Big Daddy Paul

Meeting Malcolm for the first time was one of the best moments of my life, ranking right up there with getting the game winning hit in the 1982 Little League championship and the first time I ever tried Queso Fundido. The kid was a spitting image of me, and I cried knowing that he was going to be every bit of the hunk that I am today. (I also cried at all the horrible names that Amy called me in front of the nursing staff, but I try not to focus on the negative aspects of Malcolm’s arrival.) Throughout his childhood, both Amy and I have marveled at the little ways Malcolm reminds us of ourselves.

At Malcolm’s tee ball game the other day, I realized that there is a downside to having your kid share your traits. Malcolm was consistently the last kid out of the dugout, unable (every inning apparently) to keep track of his hat and mitt. As his coaches yelled out wondering where he was, I felt responsible. I have the organizational skills of chicken running around without its head, and evidently Malcolm thinks this is a perfectly acceptable way to approach life. Getting us both out of the house at the same time closely resembles the chaos of a meth lab being raided by federal agents. Sometimes I wish the apple fell farther from the tree.

Sadly, this is the same outfit I wore to my prom.

I have also noticed that Malcolm shares my disdain for the fashion rules of polite society. He seems to select his outfits to ensure that every color in the rainbow is represented. Lately he has even compounded his fashion faux pas by attempting to wear as many clothes as possible each day. Today, he came out of his room  with four different sets of pajamas on. I was the same way growing up, looking like I got dressed each day by randomly selecting clothes after a bomb blew up at the clown college.

One of the more interesting ways that Malcolm is showing off my traits is the comments he makes while watching baseball games. I have high expectations for my Giants, and am quick to announce my displeasure whenever they do not meet my lofty standards. Malcolm has picked up on this, and if you watch games with him, you can routinely hear him make comments like, “What are you thinking?” or “Dude, you are killing me!” I have even gone so far as to try and teach him the razz, “Grab some pine, meat!!!” (for when an opposing player strikes out) and am eagerly waiting when he can actually use it properly. Most of the time, he butchers it, saying,”Grab some meat, piney,” or other close derivation.

My heart melts a little bit when I see my good looking little boy, sitting on our messy couch with four pairs of pajamas on, yelling at the baseball players on the TV. Yes, a melting heart, kind of like the cheese on a perfectly executed Queso Fundido.

People have kids for many reasons. Some people have kids because they feel a natural desire to reproduce, or need extra hands to pick crops in the fields. Others don’t really want kids, but receive a little bundle of joy as the reminder of a drunken hookup nine long months ago. Still others want to repopulate the earth with kids bearing their political affiliation and/or genetic markers. Not me.

I wanted to have a kid so I could play soccer. I am too old and too fat to go out and join a soccer league by myself, so I figured the easiest way for me to get back into the sport I played all throughout my childhood was to get Amy pregnant, somehow make it through the newborn and toddler phases, and then get to the point where the kid was old enough to want to run around on a soccer field with me. Sure, it’s not the easiest route to play “the beautiful game,” but then again, it’s no worse than having a healthy brood of kids for the sole purpose to revive the movement to reestablish nacho bars in school cafeterias.

Our neighbors got it right, they brought a nacho machine to a block party!

(I grew up on them, why can’t everyone else?!)

At the park today, Malcolm and I started up a game of soccer with some other kids and a fellow stay at home dad. I felt a certain sense of jubilation as we ran around pretending to be world cup stars and watching with pride as the kids passed the ball to each other and celebrated after scoring goals against us. I don’t really care whether Malcolm was any good (he wasn’t) but just the the fact that he was out there and having fun with me made me smile.  All in all, not a bad day at the park, I burned some calories, scored a few goals, and fulfilled a lifelong dream. Now, bring on the nacho bar petition!

