Pooptine Chapel

Once upon a time, I went to work. I do this most days, its a thing. Well the funny thing about this day in particular was it began with me being late for work. Ok, that's not all that bad, I mean we are all late at some point. No the most interesting thing about this day was on the drive home from the hangar, my wife called. I being the caring husband i am answered and the day got crappy...

I should have known something was amiss when all I heard was uncontrollable sobbing through the handset of the phone. I pressed for answers, was everything ok? "*crying, with the word "everywhere" understandable. I asked again What? *crying with the word Logan understandable. I was worried, Logan is everywhere? Did he pull the TV on him? *crying with the word No, its everywhere"

I only have a 10 min drive to work, so I was pulling in the driveway at this time. I pulled in, rushed inside and Jo was at the door waiting, tears in her eyes. Whats wrong I asked again? She pulled herself together for a last attempt at communication.

"Logan Pooped, its everywhere"

I was relieved, obviously my son had a bad diaper, and my wife a long day. I know the two don't mix well, she was just in hysterics. I said "Ill clean him up, take a break.

I went upstairs to go clean my son off, and change his clothes. My world was about to change, and not in the good way, like I just bought a new car, or I won 20 bucks on a scratcher. More like...I ran over my dog while late for work, and then got a flat tire on the highway, when changing the tire got splashed by disgusting puddle water, and then little raptors rain from the sky to eat little bits of my flesh over the next 3 days bad.

The first thing that hit me was the smell, it was a bad one. I was reminded of camp, when it got hot and the wind didn't blow in the latrine. But this was Virginia Summer, so its humid, which makes smell a 1000% stronger and adds the effect of taste.

I walked in to Logan's room, and there he stood, a pillar of all that is baby, he turned to look at me cheered and pointed to his handiwork. On the wall, the toy chest, the bed, the chair, the bookcase, the books, the duplos, the pushcart, the stuffed animals, the nightlight, the mattress, the carpet, the door, the trim work, the window, the drapes, the closet, the hanging clothes, the shoes, the dresser, his hands, his face, his one sock and his body.

In his other hand was a diaper, his palette. and the good news is, it was almost the cleanest thing in his room. I walked in, carefully, as if navigating a minefield. to survey the damage....Then i looked up, and saw my 2 year old had somehow painted on the ceiling. I was both shocked and impressed, all at the same time. After the damage to my soul had been accomplished. I pulled out some cleaning supply, and we began to clean. We cleaned for a long time, a very long time. After we cleaned and had a long talk about why we don't draw on the walls, we went downstairs for dinner. While our family ate in silence, i thought about the artistic talent my son possessed, then I remembered the drawings on the wall, they were pretty shitty.

Oh yeah, his chosen media to express himself was poop, from his diaper.

Have a great Day!,
austininva

A New years Resolve (2020)

Trouble Maker in Chief

With the new year approaching, I have decided, its a great time to sit down and write more. To that end, I am looking at a bi-weekly upload schedule for blog posts. With that in mind, I think I may focus the random rabbit holes to humorous, and then fan out from there. Maybe when I get back in the hang of this blog thing, I can try a more aggressive plan.

In the meantime, I feel you deserve to be left with a chuckle.

I think its every mothers dream, or at least wish that her children are the sweetest and most cute, balls of joy in existence. Now, while my kids are on the cute scale, they most certainly have moments when they are more on the "no one would find the bodies" scale. (insert story of the Pooptine Chapel here.)

Tonight after the older two went to bed, baby Slayden was having playtime with Mom and Dad. He loves to rough house, by the way, baby rough house basically consists of Slayden crawling over my legs, and crawling back over. Its fun for him I suppose, but, leave him out of real play time with the big kids. Stand by for his wrath, because he will be included.

Jokes aside,

He has developed the cutest habit. He gives me kisses and hugs, and then looks at my wife with a cruel grin. I should quantify the above statement, with this... He WILL NOT hug or kiss my wife. He will push away and run to me, and give me big slobbery baby kisses, throw his head back over his shoulders and give the stink eye to Jo. And then will rub it in, by a rinse and repeat cycle, that will go on till something more exciting catches his eye.

