Lessons in Fatherhood Passed Down

There are a few times in my life when I remember my dad being an AWESOME dad.  One was when he bought an entire comic store's worth of Magic: the Gathering cards and would periodically shower us with new packs randomly.  That's not to say that I played or still play Magic: the Gathering.  No, I'm way too cool for that. 

Another time was when he stood up to my principal in high school when I said some really, really, deplorably embarrassing stuff.  He saved my ass from some seriously bad punishment, and I actually never expected how vigilantly he defended me.  His usual response was, "you got in trouble, you deserve your punishment".

But this whole Penn State disaster made me start thinking about the other major time when I remember my dad being a great dad. 

I was in 6th grade, and my dad was stationed in Italy for two years.  I went to a school that was on the military base there, and every military base has an intricate system of teachers that are all sort of shifted around between all military bases.  Going to school in a military school is very, very interesting.  You'd be best friends with a whole group of awesome kids, and the next month, you're totally alone, because all those kid's parents would move away to their next deployment. 

Growing up like this is tough for kids.  Especially overseas, where there's such a shallow pool of friends or support, and their parents are usually caught up in whatever job they're doing for the military.  So the kids are usually pretty misbehaved. 

So teachers there are all pretty haggard, what with the constant changes in their classrooms, and overall troublesome kids. 

My science teacher in 6th grade was Mr. Science (definitely not his name).  I remember him being a total geek, and I constantly made fun of him, but in a 6th grade sort of way - nothing mean or malicious.  I would be rebellious because he was teaching us stuff I already knew, like why temperature changed throughout the year.  Or how plants grew.  And even though I was rebellious, I could tell I was his favorite student.

I could tell this especially when we were in a computer room, and he was teaching us the basics of computers.  I had already pretty much mastered MS-DOS, so I was acting up again.  He came behind me while I was on the computer and put his hands on my shoulders in a really weird way, which made me shudder, and try and wriggle free.  Then he said, "Why won't you ever let me touch you?" and I don't remember what I said, but I remember being freaked out.  I don't remember if he touched me before, but I'm pretty sure he did.  In any case, this was DEFINITELY a touch with a creep factor of 10. 

I told my dad about it, and he basically went into his room with a missile launcher and blew the guys head off.  Mr. Science was fired almost instantaneously because of the firestorm my dad caused.  I think he even got the Commanding Officer of the base (the military equivalent of the Mayor) involved. 


I don't remember many instances of him defending us from the outside world, or many instances at all where I'd say my dad set a good example in any remote way, but I'm glad that there were these two situations. 

Especially now that I'm raising my own kid in a world with grimy assholes like Sandusky.  And now, apparently, Bernie Fine.

Some Bizarre Sickness

So, if you haven't noticed - I haven't published anything on the blog recently.  I'm just on the other end of crawling out of the pits of a sickness that were so deep I couldn't get my head out from the fog it was stuck in for a full 5 days.

Which is good because my wife is a superb take-care-of-sick-people person.  She treats me so amazingly, it's almost worth being sick and dragging it out.

But which is bad because I couldn't play with Sammy for a full five days.  Not even be within 5 feet of him.  And that was really bad, not only because my wife had to carry the full weight of taking care of him (though I got to sleep a LOT - which was terrific) but also because I turned around, and he was a full week older.  He's CRAWLING for god's sake.  (though the technical term for what he's doing would be closer to forward-motion dragging, we in the Borscht household are claiming a win)

And now, my wife is sick because I got her a homerun birthday present, and she was crazy enough to thank me with a kiss.  And I think some of my snot got in the way of the kiss.  And now she's sick.  Which is REALLY bad, because since she's still feeding Sammy with her breasts (despite having all the same words - this sounds much worse than breastfeeding, doesn't it?) she can't take any pills, which means the sickness is kicking her butt right now.

And yet, she's still busting her ass at work and going with me to class tonight.  I swear, I either married the most dedicated woman alive, or the most stubborn.  Likely both.

I'm back on the horse, people - more content tomorrow with a guest post, and then some good-ol' fashioned Borscht Blogging on Friday.

