MotherBunker

"Mommy! Mommy! Could we watch Lightning McQueen? Mommy! Could we watch Lightning McQueen? Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!"

MJ says this to me from her breakfast perch this morning, where she is running her miniature red No. 95 Lightning McQueen car on the table between bites of syrupy waffle. You may know LQ as the "lead character" in Cars, a movie we have only just begun to watch. And watch. And watch. A movie that, I daresay, is rivalling Madagascar as my "new" (it's new to me) favorite animated film. It's a tale of friendship, small town vs. big town, the big picture vs. the big idea, winning and losing and how losing sometimes means winning ... plus it has all that great music, especially the Rascal Flatt's version of "Life is a Highway" and the sweetly sad "Our Town" by James Taylor -- which anyone who comes from a small town would love. And I do.

So, when I went to turn it on for MJ this morning, and the sound wasn't working, I was a little bit sad myself. Which, in and of itself, is sad. But I digress ... to the Bat Phone!

Ring!

Randy: "Hey."
Me: "Yello. 'Sup?"
Randy: "Not much. You know ... working. Earning money for your keep. Trying to get this project finished up so I can spend time with my parents while they visit this week. That sort of thing."
Me: "Sweet."
Randy: "What's going on there?"
Me: "Bit of an emergency. The sound won't come on the TV."
Randy: "Hmmm. Well, that's no good."
Me: "Yeah. That's what I thought. What did you do to it?"
Randy: "I didn't do anything to it."
Me: "Then why won't it come on?"
Randy: "I don't know. I didn't touch it."
Me: "Well how do I fix it?
Randy: "I don't know. It should work."
Me: "Well this is unacceptable. I can't go through a whole day without sound on my TV! Who will babysit your children? Do you know what I have to get done today?"
Randy: "I can't imagine."
Me: "Yeah, well. I'm frustrated."
Randy: "I can see that. Sounds like it's going to be a long day. OK, well, gotta go work now."
Me: "Yeah, OK. Fine."

It's times like this when I realize I've lost all control of reality.

The good news is that I did get the sound fixed. It turns out that our television, with all of its myriad systems and dozens of remotes for hundreds of functions, responds surprisingly well to cursing.

So I have a place where I go when I need to relax or cheer up or clear my mind, and it's a house on the water near Sanibel Island, where Randy and I went for our honeymoon. It had sleek Scandinavian furniture that we'll never own, a large boat that we'll never own, and most importantly ... it had two weeks of complete freedom that, well, let's face it, we'll never see again. So my answer to this week's burning question:

What part of your pre-mother life would you like to have back, even if just for one day?

... would be traveling and vacationing without the kiddie-poos. I love 'em, I really do, but I haven't slept a good, full night's sleep on a trip away from home (and that includes overnight stays at the grandparents' house) since I became a mother. And I really miss the true vacation, the carefree vacation, which -- as every parent knows -- you never truly get back, even if you leave the kids at home and go off to celebrate your anniversary somewhere that requires a plane ticket or is at least two gas fill-ups away from endless "Curious George" reruns. Everything you see, you still see through their eyes.

"Hey! We're at the Eiffel Tower! Oh, look -- there's a bunny. Oh, MJ just loves bunnies. She would have gone crazy if she were here. Dude, let's call her and tell her about the French bunny."

That's how it would go down if Randy and I were to go to Paris now, people. I guarantee it. Here's what my posse has to say about what they're missin' most:

Barb: I miss my lazy Sundays. My husband would typically be working on Sundays, so I had the house to myself. The day would start off with a pot full of coffee and the newspaper. After that I would either scan the Internet or read a book. I filled the rest of the day with phone calls to friends and catching up on my favorite TV shows. Dinner consisted of delivery from either the Chinese or tex-mex restaurants down the street, and the day ended with a long, hot bubble bath. I now can only dream wistfully about those Sundays while attending another birthday party, soccer game, play date or watching The Little Mermaid for the millionth time.

Lisa: I'm a pretty slack mom or I had a pretty boring life before, because the majority of my post-mom life is indistinguishable from the pre-mom part with two obvious exceptions. I guess the thing I miss most is the relative ease with which common tasks were accomplished. Running to the store to pick up one item? 10-15 minutes, tops pre-mom. Now, if there isn't an entire hour to devote to the endeavor, we generally go without whatever it is. Also, I used to read books without forgetting what they were about between the time I started and finished, and that time period was usually measured in hours not weeks or months (holla!). {ed note: shout it, sister.}

Janice: I did not even have to think about this one! Sunday mornings. Ahhhhh, just to snuggle back under the covers when the sunlight sneaks through my curtains (for the record - just because the sun is starting to come up DOES NOT mean that it is 'morning time'), snooze for hours and roll out of bed WHENEVER I feel like it and go downstairs to a steaming cup of coffee - no wait - I could even take the time to make a frothy, super indulgent cappuccino (on my fancy machine that hardly gets enough use, that I swore I would take the time to use every day!) and then snuggle up on the couch in my favorite blanket (that is not being used to comfort some random toy or encrusted with I-have-no-idea-what) and read, read, read every page of two Sunday papers and listen to CBC (we Canadians need our droning, boring, hilarious Canadian news and humour - yes we spell "humour" like this) on the radio (radio does not always mean dancing!) and being able to discuss an article and finish my train of thought to finish a sentence.

Maybe just one Sunday.

Maybe that would be too quiet and boring, and it would not have enough oatmeal on the floor... {ed note: You can never have enough oatmeal on the floor. And I LOVE Canadian spelling. As you know. It's your countrymen's use of the metric system -- and, OK, the rest of the world's use of it -- that I dislike. Hee.}

Laura: Sleep. Here's why:

11pm to 1:30am: Carmen {the newborn} is up doing some combo of crying\eating\pooping, and Dog1 keeps following us around wondering why we've 1) brought another kid into the house and 2) aren't sleeping. Dog2 takes up post in the hall and lies across it so that we have to step over her every time we need to get from one end to the other. When we pass by, she opens her eyes, sighs, and groans. The cat is typically stretched out on the bed that no one else is using.

2am - 2:30am: Lucas {the 2-year-old}, who felt the need to grow his last four molars right now, wakes up screaming. We drug him but it takes a good 30 mins to take effect. Dog1 gives up on us and retires to her bed.

3am: Carmen wakes up.

3:30: If we're lucky, Carmen falls asleep, passing the baton to the cat, who figures that since we are up anyway, we should just feed him.

6 a.m.: Carmen wakes Lucas and Bean up. By this point Dog2 has joined forces with the cat in demanding breakfast, and Dog1 has her head curled under her leg trying to ignore it all. (She likes her sleep.) Lucas demands breakfast or TV, and Marc and I barter over who had less sleep and is now responsible for getting Lucas to daycare (dressed, preferably).

{ed note: Oh, the bartering. Many a fake sum of money has been promised to a spouse in this household if he would just go check on MJ/change LL Cool Baby's diaper/go to the grocery store and buy more baby food/take out the trash. Love the barter.}

Brandi: I’d like to have re-visit two things: a day of primitive outdoor activity: backpack/hiking camping and biking. I MISS going hiking, backpacking, and mountain biking. Backpacking is great; everything you need is on your back. Now, I have a difficult time putting everything we need into an SUV if we bring the kids just an hour down the road. JoJo and I could do these activities by ourselves with minimal gear, but it’s a whole other undertaking accommodating all of the kid’s necessities or trying to get a sitter for them while we traipse or zoom across the woods.

And last but certainly not least…

I miss my sleep. I’ve been so sleep deprived like many moms who have 4 1/2 month old and 2 1/2 yr old or just kids. I use to think I needed 10 hours a night, I’m lucky now if I get 6 hours straight in one night or 6 hours total. A day of sleep would be friggin' awesome!!! I’ll take one please. {ed note: me too, me too!}

The husband and I, that is. Yes, these 13 habits are very annoying, but we've also decided that, because they've become standing jokes, we'd probably miss them if they went away.

Well, probably, anyway.

Starting with how I annoy him:

1. "Are you incapable of putting the cap back on the toothpaste?"
It's true: I'm a living cliche. Which is why we have his and hers toothpaste.

2. "Your car looks like a junkyard."
Well, that might be overstating the case just a bit. A teenager's cluttered room, maybe.

3. "If you kick all the covers off of you at night, how do you still manage to steal them all?"
One of science's great mysteries.

4. "You have a gum problem."
I do not have a gum problem.
"You are so fixated on the gum that you refuse to throw away the wrappers."
Well, that's a gum wrapper problem, now isn't it?


5. "You fold clothes, but leave them in the laundry basket ... downstairs."
Guilty.

6. "What's with the 'anymore syndrome?'"
It's true: I have a tendency to talk like a crotchety old sourpuss at times. For example: "You just can't get a good order of McDonald's french fries anymore," or, "They don't make any fun cartoons anymore."

6.5 "You never finish the milk in your cereal bowl."
It's true. I never finish the milk in my cereal bowl.
"Is it because you pour too much, or you don't like it after all the cereal is gone?"
A little of both, actually.



