So maybe the “In Theaters March 2013″ part is just wishful thinking. Hey, I’ll settle for straight-to-DVD.
It’s not easy reuniting your toddler with his two best friends from daycare for weekend plans. You’re dealing with three different napping schedules… enough said.
The plan was for Jack, Henry, and Sophie to hang out at a park playground, but then a random thunderstorm showed up.
By 3:45 on a Sunday afternoon, it was difficult to justify paying to get into one of those indoor playgrounds, knowing we would all just need to get our kids home for dinner after about an hour and a half anyway.
So by default, the mall became our play date destination.
I admit, I really had no expectations on how things would go. I mean, normally, I would have low expectations in regards to meeting fellow parents and their kids at a place I haven’t really tried out myself.
Turns out, it was a good gamble. Our German-looking kids found plenty of activities to keep themselves entertained.
All we had to do was follow them around and keep up with them like a camera crew on any given TLC reality show.
The more we chased them, though, the less necessary I felt. I don’t mean that in a sad way, though.
Instead, I could easily imagine it like some straight-to-DVD movie about three toddlers who take over the mall after hours.
Like all those goofy Air Bud movies, the toddlers would have computer-animated mouths and they would talk like adults.
So it would sort of be like Look Who’s Talking meets Air Bud if Air Bud revolved around toddlers instead of athletic dogs.
I suppose the plot line would involve a kooky Croatian villain named Mr. Stincovic who coincidentally happens to sneak into the mall at the same time in order to sabotage Santa’s upcoming visit the next day, by bringing in potato sacks full of skunks.
Does that sound lame enough for a straight-to-DVD kids movie? It doesn’t take much.
In the likeness of Home Alone, the three toddlers would use the mall itself to torture Mr. Stincovic with booby trapped obstacles:
They would pour out Dippin’ Dots in a trail leading from the food court to the carousel, which happens to be running at all times, unmanned.
Once Mr. Stincovic, who goes by “Mr. Stinky” for short, as if the pun wasn’t obvious enough for 4 year-old viewers, lands conveniently on the carousel horse, Henry would pull the lever from “slow” to “turbo power,” causing Mr. Stinky to fly up into the rafters.
There, Mr. Stinky is pestered by a dozen remote controlled mini-helicopters until either A) the police arrive or B) he decides not to sabotage Santa’s visit, but instead becomes an elf, as Mr. Stinky learns the true meaning of Christmas.
So yeah, that’s pretty much what Mall Toddlers would consist of. You would be able to find it the very bottom selection of DVD’s on the Redbox panel screen.
Or instead of waiting for the anticipated world-wide release of Mall Toddlers, you could just check out some more pictures of when Jack, Henry, and Sophie took over the mall. Click here to check them out on The Dadabase‘s Facebook wall.
It’s rumored that some of my not-so-distant Italian ancestors had ties to the 1940′s Chicago mob scene.
Based on the mannerisms that my son Jack does, I could very easily see that to be true.
Thinking back on comments people tell me when they meet Jack in person or even just when they see his pictures, they people say he looks (and acts) either very serious or extremely happy. But not not much in-between; not much of an emotional transition.
It’s basically how Robert DeNiro, Al Pacino, and Joe Pesci act in every movie I’ve seen them in: They never smile… until they do. And by that point, once they’ve reached their giddy stage… watch out!
Because by that point, the insanity has set in.
Yeah, that’s Jack.
He’s sort of a little mobster.
Besides “mine,” his favorite word right now is “UP!”
Jack has a deep, raspy voice. And when he says the word “up” he says it slowly and with that extra syllable at the end, like a native Italian speaker.
So I’ve got this mini-man now telling me “UHP-PEH!” (Like a baby boss!)
I have to admit, it’s almost intimidating.
We can be playing with his toys on the carpet in the living room and all of the sudden, he says to me: “UP!”
That means he’s ready to go outside or play in a different room or if nothing else, I have to hurry and find a new way to entertain him.
The thing is, I sort of have to do what he says. If he’s tired of an activity, even if it’s eating, and he says, “All done!” then I have to act on it.
It’s not like the kid is going to patiently wait for me to finish what I was doing first.
The more I think about it, I really am a henchman for a mobster; who happens to be only 21 months old.
I serve him. I feed him. I dress him. I drive him. I tuck him into bed. I do his shopping for him.
Even though I make him say please first, he’s still ultimately telling me what to do. (Like a baby boss!)
And I do it.
My son is the Todfather. But you didn’t hear that from me.
It’s hard to believe that my kid is nearly a year and a half and he just now threw up for the first time. That’s pretty weird, right?
Granted, when he was an infant, he would spit up a little milk occasionally. But in general, he would drool more than he ever spit up.
But last Thursday, during a night we really needed some extra sleep because of the drive the next night to Alabama for Easter, we heard a sudden cough, then a [splat!] from the other bedroom.
Fortunately, my son was cool about it. He only puked directly on his blanket in his crib; then directly into the bathtub.
He didn’t vomit on me, nor my wife; at least not directly. And man, the carpet in his room was all clear too. Such a considerate 16 month-old I have.
Just to make sure we knew what we were doing, he waited about 10 minutes after we got him all cleaned up and back to bed before he did the exact same thing again.
Oh yeah, and I didn’t mention: It was all spaghetti.
