it's been a while...

...and i've got some things to say.

It's a Christmas mess!

My son will someday learn that Christmas is about getting new toys to play with. But for now, he seems to think it's the time of the year that we break out the really cool toys that he's never seen before.

Except, they're not really toys, they're Christmas decorations.

As I mentioned before, my wife made a lot of handmade, soft ornaments to serve as the low-hangers on the tree.
My son loves this, but as is the case with his regular toys, he never cleans up after himself.

He's happy to walk up to the tree and pull the ornaments off. He'll play with one for a few minutes and then discard it, moving on to the next.

Every night, in addition to the regular post-child's play mess, we basically redecorate the house.

All the Christmas tins go back to their designated spot. The various decorative items in the house go back to their spots on the fireplace. Then we put the ornaments back on the tree.

He definitely has that Christmas twinkle in his eye when he looks at the lit Christmas tree, but I have a feeling it's more because he sees all the things he can grab, rather than the sense of the magic of Christmas.

He'll grab branches and pull them to their breaking point. He'll run by the tree, brushing against it, disregarding the frailty of it.

When I was putting the lights on the tree, I thought it would be funny to wrap my son in lights.

My wife watched in horror for a second as I did this, before reminding me that that's probably not a good idea.

"You don't want to give him the idea that those are toys."

"Good point," I responded, forgetting, for a mere moment, to think like a 17-month-old.

One of my son's favorite activities is sweeping. He sees us sweeping the floor after dinner, gathering up all the discarded food he throws over the side of his high-chair.

He'll often grab the adult-sized broom and walk through the house pushing it along the floor. It vaguely reminds me of the sport of curling. I hope he chooses a different sport to excel in, but at least curling is an Olympic event. I suppose it's better to win a gold medal in curling than nothing at all.

But as he's sweeping, he is completely oblivious to the long end of the broom. He'll move about and turn and shift and the handle will hit anything in its way.

He's knocked over a few things. He's tried to sweep the tree away, and has almost knocked off some of the higher-hanging ornaments.

He has a lot of fun sweeping his toys around the house. Don't tell him, but we got him a small, kid-size broom. It's only a matter of time before he's contributing around here.

We've tried to child-proof Christmas as best we can. None of the valuables are out this year. The breakable decorations that we're particularly fond of are on top of the mantle. He's taken to pulling the tree skirt from under the tree and using it as his own personal shawl.

We didn't even break out the traditional manger scene with the fancy ceramic figures given to us as a wedding gift. Instead, we opted for the Playmobil nativity set. We didn't realize all the small pieces it has, so it's taken up a home on top of the TV.

It's not the most stable spot for it. The little guys are not very secure up there. If you walk by the TV too hard, they tend to fall off. Again, because of the small pieces and our son's observant and opportunistic nature, we yell to the other spouse, "One of the Bible people fell off the TV."

My son sees them up there. He's slowly learning that if he shakes the TV, even a little, they're likely to fall to his clutches.

I know he enjoys it and he doesn't know any better. But it does get old, putting the house back together every night. Some nights we skip it and then the days pile up.

After a few days, our home resembles more like a Christmas burglary occurred than the Christmas miracle I always thought it to be.

Almost-disatrous Thanksgiving dinners

Thanksgiving is an enjoyable holiday in my family. The family is continuing to grow-- it seems more members are added each year, and like strength, there's often more fun in numbers.

This was my son's first real Thanksgiving. Last year, he was barely able to sit up straight, let alone enjoy the day.

Thanksgiving Day, as it should be, was filled with family, football, and food. My son and I got in a few throws in the backyard before settling in around the table for turkey and all the other Thanksgiving chow.

Two days later, on Saturday, my dad asked if we'd like to go out for dinner. I always enjoy going out, but my son and his crazed temperament sometimes make that a challenge.

I said probably, wanting to get a feel for my wife's opinion of this before committing. She agreed and then the discussion began: Where do we go.

My parents are the true epitome of simpletons. I mean no disrespect--they are easily pleased, most of the time, and care more about spending time with the family than the details in which they're doing it.

We settled on Mexican food. There's a place close, likely wouldn't be busy, and its fare is liked by all involved.

Sitting in the car in front of the restaurant, my wife commented, "This should be interesting."

When my son goes in public, it always is.

The meal began innocently. My father, a staunch hater of Coke products and all-things related, expressed his displeasure of this restaurant featuring a line-up of beverages dominated by Coke.