... and then there is how he annoys me:

7. You taught MJ to drink the leftover milk in her cereal bowl.
"So?"
So if she ever has dinner with the queen, I hope she skips the soup course.

8. You leave the baby monitor on when she's in the room with us, and turn it off when she's upstairs, out of hearing range. Defeats the purpose, no?
"The buzzing sound annoys me while I'm watching TV."

9. While most people would turn the radio up when the emergency alert signal comes on, you actually turn it all the way down, causing me to wonder if we might be driving unwittingly into a tornado.
"It's too loud. I can't hear the baby in the backseat."

10. Cabinets? Drawers? You could close those once in a while, right?
"I'm in a hurry."

11. Nothing is ever true -- even if I have researched it -- until you have researched it yourself.
"Yeah. So? What's your point?"

12. Every home improvement project that you've ever started is currently only 94 percent complete.
"I always like to have a little bit left to do."

13. You like to stand over my shoulder while I type.
"Uh, yeah. That's because I never know when you might be typing something about me. Like now, for instance."
You make an excellent point.
"Obviously."

I try my best to raise hilarious children, so I can exploit write about them here. We start each morning with exercises in timing, delivery, effective punch lines and silly voices. I make the Bunker Girls sit at the breakfast table, staring at their untouched cereal, until they do one thing that shows me they have what it takes to one day appear in a film with Mike Myers or Will Ferrell, or, at the very least, Adam Sandler. Slapstick, people! I want slapstick from my kids.

(Sigh) Sadly, some days are better than others. Some days, one of them has been up half the night sick, which is sad, but definitely not funny. Some days, the two of them just sit around and be all sisterly toward one another. That's cute, but it's not funny. Some days, I think, maybe I should write about the friend whose daughter refers to their Roomba as her little brother. Hee. Now that's some funny. Other days, I borrow the funny from my sister's kids -- and when that doesn't work, I borrow the funny from my sister's kids' classmates. You take the funny where you can get it, people. To wit:

A boy in my nephew's first-grade class told one of his classmates that she "sucked." The girl told the teacher. The teacher told the boy he had to write a note to the girl and tell her he was sorry. The boy did. This is what he wrote:

Dear Allison*,

I'm sorry that you suck.

I can't help but think that Allison must have felt like the Duke football team probably did when it read this story, in which it was declared legally sucky by a circuit court judge in Kentucky.

*of course I changed the name.

Crisis mode. Middle-of-the-night stomach bug. As I changed MJ's bedsheets and blanket for the second time in the wee hours of this morning, a calm sort of purposefullness set over me. She's so sad and so bewildered by what's happening to her when she's sick, and unlike other trying moments of our days -- when she wants a third cup of juice and I want five minutes to finish the laundry -- there is no other thought but comfort, no tug-o-war of competing needs. I know what to do. I know what needs to be done. Messes need cleaning, fluids given, hugs administered, cuddles employed. There is a rhythm to the comforting, and I settle into it. I need, in fact, to settle into it; I don't want anyone else to do it for me.

On any other day I might be baffled by how to deal with a particular tantrum, how to potty train a child who refuses to be potty trained, how and what to feed a child who won't eat what I prepare. How to discipline a toddler who won't listen. How to turn my back for five seconds while the markers are in use. I might be troubled by how to get the grocery cart back in the parking lot stalls without leaving the kids in the car by themselves for too long. About getting to the grocery store with two kids in the first place. About whether they play well with others. About whether they'll get into preschool, and whether it's the right preschool. About an excess of toys. About a dearth of outside play.

I don't think "naturally resourceful" are the first words to roll off anyone's tongue when describing me.

But this? Making a boo boo better? Is the oldest and easiest thing in the world. This is when I know I'm a good mother, when I actually know what I'm doing ... even if that five minutes of laundry just turned into three more loads and five more hours. (And trust me, it has...)

Saturday started out nice for everyone. And then we lost the flashlight. The flashlight, Mommy, where is the light? I need it. I need it. Neeeeed it!

"Oh no, it's gone!" MJ squealed. "Daddy, it's gone! My light! What are we going to do? Noooooo!"

The light in question was this:



... which came in our Frosted Mini-Wheats (aka "Daddy's cereal"). Apparently, Randy and MJ had decided over the past week that these so-called light-up "Adventure Spoons" (as if eating frosted wheat biscuits isn't "living on the edge" enough) were the new Best Things Ever. She spent a lot of time shining it on the walls and doing what she called "puppet shows," even though there were no puppets or even shadows to speak of, just light.

And I say "Things," plural, because apparently they had also been collecting them for some time. (We go through a lot of Mini Wheats.) Indeed, apparently they had been collecting them for so long that they had piled up on a counter, unopened, near the trash can, where one day a few weeks ago a certain mommy unwittingly swept them all into said trash can, thinking they were junk. Crappy little Happy Meal toys that had accumulated and were now begging to be put out of their misery.

But oh no, friends. These were very special flashlight spoons. So when the green one that hadn't been tossed went missing ...

Randy: "It's OK, we have a bunch more. Where did we put those? Beth? Have you seen the other flashlights?"
Beth, dread and realization filling her veins: "Uh, I didn't know we had others..."
Randy: "Yeah, there were a whole bunch of them."
Beth: "Oh. Um. I might have thrown them out."
Randy: "WHAT? Why would you DO that? We had all of them, too, all the different colors."
Beth, in a tiny voice: "Whoops."
MJ: "Threw them away? Gone? Oh noooooo! What are we going to do?"

So of course what we did was to climb into Mommy's Big Guilt Wagon to go to the grocery store in search of another box of Mini Wheats (even though we had just opened a brand new one) so we could get another flashlight celebrating a movie series that MJ has never seen -- but not before we spent $65 filling up the gas tank to buy the $4 package of cereal. Motherhood: Two parts love, one part consumerism.

And let me tell you, Kellogg's is rockin' the Indiana Jones marketing. Most of their cereal is at least 50 percent more adventuresome this summer, what with the offers for free DVDs or "Adventure Canteens" or "Search Lights" on every box ... and, of course, the "limited edition" box of Indiana Jones brand cereal, complete with marshmallow skulls. (Mmmm ... marshmallow skulls.)



These sorts of things always kill me: If it's "limited edition," is it OK to eat it, or should I be selling it on eBay? Displaying it on a wall? It's like those souvenir Coke cans they sell after a team wins a championship. I'm pretty sure I still have some unopened from when Penn State won the national title in 1986. Yummy.

ANYWAY ... guess what the grocery store didn't have any more of? Yep. Mini Wheats with Adventure Spoons inside. In fact, nothing had Adventure Spoons inside it. Nothing except Frosted Flakes. Which no one in my house ever eats. Until now ...

Of course, we also picked up: a balloon; a cookie; two samples of cheese; one sample each of honey ham, olive bread and grapes; and a squeaky plastic frog that, according to MJ, "needed a big hug."

I used to love C+C Music Factory. Remember that song? "Things That Make You Go Hmmm...?" Good times, good times, people. Anyway ... I'm dying to share my theory -- prepare to be blown away by my brilliant-ness -- that "Lost" was actually inspired by Madagascar. Remember Madagascar? Animals escape from the Central Park Zoo and wind up on a desert island, away from their pampered life of privilege? You have your lion character, who enjoyed a life of stature at the zoo and just wants to get home ...




You have your zebra character, who liked the freedom he had on the island and didn't want to go back to the zoo ...




You have the lemurs (the Others), led by head lemur King Julien ...



... who uses the lost zoo animals to keep away the predatory foosa (Charles Widmore and the people on the boat). I'm not sure where the penguins fit in, but I do know that I love them, and this movie. MJ could watch this puppy all day and I'd never tire of it. Also? When they play the song, "Move it, move it" ("He like to move it move it; she like to move it move it; we like to ... MOVE IT"), we both like to get up off the couch and, well ... you know, move it. My favorite animated film.

(Fun fact: Madagascar 2 is coming in November.)

Which leads us (finally) to this week's question:

Which animated movie could you watch over and over again, and which would you like to toss in a trash heap?

Janice: Without a doubt - I could watch Jungle Book over and over. I am not sure if it is the movie or watching my little girlie bop wide-eyed and gleeful to Baloo and Mowgli when they sing "The Bear Necessities," while she mimics the dance moves and bellows "Look for the Bear Nesesames, do do bear nesesames. Forget about your worries and your sime." It is too much!

There are too many movies I would like to throw in the trash heap. Maybe even Jungle Book 2. We recently went to a princess birthday party and, as Maya can count on one finger the number of times that she has dressed up as a princess, she was in her glory. She has not seen any princess movies or read any books, but when she came home from the birthday party, she was sad. "Mommy, I really, really want to be a princess so much when I grow up." And I asked her why she was sad: "Because I am not pretty like Cinderella and no prince will love me and marry me. Only pretty girls will get married." My heart broke.

Becky: Ok, so I've tested the answer to this question on long drives between D.C. and N.Y., and Japanese animation wins -- My Neighbor Totoro. Yeah, the beginning involves a lot of screaming girls, but the youngest, Mei, is just so cute, and the cat-bus cracks me up. Plus, who wouldn't want to grow up with a giant, furry Totoro? {ed. note: No friend of mine!}

As for the flick to toss to the junk pile, this is tricky, there are so many ... Where do these movies come from? How do they get in our home? When will: A. My daughter forget they exist; or B. I become good at lying and say I have no idea what she's talking about, all the while I'm fully aware it's in the dumpster or donated to Goodwill?

