Vocabulary

Its no big secret we've got to go through speech therapy with our daughter. Kim, the lady who comes to the house and actually works with her for an hour each Thursday, has done a spectacular job so far. In fact, if we really wanted to no longer do therapy, there's a very good chance Evie would be fine, however they're afraid if she "fell through the cracks" and didn't continue, she may have a harder time communicating when she gets older.

So for the past week, anytime my daughter expresses a new word, I've taken to writing it down. I meticulously keep track, noting every single piece of her vocabulary, so that I can inform Kim when she stops by for the next session. Today I dropped about thirty new words on her, which blew her mind.

Progression continues.

The one thing I've noticed is, even though in the therapy sessions, Kim tries to get Evie to use sign language to express herself and associate motions with words, Evie only remembers one motion and one word: MORE.

How do I describe sign language? I don't have pictures here to illustrate this, so I'll just do what I can to describe what it looks like. Take your fingers, straiten them all out, and then try to touch all your finger tips to the tip of your thumb. Hold them there. Now, take your right hand in front of you and your left hand, and touch the finger tips of both hands together. Do this a few times while saying "more" and you've probably got it figured out.

If you do this around someone who actually knows sign language, and they laugh at you because you actually said something like, "Tomato Face," then I can't help you. You clearly read my perfect instructions incorrectly.

That's sarcasm dripping in that last sentence, by the way.

"More," my daughter says, along with the hand motions, when she wants more potato chips. More fries. More crayons. More Elmo on the t.v.

Greedy little booger.

With her vocabulary expanding, though, she doesn't even really use the sign language unless its during therapy. At home, with just me, Evie will say, "More" and point at what she wants.

If I were to imagine her thought process, it would probably go something like, "What's the word I get to make the big person do my bidding? Mow? Moe? Hmm... oh yeah. MORE!!!"

I typically oblige, but sometimes the jelly beans are mine. Now go sit down and finish your Sesame Street.

Not gonna lie here, I'm enjoying this. When she learns a new word, or a new sound, its like small trophies. The other day she brought me a plastic polar bear we bought her and said, "Ber. Roar."

I laughed. "Yep, ROAR!!!" And she mimicked it.

Here's the scary thing: a lot of the words she's saying? She's only heard them once.

Time to start spelling things...

I Confess

Some of these are true and some are not. Well, they're all true but only sometimes.

Confessions of a 2 Year old's dad:

1. After my nightly runs I sometimes use my daughter's Disney Princess table to help me stretch out my hamstrings.

2. Every now and then I "forget" how to do something my wife wants me to do a certain way, simply because my way is easier and faster, albeit sloppier.

3. I secretly force my daughter to wear superhero t-shirts because I want her to be a nerd like me.

4. If I don't feel like cleaning up a mess, I tell my daughter I can't find the ketchup.

5. Some days I waste hours looking for a "Parenting" app for my iPhone that will make things much easier. All I've found so far are apps that help me organize my stuff better, but now I have a cluster of apps that need organized on my phone. The app for this is apparently already installed, and is called "Delete."

6. I tried reading a parenting magazine one time a couple years ago, but tossed it out when I couldn't get our newborn daughter to latch properly. (This obviously goes without saying, but its a joke. How stupid do you think I am?)

7. My wife and I have already discussed what sports we hope our daughter will participate in, what kind of extra-curricular activities, and what age would be appropriate to have "the talk" and who should have it with her. We realize none of these things will probably work out how we would like for them to.

8. I can't wait until she's potty trained so I can stop changing her crap filled diapers, but when I'm in my 90's and she has to change mine I'm gonna make sure I leave at least a few good ones for her.

9. I have no problem eating her chicken nuggets when she says she's done with them.

10. My greatest fear is that my daughter will grow up and feel worthless, when to me she's priceless.

Something to Blog About

I was trying to think of something to write about today. To be completely honest, I sometimes just don't feel like writing stuff. Its probably during those blogs I zone out and run my fingers over the keyboard, and through involuntary muscle spasms and pure blind luck, I somehow crank out a blog that people will tell me has to be the best one yet.

