Yesterday we were getting ready to go out, everybody putting on shoes, rounding up supplies, getting Noah to choose a small toy to bring…you know, the regular routine. I open the door, start ushering Noah out, and Teresa looks at me and says, “Are we bringing Desi?”

Calmly sitting in the other room, oblivious to the world, is little Desmond.

“Oh yeah. Yeah, we should probably bring him.”

See, this is how my mind starts to internalize things. Teresa was in love with Desi and dreaming of her new four piece family within weeks of finding out. I, on the other hand, am like a fine wine. Facts must age in my brain until they’re ready for use.

As we load into the car, the old process of buckling Noah in has now expanded to buckling Noah in and getting Desi locked in. I try to avoid the second part, as putting a newborn into a car seat is akin to fitting potato chip into a change purse. It looks like it could fit, but your pretty sure something will snap in the process.

So while it used to be “Me and Tree and the boy” now it’s “Me and Tree and Noah and Desi.” It’s no longer “Noah is an addition to our couple.” It’s “We are clan Bullard.” We are a traveling troupe. Matching t-shirts would almost be appropriate.

After a long struggle (search “poop” and see how many posts come up) Noah has finally come to terms with the fact that poo belongs in the toilet. Turns out the breaking point was simply lying about the world’s supply of Noah-sized diapers. We warned him that we were running low, and that soon he’d be forced to poop in the toilet. It was a game of human waste chicken. Who would blink first?

Noah held out until the very last diaper, and then only held it in for a day before finally deciding the toilet wasn’t the spawn of satan (in regards to poop…peeing in the toilet has been no problem for months.) I got a call at work from a tiny voice saying, “DADDY I POOPED IN THE TOILET!!!” This time it wasn’t a wrong number.

So my life has changed in a very good way. I haven’t had to clean up anything resembling adult poop in over a week. It’s almost weird. He’s tells us when he’s going about 50% of the time, so sometimes you’ll just walk in on him, or it will be really quiet, and you’ll get suspicious.

“Noah?”

“I NEED PRIVACY!”

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So Desi has been in the house for 10 days and we’ve already gotten him sick. I knew this would happen when I started feeling my through hurt the last day in the hospital.

Tree and I tend to play parasite ping pong, then Noah came, and with the addition of Desi I guess we can now play doubles. It’s good to know that we’ve informed him that he’ll always be safe with us, his new family, as long as he can weather the minimum of one-per-season cold that I get, and then spread around the house.

Last night was awful. Tree and I had been dealing fairly well with the less sleep thing, but last night was bad. Desi had gas, and I suppose starting to feel the cold too. He was miserable, and was sure to let everyone else know about it.

Upside, Noah spent his first night in underwear. He woke up around midnight to use the bathroom, and made it the rest of the way through morning without incident. This would be more exciting if he had pooped in the past two days though. He pees fine, but he will run around demanding a diaper to poop in. He simply doesn’t understand the idea of popping in the toilet. He will openly admit to preferring to poop standing up, hiding behind a curtain like that ghost kid in Three Men and a Baby. That’s a not a joke. I’ve actually caught him standing behind a curtain, with that blank stare cats have when they poop.

Today I’m back at work, Tree’s first day alone with the boy. Noah is at school. Personally, I’m envious of the woman. She’s probably sitting at home right now with an unconscious kid on her chest, watching Arrested Development on Netflix Streaming, dozing in and out of consciousness.

Meanwhile I’m here, at work, working my fingers to the bone. Yep. Busy, busy, busy.

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“I’m having pretty strong contractions baby.”  That’s what she says to me at 7:15 am. 

“It’s not August 5th yet.  That’s against the rules.”

That’s how the morning started.  I’ll fill in details later, as typing on my phone is annoying.

So, Desmond Gregory Bullard was born at 10:05 this morning, after 3 hours of all-natural labor.  6lbs 6oz. 20 inches long.

There you go.

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Yesterday, at about 5:30 Teresa informs me she may be induced today. There’s a few tests she needs to do, (Something about low fluids. Can’t Jiffy Lube take care of that?) and if she tests positive for them, they’re going to go ahead and pop the baby out. This is a little disconcerting on a few fronts. The first, of course, being the health of the baby. He’s measuring 32-33 weeks along, despite the fact that he measured 36 weeks last week. (week week week.) So perhaps he’s shrinking? That’s no good. I never saw Benjamin Button, how did it end?

The over all idea is that if she is low on fluids, he’s far enough along that having him out in the ‘real world’ is better than trying to um…I don’t know, top her off? I honestly have no idea how this all works.

Then of course, most importantly, how this all affects me.

I’ve spent some time in contemplation, thinking about how this will change our lives. You’d think having a second kid isn’t such a big deal, since you’ve already had one, but for some reason, it is. I’ve already forgotten most of infant care. I think it’s something along the lines of “don’t support the head” and “shake when crying.” Maybe, I don’t know if that sounds right.

