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Legit. We own our own velociraptor, as Mommy Ranman puts it. I should just feed him back to his biological mother:

In any given second, Baby Ranboy will break into a God-fearing shriek or a less high-pitched blood curdling shrill that mimics his sister’s annoying cry. There is no in between. You need to ask “what’s wrong?” from 13 feet away because toys hurt less with more distance from Baby Ranboy. 

Simply put, our son has prematurely hit his terrible twos. And we’re running out of outdoor activities which prevents him from breaking our own stuff. 

We bought our own bouncy house, but that’s too weather-dependent:

We took the kids to Connecticut…but how much often can you really do/want to do that?

My car can’t handle the mess this kid brings back from playing in the sand each time:

Look at them. They can’t stay still for a pic…and that’s while watching mindless television!!


New Friends 

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As you read this, Baby Rangirl, I have no idea how much you’ll regret the names given to our new cats. But as of 4.75 years of age, you hate the name “Starboy”, which I’ve given the male kitten. You even ignore my name-giving abilities and call “Starboy” by his maiden name: Malibu. 

Well screw Malibu. That name is dead to the Ranmans. 

You got to keep the name “Sweetie”, given at the adoption center, for the female cat. 

I mean…Sweetie is the only cat that likes you!

And here they both are as kittens:

And here’s your brother making a mess:

That is all. 

Bumps and Bruises

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Mommy Ranman left me to watch Baby Ranboy one afternoon whilst we worked from home. She stepped away for 20 seconds and Baby Ranboy ate the tile with some sort of dramatic fall to the floor. I soon became the dad who can’t watch his kid. 
Days later I noticed Baby Ranboy take 2 falls on Mommy Ranman’s watch ever since my offense. 3 falls if we count the start of the new fiscal calendar. 

But I forget the competition Mommy Ranman and I are having to see who drops the kid the least, and go on a date nights to get away from all the douchebagedgry that comes with 2 kids:

Kids put you out of your element, like the time I mounted batman for Baby Ranboy’s first birthday. 

Here he is at “Bring Your Kids to Work Day”, pretending to be Batman:

What about Baby Rangirl? Well that chica is all about playing house with the boys now. All the nope. 

Be a good brother and stop your sister from growing up Baby Ranboy!

Ugh fine. Goldfish crackers are more important.

Here’s some first birthday antics:

Where Am I?

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Is that Lil Ranboy growing his 2 front teeth??

Ugh. No. It’s Baby Rangirl finding some rat thing in Pokemon Go. What year is this? This little mofo calls me “lame” all the time, and gets excited over this game?

At least the little man isn’t into this…wait. Where are you buddy? Ah! Gotta find you the same way we’re searching for Pokemons. 

Well at least we’re still in the year…wait! Did I just catch someone on my train with a DISCMAN??? 

Ok. It’s 1997 and the Yankees are still the best team ever. 
***8:07PM update: Pokemon has backfired. Baby Rangirl is scared of Pokemons. She will be in our bed all night. F-me, right?

I’m. So. Scared. Of her bothering us come 2AM. 

A Daddy’s Rant Is Never Done

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Am I the only dad whose foot always finds the 1 toy or end of the kid furniture each time? From Baby Rangirl’s stray Lego to Baby Ranboy’s bassinet cramping my bedroom- each item seems to increase in pointy texture and discoverability once my toe comes within striking distance. 

I see it now – Baby Ranboy’s challenge. “Mess with me and I’ll make your life rough…when I figure I’ve been messed with.” 

(Note Baby Rangirl’s toy on the floor in the background waiting for my right foot to get home.) 

On top of that, I’m changing my own clothes as often as this little guy- it seems like I get the same amount of spit on me as he does on himself. Who’s the baby in this relationship?

Gangster by nature. 


What else is working against you, Daddy Ranman
 you ask? Timing. I have no problem with a baby crying every 3 hours for a bottle and diaper change. 

He barely sleeps for long stretches. 

The second kid is waking up every 2 hours herself.

If I were to do the math we’re getting…35 minutes of sleep? 2 seconds? Okay I’m the one Indian that sucks at math but I do know sleep escapes us by a lot of hours. 

And why does he get to sleep on his own time?

2 kids aren’t so bad, we expected this of course. But Baby Rangirl- you know what you do. You be playing on this “first child syndrome” where you steal each parent’s chunk of time in order to get ice cream. 

You kids will kill me sooner than my next  drink. 

Do You Hear Santa?

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No of course not, Baby Rangirl, you’re busy entertaining another ear infection. As Mommy Ranman described our Christmas trip to visit family in New Hampshire: worst. trip. ever. Maybe not “worst”, definitely exhausting.

You started crying nonstop with about half of the drive remaining from New York to the Shire. We had already stopped twice due to our brilliant idea to potty train. Baby Rangirl held that pee in like a champ while we walked around the mean streets of the Bronx looking for a restaurant with a trustworthy toilet. But man did we miss diapers.

After 6 hours of driving a typical 4-hour trip, we finally reached the hotel by 1AM and Baby Rangirl was still inconsolable. By 3AM, Mommy Ranman made the decision to take the visibly aching kid to an ER in Massachusetts. We figured the hills of Connecticut triggered another ear infection as the kid kept tugging on her hair. Off we went, with maybe 1 hour of sleep under our belt and everyone smelling like vomit.

Oh yes. Vomit. The Rangirl doesn’t know how to chillax so she cries so much that she barfs after a while. And since she doesn’t know how to be cool, the vomit goes err’where. Which reminds me, I either need to do a load of laundry or conduct a clothes burning ceremony ASAP.

The hospitals of Massachusetts seem to hate New Yorkers, so we didn’t see a doctor until 6:15AM. Baby Rangirl was already passed out in our arms by then and we were close to leaving having paid a $75 copay just to watch Married With Children on TBS. Finally someone came in confirming the ear infection and dispensed meds which made a huge difference in the kid’s mood for the rest of your our trip.

What made the trip worse, you ask? Baby Rangirl hadn’t pooped in 2 days. So when more crying resumed, it meant one of us hugging Baby Rangirl over the toilet bowl while she tried to pass boulders through those tiny intestines. She finally erupted before we left New Hampshire- and after all this I was the one who felt like I had taken the dump of all ages.

Santa hates us, or karma felt the need to take a leak on me for all I did to the kids in high school. Well played, you red-suited fat bastard or that slutty wench we call “karma”. Sounds like a stripper name. Karma.

Here’s Baby Rangirl’s Christmas week, warming up to Santa after a few tries.

A bit shy at brunch with Santa. Yes, we were one of those parents pushing the fat guy into her life. Mommy Ranman takes full responsibility for any future issues as a result:


Sitting with her cousins, Baby Rangirl is the one with the ear infection. Oh, still can’t tell because you don’t see in black-and-white, you modern day non-discriminatory person? Well, then she’s the one with the over-priced Ugg boots.


Learning to love Santa:


As with any tried-and-tested method, you bribe kids to earn their trust.


Baby Rangirl finds a dog her size:


Baby Rangirl wearing her gifted princess dress. And monster slippers, of course. Not sure what the thing on her head is supposed to be, but given her skin tone she looks like the maid:


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:


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