Max and Miles who, to Me, Will Always be Secretly Named "Gus"

Woooooooow

2010-03-29T21:37:00.002-05:00

Miles is awfully fearless. He's our little two year-old bull-in-a-China-shoppe. He's been voted "Most Likely to Have Stitches Before Age Five" by the rest of his pre-pre-school classmates. All that said, My-My he has little sprinkles of total innocence that sparkle through his Evil Knievel exterior. One of those dashes of purity is the quiet, whispering way Miles says, "Wooooooooow" anytime something blows his mind. I suppose it is sweet that you can still elicit this response -- for the time being -- just be showing him a really cool Lego or a dead bug with holding up a Playboy centerfold right behind it.

I finally realized, tonight, that, yes, you can flip the screen of the camera around to get Miles' wow-face while simultaneously taking a picture of wow-face! Ladies and Gentleman! I present, wow-face!

The Art of the Harangue or My Little Perspective Machine

2010-03-29T21:10:00.004-05:00

Like any good “ism” -- Marxism, Socialism, Capitalism, Modernism, what have you – your ideology needs a central tenet. In Marxism, of course, history moves forward in a dialectic. Capitalist pigs will become Communists once they realize the folly of their silly individuality and money-grubbing ways. Dialectic! Parenting kinda works the same way: the parental ideology goes head-to-head with the little bastard ideology until somebody gets their goddamn ice cream. . . .or not.

If we have a central thought to our parenting, it’s basically of the “Short leash now, long leash later” mindset. The idea being, I guess, that if we hammer things down now, they don’t come loose a few years from now when we aren’t with them every second of the day. As in, hopefully, I don’t have to follow people around the house, turning off lights; or, getting tossed in your room for sticking your tongue out at me means, 12 years from now, I don’t have to be picking you up at the police station regularly. Yes, I wish me luck too.

Much like any of the aforementioned “isms”, they’re great in theory (Socialism: everybody gets stuff and we’re all happy! Capitalism: everybody gets stuff and we’re all happy!) putting that theory to work can be a little trickier. With Parenting-ism, our little “short leash” experiment results in a lot of haranguing. Some might more politely call it debating, while another, equally accurate person might say nagging. I suppose it depends if you control the ice cream supply or not.

I don’t think this is a new or exciting theory of Parenting, it’s sort of just my way of rationalizing all the “No, Max! Max, no! Miles, stop it! Hey, eat your potato! Guys! Guys! Guys! Can we pick this up, please? Guys! Give that back to your brother! Give it back! Miles! Miles, could you not shovel that dirt onto your brother? Max, could you put on your pants for me, please? Max. Max. Max! Alright, I guess nobody wants ice cream.” that goes on around here. While it's tiring, I have to admit, it kinda works 'cause these boys can be amazingly polite and obedient.

But, admittedly, you can only push the harangue so far until even your kid let's you know you moved from firm parenting into asshole territory. To whit, one evening, not long before bathtime/bedtime:

Max: "Daddy, why are you so distracted tonight?"

Me, surprised/chagrined: "Wha. . What, Max?"

"Why are you so distracted tonight?"

At this point, of course, I knew he was just trying to express to me that I had been being a jerk most of the afternoon and evening. But, every moment is a teaching moment, right? So I tried to get him to flesh it out a little.

"Max, when you say "distracted", what do you mean?"

"Well, today you are just being mean to me and I'm sort tired of you yelling at me today."

"Oh, Max."

Here's where even the most hardcore parent should turn to jerkbag-flavored putty and so, that's what I did. I pulled Max close and told him I was sorry and while I'm always going to be a little bossy, I would try to be nicer about it in the future. Max growled his little "Ohhhh, Ooo-Kay" that he uses when he really doesn't think "OK", he's just too tired to argue about it anymore. Plus, he got his ice cream.

Chip Off the Old Block, Chip Off the Old Block

2010-03-21T21:11:00.003-05:00

Miles proves that not only is he ready to write full scripts for most of the sitcoms currently airing on broadcast television, he confirms that he, unlike his brother, is not an alien and is very much his father's son.

Here's a link for you facebookers since I'm too lazy to upload this to the FB: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rFpTJqSCr4A

Fantastic Four

2010-03-20T15:40:00.002-05:00

One of these days we need to convince Katie to throw a crappy party with crappy decorations and crappy cakes for horrible, ugly children just so the rest of us mortals needn't feel so very, very inadequate. Katie has no mercy for our fragile egos, though, so, if you're going to top Max's Fourth Birthday Party, you'll need to: Make more than two earth-moving machine themed cakes (Or perhaps one very, very large one). Make a excavator-themed runner for the table. Recover the dining room chairs to match the theme and, finally, hire a massive front loader to give the kids rides around the neighborhood in its bucket (Kidding!).

The amazing thing is, as awe-inspiring as her efforts are, there's no amount of obsessive Wes Anderson-esque decorating that could fully express how much we love this goofiest of goofball kids, Max. For every tantrum and episode of stupefying insubordination during the last four years, there are dozens of little (and big) moments made up entirely of crystalline wonderment. These moments, while they fill me pride and love and joy that pretty much percolates down to a molecular level, also come a tint of sadness. It is in those moments that I realize that a goofball this cute and good could not have possibly come from me, really, in any way. So, it is in those moments that I realize my son is an alien. An alien from a planet populated by horrible, beautiful angels so enchanting, by the time they've driven you insane, it's too late.

I for one, love the comforting feel of my strait-jacket and welcome my little alien overlords!

Missing: One Beach

2010-03-19T15:31:00.007-05:00

At least one week of our blog-cation was predicated by an actual, real-life, use-your-vacation-time-for-something-other-than-home-improvement-projects vay-cation. Katie's parents, who live in some sort of magical commune down Florida way where, instead of running around barefoot; growing organic produce; selling hemp necklaces and having casual sex, the world revolves around playing golf and being retired, flew the whole fam-damily down to escape winter for one glorious week.

While it wasn't the warmest winter week Florida ever unloaded onto the tourist hordes, we still managed a full day at the beach and, most pleasantly, a guy could walk around barefoot and not find himself suddenly and awkwardly frozen to the ground, contrapposto. The Beach, I think, is particularly thankful it wasn't warmer because, seriously, the amount of damage that Max and Miles were able to incur in one day, armed with an array of plastic shovels and buckets was, um. . . impressive. Impressive and disturbing. Like, if they had more time, eventually the Florida DNR would have been forced to amend their "No at the beach" signs with Ghostbuster-style pictures of Max and Miles.

The boys' first plane trip went swimmingly. Max decided that watching DVDs wasn't worth the inconvenience of wearing headphones which left Miles alone with his favorite videos, blissed out at 39,000 feet. Max read books and was generally adorable while he peppered his accommodating travel neighbors with questions about their personal lives.

While I might say that picking a highlight would be tough: The yards of fried fish? Grandpa using a cordless drill to punch open a coconut? Cooking in a kitchen with a. space and b. awesome equipment? The endless supply of good beer and amazing wine? That coupled with the fact that we didn't have to drive anywhere? Katie finally giving in to her urges and feeding one seagull one cracker and then being surprised when every gull for two miles went all "Birds" on us? Nope. The highlight would be watching the boys totally bond with Grandpa TR and Grandma Sylvia: TR spent a good portion of our rainier day re-discovering Looney Tunes via the boys' current number one favorite DVD of all time, while Syl, Max, and Miles cultivated a mutual appreciation for fine antiques and the art of their preservation in the face of the inferno of destruction called "Grandchildren".

So, to Pop-pop and Gange, we say thanks for your hospitality and generosity! To the beach, we say Sorry! Hope you're feeling better! We'll be back!

Efficiency Expert

2010-03-18T07:37:00.005-05:00

The boys have a lot of opinions about how we do things around here. Many of their beliefs are incorrect and based on flawed logic. Say what you will about their misapprehensions (When you help make waffles, the color of the chair you stand on matters. No, I don't need to come in right now. Is is actually not dinner time. I didn't want noodles, I wanted pilaf), you can't say Miles, at least, isn't organized about the whole deal.

Here's Miles observing and recording data about (possible) inefficiencies during dad's dishwashing. You may think you've have feelings of inadequacy before, but nothing comes close to having a two year-old take notes on your dish-doing. I could barely get out of bed the next morning, I was so depressed.

And, of course, I was devastated when the final report was leaked to the public before I had a chance to formulate a response.

They Call Him Rio and He Dances on the Sand or Yes, We are Like Rabbits

2010-03-16T15:29:00.004-05:00

Our little blog-break was long enough that another cousin fell out of the Max and Miles Cousin Tree. Super-cute cousin, Lucia, got a brother named Rio a few weeks ago. Much like Lucia, her brother has a heavy genetic predisposition to overwhelming cuteness. So much so, we might almost be able to forgive the fact that Duran Duran gets stuck in my head every time I look at/hear about/talk about/think the baby boy.

Eventually, someone will have to have a conversation with Rio explaining why Uncle breaks into a spastic rendition of "The Reflex" each time he comes around.

Until then: Welcome Rio!!

Cool Hand Max

2010-03-16T07:05:00.002-05:00

I don't know: somewheres about 3-5 times a year, this will get stuck in my head. It's quite catchy! Sad thing is, I only remember one line which I will sing over and over. Katie loves it when I sing one line from a song over and over and over. Loves it! Now that I found this video, horrifically, I hear that I was even singing that one line incorrectly. It's like the time in fifth grade: I was singing The Eagle's "Heartache Tonight" wrong. (I think I was screwing up the "heartache tonight" part. You know, just that part.) Scott Morrison, rightly, about fell out of his desk and then ran to the first 15 people he could find to tell them I was messing up "Heartache Tonight". I think Sister Leonida laughed the hardest. Then she washed my mouth out with soap.

Of course, since I'm a dork, I've been singing it to/around Max his whole life and now I find out that I've been mangling one of the better moments in film history and, as a result, (like anyone is surprised), I've screwed up my kid! So, just as a parenting rule, do you admit you were wrong and start singing it correctly and then have to explain why? Or, more likely, do you sing it correctly only to have Max tell you you're singing it wrong (which he will) and just keep singing it wrong? Years from now, some film freak is going to pull up this clip on his YouTube Brain Chip (tm) and show Max another way his dad turned out to be quite a fallible dweeb. I see Max standing there, blinking, "My dad. . . was. . . was. . . wrong?!" Hopefully he'll be between 13 and 50 when he finds out so it won't come as too much of a surprise. Otherwise? Oh! The heartache. . . tonight.

Jimmy B is in Da Houuuuuussssse!!!

2010-01-24T20:13:00.004-06:00

18 Years Later . . . .

"Hi, Scootchie."

"Yo, Wuz-Wuz."

"Yo, Scootch, did I ever tell you about Jimmy B?"

"You mean, Jimmy B, the Jimmy B that ruled Chicago's West Side like a slightly-crazed benevolent dictator made from velvet and a hammer? Like he was a velvet hammer? A result of the deadly combination of fiery Irish blood co-mingled with the stoic genetic code of the mighty Slavs. The Jimmy B who, at the tender age of six, would shake down half the fifth grade, and take the loot back to his classmates, shouting, "Push-Ups on the hiz-ouse!!"? Jimmy B who would walk into an olde-timey screening of Stars Wars with his Dad and all the geek-dads and geek-kids would stand to wait until Jimmy B had picked his favorite seat? That Jimmy B?"

"Wait, Wuz, when you say "ruled the West Side", by "West Side", do you mean "a couple of blocks between his house and the Costco over there"? And by "ruled", do you mean "sort of bossy when amped up on chocolate milk"?

"Uhhh, yeah. Yeah, that's pretty much what I mean."

"Jimmy B."

"Jimmy B!"

Max, Miles, Katie and I would like to welcome new cousin, James William B____, to the universe! Congratulations to my sister and my brother-in-law!

Tiny Bubbles in the Ocean

2010-01-07T11:02:00.001-06:00

I don't really remember a time when I couldn't hold my breath under water. I have some weird memory of dipping underwater, face-to-face with my mom, practicing exaggerated, puff-cheeked breath-holds. I'm pretty sure, though, that that's me remembering seeing my mom do it with my sisters. Certainly, if you dug deeply enough, there's a brother there, disdainfully snorting: "For the love of pete! You don't know how to do that either?!"

Maybe we had more access to a pool; maybe our family made underwater breath-holding a priority. All I know is, Katie and I -- on the already long list of our parental failures -- feel negligent in the swimming/things-are-ok-underwater front.

Which leads us to this:

Bathtime, USA. Max and Miles are almost-floating in a very full tub of water and bubbles. You have to fill the tub waaay up with hot water during these cold snaps: the bath is on an exterior wall and it takes more water to heat up and keep the tub itself warm. The suds are courtesy of a couple of pumps of "bubble juice" (aka shampoo) and a giant, beer-fueled, dad-shaped water agitating machine.

The boys are going through their normal bathtime motions: fighting over this toy and that, thinking about splashing each other, finding ways to get water out of the tub and onto the floor. Towards the end of the bath, Max realizes the the water depth is almost swimmable. Before long, the wee skinny-dippers have turned the tub into a tiny natatorium, the two of them basically scooting through the bubbles, alternating ends of their non-olympic-sized pool.

Seizing a moment to calmly talk about swimming, I start to tell Max about when I lived near the ocean and would go swimming every night after walking down to the beach. (I left out the part about being on the lam from the federales and the endless, endless 3am dancing to the cheesiest disco ever. Un-ironic dancing!)

"You can even put your head underwater, if you want."

"Really? Yeah!" And, to my surprise, Max dips his face right into the bubbles. Unfortunately, we hadn't gotten to the "nose-plugging" stage of the whole deal and on his way to the water, he breathed in a whole bunch of bubble foam.

