Hormones.

It's been a while since we have had a post from The Daddy Diaries on here, 

and I think you will get a kick out of this one.

(Especially any of you who have gone through pregnancy...husbands or wives!!)

I love my husband.

I am biased, but I think he is pretty hilarious.

Enjoy!

*****

Let me preface this post with a profession of profound respect for pregnant women.  What you do in order to bring a baby into the world is something that men will never fully understand nor appreciate.

And we sure as heck thank the gender gods every night that we don't have to have children.


That being said, I think that a frank two-way dialogue on the topic of pregnancy hormones needs to take place between pregnant women and their husbands.  Because asking a man to understand hormones is like asking a woman to appreciate Dumb and Dumber. It's borderline impossible.

So why has there been no real progress in man's understanding of women's hormones?  The nation's most famously honest president, Abraham Lincoln, put it this way:

"The mere mention of hormones earns a man a night in the dog house, my friend.  Only a fool would enter those dangerous waters."

Even the nation's fiercest interrogator, and arguably biggest bad-a, Jack Bauer, feared a discussion on hormones:

"I'd rather infiltrate a heavily-guarded terrorist base with a squirt gun than bring up the topic of hormones with a woman."

This fear of discussion could stem from the fact that 99% of women deny the existence of hormones, and more specifically the immediate and apparent effect that these hormones have on women.

These fears are compounded exponentially for men when their wives become pregnant.  Now we’re no longer just dealing with ‘period’-ic (get it?) hormones, those hormones now last weeks at a time and are attached to a gag-reflex more trigger-happy than a Taken sequel.

Men are also deprived of eggs, meat, and any other source of protein because those food products are now one of ten thousand things that make our wives vomit. And now even our deodorant makes our wives nauseous, and our breath is now comparable to a trash can no matter how recently we just brushed our teeth.

Before the onset of pregnancy hormones, I would wager that most men feel like Josh Duhamel or maybe a poor-man’s Bradley Cooper around their wives.  After the onset of the pregnancy hormones, men are subsequently relegated to feeling like Jonah Hil,  pre-weight loss.

                                                        

And on top of that, we’re just hungry.  There have been times when I would have punted a dog off a bridge to have some hamburger with my pasta, or chicken in my burrito.   

 I do not say this to complain or try to make women feel guilty.  I only say this because men have feelings too.  

There.  I said it.

We may scratch our butts, adjust our crotch, and grunt about football a lot, but deep down inside, men have feelings too.  Just don’t acknowledge it or bring it up with us.

Think of guys’ feelings like hormones.  They may or may not exist, but we don't talk about them. And if they’re brought up we’ll deny any existence of such feelings.

Now, where did my chainsaw go?

The Replacements

It's been a while since Jord has posted...

so you are in for a laugh today.

(Seriously, my husband is dang funny!!)

Enjoy!

****

We’re officially through the Replacement Referee Fiasco in the NFL.  Things have pretty much returned back to normal, meaning that fans still hate the refs, replacement or not.  Have fans ever liked referees?  Only referees can receive a standing ovation and then 15 minutes later get booed. (Well, besides BYU quarterbacks)

All of this being said, can you imagine a worse situation than being a replacement referee in the NFL for the past four weeks?  Here you are a very humble manager of your local IHOP who likes to referee little league football games on the side, and now you’re expected to relay calls to a stadium full of 50,000 crazed people who hate you.  

Sounds a lot like being a dad.

As a dad I feel like a replacement referee every time my wife leaves me with our son by myself.  My wife runs a pretty tight ship.  She's a great mom, and our son respects that. 

Enter me (aka the replacement ref)—the second that I put 100% apple juice instead of half water, half apple juice in his sippy cup, it’s all over.

Fueled by a sippy cup full of sugar and the fact that I don’t know a Gerber Graduate from a swim diaper, Bost pushes every boundary.  Next thing I know he’s unrolling all of our toilet paper down the halls, running naked through the kitchen, and dunking his binky in the toilet. By the time I clean up one mess, he’s on to bigger and better messes.   

It’s like the Rams taking shots at RG3.  I'm finding my favorite hoodie smeared with what I hope is applesauce. The bedtime ritual feels more like the botched MNF call.  I know what I’m doing, but I'm just so frazzled from the baby powder in my eye and the never-ending loop of Clubhouse Disney songs that I’m putting diapers on backwards and butt paste on Elmo.

