Children are a miracle and a gift. This boring old worn out platitude doesn’t really resonate with me. Then I start thinking about the series of insane coincidences and miracles it has taken to get to this point. My apologies for the dime store amateur philosophizing here, but it boggles my mind to step back and consider just how unlikely my good fortune and wonderful life really is.
What if I had chosen to go to Cornell in New York instead of UT in Austin? Would I have ever met Shannon? Would the timing have been the same? What if I had taken that investment banking job in Dallas? I’m sure I would be wealthier, but at what cost?
What if my dad had never relocated from Alabama to Houston in the 1980’s? Where would I have ended up, and who would my friends have been?
What if my dad had never met my mom in the first place? What if the Sieber family line was wiped out in the Civil War, and ole Absalom Sieber didn’t make it through? What if Ogg Sieber, the cave man, had a lapse of attention one fine day, and a pterodactyl swooped down and pecked him to oblivion?
There are literally millions of tiny coincidences, bits of good fortune, and strange quirks of fate that have all combined and conspired to bring my little family together. Change even the smallest detail, and our unique and precocious little Mad Dawg is not here with us. Just think of the infinite number of never-conceived children who never get their day in the sun because someone didn’t meet the right person, someone fell asleep too early one night, or some cave man became a dino-snack? Everything is always hanging by a thread, and, yet, here we are.
What are the lessons in this?
First, playing ‘what if’ has completely changed. I can wonder about job choices or what I might have studied in college, but changing any of that would just ‘poof’ away my family, and it would never be worth it.
Secondly, I would advise anyone considering time travel to reconsider. Sure, I’ve thought about travelling back in time to warn Colt McCoy not to run that speed option play against Alabama, but the risk to the space time continuum is just too great. I recall the cautionary tale of the Back to the Future movies.
Finally, some might see the hand of divine intervention while others might see a nearly infinite combination of incredibly fortunate coincidences that conspired to give us our very lives and our precious loved ones. I’m not sure what the right answer is, but I do know enough to appreciate and try to never take for granted what I have. It’s surprisingly easy when I walk in the door and hear that little voice scream “DADAA”.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The further adventures of....
This posting covers a potentially impolite topic. This is not a tale for the dinner table or the squeamish of heart. It is, however, a perfectly plausible occurrence in the grossed out world of the parent.
Although this happened almost a week ago, I can remember it like it was yesterday.
It was a dark and not very stormy night. Little Mikey was struggling against sleep, as is his way. Shannon nobly battled him with cuddles, with pacifiers, with blankets, and with songs. Nothing would work. This was one pissed off baby, and she was defeated under the relentless onslaught of toddler squirms and cries. Shannon summoned me off of the couch to take over.
Mikey greeted me with his usual, “ DA DAAAAaaa!” and held up his arms in the universal sign for "pick me up now." I should have noticed that his belly looked a little distended, like an overripe watermelon. I figured this would be a sleigh ride: a few minutes chilling on the couch and he would be sleeping like a baby. Little did I know the hell he would soon unleash.
It started with a cough. One cough became two, and two became four. We had a complete and total Cough-a-rama on our hands. Without warning, the cough changed into a sustained grunt. I could hear this perfectly because Mikey’s head was inches from mine.
Then came the deluge.
I was struck about the face and neck by a jet of projectile baby vomit. It entered the neck opening of my shirt. Yes, it was down my shirt. I shudder to recall the feeling.. A second aftershock struck, plastering the right side of my body and splattering onto the carpet.
I would like to think that I’m a mentally tough person, that in a crisis I would remain calm and move quickly. I was wrong. I was transfixed…in horror, surprise, and confusion. “What the Velcro do I do now?” A few seconds felt like an eternity until I was snapped back to reality by Mikey’s plaintive cries. I hustled into his room to start disaster recovery proceedings while Shannon went to work on the carpet. Several towels and a whole lot of gagging later, the baby was cleaned up and looking good in his diaper. Only then could I clean myself up. I was numb to the point that my gross out meter didn’t even register a blip.
Mikey must have been feeling better, because he started getting his groove on in the hall. A dancing baby clad only in a diaper can really lift one’s spirits after a crisis.
Every parent has these stories. Just ask any of our friends, who are probably weary of all the poop and bodily function stories. We parents are part of an elite fraternity. We bear the slings and arrows of outrageous toddler fortunes, from ear infections, to disgusting diapers, to sleep deprivation, to being vomited upon Exorcist-style. This is one club that I am overjoyed to be a part of, gross-outs and all.
