Steely Dad

My daughter is a thief and a pretty good one at that.  One time when we were on vacation, my wife was climbing in the back of our rented minivan (I refuse to drive a minivan under any other circumstances) and while she meandered her way through the labyrinth of collapsible seats my daughter picked her pocket and stole her wallet.  My wife didn’t know that the Viper had struck.  ”Where’s my wallet?” she exclaimed.  ”How the hell should I know?” I retorted, obviously aggravated because I hear that same question like 100 times a day.  My wife, in a panic, surveys her surroundings only to find my daughter, mind you she was only 13 months old at the time, sitting silently in her car seat examining her “kill.”  My little princess was rooting through her mother’s wallet!  I’ve never been so damn proud.  (I should explain that my daughter surely took her life into her own hands because G-d only knows what lurks in that wallet.  It makes George Costanza’s wallet look petite.
(I dare not look inside the abyss that is my wife’s wallet.  Grown men have gone mad after even peering at this diabolical item.)

Well, today I had the day off from my stay-at-home dad duties, meaning my wife took the kids out to play or do whatever, maybe jack some cars, shoot craps, who the hell knows.  What I do know is that my wife came home with a brand new T-shirt.  However, this wasn’t just any ol’ T-shirt.  Oddly enough this was a PINK Mickey Mouse T-shirt that just so happens to fit my little girl to, um, well, a “T.”  When I inquired about the shirt, assuming she purchased another superfluous piece of Disney memorabilia (remember, we recently spent 4 days at the Happiest Place on Earth so in case you missed the gory details you can read about them here  http://www.steelydad.com/i-shouldnt-be-alive.html), the missus had an alibi.  ”Your daughter stole it.  She ripped it off the hanger and I didn’t notice the thing until we got to the car and I was putting away the stroller.”  Normally, I wouldn’t buy it but considering my daughter’s proclivity for theft, it seemed at least plausible.  My daughter, my sweet, beautiful innocent angel, my infallible princess, is a pickpocket AND a shop lifter?  Where did I go wrong?  How can this be?

Oh, it be!

Steely Wife passed my foolproof lie detector test, which is me looking into her eyes like Larry David does when he’s trying to determine if someone is telling him the truth. It looks something like this:

I had to accept the truth about the situation: my baby girl can steal with complete impunity!  How rad is that?

Think about it.  If she steals something we simply pretend not to notice.  If someone “catches” us in the act we, very convincingly, plead ignorace.  Plus, my daughter is so damn charming no one can get mad or upset with this angelic creature.  Trust me, I’ve tried thousands of times.  This is so awesome!

I know what you’re thinking and you’re right: she can only five-finger some insignificant clothing items.  We’ll have to work our way up to big-screen TVs and exotic automobiles but this is a great start!  The girl’s got mad skills.

You know what they say: a quick hand is a terrible thing to waste.

I’ll keep you posted.  If you see me on an FBI poster for grand theft just don’t let ‘em know my whereabouts, cool?

Oh, and by the way, during the same outing with Mommy, my son apparently “found” $2.  What sort of crime ring is my wife running here?  I don’t even know who she is any longer!

(NOTE: All “stolen” merchandise mentioned in this story will be returned to the rightful retail establishment.  That’s my wife’s idea.  The individuals depicted here are guilty until proven innocent.  Please take the gushing descriptions of my daughter as absolute truth devoid of any hyperbole.)

And stay-at-home dads are from a plant in a galaxy far, far away…

NOTE: I’ve switched back to the standard font.  It was too much of a pain in the arse with the other one.  If you can’t read it, get some glasses!

Being a stay-at-home dad (SAHD) has provided me a unique opportunity to study and annotate the differences between how my wife and I parent and how we conduct our lives in general.   Here’s the product of my empirical research.  I made a list, really for my kids when they get older, but let me know if it’s the same way in your crib.  We may not always share the same technique but the goal is absolute: to raise happy children who eventually become happy adults.

