I had an epiphaneous moment as I sat on the living room floor, glancing longingly at the rapidly cooling tortilla chips, seasoned beef and melted cheese abandoned behind me. Moeb lay on a blanket in front of me working through her second diaper in a row. I decided to give up on the chips altogether and—like a divine gift—a rush of enlightenment swept over me.
"Daphne," I said, "Babies are more important than Nachos." And I went on to define my priorities for her. For your edification they are listed Below:
1. God
2. Babies
3. Nachos
4. Work
5. School
April 15, 2010
March 31, 2010
Raising Arizona Style, Concluded...
*Author's Note: The following is the conclusion of a three part series. To gather the full context of the narrative, begin here
...In a situation like this, with diapers loading left and right, a normal father may be tempted to melt down. The sounds, the smells, the sheer insurmountable task ahead of you can be disorienting. You must recall however, that I am a Stay-at-Home Dad and as such my skill set is more akin to that of a ninja, than to that of a typical American father (case in point: I am currently typing this with one hand. The second is keeping the Moeb asleep). So, I took a quick self-inventory and finding that I still had all of my wits about me, my Stay-at-Home Brain developed a plan.
...In a situation like this, with diapers loading left and right, a normal father may be tempted to melt down. The sounds, the smells, the sheer insurmountable task ahead of you can be disorienting. You must recall however, that I am a Stay-at-Home Dad and as such my skill set is more akin to that of a ninja, than to that of a typical American father (case in point: I am currently typing this with one hand. The second is keeping the Moeb asleep). So, I took a quick self-inventory and finding that I still had all of my wits about me, my Stay-at-Home Brain developed a plan.
At this point no one was eating anymore. The novelty of being unbuckled, yet still in the car, had curbed my son's appetite. Five ounces of baby formula had had a similar effect on Moeb. Just a couple smelly children and I, staring at each other, daring one another to make the first move. I dropped the arm rest between the two car-seats, creating a kind of narrow channel into the back cargo area. In a wild stroke of luck it turned out the Bean had only tooted so I sent him through the great Mid-RAV4 Channel into the back and pushed the arm rest up again. Then I set to work climbing in and out of the car through every door and over every seat as I gathered diapers, wet-wipes, burp rags, a changing pad, blankets, and sent them all into the back. The Bean was having the greatest time of his life running from one side of the car to the other, sending all of the diaper changing supplies I had gathered back over the seat to me. And I was having the greatest time of his life trying to make any progress. Finally, I grabbed the Moeb, car-seat and all, and opened the rear hatch.
Now, you might assume that taking two kids out of the house to run errands would simply double the amount of work involved in accomplishing any given task. Actually, it's more like multiplication. The Bean was happily exploring the back area of the Car-seat Car, drifting from one side to the other and being surprised by some new discovery each time, like a goldfish. And his bouncing side to side added a thrilling challenge to keeping the Moeb on her changing pad. The car would pitch to the left just as I had both feet in the air, or roll to the right in the instant I was reaching for a wet-wipe. I imagined this must be what is was like for the Pirates trying to change diapers on the open sea.
Suddenly, I found myself running out of room to work and I slung the now-empty car-seat onto the roof, a la Raising Arizona. As I did so, I became keenly aware of what I must look like to passersby. Indeed, I happened to catch the interested glances from a handful of said passersby and I thought: Who in their right mind wouldn't drive by this vehicle and call the police immediately? I might. And yet I felt there was a finesse to my movements—a deftness of motion that emanated good will, and dispelled perceptions of maleficence. With a shrug only shruggable by a Stay-at-Home Dad in a serious groove I pinned my delighted toddler to the floor of the car and changed his diaper too.
Suddenly, I found myself running out of room to work and I slung the now-empty car-seat onto the roof, a la Raising Arizona. As I did so, I became keenly aware of what I must look like to passersby. Indeed, I happened to catch the interested glances from a handful of said passersby and I thought: Who in their right mind wouldn't drive by this vehicle and call the police immediately? I might. And yet I felt there was a finesse to my movements—a deftness of motion that emanated good will, and dispelled perceptions of maleficence. With a shrug only shruggable by a Stay-at-Home Dad in a serious groove I pinned my delighted toddler to the floor of the car and changed his diaper too.
