Every year in North Carolina, busloads of elementary and middle school children take fields trips to landmarks like the Biltmore House and the Chinqua Penn Plantation. And every year, busloads of elementary and middle school children are bored out of their gourds. 
Another popular destination on the North Carolina field trip circuit is Old Salem, a look at life in an 18th century settlement. It's kind of like Williamsburg, Virginia, but without the cool roller coasters.
I went to Old Salem once during a field trip in middle school and have only one real memory from that day. I vaguely recall the old buildings and the people dressed in Colonial garb. You want to know what I remember most from that day?
Making out with Maddie in the back of the school bus.
Yeah, I'm pretty shallow.
But I can't be the only one. Maybe I've always been too much of a redneck, but nothing at Old Salem (other than Maddie) held my attention. I was twelve years old. I didn't care about blacksmiths, powdered wigs, and quill pens. None of my sexual fantasies involved Colonial women. Or milkmaids. Hell, my sexual fantasies at age twelve just simply revolved around Sex: The Act.
My point? I think it's useless taking kids on field trips to landmarks like the ones I mentioned above. I don't believe showing twelve-year-olds an old building or some dork dressed in knickers has any educational value. They won't truly appreciate such places until they're much older. If the kids aren't totally bored, they're stifling snickers or making out on the bus (or far worse -- it is 2008 now). Rev up the bus and take the children to science museums, art museums, and prisons. Places that will hold their attention. Places where they can will actually learn a thing or two.
The coffee pot in the photos stands just outside the entrance to Old Salem. The pot is twelve feet tall and has a circumference of sixteen feet. Pretty freaking big. Want to learn more about the giant coffee pot? Of course you do. Or would you rather make out with Maddie instead?
Song of the day: Sex On Wheels by My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult
Culture Is Wasted On The Young
The Perfect Gift For A Two-Year-Old Boy
Today is Zed's second birthday but we celebrated on Sunday. We had a low-key family affair at our house.
He had a B-L-A-S-T!!! He was giggling and running around the house the entire time. Ella made little chocolate figurines of Jack, Mary, and Mel from Jack's Big Music Show for his cake.
Zed received lots of cool gifts: dinosaurs, cars, and lots of musical instruments (a harmonica, maracas, egg shakers, a tambourine, a kazoo, basically anything that makes a lot of noise). BOY TOYS! It beats the hell out of seeing piles of pink princess crap.
And he also received a lap harp.
A lap harp, as the name implies, is a harp that rests on your lap. Zed really loves to pluck the strings on his sister's guitar, but it's too big for him to pick up. We really wanted to buy him a ukulele for his birthday, but we couldn't find one at a toy store (we didn't want to shell out the bucks for the real thing because there was a good chance it would have ended up in a million pieces within a month). So we settled on a lap harp.
Something tells me he might be the only two-year-old kid in town with a lap harp.
But that wasn't the weirdest gift he received. The Nap Nazis, who showed up forty-five minutes late (for those of you too lazy to click on the link, they're my brother and sister-in-law who refuse to let anything stand in the way of their child's nap), gave Zed a Bible.
What the hell? Even if I were a deeply religious person, I would be offended because I feel that should be a gift parents should give to their child.
Something tells me he might be the only two-year-old kid in town with a lap harp and a Bible. If you'd like to book him for your next revival, let me know.
Happy Birthday, Little Guy!
Update: For those of you who were interested, we bought the lap harp at Toys "R" Us. It was made by First Act and was around $20. It's very simple (only eight strings (but that's two more than his sister's guitar)) and he loves it. It's badly out of tune (I haven't gotten around to tuning it yet) but he doesn't seem to mind.
Song of the day: I Want Your Love by Transvision Vamp
Parenting Tips For The Overly Neurotic: Birthday Parties
I've been a stay-at-home dad now for a little over four years. Along the way, I've picked up some knowledge that may be useful to others. Think of it as Parent Hacks for the neurotic and cynical. Today, I'm sharing three tips that can help provide a stress-free birthday party for your child.
A. Unless you happen to enjoy migraines, never have a birthday party for your child in a public place.
By this I mean places like Chuck E. Cheese's, McDonald's, or any of the build-a-stuffed-companion stores that do not close their doors to the general public just because you're having a birthday party (unless you've got Oprah money (of course, then you probably don't have your child's birthday party at places like Chuck E. Cheese's, McDonald's, or any of the build-a-stuffed-companion stores (and you're not reading this site, either))).Today, we went to a birthday party where children can create a stuffed animal (hint: rhymes with Killed-A-Pair). The line to create a stuffed animal spilled out into the mall. It was insane. Luckily, we had our own stuffer (not nearly as fun as it sounds) so we didn't have to wait in line with the customers. Still, the party-goers were confined in a hallway that led to the stockroom for most of the party.
They really should've provided alcohol for the adults.
B. Always make sure the place where you're having a birthday party actually has a place where you can have a birthday party.
This sounds like common knowledge, right? You'd be surprised.After the kids created their animals, it was time for cake and presents. Guess what? Despite the fact the store advertises parties, Killed-A-Pair didn't have a separate party room. So we all headed up to the mall's food court to have the birthday party. There's nothing like having your child blow out the candles in front of crabby shoppers, other people's whiny children, and wannabe-thug teenagers. Fun stuff!
