The Mini Moguls

The Bean knew exactly what his problem was. Legos cost money. A lot of money. And even though he was relatively new to math, his skills were sharp enough for him to figure out that it would take him a very long time to save up for that Ninjago set on his meager allowance. So the kid decided to get creative.

Driving up to the house one evening, I spotted the Bean and Sprout marching on the sidewalk, a few of their old toys scattered on the front lawn yelling, “Toys for sale! Get some toys! Only one dollar! Toys for sale!”

While I appreciated their moxie, there were a few holes in their plan. The first being that there is very little foot traffic in front of our house. The second is that it was a good bet that anyone who might be passing by probably wasn’t going to want a beat up truck or tattered doll.

For nearly 20 minutes, the kids paced back and forth yelling to get the attention of people who weren’t there. The Bean looked dejected as he trudged inside for his bath. Billy Mays he was not.

A few days later the Bean had another idea. He realized there was one thing a kid could do to earn a few bucks in the suburbs—a staple of childhood so familiar that it’s practically a cliché—lemonade stand!

A day was picked and a menu was planned. WonderWife™ asked the Bean to write a shopping list of all of ingredients they might need to sell lemonade and cookies. The kids helped juice the lemons and while they painted signs, WonderWife™ baked. To counter the foot traffic problem, WW™ suggested a spot a few blocks away in front of a post office. We posted the time and location of the stand on Facebook (because we are modern parents and both helplessly addicted to social media), loaded up the car, set up and watched as the kids went to work.

The Bean held up his homemade sign and danced around to attract customers with the natural aplomb and charisma of a street performer. He flipped the sign and shook his ass shouting, “Lemonade! Delicious lemonade!” despite that there was no way the cars zooming along the street could hear him. Sprout was a little meeker in her efforts, but following her brother’s lead she too hoisted her sign and yelled her little voice hoarse.

A few friends stopped by to patronize the sale, but most of the customers were folks from the neighborhood who couldn’t resist the sight of two sweaty kids hustling in the hot Valley sun. The generosity of our neighbors amazed and warmed us, as more than a few people stuffed extra money in the till telling the kids to “keep the change”. WonderWife™ and I helped pour glasses and make change when the math got a little too hard, but the kids did the majority of the work. And nearly two hours later, their supply of lemonade was depleted.

Over a celebratory meal of cheeseburgers we helped the kids count their profits. Incredibly, they each earned enough to buy the toy they wanted. We took them directly to the toy store so they could have the experience of handing over their hard-earned cash in exchange for prizes. Clutching his new Lego figures, the Bean declared it “the best day ever!”

I was incredibly proud of my kids, and made sure I told them so as I tucked them in that night. They worked hard and learned that earning money isn’t easy. But it can be extraordinarily rewarding—especially if you’re the parent of two entrepreneurial kids. 

Retaliation

My Facebook status read:

Hey WonderWife™, that thing with the glitter....? Nicely played. I hate you for it, but nicely played. 

Earlier that day, WonderWife™ and I had what we’ll call a domestic squabble. It was a very rare occurrence for us, a couple that prides themselves on how little they fight. (A stark contrast to my parents, who I lovingly refer to as “The Costanzas”…but that’s another post for another time.) The fracas wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. At the core of it, a difference of opinion. It was the kind of row that all married couples have at some point in their relationship. But there was some anger. And by some, I mean a lot. Pointed directly at me. By her. All day I could feel her silently seething in my direction, the quiet aftermath of the initial battle.

I shrewdly decided to keep my distance. Thankfully, it was a divide and conquer sort of day where each of us took a kid to a separate birthday party. As a result, there wasn’t a lot of interaction between us. WW™ took Sprout to a party in the morning while I escorted the Bean to an afternoon affair.

In the evening, I went to my study to immerse myself in various forms of social media and tubes of You. There on my desk, directly in front of my laptop were two works of art from my daughter. The kids’ love of arts and crafts had been growing steadily and the walls of my office had become plastered with their various drawings and paintings. They would leave them for me on my desk or on the chair. But upon closer inspection, these pieces were different. They were absolutely the work of my little girl, but she had worked in a new medium. Glitter. Every square inch of the artwork was coated in a thick layer of sparkly art class glitter.

I abhor glitter with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns.