In the Meantime - check out this website I found while trying to figure out if Elijah Wood is Jewish (he's not).  It's incredibly fun.  By the way, also take a look at the TV show Wilfred on Hulu.  I definitely enjoy how bizarre it is.

A Balanced Approach to Kicking Sammy Out

This was me yesterday on my way to work:

Which is why I didn't post anything.


The reason?  Sammy is being a ridiculous person, and the wife is following suit. 

You see, we've had him sleeping in our room ever since the beginning of time.  Never in our bed, but always in his crib/bassinet.  But when we first started out, we could play the bagpipes, throw tambourines at each other, and play the penis game but with megaphones.  Whatever we did, Sammy wouldn't wake up.

But now, his highness needs absolute quiet in order to sleep soundly.  And you know what?  I DON'T MIND.  He's a baby, and that's what they do/need. 

But you know what I DO mind?  His sleeping in our bedroom.  Or let me be more clear: my wife's insistence on his sleeping in our bedroom.  And the fact that no matter how quiet I am, she still yells at me to be quieter.  So what follows is a plea to her - to get her to agree to move him into his own room, down the hall. 

Reason #1: The following is a list of things that make sounds in the bedroom with very little perturbation (yes, that's a word) and there's nothing to do about it:  The door hinges, the creaky floor, the creaky bed slats, the clanky curtain shades, the bathroom faucet, the toilet, the drawer sets, the closet, the clothes in the closet, your slippers, the computers as we're going to bed, the door to the bathroom, the alarm clock in the morning, the beeping of the bottle warmer.

Reason #2: When you shush me to be quiet, you actually are louder than anything I've done to provoke said shushing.

Reason #3: I almost guarantee that he'll sleep better in another room where I won't be constantly trying to fairy-flit around like giant 200+ pound tinkerbell/ballerina in boxer briefs. 

Reason #4: I almost guarantee that WE'LL sleep better not having to constantly shush each other. 

Reason #5: If WE sleep better, we'll be happier, and I'll be able to pour more effort into this blog, which will garner attention from large bigwigs, who will want to sign me up to write the next great American novel which will bring in gazillions of dollars which we will use to buy lots of really sweet nerf guns.

And, because I was always taught to weigh the counter arguments:

Counterargument #1: But he's too little!
     Reality: Psh, he's got adult sized poops.  That's the only metric I go by.

Counterargument #2: But the room isn't ready yet! There are no cute animal stickers on the wall!
     Reality: Amazon has 2-day shipping for a reason.  Problem solved.

Counterargument #3: But I'll miss him! 
     Reality: if, in the middle of the night, you miss him so terribly, I won't have any problem with you going down the hall to kiss him and hug him and rub his face with your face as much as you want.  No problem at all.

Counterargument #4: But what if he gets up 9 times a night like he is now?
     Reality: Ok, this is really the only legitimate argument.  I still maintain that he's getting up solely because he's we're making sounds in the room that are above 0.001 decibel.  Or because he's teething and grumpy.  We could do a trial period.  Three nights.  Two to get over sleeping in a new place, and one just for good luck. 

Counterargument #4b: Yeah?  and Who's going to get up to take care of him?
     Reality: If we do it over the weekend, and I'm allowed to take unlimited (or just one) naps during the daytime, I'll take the brunt of the workload.  Just to prove a point.  If I'm wrong, we'll bring him right back and wait until he's a year and I'll be completely silent about it.  And I'll work on levitation.

Please, people, send some support for the cause in the comments!  She reads all of them!

Severe Case of Navel-Gazing, or Omphaloskepsis (which sounds better)

High emotion tends to create drama, and drama is usually what draws an audience.  But the thing about high emotion is that one needs to express that emotion in an environment that the person feels is safe - no one likes to put themselves out there only to be met with ridicule and negative reaction.

So in a way, the ability to control your audience is crucial. 

I tried to show this on a 3D graph (with an x, y and z axis) but I couldn't figure out anywhere where I could make 3D graphs except by hand.  And I'm not smart enough to draw that, so you'll just have to imagine it.  It'll be awesome when you do.