C. Never have a birthday party in a mall during the holiday shopping season.
Unless you like circling the parking lot for hours looking for a spot within a mile from the mall and dealing with throngs of cranky people. Then by all means, knock yourself out!Disclaimer: The last time I wrote a parenting tip, I was reamed for single-handedly killing all the animals in the world so you should probably be advised to ignore everything I wrote in this post.
Related:
Parenting Tips For The Overly Neurotic: Balloons
Chump
I like to think of myself as fairly intelligent (thought it might not always come off that way on this site) and somewhat street-smart. But despite this, sometimes people can take advantage of me.
Case in point:
This afternoon, I took Zoey and Zed over to the home of one of Zoey's preschool chums for a playdate. Zoey and Becky are inseparable through the week at school. Plus, Becky has a little sister a few months older than Zed.
When we arrived, Alice, Becky's mother, stayed with us in the playroom for a few minutes. She then asked if it was ok if she made a phone call for work (she runs some Avon-ish business out of her home). I told her, "No problem."
Thirty minutes later, she came back into the room. "Sorry about that," she said. She played with the children for about ten minutes before excusing herself to answer the telephone.
Twenty minutes later, she came back into the room. "Sorry about that," she said. She played with the children for about fifteen minutes before asking if it was ok if she put a pot roast in the oven. I told her, "No problem."
Forty minutes later, I decided that it was time to head home. I looked through the house and finally found her outside, sweeping her front porch. The hell? I thanked her for letting us come over (had to be polite (despite wanting to scream at her with every ounce of my being); I'll be seeing these people at the pickup/dropoff lines four days a week for the next six months). "We should do this again sometime," she exclaimed as I was putting the kids in the car. "Sure," I replied. But next time, you're paying me $25 an hour. I may be stupid and can be easily taken advantage of, but I don't come cheap.
So in conclusion:
- Alice got some time to herself to catch up on her work, do a little housekeeping, and prepare dinner. With free babysitting.
- Alice's husband came home to a nice meal.
- And I got ganked. Although I did find out I'm perfectly capable of single-handedly taking care of four children.
Down On The Farm
Despite the fact that there are those of you who think I look like a rapist, a drug dealer, someone posing for a mug shot, Charles Manson, or, even worse, Robert Downey Jr., I was allowed to be a chaperone on my daughter's preschool field trip. So bite me.
Yesterday, we headed off to E. coli Happy Times Farm and Petting Zoo. The teachers put me in the same minivan as the Wild Boys, hoping that they would listen to me because I was a guy. As if. I was not an authority figure in these children's eyes. I was not their parents. I was not their teachers. I was a glorified substitute teacher. And even four-year-olds know you're supposed to torture substitutes. It wouldn't have mattered if I was male, female, or somewhere in between, they wouldn't have listened to me. And they didn't.
Armed with empty threats and a 55-gallon drum of Purell, we ventured into the farm. The kids had a great time. They were able to pet cows, pigs, horses, goats, turtles, sheep, llamas, and donkeys. They were also able to see ostriches, emus, chickens, and a camel. But I learned something yesterday.
Four-year-olds? Have no survival skills whatsoever.
If we were like other creatures and set our offspring into the wild after a few months (or even a few years), we would be extinct. I watched countless children try to feed their fingers to horses instead of petting them on top of their noses.
I saw a small boy charge at a fenced ostrich (at least he wasn't a total moron; the ostrich was a baby so it was about his size). The ostrich saw him and went charging at him. I was halfway across the field, so all I could do was think, "Here comes an ER trip." But luckily, a mom came in and swooped up the boy before a fight broke out.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to teach Zoey some survival skills. You'd think having a little brother would teach her to keep her fingers away from animals' mouths. No such luck.
It's All Fun And Games Until Someone (Almost) Loses An Eye
Zoey turned four years old on Saturday. I know what you're thinking. Dude? Your daughter turned four on Saturday and you're just now writing about it? What kind of daddyblogger are you? I suck. I'll turn in my membership card and forget the secret handshake, okay?
Last year, we had a three-day celebration to mark the occasion. This year, we decided to go a little more low-key and do everything in one day. We went to Krispy Kreme for breakfast (shut up, it was her birthday!) and then came home so she could open her gifts.
Like last year, we had her birthday party at Pump It Up. We tried to bribe threaten encourage her to have it somewhere (ANYWHERE!) else, but everyone in her little clique has their birthday parties there, so she had to have her party there as well. Follower.
There were twenty-nine kids at her birthday party. I know. Just a tad excessive. But once you invite the preschool class, a few kids from the neighborhood, a few kids from the gymnastics class, relatives, children of our friends, and a few random siblings from the aforementioned groups, you suddenly have TWENTY-NINE kids.
Next year, in lieu of invitations, we're just placing an ad in the newspaper.
The party was going great until I noticed Beth crying in her mother's arms. I went over to investigate. "I CAN'T SEE! I CAN'T SEE!" she was screaming. She refused to open her eye. So I went to the other room and made an ice pack for her. I sat with Beth and her mother for about five minutes until we decided a trip to the emergency room might be in order.
I returned to the party and rode the slide with Zed until my father-in-law came running up to me. He had lost his cellular phone and assumed he had left it at the grocery store. He wanted me to walk around the store with him and call his phone number on my cellular phone in the hopes we would hear his phone ring. I had just spent the previous ten minutes pretending to be a doctor and he wanted me to leave my daughter's birthday party to help him find his cellular phone.