I don't normally post links on this, in fact, I never have before. However, I was recently asked to do a guest blog and this is where you can read it.

It may seem lazy to post a link and then not do a blog of my own, but today happens to be one of those days where I think that's exactly what I will do.

I Need To Get This Off My Chest.

Before I begin, I want to thank each and every person who reads this faithfully and enjoys it each Tuesday and Thursday (give or take) I post an entry. For those of you who have been encouraging, have asked I publish things, etc. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, believe me when I say this, the encouragement makes a difference. For those of you who get a chuckle and let me know it made your day, I really do appreciate it.

And for the record, I only have about 50 regular readers of this blog. Sometimes, though, it can be that one out of the 50 who really can put a taint upon the rest. So here goes...

I really thought I should clarify something. I almost feel pretentious having to say this stuff, but it needs to be said. Well, I feel pretentious writing a blog as it is anyway, but what I'm about to type out is something I think you should know. Maybe you shouldn't - I don't know - I just think it needs to be said.

I don't write this blog for your entertainment. I know I post when I've updated on Twitter and Facebook, but that's not really so you'll come scrambling to this blog and hang on every word, story, or entry I put up here. That's not the purpose of this blog. That's not why I do this. Its certainly not why I stay up late at night trying to decide what I'm going to post next Thursday. I do that so that you can peak inside a window into my brain and see what's going on in my world.

In all truth, I really only do this for two people.

Myself and my daughter. More people if you count the kids to be named later - not pregnant, just hoping to be again someday.

Last week someone was upset enough by my blog to text me and tell me how one of my blog entries wasn't what they thought it should have been and said, I'll paraphrase because I deleted the text, "it wasn't much of a blog and was more a personal essay." I was probably a little harsh in my response but to be honest, there's some truth to that. This blog is my personal essay. Its mine. If I wanted to write the word "balderdash" five million times as one entry, I can do that. But I don't.

I write this blog because, on some level, I always wanted to be an author. Unfortunately, I probably have half the drive to write an actual book and even less know-how. Its a great outlet for my creativity, for me to share stories about my parenting skills (or lack of), and to leave behind something for my kid(s) to read someday and have a laugh about.

And, not to sound morbid, but should something unexpected happen to me, its a way for them to get to know me should they never get that chance.

Maybe that's a little over-dramatic for you but here's some facts you may not know:

I currently work in a pretty dangerous job. I won't go into a lot of details, but it isn't uncommon for us to hear gunshots just down the street from a house we're visiting. Sometimes, though it doesn't happen that often, the gunshots ring out not long after we leave, or arrive. At the house we're visiting.

There's a reason I wear a bullet-proof vest at my job. It ain't cause I like the extra pockets.

I also lost my mom unexpectedly almost 7 years ago. While I knew her, its a constant reminder that nobody knows the day or the hour their time here on earth is up.

So, many times when I write this blog, its not for your entertainment, but for my kids who may grow up not really knowing me. Over-dramatic? Maybe. But if nothing else I want them to someday look back and read this and learn from my mistakes and maybe even have a laugh at my expense.

I've been writing this blog for almost three years now. Want to know how much money I've made? None.

Want to know how many magazines have called wanting to publish one of my entries? Zip.

Want to know how many jobs I've been offered for writing this blog? Zilch.

Want to know how much I care if someone wants to tell me how I've ruined their day because my blog didn't meet their standards? Zero.

If you're entire week is so gloomy that reading about my parenting failures is the only joy you get, then its time you start working on your own life and stop trying to tell me how to write about mine.

I know this sounds harsh, maybe even a little mean, but anybody who has ever written and poured their heart into something only to have someone else stomp on it may understand. Not every article in your newspaper is going to win an award. Not every book you read will sell a million copies. Not every blog I post is going to tug on your heart strings.

Get over it and just enjoy it. If you can't, well, then I'm so very sorry that there is someone standing next to you holding a gun to your head forcing you to read my rantings.

Okay, that is the first, last, and only time I will ever write that out.

Thank you.