Moving on...

For example, my family doesn't know about this blog - and I'd pay anything to make sure they never do - because I feel like if they WERE to find out about it, I really wouldn't be able to write this blog the same way that I do.

I tried to write a second blog (concurrently with this one) that would be available to them.  It started out terribly, and ended up with me just sort of copying and pasting boring and watered-down posts from this blog over to that one.  In the end, it was a terrible disaster, and I put it on death row.  Trying to write to an audience that includes them is about as conducive to creativity as having an open-faced dirty-diaper-sandwich rubbed in your face.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that in an audience controlled environment, I can shoot to write like Michelangelo (the ninja turtle, not the angsty and perpetually filthy painter) would write, whereas otherwise, I'd have to write like I would imagine Leonardo or Donatello would write: boring, melancholy and ultimately depressing and stifling. Also, if you're going to choose a ninja weapon, don't choose a Katana or a Sai.  They're dumb weapons.  Nun-chucks are where it's at.  At least the Shredder had those really cool spikes on his hands.

But I've also considered going to the other extreme: total anonymity.  I'm still actually considering that possibility.  This way I'd be able to talk about EVERYTHING.  The problem, of course, is then I can't talk to anyone about it.  Which I love.  My wife is probably starting to get annoyed by just how much I talk about you all.

So I guess in the end, my question is: how do you all manage your blog life and your real life?  Are they intertwined at all?  Do you have any tips/suggestions?

Ok, Maybe I'm Whining a Bit

I never brought any of my buddies or girlfriends over to my house when I was growing up.  I was embarrassed of my family.

"Oh, gosh, how could you be embarrassed, they're your family!" you ask?

Example #1: We were in NYC one weekend eating at some restaurant when I was 12 or 13.  I have no idea where it was, or what restaurant it was, mostly because a deep, deep mental scar healed up over top of it, and in trying to subdue the insanity, the majority of the details were buried.  But the waitress was an attractive 20-something Hungarian girl.  How do I know she was Hungarian? Because my mom asked her. While she was holding on to her arm.  Which she got a hold of by force.  After which followed the phrase: "You've got such GREAT skin!"

Example #2: My father is absolutely incapable of hiding his emotions.  He would get incredibly pissed off at something - the dog, the house, his job, the floor, my mom, me, his shoes, the door, a bug that was on the table, or English grammar - and then the night would be ruined.  And if I had friends coming over (the very few times that it happened) he would almost always be in a crap-tastic mood.


So I guess I was always afraid my dad would sit there silent and seething while mom would attack my friends and start caressing their bodies.

Thus, after living this way for 20 something years, you can imagine how strange it is for me to bring my wife and kid home to see them.  My strange and awkward mother is externally overly interested in my wife's background and culture while secretly hating the fact that she's not some southern debutante.  And my dad's mood is about as volatile as an aging star whose mass is above the Chandrasekhar Limit (Yay Astronomy!). 


This is probably one of the big reasons we're living a couple hours away from them, and about 3.5 minutes away from my in-laws.  This fact is especially pronounced when semi-big events come up, like when your only grandson reaches six months old. 


My wife's parents bought presents, we drank in celebration (just a symbolic amount, of course), and they made time out of their day to make sure not only that we knew they cared, but that Sammy felt special.


My parents still haven't called or texted anything.


Look, I'm not whining - I'm just curious.  A lot of times, I have these perceptions of American culture that are seen through distorted lenses.  Firstly, my parents are outliers in pretty much every American cultural norm.  And second - my second family is just as clueless about American culture as I am.


So, like I said - I'm mostly just curious whether this is something you all are like, "dude - six months?  seriously?  who cares?"


Yeah, not whining - just....curious.  No matter what the title of the post says.

Fun with Malapropisms: the Eye Doctor

Did I ever tell you about the time when I crushed that standardized test?  No?  Probably because it's EVERY time.

