The Training Years

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I guess it goes without saying: every moment going forward is another opportunity to teach and ultimately train our baby girl.

Potty training is the current hurdle. We removed the side of her crib in hopes that Baby Rangirl would hop out and hit the john without our help.


I was a bit sad at the crib alteration: at 2.5 years of age this kid now runs out of the crib, closes the room door behind her, and hops into bed with us on the weekends. There’s still some baby left in her, however. She’ll cry while standing in the crib as if she were still captive in hopes we’ll rock her to sleep at 3AM.

Naturally, Baby Rangirl has yet to get up and take a leak at night. Side note: Mommy Ranman has repeatedly told our daughter to quit saying that she had to “take a leak”. Yesterday Baby Rangirl announced:

“Daddy, I gotta go potty”. She hops on and said “I take a leak. No…don’t say ‘take a leak’ daddy.”

“So…you’re taking a pee?”

“No silly, I taking a leak!”

Nighttime and outdoors are our issue. I can’t run into the ladies room with the kid if it’s just us two, and the one time I ran with her into the men’s room at a playground: gross. Baby Rangirl swore she no longer had to hit the john and I was okay with whatever accident was to come.

Don’t worry Baby Rangirl, together we will conquer the art of taking a leak. We will own that toilet.


Remember Me

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I’m not looking for accolades, Baby Rangirl. You’re cute as curse words, and growing up only 10% douchebag in New York is praise enough. But when you’re 2 days away from sticking me in a nursing home due to my failing organs, or 2 seconds away from telling me how I don’t understand your trials and tribulations…I ask that you read my blog.

Refer to the picture of Mommy and Daddy sacrificing their time and fridge space:


…and rushing your urine for examination after taking care of your sick self. Getting that junk into a cup from an un-potty-trained kid takes patience, science, and Mommy. I did it with a funky contraption attached to you at the doctor’s office; and mommy handled round 2 into a cup.

#parenting. Do they still use hash tags as you read this in the future, Baby Rangirl?

Who’s in Timeout?

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Holy disciplining, Batman!

Are you certain we can’t whoop a child anymore?

“Go to timeout!” has become a funny statement in the Ranman household. Mommy Ranman and I are exhausted. Negotiation, screaming, and finally resolution all take place in the course of 3 minutes because this kid refused to pick up her toys or has been yelling back nonstop to the simple things like going to brush her teeth.

What happens when I force you to stop talking to all the boys in 3rd grade because they all have one thing on their mind, Baby Rangirl? No timeouts then. Nay. Rather, you go straight to the guillotine for reprimanding. Check that, no talking to boys as early as tomorrow.

I like to believe we’re getting through to Baby Rangirl at the age of 2, but who knows what she’s learning when we’re not around? Maybe those watching her whilst we work find it funny to slap a human being in the face. Now we need to undo this and accommodate: smack to your heart’s content as long as it isn’t Mommy or Daddy.

And it’s all premeditated. She goes into the day thinking, “you know what? Screw err’body today. Especially Daddy and his stupid beard.” Look at her plotting. Who’s really going into timeout in this kid’s world? Clearly me if I’m keeping an online diary about the punishment I endure.


Bully in Training

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Baby Rangirl has developed her speaking abilities since my last post.

The thing is, this kid still can’t carry a full conversation. She’s the modern day Joe Buck: everything is a play-by-play and no more. Captain Obvious should be a nickname.

“I turned on the TV”.

“What are you going to watch, Baby Rangirl?”

“I use the remote, the TV is on.”

And so on.

There are those special convos that do make a parent proud. The other day Baby Rangirl ripped a fart on Mommy Ranman, and declared “I pooped on Mommy!” That’s a thought leader right there. Or, a bully.

Now to anyone reading this, I can see why you wouldn’t care. I barely care about anyone telling me about their own kid unless there’s a toilet joke at the end. When at a playground recently, I had to watch over our kid interacting with others older than her as their own parents were nowhere to be found.