Being the loving and caring husband I am, I of course comfort my wife with words of support like. "See who the baby loves more" and Well, I guess you are not worthy of the slobbery kisses"

I was told I had to do dishes, tonight. and I got to swap out the laundry. I feel these were retaliatory measures....  BUT, I got the last Baby kiss today.

hope your day is great,
austininva

Lake Logan

Once upon a time, a little boy named Logan began to potty train. He used pull ups and Underwear, and learned very quickly what he needed to do. In the middle of a conversation he would run in to exclaim to all present that, "ME POOP, ME POOP, Now Yummy?" And obliging I would hand over a small handful of jelly beans. Someday I wish for the simplicity of life, where I drop my pants goo Poop and get food for free. I feel someone needs to make a form of government based on this principle. For all the humorous events that occurred potty training my 3-year-old, this short post isn't about that, rather it is about the terror that every parent should have with a little boy, who is free of his diaper.

My Wife and I were in the Kitchen, busy moving some furniture in my quarterly re-arrangement of the house, when Logan came rushing in with a loud shout that, "PEE PEE PEE PEE" This usually means one thing. it’s his way of telling me, "PULL THIS CAR OVER RIGHT NOW FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, BEFORE I PEE OVER EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE YOU HOLD DEAR!" To which I have gone across 3 lanes of traffic to exit the interstate in .018 of a mile. (Yes, I am that good.)

So Jo ran out of the kitchen wondering why Logan couldn't get into the bathroom, the door was open, there was toilet paper. But yet Logan yelled more emphatically than before that PEE. I began to worry that he had let a leak in his underwear, but as Jo checked, and that option was taken of the list. She began asking 20 Questions, a 3-year old’s favorite game.

1. Did you pee?
A: Yes
2. Did you pee your pants?
A: No
3. Did the dogs pee?
A: Yes, um no
4. Did the pee in the toilet get flushed?
A: No
5. Where's the pee!?!?!
A: Here Mama, right Here

Around that question, I heard the conversation go more like this...

Oh, no, wait, Oh no please no.. NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

6. DID YOU PEE ON THE FLOOR!?"
A: Yes

My wife then came into the kitchen and sat dejectedly on the chair, and said, that I was needed in the Living room. I went into the living room and Logan looked at me, grabbed his rear end said, sorry dada, sorry dada no spank" grabbed a paper towel and threw it on the lake he had just created in front of the couch.

Needless to say, it was explained we don't pee on the floor. I don't however think he bought my reason about why he can’t, because he kept on referring to the dogs favorite spot to use in the house when they have accidents.

Tomorrow is Friday, and then it’s the weekend... 15 more years, you can do it, just 15 more years :)

Why Do Mattresses Have Handles?

My Father is a man of few words, full of wisdom and a sense of humor few would appreciate or understand. My Wife still to this day doesn't really know if he loves her or is secretly planning her disappearance. He can keep a straight face no matter what, and exudes seriousness, all the time.

There are exceptions to this rule, akin to "I before E except after C." This is a story of one of those exceptions. Some of my Dad's best jokes were made around the dinner table and that's the setting of this blog post. We were seated around the table enjoying a home cooked meal, when someone, I can't remember who (but it was totally my Mother,) let loose the loudest fart that had possibly ever been recorded in human history. I am not exaggerating, air raid sirens got nothing, we had stumbled across a natural replacement for a fog horn and didn't even know it. My dad put his fork down, slowly, and turned his head to my oldest sister and asked her, "Do you know why there are handles on the side of my mattress? My sister promptly answered with the obvious answer, "Its to help you move to bed around!"

To the average person, this would make logical sense. But my father, full of wisdom, was about to edumacate us.

He began by telling us how his average night begins, with a brief warm up sessions in front of the bathroom mirror, "You got this, you can do it, you da man" He then braves entry into his side of the bed gingerly covering himself so as not to disturb my mother and falls asleep.

Then he laid the knowledge bomb on us. The handles are not for moving the mattress, they are for holding onto for dear life when the gale force farts begin. The image of my father holding on for dear life as the warm blast of fart wind billows like a hurricane past him was to much for us. the belly splitting laughs began. He continued....

He explained how he would have to take the poor alarm clock outside to take a breather so it continued functioning, something about the blast broke the electronics?

The flies that roamed the house at night he would give CPR to as he put it, " were flying along fine and then dropped like a paperweight where they lay.


He told us the dogs would begin howling, in terror as the green gas crept down the hallway, cats in the road outside would dart to safety with a shrill yelp.

He told us how he had modified the car of his engine to run off of the methane he collected nightly, and showed us a large mason jar, and explained how it was the preferred method for methane collection

He would go and remake the sheets of the bed while he inevitably waited for the next attack. He would give the call, like in WWI, GAS, GAS, GAS! The masks would go on and the house would regret the choice of seafood for dinner. God help us if chili had been the cuisine of choice, or Heir Mothers favorite, Cereal in Full fat Milk...