Here goes:

Mommy researches

Daddy recites the research that Mommy conducts

Mommy works

Daddy gets worked like a rented mule

Mommy cooks

Daddy grills

Mommy freaks out when someone gets hurt

Daddy says to rub some dirt on it

Mommy drinks wine

Daddy drinks whatever he can get his shakey hands on (sterno if necessary)

Mommy’s rules apply

Daddy’s rules are rejected like a conservative bill trying to make its way through Congress

Mommy can’t figure out how to work the remote control

Daddy uses the remote like an extra apendage

Mommy screams and shouts

Daddy gives “the look”

Mommy is loved

Daddy is considered “the help”

Mommy wants to protect you

Daddy wants to teach you how to protect yourself

Mommy engages the question “why?” and does her best to answer it

Daddy pretends not to hear the question that’s asked of him no less than 1,000 times per day

Mommy takes five hours to get out of the house

Daddy take five minutes

Mommy reads books on modern parenting methods

Daddy takes a trial-and-error approach

Mommy buys organic food

Daddy feeds you the organic food Mommy buys because he has no other choice

Mommy carries five diaper bags

Daddy carries what fits into his pockets

Mommy wants you to learn

Daddy wants to teach you

Mommy is bossy

Daddy is diplomatic

Mommy watches Court TV

Daddy has the dog test his morning breakfast

Mommy loves online shopping

Daddy loves onlines adult entertainment that is sophisticated and tasteful

Mommy buys toys for the kids

Daddy assembles (and plays with) them

Mommy loves you

Daddy loves you more  :)

We’re flying today. Yup, me, Steely Wife and two Steely Kids are taking to the skies. 35,000 feet in the air, we will be propelled through time and space to reach our destination. Where are we going? Well, that’s classified.

I hate flying but for not for the reasons you might assume. In the past, I had a fear of flying but after having kids that aversion went away with free time and drunken orgies. Even with these recent crashes http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/Travel/story?id=7156889&page=1 I’m not afraid of the dreaded airplane “malfunction.” Like I said, I’ve got two wives and a kid two kids and a wife and nothing can instill fear in a man more than those statistics especially when going through airport security (with car seats and strollers).  It’s a pain and is much more frightening than the other scenarios that can potentially play out when flying.

But that’s not the real reason I hate to fly. I hate flying because I’m an inveterate germaphobe and what scares me more than dying in a massive ball of fire is contracting some sort of communicable and incurable illness like tuberculosis. Just the idea of sharing that stale air with total (and unhygienic strangers) causes minor panic attacks in my otherwise placid disposition. In fact, the fear is so uncontrollable that my physician has to prescribe to me “calming” medications. Those tiny pills, along with a couple of brews, make me feel like I’m flying even before the aircraft takes off and I don’t care if some fat slob is coughing all over my airline penis peanuts.

Not only that but my debonair alter ego often rears his congenial head when I’m slightly “relaxed” so I can charm any would-be terrorists into capitulating. Of course, there is another alter ego that can show up and he is not so much charming as he is brave stupid. If said terrorists don’t give up peacefully, this character is likely to take matters into his own hands because he’s not going down without a fight.

I realize you have your choice in blogs so thank you for choosing to “fly” with Steely Dad. Have a great trip.

I’ve completely lost all confidence in my decision-making abilities. Before being married, I was the master of my domain, making sound decisions on the fly and feeling pretty darn good about myself. I had an unusual upbringing that required me to basically raise myself so I was used to making big-time decisions on my own and from an early age. However, once I got married and started having kids, it’s as though my mind evaporated into mush and I lost the capacity for making decisions. I have to consult my wife for each and every decision, big, small, miniscule, moronic, it doesn’t matter. I can’t even so much as decide what I should make for dinner much less whether or not to re-finance the house. I even have to consult my wife about what I should wear, when I should use the bathroom and in which direction I should brush my teeth.

I’ve noticed, however, in the not-so-recent-past my wife has developed the same illness. The person who was once my advisor has been rendered incapacitated. This is due, no doubt, to my unending line of questions like, “Do I like this salad, hun?”

Enter my son.

Now whenever I need to make a decision, I consult my son (who is three years of age, by the way). It’s really a fascinating experiment. I use him like one of those Magic 8 balls where you ask a question, shake up the ball and read your fate. (Note to Child Protective Services: I don’t actually shake my son. He’s nearly 40 pounds and far too heavy for me to toss around.) For example, my wife and I have been debating whether or not we should close this bank account that has a line of credit attached to it. The line of credit has an annual fee and a pretty low interest rate but we rarely use it and we don’t know if this is a safety net that justifies the cost. On the other hand, with the economy in complete turmoil and the future so uncertain, having access to cash is a nice amenity. It’s not like banks are throwing cash around these days. The missus and I debated the pros and cons and vacillated for literally months. We were at a serious impasse. Finally, I just turned to my son and asked him what we should do. I figured he was as good an expert as any other. After all what is an expert but someone who takes your watch and tells you what time it is, right? My son the sage said we should close the account so we did and it was the best decision we’ve made all year. We’ve saved having to pay the annual fee plus we got to keep the free toaster. Win-win, baby! From this point forward, if I have a tough decision to make, I’ll consult my son. So let it be written, so let it be done.