"Oh, oh, oh!," exclaimed Max as he pawed at his face, trying to get the bubbles out of his nasal cavity. "Hey! That doesn't feel very good, daddy!" As I wiped the suds off his face and calculated how much therapy it was going to take before he'd ever swim, Max snuffled and snorted bubbles out of his nose.

The whole time this was going on, Miles gleefully continued sloshing from end to end in the tub, giggling insanely. Max got back into the tub and Miles, inspired by his brother but unaware of the results, slapped his face into the water. All Max and I could do was watch. Miles sat up, the foam sliding down his shocked/angry/confused face. He was trying to draw in a breath to cry, but his nose and mouth were full of foam. This pissed him off even more.

Max, pouting, calmly watched this unfold and then with a hearty sigh, filled with resignation, understanding and consolation, muttered, "Yeahhhhh, that doesn't really work." As that sentence tailed off, Miles finally got his wits about him enough to start screaming.

Bathtime, USA!

I will NOT be Out-Sissified! or Happy Birthday, Honey PleaseDon'tHitMe

2010-01-05T06:49:00.007-06:00

You know, when this guy writes a post that makes me cry, it's time for some payback! So, while I feel very sentimental about my children and all that, I'm going to do it the old fashioned way: I'm going to explain why my wife is better than his wife (and by extension, how she's better than almost all of you).

If you climb into your way-back machine, you'll remember that Katie likes to obsessively sew. Every so often, it's like she eats a just-bit-too-old taco and, instead of food poisoning, what comes out is really cute, sewn stuff. So, right before Halloween last year, she found a taco in the back of the fridge and this happened:

Yes, those are little, individually sewn, monster/scary things heads.

Then, just days later, for Miles' second birthday party, since Miles has been into the dinosaurs, Katie made a dinosaur-themed cupcake mosaic. This photo was taken even before she added the red lava/frosting "erupting" from the cupcake volcanoes!

I kind of went back and forth on this over the last few months: do I post these things and make you all feel crappy(er) before the holidays or do I wait and just straight-up ruin your whole year? Go big or go home is what we say around here.

So, to my amazing, magical wife, the goddess of all that is good and true and beautiful in the world, I say Happy Birthday! Thank you for tolerating me! Thank you for being the dopest, super-hip, mega-mom to these incredible boys. You literally save us everyday; bring home the bacon; and fry it up in the pan! If, years ago, someone had told the dorky, high-school me -- wait, the grade-school me. . . wait, the kindergarten me -- that, fear not, fat kid! The coolest, smartest, funniest, hottest most-angelic woman you ever met is going to love you and offset all your genetic and emotional shortcomings in the guise of two, brain-meltingly cute kids! Well, I would've laughed you right out of my naptime.

So even though I made you all feel kinda inadequate, I'll thank you for not waking me out of whatever crazy, giggling/screaming/whining-kids-everywhere dream I'm having right now.

Happy Birthday, Mamacita!

The Interrogator

2009-12-28T12:07:00.004-06:00

One wonderfully infuriating thing about the one we call Miles, the youngest one, is that, as fate would have it, when his earliest language skills were forming, his older brother happened to be in the deepest throes of his "Why (insert every damn thing here)?" phase. While Max has moved on to his "This-is-my-universe-please-explain-to-me-why-I-should-continue-to-tolerate-you?" phase, Miles still thinks it's OK to question everything.

In fact, the boys' first conversation went something like this:

Max: "No, Miles! No, you can't have the crane. I'm playing with the crane."

Miles: "Why playing, Max?"

"Because I like playing with the crane, Miles."

"Why crane, Max?"

Max, exasperated: "Because it's a crane, Miles." Then, under his breath, "I don't know why 'crane', Miles."

For the most part, Miles figures the last word he heard is should be the subject of his question, so there's lots of exchanges like:

"Ok, let's go out to the car!"

"Why car, mommy?"

"Because we have to Max to school, Miles."

"Why school, mommy?"

"Because we go to school to learn things."

"Why learn, mommy?"

"Augh!!!"

That's not to say the boy isn't capable of the occasional curveball. Recently, I was getting the boys ready for bed, walking around with Miles on one arm, looking for his damn blanket. Now, another great thing about Miles is, when has a really important question, he'll twist around in your arms and lean right into your face to make sure he gets his question across. So, here we are, moving from room to room, searching for Blanket when, apropos of nothing, in my best "Grover" impression, I call out, "Blankie! Oh, Blankieeeee?! Where are youoo?!"

Suddenly, I feel all 30 pounds of inquisitive toddler contort so his big, oceanic eyes are right in my face. I was thinking about how incredible his eyelashes are when, in the most "WTF" tone a two year-old can muster, Miles wondered, "Why Grover, Daddy?"

"Why not Grover, Miles?", I volleyed.

Thankfully, we found Blankie about then, 'cause I doubt I could've handled it had the philosophical debate gone much further.

Yes, Max, There is a Santa Claus

2009-12-28T09:49:00.004-06:00

For a long while, I liked Christmas. If we weren't packed, cousins and cousins and cousins and sisters and uncles and aunts and grandparents, into the living room of my dad's childhood farmhouse home -- this, after desperately waiting for the Christmas dinner dishes to be done so we could open presents -- we were later that same night in the car, driving through the snow, looking for Rudolph's nose peeking through the clouds, on the way to Christmas at Grandma Coke's. Some years we'd trek to my Lord-of-the-Hippies uncle's, dress in layers and huddle around the wood-burning cook stove (for many years, the only source of heat in the house) and not think twice about taking a soak in the mini log cabin sauna before jumping into the Yellow River.

Some years we stayed home, creating adventures between recently unwrapped Tonka front loaders and plastic horses on a fantastic orange shag carpet.

Then, as it tends to happen, things got more complicated. Hell, even before we had the boys, you'd need an itinerary and an egg timer to make sure you stayed on schedule.

This year, though, things sort of started to crystallize for me. The boys, especially Max, are becoming active participants in the whole coo-coo Christmas experience. You'd think this would just crank the insanity dial to eleven but, really, the experience of watching Max draw a picture for Santa to put next to the plate of cookies left out for said same St. Nick, was so full of pure, innocent magic, I couldn't help but get pulled on in.

We all got up Christmas morning, looked at the crumbs, the note and the Santa diorama left behind; we opened presents; had a big, yummy breakfast and then went out to play in/shovel/blow snow. It was so stupid idyllic, the old me would've puked. I still kinda want to puke, but that was only because I drank too much Scotch with those damn Santa cookies.

Next year, watch out: both Max and Miles will fully comprehend Santa and Rudolph!

Max Von Hefner-Capote-Rubirosa

2009-12-28T06:57:00.003-06:00

International playboy and occasional pants-wetter, Max, would like to wish everyone the happiest of holidays, coming to you here from the comfy confines of the robe given to him by his super-hip great-grandmother, Gi-Gi. Two things happen when he puts this thing on: 1. Even though no one in the house owns a pipe, he begins to stomp around the house looking for his. 2. This music and this music begin to spontaneously play every time he walks into a room.

Max Unplugged

2009-12-17T20:43:00.003-06:00

Like any good drug, you build up a tolerance to The Cute. When they first started giving The Cute out for free at the playground, you know, like tickling Max to make him laugh, that would be enough to get us through the day. Nowadays, though, we'd have to tickle him for an hour just to get a buzz on. But then, after they go to bed, we'd have to look at old pictures of them on Picasa just to top off. Part of this, of course, is because their increasingly epic tantrums are totally harshing our buzzes. Jerks.

Yesterday, though, was pure, uncut, Columbian Cute. Crazazy Thai Stick Cute that could have you pushing off blissfully for decades. The kind of cute that, fifteen years from now, when you're bailing Max out of jail. . . again, will have you saying, "What lawyer's fees?"

It was Max's first Holiday Concert at his pre-school. All week, he had been saying he wasn't going to sing and would probably just come sit with us when his class filed in. No biggie: I've seen the kid sing every song off of Here Comes Science just while he's taking a bath. So, I was, to say the least, intrigued, when Max actually walked in with the rest of his class, stayed in line and started to sing. In about 3 seconds, 20-odd years of cynicism and spite were blasted away by a one billion-degree furnace fueled primarily by instant oatmeal and insane levels of Cute. Kinda like the sun in this song but, yeah, hotter. I wanted the whole world to see this. . . except for Joe Lieberman. He can rot in hell. Everyone else? In time, you may have a hit off this bong.

While I do love that Max spent the first bit of the song phoning it in while he tried to pick me out of the crowd (I had moved to get a better shot) and then really got into it once he knew I was watching. . .yeah, I love that. What really blows me away is that each kid was doing just that to each of their respective families: everybody in the whole joint was having their mind blown in that old, echo-y basement. Really, if you watch the video enough times (as I have), you'll see that every little goofball does something completely uproarious at some point during the song. Just check out the kid in red, starting at about :44 in.

So, crazy world, if I don't get a post up before the holidays go all ten-pound sledgehammer to my head, consider this my gift to you. No matter how many times the figurative or literal Maxes in your life refuse to put their jackets on or freak out 'cause you asked them to turn off the TV or won't vote for a public option, remember: we'll always have this video.

Memmorrrieeeess, Light The Corne. . . . . . Oh, Snap! TORNADO!!!

2009-12-17T15:15:00.000-06:00

Since August 19th, if you -- stranger or not-stranger -- met, talked to, or looked at Max for a second too long he'd drop this little tid-bit on you:

"So, the wind came up! And leaves were shaking! And the tornado was really windy! and it spins around and around! And all the trees on ParkPortland came falling down! . . . and it was really windy."

Now, if you're a polite person, and you want to humor the small person or if you still had your wits about you, enough, say, to respond at all, you'd muster up a faux (or possibly not) amazed/interested, "Oh, really?"

Like a lion sensing weakness in his prey, Max would pounce on this opening and blister you with a series of lefts and rights: "Yeah! Then, the trees all came down, all over, 'cause the winds of the tornado blew rrreally strongly and it was really rainy that day when it all got blown down. All the trees came down. Mmm-mm."

I usually keep a bottle of OTC vertigo medication at the ready for times like these. I hand the victim the pill and a glass of water, place a reassuring hand on their shoulder and calmly repeat, "It'll pass, it'll pass." until they get their color back.

The non-head spin version of the story is that, one pretty rainy day in August, Katie left for work. Not long after she left, I looked out the window and thought, "Hm, now it's kinda windy, too." As it turned out, about six blocks away, Katie sat in her car at an intersection, when, all around her, the trees did, in fact, begin to come down: the tornado went right over her.

Our immediate neighborhood was untouched but several streets near us were devastated. Every day, we would drive past the huge, downed trees and the damaged houses. Every day, we would have to explain to Max what had happened. Every day, the image in his head of what had happened grew into even larger mythic proportions.

Even now, I'd wager heavy money that were he to bump into a real-life Bob the Builder or discover some magical talking backhoe, without missing a beat, he'd launch right into his tornado story. They'd hang onto the narrative until, seeing no end to the tale of destruction, the talking backhoe would go find some kid who just wanted to talk about bunnies.

Kind of Two

2009-12-03T21:28:00.004-06:00

The yes-we're-gonna-party-party party isn't until Saturday so tonight, after some killer take-out, we celebrated with a wee cupcake, a little frosting, some sprinkles and two candles. The cupcake is apparently one of many destined to become part of some elaborate, dinosaur-themed, cupcake-based mosaic.

I'm starting to think that Katie does these things to make us all feel inadequate.

As for Miles, Miles and his dreamy blue eyes; Miles and his impeccable comic timing; Miles and his daredevil tendencies, we love this maniac child who is wonderful and spectacular in ways that generally leave us dumbfounded.

Here's a video that's pretty much Miles's life in a nutshell: The kid can out-crazy Max like falling out of a chair (which he has done many, many times and now does just for fun). So, here's Miles, schooling Max on some crazy jumping. Max, taking a page from Bush-era diplomacy, rather than being impressed and applauding his brother's efforts, just tackles him. Later, he would say, he just did it for his little brother's safety. And Freedom.

Happy Birthday, Little Miles!

The Thanksgiving Pinata or You Don't Gradually Turn Into Your Parents, It Happens Quite Suddenly

2009-12-03T07:45:00.002-06:00

I don't really want to say that our family-based Thanksgivings aren't as good as our annual "Friend's Thanksgving", held annually the Sunday after the actual Thanksgiving. However, none of the family Thanksgivings included a pinata so, uh, how could they have been as good? In fact, all future holidays will be judged on a "Pinata, yes? Pinata, no?" scale.

The Friend's Thanksgiving is also better, not only because the drunk-getting is based on recreation rather than desperation, but because of the total and absolute chaos generated by the ten friends' kids, all but one under the age of seven; with most in that two to five year-old sweet spot, when running around while screaming really isn't a pass-time, it's a way of life.

Speaking of screaming and chaos, Max has been experimenting recently with the design tolerances of his parents' fragile psyches. This has resulted in two things, one tragic and one less so. First, tragically, (and, I guess, unsurprisingly) the time for me to utter that great truth of parenting, "Because I said so." arrived. The only way to become more like my father at this point is to put on a few pounds, sell somebody some Crop Hail Insurance and tell many bad jokes only I think are funny. Frankly, when I said, "Because I said so!", I thought all those things were going to happen spontaneously.

Less tragically, the failure of Max to get his jacket off the kitchen floor, which resulted in an epic tantrum, which resulted in me uttering the dreaded BISS, which resulted in Max being exiled to his room, resulted in this comic relief:

I'm standing in the hallway, holding Max's door shut as he steadfastly refuses to pick up his jacket, pounding on the door and screaming. Max is gloriously indignant: distraught not only that he's in his room but also because we have the audacity to ask him to pick up his jacket.