As the sun would break it signaled the end of conflict, and my father would get ready for work. Sure of himself and the nights work. He has protected his castle from the chemical assault. He would crack a window or two so ass to let the last of the agent fade into the atmosphere. When the children awoke, oblivious to the nights activities, we would go about our day. Not aware of the nights heroics, not aware that our dad was truly a Superman.

So now you know why their are handles on your Queen and King Size mattresses. It is mankind's feeble attempt to assist the dangerous battles waged under the sheets. To give a sporting chance to the poor husbands of this world who contend with nightly flatulent launchers.

They are there, to help us Survive.

Oh and I totally told my Pastor this story, 2 days after this... #noshame

Attempted Healthy Cooking

I freely admit, that I am not a great cook. Actually, I am pretty horrible in the art of culinary. I can whip up dishes such as Kraft Mac n Cheese, bowls of cereal, the occasional pop tart and cinnamon rolls. I have even been known to craft peanut and jelly sandwiches. But when it comes to more complicated recipes such as Off-brand mac n cheese, microwavable veggies or oven baked pizzas, simply out of my league.


I had lived on my own for several years, single handedly funding my local McDonalds and Wendy's. No for real, look at 2013-2014 stock of McDonalds, I was the reason they did so well. Considering my future health, I decided it was about this time I needed to spend less on food, cook my own meals, save money and eat healthy... so many grown up decisions al at once. I was impressing myself.

I went to the grocery store and enjoyed shopping for a plethora of meals that I deemed simple to start with. one being pre-made biscuits, 15 min in the oven and presto! Biscuits! Sounds easy, I know what your saying, how could this be ruined, its sooo easy. And you may be right, but for me this was a test. I carefully laid out the biscuits on the tray according to the instructions, measuring the distance between them for "optimal" even baking. set the temp in the oven popped them in and went to my computer to spend 15 min before my dinner of biscuits and jelly.


About 4.5 hours later, I smelled a pretty rank stench... it had been growing in power for a few hours, and I could only imagine what my neighbors were cooking, and considered going next door to see if they knew they were burning. As I stood up from my computer, and began walking to my front door. I noticed a black, billowing smoke trail coming from my kitchen. two things came to mind.

1. My smoke detector is obviously broken.

2. My Neighbors have lit a fire that is burning down the apartment complex!
2a. I need to evacuate myself and my laptop!

As I ran into the kitchen to see the roaring fire that must  in the wall. To my surprise, the only thing wrong was my oven  was surrounded by a cloud of stench and smoke. I was relived that no fire was burning down my house. And also steeling myself for the task of retrieving my biscuits for dinner.

Turns out, if you cook biscuits for almost five hours they turn into hockey pucks. Its true, the NHL makes all their own pucks out of Pillsbury biscuit dough. They are most certainly not edible.

As I sat their with my burnt biscuits, I wondered how hard cooking could possibly be. I didn't want to even think about cooking the chicken I had, nor the canned beans... it just was to much, McDonalds was right across the street. So, I put the chicken in the freezer to be tried another day. Instead I had a Mcchicken, its almost the same thing.

Hope your day is amazing!
austininva

How fried chicken ruined my day

When a woman is pregnant, I'm sure it's supposed to be a wonderful time. I mean the commercials portray this time of life as blissful and wonderful. A time when humanity takes some time off and is nice to each other, there are smiles and happiness. As anyone who has been pregnant or has known someone who has been pregnant, you will know that that is the furthest from the truth. Your nights are spent aching, while you toss and turn looking for that 1cm of bed that's actually comfortable, and that 1cm just happens to be in the last 4 inch strip of the bed your husband is gripping onto.

You know that heat and cold take on new and miserable meanings, you will never be comfortable again while the baby is growing. It will always be too hot or too cold, and some days it may be a little of both. And your appetite will turn into that of an alien. Pickles, peanut butter, anchovies and chocolate... the list defies belief and even the mothers to be shudder when they realize what it is they are eating. All the while, the food can't be eaten fast enough.


If you can't tell, my wife and I are expecting #2, and the pregnancy has hit full force.... 6 weeks in....I love my wife and it was at her behest that I write this post. I mean lets face it, this stuff is just to funny not to share.

We had had a long day of errands and it was finally coming to a close. In my house after long days out it's just easier to eat out, or pick something up to bring home. This day in particular we decided to get food so  Logan the Terrible could be put in the dungeon... I mean his bed room for bed. The chores done, the shopping done, and the ice cream melting in the shopping bags in the trunk, a good day over all.