I’m doing some double duty this week, because I am pretty sure most of you don’t want to hear about my stupid dietary fetishes. Here is the regularly scheduled content:

When I pick up Malcolm from preschool, I am usually met with a herd of thundering little legs welcoming me to their school. Sometimes, this makes me feel like a rock star, because I am usually not so well received. (Actually most of the time, when I walk in the room, people grab a phone or a newspaper and to make it seem like they are busy and cannot talk to me.) Nine times out of ten, the kids jump up and down and tell me that Malcolm has graciously accepted their request to have a play date our house. Usually, the play date has been scheduled that day.

At first, I took these requests seriously and attempted to discuss the play date possibility with the other kid’s parents when I saw them at the school. Then I realized two things: first, I noticed that I don’t really have the time to do play dates more than once or twice a week. If I have to choose between taking Malcolm to the park and playing baseball with him myself or watching him beat the tar out of one of his classmates, I’ll gladly choose the former. Second, I noticed that I either don’t like the kids or probably wouldn’t like their parents, or more often than not, both. ( I would also consider the fact that the other parents would either not like Malcolm and/or me, but I have recently come to the conclusion that we are both awesome and that everyone else would be lucky to have us in their presence.) Check out this post for a more detailed description of the play dating scene.

Everybody to our house for a party? Not likely!

Now, when the kids all come running at me to tell me about their impeding extracurricular festivities, I smile and say, “Sounds good dude, I just gotta talk to your parents first.” I then hightail it out of there like the guy who yelled, “Drill Baby, Drill!” at the meeting of the Louisiana Fishing Association dinner. I am pretty fast, and have never actually had to break down and agree to a play date that hasn’t been set up in advance. I will do a lot for Malcolm, but no one says I have to do everything.  Makes sense. After all, I am a rock star.

Have you ever had any impromptu play dates?

No doubt, I miss this!

As kids grow, your job changes. I am definitely sad that about things Malcolm and I used to do that we no longer do: the shared afternoon nap on the couch, the little sounds he’d make when falling asleep on my chest, the way he’d shriek “daddy!” just when hot moms would lean over his stroller and briefly expose themselves. Yep, a lot stuff to miss. There are, however, some some things I don’t have to do anymore that I am totally and utterly glad I don’t have to do. Here are a few:

Putting on the seat belt. I never knew how much I hated bending over and getting Malcolm strapped into the booster seat until the day when I told him I wasn’t going to do it anymore. I felt like the nudist on the first day of bare-ass naked camp. So free, so unencumbered. I think deep down, I disliked having to put his seat belt on myself because, being in such close proximity, there was always a chance that Malcolm would take a swipe at me and hit me in the face. He can’t reach me in the front seat, and I feel much safer.

Wiping his butt. It may seem like a no-brainer that I would dislike wiping Malcolm’s butt, but I never forgot how awful it was to clean up a poopy diaper. Having to wipe feces out of every nook and cranny in your kid’s backside was a detail oriented task that offended all five of my senses.  I hated every second of it, and relished the comparatively small task of wiping Malcolm after he pooped in the toilet. Having just told Malcolm that I am out of the butt wiping game altogether, he now is the exclusive service provider for all aspects of the bowel evacuation process. Now, when he heads into the bathroom with a copy of the Wall Street Journal, I smile at the realization that I have don’t have to do anything.

Getting him dressed. I used to think I liked doing this. In the playground of my mind, I believed that sat and talked and played silly little games that involve underpants covering the neenee, sockies covering toesies, and a ticklefest every time his shirt would go over his head. Seeing other parents get their kids dressed at swim class, though, made me realize the actual process of getting your kids to put clothes on involves cajoling, threats and the child trying to wander off and do anything and everything but get dressed. The parents are exasperated micromanagers who, when they have finally managed to complete their task, can only claim that their child is now dressed and ready to begin their day. Meanwhile, I sit in the corner of the locker room playing scrabble on my phone, and don’t really care how long it takes Malcolm to get ready. Pure bliss.

Any of you glad to be done with a stage of parenting?