New Socks

Previously, we've seen what happens when I had to regrettably tell my children who was formerly President of the United States. It did not matter how gently I broke the news, they would bawl and bawl. All that caterwauling made me worry that my kids were, in fact, Republicans. Then it turned out that the only similarity they shared was the need for a diaper change.

One of Max and Miles' favorite books is "New Socks". Leon is pretty pumped about his new socks. At one point in the book, he pretends that the President calls and invites him over to see his super awesome new socks. Two wonderful things have happened since January 20th (aside from, you know, not getting spied on and the constitution not being pooped on): 1. Max and Miles don't get confused puppy head every time Leon accepts the invitation. and 2. Upon reading the word "President", Mommy and Daddy no longer throw up in their mouths.

So here's to happy children, the new President, new socks and four years of not throwing up in our mouths!

P.S. If you like "New Socks" you'll love "Dinosaur vs. Bedtime".

Aye! Aye! Aye! Cantar Oaxaca!

Ahh, "Cantar Oaxaca", my most favoritest euphemism for puking from my days in Mexico. As in: "Ugh, dude, I got so messed up last night, I woke up at like 4am and totally sang Oaxaca." Handy phonetic guide? Say "wha", like, "Wha. . ? No tacos!?" Next, do a "hock", and finish the "ca!" of the angry crow. "Cantar Oaxaca", it's so perfect.

Not perfect, however, is watching your kids cantar Oaxaca. So many of my more experienced parent friends have mentioned The Puking. Stories of that time, you know, from September of 2007 'til May of 2008 that someone or everyone in the house was in some stage of illness. By the end, I am told, everyone had little personalized puke buckets with their names painted on cute-like. Never happen to my family! Nope!

It's one thing, really, with Max, 'cause you can sort of explain what's happening and give it a name: "Max, you're singing Oaxaca!" He did not see the humor. Miles, though, man. The confusion in the poor little guy's cries during the night: we'd rather not hear those again, thank you! This was harder for Miles, too, because, as opposed to his brother, he actually eats measurable amounts of food. Things have pretty much cleared up now and the boys are back to only singing "Rave On".

The real hero in all this is Katie who spent one pretty horrible night getting tag-teamed by one kid after another while I was out at strip clubs.

Unintended Consequences or Lost in Translation

 A while back, in an attempt to motivate Max to clean and simultaneously express the reality on the ground, I urged him to help me pick up his toys because, "A clean house makes Mommy happy. C'mon, Max, let's make Mommy happy!" That day, it actually got the kid to pick up his crap. "Ok!", he responded in the affirmative.

Oh, so cute, you might say. He wants to re-enforce that cleaning makes other people, most importantly, Mommies, happy. What a good, positive motivation to be a picking-up, good boy. And, yes, it worked for a while. Now, he's just old enough and willful enough to know that, pretty much, he'll get ice cream if he walks around the house kicking his toys towards their respective homes.

Recently, though, particularly after he pisses one of us off, he'll ask us if we're happy. As in: excited, pre-bath fun-time in the bathroom; I'm holding Miles; Max is in front of me and we're all doing some fun song and dance routine when I yelp in pain as the little punk (Max) takes a gnarly bite out of my thigh. I love bite, but a bite nontheless.

"Auuuugh! Max, what are you doing?!!"

Max does a nervous jig as I sit down on the toilet with Miles.

"Owwww! Max, that really hurt Daddy."

Max, hopefully: "Daddy? You are happy?"

Now, as much as this will make Katie do a spit-take of whatever she's drinking when she reads this, when it comes to questions like this from a three year-old, even one that just bit me, I'm not much for black-and-white answers.

Am I happy? We're underwater on our mortgage and crazy in debt. Am I happy? I kinda, sort of willfully, failed at a pottery/teaching career. I am happy? Now I work at Costco and we struggle to pay all our bills each month. Am I happy? I am married to an incredibly beautiful, fantastically funny and tolerant woman. Am I happy? We drive old Volvos that regularly don't start. Am I happy? We have an amazing group of the coolest and most generous friends that anyone, in their wildest dreams, could ever hope to have. Am I happy? Our families are crazy but mostly dope and also do a lot of free baby-sitting. Am I happy? I have somehow been part of reproducing two healthy, astonishingly cute, generally comical humans. Am I happy?

So I sit there on the toilet, rubbing a spot that, days later, is still red and bruised, holding my second child, looking at the oldest one: the biter and the bite-ee.

"Daddy? You are happy?"

"Yes, Max, I'm happy. But I'd be happier if you didn't bite me."

"Ok! Yeah! Sure!"