77 days

I. Can't. Wait.

I gave my boy the finger today.

I'm firmly convinced that my son is a cannibal. We're talking full on Hannibal Lecter, chianti and fava beans cannibal. I've come to this conclusion after careful study and observation of his behavior.

And the fact that my fingers make the best pacifiers.

It seems that some parents have a problem with the sucky thing, but I can say that HH6 and I are not some of them. Pacifiers are great. That little nub of silicone and plastic designed to soothe our little ones to bliss is the most amazing piece of baby gear for under five bucks.

But not for HH2, he craves flesh. There's a primal lust in his eyes as he draws my finger to his mouth. It's bliss. But not any old finger will do. Oh no. Not the pinkie. Not the thumb. To quote Eminem "it's the one you put up when you don't give a fuck." My boy favors the bird.

It's no shock really. He's already showing symptoms synonymous with being a cynical smartass like his old man (and his mom). While watching the most recent episode of Penn & Teller's Bullshit! on the topic of excorcism, my boy engaged in a perfectly executed projectile vomit that would have Linda Blair green with envy. The irony and timing of the event could not be more perfect.

So, am I in trouble? Probably. But only time will tell. For now I just continue to give him the finger.

A Month with HH2

He's been here for a month now. On the outside it is. He spent his first six days in the NICU and everyday since home with us. There's been some drama courtesy of family and friends. The law has been laid down in every case.

Sleep is a thing of the past.

I'm up to my elbows in spit up and pooh. Not the cute Winnie kind either.

He's more than just Canadian

Hi, my name is HH5 and I am a hockey addict...



I only hope HH2 will someday have a coach that's this caring...



Snoogans.

And the Angels cried

I just saw the news that Blue Angel 6, the opposing solo pilot, went down into a residential neighborhood outside MCAS Beaufort today. As an aviation nut and lifelong fan of the Blue Angels my heart goes out to the family of this great American naval aviator.


High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee
No 412 squadron, RCAF
Killed 11 December 1941

Business End

I said I was a geek after all. But as I stared up at the "aft" of Pathfinder, something occurred to me, I've had some pretty interesting jobs in the course of my lifetime. Well, maybe not all of them have been interesting, but I sure as hell have had a lot. The beauty of all of my many employments is that I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up.

I had my first job before I was 16. As a volunteer for the Island County Department of Emergency Services I didn't get paid, but even at the ripe old age of 13 I wouldn't have taken money from anyone for that job. The satisfaction of helping others was more than enough. However, once I turned 16 I needed money dammit, but I never stopped volunteering.

I have a love affair with pizza. There is no more perfect food on the planet and HH7 agrees with me whole heartedly. So, it should come as little surprise that I worked a pizza place or two. To be precise, I've worked four. Little Caesars was my first paying job at 16, and later on I worked at Pizza Hut, Papa John's, and another Little Caesars. Most of the pizza was, and still is, crap (especially PJs) but it was a paycheck and it led me to a job as a line cook in a real restaurant.

To say I've schlubbed through retail hell would be an understatement. Wal-mart twice, Lowes, Sears, Babies-R-Us, KB Toys, Gamestop, all of which are located precisely in the third layer of hell. Of the lot BRU and KB stand out as the worst. BRU because they genuinely didn't give a rabid rat fuck about their employees, and K.B. for three little words... Tickle. Me. Elmo. In hindsight working in a toy store probably wasn't the best idea. It was made all the worst by being employed there around Christmas. The very same Christmas that Tickle-Me-Elmo was first introduced. Since then I've never been able to look at a stampede on the boob tube without a shiver. All that blue hair surging forward.

Car salesmen get a bad wrap, and I should know. It's in the best interest of the salesman to make that sale, otherwise he doesn't get paid. It's not him that's trying to get you to accept a higher payment or longer payment terms, it's the sales manager and the financing department. Hate them, don't hate the middle man. (It was pretty sweet taking a Caddie out to lunch whenever I felt like it.)

Working in an ER was exciting, but sadly I was there only briefly as that was the time that the ex dropped the D-word on me.

Tech support sucks no matter where you do it. I did it twice. Once for the now defunct SunCom and once for DirecTV. Advice I can pass along? Check the batteries in your remote and splurge for the professional installation.

I was a soldier once... and young. An Indirect Fire Infantryman. MOS 11C10. My sole purpose in life was to send some dumb sumbitch straight to hell courtesy of high angle death and destruction. I loved it. I miss it everyday.