The junk winner in our home is an Italian gem purchased by my dad from a WalMart $1 bin about a dog named "Scruffy".

Lisa: We’re currently stuck in a binary loop of Chicken Little and Monsters, Inc. (or in tiny girl speak ‘Zonza Ink’). I like both of them fine, but my all-time animated favorite is Wallace and Gromit in The Wrong Trousers. We’ve solved the problem of the trash heap worthy films by pre-screening everything and not allowing the annoying to even enter the home because if it’s here, it’s getting watched no matter how hard I try to redirect to something less objectionable (I’m looking at you Franklin, Little Bear and each and every Doodlebop). Since I’m a slave to Pixar, you know I’ll be first in line at Wall-E next week. Wanna split some popcorn? {Absolutely. I love popcorn! See you there.}

As I sit here, asking the toddler not to tackle her infant sister, I recall a time not so long ago when I escaped the world of stay-at-home mom to become the stay-at-home-beach-rental-mom. That time? Last week. It's always nice to take my nagging-and-scolding show on the road, for a change of scenery, and the North Carolina coast is a lovely place to administer a time-out while rocking on a porch in front of the sand dunes and sipping iced tea.

I also did these 13 things (and took a break from grammar, as you can plainly see in the title of this post ... sorry Di), which I thought I would share with all of you lovely people.

1. I actually finished reading a book. A whole book. This is a big accomplishment for a person who had been reading the same book (not Loving Frank, another one) since December. I couldn't be more proud of myself. Thank you, thank you. Please be seated.

2. While traipsing about the streets of Wilmington during a day trip, I resisted the temptation to mention "Dawson's Creek," even though Pacey was in my thoughts.

3. While driving through Wilmington and past Whitey's Restaurant, I resisted the temptation to mention, for the 157th time since I met the husband, that "Michael Jordan once worked there." (Voice of Husband: Um, no, you didn't. Voice of Me: I mentioned it? VOH: Yeah. It was mentioned. VOM: Oh. OK. But, I mean, seriously: Greatest basketball player of all time! VOH: Yeah. Whatever. I'm from Canada.)

4. OK, but I did resist the temptation to smack the 7-year-old kid at the pool who told me, "Your granddaughter is in my way." Stupid skirted bathing suit. Thirty-five, people! I am only 35. (VOH: You do not look a day over 28. VOM: You are so smart.)

5. I went a whole week without Internet. Almost. There was one moment of weakness at the McDonald's WiFi midweek. It wasn't easy, people, but I did it. Almost.

6. I didn't watch a single kid's television show. In fact, I barely watched any grown-up television. Did I mention that I finished a whole book? Proud.

7. I gained a pound. (OK, maybe not something to be proud of, exactly, but I ate really, really well ... and so my stomach was proud.)

8. I remembered to stop the mail AND the newspaper before I left. Again, thank you for the applause. You're right: It IS quite an accomplishment.

9. Got my toddler to calm down and go to sleep in her travel air bed ... and it only took four days of pleading and driving around after dark to do it! Parent-of-the-year.

10. I took this picture of the husband, which kills me:



11. No sunburn! Thanks, SPF 50.

12. I walked to the pool in a bathing suit in full view, without any cover up or extra-large T-shirt to shield me from the snickering and stares of people who haven't given birth to two children. Although, clearly, given Smarty McSmartypants from #4 above, perhaps that was a mistake.

13. I remembered to listen to the waves crashing on the beach as I fell asleep at night, as I rocked Little L to sleep, as I sat on the porch. Life's little pleasures, people, life's little pleasures.

"Beth, did your daughter have jammies and a diaper on when you put her in bed?" Randy is calling to me downstairs, from upstairs, where he is standing in puddles of pee in MJ's room.

"Yes," I blurt out, with dread.

"Well," he says, "she doesn't now."

And he wonders why I want to watch "The Secret Life of the American Teenager," a show we had seen preview for a couple nights ago. I need a release from toddlerhood. Something more grown-up. Something more like teenagerhood. (Adulthood would just be going too far.)

"Is it so wrong that I want to watch a show with Molly Ringwald in it?" I had asked Randy, after having him tell me -- upon seeing my eyes grow big as saucers at the prospect of a new show -- that we were not adding it to the DVR.

"No more shows about teenagers!" he insisted, pulling the remote closer toward him, as if protecting the TV -- his baby -- from my insanity. "No more! I'm cutting you off. You have a problem."

OK, I don't have a problem. This is the same phrase I hear about my "alleged" chewing gum addiction ...



... and the fact that I am 75 percent combustible from 8 a.m. to 10 a.m. (actual husband quote: "Did you know that your coffee creamer is flammable?"):



The problem is with producers of shows like "Gossip Girl" and "Greek" (which I may or may not have been watching at the time the preview came on) who keep making immensely entertaining shows that star and revolve around teenagers and make me long for a return of the fabulously kvetching "Party of Five." I mean, I love "Grey's Anatomy," but I'll take the bratty, spoiled chicks on "Gossip Girl" over real-life brat Katherine Heigl any day of the week. Granted, I haven't seen "Secret Life" yet (it premieres July 1), but I'm more than willing to give it a spin.

And, well ... if you really want to blame someone for my love of teenager shows, blame MJ -- not for the previously mentioned freestyle bedtime peeing, but because I once had nothing else to do while holding her 3-month-old self and waiting for her to fall asleep, so during the spring and summer of 2005 I watched every single rerun of this stupid show, from pilot to finale, on TBS. And oh, how I grew to love that stupid show, and all of its stupidness.

Back to the other night:

"We're watching it," I told Randy, with great determination, standing up for oppressed housewives everywhere who secretly worship teenage television. Yep, this must be how late nineteenth century women in the western United States felt after they first won suffrage. (See Pearl? I'm trying to raise my blog reading level.) We've come a long way, baby.

"Do we have to?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. "We must. It's highly relative. One day we will have teenagers, and I think it's important we keep up with trends in the industry."

"Well," he allowed, "it's true. We'll have two of them, in fact, for something like seven years."

"Exactly," I said. "And ... I mean, dude: Molly Ringwald!"

Every two minutes or so, I would look in the back seat to see if MJ was asleep yet. Down the road from our beach house rental, over the Trooper Larry Walton Memorial Bridge, across the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway and back ... four nights in a row, we tried to drive our little toddler to sleep, the way we used to do when she was a newborn.

Why? Because she was out of control hyper. Doodlebops hyper. I kid you not, the first night of our vacation, the child break-danced on the hardwood floors at 11 p.m. while my sister read her If You Give a Moose a Muffin. I have cousins, nieces and nephews who will conk out on a couch at 8 p.m., even if a party is going on around them. Even at their own birthday parties. My kid? Will outlast the hardiest of partiers. Paris and Lindsay would not know what hit them.

And if you've ever traveled with both a 3-year-old and a 10-month-old and had to "sleep" in the same room with both of them, you know the drill. You know what's at stake. If the baby cries, the toddler is up. If the toddler protests bedtime, the baby is squawking. It is truly one of life's most cruel and vicious cycles.

So, the driving. Each night, a new excuse to go to the grocery store: "MJ, let's get in the car (at 9:30 p.m.); we need to buy some diapers." "Hey, let's go for a quick ride to buy you a new toothbrush." Etc.

The first night, it actually worked. We drove home, I got out of the car and went into the house first for some recon work -- asking all the adults (grandparents, aunts, etc.) to turn down the lights and mute the TV and be as still as mice, as though waiting for a surprise birthday party -- and then Randy brought her boneless body inside and deposited her onto her toddler air bed a mere five feet from her sister's crib ... and we both held our breath. Success.

The next night was a disaster. She was "drowsy" by the end of our drive, so we tried to put her in her bed and coax her to sleep. Seemed fine. And then, it wasn't. And then, everybody was awake. Toddler, baby, Mommy, Daddy, Grammy and Pop Pop across the hall. There was begging. There was pleading. There was rocking. And that was just what we had to do to get the grandparents back to sleep! (Ba dump bump.) MJ gave in at around midnight; Little L held out until 1:30 a.m. Everyone else: exhausted.

MJ was like a zombie the next day (and most days, actually), she was so tired. The drama reached new levels. In one hilarious episode, she stood on the porch trying to fasten Randy's life jacket around her and tripped on her own feet, tumbling ever so gently onto her back while wearing the thing, rendering her unable to move. While she lay there, kicking her legs and crying, we "adults" rocked in our white rocking chairs and giggled at the sight. "She's like a turtle," my dad guffawed, "stuck on its back." Her mother took a video. Finally, someone righted her, only to watch her do it again. It was sad. We were sorry we had laughed, we told ourselves, in between laughter. Because mostly it was just funny.

Except for the not sleeping part.

