The Paternal P.O.V.

So as a father you get to witness the things that the "other guys" don't get to see happen with women.  That is the growing a baby procedure, the ultrasounds, the gaseous nature of a woman with child, the weird things hormones do, and the nesting instinct.  Oh those glorious adventures that are had on the journey to parentdom.  But post baby there is also a myriad of weird, and at times painful looking, events that need to take place.

There is a device out there that by the looks of it would make water boarding sound like a fun event on a family vacation with the in-laws, if in fact your in-laws were the former Commie leader Kim Jung Ill.

Oh reerry.

This contraption is called a breast pump.  No that isn't some new thing that they do on the Jersey Shore for foreplay, it is a device designed to drain the ducts and glands of Das Boobies.  As a guy who grimaced at the pump action penial extender return scene in Austin Powers, I saw this torture machine sitting silently next to our bed.  It's quiet reciprocating arm and humming electrical motor belay it's ability to suck the soul of a woman out through her teat.

But women find the need to congregate in places, which I loving call "Pumping Stations", to drain the breasts of their nurturing golden dew when the child is not around to do so for them.  That is understandable, but what bemuses me is they must perform the act at (what seems like) all times possible.  The idea is to increase their supply, freeze some for later, and relieve the pressure or any clogs.

The wild thing is women have been doing this for a LOOONNGGG time.  I stumbled upon this thing on a Google serach:

Dude, grandma's bong gets you legit high!
Ummmm, that's not a bong brah.

You can put that thing next to dentist cleaning tools as pieces of weaponry meant to be disguised as "safe" when in reality is they will bring a Navy SEAL to his knees in agony and have him admitting to every secret they know in minutes.

The crazier part is my wife will talk to herself about Jojo, watch our son on the baby monitor, or look at pictures of him to assist in getting the milk to drop. I never realized my wife's breasts and Dubstep had so much in common. Bass drops and milk drops create a fun, glow-stick twirling environment for everyone (under the age of 1).

As a man I don't entirely understand why they need to be hooked up to these things but I can tell you my son has no qualms about it since it just goes to ensure the juice is there when itch comes around.

I have a feeling the Paternal POV might be a regular occurrence since there is so much out there we were never, as men, meant to understand.

Dr. Diaper, we can't stop the flow....

...Said the ER nurse, Mrs. Elastic.

I don't know who reads this, I am assuming friends and family, a few random people that either come across it clicking around the blogger website, and anyone that has clicked a link I left where I might have left comments.  I do know that if you have a kid, are about to, or been around them, crap does happen.  And never in a controllable, cute "oh my, look at that little solid turd" kind of way.

If the SAW movies were to use poop instead of blood, it would be THAT kind of way.

This guy'd tap out first round of this game

Every parent, nanny, babysitter, older sibling, grandparent, priest, Scout leader, and the Virgin Mary herself have dealt with the dreaded blowout.  Sometimes it is a simple up the back, or leg leak.  But then sometimes poop ends up in places you'd never expect it to be, and how it journeyed the way it did marvels even the brightest nuclear scientists in the world.  Especially an infant, breastfed baby's poop.

First off an infant's poop is a mustard, dingy yellow.  Remember in the box of Crayola crayons there was, as many a young lad has referred to it, the "poop brown" and "puke green" crayons that were never used but always pulled out to "smell" it and see if it smelled like it looked?  Yeah, take those and with the fire of Mount Doom in the land of Mordor of Middle Earth, combine then into one color.  It would become the color known as 'The Brown Eye of Sauron'.  That's the color of a baby's poop, with the all-controlling powers of the One Ring.

Secondly, a baby's poop is something to the consistency of road tar, molten magma, and used motor oil.  It's very viscous, usually hot to the touch, and becomes super sticky shortly after emission and full of shavings.  What that creates is a slurry that looks and feels like it could pass as Indian food but in actuality is a biological hazard that the UN has sanctions against countries that produce it.  So basically it is like a poisonous Slimer from the Ghostbusters.

Well on one unfortunate day the diaper was unable to hold the onslaught of the Turd Titan as it was bequeathed from my son's body.  But only on one side, and despite the colossal mess that was created, it came silently in the night like the last plaque came upon the Egyptians.  And mighty was the wailing in the streets afterwards.

Jojo demonstrates the many faces made that day.