Unhyperbolic examples: I walked into my SATs when I was in high school stoned, drunk, hungover and missing two limbs, and guaranteed my simultaneous entrance into Oxford and Harvard.  I took the GMAT with my eyes closed and both hands tied behind my back (they grew back in college) and got a score an Asian father would be proud of.  For shits and giggles, I took the LSAT, and John Grisham wrote me a letter asking me to work for him as his mentor.

Basically, I'm an amazing test taker. 

So I wasn't at all afraid when my wife insisted that we went to go take the eye exam yesterday. Because it was my first eye exam ever, I have to admit, I was kind of nervous.  I memorized all the letters in the alphabet ahead of time, just in case my amazing test taking skills failed me. 

And to be sure - I destroyed the eye exam.  I listed every letter I knew, and the doctor seemed pretty impressed.  Then she put this crazy metal Optimus Prime mask over my face, and asked me repeatedly which number I liked better, 1 or 2.  I don't really understand why she asked the same stupid question over and over.  Especially when everyone knows I only like even numbers. 

But my poor wife didn't study hard enough and had trouble with the letters V and Y.  and also O and D.  It would probably have been easier for her if she were to be asked about the Cyrillic alphabet, I imagine.  She got an A, though apparently, in the Eye Exam world, A stands for Astigmatism.  Strange though, how a Jewish girl can get Jesus Sores.  Or even how an eye exam can determine if you're going to get those sores. 

I guess it's why I'm not an ornithologist. 

Family Member Management

Sammy got sick again yesterday.  He threw up about fifteen hundred times, and covered the floor with vomit.  From a purely scientific perspective, it's actually pretty amazing how much he can hold in that thing.  But thankfully, we think we figured out what was wrong with him.  The last time we rushed him to the emergency room, it was after giving him Rice cereal; we haven't given any cereal to him in the past two weeks, and this time we also gave him rice cereal.  So either this particular box of cereal is bad, or he's got some reaction to the cereal, allergic or otherwise. 

But hey, I tried that crap - I wouldn't eat it either.

The science geek in me wants to wait another two weeks and try it again, just to see if this is what the problem is (and then perhaps switch cereals to see if it's an ingredient in the cereal).  But the father in me, especially after seeing how miserable Sammy looked yesterday, says no. 

Give it a week, and I'll probably start thinking about testing the cereals again.

But besides these vague lessons, one thing we definitely did learn was how to manage family members.  There is such a vast difference between how each of our parents reacted to the last incident:

Me: Ma - we took Sammy to the Emergency Room last night; he was throwing up like a fountain for at least a couple hours.

My mom: Oh yeah?  Well, it's good to hear that he's feeling better.

Me: What?  I didn't say he was better.  He still looks miserable and pale, and has lost a lot of weight.

My mom: Did I tell you about the time that you threw up a couple times?  It was amazing.  Also, have you given any more thought to coming up to see us?  We haven't seen our grandchild in two months! And even though I don't really do anything all day long, it's somehow your fault.  No, seriously - I really am blaming you for my not coming down to see him.  Nevermind the fact that he just threw up a hundred times, and I'm still acting as if nothing really happened.  Did you hear about my trip to the bookstore?  It was amazing.  I didn't know there were so many books published!  Your father and I must have walked out with three armfuls each.  I needed to stock up on books for my bookclub meetings!  Then we came home and had Beef Bourguignon glazed with a pinch of carmelized onions with a side of steamed carrots, and ate it on the patio overlooking our freshly groomed and pruned lawn.  Call your brother!  He misses you, and you haven't spent any time talking to him.  He's got three weeks off before he starts work, and is bored from sitting around all day, and you should really get yourself together and call him.  That reminds me, I just saw a bear on my walk this morning! 

Me: ok, bye.

And this is how the conversation goes with my wife and the in-laws:

Wife: Ma, we took Sammy to the Emergen -

MIL: DON'T say emergency room.
FIL (in background): EMERGENCY ROOM??? What's going on? Who's sick?
MIL: Oh my god, What happened? 