So, new plan. Still driving, but now with new bedding arrangements. Baby crib goes into grandparents room, toddler air bed stays in our room. More success, but still the kind that had her up until midnight. The next night, same plan. More disaster. This time, Little L, growing no fewer than six teeth at once this week, gets a bit growly and demands a room reassignment. Crib goes back into our room, toddler air bed moves to the grandparents' quarters. Eventual success.

The next night? Screw the driving. Nothing left to buy at Food Lion. So, a shockingly familiar tactic: Bathtime, story, cuddle, singing by mommy, and ... miraculously, sleep. Sweet, precious, un-embattled sleep. "I love you too, Mommy," she said before she rolled over and started snoring -- because that's what she always says when her world is right, when she's blissful, when she's safe, when she's not a turtle stuck on its back in a daze of insomnia.

Poor MJ. Her bad parents, in an effort to take a vacation from being parents, tried every gimmick in the book to avoid the usual seemingly drawn-out bedtime routine we have to do at home. And it only cost us $20 in gas and seven hours of sleep to figure it out. We are idiots.

When I was younger, my dad had a penchant for the cannonball on our annual family beach vacation. All the kids in my family would beg him to do it, and then stand back and wait for the splash. It really wasn't a beach vacation unless the pool had been christened by the bruising thud of Pop-on-Water.

But this year, my dad didn't even bring his swim trunks. He hasn't executed a cannonball in years. I guess he figures it's time to pass the torch to a new generation of goofballs.

And while Randy isn't one to make a big splash, he's an expert at finding fun in the simplest places. On our last night at the beach last week, we came across a deeply dug hole in the sand that I paid little attention to at first. After all, there were no impressive spires or moats involved in this artwork, no drawbridges or towers to avoid because some parent child had worked hours on it that day. It was just ... a Great Big Hole.

But to Randy, well, it was the torch. Soon, he was stepping back 20 feet, running and jumping into it with all the glee of a 7-year-old -- which was convenient, since the 7-year-old nephew on our walk followed him with his own acrobatics. And then MJ, her little legs wobbly like Bambi's as she tried to slide down the bank of the hole.

After several minutes of the best kind of fun a little kid (and his or her uncle or dad) can have, a simple kind of fun, we noticed an older couple sitting on the deck of their beach house just up from the Great Big Hole, chuckling like we used to at my dad. This was their idea of a cannonball.

"Glad you're enjoying it," they called out to us, raising their red Solo plastic cups in our direction, as if in tribute to goofballism everywhere.

It was bound to happen eventually. When you have a blog feature with the acronym BBQ, you're going to have to get the menfolk in your sphere involved, yes? Yes. So, what better way to end FatherBunker Week and head into the Father's Day weekend than to let the dads answer this week's question.

I give you:

If you could invent a Sharper Image-type contraption to make fatherhood easier, what would it be?

Randy, a.k.a. "Mr. MotherBunker," by dictation: "I'm definitely going with some kind of cloning device."

"Why, Mr. MotherBunker?" asked his dictator the person taking his dictation.

"Because bedtime would be easier. One of me for each kid. Or, better yet: One of YOU for each kid. Yeah, I like that better." {ed note: Uh-huh. Why don't you clone us both; that way you can -- I mean, my clone can -- have that third kid you mentioned.}

Kevin, a.k.a. "MotherBrother-in-Law," who, it might be relevant to know, is an air-traffic controller at Pearson International Airport in Toronto. The cool kids call it YYZ:

OK. Here it is ..."noise cancelling" cell and home phones. They make noise cancelling headsets for pilots to null the effects of engine sounds to make flying quieter so why not null the effects of screaming kids when you are on the phone to the bank, schools, work etc. You know, that really important call you have to make or else complete and utter disaster ... That would definitely make fatherhood (and motherhood for that matter) much easier and although not Sharper Image, it has a sharper sound-type contraption written all over it.

Dave "The" Drake (you know he just loves being called that all the time): I’d invent an alarm clock with a 15 second snooze button. It could be set to remind my 8 and 10 year olds to do their homework or chores. When they ignored it the first time, they’d get reminders every 15 seconds. This would save me having to ask them to do everything 9 times before any action was taken.

Sharper Image always has a massage chair in their stores. I’d love to see a massage chair that was also a riding lawn mower. You see, mowing our lawn always takes at least 2 hours. At a local spa, I’ve paid for 60 minute massages that seemed to last 5 minutes. With this kind of math, I could get the whole lawn mowed in what seemed like 10 minutes... and I’d feel great by the end!

JoJo Almario: Well I have thought of enough inventions to make for kids to make my life a little bit more selfish or overly convenient. I have even thought of some that in the end are extremely far-fetched and would not get past the first evaluations of patenting. In other words take the real work out of what makes a parent a parent. Hmmmm ... I’ve even thought of some sort of short release harmless sleeping device that will automatically put the kids to nap so I can just lounge around, watch TV and play games on the computer, but like I said ... selfish and not good parenting. SO I have a couple of things that might be good ideas.

Toys that actually do grown up stuff – mainly like a toy vaccum cleaner that will actually vaccum. (I wonder what kinda child endangerment hazard that will present?) I hear my wife complain about the toy vaccums so this ones for you sweety!

Holograms – Whether they are of me or some other pre-school character to keep my kids occupied long enough to go to the bathroom, or cook dinner (HA! See I can do unselfish parenting stuff too) Maybe they can even be educational! (Man I'm on a parenting role).

And last but not least a very far-fetched device (but ultimately a bonding resource for my kids and I), something that can translate their toddler/baby movements into mouse and keyboard inputs so they can join me on the Nintendo or my computer games. Fun for the family yeah? {ed note: I think you mean "Fun for the family, eh?"}

Paul Kalin: I will confess that I am a sufferer of temporal narcissism. My gadget-based lifestyle has allowed me to seemingly alter the space/time continuum to watch commercial-free television programming when I
want; take podcasts with me on the road and pause, rewind, and fast forward to seek out the best portions of audio programs; and clean my house while I'm not even at home through a scheduled Roomba run. {ed note: Is that really what those things do? OK, I'm getting one.}

However, my affliction gives me certain dysphoria when child-rearing tasks occur in real time – beyond the control of my gadget controllers.

So, I will be the first in line to when Sharper Image releases their Time Shifting Remote Control for a Child. This simple gadget will allow the parent to:
• Pause the child to take a phone call in the middle of Candyland to
avoid the attention seeking scatter the cards consequence.
• Enjoy the pleasant initial 10 minutes of bedtime routine. Then, fast forward through the anguish of the next hour of negotiation. Total relapsed time: 10 minutes and 30 seconds. Bedtime has never been so easy.
• Rewind to undo the mistake of placing a full coke next to a laptop computer on the floor. Turning your back for just 10 seconds can be catastrophic. But with time shifting technology, wrongs are righted after the event.
• And loop over your daughter's first jump in to the pool again and again to make a blissful moment last as long as you want.

Such a simple device would have many uses. In fact ... am I late for my
publishing deadline??? << RW << RW << RW << There we go, it's all
about timing.

Marc Smith -- that's Marc with a "c": Often Ema tells me that she wishes I could be there during the day. If someone is mean to her or she just wants to feel safe. I would like to have a device that I could pre-load images of me with little notes to her so she could see me whenever she wanted. I leave her notes in her lunch, but I think she would love to hear me say things and see me. {ed note: Awww. So very sweet.}

Carter "I went to the French Open" Toole: Simple. I want eyes in the back of my head. I've doubled my roster of kids so I need to double my ability to keep them (and by extension...me) out of trouble.

{Ladies and gentlemen, settle in:}

Matt Rehm: Although a just and merciful God long ago "invented" the nubile Scandinavian au pair, the Sharper Image stubbornly refused to offer this miracle product, focusing instead on Radio-Controlled Squirting Gunboats, Turbo Nose Hair Groomers, and of course LoveHandlers. Thus it came as no surprise on May 16 when a bankruptcy court approved the sale of the Sharper Image's assets at auction, sparking pandemonium among those eager to procure pallets of AcuVibe Rechargeable Personal Variable-Speed Massagers at bargain-basement prices (and you know who you are, sinners).

Only one product could have saved the Sharper Image without prompting a tsunami-like rise in divorces and/or a resurgence in ABBA's popularity in North America. It's a revolutionary innovation that would eliminate our ongoing dependence on foreign oil, eradicate the threat of global climate change, and rescue us all from the looming specter of $7/gallon gasoline.

I'm referring, of course, to Mr. Fusion.



Before delving further into this, it's necessary to explain that I've historically underestimated two forces of nature. One is the longevity of Bill Kristol's career, which has degraded more slowly than styrofoam despite the fact that, technically speaking, he's been wrong about every single thing he's written for the past seven years. The other is the potency of a substance strikingly similar to Kristol's punditry, one that is colloquially known as "babysh*t."

