Diary of a SAHD: Custer’s last stand.

Frank’s bedtime routine usually includes a small sample platter of  hor d’oeuvres and a drink just to get him through the night. Alright so we won’t be parents of the year this year. Anyway, you really gamble with a sound nights sleep if he doesn’t have his room service left on his night stand.

Mind you, I’m not talking about a sound night sleep for Frank, I’m talking about ours. Because if you don’t have some fish crackers, a canola bar (granola), and some water spiked with apple juice, sitting on his nightstand, he’ll let you know about it.

Where's my canola bar?

Where’s my canola bar?

What does that look like you ask? Well, at 3 – 4am it can be Frank appearing at your bedside just staring at you until you wake. Think Damien from the movie The Omen. I don’t recommend this option if you plan to go back to sleep… ever again.

Earlier in the night, like 10 – 11:30pm, it can simply be Frank standing at the top of the stairs shout-whispering MOMMY, MOMMY. Think Jason Vorhees from Friday the 13th.

Either way it’s creepy. I just keep his nightstand stocked. I’m thinking of putting in one of those fridges with all kinds of eats and drinks like you see in the finer Motel 8s. Of course he wouldn’t have to pay for any of it. Not yet anyway.

That’s just my policy. Mrs Frank’s Place likes to put all her chips on red 13 and let it ride. Last night while I was podcasting over at UF/UF Mrs Frank’s Place decided to gamble. When Frank was going to bed she told him she would be up in 15 minutes to bring him food if he was still awake. Her gamble was, obviously, Frank would be asleep and she wouldn’t have to go up there at all.

For shame Mrs Frank’s Place, for shame!

Frank did fall asleep and slept through the night.  Tracy was home free or so she thought.

When Frank got up the next morning the second thing he said to his mommy was, “You never brought me food last night mommy!” He was not laughing even though his mommy was. Then Frank disappeared. As Mrs Frank’s Place got ready to leave for work we heard from on high, “Hey Mommy! Where’s my food?”

My reply was quick and stern. “It’s morning Frank you have to come down and eat breakfast with me and Anne Marie.”

Don't make me stare at you.

Don’t make me stare at you.

“NO! Mommy has to bring me food to my room.”

Well hell, how long do you think mommy hung around after hearing that? Earliest she’s been to work this decade. All I got out of her was “Good luck, Love you.” That’s helpful, thanks.

I bid goodbye to Mrs Helpful and called for Frank to come down for breakfast. “NO! I’m eating my food up here.”

“Well I’m not bringing your food up there so you will just have to come down here.” I’m trying not to laugh, in an attempt to maintain some street cred.

“No I’m eating up here.”

“Ok, Frank.” He’s decided to take a stand. Hard to blame him. His mommy chooched him the night before so he’s going to shut down his little government and make a stand. Worked out well for the Tea Party didn’t it?

Yeah this went about the same. He starved for about 2 1/2 hours until the cleaning ladies came. Since he can’t like them, he ran his skinny, starving ass downstairs to get some food and watch Jake and the Neverland Pirates.

As my favorite modern day philosophizer Mike Tyson says, “Everyone has a plan until you punch them in the mouth.”






Diary of a SAHD: Going to the dogs.

“I’m the only house without a dog.”

Sad but only half true.

It’s not his house.

But that was Frank a day after meeting the neighbor’s new chocolate lab puppy Goose.  That’s its name by the way, it’s not a goose puppy or a puppy goose.  It’s a puppy they named Goose. The “they” are the four young dudes who rent the house two doors down from us.  The guy who actually owns the house and his fiance got the dog. Because of that little acquisition our house is the last bastion of dog free zone.

This fact has not escaped Frank. He can even name the kids who have a dog. He’ll sit there and point to the houses and say, “Jack has a dog, Grant has a dog, Bennett has a dog, etc…

Oh in case I forget to mention it – thanks a lot cul-de-sac, or as we have all come to call it, The Sac.

I’ll even get the occasional chop busting from my neighbors, “A boy can’t grow up without a dog.” Well we’re gonna find out.

I am not really a pet person and definitely not a dog person. I ain’t doin no pooper scoopin. I ain’t taking no dog for no walk. I’m for sure not taking out a second mortgage for vet bills.

Frank is somewhat aware of my feelings on dogs. He’s keenly aware that we are not getting a dog. I thought he made his peace with it. Apparently not.

So today Frank and Anne Marie are playing in the living room and we hear Frank say, “Fetch, Fetch!”