The good news is that our son is still alive despite his replacement parent.

And I’m pretty sure that the NFL will still make gajillions this year despite the replacement refs.

So let’s cut the replacement guys some slack.  We’re They’re just doing the best that they can. 

txtn with bost.

It has been a while since we have done a guest post from The Daddy Diaries,

so I thought I would put one up for your enjoyment!

What can I say, I think my husband is pretty dang funny.

Enjoy!

***

I know this makes me an official make-your-kids-and-wife-roll-their-eyes dad now, but I think it's time for a 'The Younger Generation and Technology' rant.

Bost already knows how to slide open a cell phone and call and send bizarre text messages to random people from our contact lists (He sent 'Mikikawa' to his babysitter the other day).  He conveniently selects people that we haven't talked to for years then hands the phone to us for an awkward, impromptu conversation.

He also can slide through pictures on my iPod touch and turn the Blu-Ray player on and eject the disk.

When I was one I played with rocks and sticks; marveled at the technology behind an etch-a-sketch or magna-doodle; and had matchbox cars.  Bost has a toy laptop and cellphone.

I would say something along the lines of 'What is this world coming to?' or 'When I was in school I walked uphill both ways' but to keep up with the hip lingo of the rising generation:

WTF (Why The Face?)

Here are some pics of Bost texting on Kels' cell phone

 

  

 

 

And for old times' sake, some hey girl pictures as well. (See some more here.)

-Jmac

Bost, We Need to Talk.

Kels showed me this video of Bost and a girl from the neighborhood that Kels babysat:

I honestly didn't think that I would have to give Bost lady tips for at least another 16 years (or if I had it my way 21 years), but he's forced my hand.

Here's how our conversation went:

me:  Bost, Mommy showed me that video of you today.

bost:  (cute, two-fanged smile)

me:  I saw that you went for a kiss and a hand-hold.

bost:  (tries to grab the glasses off my face)

me:  Mommy said that was only your second play-date with her.

bost:  (finds a nana puff on the floor and stuffs it in his mouth)

me:  Here's the deal dude.  I'm no expert, but I did bag a foxy lady like your mom, so I do know a thing or two about wooing the ladies.

bost:  (Starts crying.  He's either hungry or trying to say TMI.)

We continue our conversation in the high chair.  This way he can't run away.

me:  The first tip is to play it cool.  Girls love a bad boy.  Low-ride your diaper.  Don't pick up your toys when you're done. Stay up past your bedtime.  The girls eat that stuff up.   You don't want to come off as needy.

bost:  (smears licorice all over his face)

me:  The second tip is to only go 90 and let her come the remaining 10.  You went for the kill and got shut down.  You felt awkward.  She felt awkward.  The good news is that Mommy's first kiss was someone's shoulder as well and she turned out alright.  (Don't tell her I told you that).

bost:  (smears licorice onto his chest)

me:  Finally, girls love a dancer.  The head-banging was cute, but when it comes down to it, girls want to be spun, twirled, tossed in the air, and pulled through a guy's legs when dancing.  Especially if it's by an Antonio Banderas look-alike, with his shirt unbuttoned, revealing his hairy chest.

bost:  (looks up from his licorice mess)

me:   I don't get it either.  So get crackin on the chest hair, and I'll teach you a few moves.

bost: (goes back to his licorice)

me:  Good talk, son.

****

For more funny posts by Jmac, head over to The Daddy Diaries!

(Maybe I'm biased...but I think my husband is pretty dang funny! Haha!)

Dear Bost: The Big Move

Dear Bost,

We're moving this fall to another country.  I'm bummed that you won't remember any of it, but we're going to live in Belgium for four months.  I somehow duped a bunch of guys working at an NGO for Human Rights over there to hire me.  The most ironic thing is that they hired me on to do a lot of writing.  Obviously, they haven't seen this blog.

I'll no longer be able to write words like 'booger' or 'poopies' and no longer rant and rave about Clubhouse Disney and its effects on society-- at least while writing for them.  So we'll make sure to take lots of pictures of you in front the Eiffel Tower and other cool sites, and I'll make sure to write about the culture and the experiences.  I hear they have great chocolate, waffles, fries, and beer.  I'll make sure to tell you about all of it, especially the beer.

