A Quick Note

I spaced this weekend. I totally spaced.

Near the end of the day on Friday, I realized I hadn’t yet posted for Freaky Friday. The next time I looked up, it was after midnight. Oops.

On Saturday, I spent the day building forts and going on imaginary treasure hunts with my kids and cleaning up around the house. I assembled a shoe rack. At one point, I had the baby strapped to me in a carrier while I did the dishes. Also, I was in my boxers. Maybe I was trying to turn my wife on.

That evening, after the kids went to bed, we decided to rest, so we started a show we’d heard good things about: Scandal. We binged on that. Then, well, I had done the dishes earlier …

The next time I looked up, it was after midnight. Oops.

I decided to make Sunday a day of rest, and by that I mean a day of working on freelance projects. Plus more Scandal.

And now, here we are.

I’ll get back to the regularly scheduled posting today, but it was nice having a few days off, even if they weren’t planned.


Memory Week: What’s My Age Again?


I can fall asleep anywhere. In college, I would fall asleep in class, at club meetings, and even when hanging out with friends. It didn’t bother me, but it annoyed some of said friends. “If you’re tired, just go to bed,” they’d say.

I’ve never seen why falling asleep is offensive to some people. When I’m hungry, I eat. When I’m thirsty, I drink. And I frequently do both in front of other people—even strangers. When somebody’s tired, they should be able to fall asleep. No guilt.

My wife does not really appreciate me sleeping anywhere else than in bed. We’ll be watching a TV show together on the couch downstairs, and I’ll start to nod off. I don’t mind, but she often does. I’ve had to work to convince her that I like curling up next to her or putting my head on her shoulder or lap, that it’s comforting to fall asleep leaning on her, knowing she’s there. If she’s not ready for bed, but I’m ready for sleep, I’ll put off going to bed. But not sleeping.

Tonight, after I was nodding off during Call the Midwife—a show I really enjoy—I suggested that she watch something I don’t typically watch with her, and that I sleep next to her. I still don’t think she gets it, but she agreed and put on an episode of Sister Wives.

I very quickly nodded off, but bolted upright when I heard my secondborn shouting “Daaaad!” from upstairs.

My wife just laughed. “That was on the show,” she said. “It came from the TV.”

Puzzled, I insisted that I’d heard our daughter calling for me. No, she said, it was on the show. Go back to sleep. So I did.


I snapped up again.

“That’s her this time!” I said, jolted out of sleep again.

Nope. It was the same scene in Sister Wives, being played as a recap after a commercial break made nonexistent by Netflix.

My memory of the rest of my pre-bedtime nap gets hazier from that point, but I’m fairly positive I heard the child shouting a third time. The resemblance to my 4-year-old’s voice was uncanny. I could feel my heart thumping heavily in my chest after each startling “Daaaad!”

* * *

I started this week by noting that I don’t really think my memory is fading, and I’d say that repeatedly forgetting that the yelling I’m hearing is coming from the TV—not my daughter—doesn’t really count, due to the sleep-induced fuzziness.

As the title of today’s post indicates, however, I have noticed some particular trouble in remembering how old I am. In my most recent Freaky Friday post, for instance, I jumped the birthday gun by three weeks—something my wife quickly pointed out. I did something similar earlier in this blog’s life, too, in my most popular post to date, when I said I went to Disneyland for my 34th birthday. Actually, it was for my 32nd birthday.

* * *

So now, since I took a late-evening nap and my wife didn’t, she’s sleeping next to me—in bedwhile I write this post. This is nice, too, and I’ve sort of gotten used to interrupted sleep cycles due to kids climbing in bed with us over the years. In fact, as I started typing this paragraph, the baby woke up and is now tucked on the other side of my wife. If history is any indicator, he’ll eventually end up between us, and he’ll be kicking me in the face by 4 a.m., meaning I’ll probably start nodding off in church tomorrow morning—another place people don’t like to see me falling asleep.

Thanks Week: Animal House


This happens a lot:

I’ll be telling some anecdote or other about my kids, and no matter the subject—whether I’m talking about a funny thing they did or complaining about how they keep me awake at night—a listener will follow up with a similar story. But about a pet.

I get it. I really do. There are plenty of similarities between my kids and your pet. They both eat off of the floor. They’re both so cute. They both bite. They both have accidents that jeopardize the return of a full security deposit. They both get sick at inopportune times and in inopportune places, like the bed at 2 a.m. Or the laundry basket right before work. They both look up eagerly when you say something that isn’t their name, but do it with the same inflection as if you were saying their name. Classic.

I generally don’t mind the comparison. Why should I? Families come in all shapes and sizes, and not all those sizes and shapes are human. When listing the members of her family for a school project yesterday morning, my 6-year-old wrote her sister’s name, followed by “little brother” and then “sea monkeys.” (I cleaned up the spelling for her here.)

Pets are awesome. I wish I lived somewhere I could have a dog, at least.

Pets and kids present their own respective joys and challenges. That’s why today I’m thankful for families of all kinds. Some people’s pets are their kids. They’re expensive. They’re worrisome. They’re affectionate and amazing. And they make me a little jealous, because such families don’t panic when they realize that they haven’t started a college savings plan yet.

And even though pets and kids are different, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear about your animal, or that I think less of you if you have cats instead of children. Not at all. When I talk about how my fussy baby kept my wife and I up for 36 hours straight, and then I’m not super sympathetic when you tell me, “Oh, I know exactly how you feel! My cat wouldn’t stop meowing last night!”—when I, in fact, roll my eyes—it’s because I’m cranky and sleep deprived. Also because it’s not exactly the same. Cats can catch and eat bugs if you don’t feed them right away—though I guess kids can, too. Look, just give me this one.

A particular co-worker of mine and I discuss this topic at length, frequently, mostly because I talk about elementary-schooler and toddler issues and she counters with feline and canine ones.

Just a few days ago, I had shared some antic of my son’s, after which my co-worker immediately related a tale about her greyhound. Then she laughed and—perhaps anticipating a remark from me—said, “No, I’m not comparing my dog to your animal.”

Her eyes widened.

“Child,” she said. “My dog to your child. Sorry.”

Fright Week: Back Up, Mr. DeMille

Fright Week: Back Up, Mr. DeMille

I was up late last night playing Dungeons and Dragons (I’m just a level 2 bard, so don’t think I’m all hardcore or anything), so I decided to sleep in this morning.

Except, of course, I didn’t clear that with my son, who woke up at 6 and didn’t believe my wife and me when we told him it was still the middle of the night. It was dark out, so we thought we had a shot.

As the day brightened and the sun eventually came up, I realized that I neglected to post a pic of my freshly shaven face yesterday, the first of November/Movember. So here it is, freakishly close, to preserve some of the mystique of what I actually look like when I’m not a dimorphic-eyed doodle (for those of you who don’t know).

Wife, if you’re reading this, you can pretend I’m coming in for a kiss. Enjoy it while you can, as the stubble’s about to get painful.