I used to have a cat that loved me and was incredibly territorial. During my single days, if a woman started spending too much time with me and getting comfortable in my apartment the cat would leave a present on her pillow. And by present, I mean poop. (The cat did this the most to the woman who would become WonderWife™. Later the two of them strongly bonded.) In this moment, I couldn't help but to think of that cat.  WonderWife™ was exactly like her.

I carefully removed the glitter bombs from the room as carefully as Jeremy Renner in The Hurt Locker, knowing that one false move would mean debris, which would mean sometime in the near future I would be walking around with glitter embarrassingly attached to my face. All the while, WonderWife™ smiled a devilish smile. The message couldn’t have been any clearer if I had woken up next to a horse head.

I was pissed at WonderWife’s™ retaliation but I also applauded her cleverness. This is why I love her.

After

It was hard to tell where the body was buried. The only clue was the small pile of loose dirt that all but blended into the debris that surrounded it. I held my children’s hands as we stood in a circle around the grave. We were there to say goodbye to our pet.

The Bean was adamant with his suggestion that we mark the occasion by reciting “The Plegible Legions.”* With no better ideas on the table, we did it. In the middle of it WonderWife™ and I caught each other’s gaze. The emotions of the past few days mixed with the absurdity of the moment and we couldn’t keep ourselves from laughing.

The kids had handled the news that their pet was being put to sleep remarkably well, all things considered. WonderWife™ and I had planned for the conversation with the precision of a military strike. We decided not to pull any punches with them. We would not invent wild fantasies to disguise the truth with sugary sweetness. There would be no talk of kitty heaven. We planned for lots of tears and lots of questions. Both were in plentiful supply.

That morning, the Bean said his final goodbyes to his cat and left for school. Sprout didn’t have pre-school that day, so my job was to plan a morning of activities that would distract her while WonderWife™ took care of the unpleasantries. While it was hard to plaster a happy look on my face to keep my daughter focused on playing, I knew that my wife was dealing with the way more difficult task.

That afternoon, we sat shiva. WW™ made a pie and we lit candles and said a few nice words about our departed cat. After the sugar worked its way into the Bean’s system, he declared the day “the best ever!”, oddly seeming to forget that a just few moments earlier we stood over the grave of our companion performing an inappropriate eulogy. It didn’t matter. The tension had been broken.

*Say it out loud.

Happy Fried Chicken Day

By the time I met the woman who would become WonderWife™, I had been through the dating gauntlet. I had J-Dated, Speed Dated, blind dated, double dated… Frankly, I was exhausted. Thankfully everything about dating the future WW™ proved to be easy. We had been together for seven months before we faced our first Valentines Day. Normally I would panic on a supposed big day like this, trying to plan every detail to be just right. But there was something about FWW™ that drew the honesty out of me, like putting sugar on a strawberry draws out the juice. After talking about our expectations for the day, we both concluded that the idea of battling other love struck couples while spending an outlandish amount of money at a restaurant that had artificially inflated the prices for one night was…well stupid. Instead on the way home from work I picked up fried chicken and waffles from Roscoe’s and we sat cross-legged on the floor of her apartment happily gorging ourselves. It was one of our best moments and one of the things that helped further cement our already solid relationship.

We’ve spent 11 years together and we still don’t make a big deal out of Valentines Day, but we do continue to eat fried chicken to commemorate it.

Happy Fried Chicken Day!

Not Funny

It's time for my sabbatical to end. I didn't plan on taking such an extended leave of absence from the blog, but after the craziness and chaos of the year I found that once I shut off my brain it was hard to turn it back on. Thus began the longest break I've taken since this thing began. To be honest, it felt good to check out for a while. I've made no secret of the extensive amount of traveling I did in 2011, which all in all amounted to 2½ months combined. It was important to me that I spend the holidays re-connecting with my family. And while my time off was filled with laughter, bonding and a metric ton of presents, the unimaginable happened.

WonderWife™ always says that marriage is a repeat. After 11 years together, she's heard my schtick many times over. Even my A material causes groans and eye rolls from her. (Though let's be honest, my A material is really at best a B.) So am forced to endure her scorn, criticism or just plain apathy at my attempts at humor. But that was okay because there was my son, my clone, who had an appreciation for his corny dad.

