Date night with a baby and a lizard

You should know what you’re getting when you sit down to watch a behemoth, radioactive lizard frolic around the Pacific rim. I had a hunch; I should have listened to it.

My wife and I hadn’t been out on a date in months. She wanted to see the new Godzilla movie, mostly because of Bryan Cranston. He wouldn’t jump from Breaking Bad into a ridiculously stupid movie, right? Right?

We dropped the big boys at the neighbor’s, but we kept the baby because my wife has a strange fetish with movie theaters. She’s not happy unless she can sneak in McDonald’s food or brazenly walk in with a tiny human who could go off at any moment. I drew the line at McDonald’s being part of our date.

The baby was incredibly quiet through the movie, except for a brief period when his foot got stuck under the arm rest. He did not infringe on anyone’s enjoyment of the film. I wish I could say the same thing for the film.

I don’t know why people are always trying to make a better Godzilla movie. I don’t know why we need a better Godzilla movie. A man in a lizard suit stomping on model army tanks is all I’ve ever wanted from Godzilla, and that was accomplished to perfection 60 years ago.

real Godzilla

Just roll in some toy army vehicles and we’ve got ourselves a movie.

I would issue a spoiler alert for what comes next, but the real spoiler will be seeing the movie theater charge show up on the credit card statement.

My wife felt cheated that Mr. Cranston was in less than half of the movie. She figured they must have run out of money to pay his huge salary at that point. My theory is that he saw the rest of the script and bailed. I have yet to figure out what his character added to the plot anyway, other than a crazy old man who turned out to be right, but so what? Crazy people are always right in movies.

Cranston cameo

“Oh my God! Is that the rest of the script? Run!” (Image: Warner Bros.)

My wife is much more charitable toward films than I am, but when the lights came up, her first words were, “Want to know all the problems I have with that movie?”

I don’t even remember all the problems. I do recall that after an EMP wave fried all the electronics in San Francisco, preventing the heroes from driving into the city, they were able to hotwire a boat at the dock with no problem. Yup, it fired right up, with spotlights on and everything.

Oh, and then there was the ultra-powerful atomic weapon that was detonated about 10 feet beyond the Golden Gate Bridge with no consequences to the city. Too bad they dragged all those puny Cold War atom bombs all the way out to remote islands. They could have used those for a fireworks show at Candlestick Park.

This would have been the worst Bryan Cranston movie ever, had he actually been in it. But that’s okay; we’ll probably have another date night next year.

Reading, writing, and romance

Our son has learned a lot in kindergarten. His reading skills are pretty good, and his math knowledge is growing. And then there’s everything about love and romance he’s picked up in the past year.

In the fall, it became clear that he had a crush on one little girl. Whenever I mentioned her name he would blush and get that secretive smile on his face. It embarrassed him to answer questions about her. My wife would scold me for making him squirm, but then she doesn’t fully understand a father’s job.

Mid-year, he traded this crush for a new one. In fact, he traded it for two new ones. I really can’t argue with the boy showing this sort of ambition, but I was taken aback about how open he was about them.

By the sounds of it, everybody in his class has a crush on somebody else, and then maybe somebody else after that. Once this conspiracy of crushes came to light, crushes became cool. All the kids are having them.

Suddenly, he likes to talk about his crushes. Here’s what he’s got worked out:

He’s going to marry his #1 crush. Except, she has a crush on somebody else. He’s not completely sure how this will affect his plan, but he does recognize it as a minor complication. He still fully intends to marry crush #1, but if it turns out she’s carrying too much external baggage, he always has crush #2 in reserve. Crush #2 may actually have a small crush on him too, making this a solid contingency plan.

The situation has completely reversed itself since last fall. Now I have to rib him by referring obliquely to Crush #1. When I hint that I’m speaking about her, he demands that I say her name, right out loud, in front of Mommy and everybody.

This change from a boy shy about girls to Rico Suave has been an eye-opener. I’m afraid some day he’s going to open his mouth and Barry White’s voice will come out of it. But it seems like these kids have also been following current events as they apply to the legal aspects of romance. I guess it’s good that they’re learning about the world around them, but if I were in kindergarten, I think I’d rather just play on the swings a while longer.

Last week he told me one of the boys wanted to marry him.

This was a new development. “One of the boys?”

“Yeah.” Then he went on to educate his backward, old dad. “Boys can marry boys, but only in New York,” he told me. “And girls can marry girls, in New York.”

“Do you want to marry him?” I asked.

He shook his head at me and gave me a look that asked if I had been paying any attention at all over the past several months. “No. I got other people I’m in love with.”

I ship out with Admiral Dewey in the morning, baby.

Kids sure do grow up fast these days. And by “these days” I mean since 1898.

Crying and toilets and snacks, oh my!

The boys have been only mildly entertaining/aggravating this week. Because nobody stepped up, they’ll have to share a post.