This is such a blessing for us.  Just like you are.

Dad

*****

To read more letters to Bost, head over to The Daddy Diaries!

Happy Birthday Kels

Every year when Valentine's Day and Kels's b-day roll around, I usually hide behind a cheesy poem, where silliness covers up my awkward attempts at being sentimental.

This year will be no different.

Kels, here's to you and all you do

like change most of Bost's diapers

and for that time you didn't laugh

when I couldn't change the windshield wipers

You feed me food that makes me fat

then compliment my bod to boot

You've even gotten to the point

                                         where you don't freak out when I toot leave my socks on the floor

You gave up your trip to London
Why? I'll never know
So I tried to make it up to you
By moving to Idaho

Thank you for your patience with me
Cuz sometimes I'm not so civil
Like that day the snow plow man boxed us in
And I got ticked and chucked the shovel 

Thank you for staying with Bost
While I pretend to be a nine-to-fiver
And contrary to what you always say
I've been told I'm a decent driver
 
When the baby powder's settled
and all the dishes have been done
Don't even try to fight me on it
Cuz Kelsey I'm the lucky one

Rebels out on the town.

When asked what three words best described me, Kels quickly replied:

Ripped

Rebel

Ninja

Two of the three traits proved useful on our night on the town this weekend.  Out trip started out innocent enough at the Farmer's Market.  (I still find it extremely ironic that the Farmer's Market lacks any actual, you know, farmers.  It's not like they're in short supply around here.)

 

Instead, there are seven and half small booths selling anything from authentic Italian bread to custom-made, ruffly baby paraphernalia that all have googly eyes and ears attached somewhere.  This week there was even a creepy gypsy woman who would give you your fortune for a nickel.  (Alright, so I made up the gypsy woman, but that would be really, really cool/creepy)

After three loops around the booths, which took us approximately 45 seconds, we branched off to paint the town red.  That's right, me, Kels, and Bost being pushed in the stroller.  Rebels without a cause.

Unfortunately, all the stores closed at five, and the only thing remotely exciting that happened was me daring Bost to ask the high school girls at the Sno Shack for their phone numbers.  He chickened out.

So we manufactured a little small-town fun:

 Regular Rebel Ninja switching the wildfire conditions 

from 'Moderate' to 'Extreme'

We sent the city of Rexburg into a frenzy when astonished firefighters and citizens alike panicked at the sight of 'Extreme' wildfire conditions.

The good news:  I changed it back to 'Moderate' before all fireworks this side of the Rockies were banned for life.

The bad news:  Smokey the Bear's foot got run over by one of the fire trucks speeding off to decrease the wildfire conditions.

-----------------------------

For more posts by Jmac, head on over to The Daddy Diaries!  :-)

Famous Potatoes.

Our car officially became an Idahoan today. Kels cried.  It got so bad that when I went out to put the new plates on Kels was marching around the parking lot holding signs that said, "Just Say No To Famous Potatoes." Bost even got in on the action by tying himself to the back bumper of the car and singing Songs of Freedom, but it was too late- we now have Famous Potatoes.

As if through a magical transformation, though, the second the Famous Potatoes were put on the car, we started driving like Idaho drivers-- at turtle pace.  

I also now have a strange desire to purchase a freakishly large truck, jack it up on a huge lift kit, get an over-sized muffler that ensures I'll be heard in the next county, and put Tap Out stickers on the back windows, then drive around town peeling out after every red light and stop sign leaving a black exhaust cloud large enough kill a rain forest and cause lung cancer.

Or just buy a tractor.

---------------------

This has been a post by Jmac from "The Daddy Diaries."  For more funnies on Idaho, being a dad, and other adventures, click the button on the top left of the blog that looks like this: 

 

Oh, he's just teething...

With an 8 month-old child, we're constantly on the look-out for that bittersweet first tooth. Sweet because growing teeth is a natural step on the path towards looking like a normal human being, and bitter because, frankly, our baby has turned into a temperamental bundle of joy with mood swings worse than a wo- er, they're pretty bad.

When we began thinking that Boston was teething we consulted one of thirteen abnormally large baby books that we have lying around the house.  These books are written by expert doctors who have years of experience in a lab doing all kinds of research and who have, conveniently enough, never actually had kids. The books range from Your Baby's First Poop to 1,115 Steps to Properly Installing Your Child's Car Seat.  . 