Perhaps it was all of the time he spent with me during my time off or maybe it was the highs and lows of the dual adrenaline rushes of Hanukkah and his birthday that led him to this moment, but somewhere during the end of the year the Bean grew weary of my humor.

During a phone conversation I made some joke. It doesn’t really matter what it was, just know that it was of the cheesy variety and squarely aimed at his 6 year old sensibility. But upon hearing it the Bean paused and said, “That’s not funny, Dad.”

And that was it. My son now joins my wife, my friends and my co-workers in the list of people who endure, but don’t enjoy, my bad jokes.

Sigh.

At least there’s still the girl.

Halloween Lingers

Our house was all decorated for Halloween. The problem was Halloween was a week ago. Some of the styrofoam gravestones had been upended, but the zombie hands still stood and the skeletons still looked like they were coming up from the ground. I had taken another business trip the next morning after trick-or-treating (of course I took a few pieces of candy with me) and had been gone for a week. My absence and our crazy schedules meant the kids, and our neighbors, were going to get to celebrate until the next weekend came, when I could carefully dismantle the scene. Arriving home two days later, the graveyard was gone—packed up into bins ready to be put back in the shed for another year.

I married a good woman.

Feeling Sick

My friend looked shell shocked after my daughter threw up on his floor. The vomiting took place all over his nicely polished hard wood in a high traffic area during his wife’s birthday party. Sprout had been gorging herself at the buffet and before we knew it WonderWife™ was cupping her hands in front of the girl screaming for somebody to get her a bowl…quick! (Not realizing the severity of the impending situation, my friend politely passed her a small paper plate.)

It wasn’t digest or nausea that left my buddy looking green after the incident, though I’m sure he was feeling both. My childless friend had just witnessed parenting at its worst. Oh yeah, my friend and his wife were expecting. I knew all too well the look in his eyes. Panic was slowly burrowing into his brain bringing with it the horrifying realization of what he was getting himself in to.

When WonderWife™ was pregnant with the Bean, we visited one of her oldest friends and her toddler. They lived in a grown up house like the kind I grew up in, which was entirely unfamiliar to me who was still felt that living in an apartment in the city was what truly made me an adult. The house was filled with unfamiliar and intimidating items like baby gates, high chairs and lots and lots of toys that were strewn about every room. Her boy, like every boy his age, was a whirling tornado of energy that could not be stopped. I was something new in his world, something to be scaled. So while WW™ and her friend caught up, I looked after the kid, who without hesitation proceeded to climb all over me. I chased him when he ran too close to the stairs. I stopped him when he tried to grab some contraband. After mere minutes I was exhausted. This is what parenting was like? On the ride home, I wore the same expression as my friend.

It didn’t help that in the aftermath of Sprout’s spouting that WonderWife™ and I regaled my friend with more kid vomit stories. It was our own misguided attempt to make him feel better by telling him that it gets worse. It’s amazing how insensitive us experienced parents can be around the freaked out newbs. We wear our parenting horror stories like badges of honor, and even though we aren’t too far removed from our pre-childhood days, where even the smallest parent task seemed impossible, we unfairly take ghoulish satisfaction in relaying these events to the uninitiated.

On the way home, WonderWife™ and I felt bad and hoped that we didn’t break our friend. Nervous or not, in a few months he was going to be dealing with his own little vomit machine. And even if after we left if he was convinced that he might have made a terrible mistake, those of us who are firmly entrenched in this thing called parenting know that he didn’t. Being a parent is an amazing thing. But it’s hard to see from that vantage point when you’ve just watched some kid barf on your floor.

It's Real!

It's been a while since I've written about food on this here blog. While there have been a few new products out there which have gotten my attention, I haven't been compelled to discuss them there. I had heard a rumor about this product, but today it was confirmed so I am compelled to share.

This is soon to be my wife's favorite ice cream:

There are very few things in life that will make WonderWife™ laugh with glee like the infamous "Schweddy Balls" sketch on SNL. It's the perfect storm of juvenile and obscene that delights her to no end. I'm thoroughly tickled with how much she loves it. WonderWife™ and I don't always see eye to eye on pop culture and our senses of humor can be vastly different. So it's a big deal when something strikes both of our funny bones. "Schweddy Balls" does just that.

You can be sure that in the near future we will be buying ourselves a pint or two of Schweddy Balls.  I'll be sure to let you know when we do.  Mmm.  I can't wait to see how those Schweddy Balls taste. 
 