Hmmm, I wonder how well he decides trifectas.

OK, get your bloody minds out of the gutter, Steely Dad Nation, it’s not what you think. I know I’ve waxed poetic about my, er, um, sexual exploits in the past but that’s all in the past. After all, this is a family blog and I have a moral obligation, albeit a flimsy one, to each and every Steely Dad fan out there. Hey, my mom reads this blog!

This story isn’t even about sex. I just used this snappy title because it’s sweeps week in the blogosphere and I needs me some readers! OK, I lie, this is a story about sex but I assure you it isn’t sexy. This is not a tale about a gigantic inanimate object or machine that doubles as an electric sander.

It’s always a challenge to write about, well, you know, the “S” word, without sounding like a page out of Penthouse Forum: “My wife took an active interest in our sexy new neighbor, Svetlana, and I had no problem with the obvious fact that the attraction was of the mutual variety.”

Last night the missus and I got motivated. No, we didn’t clean the house or do our taxes. You know, motivated? Yea, as in that motivated. The fun started innocently enough on the couch but as my wife and I have learned in not-so-auspicious situations, it’s just best to conduct business behind closed doors. This is not a time for transparency, if you catch my drift. But how I long for the days BK (before kids) when we could be spontaneous and act on our motivations whenever and wherever we fancied at the moment. Those were the days. With kids, we now have to be strategic and reconnoiter before we reconnect. It’s a whole process unto itself. My wife and I actually invested in a pair of military-grade infrared night vision goggles so that we can peek in on the little ones before we engage our motivations with them none the wiser. I highly recommend the goggles to all the parents out there. For the no-kid contingency who reads my blog, enjoy it before it’s gone.

So, we adjourned to the kinkiest place we know, also known as the bedroom, and we’re having some fun. I mean, we’re having a real good time. OK, let’s see if I can paint you a picture and keep it G rated. Our passions bubbled like spaghetti sauce being cooked on a hot stove. Our bodies intertwined like one of those huge anaconda breeding balls you see on National Geographic: It Takes Two To Make A Thing Go Right It Takes Two To Make It Outta Sight

We played Lewis and Clark, slowly and methodically exploring our rarely-used unchartered territories. And just when you thought things couldn’t get any hotter, just before our session was written in the history books, one of us (and by one of us I mean not me) inadvertently kicked the kids’ Baby Einstein Learning Sounds Piano. What the hell is a Baby Einstein Learning Sounds Piano you might logically ask? It’s this dreadfully annoying toy that looks like an octopus piano (yes, I just said octopus piano) and makes different animal sounds. Here, take a look: Octopus Piano

As if we weren’t making enough of our own animal noises, I guess my wife wanted more and hit the “Mouse” and “Frog” keys. We all know what a frog sounds like but what sort of noise does a mouse make? Well, according to the geniuses at Baby Einstein it makes a squeak noise. Yea, a freaking SQUEAK noise! Talk about driving into a brick wall at 150 MPH, nothing will kill your horsepower faster than a “squeak” noise from kids’ toys.

Now bear in mind it doesn’t take much to get me motivated and once I’m in the throes of my motivation it takes a lot to distract me. Ed McMahon could walk in with one of those enormous Publisher’s Clearinghouse checks announcing me as the grand prize winner and I wouldn’t skip a pump beat. But damn if this stupid mouse squeak noise didn’t cause a significant, yet temporary, hesitation in my giddy-up. First, it’s a squeak noise. Second, the sound was produced by my kids’ toy. Third, my wife wouldn’t or couldn’t stop laughing. Me, on the other hand, I suddenly felt dirty and yucky. For some reason I just couldn’t shake that squeak noise from my brain. Seriously, I think I’m scarred for life because of this seemingly innocent dereliction of duty on the part of my son. I don’t ask him to change the oil in the truck; I only ask that he pick up his toys! This is why, moms and dads, it’s so vitally important to instill in your kids the habit of cleaning up the toys. Learn from my mistake and insist that your kids pick up their toys or at the very least make sure they don’t play with their toys in your whoopee zone. I sincerely hope my story motivates you to do so.