Respect my pry-or-it-eyes

We be broke.

This isn't exactly a revelation. We're a little closer to the Clampets pre-cement pond, rather than living it up in Bev-er-ly. We manage, but finagling the finances to get the things we'd like takes a bit of skill. Food is always on the table, the bills are paid. There's soap in the shower to wash the naughty bits, and gas in the cars, but some of the things that make life a little more livable are often hard to come by.

With a URL like gamingwithbaby.com one could be led to believe that I spend a decent bit of time playing video games, but that's one of the luxuries that gets placed on the back burner. My subscription to Xbox Live recently expired, and aside from losing the ability to download game demos before Microsoft so graciously allows anyone that isn't a Gold member to do so, I haven't really missed it. There hasn't been much down the pipe that has me jumping up and down with joy and excitement anyway. And as anyone that's played anything through XBL can attest to, there's only so many times you can hear pre-pubescent white kids expressing their displeasure through colorful metaphors and bigotry before you want to eat razor blades for fun.

Oh course there's always the Wii, but playing online games on it is about as effective as using linguine as bonds of loves.

So, sans gaming, I could get out with my prodigy, but one of the happy side effects of this super-keen-happy-fun economy is that I tend to think of things in terms of the gas it takes to do them. A simple trip out and back to see my parents is two gallons. Various errands around town yield the same fuel usage, if not a little more. Rather than waste that gas in the pursuit of things to do, we stay largely shut in, venturing out only when absolutely necessary and when we can accomplish the most in one trip.

And before all my brothers from across the pond remind us once again how much they pay over there, I remind them that we live in a county where even the best public transportation systems pale in comparison to what y'all got over there. And contrary to Hollyweird, we don't all live in the city or within easy walking/cycling distance to the grocery, etc. North America today is a car culture not out of choice, but out of necessity.

Which brings us to a set of blue eyes that'd melt the ice on even the coldest of hearts.

I'm told that it's never been easier to deal than ever before. Between cell phones with free mobile calls, e-mail, and video conferencing parents separated from their kids have never had it better. Or so I'm told.

The problem of course is the fact that you can't hug a cell phone. You can't kiss an e-mail on it's forehead. You can't tuck in a video conference.

Oh sure, you're more connected, but in a way it makes the disconnect even harder. Hearing a voice, reading an e-mail, or seeing a smile through the computer isn't even close to a worthy substitute.

Especially when with every phone call you're asked when you're getting a webcam.

“We don't have the money right now Sweet Pea. But, soon.”

And so, it begins.

Seems that the misses has a hockey buddy.

So, you want to be a stay-at-home parent?

Good morning Mr. Hunt. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to provide care and guidance to a young child. You will be inserted deep into hostile territory with little resource available to you. You will be expected to avoid confrontation with enemy combatants in the form of well-meaning busy bodies and evade said forces whenever possible. As always, if you should become captured during your mission, the agency will disavow any knowledge of your existence. Good luck Ethan. This diaper will self destruct in five seconds....

The thing is, the missions undertaken by Ethan Hunt and the members of the Impossible Missions Force are a walk in the park compared to my average day. I mean, they only had to save the world, rescue the girl, and assassinate the dictator all within an hour. I've got to keep my sanity, clean, cook, shop, sew, launder, iron, vacuum, keep from skinning the cats alive, dust, scrub, prep, and fold.

Every.

Single.

Day.

And as glamorous as all that may sound, that's the easy part.

Meet the hard part. This is "Butters" for those of you that may have stumbled across these words from much greener pastures. Nearly seventeen months, three feet, and twenty-eight pounds, that seemingly cherubic face can reduce a man who used to blow things up for a living and can drill a gnat's ass at three hundred meters to a sobbing shell of his former self. That loving little face can go from from making your day to making you want to drink heavily in about the same amount of time it'd takes el presidente to prove his intelligence.