Sheriff Buford T. Justice once proclaimed, "Bank robbin' is babysh*t!" -- concisely stating his view that babysh*t is merely a minor annoyance, ultimately as inert and nonthreatening as N.C. State's athletic department.* Indeed, babysh*t appears harmless to the untrained eye, like a peaceful manta ray floating in the placid waters off Australia's coast. But approach it with casual indifference and it will strike with a primal fury normally reserved for oblivious Animal Planet hosts.
This simple but painful truth became evident during my newborn son's first visit to the pediatrician last week. Much like the voyage of the Hindenburg or Howard Dean's 2000 presidential campaign, everything progressed smoothly ... at first. But upon being weighed, Charlie began contorting his face as if re-enacting the asphyxiation scene in Total Recall.



The carnage that followed eerily resembled the end of Pearl Jam's "Jeremy" video, both situations having arisen from the unanticipated wrath of a highly agitated child. Except in lieu of a frozen classroom awash in blood, everything in the offices of ABC Pediatrics -- the nurse, the scales, the floor and, yes, the wall -- appeared to have been splattered with a generous helping of butternut squash.




(Charlie then treated us to fountain show so reminiscent of Bellagio's, he might as well have choreographed it to "Luck Be a Lady." But I digress.)

This, friends, is an explosive phenomenon that commands respect, yet one that must be harnessed for the good of all mankind. We must somehow become the masters of this force -- which I refer to as "Diaper Obliterating, Overtly Kinetic Internal Energy, or "DOOKIE" -- and channel its awesome power. Like in the days of the Apollo program or possibly "Hands Across America," we must come together as a nation to achieve what our ancestors would not dare imagine:

Not a diaper, but a DOOKIE containment system that creates a perfect vacuum when applied to the baby. All matter -- gaseous, liquid and especially solid -- expelled from the baby must be suctioned away from his skin and held in a protective chamber to avoid environmental contamination.

An efficient and affordable Mr. Fusion capable of converting DOOKIE containment systems into clean, renewable energy.

A DeLorean or other sweet '80s sportscar that runs entirely on DOOKIE. Bonus points for monster tires.



It is imperative that we develop this technology for the betterment of our our environment, the strengthening of our economy, and indeed the preservation of our national security. Also, not having to change any more dirty diapers would totally kick ass.

{*MotherBunker has no issues with N.C. State, for the record. Duke, on the other hand ...}

Daniel: Wow. That’s too high to get over. Too low to get under. I feel so ... overwhelmed by this well-reasoned and lengthy discourse. Here I was thinking that the perfect invention would be a machine that plays non-stop Spongebob videos while simultaneous blowing bubbles, making funny fart noises and shooting out cheetos and chocolate chip cookies to the delight of 6-year-olds everywhere. Guess we’re in two different phases of fatherhood, Matty.

{Oh, he's in some kind of a phase, alright. I think it's called "lack o' sleep."}

by Daniel T.
FatherBunker Guest Writer

When Beth asked me to write “13 things that every father should know,” I started to wonder, “Why me?” Yes, I have a 6-year-old son, but there are fathers who have many more kids ... dads that stay at home with their kids ... fathers who have sacrificed more for their kids. Then, I realized that Beth knew that I could write on deadline. Without complaint. For no money whatsoever. {ed note: That's just how I roll. And also, Mr. MotherBunker declined.} If that makes me “father of the year,” then so be it.

In reality, it’s been rather amazing to think about how my entire perspective on life has changed. I’ve learned an incredible amount in the last 6-7 years, and even though every kid is different, I came up with my list of things that every dad should know (or already knows).

1) It’s the toughest job you’ll ever love ...
Yeah, I know, this is an obvious one, but it’s a good starting point. Being a dad is the first 24/7 responsibility any of us have ever had. OK, marriage might qualify, but you’re not so much “responsible” as you are “accountable” in that situation. I mean, your wife won’t expire if left to her own devices (unless you married Paris Hilton). Well, maybe if you were a sergeant with a platoon full of green soldiers operating in a war zone, that might qualify. But for most of us, it’s unlike anything we’ve ever experienced because of the time, effort and care that you put into this gig. And it’s a blast.

2) ... but it’s really not that tough (as much as we’d like to think otherwise).
The only piece of advice I typically give expectant dads is this: Becoming a father is like going to college. When you’re getting ready to go off to school, everybody tells you the horror stories. “You’ll have to study three hours for every one you spend in class.” Or, “The professors don’t care if you live or die.” You get there, though, and the actual experience isn’t nearly as bad as all of this. See, people hold onto the most horrifying memorable moments and pass them along. Same with having kids. Everybody tells you about the vomiting on the bed or the time the kid set fire to the house. The stories about a quiet morning watching TV aren’t interesting enough for any conversation. {ed note: Dude, that is TOTALLY interesting to MotherBunker. Just so you know.}

3) In the delivery room, if the nurse says, “Hey Dad, look here,” DO NOT LOOK unless you are fully prepared for what you might see.
Just trust me on this one. I didn’t pass out, but boy, I sure turned a deeper shade of pale.

4) Realize that you’re always living by example.
Another no-brainer, you’d say, but I see a lot of parents who admonish their kids to say “please” and “thank you” but never do that themselves. {ed note: There is no need to call me out on my own blog, Daniel.} Kids mimic everything you do. It’s how they learn. If you act politely and use good manners, your kids will pick up on that. Now, of course, you’ll have to reinforce that behavior from time to time, but you can’t do one thing and say another. Kids are great hypocrite detectors. {ed note: Does that mean I have to start sharing my Cabernet? Because I’m pretty sure that stuff will stain her princess cup.}

5) There is no way to totally get prepared for fatherhood, but you can draw on a few life experiences.
In college, I had a job in a newspaper mailroom where I would sometimes get home at 3 or 4 a.m. After catching 2-3 hours of sleep, I’d be up and ready for an 8 a.m. class. I was just doing it as a way to make some dough, but it also helped me prepare for nights of fitful, oft-interrupted sleep that you experience with a newborn (and beyond). If you’ve raised a puppy or helped take care of younger kids, you at least have some inkling of the ordeal to come.

6) Kids are a blank slate, so use it wisely.
I’m a UNC grad, so I’ve spent hours building a healthy hatred of all things Duke. {ed note: Um, I think you mean “Dook,” but it’s OK; my spellchecker caught it.} Sure, it’s petty and stems from a bunch of drunken evenings in college. But, it’s something my son and I share, and it’s a great way to relate. Until he decides that he wants to be a Blue Devil some day. Ugh ... let’s move on.

7) Be prepared to give up some things ...
I used to play tennis several times a week. Probably played golf about 10 times a year. Now, my tennis racket is collecting dust and my golf clubs are rusting in the garage. It’s hard to justify that much time out of the house when I want to be a family guy when I have free time.

8) ... but be ready to get your kids involved in your activities.
Instead of doing things in absence of my son, he goes with me to my own thirtysomething athletic endeavors like volleyball and basketball games. He is learning about the sports that I’m playing, and it won’t be too long before he’ll be ready to take part.

9) When it’s time for him or her to pick up sports, be prepared to get involved but don’t be TOO involved.
This is a hot-button issue for me, but it’s something almost every dad will face. How to support – and how much to get involved – with your kids sports. Problems don’t emerge when you working with them one-on-one. It’s when you’re seeing them compete the first time that you can get lost in the heat of the moment. Yell at a coach or a referee. Snipe at your kid for having a bad game. Well, as both a father and a youth-league coach with 10 years of experience, I have to say: Just be positive, be courteous, and put your child’s development first. Otherwise, you could ruin your kid’s love of sports. {ed note: My friend, and your friend, Julie, would concur.}

10) Remember privacy? Yeah, that was fun.
A toddler will follow you everywhere. If you’re like most men, you’ll grab your sports section and head into the bathroom for some quiet time. Have a kid, and you suddenly have company there. And everywhere. You get used to it, but just to a point. Make sure you have locks on your bathroom and bedroom. Again, should be a no-brainer. But I had to mention it.

11) You’re going to see some horrible, horrible kid's TV shows. Try to make the best of it.
Talk about something you can’t prepare for. Unless you’ve gone through a CIA torture course, I can’t imagine how you can prepare for endless hours of "Teletubbies", "The Doodlebops" and everybody’s home methadone clinic, "Barney and Friends." Jeezy creezy, those are some horrible shows if you’re not a 3-year-old all hopped-up on French toast sticks. What can you do? Not zmuch, but if you really get bored, start to think about the adults in the show leaving the set, doing a line of cocaine and going to clubs where they slug anyone who calls them by their showbiz name. Maybe it’s just me, but that really helped.

12) If your son is born at 10 lbs., 14 oz. without the benefit of a C-section, try to make your first words about your little boy something more prosaic than, “Whoa, he’s huge!”
It’s perfectly acceptable, however, to pull the doctor aside afterwards and ask in heated terms why they didn’t know the kid was that big (we were told “high 8s, low 9s” for a ballpark estimate). Bear in mind, my son was born in 2002, not the Middle Ages. Thanks, Humana, for not covering that late-stage ultrasound.

13) All too often, being a father is really great* ... but it’s also not about you.
Here are two good perspectives on fatherhood, by two different comedians. First, Chris Rock had a great bit about how your daddy would work hard, take care of the house, take care of the kids, and what did he get? The big piece of chicken. That’s all. And, Bill Cosby had a great routine about a dad who trained his kid to play football, worked with him every day, showed up at every practice and every game to support the kid, watched him get a scholarship to college and then see him on TV after scoring the big touchdown. What does the kid say into the camera? “Hi, mom!”