Here’s a great example of how my life is already changing. I’m trying to write this post, and Tree informs me that we need to “go” to the “doctor” to get “tests” to see if she’s going to be induced right now. Gah! I never get any ME time!

Real quick, since I know this is going to be a big deal use #BullardBabyWatch2010 for Twitter trending topics. And keep your eyes here for all updates.

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It would appear I have made a monster.

Over the past couple of years Tree has yelled at me a few times about how I tell Noah to clean himself while he eats. I simply try and help him from spreading his mess any further than it needs to be. If he gets spaghetti sauce on his hands, you might as well have him wipe it off, lest he wipe it all over his face, shirt, table, etc. Nothing wrong with not making a huge mess every time you eat. Only a crazy person would take this little bit of guidance and turn it into a personal mantra.

Well, leave it to my son to blow things out of proportion.

It’s come to the point where he’ll throw a fit if he gets things on his hands. The first time it snowed this winter we played outside until he tripped and landed hand first in snow. He burst into tears about his hands being wet. “Clean it off!” he cried.

Today he and I took a walk through our neighborhood to investigate a small patch of woods. We walked about 3/4 of a mile (which is 10 miles in toddler units) to a little wooded area between two subdivisions. On the way there he talked about how he was going to find dinosaur skeletons. He was very excited. Then he saw the woods. “Those woods dirty daddy.”

I managed to get him about 15 feet in before he made us turn around due to his concerns about getting his shoes dirty. I’m not making that up. He refused to go any further.

Tonight as I put him to bed, we talked about our day, and when I asked him if he enjoyed our walk, his only comment was about the woods being too dirty. “Someone should make the woods clean daddy.” Again, this is a direct quote. I have to get him out of this mindset, cause all my hopes and dreams of exploring the woods and camping with my son could easily be destroyed if he’s a neat freak.

If only his dirt phobia could be molded to get him to pick up his LEGO…

Speaking of going to sleep, my son has figured out each and every method he can use to delay his loosing consciousness. It used to be “I’m scared.” but that doesn’t work very well any more. He still uses it no doubt, but we brush it off pretty quickly now. So he’s expanded his repertoire to included “I don’t like my pajamas” to “the tags are scratchy” and he’s even learned to utilize his toilet training to delay sleep. He knows we can’t just ignore a “I need to go to the potty” so he uses it to get out of bed. I swear, this kid is either going to use his manipulation skills for good and become a hostage negotiator, or he’s going to be the leader of a huge cult. Hey, Tom Cruise has to step down at some point right? (Bazing! Scientology joke! Let’s see if I get sued!)

I guess it’s a good thing we’re having another one. Maybe we can raise that one right. I mean, if you look at my family you can see that my parents didn’t get it right the first time. My oldest sister is insane, but by the time they got to me, they spat out a well rounded, funny, good looking super human.

Also, I’m super humble. Like, the most humble guy ever.

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You may recall from my last post, I quickly mentioned this:

“So despite sleeping horribly last night, interrupted by a vomiting toddler…”

Now, many of you may have read this as the whining of a jaded, careless parent. But no, you’re wrong. That right there is what is called a narrative device. More specifically foreshadowing.

Any amateur writer can come up with a story and use foreshadowing to create intrigue about a plot point he devised earlier. But imagine the sheer creativity, neigh, genius it requires to foreshadow an unknown future event. Some may call it luck, some coincidence. Those people can leave, cause I call it tonybullard.com.

(You can tell how serious I am by all these italics. ITALICS!)

So on to the point. Yesternight (the proper term for “the night before last night”) Noah threw up. I was sure he did it because he got to worked up crying and screaming, coughed to feign sickness, and gagged himself. Yes, he’s just that scheming. So I blew it off. You know, ’cause I’m fricking parent of the year.

JUMP CUT TO: Tonight. Noah refuses to take his vitamins. He usually chows down on these things like it’s the end of the world and we’ve given him anti-zombie tablets. In my effort to coerce him, I eat one. It’s a kids vitamin, I doubt it will kill me. This tactic doesn’t work. We basically force him to eat the thing. Thumbs were pressed into mouths.

Within 3 minutes I feel what can only be described as “gross.” This is fairly low on the scale of “Fine” to “Chest Burster.” None the less, it’s no fun. I say to Teresa, “no wonder he doesn’t like them, I feel kinda gross.” (See that folks? that’s called “consistency.” It’s also known as “doesn’t own a thesaurus.” ITALICS!)

OK, so prayers, lights out, I sit at the computer while Teresa settles him into bed. I here “Tony?” faintly from Noah’s room. I poke my head in.

“How gross did you say that thing made you feel?”