Although this happened almost a week ago, I can remember it like it was yesterday.
It was a dark and not very stormy night. Little Mikey was struggling against sleep, as is his way. Shannon nobly battled him with cuddles, with pacifiers, with blankets, and with songs. Nothing would work. This was one pissed off baby, and she was defeated under the relentless onslaught of toddler squirms and cries. Shannon summoned me off of the couch to take over.
Mikey greeted me with his usual, “ DA DAAAAaaa!” and held up his arms in the universal sign for "pick me up now." I should have noticed that his belly looked a little distended, like an overripe watermelon. I figured this would be a sleigh ride: a few minutes chilling on the couch and he would be sleeping like a baby. Little did I know the hell he would soon unleash.
It started with a cough. One cough became two, and two became four. We had a complete and total Cough-a-rama on our hands. Without warning, the cough changed into a sustained grunt. I could hear this perfectly because Mikey’s head was inches from mine.
Then came the deluge.
I was struck about the face and neck by a jet of projectile baby vomit. It entered the neck opening of my shirt. Yes, it was down my shirt. I shudder to recall the feeling.. A second aftershock struck, plastering the right side of my body and splattering onto the carpet.
I would like to think that I’m a mentally tough person, that in a crisis I would remain calm and move quickly. I was wrong. I was transfixed…in horror, surprise, and confusion. “What the Velcro do I do now?” A few seconds felt like an eternity until I was snapped back to reality by Mikey’s plaintive cries. I hustled into his room to start disaster recovery proceedings while Shannon went to work on the carpet. Several towels and a whole lot of gagging later, the baby was cleaned up and looking good in his diaper. Only then could I clean myself up. I was numb to the point that my gross out meter didn’t even register a blip.
Mikey must have been feeling better, because he started getting his groove on in the hall. A dancing baby clad only in a diaper can really lift one’s spirits after a crisis.
Every parent has these stories. Just ask any of our friends, who are probably weary of all the poop and bodily function stories. We parents are part of an elite fraternity. We bear the slings and arrows of outrageous toddler fortunes, from ear infections, to disgusting diapers, to sleep deprivation, to being vomited upon Exorcist-style. This is one club that I am overjoyed to be a part of, gross-outs and all.
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
A Food Review: Justine's in Austin
I would like to share a food review I wrote at Yelp.com for Justine's, a French brasserie in east Austin. I like food, and I like writing, so Yelp competes for some of my mind share and time. Here's the review!
Justine's Review Link
We headed east on our quest for hyped and acclaimed French goodness. It was not so far east as Paris, but it was the kind of east that made us feel like we were on an adventure in a far-away land.
Our large party arrived for the early dinner seating. The little house featured expansive grounds, sparsely furnished and juxtaposed with the tiny dining room, claustrophobically furnished. In the light of day, the room was warm and airy and not yet crowded. I could feel a happy buzz in the air and in my head as a well-mixed Sidecar began to do its work.
What's not to like about classic French peasant food? French onion soup, duck leg, steak frites. Salt, butter, fat. Red wine. More salt and fat. The evening became a blur. I remember the conversation and mirth reaching a near roar as more and more people packed into the restaurant and bar. This was the place to be, and I expected to see one of those white-gloved Japanese subway attendants cramming more people through the front door.
The red wine flowed like water, aided by a generously cheap markup. Though we we're shoe-horned in to an impossibly small table, conversation was difficult above the rising din of wine-soaked bar-goers and diners. We found a way, and I remember laughing a lot. I remember being jealous of my brother's steak and and my wife's pork chop, but I had the last laugh. They neglected to order the French Onion soup, a gaudy soup that was almost too rich, but not.
I don't know how the waitstaff manages to actually service tables. The dining room is a like Bombay rush hour, and these waiters must be able to read lips to take orders. But they got it done for us with a minimum of fuss or errors.
I wouldn't say it was the best food I've ever eaten. My duck leg was perhaps a bit dry and over salted. Dishes were not complex or elegant. The whole was greater than the sum of the parts. Maybe it was the wine? Maybe it was the boisterous joyful ambience? Was it the good company? I don't know exactly, but it was good. And I'll be back.
Justine's Review Link
We headed east on our quest for hyped and acclaimed French goodness. It was not so far east as Paris, but it was the kind of east that made us feel like we were on an adventure in a far-away land.
