Graffiti artist

(THE PINK ROOM) -- The boy is two, and from time to time he disappears for long moments at a time, often to the playroom where we try to have our kids watch their movies, play their games, draw and otherwise occupy themselves without moving their mess to the rest of our square footage.

It's not unusual, nor is it something with which we generally concern ourselves, only because it has been a long time since the boy last went rogue in the house.

Still, we know from experience that when our children go off the grid, rarely is it to read a book, take a nap, or clean their room.

If they are somewhere in silence, most often they are up to no good.

Like today.

Today the boy was suspiciously silent, not making a peep. Beyond unusual, only because he hadn't pestered me to turn on the playroom lights, so I knew for certain that whatever he was off doing, he wasn't doing it where it should be done.

So I wandered around the house, searching for my son, wondering what he could possibly be up to.

And that's when I caught him in the act.

My little dude, dry erase marker in hand, making a statement all over his big sister's room.

A graffiti artist at just over two years old, like his old man adept with a pen, unlike his old man, using that pen for no good.

So I did what naturally came next: first a small smack of the fingers to make my point, followed quickly by the snapping of a picture so I could preserve forever the memory of my little man's mischief.

Signed,
The Family Man Muser

iGot One and iLove it

(HOME) iCame late to the technological revolution.

Without cell phone. Without texting. Without any desire whatsoever to be reachable at anyone else's whim.

My position was always that if iCouldn't be reached at home, then iDidn't want to be reached at all.

Don't call me, iWill call you.

If society could survive for generations without instant access to Twitter, Flikr, Whatever, surely iCould to.

Then slowly iStarted to come 'round.

Gradually. Apprehensively. Reluctantly. Until finally iTook the plunge.

iWent all-in from the start, starting my technological evolution with a fancy iPhone 4.

iWas hooked.

Quickly. Immediately. Whole-heartedly.

Now, iText.

iRead my email.

iEmpty my inbox.

Now, iNever leave home without my fancy iPhone 4, so hooked iAm on being reachable wherever, whenever, at anyone else's whim.

iLike being connected. In the know. Accessible and with access.

To knowledge. Information. To Angry Fu**ing Birds.

Next came Apple TV, the perfect complement to my iPhone 4 and a morning cartoon loop woefully unsuitable for three little rugrats who like nothing more than to lose themselves in animation over breakfast.

iLove it.

The flexibility. Usability. Portability.

Finally, the trifecta came together with the most recent addition to my puzzle of Apple products.

The iPad.

For weeks iSought to sell Mrs. Family Man Muser on our obvious need for an iPad.

A vacation to the warm Floridian sun made its immediate purchase doubly important.

How, oh how, iSuggested, will those poor children survive a 24-hour drive without the constant movies and music, games and goodies that an iPad can possibly provide.

Or better yet, how will we?

iWorked on my Mrs. until she could take it no more. Or something like that.

Truth be told, iThink she was in from the start but wanted me to sweat it out.

In any case, here iAm now, comfortably nestled under the covers, on a dark winter's night, with but a new iPad and snoring wife to keep me company.

iAm smitten.

She is beautiful. Silky smooth to the touch. Sinfully decadent. Delectable even.

But man can she snore like a drunken sailor.

iJest.

This iPad is all that it is advertised to be. The latest and for now, only for now, final addition in my troika of technological tools.

iWorked hard on my Mrs. to get it.

Now iGot one and iLove it.


Signed, 
The Family Man Muser

In a very 'parent' place

(HOME) — Mrs. Family Man Muser and I have been parents for five, almost six, years. Our little family of three in 2006 became a family of four in 2007 and finally a family of five two years after that.

In that time, we have evolved immensely.

And as people who obviously had no parenting experience prior to becoming ‘mom and dad’ what seems like a lifetime ago, we are acquitting ourselves well in the herculean task of raising children.

I am always amazed, after having been at it for years now, that I still have ‘I-can’t-believe-this’ moments.

Moments of the mundane, for the most part, when the simplest of parenting tasks reminds me that we are, in fact, parents.

Like last night.

Last night, we hustled the kids home from school, as always we do.

Two ran out the back door as quickly as they came in through the front, eager to capitalize on the fading light of a mild winter afternoon.

Another snuggled into the giant, filthy living room chair, enveloped by a giant, filthy pillow, captivated by a spider man weaving webs through the NYC skyline, absorbed by an episode that first aired probably decades, if not decades and decades, ago.

A night like any other night really, the kind of night that I presume repeats itself in countless other households, on countless other streets, in countless other towns like ours.

After dinner, the boy disappeared to the basement for roughly an hour, this time sitting in a clean chair, mouth agape for the most part, watching Woody and Buzz and the whole Toy Story 3 crew go about their business on TV.

It was upstairs that the parental pause occurred, of all things as I was wiping down the countertop, putting the final touches on cleaning the kitchen.

I felt like a dad.

Not cool, hip dad.

But dad.

Responsible, taking care of the family dad.

And over at the head of the table, Mrs. Family Man was being mom.

With two little daughters by her side, she went to town on Valentine’s Day trinkets for the girls to bring to school.

