Great athletes talk about wanting the ball. When time is running out, when there is only one chance left to win the game, they want the ball, the demand the ball. They want their number called so they can make the play to win it for their team. I think we parents experience the same thing at night and I have realized, I want my number called. When my Okapis are asleep, I want to be The One who takes care of them.

Our Okapis have been sick quite a bit lately and they are taking turns having trouble sleeping at night - until the other night when they both had trouble. Unfortunately, I was also sick and my wife was the one who went upstairs to take care of them. Nothing against my wife, who is an incredible mother, but I always want to be the one. I want to be the one that calms them down, that soothes them, that makes them feel better, safer and helps them get back to sleep.

When my Okapis are most upset, I want to be The One to help them.

Some of this is because I strangely enjoy “crisis” situations - needing to think fast on my feet, to handle many challenges at one time. But, I think a large part of it is the sense that I don’t get to provide that for my Okapis most of the time. During most of their waking hours, I am at work, while they are with my wife. I don’t have a lot of time to really “be there” for my Okapis, to show them that I can handle any problem they have, that I can make them feel better when they are upset, can calm them when they are scared, can be a true parent to them as well. Nighttime is really the only time I have a chance to show that. It is why I put them to bed most of the time. And it is why I try to be the one who takes care of them when they wake up in the middle of the night.

But it is not only the sense of being there for my Okapis. It is also the sense of feeling like a real Daddy by being there for them. This came to light when Jordyn woke up crying because her ear hurt. My little girl almost never wakes up in the middle of the night; if she does, it means something is really wrong and she was in some serious pain. My wife gave her some Tylenol and Jordyn tried to go back to sleep. But soon she was crying again and I said, “I’ll get her.”

I went upstairs and picked her up as she melted into my arms. I held her there for a few minutes, enjoying the closeness, letting her know she was going to be okay, that I love her. As soon as she was in my arms she stopped crying - Jordyn and I have always had something special like this even from the time she was born. Before long, I asked if she was ready to go back to bed and she nodded her head. I placed her back under the covers, tucked her in and stayed with her a moment until she fell asleep.

Once I got back into our bed, hearing the snores of my Okapis, I thought about how good it felt to be able to help my little girl feel better enough to go back to sleep, about how I like being that person who helps them, that I want to be that person, that I want to be The One when they are upset.

Do you like being The One for your children?

I read that Jonathon Morgan at BloggingBaby was bothered by his daughter favoring her Mom.  I was able to relate.  For a long time my son, Benjamin, totally preferred Mom when she was around.  Yes, mothers have a special bond with their children.  My wife gave birth to our son and nursed him, thankfully, for a long time.  Nonetheless, since I am a stay-at-home dad, I was sometimes surprised by his pronounced favoritism.  It didn’t bother me at first, but when it continued for a year or two, I began to have concerns and doubt myself a little.

When I was home alone with him, he would treat me very nicely.  He wasn’t that affectionate most of the time.  But he always talked to me a lot, wanted my attention, and always wanted to stay in the same room as me.  As soon as my wife came home, though, it was all her.

“Do you want me to read you this story?”
“I want Mama to read it to me.”

“Here, I’ll put your coat on.”
“I’ll wait for Mama to put it on.”

“Do you want to go to the library with Dada or stay home with Mama?”
“I’ll stay with Mama.”

“Do you want to go to DisneyWorld with Dada or scrub the floor with Mama?”
“Scrub with Mama.”

OK, that last one never happened.  Nevertheless, even if he hurt himself, and my wife was at the the other end of the house, he would wait until she could come comfort him.  Instinctively, I would say, “Ohhhh, are you OK???” He would have nothing of it, “Don’t SAY that.  I need Mama.” This was the same boy who insisted on my comfort and “Dada kisses” when it was just the two of us.  It got to the point where if he was hurt I would just run the other way and get my wife, or else I knew he would just “get worse.”