The Pause Button

There I sit, with a controller in my hand, playing Super Mario Brothers on my original Nintendo gaming system, when in walks one of my little sisters. She bugs me, she tries talking to me, she gets mad when I let her play and her character dies while mine lives on. I pause the game at certain moments because she's either bothering me (which would include anything from constantly talking to me when I'm trying to tune her out to standing right in front of the television so that I can not see my small plumber character get bit by a flying turtle). The pause button is the greatest video game invention ever.

Now that I'm a dad, video games are much more complicated. Some don't have pause options. I've long since given up playing World of Warcraft, but there is no pause in that game. You just die. A lot.

This is something my wife did not understand right away. "Can't you just pause the game for a few minutes to let the dog out?" she'd ask.

"Do you not understand we are about to kill the Lich King?" I'd reply.

Somehow, I thought that would make her understand the importance of the moment.

Lich. Freaking. King.

COME ON!!!

But no. I had to explain to her, as quickly as possible that this game does not have a pause button and that if I don't do my job shooting spells with my little red-haired warlock named Kvothe, the big bad guy is going to kill all of our characters and then everyone would get mad at me for really ruining their evening.

My wife understood. She got it. She wasn't happy about it. She was pretty mad, actually. But she understood.

Which brings me to today's cause and effect. Cause: We had a baby who does not understand what you're doing staring at that computer screen, much less the concept of pausing it. Effect: I no longer play World of Warcraft.

Sometimes as a parent sacrifices must be made.

I still play some games on my PS3, but most of the time its only used as a Blu-Ray/DVD player, or for watching Netflix. But it got me to thinking.

What if kids could interrupt in-game characters as much as they do the parents playing the game?

Here's this level 85 Paladin about to face down a band of thieves so that he can return their scarves and collect a bounty - BAM. Diaper needs changed and he calls time out mid-fight. The thieves, understanding the Paladin's plight, oblige and all sit down where they currently are. The "warrior of the light" walks over and removes the soggy package off his youngling's backside, and replaces it with a dry cloth. Places child back into his portable carriage, walks back over to the thieves, and says "Time in." Fight continues.

Spider-Man swings from the rooftops in his pursuit of Doctor Octopus, who has kidnapped Mary Jane and intends to hold her for ransom until Spider-Man beats him to a pulp or the city of New York meets his demands. Spidey shows up, but there's a beep coming from a device hidden beneath his tights. "Hold on, Doc, the wife's calling me."

Mary Jane looks surprised. After all, unbeknownst to the evil Doctor, Mary Jane is Spider-man/Peter Parker's wife.

"Hey, how's work?" the web-head asks.

Doctor Octopus grunts but waits patiently, Mary Jane helpless in his metallic arms.

"Uh huh. Yeah. Okay, you want me to just take some fish out of the freezer? Oh. No, its okay, I can just order a pizza. Mhmm. Yep. No. What? When did that happen??? Ok, I'll call the shop but you better get it in tomorrow. Alright. Love you, too. Bye."

"Sorry Doc, where were we?"

Doctor Octopus replies, "I had kidnapped Mary Jane and you were about to power punch my face, jump over and try a leg sweep" - BEEP BEEP

Doctor Octopus' phone begins to ring, and the fight is again delayed.

Or how about a sports game?

Mariano Rivera takes the mound. One out, bottom of the 9th, in game seven of the World Series. The Yankees are up by one run with a runner on third and up to the plate walks Lance Berkman of the St. Louis Cardinals.

The wind up.

The pitch.

"WAAAAAAAAH!!!"

Ball freezes in mid-air as Berkman rushes out of the batter's box to find that twin boys, belonging to him (I do not know if Berkman even has kids, this is a fun story so just roll with it) have began fighting in the dugout. One pinched the other on the ear and in retaliation the second child bit the first.

One of the best home run hitters in baseball negotiates peace between the children better than any U.N. diplomat could hope, and walks back up to the plate to continue his at-bat.

Well, guess what. Real life doesn't have a pause button.

Somebody go invent one. Now.

My Unwanted Haircut

Before I dive into this wonderful story about a recent learning experience, I believe there are a few things you need to know about me. Some odd but important things.

