Diary of a SAHD: Ten years and a tinfoil hat…A wedding story.

Today, 06 December 2013 , is the ten year anniversary of my wife staying married to me. Tracy doesn’t really get a lot of play here because the nature of the blog is about the kids. So here’s a few pictures of Mrs Frank’s Place.

Maui, December 8th 2003.

Maui, December 8th 2003.

1st halloween, October 2009

1st halloween, October 2009. Frank in The Dog.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Avalon NJ, 2013 with the kids.

Avalon NJ, 2013 with the kids.

Have you picked up on the theme yet? Mrs Frank’s Place hasn’t changed much. Sure she’s technically aged ten years since 2003, but other than that she is as beautiful as she was then, still the same out of my league girl she was then.

Hey I lucked out, I get it.

As I said Tracy dosen’t get much air time at Frank’s Place. Because of that and in honor of our 10th, the tinfoil anniversary, I give you our wedding day story. A here-to-for untold tale of two very different wedding day experiences.

Of course since we spent the day apart, I’ll write my experience from memory and make up Tracy’s experience as I type.

The wedding was at 4pm. It was December 6th. For all you college football fans you know that means we got married on the day of the SEC Championship game. The game would be kicking off during our reception. We half wondered if some people would skip the wedding to watch the game instead. No matter, we weren’t rescheduling.

So the day started off overcast and cold. Me, the best man – Mike Rogers, and Tracy’s brother Brad had planned to go golfing in the morning. We had to do something waiting for 4 o’clock. I’m not sure Brad and Mike realized the depth of my addiction. There was no way 35deg temps would keep me off the course. So we went golfing.

Tracy slept in. I think. Knowing what I know about her sleep habits now, I’m putting the house on the fact she slept in.

We get to the course and no surprise we have the place to ourselves. It was an unspectacular outing with the only memorable moment coming on the 18th green. It’s at this point that I should mention a trait that appears to run through Tracy’s family. When they get nervous, their digestive system not only fails them, it attacks them.

So as we putt out on the 18th, Brad putts quickly and runs off. Shouted something about the bathroom. Mike and I took our time, made our putts and then chipped and putted for a while waiting on Brad. We waited and waited. Mike finally says, “Brad seemed a little nervous.” My reply, “What does he have to be nervous about, I’m the one getting married?”

As it turns out, Brad was getting nervous about his role. He was giving his sister away. Their father died when they were young and Brad was representing the Rogers clan. Apparently that set off his plumbing.

So after what seemed like an hour, but was only 25 minutes, Brad comes out of the clubhouse. He looks funny. He’s missing a sock and his pants are not adjusted properly. He walks up hurriedly, “We have to go, now.” He walked past us moving with a purpose to the car.

Tracy was having a mani and pedi with her mom and sister-in-law Rachel. Not a care in the world.

Mike and I catch Brad at the car and I finally ask him where his sock is. He says, “It’s with my underwear.”

“Well where the hell is that?”

He giggles a little and says, “It’s in the trash can in the bathroom. We need to get out of here.”

Apparently his “system” got the better of him and he had to accomplish an emergency procedure that somehow involved his right sock and underwear. Clearly neither of those things would fit down the toilet so he pitched them in the trash can. To this day the events are as sketchy as the alien landing at Roswell.

Tracy and company are at the church sipping tea and having their hair done. Again not a care in the world.

Driving what has now become the get away car, we hustle back to Tracy’s house to drop Brad off. As he disappeared into the house I thought we might never see him again. He just lost two pieces of clothing and we were still 3 hours from the ceremony. In the next hour, say hour and a half he might just crap himself out of existence.

Mike and I had the car pre-loaded with our tuxedos so we head to the church. We catch up with the rest of the boys in an upstairs store room in the church. It’s not bad. I’ve dressed in worse places.

Tracy and the girls are in a big lounge area in the church having danish and kibitzing. Not one world care given.

My side of the wedding party is made up of 6 military members plus me, in our Air Force tuxedos complete with white gloves and swords, and 6 civilians in very nice tuxes with red flowers on the lapel. It was at this moment that the greatest line ever uttered in a wedding party was delivered.