I gave him my cellular phone and wished him luck.
After they had jumped and pumped it up for ninety minutes, all the sweaty little creatures retired to the party room for cake. Beth returned to the party with ten minutes to spare. She had gauze wrapped around her head and eye. Apparently, someone had scratched her retina or cornea or some important part of her eye. But at least she came back for cake. What a trooper!
We have had five birthday parties for our children (four for Zoey, one for Zed). We've had two near-choking incidents and one scratched eye. That's a 60% failure rate. So I've decided that we're not having any more birthday parties for the kids. Either that or we just dress everyone in bubble wrap. There will be no eating, no playing, and no fun; just a bunch of bubble-wrapped kids sitting quietly.
And definitely no more Chuck E. Cheese's!
We took Zoey to Chuck E. Cheese's on Saturday night (donuts for breakfast and pizza for dinner; we suck). Chuck E. Cheese's is always crazy. But Saturday nights at Chuck E. Cheese's are a special kind of crazy. There were five official birthday parties (the ones where people actually reserve tables in front of the scary animatronic characters), three semi-official birthday parties (smaller parties with cake), and at least one semi-semi-official birthday party (us (no cake)).
You couldn't move in the place. There were unsupervised kids running wild everywhere! At one point, someone's baby crawled up to me. I calmly placed her in the Lost And Found box.
In all, I counted 824 kids running around the restaurant. And only twenty-seven parents. Is there some secret room in the back where the in-the-know parents hang out? They serve alcohol in that room, don't they?
God knows I could've used some.
GHS: 10
More Birthday Party Fun:
Zoeypalooza 2005 -- Day One
Zoeypalooza 2005 -- Day Two
Zoeypalooza 2005 -- Day Three
Of Princess Parties And Candle Fellatio
Because It's Not A Birthday Party Until You're Performing The Heimlich Maneuver
Zoey And The Amazing Multicultural Themed Camp
A few weeks ago...
Ella: I signed Zoey up for another summer camp.Me: Cool. Another art camp? A sports camp?
Ella: No. A multicultural camp.
Me: What does that mean?
Ella: It means she'll learn about different countries and cultures.
Me: She's three.
Ella: So?
Me: Couldn't she learn something that would be a little more useful to her right now?
Ella: I think this will be useful.
Me: Can't she go to Learn To Read Camp?
Ella: I think the multicultural camp will be fun.
Me: How about Learn To Tie Your Shoes Camp?
Ella: Are you done yet?
Yesterday...
We arrived at the church where the Multicultural Camp was held. We were walking through the building when we came across a woman wearing a white, flowing robe. "That's odd," I thought to myself as we exchanged smiles.When we came to the classroom, there were four women all wearing white, flowing robes. I thought I had stumbled upon a Polyphonic Spree jam session. "Christ," I thought. "This isn't a camp. It's a commune!"
Even though every instinct told me to run away, I gave Zoey a goodbye kiss and spoke with her teachers for a few minutes, trying to uncover their hidden hippie agenda. No luck.
I ran outside and phoned Ella.
Me: What the hell kind of camp did you sign Zoey up for?
Ella: A multicultural camp.
Me: It's run by hippies!
Ella: What are you talking about?
Me: Hippies! They're all wearing white robes!
Ella: I'm sure you're overreacting. As usual.
Me: No! I saw them!
Ella: Denise sent Rachel there last summer. She loved it.
Me: Is Denise a hippie?
Ella: No!
Me: I bet Rachel is now!
Today...
As we were driving home from Multicultural Camp, I noticed an overpowering scent in the car.It was a familiar scent.
It was a nauseating scent.
It was...
PATCHOULI!!!
Me: Zoey, did your teacher spray perfume on you?
Zoey: Yes, Daddy!
Me: grumble, mumble, grumble
Tomorrow...
If Zoey comes home with flowers in her hair or babbling about peace, love, and understanding, Daddy's gonna kick some hippie ass.And Now For Something Completely Different
I've got that music trivia contest going on if you're interested.
One Man's Trash Is Another Man's Castle
Update: Images have been added at the bottom per Brent's request.
This summer, we had wanted Zoey to attend an art camp sponsored by our city's Arts League. Like everything else, we waited until the last minute to act on it. Guess what? All the spots had already been filled with the children of non-slack parents.
So I abused my standing in the community, pulled a few strings, and got her into camp.
Ok. That's a lie. I have no standing in the community. Unless you count Village Idiot.
So I called them one day, crying frantically, and told them that three hours a day for a week might not seem like much to them, but for me it would mean I might survive the summer with my sanity intact. "PLEASE ENROLL MY DAUGHTER IN YOUR CAMP!" I screamed as I choked back the tears.
That's another lie. But don't think I wouldn't have resorted to such theatrics if I thought it would have helped my cause.
They placed us on the Wait List. Now we all know the Wait List is akin to being a child and having your parents tell you, "Maybe." Maybe, like the Wait List, is just a way of placating you for a while even though the eventual answer will be NO.
So you can imagine my surprise when the Arts League called several weeks ago to tell me they had enough interest to open another camp. They have three kids (counting Zoey) interested and wanted to know if we knew of anyone else that might be interested. We told them that one of Zoey's boy friends (two separate words) would love to take the class.
