Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Things that go squish in the night

It has been almost a month since I last wrote here.  Sorry. I might be a little lazy these days. Or maybe between the pesky full time job, the missus's ridiculous work/travel/grad school regimen, or the increasingly destructive toddler that demands food, attention and a full time custodian pretty much daily now, I might be a tad busy.

I should also probably mention we're in the process of getting a new roof and kitchen ceiling and if you happen to work in the insurance, banking, construction sales, or general contractor business I have probably spoken to stalked you and we are no longer friends.  And then there's our hero dog that saved us from certain doom recently by bravely slaying a wild animal (mouse) just feet from our back door. Now that he's tasted blood and pride, when he's not demanding to go out for the 489th time that day to run a security sweep, he stares out the windows like twelve year old boy looking for an errant boob on a Mediterranean beach (speaking from experience.) This dog has survived traffic, ingestion of enough sharp objects to fill a tool box, near hangings, surgery, a wife with thin patience, and more "this time, we're really getting rid of him" threats than I can count. But I'm fairly certain it will be a massive aortic rupture caused by a small rodent taunting him from outside that will finally do him in.

Back in May, the wife, on a rare school break, emerged from behind her laptop and textbooks and accompanied me on my weekend routine through greater suburbia.  Her ghostly pale skin aside, it was good to have the extra set of hands along. And the adult company too I suppose. We ended up in the local furniture store in search of a bed for our freakishly fast growing toddler.  Her dimensions and burgeoning physical abilities telling us that the crib was becoming obsolete and this was a purchase I didn't want to handle alone. 

The new bed sat in the garage for four months. Mostly because we were too chicken to set it up and deal with the ensuing carnage.  Mostly, I'm the chicken.  I wake up if the dog farts at 2 a.m: the thought of a little person with a knack for finding pens and lotions wandering around my house in the middle of the night sends me straight to hard booze.

For a few weeks we refused to accept reality as our daughter's screams sent us into to her room every few nights. Hearing the familiar stuck daddy, stuck!, I would walk in to find her straddling the crib rail with both legs like she's on the balance beam from Hell. Thanks, Olympics!

The final straw came on a Friday night, of course.  Both legs over the railing this time, her rear firmly balanced on the rail and instead of the normal terror-filled look, her sheepish grin said "I got this. Watch." 

So from Friday night, we went from this:




To this by Saturday morning:




To this three weeks later:


The first few nights were the worst, but as expected. Since then, it's been mostly calm with the occasional skirmish turning into a full blown battle.  Or some nights, when it's quiet and the dad-sense tells you to check on her anyways, you may find her standing in the dark with what was a full tub of ointment a few minutes earlier. You may then find yourself Googling things like Vaseline, hair, carpet, removal and homemade Xanax instead of doing other things, like writing a blog post.

3 comments:

  1. Kids are awesome. You and the wife need to have like 7 more. Now. Go. Go forth and make many babies. Love the post!

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  2. The wife would agree with you. I think we need to keep practicing...

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  3. Ahahaha! My mom once walked in on my brother after he had smeared Vaseline all over himself and the entire playroom. She said the book "I'll love you forever" laying on the outskirts of mess saved his life. Good luck!

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