Wednesday, December 31, 2008

New Year’s Resolutions are Stupid…

Even though I know I will never keep any of my New Year’s Resolutions, I shall declare them anyway for the entire world to see.

Here are my three New Year’s Resolutions in the order of least likely to be resolved.

1) Be More of a Man.

You would think that when you live in a house with three females, it’s pretty easy to find your masculine identity. This is not true. I find that with each passing day, I come closer and closer to complete emasculation. I hereby resolve to find ways to strengthen my existing male attributes and even introduce some new male qualities into my arsenal of manliness. Some of the things I plan on doing to achieve this are:

A) Growing a handlebar moustache. Nothing says “Man” like a Ringmaster. There is also a nice symbolic undertone to this gesture. My wife will also find this incredibly sexy and irresistible.

B) Hunt and Kill my own food. Back in the Caveman days, every male would have to hunt and kill to provide food and clothing for his family. I can’t even get to the local supermarket without my GPS. I vow to hunt and kill every squirrel, raccoon and pigeon that roams my backyard and cook them on my BBQ for a feast that could only befit my tribe of squaws.

C) Open the hood of my car. I have no idea how to fix anything. I inherited a workbench from the previous owners of my house and I received a toolbox with a full set of tools when my grandfather died. I can change a light bulb as long as it’s not one of those fluorescent bulbs. There is nothing more masculine than looking under the hood of a car. I will not try and learn anything about auto mechanics but I will make it a point to open the hood of my car periodically in the presence of neighbors, friends and complete strangers in order to project a stronger sense of masculinity.

2) Stop Being a Lazy Ass Dad and Husband.

For the most part, my parenting skills are strong or at least stronger than most. I pretty much get by, doing a little bit better than average. I’m good at being a little bit funnier than average, a little bit smarter than average, a little bit sexier than average (The moustache will most certainly push this over the edge). I often feel like I’m doing just enough to get by as a husband and a father. Sometimes I feel bad for my girls because they don’t know any better. I’m afraid that if I don’t get my act together and step it up, my kids are going to one day have a realization and figure out that I’m really a lazy sack of shit. Some of the things I plan on doing to improve are:

A) Stop pretending to be asleep when my kids or my wife need me to do something annoying. Most of the time when my oldest daughter calls me repeatedly with no answer she will stop and assume that I am sleeping or my wife will assume that I am sleeping and help her in my absence. I have mastered the fake sleep. I am convinced that if I was ever in the presence of a cold-blooded killer, I could easily convince him that I was either dead or sleeping. I resolve to make my best effort to pretend to be awake from now on.

B) I promise to make out with my wife for no good reason. I’m not even talking about sex. I’m talking about making out, necking, good old fashioned French kissing. My wife and I have been married for eleven years and we’ve been together for a total of sixteen. When you are with someone for that long and have two kids, certain things start to slip through the cracks. Kissing for no good reason was one of the first things to go in our relationship. I feel like we’re always in a rush. Kissing takes time and I’m gonna make time. Of course this is a two way street and I will give her the option to decline my vow of sensual lip locking. But with my moustache it will be virtually impossible for her to resist. I will make every effort to once again be the Chachi to her Joanie.

C) I will listen to my wife and kids when they talk to me. My wife is constantly claiming that I don’t listen to her when she talks to me. Why else would I not remember that we made plans to see Dan Zane in concert in the city on Christmas Eve Day at 12pm with our kids and another couple. She yells at me, “For crying out loud, I asked you if this was ok when we were in the Hamptons in July. I specifically remember because you were in the pool drinking with your friends and I said to you, is it ok if I buy tickets to see Dan Zane in concert in the city on Christmas Eve Day at 12pm with our kids and another couple?” Ok. So I was drunk in a pool with my friends in the Hamptons and she was asking me a question from 100 feet away, six months ago. I do listen. I just don’t remember. I’ll do anything. Just remind me. I’m not Raymond Babbitt constantly muttering, “Ten minutes till Dan Zane, ten minutes till Dan Zane.” Cut me some slack. Nonetheless, I vow to listen attentively to any and all oral communications coming directly from the mouth of my wife and or my two daughters.

3) Try and Dance More Often.