Miles toddles up and, since the crazy person having a conniption couldn't be his normally pretty nice big brother, he wonders, "Who's that? Who's that, Daddy?"

Rather than try to explain the complexities of the situation, I just replied, "Who's in there, Miles? Ohhh, I don't know. Linda Blair?"

See what I mean about not being funny anymore?

Cats Are Full of Hatred

2009-11-28T17:40:00.000-06:00

As we've pointed out here once or twice, one of the joys of parenting is the "getting-of-the-kid-to-do-things-typically-only-adults-do-or-say". 68 million views of this video proves this tenet pretty emphatically. 68 million views, people!

For example, if you teach your child to "Give the Rock", as in: "Hey! It's so great you just hit that homerun! Give me the rock!", during awkward silences at family gatherings, you can induce the child to perform "The Rock" and everyone will laugh, breaking the silence.

This laughter re-enforces the action for the child, so they repeat it, giving "The Rock" to everyone with a hand. Once everyone gets the gist of it, though, the laughter kind of dries up. Miles, persistent and without trepidation, began to search out new "rock" partners. In doing so, he proved another fact of children: almost anything involving kids with animals increases Cuteness exponentially.

The audio for this is pretty much what you'd expect: Miles stands there, saying, "Give. Me. Rock!", punctuating each "Rock!" with a fist-to-paw bump. Non-audio, cat-communication from Butter, the cat, is also pretty much as you'd expect: "Little human, you touch me one more time and, I swear, I will chew your face off. Dammit! you did it again! Ok, one more time. . . Dammit!"

Disturbances in the Force

2009-11-27T21:49:00.002-06:00

The past few days have seen the bloggable baby population increase by dos 'round these internets parts. While I would've assumed they'd learn from our cautionary tale, we congratulate our great friends on their exciting new additions. Max and Miles look forward to these noobs joining them at the rebel base. Give it up for Luca and Sevi!

Turn Out Like Me! Wait! Don't Turn Out Like Me! Ugh, Just Don't Kill Anyone, Ok?

2009-11-26T05:45:00.009-06:00

By her own admission, my Mom was kind of a geek. My Dad? I'm not so sure what he was. He grew up in the middle of nowhere in North Dakota, so I suppose we should be thankful I'm not milking a cow or fixing a thresher rather than typing this. Or not.

Growing up, I don't recall a lot of explicit "We-are-watching/listening to/reading-this because-it-totally-made-me-who-I-am-and-so-now-you-will-shut-up-and-appreciate-and enjoy-this-experience" moments. The Beatles? We had a stereo, a cupboard full of records and a lot of free time. The only reason my mom had Sgt. Pepper's is because my cool uncle made her get it when it came out. "Important album," he told her. I just remember liking the album art, so I played it. Sgt. Pepper's just happened to be right next to my Dad's Dave Brubeck, which was next to his Bill Cosby.

Even with that pedigree of early influences; all that said, the first two albums I ever bought were Kiss's "Rock and Roll Over" (again, cover art!) and Kenny Rodger's "Greatest Hits". I didn't even get into The Blues until, years later, I thought The Blues Brothers was the most ZAZAWESOME movie ever (Thank you, ABC's movie of the week!) and I began digging around.

Being a parent now, though, is weird. I know two kids Max's age who have watched the first three Star Wars movies (anybody who shows their kids the most recent, three pieces of crap should have child services called 'em! Jar-Jar, people, Jar-Jar.) And even I, in an effort to re-create my childhood while simultaneously distracting the boys, have popped in the Looney Tunes DVDs. I had to put them away because, later, Max kept trying to drop our anvil on Miles and, after some suspicious Max-clicking on the computer, all these big-assed boxes were showing up from ACME Inc.

So, while I'm trying to maintain the "organic-ness" of influencing (coughcoughindoctrinatingcoughcough) the boys, I have to say, this recent exchange made me pretty happy/freaked out:

Katie needs some space; the boys have been inside most of the day; energy needs to be burned off; Dad decides some dancing is in order.

"Ok, guys, we're going to shake it to Talking Heads!"

"Oh, Dad, can I put the DVD in?"

"It's a CD, Max, not a DVD."

At this point, Miles wonders aloud, "Why. CD. Daddy?"

"Because a DVD is for watching and a CD is for listening, Miles."

"Why. Listening. Daddy?"

I ignore Miles' inane questions because, seriously, it's time to dance.

Back to Max: "Can I put the CD in?"

"Yep."

"We are listening to Talking Heads?"

The CD is loading.

"Can I listen to the 'run away' song?"

Now, for some reason, the first thing that pops into my head is that he wants to listen to Flock of Seagulls but that's seriously impossible.

"What?"

"Can we dance to the 'run away' song by the Talking Heads?"

"You want to listen 'Psycho Killer' by Talking Heads?"

Max, smiling and sort of bouncing and clapping excitedly, "Yeah! Psycho Killer!"

So we danced our asses off to "Psycho Killer".

If it's any comfort, later that evening, he also sang along with a song about photosynthesis. . . .but then he stabbed a plant.

I Can't Stand it! I Know You Planned it! or This Year's Christmas Card

2009-10-22T07:11:00.003-05:00

It's ostensibly Autumn. I'm not sure when this became, like, some national, sub-concious Parenting Law(tm) but, apparently, we're all supposed to take the kids to some sort of apple orchard/petting zoo/pumpkin farm/(Where the F is the bar around here?) country experience. I guess since my falls were spent watching combines and grain trucks crawl across the landscape, it still weirds me out that we have to pay to get a little hay in our hair.

Regardless, the boys and Katie went to the country experience place on the one sunny day we've had since mid-September and had a ye olde grande tyme.

Now, what I really want to talk about here is the annual damn Christmas card. Every year we (coughcoughKatiecoughcough) scour through our JPEGs to find the absolute epitome of the Look! At! Our! Cute! Kids! BTW! Merry! Christmas! picture. Then we get offended when we go over to our friends' houses and our picture isn't prominently placed on their fridge or mantle, preferably with it's own lighting. In my opinion, the best card we ever got was from a friend who snapped a picture with his a kids eating breakfast, smiling all cute, in the foreground and, in the background through the window behind them, there's dad, jumping crazily, kinda out of focus. Staged or not, it looked totally spontaneous and fun and seemed to more about what the last year had been about than posing your kids, oh, say. . . on some pumpkins.

So here's my nomination for this year's Christmas card:

I want everyone, when they get it, to make a big sign that says: "Apple Tree Attack!" and then put both up on your fridge. Let's end the tyranny of the cute!

Oh, by the way, here's what will be this year's actual card:

That's Right, Hipsters, I've Been Listening to LCD Soundsystem Since Before I was Born

2009-10-02T21:36:00.002-05:00

No, you're not going blind. The video is horribly fuzzy.

Now, let's be clear, we do some dancing in this house. For most of Max's life, though, the dancing has been done vicariously through me. . . literally. Mostly, for Max, what it means "to dance" is "I get on dad's shoulders and then sort of bounce around while he dances to Buddy Holly/Elvis/Jonathan Richman/Beck". This combination of two strikes is so brutal, it might as well be three strikes. Not only is the kid not actually dancing, he's got me setting the dancing example.

Counter-balancing all that, though, is Katie's Genealogical Rhythm Advantage(tm). Not only is Katie's mom (Grandma Kay: woot! woot!) a certified, actual, (formerly) professional ballet dancer, there's Katie. And, well, Katie. . . Katie is just one of those people you see in the center of a big circle on the dance floor. Over the sound of the funky drummer, what you hear is everybody in da club letting loose with a slack-jawed, "God-DAMN!" when Katie, mother of two, decides to tear that shit up. It's true: I've seen it. Actually, it happens when she's just walking, too. Even brushing teeth can get pretty boisterous. . . especially when that disco ball drops out of the bathroom ceiling.

So, much like the turtle that returns to the same beach where their egg hatched or a new-born colt begins to trot, Max proves -- thanks to his mom -- he's coded with the "Supah-Funky-Groovy-Tear-it-Up-YO!" gene.

Judging from little brother, Miles might be ok, too.

Booger Pedagogy

2009-10-01T07:35:00.002-05:00

The Night Max Finally Wrote the Title to my Children's Book

2009-09-24T23:04:00.001-05:00

I won't bore you with the details; suffice it to say, today's adventures involved a broken stove (in our house), craigslist, an unbroken stove (in someone else's garage), a hundred bucks, two trips to the hardware store and a nervous wife who probably felt like she was getting updates from those fuzzy communiques in the first edition of "Myst": "Honey, I found a new sto. . garbled static . . just need. . . static. . .bungee cords. . . static. . . gas lines don't fit. . . static. . . a few parts. . . static. . hardware store. . . if it works. . .static. . . make Miles a pizza. . . static . . . garage painted red" And we wonder why Katie puts child services on alert when she leaves the boys with me.

Finally, finally, when the stove was installed and the pizza was baking, Max suggested we eat dinner outside in the dark. We made a game of tripping the motion detector on the yard light so Max didn't mix up his soy milk with dad's well-earned beer and Miles passed me star-lit pepperonis from his pizza slices. At the end, when it was bath-time, Max began his traditional whirling dervish chant exulting the night time.

Tonight, though, he pulled a large black, plastic, serving-type spoon out of the sand box, tossed it in the air and proclaimed: "I just made a wish with my wishing spoon!"

Me (pretty much drunk) "What?"

"This, daddy, is my Wishing Spoon!"

"Your Wishing Spoon? Do you have to throw it up in the air to make the wish?"

"Yeah, I throw it up into the air and. . I. . .makeawish!" He punctuates this by, again, throwing the spoon into the night air.

"What did you just wish for?"

Devilishly: "I wished for a tornado!"

"Yeah, that seems like fun in theory, Max. But, really, in practice, it's kind of scary."

"Oh, daddy."

So, folks, look for it at your local bookstore or in the "buy-this-out-of-pity-for-the-author" section of Amazon in a few years: "The Wishing Spoon" by Max's Tired, Drunk Daddy.

Miles Wallace

2009-09-24T07:34:00.003-05:00

Freedom!

Oh, and, yes, the broom laying in front of the easel did indeed just get dipped in a big puddle of mixed up paints and then dramatically swiped across the canvas.

Your "Daily" Max Moment

2009-09-19T22:54:00.002-05:00

It's been a good summer for Nice Summer Nights. The kind of nights that soon, when he's 15, Max'll stay up late, riding bike; looking at the stars, thinking about a cute girl (or boy), pondering life's meaning; or stealing cars. Those kind of nights.

Anyway, the other evening, post-sunset, Katie pulled into the garage after a dinner at Pop-Pop and Gange's. Max jumped out of the car and proceeded to run around the backyard in large circles, yelling "I like the night-time! I like the night-time! I like the night-time!" over and over again.

It's the Shoes: A Post Not Really About Shoes

2009-09-19T22:13:00.003-05:00

I won't post explicitly about the gargantuan collection of fantastically cute shoes that Katie has stashed away for the boys. That would be validation and validation would be taken as implicit approval to spend even more on cute shoes. Let's just say that when Katie implores the boys to eat, it's not really about health or protein or fiber, it's about growing bigger, sooner, to fit into the next size up of shoes that wait, oh so patiently (and cutely) in the closet.

Really, what this post is about, is Miles: Super Baby. Hey, how many times have we seen the kid with the ice cream cone go to lick the scoop on the cone and they lick the scoop right off the cone. There they stand: empty cone in hand, scoop on ground, time machine being built in kid's head to get scoop back on cone? How many times?

You'd think 22 month-old Miles -- Miles "Hey-I'm-not-going-to-walk-'til-I'm-18-months-old-I'll-just-scoot-ok-thanks" Miles -- that Miles, would be a prime candidate for the aforementioned cone/scoop tragedy. So, tonight, at Pumphouse Creamery (We love you, Pumphouse!), not only did Miles NOT need his time machine (he uses that for hunting dinosaurs), he grunted and stretched and contorted his way up onto a bench, holding his cone the whole time and, people! It did not spill. In fact, after twisting and contorting into a sitting position, he nonchalantly lifted the perfect cone to his mouth like it had been in some magic pocket the whole time. . . . or a time machine.

The Torch, um, I mean, The Whisk is Passed

2009-09-14T15:42:00.001-05:00

Now that Max has mastered all things pancake (less the flipping), he's grown bored with the process. Thankfully, Miles has stepped into the role of pancake mixer and all I have to do is slide ingredients at him while I lean on the counter, drinking coffee.

Nothing Even Remotely Cute

2009-09-09T08:07:00.003-05:00

Oh. Hello. I was just digging around under the couch for the last of Monday night's popcorn and I found this blog. It seemed familiar, somehow; didn't appear to be edible. So with a shrug and a crack of the knuckles, I decided to write a posty-post on this bloggy-blog-blog.

What really happened (although, the popcorn part is true. I'm always amazed by how tasty it stays!) is I got promoted. Somebody fell off a forklift or got hit by a forklift or something at the giant, non-evil wholesale club and they needed a manager. Stat! At first, the nine or ten or eleven-hour days didn't put too much of a crimp in my blogging lifestyle but, sort of suddenly and unexpectedly, Katie's work schedule also increased significantly.

I bore you with all the details but, for the last month or so, we've pretty much been "Hi/Bye" parents. As in: "Hi, I'm home from work." "The kids are in bed. Bye, I'm going to bed." Katie, who was home more frequently and normally took all the cute pictures that kinda fed the writing, hasn't been around to capture the cute. And our wonderful, free, super-generous babysitters, while dexterous enough to change diapers and microwave Boca burgers, have enough trouble getting the Thomas DVD going without worrying about snapping images for the blog.

