The other day, the house was quiet (a rare occurrence) when I thought I heard something. I meandered down the hall and looked in the boys’ room.
Boone sat in the middle of the floor, concentrating on his Legos as he quietly sang a Talking Heads song to himself.
"…sleeping on the interstate. Getting wild, wild life. Checkin’ in, checkin’ out. I got a wild, wild life…"
There’s some sort of syndrome-type thing that happens to me and my wife when the boys suddenly start behaving well. Like, we know they’re probably plotting something, but we don’t care because nobody’s yelling.
Here’s a post I’d forgotten about… well, let’s be honest, I’ve forgotten pretty much everything I’ve written. That’s why I write it—to get it out of my head so I don’t have to think about it anymore.
Anyway, here’s a post from March of 2010. The boys were 16-months-old.
I believe one of the reasons my wife first fell in love with me was my Steve McQueen-like driving skill. There was one event in particular when, with her sitting shotgun, I deftly raced around a wildly spinning truck on the 101 freeway. I calmly and coolly sped up rather than slamming on the brakes, which I’d rapidly calculated would have placed us right into the path of the rogue vehicle as it slammed into a concrete barrier. If you’re trying to picture my maneuver, I’ll just tell you, yes, it was totally badass.
As that illustrates, emergency situations don’t faze me. What does faze me, however, is loud noises. Not like loud music. No, I mean random blasts of sound — a book falling off a table, a door slamming and, unfortunately, a baby screaming. I know, I know. Someone who reacts badly to loud noises deciding to have a kid is like a man with no fingers deciding to become a gunslinger. And I have two… babies, that is, not fingers.
I had no delusions about how often babies scream/cry/wail. For you future parents, babies don’t just scream when they’re upset. If my guys are any gauge, wee ones scream when they’re happy, eating, playing, walking, crawling, getting dressed, opening the toy chest or just because it’s Thursday. I thought that kind of immersion would help cure me of the problem. As you might expect, it just aggravated it. I feel like I’m constantly telling the boys “Keep it down,” “Use your inside voice,” “Quiet now, guys” or “Honey, where’s that bottle of Glenfiddich I just bought?”
But last night, I stumbled upon a rather unorthodox coping method. Wyatt started screaming when I put him on the changing pad, so I started screaming with him. Every time he opened his mouth to let one fly, I did too. He thought it was hysterical and it kept me from stressing out. Perhaps, rather than forcing my boys to act more reserved, I need to act more youthful. I’m going to try shitting my pants next.
Remember when I went to that dad blogger conference and some of you were all “What? A dad blogging conference? Huh?” (To be fair, it’s possible those people may have been asking not out of disbelief but because of a hearing problem.) Well, not only does that exist, but the Dad 2.0 Summit originally spun out of a much larger mom blogger conference, the Mom 2.0 Summit.
And just like how some moms attend the dad event, some dads attend the mom event as evidenced by this pic of my friend Whit at last year’s event classing it up around the ladies. And this year, I’ll be one of those dads… well, I don’t know if I’ll necessarily be classing it up, but whatever.
Anyway, in a little more than a week, I’ll be heading to Atlanta to make awkward conversations and stuff.
When I taught the boys how to throw and catch a frisbee, they got so excited as they improved that they spazzed out and then started flinging the disc erratically.
And yes, one of them hit me in the head.
Wyatt met a horse this weekend.
Chase is upstairs playing any number of video games and just texted me asking “when’s lunch”…whenever you are ready. #parenting #nerf #lunch
I’m totally ready to introduce Nerf weaponry into the boys’ life specifically for this purpose.