I am not a great dancer. I am not a dancing enthusiast. I feel embarrassed when I dance. One of the things that I feel badly about as a husband and a father is my lack of enthusiasm for dancing. Dancing is good exercise, it is supposedly fun and silly and it doesn’t cost anything. In these tough economic times, dancing seems like a pretty cost effective way to keep the family entertained, healthy and out of trouble. I would think that it’s a pretty good way to relieve stress as well. Some of the things I plan on doing to introduce dance into my daily routine are:

A) The next time my daughter asks me to do a ballet dance with her; I will wholeheartedly embrace the invitation. Instead of pretending to fall asleep, I will dance. I will even go online after I finish writing this blog ( and purchase a male Unitard, Ballet Slippers and a pair of Capezio Men’s Nylon Tights. My unwavering commitment to dance will be immeasurable in 2009. I will study the likes of Nijinsky, Diaghilev, Fokine and Baryshnikov. I will make my daughter proud. I will probably need to purchase a pair of tube socks as well in order to enhance my Unitard (See resolution #1).

B) I will sign up for Jazz Tap dance instruction and or Clogging. I feel that in order to fully embrace the art of dance in the New Year, I need to find a way to express my creativity through more than one form of dance. Only then will I truly find comfort in my self-expression. I will study diligently at a local dance studio and commit to a performance at the end of the calendar year.

C) I will unveil my new learned passion and skill set at either a family Bar Mitzvah or Wedding. My wife is always angry with me because I don’t like to dance with her at these types of events. She is a big fan of the Wedding / Bar Mitzvah couples dance. I’m not sure how she gets completely pumped up for Barry White’s “You’re the first, The last, My Everything” or Sister Sledge’s “We are Family” every time she hears them. It’s like some sort of an aphrodisiac to her. To me it’s quite the opposite but not this year. In 2009 I will lace up my $39.99 Tap Shoes and tap my way through the Electric Slide like it was my last night on earth and my wife will fall in love with me all over again…

Hopefully all my resolutions for 2009 won’t have me feeling too Out-Numbered…

Monday, December 22, 2008

My kid is full of crap…

Ah the holidays. There’s no better time to kick back, relax and spend some quality time with the family. Whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa or you’re waiting for the next Hale-Bopp comet to arrive, you can’t deny the spirit of the season. There’s something about the holiday music playing. It acts as a sort of, soundtrack to your life. I feel invincible walking down the street in time to Stevie Nick’s version of “Silent Night” blaring in my ear buds. Just when you had forgotten what an altruist Bono is, “Do they know it’s Christmas” hits the radio again. There’s something about the smell of New York City during the holidays. It’s a perfect mix of gingerbread cookies, pine cones and horse poop. The change of season is such an emotional trip.

For the last six months it’s been nothing but doom and gloom everywhere you look. All you hear about is the declining housing market, how greedy Wall Street has become, the struggles of Main Street, the credit crunch, and how can we forget the election. Even Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Phillipe got divorced. The sky is falling! It’s time to put all of our worries aside and come together. It’s time to give back to our fellow mankind. It’s time to…

…Administer child suppositories. That’s right. There’s nothing that says Peace on Earth like a constipated 2 year old. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any shittier… What does this have to do with my message of holiday cheer? Nothing. It just puts things into perspective that’s all. There’s nothing sadder than watching a little kid try to push one out the back door when it’s got the deadbolt on. It’s like trying to suck a meatball through a crazy straw. It’s like trying to flush a watermelon down the toilet. It’s just not going to work.

This is one of those instances where guys just don’t make great parents. I mean, to me being constipated would be a blessing. It would eliminate so much downtime. I could watch football straight through without having to take a break. I could eat three or four times as much food without having to empty the cargo. There would be no awkward moments at dinner parties (see: Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan). The mere thought that there would be less diapers to change would be incentive enough to turn a blind eye. But as my wife pointed out to me, it can be serious stuff if a toddler can’t “drop the kids off at the pool.” Sometimes you even have to call the doctor. What? Call the doctor because you can’t poop? I thought only old people have trouble pooping. Isn’t that why they drink prune juice and mix Metamucil with applesauce?