March 27, 2010
Raising Arizona Style, pt.2
...I had wanted to go grocery shopping, but I knew we'd probably have to go home first if the Bean needed to eat. That was fine, we could eat, maybe have a nap, and trek back over to the grocery store in the afternoon. The Moeb was, as yet, still asleep. I glanced at the clock on the dashboard, and did a few calculations in my head:
Car-seat Car (C2) + 35min = home (h).
Moeb (M) + 15min = hungry (H).
(M) + 35min = Frantic Moeb (FM).
(FM) x Hungry Bean (HB) = Screaming Bean (SB)
35min - 15min = 20min.
(FM) x (SB) + 20min = Swerving (C2).
"Hey, buddy. How about some chicken and fries?"
So we pulled into the drive-thru at Burger King. The Moeb was still asleep. A polite young woman came on the little voice-box and asked if we wanted to try the new Bacon-Hickory-Angus-Garbleburger. I said no, and after a pause the woman changed into a teenage boy, and asked if he could take our order. There was a distance to his monochromatic voice that went beyond the mere distance from his headset to the outdoor amplifier; as if his body resided at the Burger King second window, but his mind was far, far away. I ordered a kids meal with apple juice and apple fries for the Bean, a double-cheeseburger and large fries for dad, and an overly-specific cup of warm water for the Moeb. I chuckled as I tried to explain:
"You see, I have a baby girl in here and I need to make her a bot—"
"Will that be everything for you today?" he auto-responded.
"Yes, thank you."
As we pulled up to the window I, in a series of fluid movements, got my debit card out, cleared the cup holders of previous occupants, made space on the seat next to me, and paused William Sutherland. The Moeb spluttered a warning cough from the back seat. The Bean took a deep breath.
"I want chickenandfries," he said, patiently.
"You got it, buddy. I've almost got them."
The teenager at the window handed me my debit card, two bags, and a surprisingly accurate cup of luke-warm water. He instructed me to have a nice day—which we happened to already be doing, but I didn't bother pointing that out—and I told him to do the same. I don't know if he took me seriously. Then, with a flick of the steering wheel, a blinker, and little bit of luck we turned left onto State Street and headed South. I regaled the Bean with wonderful tales about the amazing chicken nuggets he was about to eat, and told him stories of french fries and apple juice.
I decided that we would picnic in the Sunflower Market parking lot, and a few lights later we were there. I pulled into the shadiest spot I could find, rolled down the windows a few inches, and set about moving the two front seats all the way up.
Now this is where it was going to get critical. I was about to turn the car off, and the Moeb was going to know it. And when she figured out the car was off she was going to go through her list of "am I" questions: "Am I asleep? No. Am I hungry? Yes—" and that's as far as she was going to need to get. I knew that in a matter of seconds her super-computer brain would run that program and begin to sound the alarm. I therefore had a very small window in which to climb between the two front seats, turn the Moeb's car-seat around to face me, get the lid off of the really quite impressively luke-warm water, make a bottle, say a blessing, give the Bean some chickenandfries, unbuckle the Moeb, and prevent Global Warming. I took a deep breath. I was ready.
Off went the ignition. I listened for a fraction of a second. No protests. So far so good. I threw myself feet first over the armrest. I landed deftly in the back, didn't step on anything gooey or fragile, and checked that the diaper bag was at the ready. I turned the Moeb's car-seat around, and... she was smiling at me with the crinkly infant smile of contentment. I was momentarily confused. Her eyes didn't burn with hunger. I looked back at the clock on the dashboard, and it didn't lie. My math added up. But she just giggled at me, and began eating her fingers again. I didn't lose my focus long, however.
"Please, I want chickenandfries." So I covered my toddler in napkins, unbuckled him, recovered him in napkins and sent him to work on his kid's meal, while I got the Moeb her own liquid kid's meal going, and with my free hand snuck a few french fries for Dad.
So here we were eating, staring at each other, smiling, talking about chickenandfries in about 3 square feet of space, and it was good. I was feeling a bit like Guilliver with the Lilliputians, but after they untie him. They had forgotten to put Apple Fries in the Bean's kid's meal, but he had an apple juice anyway and I thought what the heck, we can go buy an apple at the Sunflower Market after lunch. I didn't have a knife, but I figured I'd just judo chop it into slices without the skins on. I was that confident in my father skills at this point. And then, everyone in the car (except me) started pooping.
...to be continued.
Car-seat Car (C2) + 35min = home (h).
Moeb (M) + 15min = hungry (H).