Dan Anderton, a great friend to this day, watched in amazement as 7 defenders of freedom struggled with putting on our swords like it was a giant, unsolvable rubik’s cube. One guy figured it out and the rest followed his example. We then stood in a line of seven for a quick picture. Taking all this in Dan says, as he’s pinning on his flower, “Great, you guys get swords. How are we supposed to be tough wearing flowers.” How indeed Dan. It wasn’t Johnny Carson but it busted us all up for some reason.

We get into position in the church and the band is warming up the crowd. The band was all the people Tracy sang with in the church praise band. They were awesome and free. Huge double win there. The only paid musician was a trumpet player from the Knoxville Orchestra. He was bad. How bad? I’ll sum it up this way. Standing in position with Mike- the best man, and the Pastor, Petros Roukas, a Greek right from the Isle, the trumpet player did a solo. Pastor Roukas winced, Mike shot me a look, and then the Pastor says, “Are you paying this guy.”

Yes sir, we are.

“Ask for your money back.” Hahaha. The dude was awful. His terrible play was only highlighted as the all volunteer band was flawless the entire wedding.

Anyway as Mike and I stand at the front of the church, I can see Tracy and Brad all the way at the back through a door. They were laughing hysterically. I thought, yeah that trumpet guy was that bad. Nope. Brad sensed Tracy was nervous after she made several trips to the can, so he attempts to lighten the mood and tells her what happened to his sock and underwear at the golf course.

Worked like a champ. Tracy was not as nervous and made it down the aisle without tripping; one of her big fears.

Nothing calms the nerves more than a good story about losing some loyal clothing in a battle with your innards.

All went as planned after that except for one very quiet moment during the service. Two worlds converged when my father’s very good friend was almost immolated by the father of one of my best friends.

We had candle sticks marking every other pew in the church. My father’s friend Emil, sat in one on those pews with a candle. Emil was on oxygen due to health issues that would eventually call him home way too soon. My friends father, Tom, was sitting behind Emil. Tom bumped the candle stick and glass globe it was in. The whole thing started to fall forward onto Emil and his oxygen tank. Did I mention the candle was lit?

Although hampered by age and a worn out working man’s frame, Tom recovered in time to catch the globe and candle. For the next ten minutes you can hear this glass tinkling as Tom tried to reassemble the whole deal. All captured on the wedding video. My back was to this caper as it unfolded. But I could see my friends Chris and Tim as they were facing out into the church. The look on their faces made it clear. Chris was stifling a laugh and Tim was trying to move people and objects with his eyes. I thought, “Must be Tim’s dad.”

It was smooth sailing after that and at 4pm on December 6th 2003 in Knoxville TN, a Southern Bell and a palooka from Jersey merged families. And no one caught on fire.

So that’s day one in the story of Us.

God help us all.

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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.)

Diary of a SAHD: Aces, Hobbits, and Toots.

Editors note: This is the second installment of a multi-part series on our summer road trip to NJ. They are not in sequential order.  Some of this will be akin to eye wateringly boring home movies.  Yeah, I just made a new adverb.  Anyway, you’ve been warned.

I may have mentioned before that Frank can be a bit of a ball buster when he’s playing golf.  It wasn’t going to be a problem on the vacation be cause I would be playing golf without Frank.  Or so I thought.

One night the gang went out for ice cream.  I stayed at the house for some quiet time.  While out they found a place called Pirate Island Golf, a mini-golf joint.  Or as Frank calls it Minataur Golf. Not sure why but this particular pronunciation tickles Grammy to no end.

Anyway, Mrs. Frank’s Place thought it would be a good idea if I took Frank down there myself, just me and him.  It was two blocks away, sounded like fun, why not.

Why not indeed.

First of all, it was 20 freaking dollars.  That’s what I pay back in Knoxville to play on a real golf course, minus all the chirping from my 4 year old.

When we get to the second hole Frank says his club is too long and can he have a shorter one.  I’m all empathizing.  I know what it’s like to play a foreign course without you own sticks.  I don’t want to run back to the front cause it would absolutely freaking kill me if people behind us then got in front of us.  And yeah I’m like this on a real golf course too.  But saints be praised, the little shack has a side window that opens to the third tee box.  So I stick my face in, literally 4.2 feet from the putters and ask for the shortest one they have.