When you’re a parent, you learn to appreciate certain things. For instance, if you’re a father lucky enough to have experienced the wonders of natural childbirth, then you have seen the unthinkable. The mere sight of an 8-pound baby excavating itself from your wife’s fush-ney-ney warrants an instant replay and a smack in the face (not necessarily in that order). But what a little two year old has to withstand when the caboose isn’t loose is just heartbreaking. My little one was walking around the house for 2 days making the most unnatural faces. I couldn’t understand what was wrong. She would be in the middle of an activity and all of a sudden she’d stop in her tracks, start to grunt and turn purple. She looked like Violet Beauregarde from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. This is the classic poop face on a kid but it usually takes a few minutes and then there’s a definitive ending. There’s also that wafting stench that says, “I’m done.” The only problem was that nothing was coming out. Poor kid. After awhile, she started to resemble a combination of E.T. and Lou Costello. We would just find her waddling back and forth and making those faces. The only thing that was kind of nice was that for the first time, I started to see the physical resemblance she had to me. Everyone always says how pretty my girls are and how they look like their mom. But for the few days that she was trying to pass the brick, she looked like me. At one point I even put her on the toilet and made her hold the New York Times. My wife didn’t think that was so funny.

My wife decided to call the pediatrician and ask what we could do to help our little dump less truck. The doctor suggested we start adding prune juice and some Benefiber to her morning sippy cup. If that doesn’t help, try a suppository. If that doesn’t help, try a child enema. Holy mother of merciful mayhem! Prune juice I can handle. I’ve even been known to sprinkle a little Benefiber on my Apple Jacks but a suppository? You’ve got to be shitting me (sorry, I couldn’t resist.) Wait, what’s a suppository? I remember hearing my stepmother talk about that once for my little sister but she’s French. So I looked it up:

Joseph R. Duba, MD, posted the following:

Inserting a Rectal Suppository

OK, so you have never inserted a suppository before.
But you are desperate enough now that you have come this far!

I would assume that you have received medical advice regarding the need for the suppository you wish to use. Please do not self-diagnose.

First, you have to realize that the anal / rectal area is just another part of your body. (I would hope you agree). Get comfortable with it.

Relax, and follow these instructions:

You are likely already very sore and might be very apprehensive about creating more pain when you insert one of these things. Understand there will be some discomfort but it is minor and will only last a few seconds. You will not harm yourself.

Take a shower or use a bidet if you have one to clean the anal surface (and external hemorrhoids). Sitting in a very warm tub of water for a while will help relax the anal sphincter muscles and make suppository insertion easier. You might also apply a topical lubricant (like Vaseline, etc.) to the surface to make insertion easier.

Suppositories typically have a pointed end to facilitate insertion. I guess you can thank the manufacturer. It is common to feel a sharp ridge along the sides of the suppository, left over from the manufacturing process. If these are present, simply scratch them off with your fingernail.

The suppository will likely have a waxy consistency. Rub it with your fingers to make it smoother, and to warm up the surface.

Hold the suppository by the non-pointed end and insert the tip into the anal opening. This may be a little difficult to find at first, especially if there are external hemorrhoids there. But you will eventually feel the suppository begin to slip into the opening.
Now just gradually push, keep pushing (it may be further than you imagine) and at some point the suppository will be PULLED IN to the rectum by the anal sphincter.
Do not be surprised if the suppository POPS BACK OUT! You simply have not inserted it far enough. Once it stays in, it's in and will start dissolving.

Congratulations on a job well done.

Congratulations my ass. This is the part where my wife starts earning her money. Suffice it to say, it is almost as hard to force entry, as it is to force exit. I have to hand it to my wife. She really got her hands dirty this time (again, I couldn’t resist). When all was said and done or undone in this case, I learned one thing from this whole experience. Even if your kid is an angel, he or she might be full of crap.

Happy Holidays and a Peaceful New Year! May you all be Out-Numbered in 09…

Sunday, December 14, 2008


I checked all of my sources and found nothing. Nada. Zilch. Urban dictionary is usually a reliable resource. I also scoured the web and found zippo. Wikipedia came up empty. I could trek over to my mom’s house and thumb through her 1977 World Book Encyclopedia Collection but I doubt I would find anything. Those were the days. World Book was the bomb back then. I would sit in front of those encyclopedias for hours at a time, reading about lizards, World War Two, medicine and even the human anatomy. You could look up Vagina and see some crazy diagrams. Salesmen sold that crap door to door and made good coin. Man, we’ve come so far but have left so many important things behind.

