what follows are the first four things i heard coming out of my first night's sleep after my weekend away:

1. oh anthony! you wiped poop on your dad.
2. troy don't move. there's poop on your back.
3. hold still or you're going to get it everywhere.
4. oh crap anthony! you got it on the sheets too!

am i the only one to find it mildly interesting that marty expresses more dismay by discovering feces on her linens than on her husband. i mean she has at least two sets of sheets. sheesh.

if there is a good part to this story it is i wasn't actually awake through this and the commentary was only hazily registering with me. it wasn't until marty brought it up later that night that i turned to her asking, "you mean that really happened. shit." quite succinct on multiple levels.

the first compelling argument i've heard against sleeping naked:

there is a man. he is sleeping naked. his three year old daughter, having stirred from her slumber, foggily walks into his room in the middle of the night. she moves to his side of the bed. to hoist herself up, she reaches up grabbing a fistful of sheet in one hand and a fistful of her father's pubic hair in the other. she pulls mightily.

most anti-nude arguments deal with the scaring or scarring of children. they lack merit. a handful, even a three year old handful, of short-hairs viciously ripped from their root is merit, big ole wail-in-the-night merit.

editorial clarification: this man was not me.

we have a new ritual in our home, although we pass it off as more of a game really. it's called 'everything has a home'. we play 'everything has a home' after dinner. how it works is everyone walks through the house and anything that is out of place gets put where it is meant to go. we start in the dining room and move all the dinner stuff into the kitchen. then we set a timer for fifteen minutes ...

some of the neighborhood ladies have been convening about a smooth-talking salesman that's been trolling our streets. since he works during the day, he mostly catches the stay-at-home moms. when he approaches one he quickly opens with some insightful and relevant compliment and then seamlessly rolls into a friendly course of banter. by the time he begins pitching his wares the ladies are engaged enough that they feel unable to snub or refuse him outright as if he were some perfect stranger trying to wrangle money from their home equity lines. in one of their sidewalk pow-wows about the topic one of the ladies suggested what they often suggest when uncertain of an answer to an everyday and possibly awkward situation, "we should ask marty. marty will know what to do." marty is the no-frills, cut-to-the-chase, nip-it-in-the-bud mom on the block.

an example. a few years back we were at a bbq at a neighbors house. there were about six families there and kids were running and screaming inside and out. a small group of parents were standing in the kitchen talking when a kid came running in from the backyard. the child's father stopped him and told him to go back outside because his feet were dirty and he was going to track mud on the floor. the five year old looked at him, turned and ran on, ignoring the instruction. the man looked back to the group passing a hand in the air towards the now gone child and said:

THE FATHER
what am supposed to do with that? the kid listens to nothing.

A MOTHER
at least he stopped when you addressed him. mine don't even do that.

THE HOSTESS (while mixing a salad)
you should ask marty. marty knows what to do.

THE FATHER (turning to marty who was quietly standing in the room)
so marty. what should i do?

MARTY
are you really asking me this?

THE FATHER
yes i am.

MARTY
you go get him, you sit his ass in a chair and you tell him he's on time out for five minutes for not listening.

THE FATHER
sit him on a chair huh? like he'd stay.

MARTY
you make him stay. you're a grown man john. are you telling me you can't hold a forty pound child on a chair for five minutes. i've held two down while making brownies and talking on the phone.

so you see. marty is viewed as a bit of a problem-solver in our neck of the woods. her advice might not always be in agreement with all folks, but the girl always has a position and in these hectic, break-neck days that seems to count for something. so when the neighborhood women were stymied by the pearly-toothed home security salesmen they came to marty. they explained the scenario and marty quietly listened. quietly that is until they got to the part of the episode where if the lady starts leaning towards the husband-card, the man quickly says "oh, if i'm talking to wrong person here, i can come back when the decision-maker of the home is in." when marty heard this she guffawed, like one of those great full-belly guffaws. when done she told the ladies that if he appeared on our stoop and made that implication she would say: "oh the man of the house? yeah, he's tied to tree in the backyard for sassin' me. you should go talk to him. he'd probably enjoy the company."