Last week, Zoey attended the camp. But the two kids the Arts League found never showed up, so it was just Zoey and her little friend for the entire week. Three teachers, two kids, one camp. That's how the rich people roll, right?
She loved the camp. She painted, drew, and colored all week. She made things out of clay. Every day when I went to pick her up, her shirt looked like a multicolor Shroud of Turin. Since the messier a kid gets is directly related to the amount of fun she's having, I knew she had a ball.
She made a superhero cape. Bugs out of clay. Several beautiful watercolors. We were quite pleased and impressed with everything she brought home.
Except her castle.
One day they made castles using found objects (layman's terms: trash). They painted cardboard boxes, packing peanuts, pieces of wood, and other such crap, and duct-taped them together to create castles. These monstrosities were about two feet wide and two feet tall. And since everything was duct-taped together, they weren't the most stable dwellings. Kind of like the first little pig's House of Straw.
Now, imagine carrying that thing, holding your daughter's hand, and pushing your son in a stroller through the downtown area of a medium-sized city. Now imagine a different piece falling off the castle every few feet, causing your daughter to cry because her castle was breaking apart and causing you to stop and try to duct-tape everything back together (the castle and your daughter's heart).
I wanted to burn the Arts League to the ground.
When we finally made it home, I put the castle on the top of our entertainment center. When Ella got home that evening, after she oohed and aahed over it, I told her, "You're either taking that thing to work with you or I'm throwing it in the trash. We have no room for it!"
"I love it! It can stay right where it is!"
"If you love it so much, take it to work with you!"
That was six days ago. Guess where it is? On top of the entertainment center.
And every few hours or so, a different piece of the castle falls off.
What do I do? I put my tail between my legs and carefully duct-tape it back together.
Front View
Rear View
Aerial View
GHS: 4
Friday Playdate
Today, Zed and I were in line to pick Zoey up from preschool, halfway through our Music Appreciation Class (today's lesson: New York Dolls), when I heard a tapping, as of some one gently rapping, rapping at my SUV door.
I almost went through the roof. Seriously.
It was Mrs. Baker, the mother of one of Zoey's classmates. Embarrassed (hey, I was just rockin' with Zed, screaming singing at the top of my lungs (the kid loves to watch me make an fool of myself for me to sing to him)), I rolled down my window.
She handed me a white faux-fur wrap and a tiara. "I think these belong to you," she said.
What? I'm not allowed to be Queen For A Day?
***
On Friday, Ella took the day off work. There was a huge-can't-miss-it consignment sale that morning. That afternoon was Zed's one-year checkup (he had the rotavirus at the time of his actual one-year checkup so we had to reschedule). There are few things I cannot do with both kids. I cannot take both on a business luncheon with my clients. I also cannot take both to the doctor. Sitting in a tiny room, trying to entertain/control Zoey while Zed is poked, prodded, or receiving shots is just too much for me to handle alone. I admit it. I suck.
Once Ella got back from the sale, I started mowing the lawn. I was halfway through with the backyard when Ella came outside.
"Guess who has a playdate?" she asked.
"You?"
"Mrs. Baker just called and wanted to know if Zoey could come over and play with Charlotte today after school."
"Did you tell her no?"
"No."
"Am I allowed to tag along?"
"I don't think so. She offered to pick Zoey up. I think that answers your question right there."
"Zoey's too young to go over to someone's house without me. Call her back and tell her something came up."
"I will not."
"Fine. I'll do it."
"No. You. Won't."
"But she's too young to go to someone's house without one of us!"
"She'll be fine."
Grumble. Grumble. Grumble.
Look, I don't trust most people. Hell, I don't even like most people. But I like Mrs. Baker. She is part of my Monday morning coffee get-together.
But I still didn't trust her.
That afternoon, while Ella and Zed were at the doctor, I begrudgingly readied Zoey for her playdate. I packed her princess clothes and some toys. I drove to Charlotte's house very s-l-o-w-l-y, trying to think of imaginary emergencies that would keep Zoey home. Nothing came to mind.
I dropped Zoey off, gave Mrs. Baker a list of emergency numbers (my house phone, my cellular phone, Ella's cellular phone, my mother's cellular phone (ok, that last one was a lie)), looked around their house for sharp objects, and circled the block until it was time to pick her up went back home. I sat at my house and watched the minutes c-r-e-e-p by.
And when I went to pick her up, she was in one piece. And happy. In fact, she started crying when she saw me because she didn't want to come home.
***
"Thanks," I replied. "Zoey was looking for her tiara yesterday. I assumed it was lost in the clutter of her room."
"No problem," Mrs. Baker responded. "Charlotte really had a good time on Friday."
"So did Zoey. Maybe next time they can play at my house. We just finished the playground on Saturday."
"Sounds good. Maybe we can all have a picnic in your backyard."
Immediately, I knew. It was okay for Zoey to go to her house, but there was no way her daughter could come to my house and be alone with me.
***
Ok. Here's the reader participation portion of our story. I have a few questions and I'd like you to answer them truthfully. I won't judge.
- Would you allow your three-year-old son/daughter to attend a playdate without you? Is that too young or am I too neurotic?
- If you have a young child, would you allow him/her to attend a playdate where the only adult supervision is a male? Be honest.