Our large party arrived for the early dinner seating. The little house featured expansive grounds, sparsely furnished and juxtaposed with the tiny dining room, claustrophobically furnished. In the light of day, the room was warm and airy and not yet crowded. I could feel a happy buzz in the air and in my head as a well-mixed Sidecar began to do its work.
What's not to like about classic French peasant food? French onion soup, duck leg, steak frites. Salt, butter, fat. Red wine. More salt and fat. The evening became a blur. I remember the conversation and mirth reaching a near roar as more and more people packed into the restaurant and bar. This was the place to be, and I expected to see one of those white-gloved Japanese subway attendants cramming more people through the front door.
The red wine flowed like water, aided by a generously cheap markup. Though we we're shoe-horned in to an impossibly small table, conversation was difficult above the rising din of wine-soaked bar-goers and diners. We found a way, and I remember laughing a lot. I remember being jealous of my brother's steak and and my wife's pork chop, but I had the last laugh. They neglected to order the French Onion soup, a gaudy soup that was almost too rich, but not.
I don't know how the waitstaff manages to actually service tables. The dining room is a like Bombay rush hour, and these waiters must be able to read lips to take orders. But they got it done for us with a minimum of fuss or errors.
I wouldn't say it was the best food I've ever eaten. My duck leg was perhaps a bit dry and over salted. Dishes were not complex or elegant. The whole was greater than the sum of the parts. Maybe it was the wine? Maybe it was the boisterous joyful ambience? Was it the good company? I don't know exactly, but it was good. And I'll be back.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
The Eyes of Me Premier on PBS
It sure is nice to see friends doing big things in the world. Last night, Shannon and I trekked down to the world-famous Austin City Limits studio to watch the national television broadcast of Keith Maitland and Patrick Floyd's documentary, The Eyes of Me.
First, it was just cool to be in Studio 6A. I've seen the Austin skyline set in the background of dozens of televised concerts, so I enjoyed seeing it in person. Secondly, it is so satisfying to see this film garnering national attention after the insane amount of toil, sweat, and tears that went into shooting, editing, and launching this movie.
More importantly, the Eyes of Me is actually really good. It is equal parts entertaining, touching, and enlightening. Watching these four blind teenagers navigate a year at the Texas School for the Blind helped me actually feel and gain some understanding about what it is like to live with a visual disability.
Some scenes are absolutely harrowing. It's scary as hell for me, a sighted person, to cross a bustling street like Guadalupe. Imagine stepping out into traffic with nothing but a cane to guide you as cars, trucks, and busses roar in your ears. This film beautifully captured this little piece of reality (among many others).
A 1 hour cut of the film aired last night nationwide on PBS, and there should be re-runs. I hope everyone out there takes a look.
The Eyes of Me PBS Website
First, it was just cool to be in Studio 6A. I've seen the Austin skyline set in the background of dozens of televised concerts, so I enjoyed seeing it in person. Secondly, it is so satisfying to see this film garnering national attention after the insane amount of toil, sweat, and tears that went into shooting, editing, and launching this movie.
More importantly, the Eyes of Me is actually really good. It is equal parts entertaining, touching, and enlightening. Watching these four blind teenagers navigate a year at the Texas School for the Blind helped me actually feel and gain some understanding about what it is like to live with a visual disability.
Some scenes are absolutely harrowing. It's scary as hell for me, a sighted person, to cross a bustling street like Guadalupe. Imagine stepping out into traffic with nothing but a cane to guide you as cars, trucks, and busses roar in your ears. This film beautifully captured this little piece of reality (among many others).
A 1 hour cut of the film aired last night nationwide on PBS, and there should be re-runs. I hope everyone out there takes a look.
The Eyes of Me PBS Website
Monday, March 01, 2010
Why wasn't I informed of this?! (PART 1)
After 16 months with the baby (aka Mad Dog, Mikey, or Michael), I never cease to be surprised at the new challenges and, ehem, adventures that crop up. I have to ask, why wasn't I informed of this???!! Some things that have surprised me (part I):
1. It’s not the diapers that get you. It’s the sleep.
2. That said, ever heard of rogue waves? Those are the massive, unexpectedly huge waves that suddenly crash into ocean-going ships. Even huge cruise ships suffer severe damage and risk of capsize. Sometimes a rogue diaper comes along, and it shakes me to the core. I wish I could figure out what food items cause rogue diapers, because they are so unspeakably terrible. Right now, scrambled eggs and edamame are on the watch list.
3. Babies in day care are sick so often that the well days that stand out as remarkable. I wish our pediatrician gave frequent flier miles, because we’d be getting a free toaster or stethoscope at this point.