(M) + 35min = Frantic Moeb (FM).
(FM) x Hungry Bean (HB) = Screaming Bean (SB)
35min - 15min = 20min.
(FM) x (SB) + 20min = Swerving (C2).
"Hey, buddy. How about some chicken and fries?"
So we pulled into the drive-thru at Burger King. The Moeb was still asleep. A polite young woman came on the little voice-box and asked if we wanted to try the new Bacon-Hickory-Angus-Garbleburger. I said no, and after a pause the woman changed into a teenage boy, and asked if he could take our order. There was a distance to his monochromatic voice that went beyond the mere distance from his headset to the outdoor amplifier; as if his body resided at the Burger King second window, but his mind was far, far away. I ordered a kids meal with apple juice and apple fries for the Bean, a double-cheeseburger and large fries for dad, and an overly-specific cup of warm water for the Moeb. I chuckled as I tried to explain:
"You see, I have a baby girl in here and I need to make her a bot—"
"Will that be everything for you today?" he auto-responded.
"Yes, thank you."
As we pulled up to the window I, in a series of fluid movements, got my debit card out, cleared the cup holders of previous occupants, made space on the seat next to me, and paused William Sutherland. The Moeb spluttered a warning cough from the back seat. The Bean took a deep breath.
"I want chickenandfries," he said, patiently.
"You got it, buddy. I've almost got them."
The teenager at the window handed me my debit card, two bags, and a surprisingly accurate cup of luke-warm water. He instructed me to have a nice day—which we happened to already be doing, but I didn't bother pointing that out—and I told him to do the same. I don't know if he took me seriously. Then, with a flick of the steering wheel, a blinker, and little bit of luck we turned left onto State Street and headed South. I regaled the Bean with wonderful tales about the amazing chicken nuggets he was about to eat, and told him stories of french fries and apple juice.
I decided that we would picnic in the Sunflower Market parking lot, and a few lights later we were there. I pulled into the shadiest spot I could find, rolled down the windows a few inches, and set about moving the two front seats all the way up.
Now this is where it was going to get critical. I was about to turn the car off, and the Moeb was going to know it. And when she figured out the car was off she was going to go through her list of "am I" questions: "Am I asleep? No. Am I hungry? Yes—" and that's as far as she was going to need to get. I knew that in a matter of seconds her super-computer brain would run that program and begin to sound the alarm. I therefore had a very small window in which to climb between the two front seats, turn the Moeb's car-seat around to face me, get the lid off of the really quite impressively luke-warm water, make a bottle, say a blessing, give the Bean some chickenandfries, unbuckle the Moeb, and prevent Global Warming. I took a deep breath. I was ready.
Off went the ignition. I listened for a fraction of a second. No protests. So far so good. I threw myself feet first over the armrest. I landed deftly in the back, didn't step on anything gooey or fragile, and checked that the diaper bag was at the ready. I turned the Moeb's car-seat around, and... she was smiling at me with the crinkly infant smile of contentment. I was momentarily confused. Her eyes didn't burn with hunger. I looked back at the clock on the dashboard, and it didn't lie. My math added up. But she just giggled at me, and began eating her fingers again. I didn't lose my focus long, however.
"Please, I want chickenandfries." So I covered my toddler in napkins, unbuckled him, recovered him in napkins and sent him to work on his kid's meal, while I got the Moeb her own liquid kid's meal going, and with my free hand snuck a few french fries for Dad.
So here we were eating, staring at each other, smiling, talking about chickenandfries in about 3 square feet of space, and it was good. I was feeling a bit like Guilliver with the Lilliputians, but after they untie him. They had forgotten to put Apple Fries in the Bean's kid's meal, but he had an apple juice anyway and I thought what the heck, we can go buy an apple at the Sunflower Market after lunch. I didn't have a knife, but I figured I'd just judo chop it into slices without the skins on. I was that confident in my father skills at this point. And then, everyone in the car (except me) started pooping.
...to be continued.
Raising Arizona Style, pt.1
Sometimes, it is surprisingly difficult to wrangle 44lbs of children. Sometimes, it is graceful and paternally exhilarating. The latter was the case this past Thursday, when I decided to take the kids to run a few errands while Mom was at work.