Related:
Sex And The Suburbs
Sometimes I Wish I Was Making This Stuff Up
THE DANCE OF THE PUDDLE JUMPER
Zoey and I went to her dance/gymnastics class on Friday evening. They loosely base the class on a different theme every week. If it's Beach Week, there might be buckets and shovels hanging from the ceiling (not much thought or decorations ever seem to be involved with these themes). I really have no idea what Friday's theme was supposed to be, but in hindsight it should've been dubbed Anarchy Week.It was chaotic from the moment the girls entered the dance room. No one was listening. No one was really dancing. They were all giggling and playing with each other. Comparing tutus. Girlie stuff. I could see the teachers were becoming frustrated, but they don't want parents in the classroom this year, so it was their problem. Deal.
The girls moved into the gymnastics room for that portion of their class. Once again, more giggling, playing, and ignoring of teachers. I was leafing through a magazine when I heard gasps coming from some of the other parents. I looked up, expecting to see an injured child.
What I saw was much worse.
Standing in the middle of the mat at the bottom of the uneven bars was a little girl. She was crying.
She was also standing in the biggest pool of urine I had ever seen in my life.
The little girl then took off running, leaving urine prints all through the gym. I immediately scanned the room for Zoey.
Of course, she was heading straight for the puddle.
My daughter looooooves puddles. She will jump straight up and down in a puddle for ten minutes if I allow it. Knowing this, I ran into the classroom. "No parents in the classroom" rule be damned!
You know those scenes in action movies where the hero runs in slow motion, yelling "Noooooooooooooo!" as he nears a building that's about to explode?
That was me.
I got to Zoey just as she was mere inches away from the urine pool and swept her off her feet.
Ok. She was really ten feet away from it. But it felt like mere inches. She was in her bare feet! I would've had to have them amputated if they actually came in contact with the urine.
I stood there holding Zoey, ignoring the angry glares from the teachers until the HAZMAT crew (the new girl that just started working there last week) showed up with paper towels.
GO NAPKIN YOURSELF
Backstory: Zoey is slowly creating her own language. Granted, she has an excellent grasp on English (or at least I like to think so, but I'm biased), but if she doesn't know a word, rather than actually having to ask someone else what the word is, she'll just make something up.Not only that, she believes her made-up word is the correct term.
For instance,
Anyway...
The four of us went out to eat on Saturday evening. Zoey noticed her place setting (I don't know the correct term either), which consisted of a fork, spoon, and knife wrapped up in a napkin, with a paper napkin holder around the napkin.
She picked it up and proudly exclaimed, "This is called a fucker."
Ella and I both screamed, "WHAT DID YOU SAY?"
She repeated it slooooowly and loudly, as if her parents were the dumbest people on Earth. "This. Is. Called. A. Fuh-ker."
Ella quickly jumped in, "Let's just call it a napkin. So, Zoey, tell me more about Curious George."
GHS: 14 (10 for the urine, 4 for the napkin)
Because It's Not A Birthday Party Until You're Performing The Heimlich Maneuver
Monday is Zed's first birthday. We celebrated today.
This morning, Zoey and I went to the party store (no, Dutch, not your kind of party store) to buy some balloons for Zed's party (you'll all be pleased to know that after the party, we set the balloons free in a wildlife preserve). I bought one giant Blue's Clues head balloon (the boy doesn't actually like Blue's Clues; he loves Hi-5 and Jack's Big Music Show, but since they don't make balloons or favors for either show, we opted for a Blue's Clues theme), one blue "Baby's First Birthday" balloon, one blue "1" balloon, two royal blue balloons, two light blue balloons, and one pink "It's A Girl!" balloon.
No, we're not pregnant.
I took the balloons to the register. The attendant held up the pink balloon and gave me a puzzled look. "She picked it out. It's for her," I said, pointing to Zoey. "We have free balloons if she would like one of those." I looked at the box of free balloons. "Yeah, but none of those are pink. She has to have pink. I'll take the 'It's A Girl!' balloon, please."
At 2:00 PM, everyone began showing up. My mother, mother-in-law, father-in-law, and grandmother-in-law. Everyone, that is, except the Nap Nazis.
I'm a B-I-G fan of routine when it comes to children. But I can be quite flexible when the need arises. Not my brother and his wife. Nothing gets in the way of their child's naps. House on fire? Sorry, kid's napping. Their child is put in her crib at 1:00 PM and is removed from her crib at 2:00 PM. Everyone and everything else be damned!
They informed me ahead of time they would be a little late. They called at 2:30 PM to let me know they were on their way (they still had a thirty minute drive ahead of them). It took every ounce of restraint I had not to tell them, "Don't worry. We'll celebrate birthdays, Christmases, and everything else when your child outgrows naps!"
When I got off the phone, I announced to the room, "Screw them. Let's have cake."
Ella had made Zed a Blue's Clues cake in the shape of Blue's head without a mold. Everyone was quite impressed. We put Zed in his highchair, lit the candle, sang Happy Birthday, and let him stare at the cake.
And stare.
And stare.
Finally, he poked his finger into the cake. He pulled it out and, after examining his finger v-e-r-y closely, he realized it neither burned him, bit him, nor killed him, so he stuck his whole hand into the cake. He then became really brave and stuck his other hand into the cake. He dug around in the cake for a few moments but never once tried to eat any of it. Not that I was surprised. This is a kid who tries to lick power outlets yet will not eat solid food.