hearing marty so confidently regale the now-laughing ladies in front of our house gives me a sense of pride in being paired with a woman of such conviction. that said, when the laughter dies and the everyone is back in the homes, the strong words resonate in my head leaving a slight chill because of the bravado and confidence in which they were stated. it's almost as if this thing has already happened. or in the least could happen. at any rate, on days i don't update the site, you now may have an inkling as to why.

when it comes to my children i have two speeds. they are:

oh my gawd, isn't this soooo much fun!
... and ...
oh my gawd, what just happened!

i believe there are some grey moments in-between but am pretty sure all the children or i will ever recall are the moments in these two extremes.

yesterday morning, marty woke me to say she was making an early morning run to the store. the next thing i discerned was the slam of the front door which officially woke alex and consequently brought him to my bed which officially woke anthony (who was sleeping by my side) which officially woke troy. now that i was up, officially, and had two wiggly, giggly kids playing about me, i decided to begin my day and head to the shower. i put anthony on the floor, raised the gate in front of the stairs and told alex to come get me if there was a problem. once in the shower i assumed my usual position leaning in the corner of the stall to begin my twelve-minute pre-wash soak. after just a few minutes i heard a spectacularly loud crash followed by anthony crying. i killed the water, threw the curtain aside and shouted "oh my gawd, what just happened!" and bolted wet and towel-free toward the disturbance.

as soon as my foot hit the wood floor outside the bathroom it slid like a freshly sharpened ice skate. my body made an instinctual attempt to stay upright but lost and i continued falling backwards. the next to hit was my right butt cheek which when upon the wood slid like a freshly sharpened ice skate. in that i was still falling backwards my shoulder blade was the next to make contact and, yes you guessed it, it also slid like a freshly sharpened ice skate. i slammed into the wall that ended this short stretch of hallway to our bathroom. my legs were in the air and my fleshy bottom took the brunt of the impact against the baseboard. i looked to my left. alex was sitting on the floor sucking his thumb right next to where i stopped. he turned and looked at me expressionlessly.

what just happened alex!?!?

you fell down.

no. not to me, what happened to anthony? why is he crying?

i don't know. why you fall down?

because the floor is wet.

why the floor wet?

well, the floor isn't wet. i'm wet.

then why you say the floor is wet?

where's your brother?

(he wordlessly points into my room at anthony who is now not crying).

(i lay my wet head down on the floor, stare up at the ceiling and take a deep breath)

dad.

yes alex.

i can see your penis.

just think, all this fun and i'm just seven minutes into another day with children. in re-reading this account i see there's good reason we only remember the harshest sides of our lives. i mean it's admittedly not all that often you get to carry on a relatively calm conversation with a wet, naked adult sprawled awkwardly on the floor ... without paying for it in advance at least.

i'm done. this is what you hear yelled through our house whenever one of our potty-using children has finished going to the restroom. this call intends to draw an adult, any adult, to come up and wipe the shouter. if it is bella, when you round the corner she is already leaning forward so far in anticipation of the wiping that she is holding the book she's reading flat on the floo...

before having children somewhere in my body existed a bucket that held my patience. pre-kids it wasn't so much a bucket as a thimble. now that i'm almost six years into the journey my thimble has been stretched, pulled and contorted into a larger container, now approximately the size of a dixie cup. when i wake up from a night's rest, the cup is full. as the day wears on its contents are slowly drained. by the time the kids' night routine is underway i'm typically running a finger along the sides hoping to find even a trace amount of residual moisture. sunday night, my circling finger found nothing but parched, dry surface. the scientific term for this parental state is 'screwed'.

i had just filled the tub and called the kids to the bathroom. after noisily entering the small room i instructed them to strip. alex started raising his shirt over his head and quickly got tangled in the maneuver. while i was extracting him bella noticed the steamed-over mirror, climbed onto the pedestal sink and began drawing a picture in the sweat. after getting alex naked and in the tub i addressed bella.

TROY
bella. get naked.

BELLA
one minute.

TROY
you've already had your minute. i want you down, naked and in the tub now.

