Dad Brog (#113): I melted

After our little famiry trip to the beach, it appears everyone but me has seemed to have caught something. Mythical wife was laid out in bed for most of the day, and our au pair was feeling below average throughout the day as well.

Prior to dinner, mythical wife comes downstairs and explains to the kids that mama isn’t feeling well. #1 rushes off to get her (toy) doctor kit, and my heart melts at the sweet and considerate gesture and the urgency she demonstrated at wanting to help.  I stop what I’m doing and assist her in making sure to get the stethoscope, thermometer and of course the syringe because mama needs medicine too, of course.

I love my kids so much, and it’s little things like this that break me into pieces at the thought that perhaps I am doing an okay job of parenting, after all.

Identity crisis

Just the other night mythical wife said that our household should be What We Do in the Shadows characters for Halloween.  And without any hesitation, she said that I should be Guillermo.

To the credit of that opinion, my face immediately made the same face Guillermo does whenever he looks at the camera after the vampires do something stupid.  But I wasn’t at all impressed at the knee-jerk association.

The lack of excitement of that was obviously noticed, and the back pedaling and explaining begins; he’s a badass vampire slayer, he’s the glue that holds the house together, he’s the guy that’s perpetually on the edge and verge of snapping being sick of everyone else’s shit, and I’m just thinking about the guy that’s fat, gets walked on by everyone around him, and is basically there for comedic relief but usually at his own expense.

Now I love the show, and it’s a fair comp, but the fact of the matter is that Guillermo is kind of the show loser, and it depressed me to be so immediately comped up to him.  He is an awesome character with a lot more depth than all the others, but when you take a step back and look at Guillermo as a whole, he’s a guy with no discernable identity, and spends the vast majority of his existence cleaning up after others and not at all doing anything for himself, much less forming an identity.  He’s the joke, he’s the doormat, he’s the comic relief.

But like I said, it’s not a completely unfair comparison.  I am the guy that keeps my house together; I’m the guy that maintains or manages the landscaping, the (attempted) cleanliness, tries to keep the house in working order and somewhat organized, with little or no help.  I take the vast majority of parenting duties, and any minute where I’m not working my job, I’m spending time with my kids while they’re awake, and it’s not until they are in bed that I have any semblance of downtime, that is when I’m not back to managing the home.

And I am, perpetually on the verge of losing my shit, because my life is not at all easy, I’m overworked, under-helped, taken for granted, and I’ve just been reminded of my general lack of identity in the world other than a dad or a housekeeper.  Both titles are undoubtedly important and I take them seriously, but when I try to picture anyone else thinking about me, I struggle to wonder what in the world words formulate in their minds when they think about me, other than those two things.

Because I don’t know what words formulate in my own mind when it comes to trying to describe myself.  I think I used to be a sports guy, specifically a baseball guy, when I was super into baseball and talking about sports all the time.  I used to be a League guy when I spent so much of my life buried in the League of Legends community.  I used to be the wrestling guy, which might be the closest thing I’m still identifiable to these days, and I most definitely was the belt guy, but the thing is that I’ve gotten pretty much every blet I want and until I have an office again, there’s not much point in getting any others.  Ironically, the one thing that I have staunchly refused to ever give up, being my desire to write, is probably the one thing so few people actually know I do, because I have zero readers and I’m neurotic and don’t want to advertise that I do it, so being a writing guy or a brogger isn’t exactly something anyone would know me for.

But the thing is, other than the latter I don’t think I’m really any of these things anymore.  As my kids came into existence, and my personal time diminished into negligible amounts, all my hobbies and interests fell to the wayside as any time I had to myself was either staring at a wall or trying to motivate myself to write something, usually about how burned out and over my life in general I was feeling at the time, kind of like I’m doing right now.

And so, I don’t really have an identity anymore, I don’t think.  As often as I think I would benefit from a day or two completely by myself to actually rest and recharge, I really don’t know what I’d even do.  I’m so money conscious that I wouldn’t want to spend the money to go hide out at a hotel or something, and I’d feel guilty eating out and spending money that I know I shouldn’t be spending, but I also can’t really expect to get any recharge time when I’m around my kids, because I want to spend time with them, so I’m left in this spiraling swirl of indecisiveness and end up doing nothing but watching television and treading the waters of depression.

Really, I just need this funky emotional wave to pass so I can go about my life without the baggage.  Hopefully I won’t be reminded of how much of a Guillermo I am again any time soon.

Dad Brog (#112): The inevitability of needing less sleep

For the last few months, the daily routine has been as such:

  • The girls go to bed at 7 pm
  • At around 10:30 pm I tell myself that I need to start winding down and go to bed early, ultimately do anything but, actually go to bed at around 1 am
  • Alarm #1 goes off at 6 am for me to take dog out
  • Alarm #2 goes off at 7 am which I promptly disable
  • Alarm #3 goes off at 7:10 am and I finally get up
  • Prepare breakfast for the girls
  • #1 usually wakes up by 8 am, promptly comes down to start breakfast
  • #2 is woken up five minutes later, promptly brought down to start breakfast
  • Dad mode engage

It’s not always easy, but it’s the life of parenting.  I wish just once in my life that someone else would do this for one morning without me having to be out of town, but I don’t foresee that happening anytime soon, so every single day of my life for the last year or so has been like this.  Obviously nothing involving kids lasts forever, and I knew that there would come a time in which the schedule was going to start deviating, and I believe that time has finally come. 