Wife: He thre -

MIL: He threw up everywhere?  Why didn't you called us sooner? It's because you're always drinking coca-cola, and it gets inside your milk, and then it's like he's drinking coke!  You don't feed him enough, he's all skin and bones!  How is he feeling now?  What can we do?  Do you need anything?  I can cook for you! We're on our way!
FIL: First find out where they are!
MIL: Are you at your house?  Ok NOW we're on our way!

Wife: Ok, thanks!

(three minutes pass by and the phone rings again)

MIL: I bet it's because he's not eating regular foods yet.  You should start giving him soups.  He's too skinny!  We're coming as fast as we can!
FIL: (in background) I've done a few dry runs in case this happened, and it takes me an average of 3 minutes at top speed to get to your house!  We'll be there in 49 seconds!!

(After spending some time with us, and making sure everything is ok first hand, they go home.)

(Ten minutes after they've gotten home, the phone rings again)

MIL: Is he still doing ok?  Call me with updates!!!

I actually just received a call from her saying that no one (my wife or the babysitter) is answering their phones and she assumed the worst had happened.

I've definitely decided I like the in-law's approach more, but we've come to the conclusion that we're probably going to wait until after any big events to let them in on the action.  It definitely made yesterday's experience slightly less stressful. 

I still haven't called to tell my parents. 

Things said this weekend

"Hey mom and dad, great to see you!  Long trip?"

"Of course, it's totally cool that you take a nap - it's been a tiresome journey for you guys."

"Good afternoon!  ...Late afternoon really.  Feeling rested?"

"No, really.  He's not hungry.  He just ate maybe 15 minutes before you guys woke up.

"Uh...hold on...please don't take off his clothes - we're perfectly capable of deciding whether or not he enjoys his over-alls".

"Wait, no - he doesn't need to suck on steak.  We just started feeding him solids as a supplement.  No need for steak."

"Hey, thanks for pushing baptism, but that's the thing about being grandparents, you're not parents.  You don't get to make decisions about your grandchild.  You only get to enjoy him."

"Much obliged for the advice on bedtime, but his bedtime is exactly the bedtime that we feel is proper for him.  Remember the whole thing about grandparents/parents?  Also, you've seen him for a grand total of ten hours since his birth.  I'm betting we know a little more about when an appropriate bedtime for him is."

"Wait, YOU'RE going to bed?  Already?  Ok, see you tomorrow morning then, right?"

"Huh?  What time did you leave? 6:30am? Without even saying goodbye?  Ok, well...Happy Father's Day, I guess."

Gulag Vlog #2

For this Vlog, my lovely wife stopped by to discuss with you the thing that I hate the most.


I hope you like!

Looking back, I noticed my accent is sort of Russian/Austrian/Pirate.  Like if Arnold, Stalin, and Jack Sparrow were to get down and dirty.  Whoa...bad image.

She's Gone...

I've been trying to figure out a way to relay this information in a funny and clever way, but every time I put something down, it just turns into a whining session.  So let's just leave it as it is.  Commence whining.

Our babysitter's leaving us.

 
Exactly at the worst possible time, because we were increasing her hours because there's a chance my wife needs to go back into the office daily (she was working from home since Sammy was born).

Granted, we were paying her slightly above slavery rates, but Sammy is an IDEAL child - with almost no crying, and he's immediately and easily consolable and he sleeps about as much as a narcoleptic cat.  And, when we offered to match and exceed whatever job she was leaving us for, she said that it wasn't about the money.


And now, oh man.  The candidates we're getting are characters.  They ALL want top dollar, but most are about as fit to take care of a four month old as a quadriplegic pedophile with tourettes.  One of them came in and insisted that we're not treating our son well because he's not eating yogurt and soups yet.  And if we were to hire her, she'd cook him all the soups he could possibly want.  I can't possibly imagine justifying paying these people so much money; it's almost enough money to make me seriously think about quitting my job.  Or training a chimpanzee.  At least with the chimp, I'd have someone to party with.

But, we wouldn't be in such a jam if the outgoing babysitter didn't instantly develop schizophrenia when she told us she was leaving.  She immediately pretended like it was OUR fault that she was leaving.  We tried to be polite and cordial, but this woman barely even says hello and goodbye.  She's got two weeks left (thank god she gave us at least a little notice), but I think she's actively trying to get fired. 