He spoke to the waitress, as she informed us she was new on the job, and she failed to understand him right away. His attempt to ask what beverages they provided, as I tried to point out what page they were listed in the menu, led the waitress to begin to explain what beers they offered.

My father is also in strong opposition to alcohol. And so the tension began.

Sensing that she'd make a mistake with her service, which she hadn't, the waitress began every tactic she could think of to ensure that we were doused with her fantastic service.

She even sent out the manager to ask my dad what he could get for him from the bar. It appeared that that misunderstanding had not been let go. The situation was explained and he left us to our meal.

My son was content to eat chips and queso. He's a quad-dipper. He likes to dip, lick, dip, lick, and on and on.

In this situation we were happy to oblige him. The chips and the overhead fans had him well-entertained. (He's a big fan of things that spin.) It's normal to us, but to the average passer-by it probably looked a little amusing to see our son sitting at the table staring straight up at the ceiling.

Then the waitress brought a balloon. Again, sensing that she had failed in her service earlier, she was going out of her way to be legendary.

The balloon was a bad idea. My son loves things that bounce, float or move in response to his motion.

From the moment he took the balloon, I was considering my options on how to remove the balloon from his possession with as little disturbance as possible.

The balloon was bumping into our heads, floating over the table, and at one point, my son caused the balloon to knock over my glass.

I used ever napkin available to clean up the mess as quickly as possible. I knew if the waitress saw the spill, she and the entire restaurant team would be there to assist in the cleaning, probably move us to another table, and further the confusion.

Then my son bit the balloon. The balloon burst and the problem was solved. I immediately read my wife's mind and she mine as we looked at each other, with a terror in our eyes. How would he react to this?

He was startled more than anything and looked at us with a confused look. Of course, as happens in public places when something makes a loud popping sound, the entire restaurant became silent and looked to the source of the sound.

Thinking quickly, I looked around and noticed a few servers rushing around and I made eye-contact with ours. I looked her dead in the eyes and said, "Please, no more balloons."

She got the picture, but in her on-going attempt for a memorable experience, she provided us with some snacks for the kid. Not exactly the kind of snacks that we would normally give him, but at that particular moment we were willing to let go of some of our ideals. It's a fair trade-off for a well-behaved kid in public.

Since his attention-span is short, and the majority of his meal was consumed once our food arrived, he began to rumble halfway through our meal.

I held him and tried to eat with one hand (you try cutting and eating a quesadilla with one hand--not easy!). But eventually, he'd had enough. You know he's had enough when he begins to squirm and try to escape.

He makes it very difficult to hang on to him because he can contort his body to bend over your arm, while raising his legs. It sounds strange, but it's incredibly effective. It's almost impossible to hang on to him when he does this. He knows exactly what he's doing.

So for the first time as a parent, I did what had been done to me. I resorted to what I knew. I tried to conjure up tips from various magazine that I'd read, but in the moment of crisis I drew a blank.

I resulted to the "It's time to go" maneuver. Fortunately my parents were there so my wife could finish her dinner, but I decided to take my son and leave the table.

So while the remainder of my family sat and finished their dinner, in what I would imagine were some awkward moments, I sat with my son in the lobby entrance of the restaurant listening to a Mexican cowboy sing Johnny Cash songs.

One of the biggest lessons I've learned as a father is the irrationality of children. Especially young children, under two-years old.

I can not hold my son accountable for his behavior like I could an older child because he's still learning the cause-and-effect lessons. Rational behavior's is often based on previous experience and almost every day is a new experience for my son.

I've come to grips with irrationality and as my son's persona emerges, I'm learning the ways to communicate with and educate him within the parameters of his understanding and his personality.

It's one of the greatest challenges I've ever experienced, yet one of the most rewarding moments as well. Rewarding in that I can see those moments when the light bulb goes off for him and I know it's going off because of the work his mother and I put in with him.

It's a great feeling and it's those moments of enlightenment that make parenting such a special job.

Like Father, Like Son

I'd hesitate to call my son a "mama's boy," however he does love his mom.

And for good reason. I do too. Can't say I blame him.

But some of this has gone too far and I've put a stop to it.

Like many women, my wife wears headbands, to hold her hair out of her face. Most guys don't have long hair and thus headbands serve no purpose to them.

In my son's ongoing quest to do things that his mom or I do, he's taken to wanting to wear his mom's headband. He has his own computer that he likes to bang on if one of us using the computer. He likes to take the remote while the TV is on. He always wants a bite of whatever we're eating--or drinking (especially coffee!).