4. Baby fevers are intense. They are hotter than adult fevers, and they last longer. On the plus side, a strategically placed feverish baby in the bed can help you with lower utility bills in the winter.
5. There’s no getting away from the booty thermometer. The other ones just don’t work right. This one is not fun for anyone involved. Disturbing the ‘well’ can activate geothermal forces, and all heck can break loose.
6. Keeping a toddler’s nose wiped is absurdly Sisyphusian. The crust is relentless. It’s like those lava flows in Hawaii that constantly harden and form more land. The flow never stops, and any attempts to wipe with Boogie Wipes are considered an act of war by the sovereign infant. It gets really bad when you see lint, dog hair, or a passing dragonfly caught and frozen into the amber-like slime.
7. Babies have a radar that unfailingly draws them toward the most dangerous or messy objects in any room. Left a pair of scissors sitting within reach? Guess who is going to find them? Half finished glass of ice water on the coffee table? Baby will be dumping it on his face in seconds. Extremely dangerous brick fireplace or wooden staircase? Those are the only places he wants to go, ever.
8. Toddlers plus downward sloping hills are a terrible combination. It’s like a runaway mine car, and the resulting crash is spectacularly sad. Babies don’t seem to understand the concept of speed and momentum. In accordance with #7, Michael is obsessed with hurtling down any hill he can find.
9. I’ve been sick more times in the last 16 months than the previous 10 years combined.
10. Shots suck. The nurse has you pin your baby down so that his cherubic thighs are laid out and ready for plunder. After 2-4 rapid-fire shots, you can see the look of shock appear as little cheeks flush to bright red. A huge intake of breath is followed the scream of a thousand banshees. His eyes are saying, “Why have you betrayed me?” At least he gets a scooby doo sticker afterward. My theory is that teenage rebelliousness and anger has its roots in deep-seated memories of fear and betrayal from those early shot appointments. Oh, and Jenny McCarthy just accused you of exposing your kid to Autism.
1. It’s not the diapers that get you. It’s the sleep.
2. That said, ever heard of rogue waves? Those are the massive, unexpectedly huge waves that suddenly crash into ocean-going ships. Even huge cruise ships suffer severe damage and risk of capsize. Sometimes a rogue diaper comes along, and it shakes me to the core. I wish I could figure out what food items cause rogue diapers, because they are so unspeakably terrible. Right now, scrambled eggs and edamame are on the watch list.
3. Babies in day care are sick so often that the well days that stand out as remarkable. I wish our pediatrician gave frequent flier miles, because we’d be getting a free toaster or stethoscope at this point.
4. Baby fevers are intense. They are hotter than adult fevers, and they last longer. On the plus side, a strategically placed feverish baby in the bed can help you with lower utility bills in the winter.
5. There’s no getting away from the booty thermometer. The other ones just don’t work right. This one is not fun for anyone involved. Disturbing the ‘well’ can activate geothermal forces, and all heck can break loose.
6. Keeping a toddler’s nose wiped is absurdly Sisyphusian. The crust is relentless. It’s like those lava flows in Hawaii that constantly harden and form more land. The flow never stops, and any attempts to wipe with Boogie Wipes are considered an act of war by the sovereign infant. It gets really bad when you see lint, dog hair, or a passing dragonfly caught and frozen into the amber-like slime.
7. Babies have a radar that unfailingly draws them toward the most dangerous or messy objects in any room. Left a pair of scissors sitting within reach? Guess who is going to find them? Half finished glass of ice water on the coffee table? Baby will be dumping it on his face in seconds. Extremely dangerous brick fireplace or wooden staircase? Those are the only places he wants to go, ever.
8. Toddlers plus downward sloping hills are a terrible combination. It’s like a runaway mine car, and the resulting crash is spectacularly sad. Babies don’t seem to understand the concept of speed and momentum. In accordance with #7, Michael is obsessed with hurtling down any hill he can find.
9. I’ve been sick more times in the last 16 months than the previous 10 years combined.
10. Shots suck. The nurse has you pin your baby down so that his cherubic thighs are laid out and ready for plunder. After 2-4 rapid-fire shots, you can see the look of shock appear as little cheeks flush to bright red. A huge intake of breath is followed the scream of a thousand banshees. His eyes are saying, “Why have you betrayed me?” At least he gets a scooby doo sticker afterward. My theory is that teenage rebelliousness and anger has its roots in deep-seated memories of fear and betrayal from those early shot appointments. Oh, and Jenny McCarthy just accused you of exposing your kid to Autism.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Helicopters and Scraped Faces
Helicopters are cool.