Stickers and tattoos to accompany the Valentine’s Day cards, each with a daughter’s name meticulously, in some cases not so meticulously, scrawled across the side.

I watched them, in between shakes of a grimy kitchen rag, thinking back upon my own childhood, to the days when it was my folks washing down countertops and making Valentine’s Day goodies, to the days when it was them being mom and dad.

It happens that way periodically, when past, present and future collide at once, reminding me of who I am, where I am, and how much my role has changed, even in just my near-six years as dad.

I still feel young. I still am young.

Yet from time to time, as the gap widens between then and now, between childhood and parenthood, it sure does feel like I am getting older.

Not old.

Just older.

Moseying around the kitchen with a dirty dishrag in hand can do that.

But I don’t mind.

I like that my frame of mind matches my frame of reference for a particular time in my life.

Just as my kids should not have to concern themselves with the business of being adults, as an adult, it probably is best that I do.

The same applies to being dad... a cool and hip dad, when I should be, but also just dad when I must.

Signed,
The Family Man Muser

That's just crappy

(LIVING ROOM) — My boy, my man, my son. My little dude. My buddy. The little guy is growing up. Getting bigger, bolder every day. He talks and talks and talks, my little dude does, always quick to let us know what he does and does not want.

Cereal.

Cars.

Another piece of toast.

Spiderman.

Another piece of toast.

And another piece of toast again.

No Barney. No bath. No direction contrary to whatever it is that he is doing.

He wants to scrap with dad. He wants to be independent and brush his teeth alone. He hates to have his hair washed. He has the toddler thing all figured out, this little guy does.

Almost.

Almost, because dude can’t be bothered to use the can like the rest of the family. Him likes his diapers, and is in no rush, none, to start doing his business where his business should be done.

Admittedly, Mrs. Family Man Muser and I have been less than stellar in getting him trained. Oh, but we have tried.

Begged and bribed him too, but nothing has yet compelled our little fella to take that next developmental step, one that, as a fortunate side note, will save us the sheckels we are still spending on diapers every month.

Last weekend, while browsing through IKEA, Mrs. FMM came across a four-dollar potty that just could not be left behind. Toilet be damned, let’s at least try him on a new potty again.

So we bought it and sat him on it that night.

And on that very occasion, his very first seating on the four-dollar potty, dude got it right and tinkled.

So proud, the entire family.

Way to go big guy.

Next morning, we tried again. Pants off and take a seat my friend.

He lasted all of two minutes, no inkling for the tinkling today.

It was breakfast-time, so I decided to let him roam, al fresco, while I was eating. But I did expressly point out that if he had to go, his only option was to go on the little green potty.

He nodded. May have even said yes.

Third kid, and still I fell for it; I am so naïve.

As I read the morning news, chomping down on my final few bites, a faint noise came from the family room, just a few steps behind me.

Uh-oh, he said. Uh-oh, I thought.

As I turned around, he stood pointing at the area rug, the area in question obscured by the large lounger we keep in the room to collect all manner of little kid filth.

Certain that he had peed on the floor, I rounded the corner into my boy’s vicinity, when what to my wandering eyes should appear? But a couple of turds straight from his rear!

That’s right, the boy done went and pooped on the floor. Within three feet of the potty too.

Yes, the little guy is growing up. Getting bigger, bolder every day.

Bold enough to drop a deuce on the living room floor.

Now that’s just crappy.

Signed,

The Family Man Muser

New beginnings

(SOMEWHERE) – I have blogged before, at length, about my take on everything and nothing all at once. I have hundreds of thousands of words to my credit. Words that I am proud of... words that I have no reservations about claiming as my own.

My first blog, Confessions of a Blogophobe, came to me as both an exercise in creativity and an expense justification. I wanted a laptop; a blog gave me a reason to need one. (Side note—the same could be happening again. I want an iPad; could a new blog give me reason to need one? Input please.)

I posted at Confessions for nearly four years. When I started, I was father to barely a toddler and a practically newborn daughter. Now, I am still a father, but to two darling school-age little girls and a small tank of a toddler little boy.

My life has changed tremendously since I staked my first place in the blogosphere, enough to see me slowly suck the life out of Confessions of a Blogophobe by barely ever being there.

That does wonders for readership.

The truth is that C-o-a-B, as I came to call it, outlived its original purpose—to act as my creative writing outlet, a place to improve my hold on the written word, an avenue to make me better at what I enjoy doing.

It lacked focus. It stopped being fun.

But now I am ready to try again, under a different banner, with a new pen name and renewed raison d’être.

First and foremost in life, I am a father. And as a father, I have many observations about what it means to raise children.

The challenges. The frustrations. The fun and the frivolity of it all.

Alongside Mrs. Family Man Muser (still hot, for those of you who know her as Hot Wife from Confessions of a Blogophobe), I am steering the good ship Family, co-captain of this tight little crew.

Life as we know has its fill of ups and downs. It is topsy-turvy, with enough accidents and adventures to pepper these pages with periodic posts.

Our shenanigans will be yours to read about. Our highs and lows yours too.

Feel our pulse. Share the heartbeats of our growing family (growing, as in growing up, not growing, as in adding more little people).

Thanks for reading me. I will be here regularly.

Signed,

The Family Man Muser