In the Gutter

Max had just gotten out of rehab a few days before National Night Out. Katie and I put on our "strong, united family" faces as we dressed Max and headed down the street, trying to remember people's names. It was bad enough that we had to worry about Max falling off the wagon again. . . . literally. Rimshot! Oh, that was awful, I'm sorry.

Anyway, Max is out of rehab and we're going down the street to Max's first social event since being out of rehab and we're totally wondering if he's going to, like, be "ok", you know? Everything seems to be going pretty well: Max is making nice comments about odd dessert bars and picking up on how to make awkward conversation with the neighbors. Everything is going really well, "Max is going to be ok," we think. "All that trouble is behind us," we sigh and look at each other thankfully.

Then a bus from the church down the street pulls up. Katie and I exchange nervous glances. People hop out of the bus and set up a table: "Who wants free root beer floats?!", they yell. We turned to gather Max and head home before the temptation became too much. Too late: Max was back in the gutter.

Baby Daddy Smackdown

Once Max gets bored with his toys and things which, by American standards, make up a pretty weak collection, we let him have pretty much whatever he wants. This includes apparently, oven mitts.

As a father, I feel sort of bad about this: I mean, if I'm keeping Max from his doo-dads with the beeps and the boops that'll help turn him into some sort of Mozartian math whiz with excellent social skills, that's, like, wrong, right? On the other hand, being a child of the seventies, I know that hours, hours of fun can be had with a cake pan, a stick, and sheet of cloth (12"x10"), and a piece of plastic picnic plate. People, we had rotary phones and four channels on our TVs.

Anyhoos, here's Max whiling away the days, hand in mitt, rearing back to lay a good one on the old man. I do have to say: the oven mitt may be the only non-toy toy that Max doesn't first hold up to his ear with an,"Ahhhh?" Everything else is assumed to be a phone until proven otherwise.

Adama and Al are to Blame

While we're not quite entering into "Britney Spears" parenting territory, I will admit that we've been remiss in posting. I do apologize for that. And, although we are not addicted to al-key-hall or being chased by the paps, we have spent the evenings of the last few weeks, glued to our TV downing large doses of this washed down with this. The former being nearly perfect and the latter being just some good, kick-ass TV.

Sadly, though, we have killed the Deadwood DVDs and that particular bottle shan't be refilled. So, for us, it's back to parenting and blogging. Now. . . . where did we put Max? Oh, yes, the cooler!

When All You Have is a Hammer

Every problem is a nail.

All Present and Accounted For

Nobody from this blog was on 35W yesterday, thankfully. The day before yesterday, yes. Yesterday? No. Anyhoos, if Max stops moving for three seconds one of these days, we'll take a picture and post it.