Example: whenever we're home with her at the same time, we'll make espresso and offer her a cup.  She has always accepted gratefully.  But the day she told us, we made her espresso, and she replied "do NOT do this again!" all angry. 

Given the fact that she could kill all of us with her mind, I'm not gonna make any more coffee for her, but I can't wait to get her out of the house. 

Anyone know of any good babysitters?  Preferably those that do not know how to handle an Uzi? 

At least 240 times

It's 10 o'clock at night in the Borscht household.  We just got out little one to sleep, he's snoring away like a tiny puppy dog, and my wife and I lie down to go to sleep.  Overjoyed with how successfully we got him to bed, we say to each other, "Good night, my love.  I could never live without you - you are everything to me, and I couldn't be happier.  We have such a wonderful family".


We then drift off to sleep - the two of us grinning happily as we begin to dream of producing a book that tells the secrets to a happy marriage.

It is now 2 o'clock in the morning and Sammy has been awakened by his demon tapeworm.  His eyes are alight with anger, and his arms wail about as if possessed. 

My wife leans over to nudge me awake and says in her sweetest voice, "Dear - would you kindly tend to our lovely child, as it seems he needs to be changed and fed."

I reply, "Ugh."

To which she says, "What do you mean, 'Ugh', he's YOUR child too, you know". The sweet voice has disappeared.

"Yeah, no duh - I'm just not all that excited about getting up, what's your problem?"

"Well, why not, you ARE apparently the model father.  God, I'm so sick of this."

"Sick of what? Talking? Complaining? I don't have a problem if you're so sick that you don't do those things anymore."

Ten minutes go by in silence.  She finishes pumping, I finish feeding/changing, and we lie back down.

I say meekly, "Snuggling...kissing?"

She sarcastically, but cutely replies, "So now you're listing things we're never going to do again?" as she submits to being the little spoon and we drift back to sleep in each others arms as if we never said a word to each other.

Repeat this on average twice a night for almost four months (4 months * ~30 nights/month) or about 240 times since the kid came. 

We used to get mad at each other, and not talk for a couple hours in the morning after we'd fight at two in the morning, but then we realized...it's two in the morning.  It's basically like you're just dreaming anyway.

Also, when you see this face looking up at you from the crib:

It's hard to be mad at anyone.

Decline of the state of "Man" - Part One

One of the huge things that pissed me off about being at my brother's wedding was the almost blatant disregard for the fact that I've got a wife and a three month old child. 

When we were going to the rehearsal dinner, he had a fecal emergency which put us back 15 minutes.  When we got to the restaurant, it was as if the world had ended that I wasn't there on time.  Seriously, people were melting like Raiders of the Lost Ark.  (side note - remember this movie for this Saturday).  I was also five minutes late for pictures with the groom because I was taking care of the kid while my wife was pumping, and it's damn near impossible to manage to pump and look after a screaming kid at the same time.  I came downstairs and my dad scolds me like I'm three years old for being five minutes late.  It was like this basically all weekend.

This got me thinking about a few conversations I've had at work with guys who say things like, "the first three months or so aren't that bad, because your wife is breast feeding and you don't have to get up to help." 

When my son descends into hunger-insanity in the middle of the night, I will always get up with my wife.  The routine goes like this: she will generally warm up milk while I try to calm the kid down until the milk's ready.  Then I will feed him while my wife pumps.  Then I'll change him and re-swaddle him and put him down and make sure he falls asleep.  By the time he's asleep, my wife is usually done pumping, and we both go back to sleep at the same time. If I didn't help, she would be up twice as long, feeding the kid and then pumping.

I realize we have a bit of a crazy situation, because my son never figured out breastfeeding, and thus we feed him breast milk from the bottle.  Yes, this is just as terrible as it sounds - but less terrible than an infant with his scream set on "permanent".