Be sure to check out EW's full story, complete with the video of the sketch.

Shattering Stereotypes

As my hair stylist draped the smock over me she asked, “So what are we doing today?”

“Cut it short,” I said. “Super short.”

“Really?” She replied. “Is WonderWife™ going to be okay with that?”

I stared at her incredulously. “She doesn’t run her hair choices by me before she gets a hair cut.”

I was truly shocked at the question. This is a woman who’s been cutting my hear for nearly 12 years. I see her more often than some of my friends. She also cuts WW™’s hair. She’s known me before I met my wife. She knows us as a couple. She knows about our relationship. Yet for some reason, she has the misguided perception that I need to get permission on my choice of hair style.

The next morning the kids were getting dressed. Sprout decided on a flower print top with a paisley pattern skirt. Now I’m no fashionista, but even I knew that this was a horrible, garish combo. Yet WonderWife™ and I encourage our kids to dress how they like, even if the outfits are disastrous.

I had plans to take the kids to the aquarium that day. “You know this is going to reflect on me,” I said to WW™.

“What? No it won’t.”

“I’ll be out in the world with two kids by myself. Everyone who sees Sprout’s outfit is going to think that I dressed her.”

“Oh,” said WonderWife™. “Yeah I guess you’re right.”

It’s amazing in this time of dad’s being more involved than ever that the notion of the hen-pecked husband or clueless father still runs rampant today. It’s a stereotype that I work hard to shatter.

So where does this come from? As much as I hate to bag on my beloved television, a lot of this primitive thinking is spoon fed from the magic box. Modern Family is a great show, but Phil Dumphy is an idiot—the prototypical clueless dad who leans on his wife for everything. Commercials are even worse. How about the Yoplait ad where the woman is on the phone talking to her friend about eating Boston Cream Pies while the husband stares into the fridge, directly past the many yogurt containers clearly marked Boston Cream Pie that are stacked up on the shelf at his eye level while attempting to look for the sweets his wife is describing?

This kind of dad discrimination has to stop. Women, look around you. Us guys are not as clueless and inadequate as we’re made out to be. I do not need to ask my wife’s permission to hang out with friends, see a movie, buy clothes or get my hair cut. When I make plans I will often confer with my wife to make sure I haven’t forgotten some errant birthday party. But that is consideration, not permission.

It’s true that WonderWife™ runs the household. It’s true that I may, at times, ask here where the toilet paper is when I know exactly where we keep it. But that’s laziness, not ineptitude. When it comes to the things that matter in our lives, I’m an equal partner. I’m really good at being a husband and father. I am not clueless and I am not a stereotype.

And besides, my wife really likes my hair super short.

Fate

So many things could have gone differently...

My date might not have canceled at the last minute.

My friend might have not invited her friend.

The friend could have had other plans.

I might have convinced my buddy not to go back and get a bucket of fried chicken.

I might have caught the ball in the outfield.

I might not have sat next to her in between innings.

But…

The woman that I had gone out on two dates with decided at the last minute that attending a picnic/kick-ball game wasn’t her thing. I knew at that moment it was never going to work with her.

In an effort to expand our social circle, my friend decided to ask her friend, a recent arrival to LA, to come to the game.

The friend didn’t yet have anything to do for the 4th of July.

Although we were running late to the picnic I was hosting, my buddy, who was driving, decided not to listen to me so we went back to get a bucket of fried chicken.

The new friend was unsure about playing kickball. Our first interaction was me telling her not to worry because we’re all terrible at sports. Moments later, I would prove this to be true by dropping an easy fly ball.

I found her sitting on the grass during a quiet moment between innings and we began to talk. We spent the rest of the afternoon together. Before she left, I gave her some fried chicken. She gave her friend permission to give me her number...in case I asked for it.

Minutes after she left, I asked for the number.

I called the next day. Two days later was our first official date. We've been together ever since.

So many things could have kept me from meeting WonderWife™ 10 years ago today.

But they didn’t.