So as good parents, and trying to prep ourselves for what was to come, we decided to change Jojo.  I had the misfortune to have the first contact made with the enemy, but the contact wasn't made when the pants were removed.  Nay, nay.  The first contact came upon the removal of the left sock.  While the term "uncorking" brings about images of people at a party opening wine or a bottle of bubbly, this uncorking brought about sheer despair.

The Tunnel of Turd.

After removing the outer layers we found ourselves in a perilous situation.  The onesie was still on the baby, and when you have a baby who inherits his father's head size, you create a scenario that will only end up with poop in the little bit of hair on the baby's head.  So after consulting a rule book that doesn't exist, my wife and I performed a procedure that I saw several times on one of my favorite childhood shows, Rescue 911.

CAREFUL DOWN THERE MOM!!

Pinkies up for safety.

Dad, I think they need to make onesies to handle my manliness, I ripped out of this one

Ahh...no poop in the fuzzies.

After the trimming came the cleansing.  Because we all know that unclean feeling that we get after we defecate down our leg.  Oh you don't know that feeling?  Try experiencing it....

Hey mom, what's that on your face?
GOTCHA!

Luckily for us this was during the Thanksgiving weekend and Nana and Papa were in town with us, so they got to relish the occurrence, if one could relish a mustard gas attack with nothing more than a paper bag and sweaty gym sock for a respirator.  So we moved on in our evening with a clean, albeit completely empty, Jojo and we all slept peacefully in a post a-poop-alyptic house.

I bite my thumb at you poopy diaper.
Until we meet again.

What has happened to kids shows?

I grew up watching a Sesame Street, Looney Tunes, The Muppet Show, and Mr. Rogers.  As I got older I enjoyed Doug, Rugrats, Wild Thornberrys (or whatever the big nose Steve Irwin wannabe was), and a LOT of shows on the Discovery and History channel.  In fact I was the only kid in grade school that was excited about Shark Week, and saddened when we were on family vacation in the middle of nowhere Wisconsin during that same week.  I watched the first episode of American Chopper, and signed up to be on Monster Garage.  I watched what I consider "normal" TV and normal movies.  Now I am totally confused by what kids watch today.

I am the oldest of 5 kids and currently 28 (my birthday is about a month away and I'd like a nice Canon 60D or T4i) and my youngest sibling, my brother, is currently 16.  A few months ago I stopped by since they live 10 minutes away and my brother was watching some cartoon with a kid in a bunny hat and a talking dog, except it wasn't about his love for his dog like some cartoon adventures of  Old Yeller but some tree witch was sitting on the dog and her butt was eating the dog.  The kid had to find some hair or else her butt would consume his pup.  Apparently someone didn't heed the Turtle's PSA on weed, or sit long enough to get through the "This is you brain.." frying pan commercial.

Another nauseating show we have a sensation that is sweeping the nation is with a honest-to-goodness hick, Honey Boo Boo.  First off the only white trash I watched on TV was from COPS when they filmed in cities in the south and they were episodes from the early 90's (something nostalgic about a criminal running from the cops in a pair of BK high tops and funky patterned Zubaz with no shirt on and a mullet).  Who wants to watch a show with an arrogant hillbilly child and her mother?  When I saw her I thought of this (which was splendidly put together by someone else):

Really, I have no words....

What lesson can be learned from Ms. Boo boo?  At least the TMNT had their PSA's at the end of their shows.  They only PSA from Honey Boo Boo would be not to breed with family.

It's probably a good thing that we do not have cable or satellite in our home, because I can control the dog-butt-eating-tree witches from coming in and devouring what small amount of intelligence my kids have learned and stored that day...or week....or year....or life up to that point.

I feel the downfall came from the Brit's invasion via Teletubbies and their disarming cuteness, we messed with the bull and got the horns to the dome.  Ever since then I can't recall a show that had any substance to it, and most kids today would never put on a channel that taught them something.  I loved educational and historical shows, classic movies (especially war movies) and things that made me think.

Things may change, my wife and I may grow weary from having to entertain our child constantly but when the time is right I will pop in something they can learn from and we can watch together without me having a "What the crap" moment in regards to what is being strewn across the TV screen.

But until that point I will be my son's entire entertainment.  At least I don't feel I am warping his brain with nonsensical noises, belly tickles, and funny faces I make when changing his diaper or smelling his farts.  But when he is old enough and wants to know about the shows I watched, I'll have to dust of the VHS tapes and player, dig out a length of coax cable, and fire up an old tube TV.