Over the last few weeks, more often than it hasn’t, #1 has been waking up earlier and earlier in the mornings, and it sometimes throws a monkey wrench into my morning routine, since when things go tits up and she decides to not be chill in her room and wait until 8 pm, I have to bring her down lest she wakes #2 up earlier than hoped, and she’s a colossal pill while I’m trying to prepare breakfast.  Some mornings she’s cool with hanging out in her room and calmly peruses books or plays with her stuffed animals, but usually she’s up and announcing to the baby monitor that she wants to go downstairs, or just whining loud enough to where I’m worried she’ll wake up her sister and things will really go poorly.

The easy solution is to just start waking up earlier so that I can have my peaceful mornings of calms before the storms of parenting, but I’m already sleep deprived enough, and I really dread the idea of doing it.  I’d definitively have to go to bed earlier in order to accommodate it, but I already feel like I don’t have enough time to myself as it is, and it’s difficult to want to sacrifice even more time for myself when I already feel like I always sacrifice too much of myself already.

I really am harkened to the days of reading old Calvin & Hobbes comic strips where Calvin starts waking up at ass o’clock on weekends much to the chagrin of his parents, and now I’m the square unnamed dad character.  But the mornings of angsty kid and grumbly dad aren’t good for anyone, and something’s got to give eventually, and realistically speaking, it’s most likely going to be me.

Dad Brog (#111): An offense so grand

The nightly routine goes as follows: 6:30pm, it’s upstairs for bath time.  Then comes the night routine of lotions and pajamas, and then it’s story time and then bed time for both the girls.

Tonight however, things took a turn for the explosive worst, when the pajamas I selected for #1 were the Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings pajamas that mythical wife picked up on clearance because my kids are toddlers and girls have a way easier time getting away with wearing boys-designated clothing than the other way around.

When she saw the pajamas that I was about to put on her, I might as well have declared war on the Jews, bombed Pearl Harbor, and released the Bubonic plague all at the same time.  She went absolutely ballistic and outright refused to wear the pajamas.  I tried to coax them onto her, and was met with a fucking Liu Kang bicycle kick for my troubles. 

I did eventually get them onto her, hoping that she’d chill out and resign to the clothes that she would just be sleeping in, and changing out of in the morning, but no, it was screaming and snot and tears and waterworks, and I’m trying my hardest not to die laughing over the fact that it was just a pair of fucking Shang-Chi pajamas that was triggering this meltdown.

Eventually, it became apparent that she wasn’t going to lose this argument.  We went into her room for story time and lights out and the meltdown was still on.  And because my house is kept cold through the night, I didn’t want her to strip down as soon as I left the room, so I acquiesced and changed her pajamas to something that wasn’t as offensive as screaming the N-word at the top of my lungs in College Park.

Lesson learned today: #1 most definitely isn’t a fan of Shang-Chi.  Better avoid that one when eventually going through the Marvel movies timeline in the future.

Dad Brog (#110): Who knew toddler recitals were like Taylor Swift concerts?

As many parents do, mythical wife and I have enrolled #1 in dance classes, among other extracurricular activities to explore the aptitude and interest of our children to see what they might like.  She definitely seems to enjoy dance, but she’s also just three years old, so it’s way too early to tell what future lies ahead of this pathway, but for all intents and purposes, she’s nearing the completion of her first “year” of dance class.

And of course with dance classes comes an end-of-year recital, and I am looking forward to seeing my little girl up on stage in matching costumes with her peers and seeing just how well (or hilariously bad) she can work in tandem with her class.

All throughout the year, parents are pretty well-informed of everything going on with the program, and as we gear up for recital SZN (they really love to use that phrasing), emails have gone out to remind parents to get ready for ticket registration.  It turns out that the recital isn’t going to be like some local community center or a nearby high school auditorium or something, but they’re renting out an actual university auditorium, and it’ll be capable of seating close to 1,100 people.  Tickets are genuinely at risk of selling out, so we the parents are implored to be ready to register when they’re available at a specific time on a specific date.

Still, I didn’t think much of it, but when I got home, mythical wife explained to me to “be ready,” and that I should probably go get my laptop so that we could log on together.  I’m like, wtf for, isn’t this just a kids’ dance recital?  Why are we preparing for Dragon*Con hotel registration or Comic-Con membership?

I guess being part of moms groups and such have given mythical wife more insight than I have, but apparently getting our dance tickets is a really big deal, and that we should probably be very ready to go once 8pm EST hits.  But I don’t want to miss the opportunity to secure tickets for my daughter’s first recital, so I get ready to go all the same.