Then, as if carefully planned, I hear the indistinguishable sound of vomiting.

“Geez! Not that bad!” is the first thing that pops out of my mouth. Lights come on, Noah has covered his bed in his dinner, and Teresa runs from the room claiming she’s going to join him in his “Ode to Leftovers.” Cleaning, Changing, blah blah blah.

So there you have it folks. We, Teresa and I (if I go down we all go down!) force fed our child a vitamin that made him vomit. If we can do this, brag about it on the internet, and not get arrested, then anyone can have a child.

Here’s lookin’ at you future parents!

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It’s been a while since I’ve posted about Noah. The time span between this and the last Noah post is part of the reason it’s been so long. Some sort of weird performance anxiety. I feel like if I don’t document it all, then why document at all? That’s a weird sentence.

I haven’t put up video in a while for 2 reasons: 1, I’m lazy, and I hate video editing. 2, Noah isn’t all that interesting anymore.

OK, maybe that’s not true, but we have certainly let down our former 300-pictures-per-month selves. I think there was one month in there where we took like, 4 photos. You’d think he was our third child or something.

He’s getting really smart. Too smart really. We’ve realized that we can no longer talk about him like he’s no in the room. That’s annoying.

The other night Teresa said she needed to take a shower, saying she was “stinky.” Due to her choice of vocabulary for Noah’s diapers, my son thought my wife had pooped her pants.

I’ve found out why disciplining a child is so hard. It’s not the strong will. It’s the fact that you don’t ever want to do it. I’d much rather just eat dinner than place a kid in a chair facing the wall 48 times in 5 minutes. When he starts acting up I think to myself, “Really? This is what you want to do for the next 30 minutes?” THAT’S really annoying.

Every night around midnight to 3am he comes into our room and sleeps on the floor. It’s not terribly annoying, but I know it’s going to cause issues in the future. We’re both putting off fighting it cause neither of us want to fight him at 3am. I know most of this will fall to me, as Teresa becomes and irrational she-beast when you wake her at night.

That’s all I can think of to post right now. Sorry this isn’t more funny or entertaining…See? This is why I didn’t want to do this in the first place.

Oh, and I have some video. Somewhere in the middle there you’ll see we’ve been blessed with the most patient cat in the world.

One last thing, to add to the vacation post. I came into the kitchen Friday night to find the fridge pouring water out onto the floor. Several gallons of it. Now we get to replace all the wood laminate in our house. Yay.

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Yesterday Teresa told me a cute story about how Noah is now able, and helpful enough, to get you a roll of toilet paper if you’re stranded on the toilet. How cute, I thought.

This morning I learned a lesson: Given the chance, a toddler will always exert his power over you.

Noah wakes up, and before he’s standing he’s asking to watch TV. This is his way. We always give in, as we’re too tired to fight, and PBS has wholly satisfactory programing. I usher him to the den, turn the TV on, and I go to, well…”do my business.”

Once past the “point of no return,” I notice there’s no toilet paper in the bathroom. “How funny,” I thought, considering Teresa had just told me the night before of Noah’s new, helpful ability.

“Noah!”

“Coco!” he replies.

“No buddy, I need your help, can you come here for a second?”

“I eat! I eat!”

“Noah buddy, come here. I NEED you.”

No answer. I hear Sid the Science Kid tell Noah his “super duper schmuper big idea.” I begin to wonder if Teresa purposely hid the toilet paper so I could experience this first hand.

“Noah?”

I hear feet patter down the hall. Then it gets quiet. I figure he’s gone into his room. Then a tiny head pops around the door frame with an accompanying “huh?”

“Oh Good! Noah, can you get daddy some toilet paper?”

“Coco!”

“I’ll make you some coco once I’m done here, but right now I need you to help me.”

At this he disappears back behind the door frame. A second of silence, then the sound of feet pitter-pattering down the hallway.

Sigh.

“Noah? Come on! Mommy said you helped her!”

Silence. “Noah?”

Pitter patters again. Tiny head appears. “Huh?”

“Toilet paper…please?”

His head disappears once again. This time I hear the hall closet door opening. Success!

I hear him begin to struggle. I hear the crinkle of the plastic around the toilet paper. I hear more struggling. Noah begins to cry. It’s an angry cry. It’s the cry of a toddler knowing a quarter pound cylinder of paper is standing between him and his precious chocolate milk. Pitter Patters. Head. “Huh?”

“No luck?”

“Coco?”

“No buddy, you HAVE to complete this task before I can make you coco.”

Head disappears. Crinkles. Tears. Rustling. Pitters, patters. Head appears, followed by a torso.

Suddenly a sense of elation comes over me. The boy holds in his hand the precious commodity I so longed for. The item which we struggled together for. He physically, me in spirit.

“Awesome bud!”

He stands there. Looking at me.

“Coco?”