As a dad, you’re almost always going to be second-fiddle to mom, but since she squeezed out the kid (I mean, how weird was that? {ed note: I'm not going to lie to you. It was weird.}), that’s no biggie.

So dads, in advance of Fathers Day, here’s to all of you. Hope you can spend some quality time with your family and maybe eke out a few moments for yourself.

* I just have to say, this is one of the best lines ever. -- Beth

Like most parents (I would guess), I try to imagine what traits the Bunker Girls will acquire from Randy and me. Not just the straight hair vs. wavy hair bit, but whether they will be cool under pressure (him) or freak out when something doesn't go according to plan (regrettably, that's me). I always hope they'll get the best of both worlds, which is something I touched on for Triangle Mom2Mom, a local parenting site I contribute to. (Maybe you've seen that little link up there called TM2M?) So, because it's FatherBunker week, I'm going to take the liberty of reposting it here. (But Bunker readers get bonus pictures with it!)

Speeding up I-40 and out of town for the Memorial Day weekend, I was reading a story to Randy in Sports Illustrated (Fun fact: I worked there for about six minutes in the mid-90s*) about IndyCar driver Danica Patrick. "Her father ... had raced snowmobiles and midget cars in his younger days, and he instilled the thrill of speed into his daughters Danica and Brooke, buying each a go-kart when Danica was nine and Brooke seven."

Randy's eyes lit up from the driver's seat; he interrupted me mid-sentence. I knew what was coming.

"Can I buy my daughter a go-kart when she's seven?"

I shot him a look.

Here's the thing about my husband. He doesn't do team sports. He does thrill sports, the kind where you can be killed or maimed or paralyzed in some fashion. He, too, raced snowmobiles and go-karts ... if by race you mean flying into icy trees in the Canadian outback or crashing into friends on an indoor track. He was the kid who successfully petitioned the local government to build a municipal BMX park so he and his pals could take their lives into their own hands in a designated area, instead of flipping on their heads in front of the Canadian Tire store while innocent customers dodged their soaring bodies. Over his left eyebrow is a scar he doesn't like to talk about, but I'm certain he didn't get it in a knife fight on the mean streets of suburban Ontario:

(Yep, that's him, rockin' the socks.)

Meanwhile, my older sister had to bribe me to learn how to ride a bike when I was 10. I was bringing down her neighborhood reputation.

I want my girls to be fearless, I do. I love watching women like Danica Patrick redefine the strength of their gender. And if MJ or Little L were to find themselves in the winner's circle at the Indy 500, I would be their most obnoxious fan. It's just that, before they start the race, they'll have to climb over my dead body to get into the driver's seat.

This also goes for jumping out of airplanes, flying off ramps of all kinds, scuba diving, riding really tall ferris wheels and boxing. I guess that leaves the kind of fearlessness displayed at desk jobs and on stationary bicycles:

(My kind of danger: Eating Utz potato chips with lunch, circa 2001.)


The truth is, I love risk ... from a distance. In fact, when we were expecting MJ, we tried to think of names that would sound good when introduced at the X-Games, names with instant star quality and a hint of edge, like Picabo and Piper. Dirt-biking names. Skateboarding names. Names that could be adopted to describe a particularly radical water skiing move that she had invented and perfected en route to winning a gold medal. We even thought about Danica ... but decided we would be pigeonholing her.

And then I went through 23 hours and 46 minutes of labor to deliver a surprisingly blue and completely terrified 5-pound, 10-ounce bald baby girl who couldn't eat, sleep or grow hair without my help. So much for risk.

When it comes to child-rearing, Randy and I agree on most things. But thresholds of physical danger are not among them. He's dauntless, mostly; I'm paranoid, mostly. He turns MJ upside down in a good-natured romp and I cringe. He puts her on his shoulders and I walk behind him like a human safety net. I suppose that balance is good news for our children, who will probably experience just enough thrill in their lives without losing any appendages.

Back in the car, I continued reading aloud, this time about a makeshift racetrack Danica's father had set up for his girls. "Moments later her brakes failed, and she crashed head-on at 25 mph into a concrete wall ... Danica's body slammed hard into the steering column, and she slumped over, her head smacking the ground as her coat caught on fire."

It turns out she was unharmed. But I shot Randy another look anyway. "Ahem," I said. He wasn't listening. He was too busy looking at something in front of him.

"Maybe I can buy her a motorcycle when she turns 9, like that one, on the back of that truck. And we can go dirt-biking together."

Absolutely. In a sandbox out back, and on a bike without a motor.

***

More exploits from the father of my children:

Building a Go-Kart:

(That outfit, by the way, is what 11 year old boys used to wear. Now it's what 11 year old girls wear.)

Scuba Diving:

(As for me? As Professor Pizza on "Curious George" says, "I don't like it when fish look at me.")

Ski-Dooing in the Atlantic Ocean:

Maybe you noticed a few minor changes around here. This week -- well, except for Wednesday ... I'm taking the day off, people -- MotherBunker is changing its name and its storylines to salute the dads we know and love. I, for one, hope this will make up for all the bitching I do every other week of the year, what with the picking up of the socks and the cleaning up of the crumbs and the shoveling of the discarded junk mail, etc. (Oh, did I just defeat the purpose of said salute? Whoops. Will try to do better.)

But seriously, because I'm still new to this whole blogging thing (at what point do I get to stop saying that I'm new, I wonder?) I've only recently discovered all the dad blogs out there -- and let me tell you (maybe I don't need to tell you), there are many. And they are GOOD, people. I'm talking introspective, funny, touching, beautifully written and satisfyingly thought-provoking blogs that I have officially fallen for. See that BunkerRoll over there on the right? I've already added a few of my new finds to it. And now I think it's time you checked them out, too, because: Bottom line? Reading these dad blogs might just make you a better father. A better mother. A better wife. And if you blog, a better writer.

A dad friend of mine said to me once that there was no magazine out there for him, the suburban, married dad. "We can read specialty pubs (Golf, SI, etc.) or single guy-focused pubs (Maxim, FHM – which ultimately just p*ss us off because we’ll never have washboard abs nor do we need '15 sure-fire ways to pick up girls in bars'). Imagine a pub dedicated to a mixture of home maintenance basics, sports/leisure, balancing wives/kids/jobs, etc. It’s gold, Jerry ... gold!"

You can't take these to the bathroom with you (or can you? Hello there, laptop), but there is plenty such gold to be mined right here, on these fine sites:

The Blogfathers is a great collection of writing from several dad blogs, a kind of one-stop peek into the mind of Dad. It's so great I could spend the whole day reading it in that wonderful getting-lost way. May I suggest:

The Sound of Magic by Flagrant Disregard: On the wonders that happen when you stop and listen to your child.

Being Daddy by Genuine: On the frustrations of being a SAHD and business owner, and on the meetings that matter most.

Our First Years by Hygiene Chronicles: On how grad school and grade school measure up.

Also:

Watch Me Daddy by Child's Play x2: A father of twins talks about collecting "remember whens."

DaddyTypes: Daddy goods, daddy style, daddy news and info. (From a Raleigh native!) And also: Thingamababy.

Plus: The best BlogHer Ad descriptor I've seen, on Cynical Dad: "beats selling sperm." Great, right? So is the rest of his blog.

You'll find stay-at-home punk-rock/aspiring author dads and, across the pond, a dad chronicling his inability to concieve (he's a bit cheeky, as you might guess from the subject of said blog. His reader feed says, "Never miss a squirt".) You'll find a SAHD of five between the ages of 6 and 13 months, who captures the conversations and labor of fatherhood with remarkable cheer (did I mention? FIVE kids).

And finally, because I can't list them all:

MetroDad, because he's just good.

Got some favorites of your own? Post 'em below.

Yesterday we did TV dads, so to keep things equal, today we're doing TV moms. I mean, I don't want Florence Henderson knocking on my door, wondering where the respect is. Know what I mean?

Without further adieu (because I sense the Bunker girls' first real fight brewing -- over a little toy with a bell on it), here's this week's question:

Which TV mom would you most like to be? And which one are you most like (if they aren't the same people ...)?

Barb: Please don't laugh, but I have always admired June Cleaver (Barbara Billingsley) on "Leave it to Beaver." I would love to be the mom who makes a large, sit down breakfast daily while wearing a perfectly pressed dress and matching accessories. She was always cheerful, although I often wondered if she was sneaking a little from Ward's mini bar. The woman could do it all, even speak jive (Google Airplane!). Unfortunately, I am most like Debra Barone (Patricia Heaton) on "Everybody Loves Raymond." Like Debra, I cannot cook, which explains why the girls have cereal every morning. I also have rambunctious children and a sports-nut husband, who make me lose it every now and then. The only piece that my life does not emulate is the parents across the street. Although, my mother keeps threatening to buy a little condo near her grandchildren. Please help me!

{ed note: By the way, I did Google BB, and I discovered that the woman is still jive-talkin' at 92 years old! Wow. B-squared also shares my birthday, so she must be totally cool.}

Janice:OK this one is hard. Sadly I watch too much Law and Order/CSI/etc. and the mothers on these shows are not ones I want to be. So I thought further..... and did some research.....