BELLA
one minute dad.

TROY
that's two bella.

BELLA
i said one minute. i'm drawing a lamb.

TROY
that's three. you just lost a book.

BELLA (wheels around to face me)
father! i said one minute! you don't have to be so harsh with me!

i paused, lowered my head, drew in a breath and felt a few drops mysteriously fall into my cup of patience as if someone mercifully wrung the water from a cloth above. i sat on the side of tub facing bella who was now off the sink and undressing. as she moved to get in the tub, i stopped her and said she was right and i didn't have to be so harsh with her and i was sorry i lost my temper. she leaned in and hugged me saying it was ok giving me a few consolatory pats on the back. she then moved past me to climb in the tub excitedly asking alex if he wanted to play the find-the-soap game. many days i feel outmatched and ill-equipped (tiny-ass patience cup) in this game.

a new TROYSCRIPT was posted today. don't feed the animals

over the weekend, marty had to make a morning run to the grocery store. when this happens, my sleeping body will get nudged and told she is leaving and i'm on. i blearily sit up and look for the clothes that got dropped next to bed the night before. once she sees i'm staying upright, she leaves.

i immediately move to the bathroom, urinate, brush my teeth and walk out. bella, like an appar...

in visiting with the hair-girl today she told me that growing up she thought the proper term for children with no siblings was 'lonely children' instead of 'only children'. throughout the afternoon my mind kept returning to that thought and i've since concluded that her usage is way more apt, appropriate and concise the what has always been used. and starting today, it is how i will refer to the country's growing phenomenon of lonely children.

poophead — when alex gets upset or excited or happy or is basically conscious, this is the word he is most likely saying. in example:

alex, do you want a glass of milk?
no. i want a glass of poophead.

alex, is this your toy?
no, it is your poophead.

alex, if you're going to cry, you need to go to your room.
no poophead! you go to your poophead room ...

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a new TROYSCRIPT was posted today. currency

excerpt from Parenting from the Heart by Jack Pransky

this gets said, by me, at least once a day in our home and an easy twice on weekends. being an only child has in no way prepared me for witnessing how two siblings can interact. i mean they adore one another. really. i've seen it. but man can those waters of affection turn acerbic if the most minor of things goes sideways.

it starts with a thud in some distant room of the house. next you'll hear a raised or strained voice and then scuffling. i move quickly, far more quickly than marty, to the disturbance point. i'll find bella and alex locked up on one another. peeling them apart is about as easy as separating folded over packing tape, especially when cradling a three-month old in one arm.

afterwards i turn to marty, expressing my shock. but instead of words of consolation or empathy i get the equivalent of a college scouting report on how quick and strong alex seems to be and even with a hint of pride she may use words like 'gamer' or 'scrappy' to describe his art of self-defense. then she, the sixth of seven children, will go about her day, leaving me alone in my quiet disbelief.

before running out the door one morning i was sent upstairs to get a replacement dress for one that got soiled during breakfast. once upstairs i couldn't find the particular garment i was told to retrieve.

TROY (calling down steps)
hey bella, do you know where your red dress is? it's not in your closet.

BELLA (calling up steps)
uhhhm ... try checking in ... uhhhm ... did you look in ... uhhhm ... just try looking harder dad.

would you believe, her suggestion worked.

a new TROYSCRIPT was posted today. you should know

i have to go pee dad.

this is how it starts. with a small boy still in the rudimentary stages of potty-training tightly gripping his groin on a park playground. the more vicious the grip, the less time you have. you must also assess the feet because if they are fidgeting, time is extra-short. on this day, i gave the fist-feet combination a 7 out of 10 on the urgency scale. we were also about 50 yards from the indoor restroom. totally doable. i call across the park:

bella, i need you. come with us please.

why?

alex has to go pee.

ahhhh. i don't want to go.

come on, bell.

en route, i endure a lecture from bella about how she doesn't want to go to the bathroom and how she is old enough to stay at the park by herself. she informs me she is not going to go into the restroom because it is the boys room since mom is not here and boys are gross. and their bathrooms stink. and they can be mean. as we enter the rec center i point to a leather-bound chair and tell her she can wait there. she falls into it with an exaggerated huff.

