Its Valentine's Day

Happy Valentine's Day, all. Happy holiday created by Hallmark to sell you stuff and make you feel guilty for all the stuff you haven't done yet. And if you say Happy V-D you better be saying it to an ex that told you that Star Wars was stupid or someone that killed your cat or dog because they were taking too much of your attention. Because VD is the best gift you can give that person.

So it is no surprise that I am a horrible gift giver. If you have ever gotten a good gift from me, it probably came from my wife. I lack all thought and preparation. I usually don't think about the occasion until it is very, very near.  Like the day of, or even in some cases the day after. So if you've gotten something totally weird, inappropriate, or downright idiotic it most likely came directly from me.

That being said, I had this great idea for a Valentine's Day gift for the Mrs. I will call it the Why I Love You Project. Over the last week or so, I wrote down the reasons why I love my wife and planned to give them to her throughout the day.  After I sent the first one I added #wily, hoping she would get the reference.  She didn't and I had to explain it. We so aren't Twitter people. It is no secret that I despise the hashtag.  Check out the Fallon/Timberlake skit about it, here.  I'm with ?uestlove on this one. He is the best. If you don't know him, check him out. But I had to use the hashtag (#).  Mainly because I was too lazy to type Why I Love You after every thing.  It was all about time management. The hashtag:  the perfect combination of laziness and efficiency.

I won't go into all the reasons but here are a few that I have sent so far:

Why I love you

You are beautiful

Your pretty blond hair

You support me in whatever I do

Your determination and 

Your drive 

The way you help people

Your (mostly) even tempered parenting style

You look good in anything you wear

The way you brighten any room you enter

Sappy? I know. But it's Valentine's Day and that is what Hallmark wants. I do not want to upset the capitalistic Gods. 

There are more. I am not going to post them here because my wife is a loyal reader and I don't want to spoil it for her. Trust me. They are sappy, some are funny and all are from the heart.

So married, dating, friends-with-benefits friends, families, random strangers, please join the project. Tell someone why you love them today and every day.  You can use the "#" if you want, but I will NOT be checking. I am already cringing at thinking about it. 

#rantingsofastayathomedad (cringe)

Its Been A Long Time...... Since I've been writing.....

My life pretty much stays the same. Day in. Day out. Occasionally something comes by and throws a wrench in the schedule, but even the wrench doesn't bother me that much.  Occasionally. But this day was the same, aside from some snow and some more snow and then some more snow.

This is the before photo.  

I don't have an after because I am too lazy to go upstairs and take another pic.  

You can use you imaginations.

Many know that we are expecting another mouth to feed in late March. And if you didn't know, you do now. While we were getting pummeled by the biggest winter storm of the year (it was just a normal Connecticut storm; only twelve inches. Hardly anything to bat an eyelash at. We've had worse. Like the year we got almost 100 inches, most of which were major storms. None of this two inches of snow that shut down the south. That year we got storms that dropped FEET of snow, so one measly foot ain't nutin) we thought (and by we, I mean my lovely beautifully pregnant wife) it would be good to ready the baby's room in case things needed to progress faster than the scheduled C-section. Things happen, I understand. High blood pressure, PUPS (A.K.A. itchiness from the depths of a really hot, despicable place), alien hijacking, and any and all other random things that can happen to a pregnant woman.  I agree to tidy up and wash baby clothes and get all the other things in order to lessen the load IF something progresses quicker than the schedule.

Side note: Laundry is relaxing for me. Watching some Cheer's on Netflix and tackling the load of the day.  Half hour and I'm done. That's normal people's clothing. Folding baby clothes takes forever.  There are way too many things for one load.  Tiny socks. Tiny Onesies. (I can't figure out how to put in a registered trademark sign here so Gerber, don't come after me for using your product name. I mean, everyone calls them Onesies. I don't think I've ever heard anyone refer to them as "body suits." And besides, aren't body suits the things girls wore when I was in middle school? Those snaps were impossible) Little pants. Little hats. Little blankets. Little everything. I guess its just been quite a while since I've done a load of baby clothes. Like three years.