Am I Lois from Malcolm in the Middle? "Lois, played by Jane Kaczmarek, is described as a hard-nosed, manipulative and slightly crazy mother and something of an embarrassment to her five kids and devoted husband, Hal." Well, the slightly crazy fits. I do have a devoted husband, but I am afraid that I do embarrass him by talking to everyone in Target. So I guess it is a good thing that I only have one kid as I would most certainly morph into Lois with 5 kids!

Am I Debra from Everybody Loves Raymond? "As a housewife, Debra is frequently stressed out because she not only has to deal with all the housework and her three rambunctious children (without much assistance from Ray), but also Ray's obnoxious, intrusive family members, whom she often complains about. Debra tends to hold back her feelings and usually only after Ray does something she lets loose by having tantrums and completely losing control of herself." Hmmmmmm..... I am frequently stressed out and I did throw a Kleenex box once in a tantrum...... not my finest hour.

Am I Lorelai Gilmore from the Gilmore Girls? "Lorelai is a highly talkative, free-spirited woman, a child of the eighties and part of the MTV generation. Lorelai is a self-proclaimed caffeine addict and possesses no cooking skills; when not eating leftover takeout or junk food, she frequents Luke's diner. Lorelai is innately humorous and has a witty remark for every situation, often with a pop culture reference." Hmmmmmm..... I am highly talkative, free-sprited (I want to think so), caffeine addict, but I do love to cook.......

Can I be a mix up of all three? I want to have the close, wonderful, best friend relationship with my daughter like Lorelai, I do want the same plastic surgeon that Debra has and I do want to be able to voice my opinion as well as Lois.

Thanks to Wiki for my definitions. {Wiki: "You're welcome, Janice. Come back and see us anytime."}

Becky: Ok, this is one of those inkblot questions, right? I hope I'm not like the moms on the shows I watch. "Sex and the City" (yes, I usually just watch TV when it's out on DVD). Miranda? Nope. Then there's "Absolutely Fabulous"--Edina? No thanks, sweetie dahling. "Lost" -- Claire? Hmmm, maybe I can take the best points of all these moms? Yeah, I could do that, plus mix in a little Diane Keaton from "Something's Gotta Give."

Lisa: The TV mom I would most like to be is Lorelai Gilmore: stylish, independent and able to eat massive quantities of junk food with no consequences. Plus, she raised an ultra-brilliant child who swung a free ride to an Ivy - college is really, really expensive.

As for who I am actually like, I think I'm most like Marge Simpson, with a side order of Prof. Frink. Marge is resourceful, resilient and constantly reinvents herself - I've had eight jobs and moved nine times since grad school. Marge also subscribes to Fretful Mother Magazine - your source for the frightening descriptions of the latest child-maiming products. (In the non-cartoon world, we have Parents magazine to get that job done.)


Beth: Well, let's see. This is pretty difficult. I wish I would think more about these questions before I ask them. If I could be any TV mom, I'd definitely pick Tami Taylor from "Friday Night Lights." Remember Connie Britton from "Spin City"? Who would have thunk that she could portray the woman she plays on FNL: Sassy, confident-but-vulnerable, patient enough to join a book club with wives of high school football booster club members just to support her husband, successfully back in the workplace after raising her oldest daughter, tough when she needs to be, tender when she needs to be. I just love her character. I don't think I've ever heard her nag. I wouldn't even mind living in small-town west Texas (I think it's west Texas). I kind of like Texas. On the other hand, I've never seen a Target on the show, so I probably wouldn't survive long.

But I'm probably mostly a mix of Debra Barone and Edith Bunker. Let's face it: Sometimes I'm a little loopy and whiny like Edith, and Debra never has her house perfectly clean (though it still looks cleaner than mine does) and has a bit of trouble in the kitchen. At the same time, she doesn't let Ray by with much ... and I think unfortunately I'm the quintessential nag.

That being said, later in life, I'm pretty sure I'm going to end up like this woman ...

... (that's Grandma from "Friday Night Lights") wandering around accusing people of eating all her SnackWells and polishing off her pudding. "You know I like to have a little puddin' before bedtime. It settles my stomach."

Though I doubt I'll take the time to put my hair in curlers.

Next week here at the Bunker, it's daddy time -- a whole five-to-seven days of love for the dudes in honor of Father's Day. To prepare, this week's 13 is an ode to a few TV dads I love. (Notice I didn't say "good" dads, necessarily ... just ones I really enjoy watching ... or once did, but now do only in reruns on TBS.

1. Michael Bluth/Jason Bateman: Jason Bateman is my celebrity boyfriend. Let's recount a bit of his TV career, which I have seen in its entirety: "Little House on the Prairie", "Silver Spoons" (oh, Derek, you were the bad boy everyone loved), "It's Your Move" (so sadly shortlived), "Valerie" and "Arrested Development." What have you ever seen this guy in that wasn't funny? (OK, maybe not "Little House.") And although he appears here for "Arrested Development" (by the way, if you haven't heard, there's a movie in the works), my all-time favorite Bateman role is as The Ocho announcer Pepper Brooks in Dodgeball. He has unmatched hair in that film. Unmatched!

2. Benjamin Linus/Michael Emerson: If this guy isn't one of the best actors on TV, I don't know who is. Typical responses in the Bunker household during any one episode of "Lost" include:

"I hate him."
"Dude, that guy? Is seriously creepy."
"Wait a minute, did he just do something nice?"
"Oh, I can't stand him."
"Is it wrong that I'm starting to love him a little bit?"

He may not be the best father on TV, but he certainly is the most complicated.

3. Jin Kwon/Daniel Dae Kim: [sigh] I don't even know where to begin. I'm still not over the fact that JJ Abrams and crew made Sun watch the father of her unborn child die on the ship. I mean, I knew he didn't live, but I didn't know they'd make her watch. The good news: I'm loving her new kick-ass attitude in the flash-forwards.

4. Frank Barone/Peter Boyle: Peter Boyle rocks. He was great as Raymond's cantankerous dad on "Everybody Loves Raymond," but he was also classic as dad to Bill Pullman (and Peter Gallagher) in While You Were Sleeping, which I still watch when I need to feel happy. (As does, I might add, this person, who I didn't mean to give a shout-out to again this week, but it might just be my new thing to do.)

5. Heathcliff Huxtable/Bill Cosby: Yes, still. I mean, really ... is any TV dads list complete without the guy? Even now, if this show comes on while I'm puttering about the house, it will totally suck me in. Also? There's a new generation of Cosby lovers in MotherBunkerland. MJ loves her some "Little Bill." (And so do I.)

6. Brian Darling/Glenn Fitzgerald: Are you watching "Dirty Sexy Money?" We love and miss this show and can't wait for it to come back on ... and for me, it's because of this guy. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love Peter Krause, but whenever you have a morally corrupt Episcopal reverend who hates his half-brother, fathers a child out of wedlock and then tells his wife that the kid is an orphan who can't speak English ... you've got a great TV dad, don't you? Seriously, I love how the show made Brian despicable and then lovable as he worked out what it means to be a father, and to love a son. Not perfect, but definitely interesting.

7. Howard Cunningham/Tom Bosley: Mr. C love! How can you not adore a guy who rocks the leisure sweater that well?



8. Stephen Colbert/Stephen Colbert: What? He's a dad. And he's on TV. And he's one of the funniest people on TV. And I have a crush on him. Seriously, you just know the man is a good dad -- he teaches Sunday School, for Heaven's sake! (The real Stephen Colbert, that is, not the fake one.) Plus, he attended at least one of my alma maters ... and is originally from that "other" Carolina to the south of me. So it's almost like we're best friends.



9. Karl "Helo" Agathon/Tahmoh Penikett: What a beautiful, beautiful man this "Battlestar Gallactica" dude is. As if that weren't enough, he spans the human-Cylon divide by having a baby with one of the "skin jobs." He's so open-minded. And pretty. I feel it's no coincidence that he's from Yukon. (Son of former Yukon premier Anthony David John Penikett, as a matter of fact.) You know how I feel about the Canadians. (Or do you? No? Well, let's just say that if Michael J. Fox were a TV dad, he'd be the only one on this list.)



10. Rufus Humphrey/Matthew Settle: OK, so there's no way a dad as kind as this dude fathered a self-righteous smartass like Dan Humphrey -- he of "Gossip Girl" fame. And he is kind of lame in that "I want to be your friend, not your father," kind of way, and in the "I'm still holding on to my rock-star youth, which is why I'm wearing this necklace" kind of way. But like Tahmoh, he sure is pretty.



11. Howard Newly/Kevin Dunn: He's a darkhorse, I'll admit, but the dad from "Samantha Who?" made this list because of this line from one of last week's episodes:

"I spend a lot of time not thinking about my emotions. It's hard work, but it pays off."

OK, it was funnier when I heard it on TV. Even the fancy blockquote doesn't do it justice.



