brother recently picked up some Scooby-Doo, Horton, and Superhero jammies.

Due to hand-me-downs, Little Brother recently picked up some Elmo and Thomas jammies.

Lately, both boys have been all about their jammies.

In fact, if left to their own devices, both would probably wear jammies all day, without so much as a thought about wearing "regular" clothes.

In reality, once it starts to get dark, they put on jammies with jackrabbit-like quickness.

"Hey, it's almost goodnight time," says Big Brother (at 5pm).

It doesn't matter if Mom-E just served up a heaping plate of granola bars and chocolate milk for dinner, Big Brother rushes of to his room and emerges in jammies. Little Brother invariably follows suit.

While this is all really cute, it reminds me of a funny story.

*****
Sure, kids like jammies, but I'd have to say that there is a genetic component to this infatuation.

When I was growing up, putting on jammies was the last thing you did before you went to bed. Prior to that, you pretty much just hung out in your "regular" clothes all day. Especially if there was company at the house.

Mom-E's family was quite different in that regard. At their house, it was pretty much a national pastime to put your jammies on and gather by the fireplace/tv after dinner. (And this was tastefully done, with most everyone wearing robes).

I, on the other hand, wear boxers and a t-shirt to bed. I don't think I've ever owned a robe.

And so you can imagine the slight shock to my system the VERY FIRST time I met/visited Gramm-E and Grampap-E.

We had no sooner finished dinner/clean-up, than Grampap-E said, "Hey Dad-E, why don't you go put your jammies on and we'll all gather round the fire."

"Uh, I just met you. And while I like you and am confident in my manhood, I'm not sure I'm ready to take our relationship to the 'next level' of hanging out together in jammies just yet," I thought to myself.

I don't remember exactly what happened next, but I'm pretty sure that I didn't wear jammies that time.

Eventually, however, I grew in my comfort (when in Rome...), and wanting to make a favorable impression and "fit-in" with the rest of the family, I started wearing jammies (invested in a pair of jammy pants) after dinner with them.

Oh, the things we do for love.

And today, I don't mind hanging out in jammies, but I know with certainty that Mom-E has passed that "gene" along to the boys.

So today, we honor Mom-E's family with the dance from "Pajama Time":

"Jammy to the left. Jammy to the right. Jamma, Jamma, Jamma, Jamma, P!J!"

See you on Fatherhood Friday,
Busy-Dad-E

Holiday Harp

"Happiness is the fruit of the desire and ability to sacrifice what we want know for what we want eventually."

I've always really liked this quote. I don't consider it a "personal motto", but it summarizes a belief that's important to me.

These days over at Busy-Dad-E, we have many exciting upcoming changes, for which we are very thankful and blessed. Bab-E Brother is coming soon, we just got a minivan, we're building a new house (and hopefully selling our house), and I'm starting a new job in a few months.

(Can you tell we're like Sam's Club over here, and just like to package big life changes in bulk?)

However, all of this comes with a "price tag" associated with being extra bus-E.
The days she's not working outside the home, Mom-E spends her time going to all kinds of appointments related to the new house and errands, in between taking Big Brother to-and-from school. She feels like Little Brother is pretty much constantly kept "in-tow" in the van.

When I'm not at work these days, I'm "in-tow" with Mom-E and the boys to these appointments as well. Additionally, I'm picking up some extra work hours 3 times a month, in order to help with the (upcoming) down payment on the house.

This fits into the "Happiness..." quote at the top. While I'm trying to instill in my children the importance of work ethic, that message is just hard in the instant gratification world of an (almost) 5 year-old, and a 2 year-old who just clings to Dad-E when he's home.

I mean, when he's hungry, Big Brother has trouble waiting 10 minutes without pitching a fit, so it follows that the concept of--"Dad-E's working extra so that our family can have a house with more space, and your own room (he'll be bunking with Little Brother when Bab-E Brother arrives), and a bigger yard to play in--is infinitely harder to grasp, even though he's been at the construction site for the house, including standing in his new room.