Tonight at dinner, we were sitting around the table and eating. My wife had prepared a bit of a potluck smorgasbord for the kids and me. Basically that means that the freezer was getting way too full and she had to cook stuff to make room. It only happens about twice a year but when it does, look out! Some of the things on the menu were, stale cheesy meat bread, dried out pork cutlets, peas with just a touch of freezer burn and crunchy chicken legs. Sounds a bit like Thanksgiving at a homeless shelter. Anyway, I was gnawing on a chicken leg and looking quite the opposite of sexy, when my oldest daughter happened to notice me. She looked at me and said, “Gross-Arrhea!” I said, “What the heck does that mean?” She looked back at me with a straight face and said, “Gross-Arrhea is something that’s so gross that it’s worse than diarrhea. It’s like a combination of gross and diarrhea and YOU are Gross-Arrhea.” At that point there was only one thing left for me to say… “Can you please pass me the dried out pork cutlets?”

Yesterday I was taking my oldest daughter to the pediatrician because she has a cough. My kids don’t get sick that often and when they do, it’s usually the same thing over and over again. Sniffles, sneezing, general booger face type stuff. Even though I know that a bit of Delsym and some VVR (Vicks Vapor Rub) will do the trick, my wife always insists that I take them over to see the pediatrician for good measure. It’s funny though because she always asks me if I think we should take them to the doctor and I always say no. Then she says, “Do you think the pediatrician thinks I’m crazy because I always call them?” and I say, “Probably.” Then she says, “Ok, take them just in case…” Why not? You never know when the Bird Flu might come back and you can never be too cautious with that Whooping cough. I really believe my wife thinks we live on Little House on the Prairie.

So my daughter and I are driving to the Doctor and we get caught at a red light. My daughter says to me, “How do the lights change from green to yellow to red?” The truth is that I honestly have no idea how the hell the lights change. I’m not that tech savvy. I would assume it’s a Leprechaun or some type of troll that lives inside of the traffic light. But I wouldn’t dare try to pass that explanation off on her because then I would have to explain what a troll is and she might find that scary. So I do what any normal Dad would do… I make up some bullshit and try to sell it as best I can. “Well honey, it’s quite complicated you see. Every traffic light has a tiny timer inside of it and it’s set to change at certain points throughout the day. There is probably some sort of master control panel that connects all the lights in our town.” (Holding my breath… 3, 2, 1.) “I don’t think so Daddy.” She interrupts. “Do you want me to tell you how they really work?” “I would appreciate that sweetie pie.” I said. She continues on regardless of my response. “There is a really big room and a lot of people sit in it. Every person sits at a desk with three buttons in front of him or her. There is a green button, a yellow button and a red button. When the person wants the cars to go, they press the green button. When the person wants the cars to slow down, they press the yellow button. When the person wants the cars to stop, they press the red button.” She pauses, waiting for my confirmation. “That sounds like a very good explanation munchkin, I’m impressed.” Screw her. I still think the Leprechauns control that racket but I’m too tired to fight.

Oh and by the way, the Doctor said that she sounded fine and that we should just give her some Delsym and some VVR (Vicks Vapor Rub) at night to help her sleep. DOH!

Before I put my kids to bed we usually spend a little time on the couch and wind down a bit. Tonight we were watching some television. I don’t remember what program was on but there happened to be some Sharks involved. Some of you might be wondering how can you wind down two little kids by watching Sharks? I have one word for you… Educationalism. I think it’s important for kids to learn something right before they go to sleep. I believe there is a better chance of the information getting stuck in their tiny little brains if they see it right before lights out. But that’s neither here nor there. So my oldest turns to me and says, “I’m never, ever, ever, ever, ever going in the ocean ever again!” Man, that back fired. I might as well have thrown on Jaws. At least I would have been able to kick back and enjoy myself. So I asked her with caution, “Why don’t you want to go in the ocean, baby? Are you scared of the Sharks?” She looks at me like I’m a moron and says, “No dumb-dumb.” (Can’t really argue with the truth) “I don’t want to go in the ocean because when you pee it goes from the toilet bowl into a big pipe and then it dumps right into the ocean.” I looked back at her and said, “Gross-Arrhea!”

High five!