The cell phone is his favorite. If we leave it within reach, he will inevitably find it, open it and attempt to dial.

So far he's called my voicemail. My wife fears that he will somehow manage to call her boss. It's like juvenile drunk-dialing.

But the headband thing is crossing the line for me. I'm comfortable with my manhood and whatever my son becomes is what he becomes. However, I can't help but think about Ernest Hemingway as a young child. His mother dressed him up like a girl. And while he became a great American author...the dude had issues.

I'm not implying that a headband is the first step towards a cross-dressing two-year-old, but I felt I needed to cut this habit off before it became too serious.

Sure, he does look cute with the thing on his head. It's hard to explain, but to me, he looks like some sort of robot and I find robots incredibly cool. I do think it's kind of funny, but we can't have him going into pre-school wearing women's headbands.

So the logical solution is find something that dad wears so we can attempt to replace this habit. Well, he already wears lots of hoodies and cool shoes. He sports the Falcons' jersey on Sundays. I can't make the kid look more like me than he already does.

So I have to add an accessory to my own repertoire. And the sweatband has been introduced.

Long a staple in competitive sports where the competitor sweats. It's a stylish, yet functional device that keeps hair and sweat out of one's eyes.

So to the sports store we go. I was hoping he'd pick black, but when faced with a decision between red, black, and white, he went with red.

So now at home throughout the course of the day, you'll find me sporting a red sweatband. If I'm wearing it, there's a good chance my son is as well. He seems to like it and it seems, thus far, to be a sound substitute for the female headband.

I must admit, we look like a couple of tennis pros sitting around relaxing. At first glance, you'd probably expect us to break out into a pick-up game of basketball at any given moment. He's not quite ready for that, but the sweatband does help when wrestling. Ever the goon, I pull it down over his eyes so he can't see as I proceed to put him in the cross-face chicken wing.

I am concerned, however, about when I'm not at home. Which band does my wife wear: sweat or hair? If I'm not here, does she support the conversion or is she content to let him dress like a girl?

Christmas Ornament Plans

My wife and I were talking a few nights ago.

There is concern, this holiday season, about how our 16-month-old son will handle the Christmas tree and its glowing lights and sparkling decorations.

My wife has a lot of really nice ornaments that have great value to her. I must admit, our tree always looks incredibly wonderful, almost awe-inspiring.

In the past the concern has always been about the cats. We all know cats like to climb trees, especially indoor cats--how often do they even get the opportunity?

We've survived five holidays without any major disasters to the tree at the paws of out cats. There was the year that the tree stand failed to work properly, but a simple rigging of some string and anchoring the tree to various heavy objects in the dining room fixed all that.

That was my idea, and while not the best solution, we did have a great ropes course to navigate through the holiday season.

So we've escaped cat-destruction each year, but now we have new worries.

Our son is a cross between a young Jacques Cousteau and Benjamin Franklin. There's no limit to what he'd like to mess with. He's especially drawn to electronics and things that sparkle.

My wife's solution? Well, while the youngster is strong, we know he can't knock over the tree (there's a new and improved tree stand in its second year), but the ornaments are a completely different story.

My wife has set up shop in the dining room and is on a quest to make all the low-hanging ornaments this year.

In the process, she's also discovered she likes to make sock monkeys. Not your traditional boring cream and red monkeys either. She's discovered a use for the fuzzy socks I used to get her that she doesn't like because they make her feet sweat. I don't wear socks, so I know nothing about that.

Her monkeys are a mismash of plaids and flames. She's also created some owls, a dog, and a tree (that resembles, to me, the mushrooms on Super Mario).

They are awesome and I think a new tradition has started. She's made ornaments before, but this year she's pulling out all the stops. One of the things I love about my wife is her child-like approach to creativity.

Too often, we as adults, take a lazy approach to solutions. There's nothing we can't buy or pay someone to solve for us. These solutions have provided our holiday decorations with a sense of homemade which is unique and fun. We've got, among other things, our own stockings, that we each made ourselves, ornaments, and a homemade tree skirt.

This year's Christmas will be quite an adventure. Surely most of the ornaments will find themselves scattered around the living room floor and they will be part of the nightly pick-up-and-clean-up session that takes place in our home.

I haven't mentioned this yet, but I'm most concerned about the presents themselves. The boy can't see a newspaper, or any magazine, without wanting to rip it to shreds, in fact he's doing just that right now.