So, while I am comfortable half-assing it when it comes to plumbing, running electrical wires and fixing my car, I am uncomfortable half-assing it when it comes to coffee and blogging about my kids. Faced with a choice between pictures and pithy commentary (fully-assed blogging) or just pictures (half-assed), I chose no blogging.

Bad choice.

Once things get back to "normal" or, better, I figure out how to big, sexy blog in the ten, non-catatonic, kid-free minutes I have each day, we'll get back to the insightful, hilarious and touching observations all three of you have come to expect. Until then, enjoy the pictures and the captions!

Dog Whistle

2009-07-30T11:25:00.000-05:00

We have to thank Sean, the homeowner and landlord next door. First, for renting his place to Nick and Jen. And, second, for smashing up his front steps and leaving a pile of rubble in his driveway. The detritus of his home improvement project provided Double M Construction and Demolition with close to a half an hour of simultaneous, fight-free play time.

I'm starting to think that Max (and probably Miles) can channel a fair amount of Radar O'Reilly. Instead of helicopters loaded with wounded, these kids can detect concrete being broken and earth being dug from a mile away.

"Daddy, can we go see the excavator?"

"What excavator?"

"The excavator that will be working at the corner of 46th and 15th tomorrow at 2:31pm? I think there might be a concrete mixer there later, too."

"Oh! There's going to be a concrete mixer?! We're totally going!"

Apoca-Lee-lypse

2009-07-30T07:24:00.005-05:00

Continuing in our series of "People We Love", we recently had the pleasure of hosting, for one sweet evening, our super-awesome friend, Amanda, who was passing through on a cross-country road trip with her dad (who, admittedly, we may now like more than even the fabulous Amanda).

I had assumed that the boys, having spent most of their lives around their spectacularly beautiful and tantalizingly intelligent mother, would be, at least, politely interested or, at worst, dismissively unimpressed by the amazing Amanda. I pictured something along the lines of: "Oh, hello clever and attractive person. Have you met our equally glorious Mother? She is also quite frequently pithy." Or: "Augh! another hilarious, confident woman?! How many of these are there?!"

I suppose, had I thought about it for two seconds, I'd've seen what was coming. Yep, as has happened to other males throughout history, when exposed to something or someone inexplicable and fascinating, their brains and composure peed promptly into their diapers. Max began by trying to impress Amanda with some Krazy Karate moves. When that didn't work, he spit carrots on her. (That earned an over-my-shoulder-while-Max-screamed trip to his room.) Miles. Well, Miles, to his credit, did try to play it cool. He appeared pretty chill, there, in his high chair. Belying this exterior calmness, however, was the fact that all the food heading towards his face kept missing his mouth. He'd lift a handful of spaghetti, get lost in Amanda's eyes, it would land on his forehead and roll down his cheeks. Though, I do have to say: I've been on dates -- especially early ones with Katie -- when this came off as charming.

As evidenced by the photo, the real trouble started once our guests moved on down road. Miles, in his dismay, began some bizarre ritual of toddler keening and basically ran around the yard dumping everything he could grab into his hair; then smearing it all over his body.

Amanda and her super-cool dad drove off, blissfully unaware of the anguish (and traumatic hair-washing) they left in their wake. They're welcome back anytime, though. Amanda's dad can help me polish my wizened, bemused dad-face and, with enough exposure to Amanda, the boys might be able to get food in their mouths on their first dates.

No Good Neighbors

2009-07-26T21:49:00.003-05:00

Except for the guy that lived next door to our first apartment together, this was the guy who'd ask you for a ride to work if, in the morning, you ran into each other in the hallway. He'd then proceed to talk, talk, talk, talk your ear off. . . before you'd had your damned coffee. Eventually I got wise and just waited for him to leave every morning. Yes, I am that sad.

Except for that guy, we've been pretty lucky as far as neighbors go. There were the very stylish guys who collected antiques and were quiet in Pennsylvania; there was the super-hipster who worked as a chemist for Aveda; there was the goof-ball, postman/landlord who liked to get high and had a crazed killer of a giant-assed dog; and there were the sweet, racist couple who took very good care of us in what could've been the very scary mountains of North Carolina.

And then there were Nick and Jen. Nick and Jen who became ersatz baby-sitters on the fly; Nick and Jen who'd happily let the boys come into their yard and give Katie and I ten minutes to catch our breath or mow or paint the kitchen (again); Nick and Jen who were quiet, friendly and treated Max and Miles like favorite nephews. They were the best neighbors in a long line of good neighbors. No matter how many times they came out their back door, they always gave Max a little bit of their time. Let me tell you: that's a lot of "Oh! Hello, Nick!"s/Oh! Hello, Jen!"s. A LOT OF THEM. Of course, now they've up and moved away, off the the wilds of Anchorage, AK.

I'm probably jinxing ourselves in the worst possible way by simply posting this. 'Course, it probably isn't helping that, everytime the Landlord brings prospective, new renters around, we amp the boys up on M & Ms and send them outside, streaked with red marker and fake knives.

To our good friends, Nick and Jen, from all four of us, we give the heartiest of thanks and the best wishes for good luck on their new adventure.

I say No! No! No!

2009-07-15T14:52:00.003-05:00

We've previously documented Max's substance abuse issues. Suffice it to say: Miles loves to copy his brother. . . to the extreme. Looks like we're going to have to pony up for another stint in Juice Box Rehab.

The Magic Hour

2009-07-04T11:06:00.002-05:00

They tell me, when you're shooting a movie, there's an hour or so before sunset when the light is crazy perfect: diffused yet bright; glowing everywhere. It's, you know, how they make Johnny Depp and Charlize Theron even bearable to look at for two hours.

Up here in Keillorsfauxburgville, folks who escape the big city for their lake cabins know there is an even more magic magic hour: magic-five-seconds-as-you-pull-into-the-boat-lift-right-around-sunset. When you go for a boat ride or come back home from fishin' at the right time, there's something that happens when all that light starts bouncing around off the boat and the water and the inside of the boat lift and coming through the translucent boat cover. It also helps that Pop-pop is retired now and has almost nothing to do except scrub his boat-lift canopy clean.

All of this is a long way of clarifying something: Miles is not as cute as he appears in this picture.

Court Mandated Blogging

2009-06-21T23:13:00.002-05:00

Mother has ordered me to post this picture of Miles. I did not want to post this picture. I know how important your brains are to all of you and I know what can happen when you are exposed to cuteness of this magnitude: MELTED! Whatever's left of your gooey gray matter can send your crayon-scrawled brain-replacement coupons addressed to "Mommy of Miles". Remember: I was trying to protect you!

Style Points

2009-06-21T10:38:00.003-05:00

It now appears that, for Miles, the issue was not necessarily the walking, but the spectacularity with which you walk once once you can. When you think about it, it totally makes sense: Why do anything unless you can do it with a balloon in one hand and pickle-stogie hanging from your mouth?

Victor Max-o

2009-06-01T22:01:00.002-05:00

There are many, many, many, MANY night time rituals that must be performed before Max gets into bed. And by "gets into bed", I mean "sits in his chair and reads for an hour". So, amidst the singing of the songs and the brushing of the teeth and the running to the fridge for a glass of water: "I'll get the water, daddy, you get the ice!" (He got hit in the face, once, by ice avalanching out of the dispenser.), packed in that is "the stuffing of the blanket".

So, at some point, Max and his Mom decided that the best time to play wacky games before bedtime would be while dad his most heart-felt rendition of "Van Diemen's Land". So, while I'm spilling my singing guts, Max and Katie find new and hilarious ways to ignore my great song-craft. One of the primary tools during the hilarity and dis-regarding is blankie: tug of war with blankie; making a hat with blankie; and, most importantly, pretending you're pregnant with blankie. Max thought it was hilarious when his mom would stuff the blankie under her shirt and say, "Oh, niiice baby." Then, it was more hilarious when Max would grab the blankie and pull it out saying, "No! That's my baby!" It wasn't long before this morphed into just Max carrying the blankie baby. And, of course, the truly insane comedy happens when you put the baby on your back. So, what do you do when you have a kid giving himself a hump on his back with his blankie? This, of course:
If you can see through the crappy video quality, notice he's carrying a bunch of books. That's the final ritual: after songs and teeth brushing and everything, the boy has to get up, run across the house, gather up books from a storage spot not in his room and carry them to his room. Then, folks, and only then, are you ready for bed.

Chicks Dig the DJ

2009-05-26T23:50:00.000-05:00

This Memorial Day weekend, we had chance to hook up with a fair percentage of our friends at Paul and Dom's. While Max rifled through a house-full of wonderful and unfamiliar toys belonging to the boy-in-residence, Remy, we did the requisite grilling and drinking on Paul's new patio.

Actually, if there was ever an argument for the "enticement of the unfamiliar", one could just watch Max disappear into a reverse-coma fog every time he gets access to some other kid's toys. Every time we go his cousin's or a house with a well-toyed young male, Max vanishes into a blissed-out inventory of "all the cool stuff I don't have". He'll silently and methodically empty drawers and boxes, not playing with the stuff but just acknowledging everything: "I don't have this. It's cool." And he sets it aside. He picks up another toy: "I don't have this. It's cool." And so on. Pretty much for as long as you let him.

Miles, though, was the one who was on the ball this afternoon. Even amidst the chaos of playing children and through the haze of an early Summer cold, Miles could spot trouble. It took him a while; she had been there most of the time. But as the smoke from the Weber cleared and someone cleaned up the empties off the table, Miles spotted the indescribably cute, Sophie, chilling on her Mother's lap. With an eloquence and coherence reminiscent of the first time I saw his Mom, Miles stared stunned and mute for a time. Then, identified The Trouble: he pointed, amazed, "Giiirll!" Then, a moment later: "Haiirrr!"

Some Fathers

2009-05-11T22:09:00.003-05:00

Some fathers might look at this picture and say: "Nice backhoe!"

Some fathers might look at this picture and say: "Excellent digging form!"

Quite a few fathers might say: "MY LAWN!"

Me? The father, me? Even though Max is methodically destroying most of the yard, it's totally impressive that he sets up traffic cones around his construction site. . . for safety!

The Mountain Comes to Mohammed

2009-04-29T23:36:00.003-05:00

I had forgotten I grew up on a farm. My entire childhood was one long sequence from the "NEVER LET A CHILD DO THIS!!" section of the farm safety videotape. Considering the number of plows (chisel, disc, and moldboard) that I've climbed on; the number of tractors I've ridden on; and the number of chemicals to which I've been exposed, I should've either lost a limb or grown an extra one. Combines, hell. The combine to me wasn't a picture in a book: it was a giant machine I could climb on and into; get a little trapped in the hopper or pull on a lever in the cab and nearly crush my sisters with header. Who knew it would actually move?

The things I wish for Max, the myriad of things I took for granted (Saturday morning cartoons, my Deadhead Uncle, my own barn to play in) that Max will know only in his own weird way, could fill it's own blog.

However, for a kid into all things large, diesel powered, with huge hydraulic accoutrement, you couldn't find a boy luckier than Max. Since the spring he was born, there's been a stupidly huge highway project going on near our house. There are miles of cranes and front loaders and piles of dirt in easy view of the construction zone-slowed traffic. More locally, though, we have the sad fate of two huge elm trees. Last summer, Max got to watch guys with chainsaws in sky-high cherry pickers saw the tree down to its trunk. Then, a few days later, we awoke to a front loader (driven by Santa Claus, no less) right outside our house. This spring, closure was reached when a crazy, huge saw-thingy came and Vita-Mixed the stump into oblivion. An hour later, this awesome grappler came to finish the job.

Here's Max, long gone catatonic after a whole day of heavy machinery-spotting. He was so zoned-out, when the cool grappler driver extended the arm out until the claw was two feet from Max and then jerked the arm so the claw slammed together, the boy didn't even react. It was like that time George Clooney pulled up at the house with a limo load of supermodels, the trunk full of tackle: he asked me to go fishing and perhaps later a baseball game. I just stood there mutely until he shrugged and drove off.

More Classic Sneeze

2009-04-10T00:46:00.001-05:00

If you like Art and you like kids and you like to laugh until you snort milk through your nose, cleeck here.

Court-Ordered Miles Post

2009-04-10T00:44:00.000-05:00

The mothership has reported that our Max-centric trend of late is not appreciated. And I will say that while Max is pretty funny, Miles takes humor to an almost subliminal level. He'll flash things (spoon, 4 year-old battery, brush head off your toothbrush) at you, blurt a word-sound and then scoot away like he's pulled the pin on a comedy grenade. He does this partly 'cause he still chooses scooting over the more ubiquitous walking and partly 'cause it's true: he's halfway down the hall when you realize it was all an elaborate and epically hilarious joke. He's an artist.

Scoot, scoot, scoot.

"What's that Miles? A fork? That's a fork."

"Boo-blash!"

Scoot, scoot, scoot.

Did you see that? Wait about five minutes after you read this post, you're going to laugh so hard, you will pee your pants. Hey, don't get upset: you don't have to live with him. We're all in diapers in this house now.

Oh, plus, I'm holding Miles posts hostage until he walks. No more cute Miles baby 'til the little bugger walks!

The Hilarity Continues

2009-04-06T23:10:00.000-05:00

Here's Max perpetratin' his latest fad: pretending to be going to bed. The last few days, randomly, Max will grab the nearest blanket, nearest pillow, get snuggled in where ever he hangs his hat and announce he's going to bed. This declaration is followed by emphatic, cartoonish snoring for about thirty seconds and then a hearty, "Good Morning!"

That's funny, but that's not what this post is about. What this post is about tonight's dramatics: Miles (the other brother) seems to have entered a new phase of teething. Being the stinky hippie parents that we are, we've turned to nature's answer for teething pain: lots and lots of Children's Tylenol. Tonight, when we were dosing Miles, Max decided that he wanted some cherry-flavored, pain-killing syrup.

