Annoying Crap My Kids Do

Hey, how's everybody doing?

We're tired.

Yours truly and the artist-formerly-known-as-Preggosaurus get no sleep these days. Our newest addition is, by all accounts, nocturnal, and prefers to hang out at 2am instead of 2pm. This makes operating at full capacity during the daylight hours next to impossible, and that's when we have to be putting forth our 'A' game in order to handle the Cannonball's shenanigans.

Over the course of the last couple of weeks, since Kris pissed out our second child, Alayna's been one, giant hurricane of defiance and sass. Not directed to me, so much, but very much so to her Mom. I'm not sure if this is because Kris constantly has a life form attached to her breast or not. Who knows.

She openly defies orders, ignores warnings, and 'talks' back so frequently that 'time-outs' are becoming an almost hourly occurrence. Acting out in anger has become a problem, too. For example, Kris' cell phone was busted. We're not about to point fingers at who did it or anything, but it definitely wasn't Kris or myself. And I highly doubt Abby was able to destroy it, as she can't lift anything weighing more than a cotton ball. But we're not pointing fingers, here. Anyway, since niether Kris nor myself have gotten that publication deal for our Parenting 101: A Guide for Idiots Who Shouldn't Make Babies in the First Place book we've been compiling* yet, we're tackling toddler-wrangling on a day-to-day basis and awaiting that blessed day when Alayna and Abby are both out of the house and off to college.

September of 2028, baby. Start the countdown.

Now, if our days with Raffi taught us anything, its that there lies vast potential in the power of Television. Alayna has becomed obsessed with Yo Gabba Gabba, which is cat nip for two year olds. She loves it, and the DVDs we have of it are on constant rotation in the DVD player. Sure, I'd rather watch Yo Gabba Gabba than, say, Barney or the Unmentionable Sesame Street Character That Sabotaged Grover's Career, but its still a strain on one's sanity when one has to watch it on a daily basis.

Alas, for the time being, watching an episode of hip-hoppin' robots at 6am is way better than dealing with a toddler freak out at 6am.

Say what you will. Dad treasures his sanity.

- Brian

* = We're not writing this. That's a joke. We'd be the last people who should be writing a book like this.

D-Day, Pt. II: Checking Out of the Priciest Hotel We've Ever Stayed At

The first couple days after having a baby is one, humongous endurance test - a gauntlet of sleep deprivation and psychological torture.


Sound dramatic?  Shut up.  Hear me out.


The joy and excitement of having a newborn baby on your hands is neutralized almost immediately by the horrifying reality that you have this 6 lb, porcelain-fragile, meat sack that you have to somehow keep alive for the next eighteen years (if the economy doesn't improve in that amount of time, it might be more like twenty six years).

Anyway, we checked out of the hospital yesterday afternoon after suffering through a long, uneventful lounge-session in our post-delivery room.  While hanging out in the posh Dr. Phillip's Baby Place was cool and everything, we were really wanting to get home and relax in our own surroundings.  Nothing against hospital food or twenty minute naps or anything, but settling in at home sounded way sweeter.

Now, before we could go anywhere, the various doctors and nurses had to run a series of tests on the kid.  No surprise there.  Everything came back fine - Abby's got good response time, hearing, reflexes, color, weight (although she's pretty skinny), and vitals.  Her Jaundice level was questionable, but not alarmlingly so.  All in all, everything was good, so the pediatrician was cool with us peacing out a day early and leaving after one day in the hospital.

Anyway, in the afternoon, Adam and Lindsey brought the Cannonball over and she got to meet her little sister.  She didn't have a toddler freak out on her or anything, but she was a little weirded out.  I'm sure this marks the beginning of a real, fun period of adjustment for everybody involved.  Can't wait.

Not sure if you guys realize this or not, but hospitals are the most expensive hotel you will ever stay at.  I think you can rent Mick Jagger or Brad Pitt's private, beach bungalow at a cheaper, daily rate.  For the amount that we're sure to end up paying for our 24-hour stay at Winter Park Memorial Hospital, I'm pretty sure Mick or Brad would be willing to personally wait on you as a butler during your stay in their house.

The Houghs aren't a big fan of bills, so we weren't about to pay for two nights at the hospital.  As good as the food is.  No thanks.

So, after sitting around the majority of the morning and afternoon waiting on this doc and that doc, we were finally able to leave the hospital in the early evening.  After Kris gave me wrong directions home, which resulted in me taking a victory lap around the greater Orlando area by traversing across four, major interstates only to return to my previous location (some 45 minutes later), we finally arrived home as one, collective family unit.

Now begins a full week of sitting around the house, pretty much doing nothing.  While Kris begins nursing, pumping, and otherwise devoting most of her attention and time to boob management, yours truly gets to take care of the house, the Cannonball, and everything else not directly associated with the newborn.  Throw in grad school homework, and you got the makings of one, awesome week off of work.

Booya.


More pics and updates to come, folks - stay tuned.

- Brian