Last Sunday, Kara went to pick Sam up from the church nursery.

Her eyes were red from crying.

"Why?", you ask.

Cuz she's a Binkie-Stealer! That's why. She steals other baby's binkies (a.k.a. "pacifiers").

Nobody likes it when their binkie gets rudely pulled from their mouths. So the victim in this case thought a fair retaliation was to BITE Sam's hand.

I feel no pity for my daughter. The punishment fit the crime. I would have bitten her hand too.

Call me cold. Call me shallow. But do NOT call me a "Binkie-Stealer".

Don't forget this...

My wife picked up our daughter.

"I wanna keep this moment forever."

As you wish...


ever wonder what kind of parents you're kids are gonna be?

Yeah. I do.

This gives me some hope.

Samaria's Day

It's official. We no longer have babies in the house.

Sam turned one.

Even though I personally think they should count the time in the womb when considering birthdays, which means that she would have turned one last December sometime. Makes sense in my head.

But in your country, she turned one.

Let the onslaught of photos begin.

Tutu making some frosting...

...and sharing it with the birthday girl.

Have you seen the tv show "Ace of Cakes"?
This is nothing like that.

"I want to help, too. As long as I get to lick the spatula."

Proud Mama.

We had the party at the Riverfront Carousel (a fully-operational indoor carousel). The costumes ranged from a giraffe to Yemen garb (right).

Aunt Mel holding on tight.

Uncle Justin and Caleb.

Corrie and the girls came up for the party.

Our friend Erica Martin came with her son, Eli (the giraffey-looking little cutie).

Looking at them this close, they don't actually look appetizing. They look alive.

Parties wipe him out...

...and the birthday girl had a good time too.

Thank you to all the family and friends that made Sam's first birthday special.

And to all the ladybugs that sacrificed their lives for our cupcakes.

Happy Birthday Sam-a-bama. Mama and Dada love you.


father of the year

It was my turn to watch the kids. I could stop the blog there.

But I won't.

Kara was gone volunteering at the high school youth group. It was nearing bath time. I always look forward to bath time. Why? Because after bath time, is story time. Then comes bed time. The perfect ending to a long day of parenting. More for my wife than me. But it's still a special time of day.

My son looks at me and says, "Dada. Pee-pee". Code for "Dad, I have to go pee". Not very code-like, but it works. I say, "Alright, let's go pee-pee" in my parent cheerleader voice. He takes his position in front of the miniature toilet and I quickly drop his pants to his knees.

This is the moment when life goes slow-motion...as I realize that he also should have told me "Dada, Poo-poo" or code for "Dad, I filled my shorts".

Poop flies out at me. Not a small amount. Not a large amount. But just right.

Caleb stumbles backward and plants his foot right in the center of the poopsicle.

I react like any good parent would. "WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!"

His look told me he doesn't speak English yet. I lifted him into the tub where I attempted to cleanse him of the mess.

Little did I know that Sam was tip-toeing behind me to check out the poop that was still on the floor. I turned just as she was dipping her animal cracker in it like a Red Robin french fry in ranch dressing.


No response. At least not what I had hoped the response would be. I had hoped there would be an explanation of why she thought that eating her brother's caca was a good idea. Again, a look that told me my efforts to reason went unnoticed and ignored.

Bathtime came and went. Storytime was skipped. Bedtime was satisfying.

I have since repented and returned my award plaque for "father of the year".