But in the first six weeks, when we were giving breastfeeding our most valiant effort, even though my wife was trying to feed, I would still get up, help change,  swaddle and get the kid back to sleep-land.  It wasn't even really a question.  Sure I complained, and still do, but if you've made it through three months of having a kid without complaining, you deserve a medal, or at least a high five and some Cheetos.

But the thing about is, that even though I complained, it wasn't because I had to do it.  I complained because, well, after a couple really, really long nights, it just straight up sucks.  But I still did it because I have a wife who carried and then birthed my child, and a helpless child who needed me to be there for him.  It wouldn't really be fair to say to them, "hey, look - I'm kinda tired.  You mind if I go back to bed and you two figure it out?"  Not only would it be unfair, but I'd also be shirking the responsibilities I signed up for when my wife and I decided to have a child together. 

So that's why I was pissed.  Look, I'm not trying to paint myself as some saint, but I'm just trying to honestly figure out why it is that a dedication to your family first and foremost is not only looked down on by other men, but it is also seen as a kind of weakness - that this is something the wife can take care of, while the man should be asleep.  What is this, 1950 and/or the Middle East?

This rant could go on for two or three more hours, but I think it's probably best to split it up into three different posts.   I wanted to get into the Man Cave phenomenon, as well as the gender role polarization, but I figure it's gonna take forever to get all of it into one post.  Thus, the title of this post contains an insinuation of further parts.

So a serious, honest question: Am I wrong to feel this way?  I'd truly love to hear other points of view, because I'm not exposed to them. And I'm legitimately interested in how other families manage their gender roles.

The Wedding - a debriefing involving hatchets

Oh, how I've missed you, fellow bloggers and bloggettes.

I've realized with this week or so of absence that I've grown to really enjoy being involved, even remotely, in your lives.  Reading along with your daily or semi-daily posts has become a very welcome routine for me, and I'm like a 90 year old grandpa - I loves me my routine.  Example: I have to wake up at the same time every day, even if I'm not going to work - otherwise, my sleep pattern will be all out of whack.

So, speaking of something out of the routine...how 'bout that wedding, huh?  I think over the course of the three days  I was up there, I tweeted maybe...5 times?  It turns out that tweeting in the middle of the ceremony as the best man isn't exactly considered polite.  I HONESTLY didn't think of that when I was gearing up for the trip.  I thought I would sit through the entire ceremony and reception snickering to myself and delving into my iReporter fantasy by tweeting to you all constantly.

But, boy, it was a doosey. 

Here are a few highlights to make you jealous of our awesome time:

• Driving in a two door coupe with a three month old exploding exactly at the wrong moment, forcing my wife to crawl over the seats in her beautiful new dress to change him in cramped spaces while the entire wedding was waiting for the best man (me) to show up. 
• The bride's father commenting almost immediately upon meeting my father about how poorly my dad kept his yard.  My father, who spends tens of thousands of dollars a year on landscape design and work (and who is as explosive as my son, but just from the other end) actually handled it pretty well, despite displaying his chameleon-like ability to change facial colors at will.
• My brother and the rest of the groomsmen getting tattoos on their inner hips that say, "Riot" - apparently from this one time when my brother said it at a wedding referencing "It's always sunny in Philadelphia", sending everyone into giggles.  I didn't get the joke, so I didn't get the tattoo.  Thank god.
• My overly drunk and newly single aunt (there's always one) squealing at the top of her lungs any time one of my brother's military buddies said ANYTHING, yelling, "You can rescue me ANYTIME!!!"
• The bride and groom entered the reception hall to the Star Wars opening credits theme song (probably my favorite part of the wedding altogether).

As an addendum, my b-day loot included a MacBook Pro - probably one of the sweetest gifts ever given, except for the super sweet hatchet that my wife got me.  It's got a badass leather case and everything.  That reminds me, I wanted to check the local laws to see if carrying a hatchet in public is legal.  And if it's not, I need to check on how much jailtime could I get carrying it.  You know, to weigh the risk/reward. 

The above is an image from here. I do not own the image, but I do own the hatchet, which, admittedly, is much more awesome than owning just the image.