She Turns Three

Sprout turned 3 today.  A whole lot happened.  It's best summed up by WonderWife™.  Here's what she wrote about it:

I started my blog when our family of three turned into a family of four and life became pretty insane. Spout was the one who completed our family; she was born three years ago today - 7:02am on 7/2. I accused the nurses of fudging her time of birth, but apparently they take these things very seriously and assured me that 7:02am was in fact Spout's legitimate time of birth. I spent last night re-reading my birth story and getting nostalgic.

For her second birthday, she got a shirt with a "2" on it and she's been wearing that thing for a whole year. It's really small on her now, so I made her a new one for her 3rd birthday, complete with "sparkles" around the neck. She loves it.



Before she went to bed last night, we asked Sprout what kind of cake she wanted. In typical fashion, she was very specific and asked for cake that had "a little bit of pink on it, with chocolate frosting and sprinkles that are purple." So that's what I made for her.


We also asked her what she'd like for her birthday and I swear to you that when she answered "fabric to sew with" I almost wept. Spout is now the very proud owner of a Singer Pixie Plus and five FQs from my LQS. Happy birthday little girl.



Sprout told me that she wanted to make a quilt, but when I told her that we could make a skirt that she could wear today, she was sold. She picked out the fabric she wanted and I plugged in her new machine. It's basic but smart - there is a foot pedal, but for people with little legs that can't yet reach the floor, there is a button that will engage the needle, so Sprout can make the machine sew all by herself.

I taught her how to raise and lower the presser foot, turn on the sewing action, and cut threads. Together we helped guide the fabric through the machine. And in less than an hour, Sprout was wearing the very first piece of clothing she ever sewed. On her third birthday.


We zig-zaged the raw seams, but 3 year olds aren't known for their patience, so the fabric isn't prewashed. We'll see how it holds up once it's washed. Both the length and the stitching are uneven, but it fits and she loves it. And so do I.

I am such a proud mama. I can't wait to sew more with her - I wonder what she'll want to make next. Happy birthday, my sweet little girl.

Loose Tooth

The phone in my office rang, as it does many times a day.  The caller ID indicated a familiar number. 

"The Bean has a loose tooth," WonderWife™ told me when I picked up.  This was the Bean's first loose tooth.

"That's awesome!" I said.  "Is he excited?"  That was a dumb question, since I could hear him yelling in the background.

"He's jumping up and down on the couch." 

I could detect a sadness in WonderWife™'s voice.  "What's wrong?" I asked.

"I've held it together during all of the milestones he's had.  I didn't shed a tear when he graduated from preschool..."  She began to sob.  "But I...He's...They never look the same once they lose their teeth!  They don't look like babies anymore!"

"I hate to break it to you, babydoll," I said.  "But the Bean is a full-fledged kid.  He has been for some time.  He's growing up."

The crying subsided somewhat.  "I know," she said through a sniffle.  "I know."

"I'm totally charmed by you," I said.

A Few Things About Star Wars

I was floored when WonderWife™ presented me with tickets to Star Wars in Concert. It was one of the things that under normal circumstances she would mock relentlessly (and often does). But there we were on our first date night in months sitting under the sky at the Hollywood Bowl, waiting for an orchestra to play sections from the movies accompanied by clips on a giant screen. Geek paradise for me, but not so much for her. Yet she was happy to give me a night like this, which is why I love her so much.

As the sun was setting and the show about to commence, sounds began to play through the loudspeakers. They were the iconic sound effects from the films—lightsabers, tie fighters, Chewbacca…

“What was that sound?” WonderWife™ asked me. “Was it a Wookie? An Ewalker? Are those the guys with the long green ears?

My wife knows nothing about Star Wars. Early on in our relationship I screened it for her and we still debate if she made it through the whole thing (she claims she did not). Maybe it was the pre-show cocktails, but I found her utter cluelessness about Star Wars adorable. She was truly adrift in a pop culture sea without any sense of direction. At one point she pointed out, “all of the kids and their light swords.”

So naturally I started to quiz her about Star Wars. “What ship does Han Solo fly?” I asked.

“Um, I don’t know...the Star Wars Express?”

I couldn’t contain my laughter.

_____________________________________________________________

“Your son has been asking to see Star Wars,” WonderWife™ told me.

Normally this is a phrase that geeky parents like myself anxiously wait to hear. But knowing the Bean like I do, I strongly question if he’s ready for Star Wars. He’s got a bit of anxiety when it comes to the movies. I thought back to a fateful ride on Star Tours at Disneyland two years ago where he less than enjoyed the experience—to put it mildly. I was afraid that one ride alone might have put him off Star Wars for a few extra years.