You see, my sister (see: codename:Irma Mac) had been staying with us for a few months as she prepared to serve a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and she brought all of her stuff down with her when she came. Far from an inconvenience, Irma Mac rented an obscenely over-huge storage unit right by our house, filled it about 1/8th full, and gave the rest of the space to us. The unit was gargantuan in proportions because they were out of the petite size Irma wanted, and they offered it to her at a discount. Then, as if free cubic feet wasn't enough, when my sister entered the Missionary Training Center last week she left us her car. We've been a one car family since right before our first child was born (you know: add a body, lose a car. Standard young family math). It's been good for us—if by good for us you mean that it has been a real pain—but the thought of having transportation for my kids and I during the day was exciting enough on Thursday morning to get me simultaneously washing bottles, feeding an infant (the Moeb), clothing a toddler (the Bean) and packing a diaper bag before 9am.
We had left my wife's cell phone at an undisclosed location a week ago, along with the Bean's Chick Hicks and brand new Ramone. It was about an hour away, and I thought that surely with two vehicles this would be a great opportunity for a road-trip w/Dad. Mom agreed, and took the Subaru to work, and I took the Car-seat Car. I figured we'd run to the Mystery Lodge, and go grocery shopping on the way back. Well, the baby breakfast stars aligned so we got loaded and moving about oh-nine-hundred hours. On the way up we listened to The Voyages of Doctor Doolittle on CD, read by William Sutherland—who, incidentally, sounds like the Rock-Biter ate James Earl Jones, and then moved to the English countryside. Bean fell asleep, and so did the Moeb, but I think Tommy Stubbins is fascinating and I stayed awake.
I pulled up to the Mystery Lodge, parked in the Garage, ran inside—question number three on the pediatrician's check-up survey: Do you ever, even briefly, leave your child unattended in the car? A. Yes.—found the phone, found Chick Hicks, found Ramone, back in the car, back into town.
Just as we got to the bottom of the canyon I peered in the rear-view mirror and saw that the Bean was waking up. About ten minutes later he emitted a short, frantic yelp, then calmly looked back out the window. At this point I knew the timer was running down.
"Are you hungry, buddy?"
"Yes," my two year old very articulately responded.
"Ok, we'll get some lunch..."
...to be continued.
You see, my sister (see: codename:Irma Mac) had been staying with us for a few months as she prepared to serve a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and she brought all of her stuff down with her when she came. Far from an inconvenience, Irma Mac rented an obscenely over-huge storage unit right by our house, filled it about 1/8th full, and gave the rest of the space to us. The unit was gargantuan in proportions because they were out of the petite size Irma wanted, and they offered it to her at a discount. Then, as if free cubic feet wasn't enough, when my sister entered the Missionary Training Center last week she left us her car. We've been a one car family since right before our first child was born (you know: add a body, lose a car. Standard young family math). It's been good for us—if by good for us you mean that it has been a real pain—but the thought of having transportation for my kids and I during the day was exciting enough on Thursday morning to get me simultaneously washing bottles, feeding an infant (the Moeb), clothing a toddler (the Bean) and packing a diaper bag before 9am.
We had left my wife's cell phone at an undisclosed location a week ago, along with the Bean's Chick Hicks and brand new Ramone. It was about an hour away, and I thought that surely with two vehicles this would be a great opportunity for a road-trip w/Dad. Mom agreed, and took the Subaru to work, and I took the Car-seat Car. I figured we'd run to the Mystery Lodge, and go grocery shopping on the way back. Well, the baby breakfast stars aligned so we got loaded and moving about oh-nine-hundred hours. On the way up we listened to The Voyages of Doctor Doolittle on CD, read by William Sutherland—who, incidentally, sounds like the Rock-Biter ate James Earl Jones, and then moved to the English countryside. Bean fell asleep, and so did the Moeb, but I think Tommy Stubbins is fascinating and I stayed awake.
I pulled up to the Mystery Lodge, parked in the Garage, ran inside—question number three on the pediatrician's check-up survey: Do you ever, even briefly, leave your child unattended in the car? A. Yes.—found the phone, found Chick Hicks, found Ramone, back in the car, back into town.
Just as we got to the bottom of the canyon I peered in the rear-view mirror and saw that the Bean was waking up. About ten minutes later he emitted a short, frantic yelp, then calmly looked back out the window. At this point I knew the timer was running down.
"Are you hungry, buddy?"
"Yes," my two year old very articulately responded.
"Ok, we'll get some lunch..."
...to be continued.
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