We joined the Young Men's Christian Association this week. I like to type it out like that. Sounds like we joined a cult.
My wife and I have both lost a lot of weight recently. I myself have lost 27 pounds. I know. Thank you. It's just like a story about a heroic fireman except for the part where there is no fireman or heroism. We joined because my wife wants to tone up and I'm starting to plateau (i.e. eat secret pizza). The workout itself was pretty routine. I did lots of squatting and sweating and jerking and grunting and then I left the locker room and went to workout.
The exciting news is that the Peanut is taking her first swim class. There she is with her bubble, swim noodle, spastic dog paddle, and teacher right by her side and all I can hear in my head is, "Holy shit, she's swimming! She's is swimming! Call Michael Phelps and get me a dime bag! We're going to the fucking Olympics!"
Or words to that effect.
I also took my first swimming lesson. Adult intermediate, thank you very much. I'm ok in the water, but I have the swimming stroke of an injured bird. That's not quite right. An injured Jew. Better.
My wife is a very strong swimmer, the kids are probably going to be as well, and I don't want to be the one left behind guarding the shoes while they swim away to go play King of The Raft. Too much pain, man. Too much pain.
The other exciting thing about the Y is that they provide up to 2 hrs of free baby sitting while you workout. This past week has seen me become remarkably committed to excercising. It's a first for all of us, this leaving kids with strangers thing. I was nervous. Turns out I kind of like it. I've heard some extra "I miss you/love you Daddies" the last few days and I didn't even have to withhold food.
It's all been such a positive experience (Even the yoga class, which was surprisingly stereotypically yoga odd. At one point the instructor actually told us to "breathe out of the left side of your neck." So, I'm pretty excited to get flexible enough to grow gills. Right now I've got the flexibility of an obsessive compulsive accountant. Experiencing rigor mortis. In a freezer.) it's made me very grateful to the Young Men's Christian Association. Eternally grateful. Indebted. You might even say, I've seen the light. So thank you, Young Christian Men's Assoc. Thank you for letting this old Jewish Man inside you.
Wait . . .
First there was a Man. Then a Woman. Then in quick succession, two cats, a confused dog beast, and two kids. I stay at home with them. I'm the Man
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Saturday, June 18, 2011
We're in the car the other day and I'm listening to the kids in the back. They are doing copious amounts of wet, sloppy, phlegmy raspberries into thin air. Over and over again. Little spit bombs exploding all over the backseat of the car. Then I hear the Peanut say "Pumpkin Man. Catch them! Catch them !"
I manage a glance over my shoulder, something I'm loathe to do as I really don't like to get involved back there. I hazard a glance and I see fine, fine sprays of saliva in the air, the kids hands clapping madly through it, trying to make a catch. Awesome.
"What are you doing?" I accuse.
And the Peanut says, "Daddy, we're catching stars!" I can't argue with that.
Also, this is why I'm an atheist. Childhood turns spit into stars, and I'm supposed to be impressed by some half-assed water into wine trick? Please.
For Father's day, my wife helped the kids bake me those hand prints and foot prints that you can harden in the oven and then paint. They tasted awful. I ate three of them. Because when my kids bake me something, I eat it, even when it's not really edible. Because that is the kind of father I am.
This is why I deserve a Father's Day. I know it's bullshit. I know it's a holiday invented by an unholy triumvirate of Hallmark, Faberge, and super intelligent werewolves to get us all to buy cards and Brut. It's well known that werewolves love the taste of Brut. It's science.
I don't even need a card or much of a gift, really. I'm not asking for anything fancy. Like that ad for a Sprint Phone where the dad buys himself one on behalf of his baby daughter because he rationalizes that she'd want him to have it. Disgusting. And wasteful. The last thing I need is a new smartphone so I can ignore my kids. I can ignore my kids just fine with this laptop right here. Or a book. Or even just by curling up on the couch in the fetal position and closing my eyes until they go away.
My point being, I am an excellent dad. I'v earned a day in celebration of my fatherhood. As contrived as it might be. I just want to go out for breakfast, that's all. Just go out for breakfast, come home, see them clean the house maybe. That's all. Breakfast, a clean house, and a pedicure. And a sixer of Newcastle. They can use the fake id's--that I got them for their birthdays, by the way--to buy it.
Because whether it's a contrived holiday or not (and by the way, what constitutes a contrived holiday? Christmas and Easter are bizarre soups of pagan and christian traditions, Halloween is from Celtic pagans, Presidents' day falls on no day belonging to any President, and Groundhog day . . . actually, that one is pretty legit) we dads deserve a day.
A day to celebrate those of us who are up to our elbows in the shit, literal or otherwise, everyday.
Deadbeat Dad's day can be in August. Then when they show up to get their baked footprints, we nab'em!
Happy Fathers Day
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Inertia. Inertia is defined as "the lack or absence of nertia." According to the Oxford to English dictionary. Without which I totally would've flunked my Freshman Oxford class.
Lack of nertia is one good reason I've been a bad bad blogger. I've also had limited computer access. Also there was a bird attack and I'm hungry.
We were in Maine over the weekend. It was quite lovely despite the rain. We stayed with the Aunties and had a wonderful time and we were informed by the Peanut that she likes them "the best" this weekend. So now the Peanut lives is Maine. We'll all miss her very much. Except for the Pman because he got her much larger bedroom.
Speaking of my daughter . . . I've mentioned more than once that she's tiny and she's had some eating issues. She eats much better these days especially at dinner. For those with problem eaters we can finally dispense some advice. 1st: Bribery. We usually use a small Entermann's chocolate covered donut. She gets it if she clears her plate. Tiny kid would eat a 24 oz steak stuffed in an angry warthog for one of those things.
The other method is a game of shark or misdirection. The Peanut will have who(m)ever is sitting next to her hold the fork as if they're the one eating the meal. Then she'll tell us "You watch the news/baskeball/tv/look over there. Then when we look away, she takes the bite and we are to act as if we have no idea what happened to the food. Or we say she's a shark and she's eating somebody we know. Creepy, but effective.
I like these methods. They're fun. However, I worry about what will happen when she gets older. I picture her in college, her college roommate eating a steaming bowl of ramen.
Peanut: Hey. You watch the news
Roommate: What? No.
Peanut: You watch the tv
Roommate: I am watching the t--What the fuck are you doing? Don't eat my food!
Peanut: I'm a shark!
And you are pretty much all caught up.
As far as being a bad blogger goes, mostly I'm sorry I haven't been commenting on all the blogs I follow. I am reading most of you, I'm just doing it on the Nook, which is not the most writing friendly device.
I will stay up late tomorrow and try to catch up. All right. That's it. I'm going to bed.
PS. Most of you know, my wife's a teacher, so go Wisconsin workers, Scott Walker is a dinkleberry.