Baby Kung Fu: The Deadliest Martial Art

In the craziness of today's world we have to arm ourselves and instruct our children in ways to protect themselves.  However very few know that a new born can possess the ability to end life shortly after they have started their own.  A recent YouTube documentary filmmaker risked his life to bring you....BABY KUNG FU!

The YouTuber PatrickBoivin made this sensational video that has gone all over the world, at least I am guessing so by the views.  But what many think is cute is actually a real thing.

My son Jojo has the ability to look you straight in the eyes, unblinking, and unleash a fury of kicks, chops, punches and war cries.  Just yesterday we were locked in a deadly battle where he just giggled to his little heart's content as he brandished his baby brass-knuckles and battle ax creating a deadly whirlwind of doom.  He thought it was funny; I was fighting for my life.  After mom came and saved me I realized that we just need a legion, nay a horde, of babies trained up in the mortiferous martial art of Baby Kung Fu.

Just like the Ewok assassins of Endor, a small group of crawling 8-month-olds could infiltrate an enemy's position and make hasty work of the enemy combatant.  Why?  Simply because a small child crawling on the floor will cry until picked up by an unsuspecting soldier who thinks the cries are a need for comfort, when in reality it is the war shrieks of a regiment of ruthless life reapers.

And reap they will.

If the enemy were to choose to fortify their position, we can take a page from the old war weapons and catapult dirty diapers into their compound till they surrender or enter the world of deceased by diaper.  Even our small garbage can that holds MAYBE a few days worth of dirty diapers could be used as a biological weapon in large scale modern warfare.

Or none of the above, because war isn't a place for babies.  They belong in a parents arms; being gazed upon lovingly, staring into their bright eyes and soaking up the moment you have as a parent and child.

Just like your face will soak up the impact of a Baby Kung Fu's flying fist of fury!

No chance for a stuntman stand-in here.
All punishment no remorse.

My baby looks like a....

We have all been there before, our kid makes a cute face and we blurt out, "Awww, they look like a ___-___!  So cute!"

In the case of my son it is cute, he makes this face when he is laying on my chest that makes him look like an Ewok.  But not an ugly Ewok, specifically the bad-to-the-bone Wicket Wystri Warrick.  A Ewok so legendary he appeared in several made for TV movies basically by himself.

Assassins Creed: Teddy Bears of Endor

Why is this such a cool revelation to me?  Well for a few reasons, Ewoks make some bodacious assassins.  I mean no one would suspect a real life Teddy Ruxpin to shoot an arrow through your heart 2 minutes into the Black Sabath tape you put in him (we all pulled that one before).

What you thought of.  

What I though of, only cooler.

                                                                  

But the really cool part is, and any kid that grew up in the 80's and 90's knows about this, but we as a family bootlegged on VHS by recording off the TV The Ewok Adventure; old car and Folger's commercials and all.  You know your parents did that too so stop judging.   But my brother and I watched that movie so many times that after a few years the tape itself wore out and literally broke in half.  I haven't seen the movie since but just found out that there is a copy on YouTube it seems....guy night soon.  I have many a fond memory of Wicket.

Why do I bring up that movie?  Because for some reason in Star Wars George Lucas felt that the Ewoks were nothing more than mini Wookies without the ability to do squat.  Literally, it was like watching the movie The Ringer where Chewie is thrown into the Special Olympics and everyone, Ewoks that is, envy him for his ability to do menial tasks.  At one point the Ewoks are beating an AT-ST with rock hammers, really Lucas?  These natural assassins on THEIR home territory that just captured the greatest frickin' Jedi Knight since Anakin can't take down a steel box on stilts?  Hopefully Disney won't butcher the Ewok name.

So as my son make his face I am reminded of the Gorax slaying Ewoks not the drunken Ruxpins of the Star Wars movie.  And that scares me.  I know behind those slate blue eyes, chubby cheeks, no eye brow large forehead and smirk lies a Death Star superlaser that is ready to destroy the next diaper that threatens to get in his way.  

So take some time when your child is making the cute faces and reminding you of something from your childhood, and when they are older show them what they reminded you of.  They will either laugh along and your bond as father and son/daughter will grow stronger or they will look at ways of putting you away as a loony because you thought they looked like Ludo, or even worse Jareth, from Labyrinth.

The floating baby

As a dad, and many can attest to this, you become non-existent.  Not worthless or useless, but not there.  Very ghost like, which can be useful in instances like where the flatulence cometh upth from the rectal region of the papa.  Because if you're not there, its the baby's fault.  And we all will agree, baby farts are extremely cute which means they offset the stench that lingers in their path.