The dumb-dumbs in this house seem to be Out-Numbered…

Sunday, December 7, 2008

You look like a monkey and you smell like one too…

At Outback, our attitude towards life is down-to-earth, laid-back, 'no worries'. Our attitude toward food is another story. It's a story about big, bold flavors, a story about quality, consistency and preparation. We take great pride in serving the freshest, highest-quality food possible. At Outback, it's all about quality — and all about the food.
So let go of the worries of the day, and Go Outback.”

Damn straight. That’s the Outback way. That’s why Outback is my favorite restaurant in the world. That’s why I drag my family to the Outback once a year. You see, I’m pretty much forbidden to eat there all year round. Why would I possibly be kept from a Mecca such as this against my will? Because my lovely wife thinks it’s a shit-hole, that’s why. But… because deep down she loves me more than almost anything except her furry Uggs, she allows me one free pass. Every year on my birthday we drag the whole family to the Outback so daddy can stuff his fat face with the following delicacies:

Appetizer - The Bloomin’ Onion

Not much to say here except, “look out!” If you don’t have heart problems before you eat one, you’re probably going to have them after. Definitely looks the same coming out as it does going in.

Appetizer #2 - The Steakhouse Salad

This almost sounds like it could be healthy. NOT! What fun would that be? Birthdays are for being gluttonous and indulgent. Extra ranch dressing, Garson and don’t skimp on the croutons.

Appetizer #3 – Bread

Not exactly an appetizer but it’s so fresh and warm that it must be noted. They also give you a knife that you could hack off your own hand with, to cut it. Outback never “cuts” corners.

EntrĂ©e – 16oz Prime Minister’s Prime Rib

You haven’t had Prime Rib this good since you cousin Steven’s Bar Mitzvah. Cooked to perfection, fatty and Au Jus. Better pop the pants button before you dig into this baby.

Sides – Roasted Garlic Mashed Potatoes, Aussie Chips and Fresh Steamed Veggies.

That’s right. I order two items from the potato family. Got a problem with that? I didn’t think so, tough guy. I’d have them deep-fry my veggies but it’s not an option. That’s coming straight from Outback management.

Drink – 20oz Fosters, served chilled.

Nothing says Australia like a Fosters. Actually, my Australian business partner has told me that both the Outback and Fosters are for shit. It’s supposedly like having a Milwaukee’s Best at an IHOP. It beats hanging out with Hugh Jackman and that puss face Nicole Kidman, that’s for sure.

Dessert – Chocolate Thunder From Down Under.

This is irresistible but unfortunately I am Lactose intolerant. So I have learned my lesson the hard way in the past. Now when I come to Outback, I wear an adult diaper and pack a spare for good measure.

Bon Appetit.

If you haven’t guessed by now, it was my Birthday today. If you don’t believe me, check my wall on Facebook. Last time I checked I had at least 200 Birthday wishes. That sounds fairly impressive but when you take into consideration that I have 1269 friends, it’s pretty underwhelming. There’s a higher percentage of people responding to direct mail than that measly turnout. Woe is me.

I shouldn’t make fun. Facebook and the never ending wall posts were actually quite the highlight for me today. I actually think most people that attended my birthday parties between the years 1972 – 1980 sent me well wishes today. That was kind of nice.

The cold hard fact is that I never got to go to Outback Steakhouse today. Didn’t really even come close. My day started off pretty well. My wife let me sleep in. This isn’t ever as simple as it sounds. Before we had kids, we’d sleep in every weekend. Now in order to sleep in, one of us needs to get up with the kids and let the other one sleep. But my kids are so freaking loud that we need to turn on the exhaust fan in the bedroom-bathroom, leave the bathroom door open, close the bedroom door and then open the closet door all the way so it double barricades the bedroom door. It’s like the opening to Maxwell fucking Smart for god sakes. The most pathetic part of this is that my wife took the kids out of the house so I can actually slumber but as soon as I heard them leave… and I most certainly heard them leave… I jumped out of bed and hurried upstairs to exercise. This was my thought process. Would I rather sleep in peace or workout in peace? Thinking that I was going to Outback later that night, I chose the latter. I should have slept.

When my family came back, I was ready to roll. We were actually going to a birthday party. You’d think that on your own birthday, you’d be going to your own birthday party. Wrong! I was going to a 2 year olds birthday party. Double whammy here. Birthday party on Sunday = no football on the couch + annoying clown puppet show and Barney songs. I wasn’t very smart in school but I’m pretty sure this is the square root of SUCKASS.