Now, how do you get your Acetaminophen fix if you're not actually sick. Obviously, the best answer to immediately pretend you're sick.

"Oh, I want to have some Tylenol too!"

"No, Max, you're not sick. Miles' teeth hurt right now, so he's getting Tylenol."

"But I am sick.. . . Cough! Cough!" I'm not kidding! He fake coughed! Then after the fake coughing, he started moaning, as if he were in pain and all the while putting on his best "I'm-woefully-sick-please-give-me-some-drugs" face.

After Katie and I got done laughing, we gave Max an Oscar and then let him thank us until we had to cut him off with some out-music.

Reasons 4,358, 5,791 and 6,121 I Love Max

2009-04-05T00:41:00.000-05:00

He's a night owl. Back when Max first started in his big-boy bed, there were a few nights of trouble. By "trouble", I mean for a week or so, there was a lot of getting out of bed, footsteps to his door, door getting cracked, eye peeking through crack, door slamming shut when you got up to walk towards door, footsteps thumping across floor, and little boy body jumping back into big-boy bed. This was typically accompanied by an emptying of dresser drawers followed by some wailing and then sleep. Our reward for this was opening his door an hour or two later to find the boy curled up on the floor; his head on his pillow, no blanket and everything he could possibly reach strewn about like some crazy carpet.

After some talkings-to on our part and, I guess, maturing on Max's part, we've all come to a agreement: As long as he stays in his room, he's cool. After we put Max to bed, the boy almost immediately leaps out of bed, flicks on his light and proceeds to putter about his room until he decides to go to sleep. Sometimes this can last five minutes, sometimes two hours. Here's what I love: At some point, he decides he's tired, he turns off his light and climbs into bed. It just cracks me up, trying to be in his head. "Oh man, I've read and re-read every damn book in here, I've sung every song I can remember and I've talked to every stuffed animal. . . eh, might as well go to sleep." Walks over to wall: click! Walks back to bed. It's beautiful.

He's a showman. The first couple of music classes that we took were fine by Max. We'd go to class, he'd play along, shake the instruments and run around once in awhile. Outside of class, though, he was like, "Music class, wha. . ?" He'd listen to his Elvis, his Jonathan Richman, his Holly, Buddy (what Max calls Buddy Holly) but, pop in that damn music class cd and he'd react like he was getting scanned. This last class though, the beats got him hooked like a crack head junkie. As with all his favorite discs, he has the whole freakin' thing memorized, knows what songs come in what order and has all the b-sides.

So, we go to class one day and, joy, his favorite song is dropped. Most kids just hung with their parents, sitting on their laps, maybe mumbling along, sort of singing or, depending on their age, drooling, uh, musically. Max, though, leapt up, stood in the center of the parent/kid circle and began to belt out: "STAR SHINE! NUMBERONE NUMBERTWO BYEBYE GOODNIGHT!!!" Had Katie and I been in a chair, we would have fallen out of them, laughing with joy and pride. As it was, being that we were already on the floor, we just sort of tipped over.

Max is clairvoyant. A few weeks back our homegirl, Kelli, was planning on coming down for a visit. A few days before she was due to arrive, I mentioned to Max that Kelli was coming. He came back with, "No, daddy, Kelli is not coming. Kelli is sick!" Ha-ha! So I called Kelli and left her a voicemail about the cute thing Max said. Kelli called the next day, saying she had listened to the voicemail, laughed, gone to bed and woke up with the nastiest cold: trip canceled. So, I guess, really, he can either tell the future or cast spells. Perhaps both. Kell-kell lives up Moorhead way, where the Red River prefers to color outside the lines. And the other day, ominously, Max mentioned that, "Kelli's car is stuck in the mud!". I hope he turns out to be a better singer than a wee Nostradamus.

Here's Max, dancing his pants off to They Might Be Giants. Whoops! There's reason 6,122.

How to Tell if You've Properly Indoctrinated Your Child

2009-04-01T00:55:00.003-05:00

We're pretty big on the "please"'s and "thank you"'s 'round here. I can remember visiting my grandmother with a friend when I was 13 or so. 13, of course, being the or, at least, approaching the absolute peak of disdain for anything parental or, really, just about anything non-girl. Not that I ever talked to a girl when I was 13. . . or 14. . . or 15. So, we were up at my granmother's farm, and I remember, at the end of the weekend, grandma commenting, "Polite boys." At the time, I took it as a compliment, but now that I'm older an wiser, I realize she meant, "Probably, these kids are punk-bastards. They are, however, polite punk-bastards."

In an effort to create our own, polite punk-bastard, we've got Max on the please and thank you train. Even when he's a screaming, bellowing mess, we can convince him to ask politely for something. This usually results in the dialectical comedy of going from, "I WANT ICE CREAM!!!!!" to an absolute whisper of, "I. could. have. some. icce. cream, pllleaasse." Because, if you've been yelling, and you've been asked to be polite, it means you should whisper your request, right?

Last night, though, it became clear that our brainwashing was taking hold. It was 1:30 am and Max had been fighting through the first night of cold. After deciding that sleeping on Daddy wasn't as comfortable as he'd like, he unhappyily stumbled into bed. 1:30 am, exhausted, stuffed-up nose, half-crying, feels like crap and we have this exchange:

"Are you ready to get into bed, Tex?"

"Yeah." And he climbs into bed. "Hey!," he says, getting under the covers. "Where's my kitty?" (Never mind that "kitty" is actually a bear in a kitty suit. Some Starbucks Halloween leftover).

"Here's your kitty, big guy."

"Oh, thank you, daddy."

"You're welcome."

It was then that I knew he was ready for the next phase of training: He was our little Patty Hearst and it was time for some SLA-style bank robbery. . . but polite SLA-style bank robbery!

Wild Things, I Think I Love You

2009-03-30T22:05:00.002-05:00

Apparently, according to Katie, I am a freak because I was not read nor did I read "Where the Wild Things Are" as a child. Fortunately, Katie has enough Kool for the two of us and we have read and re-read the story of another Max and his adventures with the wild things. Personally, this trailer makes me cry like a little girl. It's like if I saw a trailer for Star Wars today, but with the emotions of the seven year-old me. It's more about what I hope Max might feel when he sees the other Max running with the wild things and crashing through giants waves, I think, than anything.

Our Max, though, seems less than enthusiastic:

"Hey, Max. Guess what?"

"Yeah?"

"That book you read? "'Where the Wild Things Are'? They're going to make it into a movie!"

"No! They can't make it into a movie! It's just my book!"

Interesting Fact

2009-03-19T00:27:00.003-05:00

When you work six days a week you think you're going to blog on that seventh day. Really what you do is laundry. Things are a little bonky at work of late. It's going to clear up come this weekend. Things'll get back to "normal" after that. To make up for the lack of blogging, I present one of the greatest videos ever recorded: Miles SHREDDING!

Here Come the 3s!!!

2009-03-02T23:24:00.003-06:00

Three. Max is Three. Three is Max. Let's just all have a moment and ponder the miraculousness of that: Max has made it to the age of three. We have not harmed him out of stupidity or neglect; he likes Elvis, Buddy Holly, Beck and can pretty much make pancakes on his own. He thinks reading is cool and will do some sort of tooth brushing before bedtime most every night. If kids were pyramids, I'd say we have a pretty good foundation.

Sadly, though, unlike the ancient Egyptians, we have no alien overlords providing blueprints from the mothership. All of our heavy-lifting could be undone tomorrow or in 12 years by a creepy friend that picks his nose and likes to set fires or by a well-meaning cousin who puts one too many Pixies songs on a mix tape.

Until then, and even after, we'll be the proud parents and the delightfully polite, spontaneously singing, stunningly cute, three year-old future singing poet/electrician/train engineer, Max.

And, yes, we had his birthday party at the mecca of Max happiness, Choo-Choo Bob's. Max had a great time hepped up on a steady diet of cake and soda, he'd wildly rip half the wrapping paper off a gift; then grab my hand and drag me off to watch model trains. After a few minutes, he'd remember that he was at his birthday party and there gifts and cake there somewhere. He'd grab my finger and drag me back to the party room for another hit of frosting. It was like a three year-old version of The Night of the Gun.

The Long, Long, Long, Long, Long, Long Winter

2009-02-19T00:43:00.001-06:00

When you live up here where, if you listen to Garrison Keillor, there's 9 months of winter and 3 months of mud (or something hokey like that), you learn to how to spell fun "i-c-e-y a-s-s c-o-l-d". Now the NPR juggernaut, G-Man, weather-wise, is full of poop and quite honestly it's damn nice here April to Most of October.

All that said, when it's cold and sucky here, it can't get much colder and suckier. You may think where you are is cold and sucky but, ha, no. No, it's not. The absolute brutality of the winter here makes the human brain do crazy things. If the brain is already artistically inclined and, by default, close to the edge of insanity, the cold distorts the creative process like a frosty funhouse mirror. So, thanks be to el frio, we get The Art Shanties. A few years ago, a friend of friend, actually, got a bunch of people together, drove out to some random lake and threw up a little village of wacky ice houses. In the great tradition of fun art projects, they've gone from weekend art frolic to fully functional non-profit. They've kept the fun in, though, so that's good.

To tell the truth, Katie and I are bad winter parents. Down in my basement, there's Super 8 footage of my mom pulling me in a sled across the frozen North Dakota tundra, breath pluming from her mouth, me bundled beyond recognition. I fall out of the sled, face-first, into the snow and the camera shakes as my dad, filming, laughs. My mom laughs, too! Before the Art Shanties, all Max and Miles knew about winter was that the trip to the garage became like a mad dash dive into the atmosphere of a cold, angry planet. We'd stand at the back door, dramatically count to three and throw open the door, screaming, "Deploy! Deploy! Deploy!"

Now, thanks to coo-coo ice houses, we know that Miles likes to do his scooty thing on ice; that Max likes to sit in a little, game-themed ice house, built like a die (six-sided, not twenty) and very, very seriously and methodically take all the cubes out of a Boggle tray and then, just as seriously and intently, return the cubes to the tray; and, even in the cold ass cold, these kids are stoopid cute.

Good Girl, Frankie, Good Girl

2009-02-06T00:32:00.004-06:00

Lots of things happen much faster than you anticipate.

I would have assumed that both Katie and I knew that Frankers would be gone before either of the boys were at a stage of memory-banking that was permanent. Growing up, I had two dogs, one of whom I know only through my Dad's stories and the other who I remember more as an idea of "dog" than as actual dog "dog". If that makes any sense. Now, though, Frankie is gone and, what with the boys, we hardly have the time to miss the dog that, before we had kids, taught us what it meant to love something other than ourselves.

Frankie was our first kid. We had known her since she was just hours old. Very early in her roly-poly days, she would have a little puppy coniption fit (the good kind) whenever Katie came around. Katie tends to have that effect on men, her boys, and Frankie. We convinced Katie's Mom that Frankie was born to be her dog and, thus, we were dog owners.

We dragged the little fluff ball off to Pennsylvania where she helped me load kilns at all hours of the night and became accustomed to a grad student's life of long nights spent intimately with academic texts followed by late mornings of dark, life-giving coffee. A blatant hussy, she would roll onto her back, show off her belly stare at you until gave into the dog voice in your head saying, "You know you want to rub that belly." Also, she ate a hell of a lot of popcorn off our kitchen floor. A young undergrad, who could've been looking at any number of distractions you see on a college campus, saw Katie walking with Frankie and came up to me later: "Your dog is really beautiful when she walks!"

The ensuing years were less than organized and the poodle ended up back with Katie's Mom for a time. She was clean most of that time and well groomed but, with no popcorn to clean up, she became sadly weened of that fantastic skill. No longer useful to us as a renegade popcorn kernel cleaner, we decided to have a couple of kids.

It all happened so quickly, we didn't really have a chance to read up on how to break the news of Frankie's passing to Max. When Boots didn't come home from that last visit to the Vet, Max asked where she was and we told him that she was just staying at the doctor's office a bit longer. He said, "Oh", and went back to scooping out cupfuls of Dad's pancake batter onto the countertop.

That was almost a month ago. The last few nights, as we have everynight, we put Max to bed and tell him, "Mommy loves you; Daddy loves you; Miles loves you. Dream sweetly. Goodnight Max." The last few nights Max as added quizzically, "And Frankie-Boots loves me?"

"Yes, Frankie loves you."

"We need to pick Frankie up from the doctor's office?"

"Well, Max, Frankie's going to be at the Doctor's for a while longer."

"We will pick her up?"

"Good-night, Max."

Try not to get verklempt after that.

All I know is, when he's able to really remember, I'll tell him about our good dog. The wonderful white fluff ball, foo-foo dog, who could scare you shitless with her giant bark. About the time our neighbor asked, "Are you sure that's a girl dog?" after Franks gave him what for through the chain-link. About all the countless, innocent chew toys that were de-squeaked in a matter of moments. I'll tell about the gorgeous, white poodle who never chewed a shoe or a chair or a remote: never chewed anything she wasn't supposed to. I'll tell him about the very, very, very good dog we had once named Frankie, Queen of the Poodles.

Have Your Cake and Eat it too

2009-02-03T23:41:00.002-06:00

Experts have pondered this question for eons: Can you busta move to Jonathan Richman and simultaneously read a book? Miles answers this ancient query with a resounding "Yes! Yes you can!" Oh, and, yes, that is Max singing along with the Modern Lovers.

New Socks

2009-01-29T11:48:00.003-06:00

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!

2009-01-19T21:12:00.002-06:00

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

2009-01-05T23:30:00.003-06:00

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!"

