Playtime

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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.
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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….

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

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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:

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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-

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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.

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

Not Ready for School Just Yet

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Ah kid, you’re annoyingly funny. The random phrases you have learned increase, as the number of toys that break under the pressure of my foot continue to rise exponentially. You’re cute-to-piss-me-off ratio makes it tough to accept that one day you’ll be off to college in the basement, protected from the douchey pervs out there.

But before we get to college we’ll need to get a few things straight. Daddy’s car, shirt, face, shoes, wife, teeth, route to work, thoughts, and dreams are not all the color of “red”. Well, except for my dreams. They can be red, gold, and green.

I get that you’re only 2 years of age on paper. But acting like a 15 year-old-drugged-out kid is not acceptable as you toss your crap onto the floor and never pick them up. We’ve tried putting you in “time out” until you give in to putting away your toys. It works for 3 minutes until you pull out the next set of crap to leave behind.

You also have attachment issues in addition to thinking your left foot is undoubtedly your right one and vice versa. When you receive a toy or product that you fancy, a period of puppy love ensues. You go hard with that item right by your side; but come the following day you are all about a cup or spoon.

I swear, there’s a kid under that beloved umbrella during nap time.

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Your Mom Wants Another…

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…kid, sooner than later. After all, she had this article printed as I hover closer to 34 years further from birth.

http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2014/mar/24/older-dads-kids-fertility-debate-ugly-men-children

…someone born to a father of 22 is already 5%-10% more attractive than a 40-year-old father and the difference grows with the age gap

Well. Pack your bags and leave for the weekend, Baby Rangirl. Mommy and Daddy need to um, go buy a brother/sister for you right away to ensure they’re not a mongrel.

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Keep Your Letters, Dad

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In what seems as a response to my earlier post, Baby Rangirl protested by reshuffling the letters of “S-H-I-T” to “I-H-S-T”, a clear reference to helicopter safety…or hygiene and safety.

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But that’s just the cusp of your douche-tude. Whoever called it the “terrible twos” had you in mind, Baby Rangirl- the “terrible douchetwos” is more like it. You are currently at the center of your own world, demanding things go your way and we only play by your wants.

Screw the bowl of food- you want to see your YouTube kitty videos instead. Milk? No. You want to run around the house with your parents chasing you. Time for bed? Nope. Time for a cookie and you’ll do this fake cry which evolves into a real gag-fest.

Now we understand that this is life. This is normal. Screw the norm. Your antics drive me nuts. Thus, I spoil you more. You’re a well-oiled machine. A master manipulator. I hate this paragraph. It reminds me that you always win, annoying or not.

Sigh. You win. Here, have a toy.

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Only Letters Left

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Baby Rangirl, my assumption is that you say way too many words not allowed in movies rated PG by the time you read this. Chances are it’s the influence of friends that have you uttering phrases like “gosh darn it” or “bullocks!” I never liked your friends and their long, rebellious hair.

Or, perhaps the foul language in your ensemble of phrases just come from bad parenting. You lose all sorts of toys and letters from your magnetic alphabet set, that we simply combine the remaining letters on the fridge to spell phrases that just make sense at the time.

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