when we get into the stall, i look at alex's fist and speculate his penis hasn't seen an oxygenated blood cell in four minutes. i lay a few sheets of toilet paper on the seat, pants the child and throw him on the commode. a heavy torrent begins the second his buttocks touch the seat, like there's some button-mechanism on his ass that controls his urethra's flow. when the stream ends, i ask him if he's done. a clenched face looks up at me, struggling to enunciate ...

i have to go poop.

oh. ok. that's fine. go poop.

in a still clenched and strained manner he informs me that he 'needs privacy'.

oh. sure. of course. i step out of the stall and lean against it. i take the first full breath of air since he announced his need on the playground. a guy at the other end of the long restroom calls out, asking if anyone has lost a girl.

i think she's mine. bella?

father. where are you? you guys are taking sooooo long.

bella, we're almost done. alex is going poop.

i'm done dad.

ok alex. i'll be right there. bella. wait right there.

dad, i'm done.

i know alex. i'm coming.

but dad. i've got to go too.

uuhhh, bella. ok wait just one minute. let me get alex.

dad. where are you? i'm done.

coming alex.

but, dad i have to go right now.

ok bella. coming.

i wipe alex and raise his two pair of underwear, one pair of pants and two pair of shorts. don't ask. meanwhile, bella has gone into another stall and is working on getting on the toilet. i come in, get her on the seat and am told she also needs privacy. i step out. she tells me to lock the door. i explain i can't lock it if i can't be in there. alex crawls under the stall before i can shriek for him to get off the ground. bella counsels him on how to work the lock. after he secures the door, she instructs him to leave. he crawls back out of the stall. more ground. more shrieking. bella calls that she's done and needs wiped. i explain i can't get in there because she locked the door. she clarifies that she didn't lock it and that alex did. during my eye-roll, alex shoots back under the stall. i've since surrendered that battle. he unlocks the door. i get bella out and place both kids in front of the sinks, even though what i really need is a mild acid and fire-hose. bella uses this time to reiterate, loudly, her male theory explaining how boys are dirty and gross and mean. three men standing at urinals turn their heads our way. i smile. they don't.

we make our way back to the playground. it's now twenty-one minutes since alex first called me. three minutes later alex approaches me again ...

i'm thirsty dad. can i have a drink?

no.

why no? i'm thirsty.

because then you'll have to pee again.

this is unfortunately not an atypical dinner conversation at our table

BELLA
dad, you're going to die first.

TROY
what? me? why do i have to die first?

BELLA
because you're the tallest and the tallest means the smallest life.

TROY
well, i'm not such a great fan of that.

MARTY
it's ok troy. someone has to be first.

BELLA
and mom, you're next.

bella starts kindergarten today.

as if i'm not already enough of a mess with this looming milestone, i've had a number of veteran parents tell me that the period before your oldest child starts full-day school is the golden era of parenthood. the rationale claims that once a child enters school-proper, parenting becomes more challenging given the child's exposure to people you haven't liked enough to personally invite into your home. the theory does seem sound. the theory also does seem to suck a whole lot. on the positive side though, while some of the folks bella will be forced to interact with will be evil, the process is sure to bring some experience-rich personalities to the table she/we would not have otherwise met.

and as proof of the universe's incontrovertible balancing act, the same weekend our golden era ends, bookpimp's journey begins. congratulations michael and christine on the birth of your first child.

wish me luck. wish bookpimp luck. wish anyone responsible for tiny heart-absconding humans luck.

the day after sassafras was born, i took the kids to the hospital to meet their younger brother. bella immediately latched onto the newborn making various cooing and gooing noises at him while waggling a finger over his face and belly. alex immediately went to marty taking his rightful spot on her lap. about five minutes into the visit bella spoke up and said she knew what we should name the baby. we asked what, preparing our poker faces for the worst. she confidently announced Abrey. after her proclamation she turned and hunched back over the infant as if the matter were resolved. marty and i both made faces, but they were different.

TROY
i kinda like it.