In a Nutshell

2008-12-31T00:13:00.004-06:00

Amidst the total toy hedonism of Christmas. .
Max: "Woooaahh! Look what I got!"

Miles: "Goddammit, I want that!!"

Mmmmm. I can't wait 'til next year!

He Hates This Foam!

2008-12-30T23:02:00.002-06:00

One of the ka-billion gifts the boys got this Christmas past was a kooky kidz shaving kit. It comes replete with a lil' plastic razor (with, I dunno, like, 5 blades), a lil' mirror, a lil' shaving cream brush and, or course, a 'lil can of shaving cream.

I love this set mostly because of the totally anomalous shaving cream brush. I mean, really, when's the last time you saw anyone outside of Deadwood or the last scene from The Godfather use a shaving cream brush? It's like giving the kid a "Daddy's lil' Communicator" kit and including a telegraph with the computer, the iPhone and the Twitter account. Nonetheless, I love it because it's some weird attempt to embrace the idea of shaving and, somehow, a brush is still part of that. I can remember finding a really nice shaving cream brush in a medicine cabinet at my Grandma's house. It was a brush that had belonged to my grandfather, she told me, that had then been used by my Uncle. For a few days, this shaving cream brush was an icon of manhood to this hairless teenage-ed dork. Now Max has a plastic one.

The most disturbing part of the kit is the foam. It's actually a very, very foamy soap that puffs up really big, stays foamy forever, fumes a very scary smell of "blue" which also affects my breathing and gives me long, dull headaches. Max, however, can eat handfuls without any obvious side effects. Miles, obviously, has his own issues with the stuff.

Tiny Bubbles

2008-12-22T23:02:00.000-06:00

A few baths ago, Max squirted a fair amount of his bath soap into the tub just to be a jerk. Out of curiosity and some, long-dormant memory of bubbles; how they are fun and how you make them, I started in with some vigorous agitation of the water. Lo and behold: there were bubbles.

The repercussions of the bubble miracle are two-fold: 1. Max is totally pumped about bath time and no longer requires coercion to get into the damn tub and 2. He thinks I'm sort of bubble-creating god. Also, I guess, I've discovered that bubbles are fun.

Max and Miles seem to have discovered that, not only are they fun, they're tasty!

The Means of Production

2008-12-21T00:35:00.000-06:00

As I've indicated before 'round these parts, shoveling is activity with a high rate of return and minimal risk: you push the snow, the sidewalk is clean. Back in the day, I remember being pretty psyched that I could help my Dad do anything. If you can walk and have enough strength to push a shovel, you're pretty much a shoveler.

On a slightly related note, I'm now sort of a cheater: we got a snow blower. Well, more accurately, we were gifted a snow blower by the super-dope G-man and Karen from the lake country. And, really, may god bless them. Tonight, not only did they facilitate a quick and mighty 2-cycle cleansing of our driveway, they also made a cool "Dad moment" happen.

I got home from work and we got the boys into bed. Lately, Max has been a pretty active little boy after lights out. So tonight there was some deal-making regarding activities and television viewing predicated on his staying in bed tonight. He seemed to get the message so I suited up and started in with the snow-hate. After a few passes, admiring the long arc of snow spraying out of the chute and the snow mist enveloping everything, I noticed I had an admirer: there, in his window, was the little Max face.

I can remember watching my Dad blowing snow and being pretty amazed by the guy out there, in the cold, wrangling some machine into tossing snow into the air. So there was Max, standing at his window, sneaking a fascinated look at his Dad with some crazy machine in the dark, snow flying everywhere in the street light-lit night.

I just hope it appeared appealing enough that it'll be him out there in a few years. I've got Scotch that needs drinkin'.

Smokestack Lightnin'

2008-12-20T00:32:00.003-06:00

A "Is Your Kid Cool?" Test:

Walk up to your kid. Ask him, "Hey, where's the devil's haircut?" If he answers "In my miiiind!" in a very gravelly, raspy voice, yup, he's cool. Pretty cool.

Does your kid suddenly get up, turn off the TV and announce, "I want to dance!"? Ok, that's fine. Your kid might be cool. But to what musical stylings does care to shake his booty? (This is important.)

"Ok," freaked out enough just by the fact that he's turned off the TV, "What should we dance to?"

"Howlin' Wolfin'!!"

"Damn, kid! You are cool."

Once you child has mastered this, he will attain cool.

Clinkies!

2008-12-19T21:52:00.003-06:00

Our homeboy, Gary, from the Haus of Tacos, is a wonderful, embittered soul who knows that joy in life derives from friends and drinking with those friends. At his happiest, pouring something wonderful for everyone to share over something amazing to eat, he raises his glass to you and gives a gleeful, "Clinkies!" This never, I'm not kidding, gets old.

I think it might've been last New Year's Eve at Gary and Margot's when Max first became cognizant of "Clinkies!". We've spent the last year "Clinkies!"-ing our share or juice glasses, milk glasses and water glasses.

Miles, a wee, smart cookie himself, knows fun when he sees it.

So, yo, to all our super-spectacular friends and to our totally awesome fam-dam-alies: CLINKIES!

The Greatest Place on Earth will Only Break Your Heart

2008-12-09T22:23:00.005-06:00

Some people are into Tikal, others, are Machu Picchu-types. For Max, his Taj Mahal (currently) is Choo-Choo Bob's. Not only do they have every train you could ever imagine for kids of all ages and multiple tables filled with tracks and trains where kids can just come to, uh, you know, play and a super-liberal policy about said kids playing with every damn thing in site. Except for that 300 hundred dollar O scale engine! Max! Max! MAX!

On top of all that, they also have a room where train addicted children and their enabling parents can have birthday parties. Tonight, Max's homeboy, Remy, had his fifth birthday party at this train-centric wonderland. Pizza and cake were provided, however, the only sustenance Max needed was quality time with trains, trains, Thomas the Train and some more trains.

After a few bites of cake and some more trains, it was time to go:

"Max, let's go."

Max runs off, "Noooooooooooo!"

We dress Max while he's distracted by a train and he's only crying a little.Getting out to the car was a full-on, leg-flailing, screaming mass of toddler.

As we drove away, Katie and I stifled laughs as Max called out to Choo-Choo Bob's: "Noooooooooooo! Choo-Choo Booooob's!! I want to stay with youuuuuuu! I want to stay with you, Choo-Choo Booooooob's!!!!! NooooooooooOOOOOOoooo!"

By the time we got home, it wasn't entirely clear that Max wanted to go back to Bob's, scarred as he was by their separation. When offered a party at Bob's, he declined, probably thinking that he didn't want to enjoy Bob's again, only to wrenched from train heaven. So, to Remy, we say Happy Birthday and thanks for traumatizing our kid!

Here's Max, at the easel, wearing his Brother's pants, pondering how best to express his pain.

Coca-Cola, The Gateway Drug

2008-12-05T10:43:00.004-06:00

This counts as a Thanksgiving recap.

Cousin James walks into Grandma Kay's den. I'm not sure what James was doing in there, but he walks into the den. Recounting the story later, he spoke of walking into the slightly gloomy room and not quite feeling alone. Before his eyes could adjust to the light, he heard the sound of liquid being chugged. James is a currently a college student, so, really, his credentials as an identifier of chugging sounds are pretty much unimpugnable. His eyes adjust to the dark and James is able to match up an image to the sound: Max, head tipped back, emptying a can of Coke into his gullet.

"Max, what are doing?"

"Drinking a Coke!"

"Did your Dad say you could have that Coke?"

"Yeah!" (Lie!) And Max runs off: thump, thump, thump, thump.

A few minutes later, Max was racing around Grandma Kay's house, running through the rooms, waving his hands in the air and screaming happily. Thanksgiving Day-type conversations would pause briefly as this three-foot, blond blur raced through each room. Everyone would give an amazed "Woah" and get back to their discussions of computers/the Vikings/how the heck does this HD conversion box work?.

While we have no visual evidence of the actual event, here's a similar bit of non-Coke fueled madness from earlier this year.

Sometimes the Captions Write Themselves

2008-12-04T11:30:00.000-06:00

Is anyone else freaked out by the fact that Max looks seventeen in this shot? I guess we really have to stop blasting Right Said Fred's "I'm too Sexy" every morning. "Walking the Runway" was just something that Katie got us into as sort of a morning workout. Even after the kids were born, we kept it up. Perhaps it's time to re-evaluate.

And Then He was One

2008-12-03T21:43:00.002-06:00

Miles celebrated his first birthday by trying to eat sweet potatoes with a 9/16ths wrench. This is my confirmation that my second boy is wise beyond his year. Obviously, he has noticed that his parents drive Volvos, old Volvos. And, in his own subtle way, is is trying to create a metaphor about the pointlessness of having tools near old Volvos. He's seen the futility of using these wrenches around the cars enough times to show me that, here, you might as well try to eat pureed tubers with one.

The Show Me Max or His Mother's Son

2008-11-17T22:22:00.004-06:00

Max, lately, has been in an inquisitive state. More specifically, he likes to have final approval of things like recently changed diapers and whatever just blew out of his nose into the kleenex. I'm not exactly sure how this happened, but I feel like Katie is somehow involved in this particular early personality quirk. To whit: It is not me to whom Max ran proudly today, excitedly and proudly holding his finger out ahead of him. Upon the finger's tip, he carried a cargo as precious and soft as it was wee and sort of spherical.

"Look, Mommy, a booger!"

"Oh. . .Max. That's nice!"

"I did it all by myself!"

See, "please" and "thank you" are easy. You just pound those via rote repetition. Now, when your kid runs to you proudly with a booger on the tip of your finger, how exactly should you react? I mean, he did do something on his own and he did do himself.

I act like Katie is somehow to blame for Max's fascination with his phlegm. Really, if he had run up to me, I would've asked him if his taste salty like mine.

Giddy

2008-11-04T23:31:00.003-06:00

Blasted on champagne, Katie and I could no longer contain ourselves. We cracked their doors, crept into their rooms and roused them from their crib and their big-boy bed, respectively. Miles, upon hearing the good news, said, "Bagu umo shmophf!" Max gave a sleepy, "Barack Obamaaaaa!" He then snuggled up with his bear, his other bear, his 'Mater, and today's favorite excavator and went, like his brother, back to sleep.

Tonight, though, they sleep in a country that has become, gloriously, epically and stupendously, a better place. Seriously, when the world is filled with kids that are this cute, isn't it time we have a president this dope?

Another Reason Katie is a Better Mother than You

2008-10-31T23:39:00.002-05:00

Yes, Max did request that Mommy carve the pumpkins. Of course, one, will be ordered "Curious George" style. What's that? I have another pumpkin? Two? Two pumpkins?! Well, if I have two pumpkins and I already know that one will turn into a George then the second should be. . . AN EXCAVATOR!

So all Max knows is that some pumpkins were bought, he got to choose the theme and then he went to bed. What he didn't see was Mommy, up late and bleary-eyed, swearing and stabbing at the poor, little pumpkins. Long, long, looong time readers of this blog will know this type of blue streak-fueled creativity is a recurring theme.

Whatever punk yoinks these from our stoop had better appreciate the hell out of 'em before he smashes them on the street in front or our house.

A Taste for Fine Design. . . Literally

2008-10-31T23:11:00.003-05:00

For reasons I've yet to comprehend, Halloween seems to be a big, hairy (spider) deal at Grandma Kay's work. Something about selling cubicles, carpet and really, really hot designer furniture makes normally staid adults do the dress-up thing.

If it's Halloween and it falls on a Friday, all the rules of decorum go out the window. That means, not only do my kids go out to Grandma's work, it means I have a video of Max driving around the stockroom on a forklift, chasing someone's dog and adults in costumes. It also means, people at Grandma Kay's work, that I can make that video go away as long as one (1) Noguchi table is white-glove delivered to an address of my choosing.

Even more exciting (and less blackmail-ly) is the fact that Miles seems to really like the molded plywood and clean lines of what we lovingly call the Eames' "Potato Chip" chair. It's unclear of Miles was chewing on the chair because he thought it was, in fact, a potato chip or because it's just a lovely thing or could it have been because he thought by licking it, no one else would want it and mommy and daddy could have at least one nice thing in their house?

Gleefully Tumbling into the Cute Abyss

2008-10-29T23:25:00.003-05:00

It may well be that any reticence I have had about blogging recently stems from the fact that I'd prefer that this joint doesn't become a 21st Century version of "Kids Say the Darndest Things"! HowEVER, kids, do in fact, say the darndest things. To whit:

Grandma Carol comes over the other day with a sweet-ass Lego-type cement mixer. (Let's have an aside here: Really, when does a Lego stop being a "Lego"? I mean, three pieces: a chassis, a tumbler/barrel, and a cab does not, in my book, a Lego make. In my day, Legos meant sticking little tiny pieces together until you went blind and had something that looked nothing like what was on the box. Even your Dad would, after trying to help, put his arm around your shoulder and cry with you quietly. You want to figure out what's wrong with America? It's Republicans and too-easy Legos, that's what!)

So, Max is pretty pumped about this cement mixer. So much so that he repeatedly thanks his grandmother: Push, push. "Thank you, Grandma!" Push, push, turn mixer barrel, turn mixer barrel. "Thank you, Grandma!"

A few nights later, Max is going to bed accompanied by, among others, his cement mixer. Katie is getting him tucked in (yes, he's in is big-boy bed now. More on that later) and he says, "Thank you for the cement mixer, Grandma!"

"Max, I don't think Grandma can hear you. She's in her house."

Max promptly stands up and walks over to the northern-most wall of his room. Which, interestingly enough, is the wall closest to his grandmother's house. He begins to knock softly on the wall. Knock, knock, knock. "Grandma?" Knock, knock, knock. "Thank you for the cement mixer, Grandma!" Knock, knock, knock. "Grandma, are you in there?"