The other price tag is that I'm definitely more irritable than I'd like to be.

Frustrations get under my skin easier when "there's always one more thing to do": the house needs cleaned, the light fixture needs fixed, the paint needs touched up, the meeting needs scheduled etc., etc. etc.

(These days I feel like I have to schedule my trips to the bathroom.)

And I tend to harp at the boys. In fact I feel like these days a big chunk of my interaction with them is harping (that's an exaggeration). Still, it definitely tells me I'm frustrated.

Granted, it's not cool when they run out of our sight in a store, or come within inches of toppling over a display, but I definitely could be cooler in how I handle it.

"Come over here. Don't touch that. Get your finger out of there. Don't stomp the Cheeze-its into the carpet with your feet. Pull up your pants when you're not in the bathroom. Stop swinging by a rope from the ceiling fan." (Okay I made up the last one, but all of the others are genuine.)

While I don't think anyone has been permanently "damaged", we all definitely need to shoot each other once with my to-be-invented VALIUM DART GUN, to just chillax a bit. Or at least I should just "smile and have a Coke." (Thank you Richard Pryor.)

Boys, when you read this down the road, just know that all of the "sacrifices" Mom-E and I are making are because we love you and want the best for you.

And right now, all I'd really like to do is sit on the floor and play trains and cars and Legos and Play Doh and puzzles with you...

...but if I don't make this scheduled trip to the bathroom right now, I'm going to be really uncomfortable all week.

Have a stress-free week,
Busy-Dad-E

Don't Touch My Butt

Happy Fatherhood Friday everyone!

Just want to clarify that at no point before, during, or after the writing of this post was there any actual hand-backside contact. Nor is this a post about cigarettes. You'll see.

And while you're looking around, don't forget to visit dad-blogs.com, and all of the great bloggers over there!

So Wednesday Mom-E had her latest OB appointment, and the whole gang came along, due to the occasion of the 3rd trimester ultrasound.

Everyone, the boys included, was excited about seeing "pictures" of Bab-E.

The boys were fired up in usual form, sans nap and having only picked at lunch, except to drink their chocolate milk, resulting in the following equation:

Tired + No Nap = Hyperactive + Chocolate milk = Urinary urgency

Big Brother had to go, which meant Little Brother wanted to come, too.

Since going potty is a "boy thing" for us, I took them. Big Brother went first to avoid any flood damage in the OB's office.

Then it was Little Brother's turn. Despite just turning 2, he's shown a lot of interest--and some moderate success--in going #1 in the big boy potty.

We bought him a portable, plastic, Elmo potty seat, lest his BUTT fall into the potty.

Today he did not want to use the Elmo potty seat, but preferred to "stand".

And by "stand", I mean I hold him up to improve his general aim, since the potty comes up to his mid-chest.

PICTURE IT: I'm (gently) harping at Big Brother to stop parading around naked in the bathroom and pull up his pants, while holding up Little Brother in mid-air so that he can pee like his Big Brother. (Both of my hands are under his armpits).

As you can imagine, Little Brother takes several moments to "think" before going potty. (Read: he's taking his sweet-BUTT time).

Eventually, my shoulders get a little fatigued from holding 25 lbs fully extended in front of me. I opt to "prop him up" by resting his BUTT on my knee.

Instantly, Little Brother blurts out LOUDLY, "DON'T TOUCH MY BUTT!"

Mortified, I can only imagine that the entire OB office is eavesdropping at the bathroom door, and that Child Services is poised to take them away the moment we step outside.

Fortunately, Little Brother successfully goes potty, and we successfully exit the bathroom, apparently not having drawn attention to ourselves.

We proceed to make it back to ultrasound.

We were most thankful that Bab-E is growing (almost too) well, and that all parts appear to be intact and functional. And he is still clearly a boy.