Back to the story, I arrange the tiny washed and folded clothes (all of which are unisex colored because we don't find out what we are having. Something has got to be a surprise these days.) in drawers and in the closet the way I think will be most logical. Honestly, I really don't care. I was just trying to do something so I didn't look outside and think about shoveling.

I would like to say I finished organizing everything and the room looked immaculate. I would like to tell you that I am an organizational mad man. I would like to be a millionaire. Unfortunately none of those things are true. But I did get a head start.

What happened while I was out shoveling, snow blowing, and playing the Driveway Clearing Fairy (I cleared off my neighbor's driveway while they were at work and it felt good to do good) the room mysteriously tidy'ed itself. Thanks to my wife for finishing what I started. I would have gotten to it, eventually. And besides, she knows where things are supposed to go. It's not like I don't know where everything else is in the house. I think she just did it to keep my on my toes. Throw me a curveball. Making me learn a new room. Or she just didn't like my organizational skills. Whatever the reason, it is done.

The moral of the story is people think and organize differently. What works for you probably won't work for them. One can't know for sure what the other is thinking, unless they are twins because they have that twin thing where they communicate with each other telepathically and freak people out. (We AREN'T having twins. Just one, that's all we've seen on the funny machine that looks into the belly) And if I were to know what another human was thinking, I would be a lot richer (see above about what I would like) and women wouldn't confuse the living daylights out of me.

[And I would like to thank my band mate for inspiring the title of this blog. (Just sing it and it will come to you) And if you want to hear what I mean, by all means come to Torrington tomorrow night (2/8) and catch our set. Sorry International readers, we don't have streaming. Just hop on a flight and it will be a fun adventure. We will be done by 9 so you can still get home to catch the late news! Unless you are catching a flight back to Europe.]

I have found A secret

This week the other parental unit (a.k.a. my lovely, breadwinning, awesome, beautiful wife) is away again on business.  At least that is what I was told for the reason for the trip to sunny Disney World Florida.  I know she is having a tough time.  Sitting by the pool.  In the warm sun.  When she really is longing for the confines of snowy, negative seventeen degree (windchill) New England home.  But someone has to take one for the team and I guess this time it was her.  Thanks, darling.  We all appreciate it.  I mean which looks better?

This?

Or this?

You all said option B, right?  I thought so.  

So I was giving the hellians a bath, and as usual they were berserk the second they get into water.  I don't know about you parents out there, but once my kids hit the bath water they go insane.  Throwing water.  Splashing uncontrollably as if they were having a seizure (which they aren't.  I've checked).  So last night as the bath was filling up they wanted it to go faster.  So I did what any semi-psychotic parent would do.  I filled a small bucket, usually used for rinsing, with water from the sink.  COLD water.  I have a well so it was really cold.  Seeing this the girls knew of their impending doom and calmed right down.  I put the bucket next to the bath within reach if things got out of hand again.  The rest of the bath went rather smoothly aside from the normal bumping and pushing to "get into warmer waters."  One kid was all washed and had gotten out of the tub.  The other, older and wiser child decided her ears no longer worked and ceased to heed my requests for tub exiting.

Oh, Looky here.  There's a big bucket of water here.  I sprinkled a little on her.  Still no compliance.  So I poured some out.  Onto her naked, yet submerged behind.  Oh the screams.  You'd think I put hydrochloric acid in the water and her skin was being devoured by tiny OH molecules.  I asked again for her to exit said tub.  The not-so-warm water must have unclogged her ears because she snapped right up and made a B line for the towel. Success!  Kind of.  I just hope I didn't scar her for the rest of her life.  Nah.  She's a trooper.  Much too strong for a little chilly water to forever footnote her childhood.

You may think of my actions last night down right cruel or sadistic.  I'm okay with that.  I had to do something.  Otherwise the mutiny would spread through the troops like wildfire and I would have had to turn the hose on them.  On a frigid night.  (The bucket doesn't seem so bad now, does it?)