Knowing that I only have once chance to have Star Wars make a good impression, I decided to press him for details as to his sudden interest.

“Mom has told me you’ve been asking about Star Wars,” I said to the Bean one night while tucking him in.

“Yeah, I want to see it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have your friends seen it?”

He paused for a moment. “Well…one day at school when Tony’s mom picked him up, she told him when he got home he could watch Star Wars. And that’s when I wanted to see it.”

So there it is.

I really want to show the Bean Star Wars (I bought the original versions of the trilogy on DVD when he was in utero to get ready). But I don’t think that peer pressure is the right reason. I’m afraid I’m going to have to wait a little bit longer.

Worms

Partly out of interest, but mostly out of the desire to not go to either the car museum or the train yard yet again, we took the kids to a Bug Fair last weekend. The Fair was pretty cool, consisting of tables upon tables with terrariums filled with things like this:

We got to do fun things like touch scorpions and hissing cockroaches. WonderWife™ and the Bean bravely ate some bugs sautéed with veggies. (It was not lost on me that I had an easier time getting my son to eat veggies when they were mixed with ants and crickets.) We all had a creepy-crawly good time. And at the end of the day, we left with some new additions to our family.

This is how I came to have worms living in my house.

On one of the tables at the Fair were tubs upon tubs of silkworms in various sizes for sale. I’m not sure exactly when it happened, maybe it was when I took Sprout to the bathroom, but WW™ bought a whole mess of them.

Our silkworm friends, their numbers totaling 25, were brought home and transferred to their new residence, an empty shoebox. The bottom of the box was lined with mulberry leaves, on which the worms were happily and constantly munching. The worms were horrible looking little creatures. They had a sickly white color and cracked skin that always looked on the verge of shedding. And they pooped. A lot. It wasn’t long before the shoebox was littered with tiny black feces pellets that rattled when the box was moved. The kids instantly loved their new pets.

Because we live with two cats, one of them more curious about the insect world than the other, the worms needed safe-harbor where they could be free to eat and shit.

This is how I came to have worms living in my bathroom.

While the worms fascinate most of the members of my family, I find them repugnant. Yet there they are right on the counter, squirming and munching and pooping as I brush my teeth. The only time they come out of the bathroom is when the kids watch TV. They park one of the boxes between them on the couch and pet the worms as if they were one of our cats.

I’ve been secretly hoping that the life of a silkworm is short. And it is...kind of. Soon they will grow fat and spin cocoons, hatching as moths. However, those moths lay eggs, out of which will emerge tiny silkworms and the whole process will start over again.

It seems as if the worms are going to be a part of this family for the foreseeable future.

Foolin' Around

“Your son has something he wants to tell you,” WonderWife™ said on the other end of the phone in my office.

A rustling noise was followed by a sheepish voice that said, “Daddy?”

“What’s up, buddy?”

“The dentist said I didn’t brush my teeth very well and I have a cavity.”

As the parent who is responsible for overseeing teeth brushing half of the time, my first thought was: Crap.  Parenting fail.  

It was still for a beat before the Bean shouted, “April Fools!”

I smiled because he totally got me.

_____________________________

I love a good April Fools joke. And the internet has made April Fools an incredibly fun day.

Over breakfast, WonderWife™ was complaining over the discovery that Flickr had been bought by Yahoo, who added an “e” to the website’s name…until I reminder her what day it was.  We proceeded to spend the morning seeing what tricks Google, YouTube, Think Geek and others had planned.  There was even a great bacon related one.  

As per custom, I managed to get in on the fooling myself. Though I decided to think carefully about how I went about things.  (Last year's post here caused me nearly half my readership.)  I decided to keep it simple.  I had my father believing for a second that he and my mom weren't invited to visit us this summer and a couple of frantic calls from friends confirmed that at least a handful of people believed my Facebook status update that said WonderWife™ and I might be moving across the country.  We even got into the spirit over at Culture Brats.

But my favorite prank of the day belonged to my son, because it was his first and because he executed it flawlessly.

Scenes From a Wedding

I was uncharacteristically dressed in a suit. WonderWife™ was in a dress. Our kids were many miles away, being spoiled by their grandparents. Not only was it a rare date night, but it was the wedding of our very good friends.