In “Apocalypse Now, in one of the most awesome scenes in cinema history, a group of Army helicopters roars over the Vietnamese countryside in a raid on a beach village. The lead copter blares “The Ride of the Valkryies” as the squadron rushes into battle. In the midst of the chaos, Robert Duval as Lieutenant Colonel Kilgore growls, “I love smell of napalm in the morning.” With the explosions and the rousing score, this was manly stuff way beyond all the horrifying Old Spice commercials that haunt every bloomin’ channel on the television now. Don’t even get me started on the Russian gunships in Rambo and Red Dawn.
When I was a little kid, my friend Clint and I would ride our bicycles around the old Plano neighborhood. Clint, on his Huffy, assumed the role of uber-car KIT from Knight Rider. My Schwinn became the derivative helicopter version, Air Wolf. My handlebars bristled with gatling guns and ferocious missile launchers. It sounds silly now, but I had a great time pedaling around pretending to be a goofy sentient attack helicopter.
Fast forward about 25 years. There’s a new helicopter in town, and this one doesn’t have machine guns, napalm, or a rousing score. This helicopter prowls the edges of playscapes vigilantly watching for signs of danger. This helicopter doesn’t strafe enemy positions or drop commando teams. It prevents wood-chip face plants, the ingesting of disgusting things, and attacks from rowdy children. I have become Helicopter Parent, the least cool helicopter in the world.
I hover over Michael to help him play without getting hurt. His ambition outweighs his balance and judgment at 16 months old. Yet I always swore that I would not become one of those overprotective hovering parents. In the cozy world of theoretical parenting, my child would be free to play rough, take risks, trick or treat, walk to school by himself, and *gasp* maybe even ride a bicycle without wearing a full suit of Kevlar body armor! Now that the actual baby is here, it's really tough.
How do I not become the hovering helicopter after witnessing face-first falls into a piles of woodchips? The tears and the little bruised and scraped face can throw the best-laid plans of the theoretical parent right out the window. Maybe my new philosophy can be the unobtrusive just-in-case copter. Sort of like a news channel chopper.
If you see us on the playground, I’ll be the dad who is hovering nearby, but not too close. Little Mikey will climb his ladders, slide down slides, explore gravity, test limits, and, yes, occasionally fall. I’ll try to be near enough to mitigate the worst faceplants without suppressing the best of his experiences. This is why I’m getting some gray hair. This is why going to the Central Market playground, where I can get a glass of soothing red wine while he plays seems so essential. Now I understand so much. Mom and Dad, I am really sorry for all the emergency room visits when I was growing up.
This semi-cheesy coming of age parenting posting was brought to you by our sponsors Neosporin, Aetna Insurance, and Band-Aids.
In “Apocalypse Now, in one of the most awesome scenes in cinema history, a group of Army helicopters roars over the Vietnamese countryside in a raid on a beach village. The lead copter blares “The Ride of the Valkryies” as the squadron rushes into battle. In the midst of the chaos, Robert Duval as Lieutenant Colonel Kilgore growls, “I love smell of napalm in the morning.” With the explosions and the rousing score, this was manly stuff way beyond all the horrifying Old Spice commercials that haunt every bloomin’ channel on the television now. Don’t even get me started on the Russian gunships in Rambo and Red Dawn.
When I was a little kid, my friend Clint and I would ride our bicycles around the old Plano neighborhood. Clint, on his Huffy, assumed the role of uber-car KIT from Knight Rider. My Schwinn became the derivative helicopter version, Air Wolf. My handlebars bristled with gatling guns and ferocious missile launchers. It sounds silly now, but I had a great time pedaling around pretending to be a goofy sentient attack helicopter.
Fast forward about 25 years. There’s a new helicopter in town, and this one doesn’t have machine guns, napalm, or a rousing score. This helicopter prowls the edges of playscapes vigilantly watching for signs of danger. This helicopter doesn’t strafe enemy positions or drop commando teams. It prevents wood-chip face plants, the ingesting of disgusting things, and attacks from rowdy children. I have become Helicopter Parent, the least cool helicopter in the world.
I hover over Michael to help him play without getting hurt. His ambition outweighs his balance and judgment at 16 months old. Yet I always swore that I would not become one of those overprotective hovering parents. In the cozy world of theoretical parenting, my child would be free to play rough, take risks, trick or treat, walk to school by himself, and *gasp* maybe even ride a bicycle without wearing a full suit of Kevlar body armor! Now that the actual baby is here, it's really tough.