Well, important to the story. These tidbits of information are not necessarily something you will need to survive, should the zombies finally rise up in their attempts at becoming the dominating species on the planet.

Did I say zombies or peasants? I meant something else. The Smurfs. If they rise up against us, there’ll be no stopping them.

Creepy little blue fingers…

But I digest. Digress. What’s with this keyboard?

Anyway, to begin with, I cut my own hair. I have since college. I’ve done this to save money and mostly because I’m actually pretty particular about how my hair looks.

Every now and again I will venture into the local “Fantastic Sams” or other named barber shop (as a kid, I loved going to Pete and Mac’s to get my hair cut… but unless you’re from Fairfield, Illinois, I doubt you’ve ever even heard of Pete or Mac, so I suppose that isn’t relevant to the story here today). Often times, these haircuts run me around thirteen dollars.

For that amount of money, I could buy a pizza and have a nice night watching a baseball game and yelling at the t.v.

Worth it.

Then, I became a dad.

Things were going swell with this. In fact, I recently cut my hair into a pretty sweet looking mohawk. Yeah, I said sweet. If you weren’t able to see it, you’re probably rolling your eyes or laughing at me. That’s fine, I know when I look good.

Well, my wife said it looked good and her opinion will trump yours when it comes to how my hair looks one hundred percent of the time. Mostly because she has a better sense of style than me, something she reminds me of often, and mostly because I pity her for having to stare at the rest of me the rest of the time.

Saturday, I was cutting my hair with the door to the downstairs bathroom open.

That’s the first clue, ladies and gents. If you cut your hair, and have a two year old in your home, do yourself a favor.

Never.

Do.

This.

Ever.

Ever.

Ever.

EEEEEEEEEEver.

Never, under any circumstances, cut your hair with the door open where any two year old daughter of yours can run in and hit you in the knee and shout “POTTY!”

Because, hey, she’s wanting to use the toilet. Something we’ve been trying to get her to do for a good half a year at this point.

Frankly, this is the consequences of me just being sick of changing her poop-filled-pampers. Seriously starting to think they come with magical turds in them that just appear when you finally get comfortable in your desk chair and begin to blog... see what I mean?

Nevermind.

So there I was, clippers in hand, trimming up the side of my noggin when pop, bam, pow! “POTTY!!!”

This did not, whatever you may believe, cause me to flinch and cut too much off the top. Nope. I’m a good, responsible dad. Being such an upstanding father, I helped my daughter sit down on her potty, where she actually didn’t sit but did some sort of hovering maneuver above the seat while she grunted, stood up, and watched as I again pulled up her pampers and pants and sent her on her merry little way back to Sesame Street. Or wherever a two year old’s imagination takes them as they frolic about the living room with their stuffed Cookie Monster.

And off she went.

And off I went back to the sawing off of my hair.

Except I just realized something. She said, and I quote, “POTTY!” Which means, she knows when she has to go. Which means we just made a large step forward in our potty training process. Which means soon, no more money wasted on diapers. Which means, and I hope you’re following my thought process here, more nights sitting on the couch with a mouthful of food yelling at Mariano Rivera for blowing the game in the bottom of the 9th. Don’t talk to me about that. Still angry.

I mean, bases loaded when you’ve just tied the game? Whatever. He’s still the greatest closer of all time. I’m moving on.

Ahem.

My concentration was broken on my hair. I started trimming a little here, and a little there, more than I intended… and before long my mohawk was about 90% too thin and I looked ridiculous. Especially since the line of ‘hawk was not clearly in a zig-zag off to the left side of my skull.

I cut the whole thing off. I felt ridiculous.

And though I still love her and would move mountains with my bare hands if she were ever in danger, I blame the little girl squatting blanks into her plastic toilet.

Evie, some day you will be old enough to read this blog of Daddy’s. So now you understand why, on the night before you went to your first day of High School, Daddy shaved your head.

Balance

One thing I said early on about parenting is that you can't forget that you're still a husband/wife. Or if you're a single parent, at least remember you're still somebody besides a mom or a dad. You had a whole life before becoming a parent, and while your kids now may be your whole life, you still have a life to live outside of being a parent.