The ceremony was written by the groom himself and was one of the funniest and most heartfelt I’ve witnessed.

We overlooked the ocean as the sun set. Booze flowed freely. Instead of working the room separately, as WonderWife™ and I tend to do, we hung together and mingled as a couple.

It was WonderWife™ who notices the impeccably dressed man in the vest and the pocket square, but it was me who was caught staring at him.

I was pleasantly surprised when the sister of the groom remembered my name. Although the guy getting married was a prime member of my inner circle of friends, I had only met his sister a handful of times. Later I was able to grab a moment with my newly married friend and he told me that he had gone over his friends’ names with his sister earlier in the weekend.

“She kind of remembered you,” he said. “She said you were ‘the serious one’.”

The serious one? What does that mean? I spent the rest of the night trying to figure it out.

WonderWife™ was on the dance floor gettin’ down with a few of her friends. She saw me watching her from across the room and gestured for me to come over. When I did, she handed me our camera. I began taking pictures of the trio’s spastic dancing.

After a few shots were snapped, WonderWife™ pulled me close and said, “You idiot, I was just giving you the camera. I didn’t want you taking pictures of me dancing!”

Lamb had been barbecued. Bite sized bits of cheesecake were impaled on skewers and drowned in melted chocolate. Later, when the bar closed and the night wound down french fries and mac and cheese were passed, which I now believe is the only way that a wedding should end.

I watched as my friend absentmindedly played with the new ring on his finger as he drank in his bride from across the room. I took WonderWife’s™ hand in mine and hoped that they would be as happy as we were.

The Main Cage

The blinking red light of doom on my Blackberry cut through the darkened room like a lighthouse. I peeled myself out of bed and trepidatiously checked it. It was from WonderWife™: Call me when you wake up re: your debit card.

These are not the words one wants to read upon first waking up when you’re on a guys’ weekend in Vegas.

I called my wife, who had spent the better part of the morning besieged with calls from the bank. My account had been frozen. She was given a run down of the problem—there were a few withdrawals made in Las Vegas, but the correct pin number was used.

“My husband is in Vegas right now, so I’m sure everything’s okay,” she told the bank rep. “You can unfreeze the account.”

“But there’s some suspicious activity on the account,” the bank rep replied. “An attempt was made to go over the limit and usually customers know the daily limit on the account. The transaction in question was from a machine called ‘the main cage.’”

“That was in a casino!” I interjected as WW™ told me the story.

“Sure it was,” she said slyly.

The bank rep told WW™ the amount I was trying to take out. I imagine her jaw hit the floor.

“Um, you better keep that freeze on the account,” she told him. “I don’t know what the hell is going on out there.”

As she was telling me this, I had already figured out the problem.

“Last night Sam left his ATM card at the hotel, so instead of him having to fight traffic all the way back up the Strip, I was attempting to float him a loan,” I explained.

“Uh huh,” she said.

Then there was a pause.

“I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

I Got This

“I’m tired of living under the inadequacies of my peers,” I told WonderWife™ over the phone the first night she was away.

WonderWife™ had been suddenly called out of town for a family emergency, leaving me as temporary stay-at-home-dad for three days. In the brief time between WW™ making her plans and leaving, there was a huge outpouring of support and encouragement for me. A few of WW™’s friends even promised to drop their own families in order to help me if I needed. While everyone meant well, I was annoyed by the implication.

I’m a competent dad. When it comes to taking care of my kids by myself, I got it. Under my watch, my kids always get fed well, get bathed and get to bed on time.  But based on everyone’s reaction, you would’ve thought me a total parenting noob. I’m not exactly sure where the perception comes from. Maybe years of watching inept sit-com dads on TV have influenced the collective consciousness. Or perhaps the husbands of WW™’s friends are a bit lacking and it’s being projected onto me? I’m not here to judge. I’m just trying to get to the bottom of why it becomes a much bigger deal than it should that I’m left alone my offspring for a few days.  

The reality is, I needed very few instructions. Aside from a list of a few errands and some overly complicated instructions for the preparation of school snack, to work around various allergies of classmates, WW™ didn’t need to school me on anything. Sure I asked for a complete run down of what to pack in the kids’ school lunches, but that’s because they are creatures of habit and I wanted to replicate what they’re used to. Left to my own devices, I’m confident I would have worked it out myself.   