Working in the shadow of Pathfinder was probably some of the most rewarding work I've ever done. I started life at the "US Sex and Gossip Center" as a sim-op, running the rides in the park and interacting with the public. Spinning drunks on the G-Force Accelerator, scaring little kids by unpredictably shooting Space Shot, it was good times. When I transitioned to an Aerospace Programs Counselor things got better, and worse. Taking responsibility of someone else's kids for a week and having to teach them about aviation and space was a challenge. Kids at Space Camp try your patience, make you wish that you were sterile, and will convince you that ADHD is both the most over diagnosed and under diagnosed ailment today. My most rewarding work there came as a Dive Tender and SCUBA Assistant Instructor at the Underwater Astronaut Trainer. Nothing could beat the look of joy twenty-two feet deep into 180,000 gallons of water on a trainees face. Nothing was more rewarding than getting a kid that was scared and apprehensive down to the bottom and playing around with them. No moment touched me more than sitting on the four foot platform with a blind and deaf trainee and having a conversation with her underwater (finger ASL). Hardly anything has been cooler than taking astronaut Bob Springer and his son down as part of the deception he was playing on his son (an episode of While You Were Out).

Delta Air Lines was probably the best company I've worked for. There is a real sense of family and belonging in the old airline. Air travel gets a bad rap, and in some cases rightfully so, but so much of what happens to your flight is out of the control of anyone at the airline that it's amazing. If more people understood this, then maybe more people wouldn't get so bent out of shape and hateful when things go wrong.

But out of all of these nothing beats being a Dad. And that should go without saying.

If there were one thing I could take away from all of this it is this; never settle and never give up on your dreams. That's the advice I want to pass on to my kids. Never give up on doing something you really want to do. I've been fortunate in that I've been, with one notable exception, everything I've ever wanted to be. I only hope that my kids will be as lucky someday as I have been.

Outfield

T-Ball has begun. In the realm of HH7, it means time to practice kicking dirt piles in the outfield. It's not the most exciting sport for a seven year old, but it's more for her to be with her friends than anything.

What's in a name?

I spent the better part of my chore time recently watching the WE network. Surely this could be construed as the first step down the road to the domesticated doldrums. First it starts with watching the occasional program on a women’s television network, then, before you know it, it’s bon-bons with Dr. Phil and Oprah. But what stopped me on the estrogen fueled network wasn’t what I would consider a woman’s program.

On July 22, 1983 the man that would be Johnny Dangerously, Batman, and Chick Hicks stared in a film about an out of work dad charged with taking control of the household as his wife returns to the corporate world. What ensues is widely regarded as a 91 minute comic hit by nearly everyone. That is everyone except individuals that have a difficult time accepting the label that is thrust upon stay-at-home dads everywhere, the title of Mr. Mom.

The film itself is a delight. It’s one of those titles that stands the test of time, showcases Keaton’s comedic talents, and is safe for the little ones (for the most part). It starts off showing Keaton as a bumbling, inept “house husband,” but through the course of the film he settles into a grove as a stay-at-home dad. Keaton’s character actually gets good at the stay-at-home bit. But it seems that those that have difficulty accepting the label of Mr. Mom neglect to remember this fact. Or, worse still, they’ve never seen the film or merely accept the widely misconceived notion that the movie is somehow derogatory to stay-at-home dads.

But, this is the problem with the whole stay-at-home dad thing as I see it. We, as the primary caregivers for our children, somehow feel that society somehow owes us. Owes us what, recognition? I don’t need someone else to acknowledge my role as a father. I ran into the same type of problem in the Army. In the Army it was the incessant need to acknowledge the feats of everyone, give them an award, and move on. I didn’t need or want that then, and nothing I certainly don’t need it now.

So I guess my problem is this, what’s in a name? Is it really so bad to be called Mr. Mom? Is it really so derogatory? It’s not like being called a “nappy-headed ho” (see Don Imus) it’s simply a term from a movie. A term derived form the title of a movie that was based on the true story of a man that didn’t seem to have a problem being called Mr. Mom.

I would love to here from other stay-at-home dads on this. Drop me a line at gamingwithbaby@gmail.com and tell me what you think.

Four letter words

Four letter words really do get a bad wrap. Certainly there are some words that people would find objectionable. But words are not bad, what we do with them is. And it's because of the questionable words that some find offensive that the rest of the four letter words in the English language get that bad wrap.

Home.

Home is a four letter word. Right now home is the sweetest four letter word in the whole dictionary. HH2 was discharged from the NICU this past Saturday and we finally got our little boy home. The joy and elation that has followed has grown with each sleepless night that has followed.

I'm settling into my groove as a stay-at-home Dad slowly. I'm getting chores done while the little one is sleeping. Thank the Castle of Grayskull that we have a DVR or we'd never see the shows we watch regularly. And I'm slipping in a little game time here and there when I can. Hoping to get my hands on Guitar Hero 2 for the 360 soon. Gotta get the little man gaming ASAP.