So we started with the icing. Ella dipped her finger into the cake and put it to Zed's mouth. He made a face like we were feeding him our world-famous rat-feces flavored turkey drumsticks. Unfazed, Ella tried again. This time, Zed licked his lips. Success!
So we foolishly decided to let Zoey fed him some icing (not that we had any say in the matter). He opened his mouth when her finger neared, ready to taste the sweet goodness. Zoey dipped her finger in the cake again and pulled out a pea-sized helping of icing. "That's too big of a bite!" I yelled. But I was too late. It was already in his mouth.
And he gagged.
And gagged again.
And then threw up all over the place.
We took Zoey to Chuck E. Cheese's for her first birthday. She was halfway through her pizza when she started gagging. I had to turn her over on my knee and hit her back until she finally stopped choking.
Family traditions are nice.
While Ella was cleaning Zed's hands and changing his clothes, he started laughing hysterically. If you spoke to him, he would giggle. If you looked at him, he would giggle. It was like he was stoned.
I wish sugar had that effect on me.
I then brought Zed's presents into the living room. The Nap Nazis arrived at this time, visually peeved we had not waited for them. The nerve!
Zoey helped Zed open his presents. By helped, I mean Zoey opened Zed's presents. Not that he cared. He beat on one of the boxes for a few minutes and then crawled off to run his fingers across the vent.
I don't know why we spend money on these kids. Zoey would be happy with a ball of string and Zed is fine playing with our vents all day long.
FINAL THOUGHT
Why do we spend so much money on automobiles and car seats with high safety ratings, helmets, and pads for every joint on their body, yet have no problem placing a flaming piece of pastry mere inches from our children's faces?GHS: 8
Bill Murray Triple Feature
WILD THINGS
We made it through the weekend in one piece. Both kids had fun at the birthday party (which was held at a Little Gym in a nearby town) until the very end. Zed got hungry so I had to feed him. Unfortunately, this coincided with the present opening portion of the party. And everyone who has ever been to a birthday party with ten or more toddlers knows how frustrating opening presents can be. You've got the guest of honor s--l--o--w--l--y opening his/her gifts while a bunch of little vultures hover nearby, unable to comprehend why this kid gets all these presents while they're not getting a thing. Total. Chaos. All I could do was sit back and hope Zoey didn't cause too much trouble. But she was good, especially in comparison with some of the other kids.When we returned from the party, Ella was home. I gave her a kiss, handed her the kids, and
Next time Ella leaves town, we're hiring a nanny to help me. Preferably, a hot little number.
WHAT ABOUT BOB?
I didn't finish in the top 4 (out of 10) in the Best Daddy Blog category in this year's BOB Awards. Can't say I'm too surprised; I was up against nine great sites. Like last time, I managed to get a little more than 3% of the popular vote. Ouch!Why do I suddenly feel like Susan Lucci?
Anyway, I'd like to thank the my friends at Child's Play x2, Friday Playdate, MFA Mama, Morphing Into Mama, and My Own Circle Of Confusion for encouraging their readers to vote for me. I'd also like to thank and anyone and everyone who voted for me.
Finally, I'd like to thank the folks behind the BOB Awards. You guys sent a lot of new readers my way and introduced me to a lot of blogs I wasn't familiar with, including my current fave, Blogography.
LOST IN TRANSLATION
Dutch and Wood are hosting The First Annual Sweet Juniper Weird Search Hit Contest. I've been visiting a few times a day toUnfortunately, I have only been receiving disturbing searches lately. Go to Google and type in I hate you daddy and guess who's the #1 result? Why do I feel that will also be the #1 phrase uttered by my children in the future?
I've also been receiving a lot of pedophilic searches lately. Remember, I am a dad who writes about his daughter a lot. I have posts entitled Porn Or Toddlerspeak: You Make The Call!, Is There A Way To Segue From Vomit To Fellatio?, and Sex And The Suburbs. You can imagine the searches I've received. Sick bastards.
The way I look at is if I can keep these sickos on my site for even thirty seconds, I may distract them enough that they'll forget what they were originally searching for.
I. Am. Naive.
Of Princess Parties And Candle Fellatio
Apple recently introduced the iPod Nano, an .mp3 player that Daddy Types states is "so small it'll fit in your kid's pocket." But when will someone start making PDAs small enough and simple enough for children to use?
Why am I asking this? This weekend, Zoey attended three birthday parties. That was not a typo.
The first party was at noon on Saturday. Despite the fact that we would need to eat lunch first (at McDonald's, our Saturday ritual (Don't chastise me for giving McDonald's food to my child. I'd like to point out that both Morgan Spurlock and Jared Fogle have both made lucrative careers out of eating nothing but fast food for extended periods of time)) before we could go, Ella decided to take Zoey shopping for shoes earlier that morning. They returned from their excursion at 11:15 AM, giving us forty-five minutes to drive to McDonald's, eat, and then drive fifteen miles to the birthday party. Impossible.
But that didn't faze Ella. She's one of those people who, no matter how hard they try, cannot be on time for anything. Ever heard of the phrase late for one's own funeral? Ella defines it. In fact, Ella's not only going to miss her funeral, she'll probably be late for the bus to the Afterlife as well.