I doubt they will try to pull that stunt again.  Until tonight at least.  Maybe I should grab a bucket of snow just incase.

Tonight is special

For those of you who read my last post, you know I have been playing single parent for a few days.  No big deal really.  Just another stroll in the park.  (Cue whistling and nonchalant stroll)  BTW bedtime last night went off without a hitch.  The girls stayed in the same room - ALL NIGHT - without incident.  Will that ever happen again?  Shake your Magic 8 Ball to find out;  I bet "Chances are Not Likely" will come up.  

Back to the topic du jour.  Tonight being special.  It is special because the lady of the house is returning home.  Please do not ask what time she will come home.  That question has been asked more than a million-gazilion times since she has left two days ago.  At least they spread em out over the entire span of their mom's absence.  Because if they asked that many times all at once, or all in a row, I would be curled up in a ball in the corner rocking myself to insanity.  

ANYWAY.....

My beautiful wife is coming back today and we have a date tonight.  These two occasions weren't planned to be in conjunction, but when God gives you limes, you make margaritas.  This date night isn't like the normal date night.  Its not "Oh, I'll watch your kids tonight so you can go out to dinner."  This is a full on, pre planned, dinner and a show date.  A while back I got tickets to Phil Vassar at a local venue.  (Honestly the only thing I know of Mr. Vassar is his song on our wedding CD that we made for our wedding favors.)  But he can't be too bad.  Adult Contemporary Country with a little hipness.  As long as it isn't One Direction or Ms. I-Can't-Really-Sing Swift.  I have heard enough of those two in my head when I wake up, when I go to sleep, when I drive the car.  Sometimes I think I have a brain tumor, then I just remember we only listen to Radio Disney.   (Woah, we have veered quite far from the topic.)  Maybe there's some validity to Radio Disney causing brain diseases.  I'll get back to you on that.  Please people of Disney, there is no scientific proof to my theory.  I am totally positive there is no correlation between your quality Satellite Radio Station and any body damaging sickness.  Please don't punish me by making me ride It's A Small World for eternity.  It will never happen again.  

We are planned to drop the kids off for a sleepover at the grandparents and head to our show.  I'm sure there will be some date stops in between.  Some really romantic stops.  Like the clearance isle at Target or a romantic stroll through the drug store on our way to pick up pictures that were printed, yet we have no room for any more photo albums.  And since the rise in popularity of digital cameras, who has photo albums anymore?  (I'm noticing a theme today - not staying on topic.  Mental note:  Don't blog in the morning.)  If we can keep ourselves under control on our romantic stops, we should be able to get to our show a little early for a pre dinner cocktail (for me) and an unleaded beverage for the one with the baby bump.  

And after the show we are to pick up the older one from her slumber and return her to home in preparation for her upcoming school day and leave the younger child to sleep.  (Don't worry, we aren't leaving her there for good.  She'll be dropped off in the morning.  If we haven't run off to Tijuana.)  All in all it seems like a good plan.  I'm excited for a night off.  The Wife has expressed her excitement for a night out.  The kids are excited to take over The House That Grandpa Built.  

Everything looks great, on paper.  What could possibly go wrong?

Its that time again. The time where I make a blog post.

Its that time again.  The time where I make a blog post.  The first post of 2014.  Big news, I know.  Try to hold back your excitement.  Naahh.  Get excited.

This week my co-habitator/significant other/wife/baby-mamma is away on work business.  At least that's what she's telling me.  I think she just needed time away after the holidays.  Or she might actually be doing work things;  she's always doing work things.  So its just me and the girls doing what we do.

A funny thing has been happening lately at bedtime.  Usually we (the mother of said children and I) break off and each read stories or are read stories to, by the children.  Then its off to la-la land for them.  We just get some quiet time together.  Which means we watch some TV or clean up some giant mess that was left from the daily kid tornado.  Lately the older one is getting frustrated with her younger counterpart.  She is really into reading and genuinely likes it.  Who knew?  Must take after her mother.  Needless to say she needs peace and quiet, and anyone with a three year old knows, peace and quiet are things only read about in science fiction novels.  Or after the offspring have grown and moved out.  So she reads her books in our bed, usually reading herself to sleep.  Its great.  Unless you create a pattern and she is reading herself to sleep every night in your bed and you are transporting a sleeping first grader to their bed without trying to wake up her younger sister.  But that's my gripe with it.