Notice the gas streak

But what we really become as fathers is a coat rack for babies.  Come on in and hang up your baby!  Or in a father's case, I go somewhere carrying Jojo and become the stand on which the baby is viewed.  Like a base for babies.  Some people may not know what I mean, but a dad with a cute or handsome baby knows what I mean.  Somehow people treat our child as if there are an embodied spirit hovering randomly in the air; completely oblivious to the figure holding the baby.  Like we have been real time green-screened out of the picture and here is this cute baby.

Ugly baby parents can stop reading now.  You know who you are; if you get comments on how strong your baby is, how well tempered they are, or how nice the stroller is, you have an ugly baby, bless his or her heart. (Always finish off a sentence about an ugly baby with that phrase, just makes things right)

The illegitimate love child of Mr. Bean and Borat

I often get folks at church or out and about come up to Jojo and start talking to him when I am holding him and somewhere near the time they will be leaving they then notice me.  So I have a little fun with them but doing some or all of the following:

1. Shift positions.  A LOT.
2. Constantly turn in sharp 90* angles.  Like you are in a military formation.  Right FACE!
3. Raise the baby up and slowly lower them like they are too heavy to hold.
4. Do weirdo things like sniff the baby's head or neck and make a comment like, "Oooo...ripe!"
5. Make a burp noise but move the baby's mouth and make a wise crack about boob juice.
6. Yell out in dismay that the diaper is now reaching capacity.
7. Offer to pass the baby to them after 1-6 has been completed.

Sure, that might be, as some call it, RUDE, but listen the kid gets 50% of their looks, charm, demeanor, and ability to make bodily noises from the paternal gene.  So while we dads will silently continue to be the shelf on which to display the babies, we will no longer struggle in silence but be silent in our defiance.  Because eventually someone will have to change that diaper and we know the easel only holds the art, it doesn't paint it or clean the brushes afterwards.

And chunky paint doesn't clean well when you only have one hand to clean with.

Got off easy....this time.

This baby doesn't run on a bottle, he's only blown

As a car nut I have noticed the parallels that run between being a parent and a gear head.  Within the racing community you have different groups; the N/A (naturally aspirated) guys, turbo guys, nitrous guys, and the blown guys (the ones who run blowers).  There are some who run a combination of any of the above, but the majority are stalwarts to their genre.  On top of all that cars that are fast enough...get this....need to run diapers so they don't oil down (make a mess) on the track when they blow out the bottom!  Had I known I was being prepared to be a dad when I was racing, I would have never sold the race car.

So having a boy brings a certain joy to a father; your name gets a chance to be passed on to grandkids, farts and burps are acceptable, you can roughhouse and fight each other, and to compare your baby son to a car would be OK (in my book).  Kind of like mixing the Pixar movie Cars with my son, except I would be Tater instead of Mater.

Jojo, my son, is breastfed.  He is just over 3 months old as I write this, and parents know that it usually take about 3 months for their digestive tract to "work out the kinks" as it was.  That and being breastfed, from what I am told, creates a certain type of "oil down" that a bottle fed kid doesn't get.  My son isn't bottle fed, this guy is only blown!

(Not an actual picture of my son)

And by blown I mean when he has a blow out....it's ALL out as you can see depicted by the dramatic reenactment seen below.

(That bottom end let loose...and the diaper may not hold it in)

(This is not looking good)

He was stopped up for a few days and while nursing there was a launching grunt, the tires squealed then bit, and we were headed down track!  That is until the bottom end blew out about mid track.  The diaper did all it could do to maintain the mess but we didn't know how bad it was till we got back to the pits and pulled the body off....

(Nope, definitely didn't hold it in)

That is a live action photo in the pits with crew chief Mama and assistant crew chief G-ma.  Dad was the reporter that day so I was behind the camera (cowering in such grandiose fear).  As they peeled off the damaged body they found the damage was extensive....like to the back of the neck extensive.  All this was a few seconds from mama's lap to the table for changing.  The carnage was too great to show the complete aftermath pictures, but rest assured the driver, Jojo, was right as rain after a change and run through the bath.

But for those of us who witnessed the madness of a blown baby at full capacity lose the bottom end mid track, those memories will forever be burned into our minds.  Like the tear-gassy smell of a top fuel dragster...