The one that we're currently consulting is on teething, which emphatically teaches the signs of teething in your child.  The signs are numerous and sometimes downright frightening.  Here are some examples:

Fussiness

Unwillingness to eat

Change in sleep pattern

Abnormal bowel movements (abnormal is a very polite way of putting it)

Listening to really loud music

Constantly asking to borrow the car

This has led us to now blame everything on teething.  I mean everything.   

Oh, he's crying?  Those darn teeth!

He hasn't pooped for two weeks?  Must be teething.  Poor guy.

It's gotten so bad that it's expanded out from just Bost, and to all of the things in our home.

-Honey, the computer's not working again.  
-Oh, it's probably just teething again.

 Man, this cake really turned out bad didn't it?  Oven must be teething again.

It's actually quite liberating to have such a readily accessible scape goat. Well, I've got to run the car to the shop real fast- it's teething again.

-Jmac

Motivation, but Mostly Just Bribes

Kels and I have been trying to get Bost to crawl.  He's eight months old and we have lots of important books and valuables within reach of a crawler, so we figured why not teach him how to crawl.

Unfortunately, he inherited both of our stubbornness and refuses to do anything but lay on his stomach and throw-up on our carpet.

That is, until we discovered his weakness . . . Laptops.

 

We started using our own laptops as bait to get him to crawl, but that obviously presented a problem when he actually reached the laptop and began to pound the internal memory out if it.  (I wonder if, "My 8 month-old deleted my paper" has ever been used as an excuse for not turning in an assignment)

That prompted the purchase of a kid's laptop for him to chase and play with.  (Kid's laptop?  I'm pretty sure my crawling motivation was a pile of rocks or a spoon)  You know the kind of laptop I'm talking about.  The kind that features techno versions of all the classic nursery rhymes by David Guetta and stimulating lighting effects that induce seizures in anyone over the age of 2.

These were the results:
 

Not quite crawling, but we'll take it.

The Play-By-Play Part 2

After we finally gained access to the labor and delivery unit the really dumb questions didn't stop.

- Are you the father?  (That's debatable)

- Do you have insurance?  (I knew we forgot something!)

- Boxers or briefs?  (Bri- Hey, wait a second!)

The first nurse was a little less than pleasant, and as punishment for not quite being ready to have the baby, she sentenced us to two hours of aimlessly wandering the halls of the hospital at four in the morning.  I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

Now, I'm sure that every husband experiences this at some point during the labor and delivery process, but there are moments when my wife was having contractions and in a lot of pain and I felt completely helpless, not knowing what to do to help her.

My wife:  (Groans of pain and agony)

Me:  Honey, is there anything I can do?

My wife:  (The look. You know, the look that says this is all your fault.  Which is kind of true, but if I remember right, this was mostly her idea.)

Me:  (Go back to eating my Pop-Tart from the vending machine)

Before my wife went into labor she warned me and apologized for anything mean that she says out of pain and frustration during the process and told me not to take it personal.  I wasn't quite sure what she meant until she had a particularly nasty contraction and yelled things like:

-"We're not having any more babies!"

-"No more sports for you!  Ever!"  

-"Peyton Manning is washed up!"

I don't know how she expected me to not take the last one personal.  Fortunately, her dealer showed up to give her some drugs. The doctors said they were giving her an “Epidural”, but I had my suspicions.  For instance, minutes after receiving the “Epidural” my wife called her sister exclaiming, “You have to try one of these!” 

Again, they assured me that it was, in fact, an actual epidural, but even the doctors started to wonder when they told my wife that it was time to push and she started making pushing motions with her arms. 

I highly recommend the epidural route for anyone planning to have a baby or attend your child’s 4^th grade band concert.  The delivery process was smooth and a good experience for everyone involved, except the baby, who expressed his dislike for the event by screaming and urinating on the doctors and their equipment.   

Maybe that’s why the doctors get paid so much, because he sure as heck wasn’t doing a whole lot else.  The doctor strolled in after the nurse and I had done the hard part of helping my wife push.  He put on his protective gear (which the rest of us didn’t get), took a seat (which the rest of us didn’t have), and caught the baby as it plopped out.  And for all of this we paid him roughly 5 million dollars and my left pinky.