Now, let me explain. Being a parent is a 24/7 job, I'm not saying its not. I'm not saying you ever stop being a mom or a dad. I'm simply suggesting that, if for nothing else than your own mental stability, you have to do something else besides be mom or dad every waking hour of your existence.

When a friend of mine told me a little over a year ago he and his wife were expecting, the first thing I said to him was to remember that he is still his wife's husband and to be sure and still date her once in a while - like he did before the baby. To remember that he was a husband before he was a dad.

Some time later, I find myself needing to listen to my own advice.

We try to get out now and then, my wife and I. A few months back we made an attempt at a date night, but some stuff came up and we had to go home halfway through the Sherlock Holmes sequel. Which kind of stinks because I was enjoying it and had waited to see it for some time.

Luckily, last week my mother- and father-in-law were visiting and we were able to have our dinner and a movie date after all - albeit some time later.

It is kind of difficult to find that balance, too. You want to make sure you spend time with your wife. Just you and her. Time with your kid. Just you and then. And time as a family. All of you together.

Its pretty difficult with my current work schedule, too. We make it work. It isn't always easy, but we make it work.

I guess I just don't want to wake up some day to find my kids love me to death but my wife hardly knows me. The alternative, I suppose, would be to have a great marriage but kids who hardly know a thing about their dad other than he loved their mom.

Like I said, balance.

Things come in twos.

Last week I didn't blog. So sue me.

My wife's parents were in town and I worked early and just insert a few other excuses as to why I didn't feel like writing. Yeah, that'll work.

Some news from last week, though, includes Evelyn's second birthday actually happening. After months of anticipation, we assume she only could turn two years old on the day she made her exit from the confines of my wife's inerds.

We had a small get together two Sundays ago. My wife baked a beautiful cupcake shaped birthday cake. It tasted delicious, and even had a hard chocolate casing - where you'd normally have a piece of paper that tears the cupcake in half. It looked pretty sweet. Were a giant walking through the birthday party, he'd have thought it was a quite eloquent cupcake. Were a hobbit walking through, he'd think ... who cares. It tasted great, looked kind of cool, and a good time was had by all.

I'm done with analogies for now. At least those consisting of mythological, Tolkien-esque humanoids.

Moving on.

This kid got a haul of presents! We bought her a few things, but some friends from Jen's work got her a Mr. Potato-Head (Something I never had, so when Evie's not looking I make that sucker look like a Picasso faced spud and laugh maniacally while "three-year-old-me" sits and sulks), some clothes, toys that make noise - thanks for that, by the way. Someone also got her a small broom set because we got sick of her taking ours.

Seriously, she likes to sweep the floor. There will be sanity tests when she's old enough...

By the way I am horrible at remembering who gave what so I hope nobody gets offended. We're very thankful for all the gifts so if I don't mention her playing with something you may have gotten her, then I apologize. If you didn't send some present to my spawn to celebrate her second Name Day then a plague shall descend upon your house. Hey, its not me, that's just how it works, buddy.

Also, the whole "Name Day" reference is from a book series that if you haven't read - you'll be in the dark. So just pretend I said "birthday" and move on.

We've officially finished our second week of speech therapy.

We're not sure what to think about this so far. Our therapist, Kim, seems pretty nice. Jen's not liking the whole, "Sign Language to Word" association. I should say, she's not warmed up to it yet. Coincidentally, neither is Evie. She really only uses it during the therapy sessions then tells us stuff later. Her vocabulary is growing exponentially. I honestly don't think the speech therapy will last as long as the physical therapy did.

Mostly because the physical therapy was aided by ankle braces, but there's nothing even slightly wrong with her mind - other than the whole sweeping of floors thing - so I am assuming that once she gets in the swing of things, she'll be a bonafide wordsmith and more than likely launch her own blog soon after.

You won't want to read it. It'll mostly be about Cookie Monster, why he should really be named "Ron," and the adventures of those who wear pampers in the land of those who can reach the top shelf.

Could you imagine the Pinterest page on that?