After the party we headed back home. At this point we still planned on going to Outback. We were just going to rest for a bit, open my presents, then head out. Normally there’s no danger here. Rest and presents. It’s like bunnies and puppies. Harmless. Wrong again! Apparently I wasn’t supposed to get the presents that I got because my oldest daughter threw a shit fit. Now it’s tough times out there, so we kept the presents modest this year. All I wanted was a couple of DVD’s and pair of gloves that didn’t look like the Freezy Freakies I’d been wearing for the last 10 years. But apparently my daughter hadn’t approved the purchase and she was pissed that she didn’t get to pick out my present. So I got a tongue-lashing. Then my wife got involved and told her to apologize to me. Uh oh, not good. “Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together... mass hysteria!” Most of the time I just respectfully decline the apology because when kids apologize (at least my kids) they don’t mean it anyway. I’d rather them just let me know they hate me so we can move on. It’s a lot simpler and quieter. Suffice to say the rest of the evening didn’t quite play out the way I had planned it. I made the decision to stay home for dinner. I told my wife and two daughters that my one remaining birthday wish was to have everyone stop yelling for the rest of the night. I said that I didn’t want to go to Outback with them because it seemed like too much trouble. I wanted Pizza instead, with sausages and mushrooms. Agreed!

When the pizza finally arrived, we all sat down at the table and my oldest daughter said to my wife, “Mommy, let’s go around the table and we’ll all tell daddy why we’re thankful for him on his birthday. Then he can tell us why he’s thankful for us on his birthday.” My wife went first.

Wife – “I’m thankful for Daddy because he works hard every day so he can earn money for us, so we can have the things we need and want. I’m also thankful that Daddy is still very handsome after all these years.” (I swear to Allah she said the handsome thing. She must be relieved that I didn’t catch the ugly train after our 10th anniversary or something.)

Oldest Daughter – “I’m thankful for Daddy because he works hard every day to bring home money for you, so you can give the money to me, so I can buy stuff from the school fair and buy all the other stuff that I want.

Youngest Daughter – “Thank you Daddy. I don’t want mushrooms!!!!”

Oldest Daughter – “Ok Daddy. What are you thankful for?”

Daddy (Me) – “I’m thankful that there are at least 6 – 8 hours in every day that I get to be asleep.”

Cue the laugh track…

Even on my birthday, I was still Out-Numbered…

Friday, December 5, 2008

Vote Out-Numbered for BEST PARENTING BLOG.

Everyone please scroll down on the left hand side of the site and notice the "Bloggers Choice Awards Buttons"and vote for in this year's Bloggers Choice Awards!!! Hook a brother up yo!

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Second verse, same as the first…

This Out-Numbered is dedicated to my awesomely chill second kid. Happy Birthday!

When my wife and I were first discussing the possibility of having a second child, one of the questions that kept coming up was… “Do you think we’ll love it as much as we love our first?” Hmmmm. Good question. Totally impossible to answer without sounding cold and heartless but a very good question. I honestly didn’t know the answer. But I always heard from my parents and grandparents that you love each child differently. Not more, just differently. Yeah right. What happens when one kid is smarter than the other? What happens when one kid is prettier? You always hear siblings say, “I’m the good one”. It’s inevitable. What if the new kid gets all messed up like Jan Brady? Or even worse, Macaulay Culkin in, “The Good Son”. You remember… In a quiet town... In a comfortable home... In a perfect body... Evil can be as close as someone you love. It didn’t seem fair.

To make the decision even more difficult, by that point my first had already turned to the “dark side”. When I say “dark side”, I mean the point (usually 18 months – 2 years) at which a perfectly sweet, loving, snuggly, innocent little baby becomes a complete asshole. I know this sounds way too harsh when describing a little kid but it’s probably the most accurate description I can think of. It’s almost like the transformation happens over night or something. You never expect it. It’s almost like watching a cute little caterpillar walk around on its cute little legs, all happy and mushy. Then one day it wraps itself in this Chrysalis. Then you’re like, “ok, I miss my little caterpillar. I hope when it comes out, it’s still sweet and cute.” Then BAM! Asshole Butterfly! Just flying around, nothing at all like the sweet little caterpillar. Ok wait. I think I was thinking of the 1978 remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, with Donald Sutherland and Leonard Nemoy. Those pods that hatched the evil clones? Whatever. I think this stage is actually referred to by the “experts” as the Terrible Two’s. What these so called “experts” don’t tell you is that the Terrible Two’s never end. Seriously. They actually just rollover like vacation days you never use at work. The Terrible Two’s is just a name that sounded cute so they stopped there. What about the Terrifying Three’s? How about the Fucked up Four’s? You get the point.