I've been having a seriously rough time of late thanks to the little man. He's cutting even more teeth and despite copious amounts of Tylenol and Orajel, he wails like a banshee damn near constantly. Not even the judicious application of 70s and 80s metal can drown out his ear splitting octaves. He's at a point where I wonder if there is any truth to the old "he's going to make himself sick crying so much" schtick. We've reached a point where I wonder if it wouldn't be better to attempt my grandmother's remedy for teething and give the little turkey a shot of Tennessee's finest.

Or maybe it was "drink it yourself so you can ignore it." Can't really be certain, but I'm pretty sure that's the way it's supposed to be done.

I considered putting him in a box marked "free puppies" and putting it on the curb, but, after calling Mac last night to see how her first day of school went, I was told that I couldn't do that to her brother. I think if she were here wanting to rip her ears off rather than in the Democratic People's Republic of Kalifornia, she'd change her tune. Right now, I'd kill for that kind of distance from this nightmare.

You see, in theory I'll be laying him down for his nap soon, at which time my wo-man will call to see how things are going and I will regale her with the tale of how her son is driving me bat-guano crazy.

For the enlightenment of those parents who don't stay home, this is how it works. When the kids have gotten to be too much, something shatters into a million pieces, or you just need to run screaming naked into traffic, the little one(s) immediately become "your son/daughter/kids." Upon utterance of said phrase, a clear message is sent to the other party letting them know that, "I can't deal with this crap right now and so help me if you don't rescue me from this you'll regret it because I have all day long to think of something to do to you befitting of the nightmare I am currently having to endure and I will unleash upon you a plague so vile that the whole world will know of the darkness that I have let loose."

And amazingly enough lacking the ability to push a watermelon out of one's loins in no way precludes one from the ability to let those words fly. I comes down to who is the one that's at home dealing with it. Testicles or ovaries, it doesn't matter, it's just one of those things that goes beyond sex or perceived gender roles right to the heart of what it means to be an at-home parent.

Long hours of isolation and torture in a situation that would cause the most iron-willed individual to snap from the stress and repetition of it all.

But for we few, we happy few, it is a venture worth all the headache and all the stress. At the end of the day, when the wee one is fast asleep no doubt dreaming of what way he will challenge your sanity the next day, you at least have the satisfaction of knowing that you, not some faceless daycare stranger, have brought your child safely through another day.

At which point you recap the day mentally and seriously consider calling the guys in the white coats to haul you off to the land of the padded room.

Rule breaker

The signs all say no bare feet and no drinking the water. He doesn't listen very well. Wonder where he gets that from?

Blogging... is high school.

I've to the realization that I am in high school all over again. There's the cool guys, like Discovering Dad, WIND IN YOUR VAGINA, and Joeprah. The sensitive guys that get all ladies, like Backpacking Dad. The hotties you lust for, but they barely bat an eye at you, like Redneck Mommy and Whiskey In Sippy Cup. And then there's me, the quiet kid sitting in the hallway outside of class during lunch that no one pays much attention to. It's funny how being fourteen years removed from high school, I'm still the kid that people just pass quietly by.

Not that I mind it really, I like my solitude. But just once, I want to know what it's like to be at the top of the heap.

Eight, Ate, oh 8

Believe it or not, I've been blogging for quite a while now. Since before the last time nations gathered to be pompous nitwits and pit children against each other in a process that in no way resemble the ancient games. The original Olympic games were all about soldiering skills. Running, swimming, fighting, weaponry, and equestrian skills. What's more, participants in those ancient games competed in all the events, not just a couple of them. Today's Olympians by contrast are little more than one hit wonders. Take Michael Phelps out of the water, and there's little to nothing more that he could do.

And there's also the nudity that is lacking in today's games. Ancient contestants did it all au natural, with the only concession allowed being something to keep their bait and tackle in check. And keep in mind, the original Olympic games were a complete and total sausage fest, women weren't allowed to roll around naked together. No, that was reserved solely for the fellas. While nudity would certainly boost ratings for today's games, there are some things you just don't want to see naked. Greco-Roman wrestling. Fencing. Pommel horse. Any track and field event. But close your eyes for just a moment and imagine... the high dive.

At least the nudity would solve the problem of kids ruining their lives and bodies so early since they couldn't compete.