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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!!



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Listen Baby Rangirl. I want to consider you perfect. You’re the cutest thing on earth at five years old with your new glasses. This, after my fears of you being tortured by the kids at school- but I forgot that these little turds are still fine-tuning their insults. 

Also of note is the conversations you can keep. Thanks to pre-school, Spongebob, and other local experiences- you dazzle us with some new phrases everyday. It makes your attempts at the word “popsicle” seem less like a speech issue when you drop words like “chivalry” in proper context. 

But then you go ahead and do things like rip ass when I pick you up for a hug and crack yourself up. A steady rifle-sounding fart to my arm. Granted, I can be partially blamed for your interest in fart humor. I can’t help but laugh at the occasional blast. 

But there’s always a double standard as you’ll learn in society and the House of Ranman: we laugh at Mommy Ranman’s expense, not mine. Hopefully when you’re reading this we’ve come back from this betrayal. 

And if we’re still at war, I’ll leave you hanging when you need help. Like your brother who wouldn’t listen to me…and got stuck hanging over the tub:

And I won’t let you use MY mancave for your playground:

Things I do for you until that rip. 

9/19/16- When Our Friendship Takes A Turn

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By howdy does it ever, Baby Rangirl. I ain’t gonna remember much by the end of the day, but today I’m going to recall this as when you declared war: “I like mommy more better than you!”

Now this may be the pivotal strain on our young relationship every father/daughter combo must endure- I just thought I had some more time, yah know? Early 90’s sitcom has taught me that I’d regret having a daughter come 13 years of age. But 4? 

Fine. Go love your mammy more than me. Today marks the day I pull back on the Toys for Baby Rangirl program, and reinvest in the underfunded Your Brother is Cuter Anyways foundation. You friggin poopie face mcpoop face. 

Here’s a time when you 2 actually got along and were both in my favor….

…monster feet and all:

But I guess this is now top dog:


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“Daddy- Baby Ranboy called me a douche!”

Ok, Baby Rangirl…we’ll bite. Granted, the boy is only 10 months old and grunts more than he babbles. “And why did he call you a douche, Baby Rangirl?”

“I was playing and I hit his head!” 

“Ah, see? Babies can’t lie. Stop being a douche.”

Playtime can get competitive. 

The Limbs Are Mobile

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Baby Ranboy, clearly you have an affinity towards the more ethnic channels and OnDemand. Each time you swipe the remote from us (and it doesn’t end up in your mouth), we find the tube on either Univision, Telemundo, the OnDemand menu, or some random Russian programming. 

Regardless of how you hold the remote in your beefy 8 month old hands, or how you’re sitting… your Trex arms always manages to hit specific Verizon FIOS local channels despite all the channels we pay for. Stop interrupting our Game of Thrones dude, hold the door. 

From arms to feet: let’s address this crawling stance you’re sporting:

It’s nothing short of an injured zombie. The crawl is creepier when you’re on hardwood/tile and you become a gliding zombie. A few days ago you couldn’t be bothered with crawling, and in true Ranman fashion you’re now half-assing it. 


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Yup. Seems Baby Ranboy has latched onto the word “dadda” amongst his unintelligible babbling. That makes 2 out of 2 kids that spoke my alias before “momma”. 

And it drives Mommy Ranman a bit crazy as “momma’s boy” syndrome has yet to set in. 

“Momma. Mom-ma!” cries Mommy Ranman in response to each of Baby Ranboy’s “Dadda”s. 

So I did the most supportive thing I could. I calmly logged into my Spotify music account and looked up a few helpful songs to play on our speakers:

“Oh come on!” I heard Mommy Ranman say from the living room. Words of encouragement, if you asked me. Great success. 

Here’s a bonus photo of Baby Rangirl longing for the days of babyhood:

Next Chapter 

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In an exhausting day of purging the last of the kids accessories lying around, Baby Rangirl found a way to help out:

Yup, our little mofos are embarking on new chapters. We traveled to hell-in-New York: preK registration for Not-So-Baby Rangirl. Dude. 2.5 hours in a system that required 7 forms and none were digital. Hell. 

I immediately dropped “ass” and “douche” bombs within my first 5 minutes of waiting, channeling my younger Ranman in a school environment. Mommy Ranman regressed to her younger nerd state and almost tattled on me to the closest adult. 

Meanwhile, Baby Ranboy is too big for his swing: coming in at the 83rd percentile for weight in his age group. This swing lasted Baby Rangirl at least 1 year; Baby Ranboy barely lasted 7 months. 

Saddens me to think that I need to learn new school curriculums whilst we try to remember how to train a kid to sleep all over again. 

Grab me a drink, boy. 


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