We look over and he throws a ball across the room and he’s urging Anne Marie to chase it. Tracy tells him to stop treating Anne Marie like a dog and he says she’s pretending to be a dog. Oh well that makes all the difference then.

I got your fetch.  Push boy, push!  Good doggie.

I got your fetch. Push boy, push! Good doggie.

Two minutes later we hear, “Fetch my little doggie, fetch!” Followed by Anne Marie running across the room to get the ball and bring it back.

It gets worse.

Once she brought the ball back Frank praises her, “That’s my good little doggie.” He stopped short of patting her on the head.  I can’t imagine what would have happened if he had cheerios or some fish crackers with him.

The real sad part was how much Anne Marie was enjoying playing with her brother. I can’t wait till she’s old enough to understand Frank is making her into the family pet.

The way she beats on him now when the mood strikes her, he’ll be a bloody pulp by the time I get around to pullin her off of him.

At least he’s not grinding my onions about getting a dog. And for now Anne Marie is happy playing Fetch with her brother.

So maybe he won’t grow up without a dog after all.

Diary of A SAHD: A new game reborn.

So not too long ago I was lamenting Frank’s transition from backyard sports and games with me to the big boy world of organized sports. In this case specifically, AYSO soccer. Frank calls it “Soccer Ball”. My old Air Force buddy Tony calls it un-American. Both may be right.

I had to literally pull Frank from the car on that first Saturday morning but now, as has been documented, he loves Soccer Ball. He has yet to kick the ball in an actual live game even though he plays 3 of the 4 quarters every game, but he loves it.

Quick side note here: My swarthy complexion and Frank’s long hair may be giving the “coach” a false sense of Frank’s abilities when it comes to Futbol, as my ancestors call it. I mean my father is the first one of the family born in America, his mother having stepped off the boat from Italy to the streets of Philadelphia. But that’s where the connection to the fine game of European Futbol ends. In truth it never really existed in the first place.

Anywhoo, Frank’s love of running with his teammates as they play soccer every Saturday morning, 8 freaking 30 every Saturday morning, has hastened the demise of one of my favorite games, Driving Range.

Trying to flee as I rain down all manner of golf ball on him.

Trying to flee as I rain down all manner of golf ball on him.

Driving Range is a game Frank and I came up with that allows him to play in the back yard and allows me to do something other than sit in a chair and watch him play in the back yard. Frank drives his motorized John Deer tractor around the back yard, pictured left. I stand at the west end of the yard and hit golf balls at him trying to get one to land in the tractor bed. If I get one in the bed, Frank has to reach back, while still driving forward, get the ball and throw it out before I can hit another one in the tractor bed. It’s almost as a awesome as the game of golf itself.

No doubt you can now see why I have missed playing Driving Range. And everyone take a breath, the golf balls are plastic.

Well I’m here to tell the game has been reborn. Another funny/not so funny side note here. When that thought dawned on me today, it reminded me of my father meeting someone who professed to be a born again Christian. When my father would hear of someone being reborn, as it pertains to their faith, he would shout “Hallelujah I’m a Christian” laughing in that mocking tone only an Italian-Catholic, who still speaks Latin, can do. I have experienced this first hand. It’s still funny.

No matter because through a combination of a small twist of fate and Frank’s new found love of Soccer Ball, we have reconfigured the game formally known as Driving Range. It has been reborn.

Our next-door neighbor got a sweet deal on a motorized John Deer tractor. Little Bennet has been buzzing the cul-de-sac in his new ride. This prompted Frank to want to drive his again. It had been growing moss under the deck so I had to do a little refurbishing. Now all Frank wants to do is drive the thing around in the street like his buddy Bennett. So I was left sitting in the drive way watching them go round and round, for freaking hours it seemed. Can’t hit golf balls off the driveway, or into the street for that matter.

But I can kick a soccer ball.

Yeah my thought exactly.

So now Frank drives around and I try to kick the ball into the truck bed. This is exponentially easier than hitting a golf ball in there plus I’m getting much more exercise, so it’s a win/win. Now unbeknownst to Frank, I’m actually trying to kick the ball into the tractor cab and hit him. You know for the added degree of difficulty. Got him four times today. The last one hit him right in the snot locker. That’s his nose for all you Johnny Rebs out there.

Man, he laughed so hard after the ball hit him in the face I thought he was gonna toot for hours.

Turns out it’s a great game. We still need a name, though. Help us out in the comment section.

So Driving Range is reborn and it’s better than ever and I’ve only got one thing to say to that: Hallelujah I’m a Christian!

(Yeah I know it was a long trip to that joke.  Sue me.)