Throw Up

Jack threw up for the first time this weekend.

It was about 2:30AM and I heard the pitter-patter of feet from Jack's room to mine. He crawled in on his Mom's side. I tried to coaxing him on my side -- I woke up at 2:00AM for no reason, and was just looking up stuff on the Internet with my tablet, but Jack pretended he didn't hear me. Thirty minutes later there was a vomiting sound.

"Oh, No!!" Jack's Mom exclaimed and got up to take him to the toilet. He heaved a little, but quickly started crying, "What is it??" Jack creaked out, "What's coming from my belly?" It was the first time he'd thrown up since at least he was able to ask a question. He was slightly offended by the bile.

"Oh . . . Jack," Mom said sympathetically, "That's throw up, you're sick."

"Oh," then a pause, "What does throw up start with?" Jack croaked with fatigue and sickiness.

Mom and I both glanced a knowing look, this boy is obsessed with letters. "Throw up starts with a 'T', Jack," Mom replies.

I went and got a bucket from the Simple Human trashcan we have in our bedroom's bathroom and put that by the bed.

"What's that?" Jack asked inquisitively -- now pretty much wide awake.

"That's a bucket, Jack," I answered; and then responded out of reflex, "'Bucket' starts with a 'B.'"

"That's right, dad. Bucket starts with 'B.'"

Pants

Mom just held up a pair of shorts.

We've been trying to get Terra to pass off her laundry to little avail. Today she finally did.

"Here's how long I've been trying to get Terra to give me her laundry," Mom says holding up a pair of shorts before putting them in the washing machine.

Here's how short the shorts are:

Jack passes by, "Those are my shorts from when I was a baby."

Jack's Christmas Recital

Recital. Show. It's Jack. He's singing. With his best bud Blake.

In the Spirit of Hugging

I'm hugging an appliance. Now, my baby's catching the fever, too.

I don't mind doing dishes. Dishes themselves aren't so bad. I think almost half the work in getting dishes into the dishwasher (at least our old one) is the amount of work it would take to get a dish clean just with soap, water, and a scrubbing pad. I know now, I hate drying.

Drying is a pain in the neck. You end up with a soggy dish towel or a heap of paper towels. The water runs all over the counter and while the drying is occurring, it takes up valuable counter space.

This week we finally had the time to get the appliance repairman out. He announced the damage for getting it fixed; and there would still be a leak on the left side that would also need repair -- we nixed the dishwasher.

The new dishwasher runs without leaking. I'm really proud of that because I installed the new dishwasher (which was super easy). The old dishwashers are happy they only have to put dishes in the machine, and the broken dishwasher is in the garage -- waiting to get hauled out to the curb for someone else to scrap.

Polaroid

"There's a camera, that will print pictures automatically!" exclaimed Madeline.

"I think I have one those", I thought. I bought one a long time ago, before I had a digital camera that takes a million pictures at the cost of electrons on the battery.

I ran upstairs and combed through old boxes with older pictures. There it is -- the old Polaroid auto-focus, and with a "Made in England" stamp. What's this England? Aren't they the United Kingdom?

Sure enough, I can push the button and those Englander's or UK'ers have made some equpiment that still works 11 years later. The telltale "uunnnnnn-yahhhh" sound comes from the camera. Gray. Nothing. The film is out.

"But I really want to see what it looks like, Daddy!" Madeline tells me.

So begins the Quixotic quest to find Polaroid film. They are out of business -- in case you didn't know. Oh well. Kodak seems to be following closely behind them.

After looking on-line and coming to several dead ends, the Impossible Project finally had what I wanted.

Madeline was excited. "Can I take the next picture Daddy?" Of course you can, baby! (but just remember it's $3.00 a picture . . . ).

Brushing teeth Starts with "EN-Oh"

"Baby starts with Popsicle!" Jack screams and invites a parent to tickle him, almost begging to be tickled.

"Baby starts with 'B!'" a parent exclaims and throws the boy on the bed, while he is gleefully laughing hysterically.

Jack loves to spell. He loves it. "Mommy, what does Polaroid start with?" Jack will ask. "Polaroid starts with a 'pee'", sounding it out, "and 'pee' starts with a 'pee.'"

"I'nna say that," Jack replies.

"OK, Jack, what does Polaroid start with?" Mommy asks.

"Polaroid starts with a 'PEE'", Jack replies.

But not now -- Jack intentionally says words start with other words (obviously impossible), because he thinks it's funny.

The other night Dad said to Jack -- "Jack, it's time to brush your teeth."

"Brushing teeth starts with 'EN-OH'", replies Jack, clearly spelling "NO."

(Did he really know what he spelled there? I glanced a look at my son's mother)

Jack's mom was too busy laughing hysterically. And what else can you do? when the boy is jumping on the bed and screaming, "Baby starts with Popsicle!!!!!?"

All you can do is pin him down -- and tickle him until he laughs.

still under < 1000 %

or a buck short; someone that sees through the master plan.

I had a great Father's Day. It started the day before. I was not allowed to go downstairs. Allowed in the sense, "I'm paying for all this stuff," kind of of "allowed." This is a state of love and trust.

On Father's day at almost 7:10AM I heard the clinking of ceramic plates on each other. "Don't worry," I thought -- even though the girls' capacity for messiness grows logarithmically with their age, it'll be OK.

Sure enough, waiting for Mom and Dad in the way downstairs was a delicious helping of eggs and cheerios. Even the milk was laid out. Around the room were posters (8.5" x 11.0" paper) parameters saying "Dads' HDD (aka Happy Dad's Day)".

Happy Father's Day, Mike. -- it's all your fault.