At first I told myself, it’s only natural.  In addition to the special mother-child bond, when Mom comes home from work, it’s exciting.  I’m here all the time.  I’m like the wallpaper.  After a while, though, I began to question whether I was doing something wrong as a dad.  I began to feel very reactionary about the stay-at-home dad thing.  I had once had nothing but pride in being an at-home parent; I had once carried it as a mark of a caring dad and an open-minded person.  But my doubts began to undermine this attitude.  I wondered if being an at-home dad was no more than an ill-fated, post-modern experiment based upon foolish ideals and economic convenience.  That judgement I could accept.  If the cost, however, was to be my son’s psychological health and our relationship, the result would only be sadness.  He should be, I began to think, with his mother full-time and his dad part-time — the traditional family of yore.  Had I deprived him of this basic need?

Despite these doubts, I was patient and carefully persistent.  I noticed myself sometimes avoiding being very affectionate with Benjamin for fear of pushing it on him.  But memories of my own upbringing reminded me that this could cause problems.  So I began to make sure to hug, kiss and snuggle him — when I sensed he would accept it, even if he was not enthusiastic.  I used humor and play to encourage affection, which approach always opened him up.

My wife would tell me that if I was gone, he would ask about me often and would want to tell me so many things.  This always made me feel good.  And yet was I to be the “verbal” guy, the “how to” guy?  Stay-at-home or not, Dad should do some of the emotional nurturing.

I can’t say there was a gradual improvement.  Mama was still the clear favorite.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, not too long after he turned four, he began to treat me as if he needed and liked me as much as Mom.  He also became much more affectionate with me.  And it’s been that way ever since.

Now when my wife is home, he will often choose to do things with just me.  He asks me for hugs.  Just the other day, we were at the grocery store and Benjamin was waiting next to me as I was picking out an item.  He said, “Düds?” (He calls us “Müms" and “Düds” now.) I distractedly said, “Yes?” He said, out of nowhere, as he does often now, “I love you.” As I told him I loved him too, a grandmotherly stranger, just down the aisle smiled at us.  It was one of the moments when I knew things were different now, that it had been worth the worry, the patience and the persistence.

I glanced back at the woman with a smile that must have meant, “Yes, life is good now.”

My daughter, Claire, was born in April of last year and we recently realized her birthday is on Easter this year. Now Easter’s not a huge holiday with us, but if we wanted to have a party for Claire’s friends it would be difficult. Who would want to come to a birthday party on a holiday when people usually spend those days with family eating ham and hunting for eggs?

Some day I’d like to have a party at the local park where we took her a few weeks ago. They have this wonderful playground with this spongy turf, the same turf we’d like to put in the background. We’re redoing the backyard now and it’s relatively just a dirt lot now. We’d like to make an area where we can grill out with friends, Claire can play outside, and our dog, Dante, can have a dog fun.

Having grown up on the east coast, there’s just not as much green in the landscape in Arizona. I hope we can find some balance between green stuff we need to keep alive and other shade plants that’ll help keep the desert sun off of us when we’re out back. We also looked at the huge playground structures they have at Costco, but who knows if she will even care to play with it. Even if Claire doesn’t have a huge party this year, she will have future parties.

Day care is good, and her friends are growing up quickly with her. We hope to get the yard all fixed up so she can spend more time out there playing.

I sometimes wonder at the 50% stat. There is a 50% chance my wedding will not make it.  It’s just basic math. I am no crazy lunatic, just realistic.

I often wondered what happens to the 50% figure if you add some variables in the mix.

As we are driving for a wedding this weekend, my spouse is giving the information on her cousin (the bride) who is getting married.  I at least want to know who will be there and a bit of background on the groom.

Well it’s the story of 2 people who fell in love on a beach down south and they have seen each other a total of 4 weeks over the last few months and have decided to get married.  They also decided to procreate a child before the wedding (which worked).  She is from America and he is from Germany. She speaks French, he speaks German. They are both able to say a few words in English.