“Yes, but you have to come around front.”

“Really?”

“Yes, you have to come around front.”

(well WTH) – said in my head… I think.

I get to the front.

“Sorry security cameras are only up front.”

What.  What the world is she blathering about?  Then it hits me, she has to hand me the club in view of the camera.

“Really?”

“Yes”

“You think I want to steal this rubber stick with piece of crappy rubber glued on the end of it?”

Blank stare.

Ok then.  Back to the golf.

Even with the shorter putter Frank was struggling a bit.  So I mistakenly offered a little help.  It was quickly rebuffed and rebuked with a stern “I can do it myself!”

Ok then. Back to the golf.

Next hole I drop the pencil and scorecard while Frank is on the tee.  I look down then look up.  He had already hit.  I don’t see his ball.

“Ahh Frank. Where is your ball?  Did you hit it over the side?”

Blank stare.

Cave where hole in one took place.  Forever known as the Cave of Ridicule.

Cave where hole in one took place. Forever known as the Cave of Ridicule.

“Frank!  Where is your ball!”

“It’s in the hole daddy.”  Said with the attitude of, “Well Stevie Wonder, had you been paying attention instead of playing tidily winks with the pencil you would have witnessed my hole in one.”

“What?”

“It’s in the hole daddy.”  He runs to the flag, reaches his little grimy mitt in the cup and pulls out his ball.  Crap, this is gonna cost me. “Your turn daddy.  See if you can hit it in the hole.”  Not even close.  The laughter that erupted from Frank’s belly could probably be heard in France.  “You didn’t make it daddy.  Mine went in the hole, but yours is way over there.”

We get to the next tee and I’ll I hear is, “Let me show you how to do it daddy.”  And when I don’t make a hole in one, “You need to try harder daddy.”

Gonna be a long back nine.

The fun didn’t end there.  After the 18th hole we end up back at the shack with the high security system.  Instead of handing your ball back, you put it in this Plinko like thing. (look it up)  The ball bounces around on the pegs as it makes it’s way to the bottom.  If it goes in the middle slot you get a free game.  It didn’t appear like anything happened if it missed the middle slot.

Wrong.

Mouth always open, noise always coming out.

Mouth always open, noise always coming out.

Frank is standing in front of the thing putting his ball and mine into the game.  I’m over his left shoulder.  He was supposed to get the blast of water in the face not me.  But since he’s no taller than a munchkin, or a hobbit for you younger folk, the water went right over his head and hit me in the face.  And since he put both balls in at the same time and both missed, I got two blasts of water in rapid succession before I knew what was happening.

Had Frank not been there my response may have been slightly different.  But I was oh so glad to give the good folk of Avalon NJ a hearty chuckle.

Frank, well he was laughing so hard he tooted.

Love that kid.

 

 

 

 

 

Diary of a SAHD: Oh to be a golfer in summertime.

As y’all might be aware I am a golfing enthusiast.  A phanatic.  A worshiper to say the least. Thankfully Frank has picked up the bug.  He’s not completely infected yet, but the strain of the virus grows stronger every day.  As we were driving home after our last outing, he actually said to no one in-particular, “I just love the golf course.”

Yeah I cried.  Not man tears either.  I had to choke back blubbering, eye blinding tears.

But, alas, our summer of golf is slowly coming to an end.  Not for me, mind you, but for Frank. After a week at the Jersey Shore Frank will start his final year of Pre-school.  That may actually free me up to play some more.  I love school.

Frank has learned a lot on the golf course this summer.  His swing has evolved from an angry woodsman all hopped up on cocaine, to a novice golfer determined to hit the ball past his old man.  His main goal is bragging rights.  He’s a trash talker, that one.  It was a rough 18 holes if I ever chunked one and he managed to hit his tee shot farther than mine.  18 holes of trash talking is the reward for coming up short against Frank.  I mean he’ll talk your ear off anyway, but when he’s hit it by you there is a little extra sting in the “Hey daddy I hit mine farther than yours” line. And Frank is a no-look trash talker.  He is talking smack while he’s walking down the fairway looking to where he hit his ball.  There is just something disconcerting about a 4 year old strolling along not looking at you while making fun of you the whole time.  I can’t wait till his little sister hits it past him for the first time.