There’s something about cleaning up the vomited version of a food that causes you to never see it the same way again.
I say that, yet this morning my wife asked me:
“For lunch today, do you want to take the rest of this spaghetti- the kind that Jack got sick from?”
The answer was yes. That was indeed what I ate for lunch today; only I didn’t get sick.
I am Dad; the janitor and the human garbage disposal.
Today I help out a fellow dad whose wife has revoked his ability to help with their kid and the housework… or has she?
“Nick, what advice do you have for me on this? Since our infant child arrived several months ago, my wife complains (or mutters under her breath) on a daily basis that I’m not helpful enough with the baby or the housework, then complains when I do try to help.
She tells me it’s just easier to do it herself. I can’t win! Help me dude!”
Let me guess. Like me, you’ve always been a pretty laid-back guy. You’re friendly. You tend not to let things bother you, for the most part.
I say, that’s a great way to be; except for all the times that being aggressive and proactive come in to play. As a dad and husband, that actually ends up being a lot of the time.
Your wife is ultimately upset, not because she would rather do things herself, but because she’s having to take on the majority of the household duties, including caring for your child.
She needs you to take charge, even if you have to figure it out as you go along.
I get it. You don’t know as much about where the mixing bowl and the pasta strainer belong; nor do you know exactly how to fold the kitchen towels the right way.
You’re a man, so it’s frustrating that you don’t naturally know as much about the world of Home Ec; much less what to do with a crying infant who at this point can not tell you exactly what he or she wants or needs.
I understand how you feel when you say your wife wants you to read her mind. There’s a Colbie Collait song called “Realize” that sums it up for me:
“I can’t spell it out for you. No, it’s never gonna be that simple.”
The #1 item on that nonexistent list of hers is for you to figure out for yourself all the other items on that list.
But isn’t that reading her mind?
Technically, but let me translate this scenario into guy language: Imagine if every time before you and your wife had sex, she said, “The reason I’m doing this is because I know it’s one of the things you want me to do as your wife.”
[Insert screeching brakes sound effect here.]
Regarding your help with the housework and baby, she wants you to show the initiative of making that list yourself, then taking care of those tasks as needed, and not ever referring to this list to begin with. She doesn’t want you to be passive, not instead, proactive.
She wants you to want to figure out what needs to be done; which is the very thing that frustrates you.
It’s like that episode of Seinfeld where Kramer is the Moviephone guy and says to George, “Why don’t you just tell me the name of the movie you selected?”
It may involve some trial and error, but figure out what stuff you can take care while she’s caring for the baby and everything else. Observe what specifically is that “everything else” and add it to the list.
Pretty soon, you’ll have “the list” memorized and make a daily habit of checking off those items naturally by habit.
Washed dishes and emptied dishwasher? Check.
Folded laundry? Check.
Rock the baby to sleep for afternoon nap? Check.
Observed that your wife has stopped complaining about you not helping out enough because you care enough to figure out how to lighten her burden? Check.
Would you like to ask me for “dadvice” to be featured here on The Dadabase?
Just shoot me an email to nickshell1983@hotmail with the word “dadvice” in the subject line so I’ll know it’s not spam. Even if I decide not to use your question as part of my Dadvice franchise, I’ll still at least privately answer you; whether you’re a mom or dad.
Keep in mind it doesn’t have to be about communication in marriage. It could be about organic foods and health remedies, methods on getting your baby to sleep, a re-occurring dream about your kid; just whatever kind of weird parenthood related thing you are wondering about and want this dad’s quirky opinion on.
It’s Sunday night and I’m exhausted. My wife is upstairs with our son right now giving him a bath and then she’ll put him to bed for the night.
Finally, I have a good 25 minutes to think about whatever I want to, including “nothing,” without hearing him crying, without trying to keep him from making a mess, or without attempting to invent yet another new way to entertain him.
In other words, I’m spent.
Physically, mentally, and psychologically, I’m done for the weekend. I hate to admit I look forward to going to the office in the morning, but I do.
Why, though?
Because there’s no way to verify my productivity as a dad.
I would love it at the end of the day to receive a “Daddy Report Card.” A while back, I explained that I am the kind of person who thrives on constructive criticism. I’m obsessed with being the best possible version of myself I can be.
Without knowing how to improve and without someone being brave enough to tell me; and without some confirmation of what I’m actually doing right, I tend to get disillusioned, frustrated, and even angry.
Welcome to fatherhood… I know, right?
It doesn’t change the fact that I have good reason to feel this way right now.
At my sales job, the numbers at the end of the month give me a confirmation either way whether or not my dedication paid off.
Here writing for Parents.com, I can know at any moment how well (or unwell) a particular article of mine is doing with readers by viewing something called StatCounter.
Like today, I am pleased to see all my hard work writing about chicken nuggets paid off; people evidently want to know how those things are made. Certain posts like this one take less than 25 minutes and I’m done; just vulnerable streaming of consciousness. But the one about mechanically separated chicken took about 4 days and several people editing it for me to get it just right.
If only a stressful day in Dadland was like that:
“Today, you scored a 99. The only thing to improve on based on today’s role as a dad was that you let him eat a Cheerio off the floor.”
See, that would be cool. I don’t know- blame it on my culture or my generation. I sort of like instant gratification.
Parenthood isn’t that way. Can you really ever know when you’re successful at it? Maybe when they grow up?