Even though our little original was going through her transformation or “turning” as I like to put it, she was still our baby. No new child could possibly live up to her presence. So like any other parents of sound mind would do, we said, “what the heck!” Let’s go for it.

It’s funny how these things work. First pregnancy = easy. First kid = not so easy. Second pregnancy = hard. Second kid = not so hard. It’s almost like the first pregnancy wasn’t hard enough so they give you a tough kid to even things out. Then because the second pregnancy was hard, they make it up on the back end with an easier kid. Not sure who “they” are. But apparently they have control over just about everything. You know what “they” say…

Having the second kid was strange for me. It wasn’t at all like the first time around. Back then I was super involved. Even when our first kid was still in the womb, I’d religiously play music for her on those special headphones that fit on the belly. I was very meticulous in picking out the perfect music for her. Stevie Wonder (Songs in the Key of Life, Disc One of course), Peter Gabriel (SO, always omitting Sledge Hammer and Big Time for fear that it would make her annoying.) and Lisa Loeb’s debut album (Because for some reason I think she’s totally hot. Even after she did that lame reality show.) After the kid was born, I changed doodie diapers, did 2am feedings, bath time, you name it. I did it all. It was just like I had pictured it to be. I really connected with daughter #1 from the first moment I saw her. There was a special bond.

When I had daughter #2, it was as if I was a bit detached right from the get go. I can’t really explain it. I barely even played music for her when she was in the womb. I might have exposed her to some Phil Collins (No Jacket Required. God forgive me, Sussudio was on that album.) Or some Journey (Raised on Radio). It was pretty bad. After she was born, I wound up spending most of my time with my oldest daughter while my wife took care of the new baby. Could I have been experiencing some sort of Dad Postpartum? I don’t think so but there was definitely a natural inclination to increase my bond with my oldest kid. My wife just thinks that I didn’t want to change any more diapers. This was definitely true. But it’s not the only reason why I was feeling distant.

Everything was different the second time around. My age was different. My job was different. My home was different. My expectations were different. I didn’t realize it then but I was holding my newest baby to the very standards I had so consciously vowed not to create. I thought I had seen it all with the first kid and didn’t even think for a minute that the second time around could be as unique an experience. Maybe I didn’t want it to be. Maybe deep down I didn’t want anything to alter the bond that I had with my first child.

Then suddenly, things changed. I think it was when my second daughter was three months old. I started to notice the most amazing things about her. She smiled differently than my other daughter. She smelled different. She cried differently. Her hair was a different color. Everything about her was different. She WAS different. She was always different. I was just too jammed up to notice. From that point on I took great pleasure in observing all the little idiosyncrasies about my new little girl. As the months started to pass, her personality started to come out more and more. She was chill and laid back, where my other daughter was intense and focused. She was silly, where my other daughter was serious. It was amazing. For all the reasons I loved my first child, there were now a plethora of completely different reasons why I loved my second. It was like going to Wendy’s and always getting the Chicken Club Combo with Cheese but now I could add the Bacon Jr. Cheeseburger and Frosty to the same order and not have to settle for just one. Bliss… My parents and my grandparents weren’t just blowing smoke up my ass all those years ago. You really do love each child differently. Not more, just differently.

From the day our second child was born, my wife has always joked that she is “the sweet one”. There is that inevitability I was talking about. I always tell her it’s because she hasn’t “turned” yet. “Don’t say that!” she says, as she knocks on wood. This week my youngest daughter turned two. Like clockwork, it started. The yelling. The whining. The hitting. The temper tantrums. I even checked her neck for bite marks, thinking the older one “turned” her like a kiddy Vampiress. Ah, too much True Blood on HBO perhaps. Either way, the Terrible Two’s don’t scare me this time around. Even though my kids are different, there’s one thing that is exactly the same.

I’m still Out-Numbered…