Alas, it was all worth it in the end.  Well, I have to go now.  My wife and I are late for a Legalize Epidurals rally.

-Jmac

The Play-by-Play Part 1

There seems to be an interesting trend in the blogging world these days.  Moms suddenly feel it necessary to give the entire world a very long and horrifyingly descriptive play-by-play of their entire labor and delivery process, often including slow-motion replay and color commentary by Charles Barkley. 

Naturally, I felt an urge to 'represent' the father's side of these Birthing Stories, so here we go.

My wife nudges me at 3:30 in the morning, gives me 'the look', and five minutes later we're in the car on the way to the hospital.  On the drive over I began asking myself the really introspective, soul-searching questions I'm sure all men begin to ask themselves on the cusp of becoming fathers:  You know, like Am I really ready to be a dad? or What in the world was I thinking!? or even I hope the baby comes before the Jazz game starts.

We finally arrived at Madison Memorial hospital, a very nice hospital that practices the ancient Macedonian birthing art of asking lots of really impertinent questions.

Exhibit A
When we arrived, the outside entrance to the labor and delivery unit was locked, but there was an intercom for those unfortunate parents whose babies are on Chinese time.  I pushed the call button and immediately a nurse's voice asked "What do you want?"

(What I didn't say, "I'll have a cheeseburger and fries. What about you honey?")

We got in, went up the elevator, and ran into another locked door with another intercom. Now I see the need to lock the outside door so that the 'bad guys' don't steal the fresh placentas, but a second locked door? The same nurse got on the intercom and asked the same question:  "What do you want?"

(What I didn't say: My proctologist is out of town and said that you could do the check-up for him this week)

Finally, after the last locked door, a retina scanner, and a fairly uncomfortable body cavity search they let us into the labor and deliver unit.

Stay tuned for part 2

Wanted

Wanted

Busy the Bee

Description:  Small, round, yellow and black, with catchphrases such as:

Woo-hoo!, Wahaaahahahaoooohhh!, etc.

Crime:  Disturbance of the peace, surprisingly unimaginative catchphrases, 

and scaring the sweet and sour sauce out of mom and dad at three o' clock in the morning

with loud 'Wahooos' and sinister laughter.

Reward:  500,000 'Nana Puffs' (What we'll pay you to take him off our hands)

ps don't tell Bost.  He loves Busy.

Hey Girl

In light of the recent 'Hey Girl' craze (which consists of model shots of Ryan Gosling with captions of him saying everything that girls want to hear from a man) we decided to put a spin on it- Hey Girl baby style, featuring none other than our own Boston Emery.

In case you haven't seen a 'Hey Girl' picture, here's an example:
And if you want to see more, click here

 

Now for Bost

 

 

 

 

You Might Be a Parent . .

The Top Ten Ways to Tell If Your Parent (Because we assumed you needed help figuring that out)

10. If you do this to your child for fun . . .

Then you might be a parent.

9.  If you have to avoid social activities such as game nights with other couples, any movie that’s not a matinee, or bingo night at the local old folks home so that you can keep your baby on a strict sleep schedule . . . then you might be a parent.

8.  If the amount of toys in your house (approximately 170 million) outnumbers the amount of shoes in your wife’s closet (roughly 150 million) . . . then you might be a parent.

7.  If you can identify pureed fruits and vegetables by smell . . . then you might be a parent.

6.  If your last purchase was Butt Paste . . . then you might be a parent (Or you might need to see a doctor).

5.  If you find dirty diapers under furniture, in toy boxes, and in the pantry . . . then you might be a parent.

4.  If your spouse catches you doing interpretive dances to Disney songs . . . then you might be a parent.

3.  If you catch yourself whistling Wiggles’ songs , or secretly have violent daydreams involving them, Dora, and the entire cast of Clubhouse Disney. . . then you might be a parent.

2.  If you have vicarious conversations with your spouse through your child . . .

kmac: “Bost, say, ‘Daddy, did you remember to switch over the laundry like Mommy asked you to three times already?’”

jmac:  “Bost, say, ‘Nope, Mommy, Daddy’ll do it right after this game.  There’s only thirty seconds left.’”

Then you might be a parent.

1.  If you have a baby that looks like this . . .

Then you must be one lucky parent.

- jmac