*New Baby*

One night, my wife got up to feed New Baby. He’s still skeptical of bottles and she doesn’t have to go downstairs and plug anything in to warm up her milk. Seeing my opportunity, I went back to sleep.

A minute later, she woke me up. “I’ve been up with this baby for an hour and a half,” she said of my minute of sleep. “He’s wide awake and I’m exhausted. Can you take him?”

If he won’t sleep for her, he definitely won’t sleep for me. For me he’ll cry. That’s the Daddy Bonus.

We went downstairs to insulate Mommy from the Daddy-inspired wailing. We rocked; we swayed; we walked; we ran the full gamut of futile activities. He cried the tune to the montage.

He was gassy, if the three successive dirty diapers were any indication. A few burps, some hearty crying (60-40 in favor of him), and a couple of hours later, a triumphant Daddy laid everyone down to sleep.

Just in time to get up for work.

put me to bed

“Yawn! Daddy kept me up all night. I’m so tired this morning.”

*Buster*

Mommy was with Buster when she started getting hungry. “I need a snack,” she said, thinking out loud.

Buster shook his head at her. “No. You no need snack. I need snack,” he countered in his heavy toddler accent.

Mommy thought it was funny and told me about it. Apparently, Buster thought it was funny too.

Sometimes, Buster brings Mommy the phone and says, “Dada.” They call me at work, and Buster tells me what’s on his mind. Whenever the conversation lulls, I say, “I need a snack.”

Buster pipes right up. “No. I need snack.” You can’t talk about snacks anymore without getting an argument from Buster.

gold fish

“To be more specific, I need a big goldfish filled with little goldfish.”

*Big Brother*

It’s been a while since Big Brother has fallen into the toilet. So long that he was barely even a big brother last time it happened.

This time wasn’t completely his fault.

But it wasn’t completely not his fault either.

The morning after I spent the night being cried at by New Baby, Big Brother put up a stink about waking up. I was in no mood to hear he was too tired for school after 11 consecutive hours of sleep.

I dragged him out of bed and jostled him into the bathroom. We were both groggy and somebody (who was not me) lost his balance. He put his hand down to catch himself. Somebody (who was not me) had neglected to close the cover last time he’d used the toilet. Big Brother’s hand went right down to the bottom of the bowl.

Good news: he stopped his fall. Better news: somebody had remembered to flush.

Nonetheless, he was horrified. Even after he had thoroughly soaped his arm, it remained a sore subject. In spite of my sleep-deprived giddiness, I refrained from calling him Toilet Arm.

But now that time has dimmed the horror, I may begin to do so.

Sorry, there are no photos of Big Brother with his arm in the toilet. I know, I’m a little disappointed too.

Have a good day at your dangerous job in outer space, Daddy

Buster hates to see a man make an honest living. Anyway, he hates to see a man be on time to the place where he makes his honest living.

Buster loves Daddy all the time, in an off-hand kind of way. But at the moment when Daddy absolutely has to leave for work, Buster loves him like someone who really likes him.

He knows I’ll be home later, but he clings to me as if I’m headed off on a suicide mission. By now, he should know that I’m not cut out for suicide missions. Avoiding the sharp edges of my paperwork is danger enough for me.

On Saturday morning, he won’t need a 10-minute hug. By Sunday, he won’t know what a hug is. But Monday . . . Monday is the first of five consecutive attempts to break Daddy’s heart with a childish brand of parting grief that will make him sorely question his life choice not to stay at home and wait for the government check.

The other morning, Buster was sitting on my bed, wrapped in his blanket, watching cartoons. When I sat at the foot of the bed to put on my socks (the dark ones I wear to work), he scooted down to me, blanket and all, and laid his head on my arm.

When I tried to get up, he grabbed me and gave me that pitiful, longing look that pleaded, “Daddy, can’t you just stay home and run some sort of Ponzi scheme out of the house?” The poor child doesn’t realize that Daddy’s not trustworthy enough to cheat people out of adequate money to keep up with the rising cost of diapers.

At least he didn’t cry and reach out for me, and have to be held back by Mommy, when I tried to leave the house. That made it one of the easier days to leave him.

Buster makes me spend a lot more time not leaving for work than I should. I linger as long as I can, and then I linger a few minutes more. Eventually, my distrust of the adequacy and longevity of government checks spurs me to go. It’s never easy.

Fortunately, I have one of those jobs people reference when they say, “It’s not rocket science.” My long goodbyes to Buster have never caused a moon walk to be delayed. All they’ve ever done is push back my first paper cut until 8:07 a.m.

Nobody else has such trouble seeing me off to work. Big Brother is too busy trying to avoid getting out of bed. New Baby only has eyes for Mommy. I could go to Siberia as long as I leave the milk lady behind. The only other one who occasionally laments my going is the Mommy herself. And she knows I can’t honor her plea when she begs, “Don’t leave me alone with these children!”

Only Buster clings to me in the mornings. It’s awkward. And annoying. And I love it.

the long goodbye

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back from my space flight to save the universe by dinner time.”