Before you get the idea that the talking Max is all fun and games, today, he also ran off with my lawn and leaf bags while simultaneously chastising me for trying to rake up "his" leaf pile. Even that was pretty cute, though.

Miles Cracks Up

2008-10-29T08:12:00.000-05:00

Get Your Own Spatula

2008-10-19T22:41:00.002-05:00

Miles, having mastered The Art of the Fork, has moved onto your larger utensils. I guess holding Miles while I flipped pancakes the other day was a mistake.

Pay No Attention to Those Kids Behind the Curtain!

2008-10-09T23:25:00.004-05:00

A casual peruser of this blog may be lead (by my careful manipulation) to believe that we lead a mighty idyllic life here Casa Papa de los bebes. Unlike other father bloggers who tend to let it all hang out there, I like to think of myself as, like, the Colonel Parker to my boys' Elvis. I'm out there at the shows, selling 8x10 glossies and vetting non threatening movie scripts. Case and point: Here are are two brain-meltingly cute brothers, sharing a playful bath together. Look at the sweet face of Max, smiling as his brother gazes upon him with pure adulation. It's a little slice of heaven!

The truth, though, my friends, is a titch uglier:

What? You Can't Post 'Cause You're on Vacation?

2008-10-06T22:50:00.003-05:00

For the first time in a couple of years, I had a non-baby related vacation. To be accurate, I had, like, five days off. Which, I can tell you, does no a vacation make. What had had in mind: late fall beer drinking, time with the boys, unstructured play time followed by more drinking, was abruptly cut short by a mighty "Thump!" near my feet resting on the coffee table. At first, I thought Katie had dropped a new Minneapolis yellow pages down so I could get my feet higher, more comfortable. I looked closer at the stack of paper and noticed the top page was blank except for the words "Daddy's To-Do List".

The only thing I can say about my vacation, really, is that tilling with a tiller is much harder than I remember.

Here are Max and Miles checking to see if my grading job on the side of our house is up to code. Soil samples dug and eaten by both children confirm that, due to their excellent supervision, we have improved drainage. When you do do the grading, by the way, it is important to have a small wooden excavator, a small plastic dump truck, and a hot wheels car. You just never know when you're going to need to race away from your job site!

So Close, So Very, Very Close

2008-09-17T22:26:00.004-05:00

See, I can almost taste the beer I'll be drinking while I sit in a chair or swing in a hammock. Max'll come by, grunting and sweating, face red from effort. One finger will unwrap while the other three remain gripped around the neck of the bottle, beaded with condensation: "You missed a spot," gesturing generally towards some other end of the yard.

If he says anything it will be made clear to him, the city boy, with his little square of green that needs all of a fifteen minute shave, what it's like to spend hours behind the wheel of a John Deere, your sweat pooling into the yellow vinyl seat. Growing up in rural North Dakota had its benefits what with the fresh air and the square miles of dirt and trees and creeks I had as my own, personal playground. But, damn if they didn't go and turn a good bit of that into lawn that had to be mowed. So there I was, solving the world's problems to the endless zen-roar of the Briggs & Stratton, mowing just a little too well. Word of my surgical-like mowing spread across the land and soon I was mowing my Grandmother's lawns as well. What did any of these people ever do for me?!

So, Mr.Max, get me another beer and make another pass before I decide the garage needs cleaning. Besides, you think we're going to play catch on an unmanicured lawn? We're better than that!

Robert Bly What Hath You Wrought?

2008-09-11T23:33:00.002-05:00

As if poor Katie could feel any more marginalized in this house full of men, right after our little "Iron John" moment, Max got up and asked if we could get matching codpieces made for the three us, us three men.

In an attempt to comfort Katie, I firmly explained to Max the Ninties were over, and plopped him down in front of some really old, Tivo'd eps of "Queer Eye". He was back to his sleeve "zusching" ways in no time.

All Your Sand Castle Are Belong to Max

2008-09-10T23:26:00.004-05:00

Back when summer was in full swing, we took our first, big family trip up to Pop-Pop and Gange's cabin in the northern woods of Wisconsin. Much like my thoughts leading into Fatherhood, none of my darkest fears came to fruition: the boys traveled well. On the way home, Max spent two hours with excavators who, voiced by him, quietly moved earth or solved crimes or something. Miles just did his Miles thing in the car seat.

It was a weekend of firsts: Max roasted his first marshmallow, took his first boat ride, saw his first frog in the wild and built his first sand castle. Then he knocked it down.

As we've noted, Max loves to knock stuff down. At first it was all for fun, but eventually, as I my castles became more and more elaborate, I tried a variety of reinforcing techniques. I knew we had reached an unhealthy stage when I began to imagine Max was an Orc trying to breech the walls of Helm's Deep.

For me, the weekend was a reality check on my childhood growing up at my grandmother's cabin. Here I was, worried about two nights in the modern luxury of Pop-Pop's Sub-Zero'd, Viking stove'd, super spacious lake home.

When I was a kid, at our peak, the grandchildren numbered eight between 10 years and a few months old and we were all together for a week or two! Everybody crammed into little rooms and small beds tucked into corners or porches with their babies and the one (ONE!) bathroom. We fed all these people joyously and gloriously from a tiny kitchen that, for some completely inexplicable reason was carpeted. Carpeted with brown and white SHAG CARPET. SHAG! It was a big ol' cabin built with one thing in mind: eating some breakfast, getting outside and being outside until you were so tired you didn't care where you slept. And you slept even though those screwy adults played raucous games of bridge until dawn. I do not know how my parents or my Aunts and Uncles did it. Except for the year my Uncle wouldn't let us watch "Sheriff Lobo" and we mounted a full protest, marching with signs and shouting slogans in the driveway out by the main road, I don't remember a whole lot of tension.

I suppose it had something to do with all those cases of Special Ex I'd help my grandma unload from the trunk of her Royale 88 in the days leading up to reunions.

Anyway, we had a helluva good time up at grandpa and grandma's cabin, even if their kitchen is missing the shag carpet.

Delayed Gratification

2008-09-07T23:05:00.003-05:00

A lot of people are compulsive shoppers. While most of them get their fix from QVC or Wal-Mart; Grandma Carol, though, snorts a higher grade of consuming cocaine. Rather than dropping a wad at the Dollar Store, Mom will swing through the Walker Art Center or lose control at the high-end wall at Costco's liquor store.So while my Mother tries to have fun by giving in to her psychosis, her Grandson, Miles, discovered the joys of tantric non-grabbing of the funky pepper grinder.

Do Not Be Deceived

2008-09-03T21:41:00.002-05:00

Oh,look at the at the sweet, little angel baby, reaching out to gently cup another flower of the world. Look how the sweet, little angel baby takes the flower into his precious hand as if he were holding a cloud or another sweet, little angel baby.

Oh, oh! But the sweet, little angel baby is just grabbing the flower! Augh! He's eating it! He's laughing evil laughter while he eats it! He hates these flowers! Devil baby! This is a devil baby!

In short, we are not so very worried about the Miles baby's motor function. This child is so fast, every time he reaches for something, you hear a little karate movie sound effect of a very fast action: woooOOO-TASH! Setting this kid down anywhere is accompanied by the "Perimeter Sweep Alert!". Put him down and you have to give a hearty "Bah-WHOOP! Bah-WHOOOP! Bah-WHOOOP!" while you clear away anything that could be squeezed through fingers, stuck in the mouth or rubbed about the hair and cute onesie.

Who knew that angels were like so many gentle, little Waco Kids?

How Much Food can a Max-Chuck Chuck?

2008-09-01T21:36:00.005-05:00

So, really, while the Minnesota State Fair remains close to its agrarian roots, what with its rows and rows of jars of seeds and honey, some with first or second place ribbons; and a building filled with everything that could possibly grow from a seed in the ground and then be judged.

That's not to mention the kids who come from all over the state with their horses, cows and bacons. . . pigs! I mean pigs. All those kids who sleep next to their animals' stalls and hope that the judge doesn't go all political on them just 'cause the kid in the next pen is from some hoity-toity 4H club.

While all that is true, the reason you go to the fair is to pay five dollars for numerous things served on a stick, five dollars for Sweet Martha's cookies, five dollars for fried cheese curds, five dollars for lemonade, five dollars for ice cream, five dollars for french fries, and ten dollars for parking.

What makes it worth it, though, is one: desensitizing Miles to bright lights, loud noises, and carnies. And, two, paying five dollars for a soft pretzel only to have Max pretend it's a steering wheel while he eats it. Oh, and two bucks to go on Max's first carousel ride with him.

Love the fair!

1 and 1/10 Houses

2008-08-30T22:38:00.003-05:00

In an effort to make Max more electable, we're trying to up the number houses we own. Doing this within our budget meant scaling back a little. Max didn't seem to mind. He settled right in. After unpacking his boxes and hanging his art, he took time fix his old man a little something.

After a few minutes of putzing around the old place, Max suddenly appeared in his doorway, "Daddy want Coca-Cola?"

"Uh, sure, Max, I'll have a Coca-Cola. Thanks."

"Max make Daddy Coca-Cola." And he headed back into his casa.

I didn't see any rum or limes in his new house but, somehow, I put on an excited face for my young son.

Max reappeared at the door and held out his hand, "Here, Daddy!"

I thanked him for the Coke, sipped my imaginary drink and was just thankful he didn't quite have the vocabulary to offer me the requisite tour.

Hat is a Ba and Ba is Hat

2008-08-14T22:44:00.002-05:00

Do you suppose that being this age is kind of like being really, really buzzed and with a lot of good friends? You're not quite so drunk that you're done making sense but you're whizzed enough to be just a little outside of yourself. You feel safe with your friends and totally unselfconscious so, really, it would make sense that every idea that comes into your head is THE GREATEST AND FUNNIEST IDEA EVER.

In fact, currently, Max is fond of proceeding statements with, "I have idea!" He'll put his hand to his chin or cheek like he's seriously considering something. Usually what follows is not too deep. He'll put his hand down and exclaim, "Max have ice cream bar!"

And, in fact, putting Ba on Max's head like a hat was Katie's idea. Max, though, could not be convinced that it wasn't the greatest thing that had ever happened to him.

The rest of the shots from this session are here. If there were a Richter Scale of cute, the needles would be scratching wildly at the top of the paper while nervous scientists gaped in wonder. Proceed at your own risk.

Somebody's Really, Really Ready for Solid Food

2008-08-12T22:41:00.001-05:00

So, what? At this pace, he's gonna be into steaks and popcorn by Christmas.

Somebody's Ready for Solid Food

2008-08-08T23:11:00.002-05:00

As we know, walking is not so very high on Miles' priority list. Eating, however, is a major preoccupation. Early on, while he was eating, the youngest one would look around and lunge for the closest thing that looked edible. To Miles, this would be, uh, well, everything. The boy won't acknowledge his feet but he'll break your wrist as he uses his body weight to bogart your burrito.

Miles is Ready for his MJQ Audition

2008-08-07T23:53:00.002-05:00

Milt Jackson has always been one my faves. He was more of a two-mallet guy. Miles is blowing out the jams with four mallets! It's kinda like how two blades in your razor used to be enough, you know?

Who is this Kid?

2008-08-07T23:00:00.003-05:00

While National Night Out '08 (much to Max's chagrin) was not quite like last year's root beer float-soaked vice parade, we still got to see Max become a new Max-like Max.

This is year three for us and the neighbs so uncomfortable silences and awkward pauses are pretty much at a minimum. While we chatted up a storm, Max took about a seven second pause before he ran off with a group of kids. The rest of the evening, we'd see Max, half a block away, throwing a ball, watching some bigger kids do something super-cool or pushing someone in a go-kart. Every so often, he'd run by where we were sitting, wave, "Hi!" And keep going.

Perspective slam: Now, when I was 23, I went to Mexico to take some Spanish classes and I didn't come home for almost two years. There must've been something really wrong with my parents. Extrapolating my feelings about Max two houses away at two and a half years of age over the next 30 years means I'll be ready for him to get on the school bus when he's 19.

He can save this go-kart for when I'm ready for him to drive. . . in 2030!!

Holy Crap! I Have Feet!

2008-08-02T22:03:00.001-05:00

If a guy were forced to find the negative attributes of Miles, he might first point to the youngest one's total slacker tendencies. Tendencies most directly evidenced by Miles' lack of desire to stand, jump or generally admit that he has legs at all.

While his cousin, who is just a month older, wows the crowd with her almost walking, Miles leans up against a chair, blows smoke rings, and shrugs with half-lidded eyes that reek of unimpressed boredom. He's like a cat watching a dog do tricks.

Until we snapped this photo, the most Miles would do in the Jump-Up is sway back and forth, the tops of his feet dragging across the floor, Cro-Magnon style. Yesterday, though, he slapped the soles of his feet on the hardwood and gave a couple of half-hearted pumps of his piernas.

Overcome by his exertion, he lolled forward and drooled while he watched his brother watch Curious George.

Max-Pan Alley

2008-07-31T12:41:00.003-05:00

Three of the few constants 'round these parts are: 1. Pancakes, 2. Music and 3. Reading. Today the seemingly disparate topics came together and the result was, of course, high comedy.

Lately, Max has been turning pretty much anything he picks up into a guitar. This happened after Aurelio was over and, while Some Girls was cranked on the stereo, he jumped from couch to couch, air guitar-ing, while Max (as usual) watched in awe. So now, Max'll pick up any toy: a pillow; a stick, start strumming it and say, "Guitar! Max playing guitar!"

Just before the time Miles was to arrive, we got a book for Max about being a big brother. One of the key pages in the book, titled appropriately enough "I'm a Big Brother Now!", talks about how the baby is "too little to walk, too little to talk, to little to eat pizza, apples or ice cream". Establishing how cool it is to be big and a brother because, duh, you can do these things.