That's my girl!

That’s my girl!

She already has the bug.

Frank didn’t pick up a club until he was two. Anne Marie has been carrying around that putter in the picture on the left for the last month. She’s only 16 months old now.  Man I can’t wait.

Still, I don’t know where he gets it from, all this trash talking.  While it may be a surprise to people that know me, I am not a trash talker as it relates to sports I actually participate in, especially golf.  I just don’t play that way.  Never have.  I don’t compete against other guys when I play, I just play.  You might say it’s for the love of the game, if you’ll allow me that tired phrase. So I am a bit baffled as to where he gets this bravado from.  Probably his mother.

Anyway, as the pros compete in the PGA Championship, the last major championship of the year, thus signaling the start of the end of the the golf and summer season, here is a look back at the summer of Frank – on the golf course.

Of course every good golf season starts off with…

... a good haircut.  Thanks Courtney!

… a good haircut. Thanks Courtney!

... a trip to Dollywood with the cousins to clear the mind

… a trip to Dollywood with the cousins to clear the mind

... and to church for the "Blessing of the Clubs"  Or Anne Marie's baptism, whatever.

… and to church for the “Blessing of the Clubs” aka Anne Marie’s baptism, whatever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ok get me to the course.

Early spring, but a good tee shot to start.

Early spring, but a good tee shot to start.

Good looking putting stroke right there.

Good looking putting stroke right there.

Yeah, we practice in the rain.

Yeah, we practice in the rain.

Striking the pose.  Must be a good one.

Striking the pose. Must be a good one.

His first green in regulation.  (ask a golfer)

His first green in regulation. (ask a golfer)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Putting in the work.  

 

 

The payoff.

That's a good move for a 4yr old folks.

That’s a good move for a 4yr old folks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, this is the actual payoff.

Why we love the golf course.

Why we love the golf course.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cause nothing says it’s been a good day of golf like hotdogs and chips in the clubhouse.  Thanks Miss Marianne.

It’s been a good summer.  We played a lot of golf.  We ate a lot of hotdogs.

Not sure how we can improve on that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Diary of a SAHD: I peed in the forest!

That's not the forrest Frank.

That’s not the forest Frank.

Mrs Frank’s Place – “Hey, can you switch the towels from the washer to the dryer for me?”

Me – “Sure, I just have to go potty first.”

Mrs Frank’s Place – “Really.”

I didn’t even realize I had said “potty”.   It’s been a rough go, you know, getting Frank to go.

But we’re knee-deep in it now.  Figuratively of course, although there were a few times….  It’s crunch time.  We are now in mission mode.  Peeing and pooping with a purpose and there are 3 distinct objectives.

The boy must be able to: 1. Know when he has to go, and then actually go. 2. Hit the target. 3. Hike up his drawers, button his pants, and wash his hands.  He must be able to do all this before he can start the next and last year of pre-school.  To quote one of my favorite lines from Full Metal Jacket – “It’s a huge poop* sandwich and we all have to take a bite.” (* sanitized for this family friendly blog)

Number 1 is where the problems are.  No, not #1, he pees great, best pee-er I’ve ever seen.  It’s 1. on the list above where the issue lies.  The particular problem with 1. is #2.  Get that?  He seems to have no earthly or bodily idea when #2 is coming, and when he finally realizes it, we are way past the point of no return, so he hides under the dinning room table until the storm passes.  Of course the storm doesn’t really pass, it just transfers from him to me. I would be remiss if I didn’t recognize the fact that Frank’s Thomas the Tank Engine underwear is the ultimate victim here.

Obviously it’s my fault.  Frank got so good at doing all three list items as it relate to peeing that we never really concentrated on the pooping.  I just assumed in this one instance math laws would be suspended and 2 would follow 1.  Like any hack golfer who goes to the range, we only hit the clubs we’re already good at hitting.  We don’t work the tough clubs cause we like to hit the ball.

Well, it was gratifying to see Frank jump up, yell, “I have to go potty!” then  run to the can and shut the door.  You knew he was successful when the sound of a roaring NASCAR engine shook the door.  His battery operated Lightning MaQueen potty took another one for the team.  The unmistakable sound of his step-ladder being drug and then slammed into place in front of the sink comes next.  Water on, whine of the soap dispenser, then water off.  The ladder slams back to its resting place so he can open the door, and… “Daddy I went potty, do I get a piece of candy!?!”