MARTY
what did she even say, avery?

TROY
no, abrey.

MARTY
spell it.

TROY
A-B-R-E-Y.

MARTY
abrey? that's not even a name.

TROY
sure it is. everything is a name.

MARTY
well, i don't like it.

TROY
and if i do?

MARTY
i'm not naming a child abrey.

TROY
it's two against one.

MARTY
alex, come here.

here's a thing to know when negotiating with the human who just spat another, smaller human out of their special hole; they always possess more stock in the business at hand than you. so abrey was out. after a brief bout of panic and uncertainty a name was unanimously agreed upon ... anthony. anthony walter dearmitt.

that said, everyone in our house calls him something different. marta calls him anthony. i call him antonio. bella calls him abrey. and alex calls him sassafras. no reason to not get a quick jump on the schizophrenia his world is sure to bring.


click here peggy

alex likes barney. we tivo the show routinely but, for reasons i don't understand, he always insists on watching a solitary barney tape that somehow came into our possession. he's had to have seen the thirty-minute episode over fifty times. he refers to this show as 'white barney'. it's dubbed as such because the physical cassette is white in color, instead of the usual black. while this innocuous reference poses no problem in our home, it occasionally creates discomfort when out and about in our diverse community.

if before any of this took place, had someone presented this exact scenario to me soliciting my opinion, i would have thought little of it, proclaiming the child's rant to be simple and harmless. however, in the few instances we've been out and he's decided he wanted to watch the show, like now, and freaks out when he can't, things gets murky. because reality has me pushing a stroller through a crowded urban street with a fitful child wailing WHITE BARNEY, WHITE BARNEY, I WANT WHITE BARNEY NOW! at the top of his lungs. needless to say, i find the questioning gazes of onlookers to be a tad challenging. i don't know what they think. i don't know what i would think. but i don't think they think he's asking to watch a recorded episode of barney that just happens to be on a white VHS tape and if they aren't thinking that are they thinking this kid might as well be yelling ARYAN JOE, ARYAN JOE, I WANT ARYAN JOE NOW! because in the end, i think that might be what i was thinking had i witnessed the scene.

as for why this situation has never escalated beyond uncertain glances, i can't say for certain, but the fact that alex looks like the product of an international adoption surely can't hurt the cause.

if we are at someone's home and bella has to use the restroom she employs the best of manners. she seeks out the host(ess), asks them where their restroom is and if she may use it. after receiving consent and directions she turns and hurriedly moves towards it. if what she has to do is poop, she will pause, turn and ask if they have father wipes<...

a new TROYSCRIPT was posted today. look before you leak

marty recently suggested, seriously, that we replace our current furniture with outdoor/patio chairs and tables because she doesn't see the point in replacing our home's kid-broken furnishings with nice stuff just so it can be trashed like the originals.

i upgraded her thought by suggesting indoor tire swings and felled tree trunks like they use in the great apes display at the zoo. i mean why sugar-coat the problem we are combatting.

last night after brushing teeth and knocking the larger, more visible pieces of earth off the children we walked into their bedroom for pajamas and books. it was at this point we learned that earlier in the day bella had given one of her stuffed tabby cats an impressively thorough haircut. fine black and white synthetic hair coated the sheets of her and alex's bed as well as many other nooks and crannies of the room (damn the oscillating fan). and for added effect, perfectly centered in the room lay the large pair of orange-handled scissors used to commit the malfeasance. truth told, upon first impression, it looked like something pretty wicked happened in this corner of the house and i was somewhat relieved that the only victim was not only inanimate but also not one of my belongings.

as punishment we made bella vacuum the mess up. not only did she prove quite skilled at the cleaning, she enjoyed the act immensely all but asking if there was more she could do elsewhere in the home before going to bed.

i once read that the key to effective discipline is always knowing your child's currency, the one thing they covet above all else. i fear that bella may have read the same article because she's pretty keen at hiding hers from me. there's few things less sucky than handing out what you think is going to be a loathsome task only to have the recipient bouncily say, "ok. i'll get the vacuum' as if it's the high-point of their day.