Sure enough, by 7:55pm, the website link we’re given to get our tickets from starts being slow to reload, and it’s clear that they’re starting to get bogged down with traffic.  8pm hits, and the button goes live, and it’s a surprising slog to get through.  The seating chart pops up, I enter our code, but I’m noticing that no matter what seats I press, there’s any reaction from the page itself.  I refresh, the site takes forever to repopulate, and the result doesn’t change.

Miraculously, mythical wife is able to get through, and secure four tickets.  However one is out of sequence, and all in all, we need five.  We solder back to the site to try and get the fifth ticket, hopefully in our row, but the site is completely borked.  I refresh and refresh, and get different results of what shows up on the page.  I get sent back to a landing and see to check back ten days later at 8 pm.  Then to check back at 9pm later tonight.  And then eventually, a crash on the page outright, and it doesn’t look like we’re going to get that fifth ticket.

Now I didn’t try and get Taylor Swift tickets when they went on sale, but I imagine it was just like what I was going through.  It’s apparent that the dance company entrusted their ticket distribution to a company that might as well have been Ticketmaster for as poorly as they go overwhelmed by a bunch of local parents who just wanted to get tickets to see their kids dance.

In all honesty, I’ve had better luck securing hotel rooms for Dragon*Con than I did trying to get tickets for my daughter’s dance recital.  I’ve never failed to get a room whenever I’ve tried, but in my first try to get dance recital tickets, I get shutout.

Apparently, this is the norm for this particular dance company, and if my kid(s) end up liking it and sticking it with the foreseeable future, I suppose I should get ready to get owned again and again for years to come.

Dad Brog #109: My kids seem to only have my weaknesses

Up until recently, I’ve been thinking that #2 seemed to be the more sturdy of my daughters, seeing as how #1 can’t eat eggs without it coming back out in some unpleasant fashion.  She gets this unfortunate ailment from me, seeing as how almost to the day I turned 30 years old, my body has decided to revolt against eggs.  I can still eat things with eggs as an ingredient to a small extent, but I can’t fry up eggs or hard boil them and eat them without a fairly predictable and unpleasant result a few hours later.

Some say that peoples’ dietary tendencies have a tendency to change every 7-10 years, but it was actually very recently where I indulged in a quiche, and most definitely paid for it later in the day.  A decade later and my body still doesn’t like dealing with eggs any more than when I was 30.

However, not only can #2 eat eggs, she loves them.  Scrambled, fried, Korean-souffle style, she really enjoys eggs, and doesn’t have any ill effects like her sister or dad does.  For that reason alone, I figured she was the more resilient child.

Until just a day ago, I was getting texts from my au pair asking if #2 had any allergies.  Subsequent photos came in, and there were some rashes on my daughter that were unnerving to see, resulting in me leaving work early and taking her in to urgent care, because I wanted to get some professional opinion on what I was already suspecting.

At the tail end of the cruise, my group did a load of laundry on the ship, so that we could get it out of the way while on the ship, as well as the fact that with as many outfit changes my kids were doing, we had to.  As is often the case with lots of cruises, nothing is free, and I had to purchase an individual wash cycle, a dryer cycle, and because we didn’t bring any, some laundry detergent, which was a plain, regular single-serving size of Tide.

Long story short, I quickly pieced things together, and made an educated guess that it was a detergent-related rash that #2 was dealing with, because some articles of clothing from the cruise laundry were coming back into circulation, as well as the fact that, not specifically with Tide, but again, a detergent allergy is something that has happened to me before as well.

In my case, it’s Purex, or whatever the fuck they put in their formula, that triggers my body to have a rather unpleasant hives-ey/rash-ey reaction, and it’s pretty evident that Tide has the same effect on my daughter.

Needless to say, swapping out the afflicted articles and replacing them with not-Tide washed bedding and clothes have already stabilized things, and I’ve learned that Tide is 100% on the blacklist for shopping in the future

But it’s apparent that my second child has picked up a weakness from her dad, just like her sister has.  It’s too early to tell yet, but I’m hoping, considering how much they’re already taking after me, that they get some of my strengths and don’t just continue to grow with weaknesses of mine without any sort of balance.

Dad Brog #108: Unless they figure out how to open doors

First, that’s a quote from Jurassic Park.  Obviously.  Secondly, my kids already know how to open doors.

However, they didn’t know how to unlock the doors… until now.

Since we converted #1’s crib into a bed, I fully baby-proofed the room and anchored all the furniture to the walls, and when we put her down for the night, we’ve locked the door behind us, so that she couldn’t open the door and go exploring around the house unsupervised.  And when I say locked the door, I mean locking the door from the inside so that we’re technically locked out, needing a key to get back in.

Since we got back from the cruise, #1’s sleep behavior has been off-kilter, and she has been a little more resistant to going to bed the last few days.  We don’t need the camera monitor to know that she’s upset about bedtime, based on some of the screaming she’s been doing in disagreement, but usually it stops after a while, and we can see that she’s passed out in bed.

But just the other day, along with the screaming of unhappiness, came some audible footsteps of her running to the door, and before we knew it, the sound of a door opening, and the frantic footsteps of an ornery three-year old charging down the hallway, and we realized that one of the raptors has figured out how to unlock doors.

Hold onto your butts.