Zoey has inherited the "tardy gene" from her Mom. Between the two ladies of the house, Zed and I will never be on time for anything ever again.
We left McDonald's at 11:55 AM, giving us five minutes to make a fifteen-minute trip. We got about two minutes away from the party location when Ella realized she didn't have her purse. Yes, she left it at McDonald's.
It wouldn't be so frustrating if it were a one-time deal. But no, Ella leaves her purse in a restaurant once every four months or so. But she's been lucky every time; some Good Samaritan turns her purse with its contents still intact in to the manager. This time was no different. Her luck's eventually going to run out, though.
We got to the party at 12:45 PM. It was a party at a kid's gym, so Zoey immediately went climbing and jumping on the various contraptions there. At 1:00 PM, it was cake time in the party room. Zoey was somewhat disappointed because she still wanted to play, but her love of chocolate cake trumped her love of playing, so she headed to the party room with everyone else.
Soon after we sat down, Zed became upset and started crying. This surprised me a little; this kid's a homebody and, while he likes people, he hates crowds. I just figured his tantrums wouldn't begin until the second party, much less twenty minutes into the first.
So while I was tending to Zed, I looked up and saw the birthday boy—how should I put this? He was sucking the icing off his candle in a manner that looked like he was pleasuring the candle. I looked over at his father, who had a look of sheer horror on his face as he immediately put a stop to the boy's fun. A few minutes later, I overheard one mother tell another mother, "Please keep that away from him. He's a crammer." Did someone have a mini Richard Gere on their hands? Nope. I looked up and saw that the mother didn't want her son to have popcorn. Apparently he crams food into his mouth. My mistake.
With the candle fellatio and talk of cramming going on around me, the scene felt more like a degenerate bachelor party than a three-year-old child's birthday party.
We left the party at 1:30 PM, giving us an hour to make the thirty-five minute trip to the next party. Gasp! We might even be early!
On the way there, we noticed the sun was shining on Zed's side of the car, so we stopped by the house to get his shade out of our other car. We then decided to let Zoey go inside to have a potty break before we left. When we got about five minutes from the guest-of-honor's house, we pulled over so Zoey could change into her clothes. See, this was a princess party, so Zoey had to get into her princess dress, shoes, and crown.
We got to the party twenty minutes late (hey, at least we were showing improvement). The princesses at the party were busy decorating mirrors while the knights were decorating shields. Of course, ten minutes later Zoey had rid herself of her regal attire and opted to make a shield instead. Her girlie side can only show through so long before the tomboy takes charge. Tell me, if you know, what it's like to have a daughter. Because I'm only able to see brief glimpses of one.
They had a piñata, a "dragon" egg hunt, and lots of fun stuff for the kids. Backyard parties are the best.
We got home around 7:15 PM that evening. Zoey told us, "I'm all wormed out." No, honey. Your imaginary dogs might be all wormed out, but you, dear, are all worn out. We all were. Especially poor Zed.
And in case you're wondering, we actually made it to Sunday's birthday party on time. Of course, it helped that it was only three miles from our house.
So If She Plays Soccer AND T-Ball, Will I Ever See Her Again?
Today, we moved one step closer to becoming card-carrying members of Suburbia: we signed Zoey up for soccer. That's right, today I AM A SOCCER MOM DAD!
The only drawback to the whole thing? Zoey has practice one night a week and games two nights a week. Isn't three nights a week a little extreme for a three-year old? If they play this often at three, are they still allowed to attend elementary school if they're playing soccer at age eight?
I don't know who's more excited about her soccer games, Zoey or Ella and me (or possibly her Granny, who has already informed her boss she will need off work an hour early on the nights of all twelve of Zoey's games). I know quite well the soccer Zoey will be playing won't resemble actual soccer; we won't be watching any miniature David Beckhams or Mia Hamms (sorry, but my knowledge of soccer players is limited to Beckham, Hamm, Freddy Adu, that chick who took her top off after the US won the World Cup, Pelé, and Robert Hatch) out on the field. I realize her team of five will look more like the following:
- one kid sitting in the middle of the field, crying
- one kid standing in the middle of the field, picking his/her nose
- one kid waving at the crowd
- one kid running around in circles, totally oblivious to what's going on around him/her
- one kid actually playing soccer
Zoeypalooza 2005 -- Day Three
Today was the culmination of the three-day Zoeypalooza 2005 festival honoring Zoey's third birthday: her official birthday party. As I stated in an earlier post, we held it at a place with a bunch of inflatable jumping thingies. Counting Zoey and Zed, there were twenty children at the party, all under the age of four. Yes, we're insane. Thanks for asking.
And because I sometimes feel the need to feed my inner statistician, here are the breakdowns of the kids at the party by age and relationship to Zoey:
Breakdown By Age
6 to 11 months -- 2
12 to 23 months -- 3
24 to 35 months -- 6
36 to 47 months -- 9
Breakdown By Relationship To Zoey
Relatives of Zoey* -- 3
Preschool friends -- 6
Gym class friends -- 2
Long distance friends** -- 8
Neighborhood friends*** -- 1
*Consists of Zoey, Zed, and their cousin.
**There are the kids Zoey rarely sees, the children of our friends. She only sees these kids at birthday parties, baptisms, vacations, and the occasional dinner.