Throughout the day my wife had been commenting over and over and over that she really wanted to have some fried chicken. Which is pregnancy code for, "we better go and get some fried chicken soon or else something or someone is going to die a slow and painful death and they will never find the bodies, and if they do there won't be anything left to identify it as a human." So accordingly I stepped on the gas and sped in search of the closest chicken place.

Jo lurched forward in her seat and yelled and pointed, "THERE! POPEYES!!!" I swerved to make the turn into the parking lot, likely running a car off the road, but in times of war sacrifices must be made. I sped around the building to get in the drive-through and stomped on the brakes when to my wife's horror, there was a line. To be fair, it was a really long line... about 5 cars long.

I looked over at my silent wife and was about to say I am sorry that there's a line, when I saw something that made me start to smile. My wife's upper lip was trembling, and the tears were welling up, and then the flood gates broke. She knew it was nothing, but she couldn't help herself, the line of now 4 cars was just the last straw of the day. she turned to me and explained as only a pregnant hungry woman can, that life was so unfair and that this was just too much.

She went on to explain how these people couldn't possibly all want fried chicken, and as the line shrunk to 2 cars she had to turn around and comfort our son who must have assumed his mother had lost her mind and was bawling for no reason.

next in line the tears began to dry and she anxiously began to scan the menu for what she wanted. I thought about letting her know that they sold, chicken and chicken, and oh look chicken, but after looking at the face reading the chicken menu, I decided it was wiser to not say anything. We got the food, went home, ate, and put Logan to bed. It was only then that my wife cuddled up to me and whispered into my ear, that if I ever told anyone about her breaking down she would have to kill me.

But, I'm glad my wife can laugh at the funny moments in life like this, if not I'm pretty sure I wouldn't last very long, because I lead a funny life, and it wasn't to long after that night, she recanted and suggested I write about the night. I love my wife, I love my life, and boy can I tell you, there's a never ending stream of humor in it.

hope todays a good one,
austininva

edit: This Post has spent along time in draft. We are almost 6 months in now!

Logan the Terrible

I don’t claim to be a scientist, or a doctor, but I am noticing some strange goings on in my house. Particularly things having to do with a certain 2 year old.

They say these are the years of the terrible twos. I will agree with the sentiment implied by this phrase and add to it this. Not on does Logan the Terrible live in my house, he rules it... and he knows it, and abuses this privilege.


Just the other day I was telling my son that eating dog poop... (While I was outside picking up said items) was yucky and to not do it. The punk dropped his find, walked around a tree, stood out of sight for a few moments, poked his head around the corner, to see if I was looking.... and then sprinted he didn’t  run or walk, no he sprinted back to the pile of poop picked it up and ran off... It is a wonder this kid has all his fingers, and has not broke something. After watching the dogs leap off the porch, and not use the steps... well monkey see monkey do has a whole new meaning to me no. Turns out 2year olds cannot fly, much to Logan's amazement.

To say I was in a poopy mood is just punny.


After I chased my Olympic runner son (who knew two year olds could run at the speed of the cheetah for extended periods of time. we went inside, to a place of safety where there was no poop. I could relax, or so I thought.


It was quiet, to quiet, and anyone who has ever raised or babysat a 2 year old knows this is the most dangerous time of all. It means they are doing something they know there not supposed to be doing. They are being sneaky. After a cursory look around the ground floor, I ventured upstairs, to find my son had opened the case I keep all my VERY expensive WWII models for war gaming in true battle array across the floor. It was gory, tanks had be ripped open by high caliber baby hands, men lay where they had fallen victims of a higher form of weapon. Carnage, in its truest form. I am sure I made some kind of sound because Logan looked at me, grunted, pointed to a tank that was missing 90% of its parts, and then ran off. As only a toddler can.

My day was not over yet; my last test of the morning came when we were eating lunch. Logan felt it necessary to share his lunch with the dogs, and threw a handful of food on the ground. I told him no, that his food was for him and not the dogs, he looked at me. I could see him reasoning in his little evil mind, what to do next. Then without breaking eye contact, this punk, took a handful of food, began to bring his hand to his mouth, stopped and threw his hand above the floor and dropped the food for the dogs.

Soon afterwards, (the seconds it took for me to clean his face and take him to bed) he went down for an early nap (2 hour screech fest and 1 hour nap)

I love my child, but some days I do wonder if God made alcohol for parents. I think tonight sounds like a good scotch night.

Hope todays a good one,


austininva