I love the aura and the craziness of it all but as I sat there in the audience I thought about the 50% figure.  Now my thoughts and the ceremony were disturbed twice...once when they discovered a wedding band was missing (it was found in the hallway under the grand piano) and a second time after the candle fell off it’s pedestal.  But anyway back to my 50%.

What happens if we extrapolate some variables inside this 50%. Let’s say you get to know your wife for a year or two and live with her a year before marrying and then choose to have kids after a year or two of marriage.  You also both speak the same language.

In this world of political correctness, we all sit there, wish them well and drink at the open bar.  Well I have to say it, it’s plain crazy. If they wanted to give a try at marriage...fine.  Let’s throw in a kid into the mix...not fine.

Conclusion: I have been to over half a dozen weddings that I could see wouldn’t work and I am only 31!  (BTW, they all didn’t work.) Am I the only one out there sighting when putting my check in the envelope for the newlyweds?

P.S. The 7 course meal and the open bar was great!

There we were, all ready for bed, saying our goodnights. My girls asked to fall asleep on the couches, and I was in the mood to accommodate. They had their pillows and blankets and their nighttime beverages. Music from the Little Mermaid soundtrack played quietly in the background.  Smartypants, the five year old, kissed me goodnight, but she had no idea what was in store for us all.

Smiley, at two and a half years old, doesn’t quite understand the world, and she’s quickly aggravated by its peculiarities.  For the third time in ten minutes, she told me, “Daddy, my tummy hurts.” I told her to go to sleep and she’d feel better. She growled at me.

A moment later, a bubbling fountain of milk spewed from her mouth like some demonic geyser, flowing onto her pillow and pajamas and, yes, the couch!  I leapt to her side and lifted her up. I yanked off her nightgown and pull-up (if I call it a diaper, she gets angry, so I call it a pull-up). We have a tiny Disney Princess couch that unfolds into a bed, so I laid her on that and covered her with a towel while I worked to clean the mess lingering after the eruption of Old Smiley.

Meanwhile, Smartypants sat on the couch smiling.

“Why are you smiling?” I asked.

“Did you see that?” she said.  “Why did she do that?  Is she sick?”

In no mood to answer questions, I said, “Apparently she is.”

Anyway, the cleaning ended and calm was restored.  I carried a handful of blankets and pillowcases to the washing machine. Suddenly I heard Smartypants calling out for Daddy.  I run back into the family room and Smartypants says, “She’s done it again, Daddy.”

And there’s Smiley, on her knees, with about six days of regurgitated food surrounding her and clinging to her skin and hair and fingernails. I wouldn’t have thought so much filth could emerge from someone so little. And the stench… Wow!

Smartypants sat smiling on the couch.  “Boy does that stink, Daddy!” She held her nose and her voice whined more than usual, but I was in no mood to admire the adorable fascination in her eyes.

Later, once everyone was asleep (Smiley would continue to vomit for several more hours, but there wasn’t anything left to spew), I stared at my oldest little girl.  It was the first time she’d ever witnessed someone other than herself getting sick. She demonstrated an enormous amount of curiosity. For example, when I moved her upstairs, she said, “Daddy, how come I can still smell it up here?” To which I replied, “There’s probably a little on my clothes.” And she said, “Better wash them. You stink.” Trust me, it was hilarious. She was half asleep holding her nose.

She also showed an enormous amount of compassion.  She told her little sister everything would be okay.  She patted her on the head softly, asked if her sister was cold and needed more blankets. She asked if her sister wanted the other couch, but I said No! One stinky stained couch was all we needed that night.

Still, as awful as the night had been, it was nice to see how instinctively compassionate we are as human beings. And it filled this Daddy with a bit of happiness and pride.

Of course, my clothes stank of vomit and the entire house reeked, so I couldn’t really appreciate those things until much later. Isn’t that often the case?  Why is it so difficult to see these things and marvel at them when they’re happening?  Well, I suppose vomit all over your furniture and children and clothes is a bit distracting. What do you think?