Yes Frank, yes you do.  I imagine this is what a fine opera sounds like to the learned listener.

He has managed a few successful #2 trips, and he used the big potty too.  No one is more thankful than Lightning MaQueen.

But in the mean time we’ve amped up our game in the #1 department.

I gambled the other day, deciding on underwear instead of a pull-up while playing in the yard.  We were playing Driving Range, (read here for a definition: And so it begins), and Frank jumps from his tractor just as I have lofted a perfect 7 iron that was definitely going to hit the truck bed of the tractor.  In other words he chooched me because he knew I was going to win that round.  The boy hates to lose.  Anyway, he comes running, yapping about having to pee.  He wants to run inside and heads for the deck.  I calmly tell him to come back, and he only gets more excited.  I walk, again calmly, over to the woods lining our back yard and motion him to come over. He’s incredulous.  I tell him to pull his pants down, and now he gives me a look like “the old man has just gone round the bend.” But he drops his drawers and I tell him to point it away from his feet. If you don’t know what “IT” is, well…  I can’t help you.  Aim at that tree, I say.  Amazing how quickly he understood and applied that concept.  Two seconds after I told him to aim, he was hitting everything that moved. Ants, ladybugs, etc…

After he yanked up his drawers he says, “Let’s call mommy and tell her I peed in the forest!” It was like a brave new world had opened up in front of him.

Much like Columbus, I bet, when he found the new world, only to realize Amerigo Vespucci had found the American continent before ole Chris even figured out his three ships were on a tiny island (Dominican Republic) and not on the east coast of India.

Yeah, it was probably something like that.

Diary of a SAHD: And So it Begins.

Well, we’ve come to that moment.  We have reached the end of one era and the beginning of another.  Days gone by, relegated to our memories, to be recalled fondly while sitting around a fire, burning the hell out of a marshmallow, in a hideous attempt to squeeze it between two graham crackers and a piece of Hershey’s chocolate and call it smores.  Seriously, does anyone make those things without turning them to a inedible molten lava mess?

I'm thinking smaller socks maybe.

I’m thinking smaller socks maybe.

No matter.  It’s gone, all gone now.

We signed Frank up for AYSO Soccer.

No turning back now.  First it’s soccer, then basketball, then baseball….

The lazy days of hanging in the backyard, hitting golf balls at Frank as he dodges them in his motorized tractor, are just about gone.  For those of you that have been to one, we call the game, Driving Range.  It’s just like at a real driving range where the guy drives out on the range with a tractor to scoop up all the balls and the people practicing spontaneously take aim at him.  Same thing here.

Frank drives his John Deer dump truck around the yard and I hit balls at him trying to get them to land in the truck bed.  He laughs himself silly and it’s great practice for me.  If I manage to land one in the truck bed, I do my victory dance and Frank reaches back to get the ball, while still driving, and throws it out of the truck with a snarl and as much distain on his face as he can possibly muster.  As much as we play this, I should be better at golf than I am.

Anyway, once we start down the road of organized sports, forever will it dominate our path. Driving Range will be replaced by actual driving, to and fro, hither and yon, here, there and everywhere.

It was inevitable I guess.  Just like pre-school.  I was wrong about that, Frank loved it and it was great for him.  I’m assuming the same will apply for soccer and what ever else he gets into.

That AYSO is some serious business. The online registration form was no walk in the park.  I’ve filled out applications for security clearances that were less involved then that AYSO form.  It’s not exactly the most user friendly site either.

After about 2 hours of struggling, cussing, and not being able to print the form, I grabbed up Frank and we went to the registration joint with check book in hand, but no form.  The entire drive I was steeling myself for the inevitable confrontation with the rules happy folks who must run this para-military organization.  My frustration with the inability to print the form was compounded by the fact not one sign directed us to the building we needed once we entered the park.  After turning around for the fourth time, suppressing several F-Bombs, I get this from the back seat: “Daddy, hahaha, you missed 11 roads already, hahahaha.”

