Whereas up to now, I’ve been a soccer step dad. Not a huge difference, mainly semantics. Still, the fact remains, the triplets entered the world of competitive sports over the weekend (their team name is Mr. Ball) and I reflected a bit upon it this past Friday over at Babble.
To check it out, click HERE.
It’s an uneasiness that shares dread’s border with which I break your threshold, but an invitation has left me no choice. Not yours, of course, as darkening your doorways requires no such thing.
Regardless of procuring cause, whenever my path crosses any of your many, it’s a lamentable occasion, indeed, or so I’m reminded the moment I feel your cool breath and begin to negotiate your well trodden, marble walkways.
You’re like a spider, what with your many legs, each capped by its appropriated anchor. I’m uncertain of which, exactly, I find myself traversing, the simple path turned confusing by the eerie sameness of the vertigo-inducing glass facades that line either side of this undesirable and heavily trafficked highway.
A handful of folks have DMed me on Twitter and Facebook over the past three weeks or so asking me for Briggs updates. And I’ve responded with phrases like Oh, he’s great and It’s so nice to have him back. But the truth is this—he wasn’t back, y’all. Not even close.
Nine full weeks after his surgery, Briggs was still struggling each and every time he got up from his bed—still walking with a discernible limp. And worst of all, he’d lost that youthful, mischievous nature we’d grown to accept love about him.
You think he and the other two triplets will make a splash at school?
For years, my wife and I assumed that our lives would become a bit easier once our triplets finally started school. What we didn’t realize, however, was just how complicated of a decision-making process awaited us.
First, there’s the question of which school we should send them to. Had there been just one child, there’d likely be no debate. We’d probably send “that child” to the same school our rising fifth grader goes to – a private school she’s attended since kindergarten.
But I’ve always had an internal struggle with the concept of forking over big bucks for a private-school education that begins in kindergarten as opposed to one that begins in, say, the fifth grade. You multiply the cost of that kindergarten year by three, and that internal struggle just turned into an internal fist fight.
Read the rest at BabbleVoices by clicking HERE.
Photo credit — Beth Lankler
when little kids find themselves in sandboxes meant for their older siblings.
Shortly after I married Caroline, she introduced me to the concept of “playing up.” Only she didn’t call it “playing up” because, unlike me, she’s not prone to coining phrases for varied and random phenomenon. Regardless, she was talking about a precocious little boy, one who had the reputation of dropping age-inappropriate pop culture references. Along with the occasional F-bomb. I wondered aloud how such a young kid could already be swimming in the profane waters of sexual innuendo, to which Caroline replied:
To read more, click over to BabbleVoices by clicking HERE.
This post is about netting shrimp to use as bait to catch redfish at the beach. Shocker, right? Anyway, it’s a very cool process that my friend introduced us to. Yes. Same guy. My partner in dipshittery crime in the Great Balcony Lockout Debacle of 2012. Goodtimes.
Anyway when not lending a helping hand in shattering kitchen windows of beach-side condos, my buddy isn’t afraid to go to the tip of the island — right near the place his family stays — and catch redfish.
And this year, Alli, the triplets and I tagged along. It was awesome, y’all. Here’s how it went down from the throw of the net to the catching of the fish:
I’d been playing around with a concept that pertains to women, motherhood and body images (I know — risky territory) and I think I may have finally gotten it right in a recent post I wrote about Caroline over at Disney Baby. At first, I wasn’t going to link to it from my personal blog because, again, it’s a concept that I’ve touched on before. But I just saw a little while ago that the post had gotten a decent number of FB likes on the BabyDisney site, so I figured that meant it struck some type of chord which is why I decided to link it after all. If you’ve ever lamented the toll that pregnancy / motherhood has taken upon your body, I hope this post “speaks to you,” though I also hope that you don’t use verbiage like “wow, that post really spoke to me” a bunch, because, you know, you’d sound kinda hoaky and all.
Anyway, to read the post, click HERE.
Ah, the DVR. Goodtimes, right? It’s like a babysitter, only with clearer skin and no Justin Bieber fixation.
Well, it’s not really a babysitter, ’cause, you know, it’s not like Caroline and I park the kids in front of the TV, dial up a little Wow Wow Wubbzy, then scamper off to a romantic dinner or anything. But that still doesn’t mean the DVR hasn’t ever watched our kids. Because it has.
continue reading at BabbleVoices by clicking HERE.