Which automatically makes me somewhat responsible for these runts who hold no value to my social worth. But you gotta pretend you’re interested in the other kids’ every word just in case:

-their parents stumble into the area while you’re telling their kid that Santa craps their presents out of his bum, hence the random lumps of coal

-your own kid is paying attention to you not caring about anything someone else’s birthed chatterbox, in turn teaching her that other people are in fact useless…practically raising a bully

-you need practice in listening to pointless conversations your own kid will begin preaching in a year or two

This one kid was clearly too old to be playing in the area we were patrolling, but proceeded to still serve me pretend-dirt pies. I humored him until he pushed my baby girl to the side trying to deliver my fifth imaginary helping of mud pie. His mom, from some rogue bush, said “Now Rain (spelling?), she is smaller than you- play nice!”

My natural unfiltered self mumbled directly to Rain: “yea kid, you’re more like ‘heavy Rain’ so you better back off.”

I teach my kid to share- but still be the aggressor. Will that teach her to be a bully? Maybe. But if Lindsay Lohan didn’t become one in Mean Girls, she would have never learned what little turds kids really are.

It might be backfiring. Baby Rangirl tells my wife and I to move, go away, get out of here…and more.

Save a seat for me, equally-beaten toy doll. I am a victim of bullying and also need a drink:




I cannot begin to describe how awkward it is to interact with parents/kids at a playground. I’m not used to it- sure, I’ll network with coworkers and adults if I see a positive net result. Perhaps it’s a future ally in the war against Mr. Pennybottom and his tendency to thwart any internal promotions at Company XYZ.

But RandomMom in a playground or at a barely-known-kid’s party: I need to get to know you over the next few moments of my child’s attention span without making it weird that I’m the only dad there. Awkward? Oh, aye. In addition: trying to find engaging conversational topics with their kid whom I’ve known for exactly 3 seconds? How do I know what another 2 year old knows in terms of vocabulary? My 2 year old and I talk about farts and George Bush Sr. all the time.

Where the heck are all the other dudes who know as little about their child’s last bowel movement as I do? These moms get down to the strain of DNA which predict their daughters’ taste in arts & crafts by staring at a dirty diaper. I just know that Baby Rangirl didn’t crap her pants on my watch as of yet. And I don’t even acknowledge that fact in case the jinx gods hear me and deliver a soiled diaper whilst at a park with no changing tables. Or at a Radio Shack as I try to run out with a now-stolen battery pack in hand.

Yea, that happened.

And with Baby Rangirl’s shortening attention span via all the iPad-parenting we’re allowing, I’m luckily off to different parts of a playground so that we’re not engaging with 1 mom all the time. Although, that short attention span is creating quite the scatter brain…we asked her to help put the groceries away….


Ah, the joys of being a semi-caring dad.


Daddy’s Little Helper

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I had to re-caulk the bathroom tub the other night, and naturally there was an elephant in the room…Baby Rangirl herself. Now I’m not calling you heavy at all, my little buttmunch. Rather, you have the gait of a gazelle. No wait, more of a herd of gazelles escaping an impending death-by-lions: clearly you thoroughly enjoy laying every inch of your foot hard to the ground when you walk.

And like an animal part of any herd, you’re all up in my face tossing your poorly-controlled limbs trying to avoid nothing. I had to ensure none of the caulk got on you so I gave you blue tape to help guide my applying of the caulk. And viola! My little dude laid down the law:


Good job, you little buggar! How about we go ahead and now reapply…wait. Where’d you go? There’s more work to be done…ugh, I swear! She also has the attention span of a gazelle. Where are-


Of course.

Let’s Hit the Gym

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This is not child cruelty. Nor is it necessary to call social services. This is why you have a chance at being slimmer than most humans in the future, Baby Rangirl.

Before I show the picture, I will also note that you likely hopped onto the treadmill after your mother fed you chocolate. You called it “pickles”, Mommy Ranman let you have some “pickles”, and now look at you. All embarrassed.

Work it girl.


Just lose daddy’s shoes…chocolate makes your hips bigger, not your feet.

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