A major reason for our thanks is that they spotted some excess fluid around one of his kidneys on the 2nd trimester ultrasound. While this is a common finding, especially in males and usually of no significance, Little Brother had the same issue, and for him it did not go away.

This meant a referral to Pediatric Urology, fears of the need for surgery in the first year of life, a bunch of tests, and ultimately the relief that it's just an anatomical variant of no significance. Had they not done a 3rd trimester ultrasound, you'd never know there was an abnormality.

And so, we're very relieved that Bab-E will not have to endure what Little Brother has gone through.

I'd love to show you ultrasound pictures, only Bab-E is of sufficient size and was hiding his face such that we really couldn't see anything.

The one picture they gave us looks like a hand trying to touch a BUTT. No joke.

Have a good "hands-off" weekend,
Busy-Dad-E

Ban Restaurant Balloons!

(Don't worry, I'm still pro-balloon animals.)

We had lunch with friends this past weekend at an establishment that provided kids with free helium balloons as they walked out the door.

While I'm all for making myself sound like a chipmunk, as I thought about lived with the aftermath of the balloons, I came to the following conclusion:

BAN RESTAURANT BALLOONS NOW!

I've decided that this seemingly gracious gesture is actually one more passive-aggressive attempt by the restaurant to "stick it to the parents."

Like Jack Black in "School of Rock", the balloons infected me with stickittothemaniosis.

I know, I know. Kids love balloons.

For about 5 minutes.

I mean a balloon is great fun at first, but much like eating pancakes, pretty soon you grow tired of holding it or bouncing it up in the air, until eventually you're sick of it(thank you, Mitch Hedberg, for the analogy).

Let's be realistic here and talk about the Top 10 "WONDERFUL" things that can WILL happen with balloons.

1. Your child will let go of the balloon immediately once you get outside, followed closely by a crying fit until you go back inside and get them another one.

2. If your balloon survives the trip from the restaurant to your vehicle, the child will let go of the balloon once you open the door at your next destination, resulting in an even more problemmatic crying fit.

3. Your child will be like Little Brother, and cry when they let go of the balloon in the minivan and can't reach it, and then cry again when you give it back to them. @#$%^&*!

4. Like our boys, your child will try to eat the balloon, risking actual serious injury. Threatening or actually taking it away results in a crying fit with intensity somewhere between that in #1 and #2.

5. Once you get home, the balloon becomes a weapon with which the older sibling can bludgeon pets and smaller siblings (read: more crying here).

6. Once pets and small children have secured shelter, your children will start letting go of the balloon and watching it rise to the ceiling. The string on the ballon will, of course, be about 6 inches higher than the child's vertical leap, resulting in repeated requests for Mom-E or Dad-e to, "Get my balloon! Get my balloon!"

7. Your children, like ours, will ingore pleas to "Don't sit on the balloon or it'll pop" until it actually does pop. A major crying fit ensues when you deny having the superpower of being able to reinflate a busted helium balloon.

8. You throw away the broken balloon in the trash, only to have your smallest child repeatedly try to fetch it out of the trash and plead for you to repair it.

9. For days after the original "incident", your child incessantly asks you, "Where's my balloon? What happened to my balloon?"

10. You have more than 1 child, but are eventually left with only 1 surviving balloon, which results in a "No Holds Barred/Royal Rumble" Screaming Fit-Pushing-Hitting-Spitting Contest. The winner gets to play with the balloon until it, too, is busted as a result of attacks by smaller siblings to take it away.

So, until they're banned, the next time we're at an establishment that tries to give the boys balloons, perhaps I'll just take a hit off the helium tank, and hopefully my silly voice will distract them long enough to get us out of the restaurant sans balloons.

And you wonder why people like to pop bubble wrap. I vote we start popping the restaurant balloons until they take the hint.

See you on Fatherhood Friday,
Busy-Dad-E

P.S. Is it just me, or is resteraunt restraunt resterant restaurant one of the hardest words to spell in the English language? Discuss.