Fun with Dad | Marriage Confessions Fun with Dad

Tonight I had a meeting at church and so Chris was on dinner and bedtime duty. As I sat in my meeting, Chris texted me pictures of their night.

Apparently, everyone dog piles in Gracie’s crib at bedtime when Mom’s away…

I try not to worry when I’m gone, but then I see pictures like this and I think, “What the heck happens when I’m not there?!?!”

By the time I got home, though, everyone was in bed and sleeping soundly with no bodily injuries visible. So, while I’m not quite sure what happens on daddy’s night in, I’m going to assume it all works out.

18 comments | posted in Fun with Dad, The Romper Room | tags: dads

Chris and I parent very differently, but with the same end result. We figure as long as we both end up at the same destination, what does it matter what road we each take to get there? I guess that’s a good thing? I’m not sure yet. Time will tell. Lately, the biggest difference in our parenting style has been timing. And it is about to drive me cah-razy.

How can I explain this? Chris moves at the pace of a turtle. Or as slow as a 90-year-old man. Roughly.

I, on the other hand, move faster than the speed of sound. Or as fast as a toddler on a sugar high. Take your pick.

He says he just likes to take his time and I say that I am just being efficient. Either way you slice it, we are polar opposites when it comes to our timing. Somehow, though, we always end up ready to go at the exact same time. Just further proof that we are meant to be.

Lately, I’m starting to notice this timing issue in our parenting styles, too. Chris’s job in the mornings is to get Bean up, dressed, and fed by the time I have to leave for work, while I do the same for Gracie. In order to get myself and Gracie ready on time, I get up earlier and get myself ready before going in to get Gracie, who is usually playing happily in her crib by then.

Chris, on the other hand, sleeps until the last possible minute, then goes and wakes up Bean, who has slept until the last possible minute. Then, they both stumble into the kitchen and stare at the box of Cheerios for fifteen minutes, trying to decide if they want milk in their bowl or yogurt. Finally, they make a decision and then sit down to eat. Which takes, roughly, thirty-six hours at least. Once they have sufficiently eaten as slow as humanly possible, they discuss the idea of going upstairs to get dressed for the day. This conversation usually lasts approximately 20 minutes and ends with Bean crying about how he doesn’t want to change his underwear. When they finally manage to make it up to Bean’s bedroom, they spend the next 10 minutes picking out underwear, followed by another 10 minutes to choose the perfect pair of pants (Bean insists that everything is too big, even when it’s not…), followed by another 10 minutes to find the appropriate shirt for the school day.

By the time those two yahoos make it downstairs, Gracie and I are packed, dressed, fed, and waiting. And you’d think we’d be close to leaving because – hey! we’re all dressed! – but you’d be wrong. Bean has to find his shoes. Both of them. And choose the correct pair of socks for those specific pair of shoes. At this point, I am gnashing my teeth with frustration and biting my tongue not to yell at Chris, “JUST PUT HIS DAMN SHOES ON AND LET’S GO!”

Perhaps this is why it is to our kids advantage that we have different parenting styles. I am great in a crisis. I move quickly, I react calmly, I get us in and out and on the way again. But I’m not so great at giving Bean the time to make his own choices. I know in my head that toddlers require extra time for things, but in real life I get frustrated and often times end up doing things myself rather than giving Bean the chance to try to do it on his own.

Right now, as I write this, Chris and Bean are getting ready for bed upstairs. Chris and been up there for almost an hour, talking over things like how much toothpaste Bean should use and which pajama pants go with which pajama bottoms. And once I heard Bean yell out, “But, Dad! I almost pooped!” Ahhhh…parenthood. It’s funny that most of us go through it, and yet we have such different responses and experiences. I’m glad that my kids will get two different experiences in their home.

Even if it does make me want to kill their father sometimes.

31 comments | posted in About Beanie, Fun with Dad, parenting, The Romper Room | tags: dads, Marriage, parenting

Gracie is eight months old now. I can’t believe it. I caught myself telling someone last week that she was six months old and realized how much time had actually gone by. In the blink of an eye. I swear, it seems like with two babies, time goes two times as fast.

In the short, fast eight months that Gracie has been in our lives, she has managed to charm every single one of us. Even Bean. We’re all putty in Gracie’s tiny, pudgy hands. For the most part, she goes along happily, flashing that killer smile and those deep set dimples and we all give in to her every request. This doesn’t bode well for the future. I foresee many, “Daddy, please?” moments on the horizon…

The problem with Gracie’s incredibly kissable fat cheeks and totally tickleable chunky thighs is that it doesn’t leave her much motivation to do anything for herself. Why reach for a toy when one little smile will bring Bean running from across the room with an armful of toys to share? Why crawl to something interesting when one dimple will bring Daddy from any corner of the house to carry her anywhere she wants to go? Why hold her own bottle when one goofy giggle will make Mommy laugh and hold the bottle for you?

Frankly, I think we’re being hoodwinked.

So far, the only real accomplishment Gracie’s done in life is sit up on her own. And I think the only reason she does that is because laying down messes up her hair. (You so vain, Gracie!)

We’re trying to get her to crawl, but any time we put the toys just out of her reach, she ends up pulling on the blanket until she has pulled all the toys over to her. And we’ve tried putting her on her stomach and showing her how to move her legs, but she just lays there, crying. Like a beached feather-headed puffalump. I’ve also been trying to get her to hold her own bottle, but have had little luck. She can totally do it. When she’s not eating and is just playing with her bottle, I’ve seen her pick it up one handed and wave it all around. But why feed yourself when one two-toofed grin will bring your team of assistants to your side?

Yep. That sweet, stumpy little Gracie Girl is a big pile of mush. And those fat cheeks, deep dimples, and pretty blue eyes turn everyone around her into mush, too.

I think we’re hopeless.

I know her Daddy is…