***We invited her buddy Elmo, the co-creator of Extreme Wiffle Ball. Last year for Zoey's birthday, we invited all the kids from the neighborhood (six additional kids, now aged five to eight) because we held it in our backyard. This year, because the kids would be jumping in such close proximity of one another, we didn't invite any child four years of age or older. Sorry. I realize this holds no possible entertainment value for you, I'm just trying to make myself feel better for dissin' my 'hood.
See? It's not like we were just going up to people off the street and inviting them to her party.
Anyway...
While the kids were jumping all over the place, I went around from parent to parent, chatting and making sure everyone was having a good time, while watching Zoey and tending to Zed every so often. I was wreaked with guilt the whole time because I didn't feel that I spent enough time with the parents of the guests or with my own daughter. Yes, I realize there's something wrong with me if I'm overcome with guilt at my daughter's birthday party.
After ninety minutes, the party was moved into the "cake and presents" area. Ella and I didn't have this nice of a cake at our wedding. It was a three-tier cake made to look like a castle with Dora and Boots figurines sitting on top. It was amazing. A lot of the parents came up to me wanting to know where we got it. Remember, lady, next year's cake is free.
We lit the candles and turned out the lights. Zoey blew out the candles, the lights went up, and everyone started singing Happy Birthday. Zed immediately began screaming. I don't know what it is about that song that sets off something in my children. But he was upset for the rest of the party.
We gave all the kids cake and Zoey began opening her presents. The whole time I'm staring at the clock because for every ten minutes you go over your allotted time (you're allowed thirty minutes in this room), you're charged an additional fifty bucks. Fifteen minutes ago, I was feeling guilty for not talking to these people more. Now, I'm trying to push them out the door.
All in all, it was a great party (despite my neuroses). Kids and parents alike had a great time. In fact, one of my friends came up to me at the end and said, "Thanks for ruining birthday parties for the rest of us."
Zoeypalooza 2005 -- Day One
Today was Zoey's third birthday. Ella, Zed, and I started the day by going to her bedroom and singing Happy Birthday as she woke up (well, Ella and I sang; Zed only smiled and grunted every so often). Unfortunately, this didn't go quite as planned. Zoey looked at us as if it to say, "People, let me have my coffee and read the paper before you spring this crap on me." She then puffed out her bottom lip. Ella picked her up before the crying began.
Nothing like tears to start your birthday!
We took her downstairs and gave Zoey her gifts. We got her a chalkboard (it's an easel-shaped contraption; on one side you use chalk and the other side you use dry-erase pens) and one of these Dora thingies (even though she rarely watches Dora The Explorer anymore, she still loves All Things Dora). That evening we took her to dinner at Chuck E. Cheese's.
We interrupt this entry to bring you the following trivia question:
Which is more expensive?If you answered c, congratulations! Not only are you correct, but you're also a parent!
- fifty pounds of filet mignon
- ten pounds of caviar
- dinner for four and a half at Chuck E. Cheese's
Here's what we got:
- a large pepperoni pizza
- four salads
- four drinks
- one kid's drink
I believe Chuck E. Cheese's could possibly be one of the circles of Hell. If you go there on a Friday night, the place is wall-to-wall kids. Add to that the cheesy animatronics animals, the cheesy videos, the racket coming from the skee-ball and whack-a-mole games, and you've got the recipe for a migraine.
I will give Chuck E. Cheese credit for one thing, though. When you enter the premises, they stamp you and your child with the same number that can only be seen under a black light. They might take all your money while you're there, but at least they make sure you'll leave with your child.
You Know, McDonald's Is A Lot Cheaper And It's Not Like She's Going To Remember This Five Years From Now
Today was the birthday party for one of Zoey's friends. Well, she isn't actually Zoey's friend; she is the daughter of one of Ella's lifelong friends. So, Zoey and she are merely friends of convenience.
We didn't go. Why?
- It was on a Monday afternoon. Who the hell has birthday parties on Monday afternoons? Since Ella was working, I would've had to take both kids by myself.
- It was about one hundred miles away.
- I would've had to take both kids by myself.
- It was a pool party. Zoey is deathly afraid of swimming pools so needless to say, I would've spent my time trying to coax her into the water and dealing with her screaming while still trying to keep Zed fed and dry.
- I would've had to take both kids by myself.
I had always assumed there were only two very important birthdays in a young woman's life: sixteen and twenty-one (and possibly eighteen if she's ultra eager to vote (doubtful)). But apparently, the three-year birthday is very close to the top of the list.
At first, we were planning to have her party at the place where she takes her gymnastics classes. And then one of Zoey's little friends had to ruin that idea by having her party at a place called Pump It Up. So Zoey wants to have her party at Pump It Up as well. It's amazing how peer pressure rears its ugly head at such an early age.
All Zoey has been talking about since late May is her birthday party. It's like dealing with a personal shopper; everywhere we go, when she sees something she likes, she makes a mental note of the item and says, "Maybe we should have that at my party." And maybe you should get a job to help pay for this shindig, young lady.
Here are some of her must-have items:
- a merry-go-round
- soccer players (the hell?)
- clowns
- elephants
- tigers
- face painters
- a few of those people who make weird shapes and hats out of balloons
And if you think that list above is bad, you should see what she wants us to buy her for her birthday.