12. Frank Costanza/Arthur Spooner/Jerry Stiller: Obviously.



13. Eric Taylor/Kyle Chandler: The total TV father package: Kind heart, lots o' passion, strong morals, loves football, great hair -- and how awesome is it that the writers made the new baby a girl, too, instead of going for the easy "football-coach-finally-has-a-son" bit. I'm telling you, people, you cannot go wrong with this guy. He'll break your heart, in a good way.




PS, here's a bonus bit on TV dad's salaries I've found. Maybe you've seen it.

I'm taking a break from talking about Rice Krispies and tiny little colds today to talk about something much more important, something you may not know about, something I didn't know about until I stumbled across a blog called Toddler Planet the other day. Toddler Planet is written by WhyMommy, a wife, mother of two and a patient fighting a rare type of breast cancer called inflammatory breast cancer -- something she was diagnosed with just a few months after having her youngest son. IBC is different because it often doesn't show up with a lump and its symptoms are similar to mastitis. It is fast-spreading and deadly, and WhyMommy has asked bloggers to spread the word, to steal the post you'll see a few lines down from here. To join Team WhyMommy, which is what I'm doing right now.

Seventeen years ago, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer (she's cancer-free today, thank you very much), but I had no idea this version of the disease existed. (I'll talk more about her and WhyMommy in my Triangle Mom2Mom post next Tuesday.) What I did know, from my mother's experience, is that cancer often reveals new bonds of support outside your own family, people who didn't know you before you were diagnosed. That kind of community is what WhyMommy has found in the blogosphere, where hundreds of people have joined her team. Below is the post she wants you to read. I recommend that you don't stop there. Visit her site to read about her journey, which she tells with candor and beauty.

From Toddler Planet, July 23, 2007:

We hear a lot about breast cancer these days. One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetimes, and there are millions living with it in the U.S. today alone. But did you know that there is more than one type of breast cancer?

I didn’t. I thought that breast cancer was all the same. I figured that if I did my monthly breast self-exams, and found no lump, I’d be fine.

Oops. It turns out that you don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer. Six weeks ago, I went to my OB/GYN because my breast felt funny. It was red, hot, inflamed, and the skin looked…funny. But there was no lump, so I wasn’t worried. I should have been. After a round of antibiotics didn’t clear up the inflammation, my doctor sent me to a breast specialist and did a skin punch biopsy. That test showed that I have inflammatory breast cancer, a very aggressive cancer that can be deadly.

Inflammatory breast cancer is often misdiagnosed as mastitis because many doctors have never seen it before and consider it rare. “Rare” or not, there are over 100,000 women in the U.S. with this cancer right now; only half will survive five years. Please call your OB/GYN if you experience several of the following symptoms in your breast, or any unusual changes: redness, rapid increase in size of one breast, persistent itching of breast or nipple, thickening of breast tissue, stabbing pain, soreness, swelling under the arm, dimpling or ridging (for example, when you take your bra off, the bra marks stay – for a while), flattening or retracting of the nipple, or a texture that looks or feels like an orange (called peau d’orange). Ask if your GYN is familiar with inflammatory breast cancer, and tell her that you’re concerned and want to come in to rule it out.

There is more than one kind of breast cancer. Inflammatory breast cancer is the most aggressive form of breast cancer out there, and early detection is critical. It’s not usually detected by mammogram. It does not usually present with a lump. It may be overlooked with all of the changes that our breasts undergo during the years when we’re pregnant and/or nursing our little ones. It’s important not to miss this one.

Inflammatory breast cancer is detected by women and their doctors who notice a change in one of their breasts. If you notice a change, call your doctor today. Tell her about it. Tell her that you have a friend with this disease, and it’s trying to kill her. Now you know what I wish I had known before six weeks ago.

You don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer.

P.S. Feel free to steal this post too. I’d be happy for anyone in the blogosphere to take it and put it on their site, no questions asked. Dress it up, dress it down, let it run around the place barefoot. I don’t care. But I want the word to get out. I don’t want another young mom — or old man — or anyone in between — to have to stare at this thing on their chest and wonder, is it mastitis? Is it a rash? Am I overreacting? This cancer moves FAST, and early detection and treatment is critical for survival.

I know most people like to keep their cereal in the pantry, or a cabinet, or maybe, as favored by TV's finest sitcoms, on top of the refrigerator. We don't roll that way here at the Bunker, folks. MJ likes to keep our cereal in unusual, yet convenient, places. Take yesterday morning, for example. She was sitting in her chair, waiting for breakfast.

"Can I have Pops, Mommy?"

"Sure you can," I said, welcoming a request I could handle for once.

Pops, in our house, means Rice Krispies. There's a whole cereal key one must know to feed my child, and it goes something like this: Wheaties = "Wheezies"; Cheerios = "Super Whys"; Frosted Mini Wheats = "Daddy's Cereal" and so on.

So I trudged over to the pantry. No Pops. I glanced on the always populated countertops. No Pops. Hmmm.

"Sweet pea, I can't find the Pops. How 'bout something else? How 'bout Wheezies."

"Noooo! I want Pops!"

"Well I just don't see them anywhere," I said, reaching for the Bat Phone. "Let's call Daddy."

Ring!

Him: Hey.
Me: What's shakin'?
Him: Not much.
Me: Any idea where the Pops are?
Him: The Pops?
Me: Yeah. Those. We've lost them. We didn't know who else to call.
Him: I don't know where they are.
Me: Did she eat them all?
Him: No, she couldn't have. There should be half a box somewhere.
Me: Yeah. That's what I thought. Just wanted to confirm.
Him: OK. I have to go work now.
Me: Yeah, OK. Whatever.

"Mommy, try looking over there, in that room," MJ grinned, directing me from her throne.

I guessed she meant the coat closet. How cute. OK, let's play the game where I look in a hundred different impossible places for cereal that won't be there, because it's fun and MJ gets to pretend to order me around.

I opened the closet with great drama. "No, I don't see them in here," I said, louder than necessary, as though the Pops were purposely hiding from me and snickering somewhere in a corner, waiting to be found.

"No Mommy," MJ said, smiling at the fun of it all. "That room."

And then, call it maternal instinct, something sunk into the pit of my stomach, into that little pouch where acid churns freely because somewhere, there is a mess that will have to be cleaned up. I walked into the never-used living room and saw a sight not unlike the time when my friend Julie, who was strung out on Dr. Pepper and fogged over from working on a thesis, stood in the kitchen of our apartment and casually chatted as though she hadn't dropped a bag of popcorn all over the floor hours earlier and left it there, like grass seed for the linoleum. (Linoleum seed?)

"Oh, and by the way," she had ended the conversation an hour later, "I'm just going to leave this popcorn here until I finish my thesis."

"Sweet," I had said, appreciatively. "That sounds awesome."

I don't know how MJ had gotten the Pops, or how long they had been there ... but an opened box lay on its side underneath our coffee table and tiny little Snaps and Crackles emanated from its opening, decorating the rug in a kind of brilliant starburst figure. I knelt down to retrieve the package, which was silently laughing at me, and heard MJ giggle from the kitchen.

"See, Mommy?" she called. "That room."

I think my toddler is a better mommy than me. At least yesterday.

Little L had a little cold, but was miserable in that way that makes a parent miserable,too. She didn't want to be awake, she didn't want to sleep, she didn't want to play, she didn't want to sit still. After a long night of Randy and I passing each other in the hallway ...

"Hey."

"Hey."

"I'm going to get the big one."

"Yeah. I just came from the little one's room."

... over and over again, because every time LL woke up with a runny nose or a need for a cuddle, MJ woke up too ... the parents were spent. This one in particular. Once roused for good yesterday morning, I fought not only a 9-month-old's first illness and a 3-year-old's needs for whatever a 3-year-old feels she needs from second to second, but also a raging headache, the limitations of two hours of sleep and the absence of a daddy who had to put in extra hours working on a project from home.

[sigh]

This is what I get for bringing up last year's beach debacle on Friday. Nice one, loser Beth.

I think I momentarily lost that amnesia you're supposed to get about your own aches and pains when one of your children has an ache or pain, too. I was grumpy and frustrated, and when Randy took a break from work to come down and help me get them ready to take to the doctor's office, I responded to his question about something small with a retort that proposed that everyone, and particularly grown-ups I live with, stop asking me for things. Not my finest moment. Sometimes you just know that, for these waking hours, you're not going to be very good, and you make silent promises to yourself that if you get through the day, you'll be better tomorrow. More patient, more selfless, more, more, more ...

More grown-up. More like your toddler:

After lunch, I put a whining LL on the floor to play. Which took her whining to new decibels. As I stood and assessed whether her pleading look -- "C'mon, I'm in bad shape. Aren't you going to do anything to help? Pick me up! Waaaaah!" -- meant that I couldn't take a moment to visit the restroom after all, the 3-foot-half-inch cavalry arrived. MJ, who has taken to speaking less like a baby and more like a young woman asked to tea by the queen, calmly walked over to her sister, knelt down, encircled her ribcage with two tender arms and showed that at least one of us hadn't forgotten how to give even when the giving isn't pleasant.

"It's OK, Baby," she whispered. "You're OK. Look, here's a nice toy for you to play with. See? You're OK." And she was.