Her sister on the other hand does not want to fall asleep alone.  She is fine playing alone.  She is fine watching the iPad or Idiot Box alone.  She's probably fine blowing up a building alone.  But sleeping?  That can't happen without a partner?  I feel her pain.  Sleeping alone isn't the same.  But my experience with solo sleeping and her's vary differently.  She just wants another human in HER ROOM.  My wife has been stealing my covers, stealing my body heat, and leaving socks in the bed for almost eleven years all the while building a fortress of pillows around her.  It has turned into a modern day Goldie Locks and The Three Bears.  This pillow is too flat.  This pillow is too hard.   This pillow is not hard enough.  This one is not soft enough.  I swear my bed is starting to look like one of those beds you see on HGTV where the pillows take up 95% of the bed space.  How are you supposed to sleep in it?  If they all are going to end up on the floor, what's the point of all the pillows?  You need one pillow.  Just one to rest your noggin on while you sleep.  And I'm not even sure about that.  I'm a little off topic here.

After last nights mini tantrum about falling asleep alone, I calmly break the news to Me. Sleepypants that she needs to keep quiet in order for her sister to sleep in the same room.  And after a few more coddling words, she finally agrees (basically I told her that it isn't going to happen) that for tonight, she will go off to sleepiness bliss without the company of her elder sister.  But maybe tomorrow night.  If she can keep quiet.  Here's hoping.

One day they won't want to be within earshot of each other.  But for now, I'm glad at least one of them wants to be with their sister.  And they will have to band together and form an alliance once the new baby comes along.  That will go over like a fart in church.

A New Day For Stay-At-Home-Dads Everywhere!

Today I participated in a study of Stay-At-Home-Dads for a nice young woman.  She is doing a study on those fathers in my line of work.  I guess you can study anything in college and get away with it.  I mean, I got a degree in Recording Arts, so who am I to judge?  How could anyone know that the music industry as we knew it would crumble and reemerge as something completely different?

Back to the study.  I was asked questions on my decision to become part of a growing community of dad's that bear the brunt of the child rearing, the ease of my job, and the social backlash I have witnessed and/or felt.  All through the questions and my very enlightening answers, I kept getting this feeling that I was doing really well at my job.  Feeling like I was succeeding at my craft, so to speak.  I mean, I was giving the answers;  they were coming from my mouth.  I guess it's just nice to hear it once in a while.  Even if you are the one saying them out loud.

We were about finished with our little phone conversation when a call tried to butt in.  It was the school calling.  I just wrote it off as some Robo-call about this activity or that meeting getting cancelled because there was some snow on the ground.  (The world does stop when snow falls, right?)  Promptly after my interview was finished, I checked my voice mail.  It was the dreaded NURSE'S office!  Don Don Daaaa!  (Insert the Imperial March theme from Star Wars here)  Turns out my older one was feeling a little under the weather.  Ms. Nursey Nurse-lady was concerned about my little one because "She is not one to complain, but she wasn't feeling that well.  Her stomach was bothering her.  There is a bug going around."  (Not one to complain?  Do you even know my kid?  Come spend some time at our house.  I am positive you will hear enough complaining that your ears will bleed like a hemophiliac.  And show me a six year old that doesn't complain.  I'd like to visit this mythical world in which you practice medicine.)  No Crap, Lady.  That "bug" you speak of already has worn out it welcome at our house.  That nice houseguest visited the older one and her father last week so I doubt she picked it up again.  I had my suspicions as to why my "never-one-to-fib-about-her-health" wanted out of her school's activities.  She received a Rainbow Loom last night and has been compulsively making rubber band bracelets since.  I think she just missed her new toy.  Or she has come down with Craft-itis; where one MUST craft at all hours of the day or she will die!