I am now ready to throw down with the first senior citizen volunteer who tells me I need the printed form from the web site.

Turns out that was a big build up for nothing. A dude comes up to me and I start in on my tale of woe.  He says, “If you were able to submit the form on the site but just can’t print it, no worries. Give your money to the girl there, get your uniforms from the table there.”

Alrighty then.  So the girl taking the money was 20, maybe.  The lady running the uniform table was 35, maybe.  The dude greeting us when we walked up was 40, maybe 43.  In other words I was the oldest person in the entire park, by years.

In the end it took all of 6 minutes to drop a check, get tiny tim his pint sized soccer uniform, and think up some pretty lame excuses why I couldn’t volunteer to coach Frank’s team for an hour each Saturday.

Of course Frank is ecstatic.  The socks are his favorite part of the uniform.  He was able to “ice skate” on our wood floors all day long.

All and all Frank’s organized athletic career is off to blazing start.

As for me, well at least eight weeks of four year olds playing soccer should yield a few blog posts.

I’m going to miss playing Driving Range.

Diary of a SAHD: Crazy crap my kid says.

A while back, when Frank started talking, I started jotting down some of his more memorable observations.  It’s been almost a year since the last installment of Frank’s musings.  His vocabulary has grown, as has his southern accent, and his saltiness.   Those damn kids at pre-school!

Anyway, the following is what I have culled from the list and feel can be printed on this semi-family friendly blog.

Enjoy.

How’s that sound good.

This is what he says when he’s trying to make deals; either to go outside, stay up late, or watch TV.  You have to say that just as you read it.  It’s not a question and there is no pause between sound and good.  When Frank says it, it’s purely a statement.

We can’t play tennis, we don’t have our bellies.

This might be my favorite.  We went to a local par 3 golf course instead of our normal track and there was a tennis court off to one side.  A couple of older, very overweight lads were “playing” tennis with their shirts off, and they really should not have had their shirts off.  We finish our round and are heading to the car when Frank decides he wants to play tennis.  We walk down to the court where he thinks some rackets may be and says, “We can’t play tennis Daddy. We don’t have our bellies.”  Took me a second to catch on to Frank’s drift because we saw the Hefty Brothers almost two hours ago.

Look daddy, I’m flying converted!

I take it back, this is my favorite.  Frank was flying one of his planes around the house and turned it upside down.  I looked and just said, “Hey Frank you’re flying inverted.”  He looked at me and moved on, unimpressed with my aerodynamic knowledge.  On his second pass through the kitchen he says. “Look daddy, I’m flying converted!”  Not sure if he’s referring to his plane or he’s given up on being a Presbyterian already.

I hit it farther than you!

This was a constant theme on our last foray to the golf course.  Highly inaccurate, he only hit it past me once.  But he trashed talked me the entire 18 holes.

No, those are your friends, I can’t like them.

A few friends of mine helped me rebuild my deck.  The day we started I told Frank he could help. When he came into the back yard he turned around and headed back for the garage.  He said he couldn’t help because those were my friends and he couldn’t like them.

I have a small penis!

Ah, with potty training comes awareness.  We brought this on ourselves I think.  Tracy taught him the proper names for stuff, like she was taught, instead of letting him learn it on the street like I was taught.  So we get “I have a small penis!’  Shouted with exuberance and pride.  And of course since he’s very literal, he equated the size of each penis to the size of each person. From that we got a 4 year old marching into the living room to declare that he has a small penis, mommy has a bigger penis, and daddy has the biggest penis.

Look, I’m not wild about him chucking the word penis around, but I’m not one to argue with perfectly valid facts.

Daddy you’re a dick.

He chucked this gem out at the dinner table.  He’s probably not wrong but I knew he had no idea what he was saying.  In fact we had him repeat it about 5 times and we’re still not sure that’s what he said.  I can tell you he did not learn that from me.  That is not one of my normal epithets.

This may be one of the few times we can honestly say he got that from the school yard.  When he starts using the “F” word properly in a sentence as either a noun, verb, adverb, or adjective, or all four at once, then you know he’s repeating something from me.

I guess it runs in the family.

"I got your back Frank." BOOM!

My Daughter- “I got your back Frank.” BOOM!