How do I not become the hovering helicopter after witnessing face-first falls into a piles of woodchips? The tears and the little bruised and scraped face can throw the best-laid plans of the theoretical parent right out the window. Maybe my new philosophy can be the unobtrusive just-in-case copter. Sort of like a news channel chopper.
If you see us on the playground, I’ll be the dad who is hovering nearby, but not too close. Little Mikey will climb his ladders, slide down slides, explore gravity, test limits, and, yes, occasionally fall. I’ll try to be near enough to mitigate the worst faceplants without suppressing the best of his experiences. This is why I’m getting some gray hair. This is why going to the Central Market playground, where I can get a glass of soothing red wine while he plays seems so essential. Now I understand so much. Mom and Dad, I am really sorry for all the emergency room visits when I was growing up.
This semi-cheesy coming of age parenting posting was brought to you by our sponsors Neosporin, Aetna Insurance, and Band-Aids.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
What did you just say?
I think the 80/20 rule applies to baby speech. 20 percent of Mikey's words make up at least 80 percent of his talking. Those words are: nana, dada, bella, mama, yeah, and no. He generally just repeats the word he is thinking about until he has a fresh banana in his little mitts or some other desired outcome.
That's why what happened Saturday morning surprised us. I'm still not sure I heard what I did.
Chris Floyd stopped by in the morning so we could play a round of disc golf at Brushy Creek. While I was getting my discs and shoes together to leave, he was playing with Mikey. Chris asked Mikey, "Where's your ball?" The little guy immediately swiveled and headed over to the fireplace where his toys are stowed. He spotted his quarry, the goofy rubber ball with a puppy photo screened on to it.
That's why what happened Saturday morning surprised us. I'm still not sure I heard what I did.
Chris Floyd stopped by in the morning so we could play a round of disc golf at Brushy Creek. While I was getting my discs and shoes together to leave, he was playing with Mikey. Chris asked Mikey, "Where's your ball?" The little guy immediately swiveled and headed over to the fireplace where his toys are stowed. He spotted his quarry, the goofy rubber ball with a puppy photo screened on to it.
"I wanna see the ball," said Mikey as he reached for it.
Jaws hit the floor. Was that what we thought it was? How could a complete sentence just come out like that? Surely it was a perfectly random confluence of basic sounds which, combined with our preconceived notions and context, sounded like a by golly sentence.
He hasn't spoken like that since, but those of us in the room know what we heard. Our little Mikey is all grows up. I can't wait till he's telling me all about dinosaurs and asking crazy questions about the world.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Awwww...
Just look at this little face; the rosy cheeks, the big eyes, the pure innocence.
Looks can be quite deceiving. Take a closer look.
The stare is piercing and unwavering. The eyes are unblinking. His jaw is set defiantly.
Mikey can string together a few words, typically covering his favorite subject matter topics: the dog or food. In this case, however, no words are necessary.
"So, you want me to sleep in my crib tonight, eh? I thought we had a good thing going with the little I sleep in the bed with you guys arrangement. I fall asleep quickly, and I don't kick you too much. I'll admit that I do go all Professional Wrestling on you when I wake up, but I'm just happy to see you."
"Let me warn you that I can make things very difficult should you try to keep me in my crib. Let's just say that you won't need a baby monitor to hear what I'll have to say. Did you know that anything above 85 decibels can cause damage to hearing? You ever heard a jumbo jet take off...in your house? The captain has turned on the seat belt light, because it's going to be a bumpy ride. In the unlikely event of a water landing, your pillow can be used as a flotation device. I'll be right there with you, floating on a pillow and screaming bloody murder till you give in."
"Got anything important planned for work tomorrow? It would be a shame if you had to wake up every hour, and the sleep deprivation began to affect your job performance. I hear there have been a lot of layoffs in this economy. What would happen to me if you lost your jobs, and we lost our house? Velcro sure can't survive on the streets. He would last 2 hours out there. All that over something so trivial as where I sleep."
"I see where you're coming from. You want to make a stand and be the parents. This ain't Cesar Milan, and no amount of whispering is going to make me sleep stay in that crib. I'm sure you'll see things reasonably and do the right thing."
"I'm glad we had this little imaginary talk. My, look at the time! Is it 7:45 already? Let's go take care of this diaper and get my moose pajamas on. I'll see you guys upstairs in the bed. The one without rails and bars. Right?"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)