So I go bail her out of her pseudo prison that is elementary school.  The secretary informs me of the bug and I instill in her my theories of the mysterious "sickness" my child has come down with.  We both agree on the validity of my hypothesis and the resourcefulness of one first grader.

We get home.  A bracelet is made (big surprise).  Pick up her sister at preschool.  And have lunch.  And she is no worse for the wear.  Praise God.  She is cured!  Its a Christmas Miracle!

I just hope this isn't the start of a pattern of behavior.  I just hope I won't be getting similar calls on History Test Day.  Or from the SAT proctor.  Or from her College Bio-Molecular Professor.

Ahhh. The smell of Christmas.

It is that time of year again.  The time of year where the stench of parental despair is replaced with the fresh scent of pine.  That's right folks, it Christmas time.  Where we all (or most of us Christmas Purist) get a real tree and prop, or tether it to the nearest four walls, and hang some sentimental (or really gaudy) ornaments.  We string them with lights; white if you were born after 1980, or multi colored if you are real old skool and fill the rest of the decorating spaces within your abode with other holiday nick-nacks and chochkeys.  We use this time to tell our offspring about the sentimental meaning of each of the "Baby's First Christmas" or SnowBaby riding a Harley thing hanging from the shrubbery that was just savagely torn from its home (or picked up from the local garden store or volunteer fire department).

We set out this morning to "Free a Frasier Fur" from any disaster it would encounter in a field.  Now I am from the school of thought that a tree that is to be worshiped and glorified in the name of The Big Guy, it should be big and full.  We have had some very big and very full trees in the past.  Some to the point of blocking the television or taking up half of the living room.  Both were exceptional trees to me.  But last year my Christmas tree spirit was somewhat broken and we got a "normal" sized tree.  While it served it purpose, part of me felt a little empty inside.  I guess it was just a little too weird watching the mindless holiday television programming clearly, without a branch full of needles to block my view.  Where's the Christmas sprit in that?

Fast forward to the present, or at least earlier today.  We returned to the last year's massacre sight, but no trees were tall enough for us to free.  So on we went.  The next farm, or murder sight, was abound with tall and full trees, AND plenty of Emancipators of Pine.  After a lovely walk up a hill, dragging, nudging, and tugging the kiddo's we arrived at the frasier fur section.  Some nice.  Some not so much.  But there were a group of tallish ones in the back.  They looked perfect from afar.  But upon closer inspection there was a flaw.  These trees were on the roadside of the field which meant they were one-sided.   The Boss thought that fact was a deal breaker and wanted to move the hunt on.  I am a problem solver.  And I felt sorry for these trees.  Poor guys.  Just because of someone's ill thought out planting they would never be freed of the slavery that is the Christmas Tree Farm.  And since we put the slave, I mean tree in the corner, this little guy would be perfect.  My argument was immediately agreed upon.  (I finally won one.  In under an hour.  Something must be up.)  I think everyone's patience was running on E and hysteria was going to ensue very shortly.  Saw 'er down!  

I must have looked like a genius, or a complete dork, but I took the landscape trailer with us to get the tree.  Its small; 5x8.  Not like its a 12 footer or anything.  That would have been a little overkill.  Why lug it on the roof of the car when I can just throw it in the trailer?  And who cares anyway?  They are all just jealous of my problem solving skills.  I'm the man!

Set up tree.  Tether it to walls because I have a history of trees that like to be still until they are all decorated and then they revolt.  Decorate tree with a healthy mix of sentimental and gaudy, and do what has become a Hoehne tradition.  We turn off the lights in the house then me and the rug rats slide under the tree and gaze up at its beauty.  It may not sound like it, but the view is quite breathtaking.  Not Bo Derek breathtaking.  But breathtaking in the fact that you are sharing a moment with your kiddies.  Its a peaceful moment.  A peaceful moment.  It doesn't last that long but it was there.  Try it sometime.  You can even adopt our tradition as your own.  Do it just to savor the moment with your kids before they go back to maddening you beyond belief and before the stench of despair returns to your house.

Happy holidays.