The only thing I could have used a little help with was preschool pick up. My fatal flaw was relying on Sprout to guide me. I figured since she’d accompanied WonderWife™ to every single pick up she’d know a thing or two. However, the little monkey led me to the wrong room. The teacher inside politely guided me to another room, where my presence interrupted the class. The Bean noticed me right away and became unable to pay attention to the most hectic game of Simon Says I’ve ever seen. (Note to self: be extra good to the Bean’s teachers at the end of the year.) Not wanting to disrupt the game, I stood in the corner trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. After a while, I noticed some other parents loitering outside. Then it hit me. Nobody told me this is where we were supposed to wait until the kids are released.

With head hung low, I slunk outside to join the adults. Of course when I looked up whom should I see but the moms who offered to help me. They were wearing sly, sympathetic smiles—images of Michael Keaton in Mr. Mom running through their heads. “You’re doing it wrong.” This was not helping my case for independence.

The women reiterated their offer and I politely thanked them, gathered up the kids and headed home, where later I would cook a full dinner (with veggies…from scratch). I know that their hearts were in the right place, but aside from my ignorance about school pick up policy, when it comes to being a parent, I got this.

Rainbow Cake

When asked, the Bean said he wanted a coconut rainbow cake for his birthday.  For most people, this conjures up an image of a sheet cake with an icing rainbow painted on.  But because WonderWife™ just can't do things normally, and because she's a bit insane, she summoned her inner Martha Stewart and made this:

(She isn't called WonderWife™ for nothing.)

The Bean was surprised and excited.  And as the four of us sat at the table enjoying the cake, the Bean wished he had more people to share it with.

Now he does.

Sleep Study

It seemed like an ordinary hotel room. It was small and simple, adorned with the basics—a bed with crisp white linens, dresser, TV. I lay in the unfamiliar bed, my struggle to sleep complicated by the series of wires that were attached to various parts of my body and connected to a machine that would monitor my vitals. I couldn't help but notice the faint glow of the video camera mounted to the ceiling of the room, an unsettling reminder that somebody would be watching my every nocturnal movement. As the clock slowly ticked, I knew that I was very far away from sleep.

I was doing this as a last ditch attempt to save my marriage. Okay, that may be a bit drastic. But I need to find a solution to my problem for myself and the woman who shares my bed...most of the time.

You see, I snore.

Loudly. Obnoxiously. Incessantly.

I awaken every morning groggy, confused. I feel heavy, as if a wet blanket is holding me down. I always look next to me to see if my wife is still sleeping, or if my sonic bellowing has chased her from the bedroom to the couch. Those mornings leave me feeling guilty and helpless. WonderWife™ seems to take this all in stride, but often says that if we had the means, we would have separate bedrooms. This, along with the fact that I am prone to wake myself up with my snoring, bothers me to my core. Her attitude is great, but I’m secretly afraid that another 10 years of her being constantly chased out of her bedroom will start to cause untold damage on our relationship.

This is why long after the sun went down one night, I drove to a medical building in order to be hooked up to medical equipment machinery and sleep in a foreign room while being watched all night. The sleep study will show if I have sleep apnea—a potentially dangerous condition where one stops breathing periodically during sleep. I'm not a medically trained professional, but I'm confident that not being able to breathe rates pretty high on the list of things that are bad for you.

If I have apnea there are a few treatments available—none of them pleasant. They include wearing some sort of oxygen mask every night or a surgery where they would slice my soft palate and remove a part of my uvula, which not only has the distinction of being incredibly painful but has only a 50-50 chance of working. If I don’t have apnea, these options are still available to me, but not covered by insurance, meaning it would probably be cheaper for me to buy that extra bedroom for my house than it would to pay for any treatments out of pocket.

The sleep study is a last ditch attempt to find a snoring solution. Not to be too glass is half empty, but I’m confident that I don’t have apnea. A sleep study years ago showed that I didn’t have apnea. I don't think much has changed.

I slept fitfully through that night and woke up groggy and confused as usual when the technician rousted me at 5am to remove the wires from my body. It will be about two weeks before I learn if there’s anything that can be done to give everyone in my house more peaceful sleep. At this point, I’m willing to try just about anything.