“Yes, just hand me the toilet paper and I’ll make you coco.”

Then, something awful happens. I hear a sound from the den.

“Toot toot.”

Noah’s ears perk up. It’s Thomas the Tank Engine. He’s gone before I can try and shout over the music, attempting to drown out the siren’s song of little British kids singing about shunting trucks and hauling freight.

Laying on the floor, about 8 feet in front of me, is a single roll of toilet paper. I sigh, collect up all that was my pride, throw it in the trash can, and perform the “Waddle of Shame.” For our Japanese readers, you may know it as, “The Shuffle of Dishonor.”

So what have we learned today? Well, as I said up top, a child will taunt you in your weakest moments. But I also learned that we’re so meaningless to them, once they’ve put us in these horrifically shameful situations, they don’t even value it enough to stick around to watch you at your lowest.

After I wrap things up, I come out to the den, to face my assailant. I walk in, stand in the doorway, and wait. He stands motionless, hesitating to acknowledge my existence. I release the breath I was holding. He turns his head slightly, never taking his eyes off the TV…

“Coco?”

Helpful indeed.

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Welp, Juan got a serious sinus infection, and so our meeting was canceled. I’m glad to say everyone was bummed. I’m glad to say that because it means everyone was excited simply about having a meeting about making an album. If a band is excited to have a meeting about recording, then you know they’re into their music, and they’ll be willing to work hard on what they’ve got.

//

As I said last week, getting Noah to sleep has been a task. We spent three nights standing outside his door, putting him back in his bed each time he’d get up. Then we had two good nights where he was sufficiently pooped and just conked out. Unfortunately tonight he’s back to his old games. He finally quieted down for a few minutes, so I sat down here to write, and within a couple seconds I heard his door open, and before I could get out of my chair I heard the pitter patter of his feet across the floor, and found him streaking across the hall towards our bedroom, screaming “Mommy! Mommy!” Again, he prefers whichever parent isn’t currently putting him to bed, and his ultimate goal is always to be on the floor in our room. Always.

Before it was lights out, he was trying to convince Teresa the best bed for him is me, laying on his floor. He demonstrated this, and truth be told, it didn’t seem so crazy when coming from the mouth of an adorable little boy. Then again my judgment is always swayed by a cuddling toddler.

Teresa just leaned into my door to let me know it’s going to be another marathon night. Maybe that’s my cue that it’s time to switch shifts.

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It’s been almost a month since I’ve posted, but I refuse to fall back to my old ways and make whole posts about how I haven’t posted in a while.

Just over a month ago I posted about turning the lock around on Noah’s door, giving us the ability to easily lock him in his room. Well, we’ve changed our minds and decided this isn’t a good idea.

Over the last month Noah has taken to coming into our room and sleep on our floor. It started out with an early morning, maybe 3am, and Noah wouldn’t go back to his bed. I can’t remember the exact details, but it ended with him voluntarily laying on the floor next to my side of the bed.

Since then its continued to get earlier and earlier in the night. 1am. Midnight. 11pm. It’s come to the point where as we put him down for bed he asks to go lay on our floor. We even tried this one night when he refused to sleep. It had gotten to around 9:45, and we just gave up and put his blanket out on the floor for him. But then he preceded to just toss and turn and kick the wall.

So last night Teresa and I made the decision we would stick it out and put Noah to bed, sans locks. As soon as she left the perfectly silent bedroom he began to cry. She sighed real big. “Ten minute shifts” I said. “You go first!” she replied.

I’ll admit, I’m biased, but the ten minute shifts idea was genius. It was the only thing that kept my sanity intact. And even the 10 minutes felt really long. You’d be surprised how many times a toddler can lay down, let you shut the door, and then get up screaming and open the door within one minute.

Noah tried everything. He tried lamenting about the missing parent “Mommy Gone!” when I was on, “Daddy Gone!” when it was Teresa’s turn. Sometimes he got confused. “Daddy Gone!” “No Noah, I’m right here.”

He was thirsty. He was hungry. He was scared of the ‘”roars”. He used every pity tactic he could. I’m pretty sure one of the many books on his bookshelf must be a psychological operations field manual, cause that kid can break a man down.

We each took a try and sitting with him quietly until he’d doze off. Both of us found he’d just wake up as soon as his face hit mattress, so we gave up and just kept laying him back in his bed, not saying a word.

I was pretty sure we’d go on forever, but finally, at about 11:30, Teresa laid him down, he complained for about 15 seconds, and then fell silent. That was a welcome relief to be sure.

So yeah, that’s my update after a month long hiatus. In summary, I think locking my kid in his room kinda messed him up, and fixing it sucks. May not be the same for you, but now you have one anecdote to reference someday. I don’t blame myself or anything, no great remorse over screwing up my kid. I never said I knew what I was doing.

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