The attack of the yuckies...

It's almost February, so that can mean only one thing - everyone in the house is required to get sick for at least a week. Not only is this a requirement, but a good time that is had by all. Because Shea is the oldest, it is his birthright to present us with the sickness of the day. This year, he chose Bacterial Pneumonia. A wondrous, exciting, and yet not completely debilitating illness that can wreck havoc not only on your respiratory system, but also your appetite. So, the good news to come out of this is that I will not be contributing as much to my local supermarket this week...Some pointers for sick children. Well, some pointers for anyone dealing with MY sick children.
1. Telling Chloe to cover her mouth when she coughs is as useful as expaining gravity to a Yankees fan. You can explain it over and over. The concept is just way too much for them to comprehend.
2. Peanut butter sandwiches, while usually the staple of Chloe's diet, will be rendered useless. And yet somehow, peanut butter will still find it's way to the furniture...
3. When a cranky and tired Shea says that he wants you to move out from in front of the TV, do as you are told. You may just find yourself under fire of pillows.
4. And of course, whatever you do, the words "doctor" and "shot" shall not be used in the same sentence. Even if that sentence is - "I played golf with Dr. Minor today, and he shot a 75!!"

So, in short, it has been quite a week. I had promised myself that I would get to this blog more than once every 10 days. Hopefully, I will soon be able to put that plan into motion. Until then, I will take advantage of the semi peaceful home that I have been provided by children sitting quietly sipping water and watching Dora....

Minivans. And the inability to dress myself....

Mornings are, without a doubt the most difficult time in my house. People running in a million directions, teeth being brushed, outfits being argued about, children bouncing off the walls...A small miracle is performed every time that the children are actually to school on time. The other morning, the aforementioned outfit arguing hit a new low when Chloe informed me that her pink shirt and her pink pants were WAY TOO MUCH PINK. Now, I found this incredibly ironic as I looked around her room and found it difficult to point out a single object that wasn't pink. Without pink, my daughter would be, well, pinkless. And terribly unhappy. Nonetheless, with the irony oozing from her lips, she informed me of the obvious problem of pink overload, which I had obviously overlooked. I proceeded to pull out a pair of blue jeans for her to wear. Little did I know that a new shirt was required as well. To this oversight, I was welcomed with this - "Daddy - you don't know much about clothes." Like this was something that I had to be informed of. Like I couldn't look in my own closet and see my shirts from 1997 that should have been thrown out in 1998. I decided then and there that Chloe will now pick out her own clothes...

Fast forward 30 minutes. We are sitting in the car at the kids' school. Shea is going to school, Chloe is not - she attends 3 days a week, and this was not one of those days. As we are waiting for Shea to enter the building so we can leave, Chloe notices the minivans and SUV's surrounding us in the parking lot. To which she says this, while pointing to a minivan - "Daddy - why don't we have a car like that?" I explain that we don't need a van, because there are only two kids in the family, and besides, I don't really know much about minivans. I then am confronted with this -"Daddy, you should get a minivan" As I asked why, a little voice, barely audible, could be heard in the far reaches of my mind. I'm pretty sure it was telling me to look out..But, as I said, it was barely audible, and I went on with my inquiry, and she responded with, "Well, lots of people have minivans. And anyway, you don't know anything about clothes, either.." I should have my van by next week.....

Boys against the Girls

I have a recurring dream. Actually, I have a few. But for the sake of this discussion, I have one recurring dream. I suppose it's more of a nightmare, but I digress. It goes something like this...Chloe, or Beans, as I affectionately call her (An explanation of that will follow at a later time...) is having a tea party. Now, that in and of itself is not the nightmare, although I figure any number of men reading this are wondering how anything could be more disturbing. (As an aside, I have come to appreciate tea parties over the years - I have found that I look halfway decent in a princess crown. And, I get to enjoy pretend cake and muffins, while not feeling like I need to hop on the treadmill at the conclusion of the snack. It's a win-win.)

Before I continue, let me preface this story by saying that I enjoy my daughter a great deal. She is the younger of my two children (Shea is 5, and is a clone of my father. Paging Dr. Freud..) She is a bundle of energy. My mother has told me that if I had been a girl, I would have been Chloe - as if that's supposed to comfort me as I am bombarded with questions like, "Why do I look so cute in pink, but you don't?" Regardless, she is an incredible child, with an amazing imagination.

Now, where was I?? Ah, yes. Fake tea and cake. In this dream, I am sitting in my assigned seat at the tea party table, when all of a sudden, Chloe's pink horse (we'll call her "Horsey" to conceal her real identity), begins to speak to me in an up-tight, snotty, made for TV-movie British accent. Now, I've never been to England, but I'm pretty sure that horses don't talk, even over there. I am about to converse with "Horsey" when Chloe looks at me, and says, "Daddy, animals don't talk." Confusion sets in, as I am simultaneously listening to my daughter explain the ins and outs of animal conversation, while watching "Horsey" grow to the size of an elephant. It is at this point that the pink giant takes my cake, gobbles it in one huge bite, and laughs a laugh that can only be explained as a mix between Richard Simmons on crack, and Howie Mandel seconds after he realizes that another poor sap chose the wrong suitcase. Now, I don't know why I've had this dream more than once. Maybe I need to make nice with the horses in my life (???) Maybe I really DO like pink. Maybe fake food is wreaking havoc on my digestive system. Anyway you look at it, I am now scared to death of the tea party. But I can't seem to stop wearing this crown....

The Blog Revolution, and Such

Well, the time has arrived. After much planning, consideration, sleepless nights, and contemplation, I am going to do it. I am going to take the plunge. I am going to blog. It is fascinating to me that men (and women) of my age are right on the cusp of technology. Let me explain. I am 31 years old. Not ready to fall asleep in the recliner every night after the first quarter of the Celtics game, but not ready to completely grasp the technological culture that has enveloped us all. There are things that I am still trying to figure out that a 8 year old could probably explain in 3.2 seconds, or in other words, the time that it would take for my eyes to glaze over in complete confusion and disgust. Thus, I am late to the blog game. Similar to being picked last in a 7th grade game of dodge ball, I understand that my responsibilities are simple - make a contribution, try not to get beat up, and stay out of the way of things flying toward my face.

So, a moment about me before I go. Two kids, no pets, and a car radio that doesn't work. Asparagus is not in the picture. Cupcakes are. Red Sox, Celtics, Patriots. In that order. Still working on that trip to the North Pole that the kids say is ABSOLUTELY necessary before next Christmas, since we missed it this time around. Snow - bad. Heat - bad. 70 degrees with a slight breeze - perfect. Golf - would be better if I knew what the hell I was doing from 100 yards out and that aforementioned slight breeze blowing directly in my face. "In the end, aren't we all just waiting for the door to slam shut?" I think Bob Dylan said that. Or, I may have just made it up. Not sure. Anyway, I welcome myself to this strange and exciting cyber world. Let the good times roll.