So today, after a hearty breakfast of five bites of pancake, the family was chillin' on the living room floor. Miles sucking on a lego, Mom watching, Max being random while Dad was cleaning up the kitchen (a little and poorly).

"Dad, come in here," I hear Katie say.

I walk in and there's Max, standing in front of Miles and Mommy, holding a torn pancake to his chest, strumming away wildly.

"Max, what's the song you were singing to Miles?"

Max gives the pancake a strum and belts out in his breathy, two year-old falsetto: "Miiiilllllless! Toooo liiitllle toooo waaaaalk! Tooooo liitllllle tooooooo taaaaaaalk!" (Out of breath now) "Miles! Toooo little toooo ice creeeeaaammm!"

Just when you thought it couldn't get any cuter or funnier, the boy pauses in his strumming and nonchalantly reaches down, rips off a chunk of pancake and stuffs it in his mouth.

My son. My hero, the eating musician who loves his brother.

Comfortable with his Masculinity

2008-07-31T06:56:00.003-05:00

"Yes. Yes, I am wearing lipstick. What are you gonna do about it?"

He got into Katie's purse on his own but, considering how much she wants a little girl, I'm betting this was a set-up from the get-go: "Max, I just put Mommy's purse there, on the floor. I have some lovely shades of lipstick in there. Please don't be all cute and pretend to put them on your face. I'm just going to walk into the other room now. Be good!"

It was like letting Curious George loose in the banana factory.

Trouble be Doubled

2008-07-29T22:54:00.004-05:00

Mad props are due to Grandpa TR and Grandma Sylvia. They ponied up for the Porsche of baby joggers. You grip the handle bar on this thing and a little voice whispers in your ear: "Ruunnn with meeee!" I assume the voice in your head would be different once there's 45 pounds of babies loaded up in there. Something along the lines of "What the F was I thinking? Jogging with babies?!"

No worries, though, it shan't be me thinking those thoughty thoughts as I'm not the coo-coo bird that jogs in this house. That would be Mommy. The most exercise I've gotten in the last two years is how ever many calories you burn while staring longingly at road bikes while you iron clothes for work.

Whatever the case, the jogger has made Katie very happy. Max likes to run around it; Miles likes to sit in it; and neighbor dog, Lucy, likes to scratch herself near it. So, thanks to Pop-Pop and Gange!

Where's my Balabuska!??!

2008-07-27T22:20:00.003-05:00

The game of pool has wound some weird, clackity-clack thread into the life of Max. Some of my earliest memories are of wandering around Stu's, the bar at the crossroads near my Uncle's house in Wisconsin. Stu's was the hub of activity 'round those parts for everything from turtle races to posting deer hunting stats. My Dad and Uncle Bill would sidle up the bar, forget they had kids and the barmaids would pump quarters into the pool tables so that the shorties could bounce balls around on the table. Too short for sticks, we'd just bounce balls around with our hands until they were sunk. Stu's also had one of those awesome bowling games where you'd slide a puck at actual pins down a mini lane. That was when I realized getting quarters off the old man was like getting blood from a stone, regardless of Blatz consumed.

Something about the table has always drawn me in: the felt, the sticks, the geometry. In college, before we were legal, many a night was passed in the basement of the union with cue in hand. Then, after close, we'd move to the basement of our dorm. My first Christmas break from college was spent in the rec room at my Grandma's condo playing pool by myself or whoever happened in. CNN on the TV and snow whizzing past the 15th floor windows. Later, a gang of us ceramics freaks would drink and shoot stick after an evening clay class. The same gang was super-impressed by said grandmother's lake cabin, replete with a table within falling distance of a fridge. We spent a week, half-naked in a heat wave, kicking each other's asses. Katie and I partly fell in love playing loads of eight-ball.

Pool, I guess, has always meant family and romance to me. So here's Max, really, really loving the game while we visit Smokey at the long-gone Alzheimer's floor. Perfect 'cause, if not for Smoke, there'd be no hippie Uncle in the boonies of Wisconsin and no fabulous cabin up Nort'. It kind of felt like sinning, letting the kid up on the table like this. Hopefully, by the time he has to face Fast Eddie Felson, he'll be broken of that habit.

Stepping on a Lego in the Dark

2008-07-25T06:31:00.003-05:00

If you were to ask my Dad about our childhood, about all the great memories from our days of youth: the games of "catch"; the Saturday mornings spent laughing together at Bugs Bunny, et al; unloading a trailer of hay bales for my sister's stupid horse, Toby, in the late September heat and Dad hitting his head on the door frame because we were standing in the trailer, throwing bales, and his head going all "I'm in the WWF and I just got hit in the head with a folding chair".

Woah, woah! Now why is that page starred as "good day" in my journal? Oh, ha-ha, yes. It is because, right after he hit his head, Dad said "stupid horse" right to my sister's face. Ok, that part is not true.

But, so, if you were to ask my Dad about his least favorite part of our childhood (aside from the pathological lying which, obviously, continues to this day) he would say the above words to you: "Stepping on a Lego in the Dark". I'm here to tell you that seeing the old man step on a Lego in the daytime was not a sign that you were going to have a good day, I'm assuming I've just blocked out the post "night of the Lego" days.

I think, though, that my Dad's trauma associated with the Legos has less to do with messy, irresponsible, ill-begotten, Lego-leaving-behind, punks (his words, not mine!) and more to do the absolutely and totally unfortunate decoration choices of the people who had our home before us. People who had re-decorated in the late Sixties/Early Seventies. People who liked shag carpet, blue, and dark wood paneling. Most offensive, had to be the living room shag which, if you look in your J. Crew color guide, could only be described as "puke". The Legos were like velociraptors, melding with their surroundings. Ready to jump under unsuspecting feet as they stomped by.

So there's your perfect storm: kids, Legos, and camouflaging shag.

Thankfully, Katie and I have slightly better taste in floor-coverings.

Photo note: I have no idea why we subscribe to Money Magazine as we have none and if we did, it would just get spent on shoes.

Planning? Why Would You Think We're Planning Anything?

2008-07-17T22:16:00.004-05:00

The fun is beginning. Within the last few days, Max and Miles have had interactions that have gone beyond: Miles playing (sucking on until hand and toy are slimy with spit)with toy in exersaucer/jump up/on floor. Max walks by. Max jerks toy away. Miles has a coniption. Max tosses toy back in Miles' general direction and continues on way.

Now we're getting conspiratorial looks and suspicious giggling. They're kind of in the "otter" phase of their relationship. Before long, they'll be lying on their backs, rocks in hand, cracking open crustaceans on their stomachs. We'd be more concerned if it weren't so damn cute. Also, most of this still ends with Max yanking a toy away from Miles and the accompanying coniption fit.

Who Knew?

2008-07-17T10:37:00.002-05:00

In another lifetime, in a galaxy far, far away, I knew my hammocks. Well, actually, some Canadian dude knew a lot about hammocks and while we found ways to pass the time at our mega-hippie campground (this was years before they put in a pool, thank you very much) outside of the ruins at Palenque, he laid the knowledge on me. Lawrence! That was his name. One of those guys you run into while you're traveling in Mexico: bearded, wizened, and totally unencumbered by the realities of everyday life. He was like a Buddhist crossed with a teenager. He had what was basically the Cadillac Escalade of hammocks: a huge, finely woven number that could easily fit two people and - wait for it - was made from silk.

While I did end up spending a lot of time in my not-nearly-as-nice-as-Lawrence's hammock, I never had a reaction quite Miles does to hammock-topia. It must be the horse blanket.

Happy Monday Morning, Everyone!

2008-07-14T05:10:00.002-05:00

Per our policy not to discuss the boy named Miles, I can't say much more other than: Here is a picture, a picture of Miles, being his typical irrepressible self. Barred from saying anything too positive about the youngest one, I can tell you that, disturbingly, during this photo shoot, each time the camera pointed away from him, he started to fuss. Somehow, he can probably sense how out of balance the Max-to-Miles "gigs of jpegs" ratio is on our computer and he's trying to carve out some hard drive space for himself.

That or he's a ham. It couldn't be that, could it?

My Wife is Amazing

2008-07-08T05:17:00.003-05:00

This has been another edition of "My Wife is Amazing".

Miles Loves Hisself Some Toot Humor

2008-07-07T22:29:00.002-05:00

I "joke" a fair amount about making sure these boys grow up to prosperous and healthy members of society, i.e: not like their ne'er-do-well, sell-out of a Father. Oh, and these people.

To combat the artistic tendencies with which they've been undoubtedly saddled, I've been leaving HVAC and Plumbing textbooks around in place of all the Eric Carle and Mo Willems books. They're not as colorful or funny, but they're much more edifying.

HowEVER, if turning them away from intellectual, aesthetic pursuits means I've got to sit through a real-life version of Idiocracy, I'm bringing the Art Theory books back out.

On a slightly related note, while Max, like his blogged about brethren, is not so much into all things Fourth of July-ish. It was an opportunity to teach Max how to say "blooow my miiiind!" very dramatically. As in: "These fireworks are going to blooow my miiiind" Then, after about the third explosion, Max's mind was, in fact, blown and I walked back to the car with a totally traumatized kid clinging to me. It took about 15 minutes to weave our way back through a minor throng of sparkler-wielding kids and parents while the big show kept going above us. Poor Max probably wasn't too impressed by my rescue skills. SWAT-Dad I am not.

Toe my Show! To Ma Shoe! Tomah Sho'!

2008-07-05T18:49:00.005-05:00

My very first real job, gotten the summer of 1986, was bussing tables at the finest restaurant that Wahpeton, ND could offer: Kelly's Fine Dining. It was right down the road from the drive-in movie theatre, next door to the bowling alley and owned by a funny Greek guy named George, who ran the place with his inexplicably hot, young North Dakotan-born wife named, of course, Joy. Due to my lack of perspective, working there had been a dream of mine for a few years and so, there I was.

Even though my family had been going to Kelly's for years, when I first started working, I had no freaking idea what George was saying to me for the first couple of weeks. Interpreting George had additional points for difficulty: he pretty much had a mild case of Tourette's. So, basically, you're 16 years old, at a new, your first job, and your new boss comes up to you and gives you what sounds like an order in a crazy thick Greek accent all while snorting, adjusting his tie and swearing a couple of times.

It took a few months but, eventually, I came to understand George as if he spoke perfect English.

All these posts about Max talking get a new twist when we run into someone who doesn't spend as much time with the boy as we do. Which is pretty much everyone. Max says, quite clearly, to our neighbor, "Hi! Today, with my parents, I went in my mother's car, to see the excavators near Costco, where my Father works." What our neighbor hears is: "Ni-Ni! Aggle Flaggle Plaggle Snurp!!" Katie and I stand there with these proud looks on our faces. What a complex sentence! We look at our neighbor and she's standing there with a look that says, "Uh, what the F did your kid just say?"

He's our little Greek restaurateur, stuck in the wilds of Eastern North Dakota.

Here's a video of Max making absolutely no sense at all. It's some catch phrase that he's been repeating. And don't ask me how the mini kung fu ties in. He's headed for his own 36th chamber, I guess.

And I Shall Call Him "Brick"

2008-07-04T00:50:00.000-05:00

Walks have become a pretty regular thing for the boy and I. On my days off, he'll propose, generally, that we go for a walk two or three times. So, a couple of times a day, we'll go traipsing off for some good old fashioned neighborhood recon.

Usually, we're doing important things like counting ants, checking sand-pile quality, observing that, yes, there is a guy going by on a motorcycle. This data must be recorded! And, truly, there are fewer things more idyllic than walking around with Max on my shoulders while he gets pumped about parked motorcycles, our long, early evening shadows tracking across the front and back yards of South Minneapolis.

The other day, heading home, Max was up on my shoulders when he started a little list:

"I Allie. I Mommy. I Kay."

"Max, what are you doing?"

"I Miles."

"Max, are you talking about people you love?"

"Yeah." ("Yeah" has now replaced "NnnnnnnN" as an affirmative response.)

"I 'ove Mommy. I 'ove Daddy." Ls are an issue for the boy.

"I 'ove big cars. I 'ove little cars. I 'ove plants."

I couldn't help but notice his list had gone a little off what we'd call charmingly cute and veered towards crazy love affair with the whole world.

"I 'ove tree. I 'ove guy." Now I see there's a dude crossing the street up ahead on the block.

"Max, are you just talking about all the stuff you see right now?"

"Yeah."

Great. My kid is Brick Tamland

Wood Chips are the New Eleven

2008-07-02T23:27:00.004-05:00

Max and the neighbor dog, Lucy have grown pretty close as the summer progresses. At first, when we'd pull up in the car, Max, before getting out of the car seat would query, "Lucy not outside?" Once it was confirmed that the offending Labrador was not outside, he would happily exclaim, "Lucy notoutside!" And comfortably trot to the house. All this, of course, was based on irrational kid-brain fear, as Lucy as never met a molecule she wouldn't lick and call a friend.

Now, every time Lucy is outside, she and Max share special moments through the chain-link fence that separates their yards. Max will hold his hand and giggle madly while Lucy licks it; Max will find a good chewing stick in our yard and pass it to Lucy; Max will turn to Frankie and ask, "Seriously, why can't you be fun like this?"

Recently, we've had Lucy over for a visit or two which culminate in Max screaming with absolute glee while Lucy tears around the yard, buzzing past Max in a full-tilt tear. "Lucy fast!" Max observes once he's caught his breath. Frankie tolerates all this with an occasional Grandpa Simpson-esque bark that says, "Whipper-snapper!!"

Here's Max trying to interest Lucy in an alternative to plain, old, boring just water.