There's going to be a lot of wrapping and re-wrapping in our home this season.

The First Haircut

My son's hair was wild. I loved that about him. Sure, it was messy and sometimes in his eyes and had some strange swirly action in the back, but it made him unique. Not to say my son's not unique already, believe me, he is, but...well, let me back up.

My parents never let their sons grow long hair. We were boys and if God had wanted us to look like girls, he'd have made us girls.

So what's the first thing we did when we got out of the house? You guessed it: grew long hair. My brothers straight hair grew long in the back, perfect for the pony-tail I'm sure he always desired.

My hair is more curly in nature so as it grew in length it also grew in thickness. I ended up looking like Fryer Tuck, but I thought it was cool.

We've both satisfied our desire to have long hair and I doubt we'll ever do it again. Of course, our parents hated it.

So letting my son have long hair so early in the game, was sort of my way of passive aggressively getting back at my parents for denying me the long hair experience for so long. I think it looks cool also.

In my mind, it's what gives him character. He can't yet talk and while he has loads of personality, in public he can sometimes draw a little into himself, just like his dad, thought I'm sure it's more of the fact that people are so darn interesting to look at.

To me, his hair distinguished him. He didn't look like all the little fresh-cut, neat-haired kids running around in the world. He was my rebellious, wild-haired son. Every time I looked at him, it reminded me of my own hair, though at times troublesome. If we have nothing else, we are bonded for life through our hair.

Then last night, my wife was sitting on the couch across from me and said, "Should we cut his hair?"

She's said this before, but this time, I knew she was serious. There was nothing I could do to change the subject this time.

And before you think we loaded him up and let some stranger cut our son's hair, think again.

In my family we cut our own hair. My wife does it--it's one of her uber-talents.

She's not trained and has "no plan," as she says, but amazingly my hair always turns out well, and hers incredibly.

So we strap him into his highchair and begin. Nothing dramatic--just a few snips in the back, a bit around the ears and just a scosh up front.

It broke my heart a little bit. Gone is the wild-haired portion of my wild-eyed son. Sure nothing's really changed about him, but to me, it's not quite the same having a son maniacally running around in circles in the kitchen with perfectly manicured hair.

But upon closer inspection, my wife missed a few strands...maybe it's not so perfect after all. I'm going to keep that to myself.

I Don't Like Your Kids

Tuesday was election day and my son and I went to vote. Because election day isn't yet considered a national holiday, I had to get an early start because work-duty still called.

My son is 16-months old and a whirlwind of energy and activity. He's not one to simply be held and watch those around him. He wants to get his hands on everything, and everyone, around him. A future politician, perhaps?

But what gets me the most is that when I have my son with me in public, it seems that it's an open invitation to discuss kids. It also seems to imply that a)I like kids and b)I care about your kids.

It happens everywhere, not just on election day. It happens in line at the grocery store. It happens walking through Home Depot. It happens out at dinner with the family.

I like my kid. In fact, I love him and he's the best thing in the world. The world's greatest toy, my own personal daily entertainer. He's the court jester of our home. However, I'm not much of a fan of other kids. No offense to them, I just don't care for them. They're loud and a bit obnoxious at times.

But everyone in line around me at the polling station wanted to ask me about my son (which I don't mind too much--he's pretty awesome and highly deserving of being talked about), talk about their own kids, and point out to me all the other little kids in the room.

The older lady in front of me made a point to single out each child under the age of five in the room, but also to inform me each time a child entered the room.

"Oh, look at that little girl," the elder voter said and I'd have to turn around and acknowledge the little girl. "She's so cute, isn't she?" I sheepishly grinned and said "Of course."

You see, cute kids and the cute things they do just isn't my scene. Having my son with me is not an invisible nod that I do, in fact, appreciate small children. My son was with me because I wanted his company on a historic day in our country and I wanted to be able to tell him years from now that he voted with me on that day.

It was all I could do to keep my son under wraps and from terrorizing the whole station. I had a constant hand on him. It's as if his legs are constantly moving and my grasp on him keeps him somewhat immobile. If I were to let go, he'd be off like a spring-loaded car, headed in any direction.

Here's the bottom line: Don't assume parents want to talk about your kid. I don't. If you ask about my son I'll let you know about him. But I'm not that concerned about yours. Call me a jerk if you like, but I've only got so much soft-hearted child-love and adoration and it's all reserved for my son.