Party of Five - Plus One

Three plus weeks into life as a party of five, and we’re at least doing better than Jeremy London’s career since his run as Griffin Holbrook ended in 2000. But just barely.

Rather than risk boring you with complaints about the last few weeks, I’ll cut to the chase. Tilly has been great. Whoever has overnight duty (almost always THE WIFE) is sleep deprived, as expected. But overall, the baby is fine.

On the other hand, Gus had about ten consecutive miserable days of teething that was all consuming to him and the rest of us. On Superbowl Sunday (of course) I was in the process of packing a bag to bring him to the hospital because he was so inconsolable until he finally just fell asleep around halftime. His mood was so bad during that stretch we felt compelled - at the suggestion of one of our doctors - to rule out that Gus didn’t have a “hair tourniquet” on his penis or any other extremities. (For the record, he was tourniquet free.) Long story short, G-man is finally back to his normal happy self so I can stop cursing about my envy for every single, childless adult male in the universe.

On a semi-related note, breast feeding has been going really well. THE WIFE and Tilly are getting into a pretty good routine, as has Greta with her newest dolls Foxy and D.D. No joke – Greta’s shirt was pulled up this morning while she sat on the couch next to THE WIFE as she nursed Tills. (MTV’s Teen Mom producers are now scrambling with ideas for their next show.) Oh, and yes, Greta came up with both names for her dolls. When she calls them by name, I think of an all-female C.H.I.P.S. series from the 80s that never made it past the pilot episode.

As the Charlie Salinger of our family, I went grocery shopping (twice in two weeks, for that matter) for the first time in approximately 10 years. Due to the gap in time since my last visit, I was shocked to discover how ridiculously expensive food is. Furthermore, healthy and/or organic food is even more freaking expensive. I had no clue. Still, if I have to choose between premature puberty for my kids because of lesser expensive food with hormones and chemicals, or more expensive healthier food, then I’ll spend the few extra bucks.

Anyway, a prior blog post addressed the impressive amount of cheese that my family has on hand at any given time in the ice box. It wasn’t until I got my recent grocery shop on, though, where I realized the obscene amount of dairy products that the T family consumes. Whole milk for Gus. 1% for Greta. Half and half for my coffee. Whipping cream for the occasional crème fraiche. Sour cream and shredded cheese for tacos. Sliced American for sandwiches. Diced feta for salads. Parmesan for pasta. Butter. Margarine. Greek-style yogurt for all. (G-man would probably be about five pounds lighter if not for yogurt alone.) Frozen yogurt sticks for the kids. Other than egg nog and buttermilk, I think we fulfill a dairy decathlon in the span of about three days in our typical week. In other words, it makes complete sense for us to just buy a cow and keep her in the backyard – next to her own wood stove of course.

Now moving on to actually cooking the groceries, we’ve been eating like Vikings since Tilly came home. Between our moms and friends, all I’ve had to do is reheat and serve. But as of late, I’ve been taking a stab at making a lot of our meals. I’m not sure how good the food is that I’ve made because here’s what happens:

A) You could place a unicorn steak with black truffles and beluga in front of Gus and he’ll throw it further than Johnny Damon from center field.

B) Greta doesn’t eat anymore. When she was younger, we could puree literally anything and she’d eat it. Now, what she likes to eat and when she likes to eat, changes like Katy Perry’s hair color. I have no idea how she is growing because she only takes about four bites during her sit-down meals.

C) Tilly will automatically wake up the minute we sit down to eat dinner as a family. Guaranteed.

D) Greta will have to take a shit the second I’ve finished feeding August and I’m about to take my first bite of lukewarm food. Although Greta pees on the potty, she’s still wearing a diaper for dumping out. Since THE WIFE can’t lift anything because of the c-section recovery, that means I’m on crap duty. It’s possibly one of the worst interruptions to encounter when one is about to “enjoy” a meal.

E) By the time THE WIFE and I have the chance to eat any food, it’s cold but we shovel it down like sumo wrestlers as we plead for Greta and Gus to take a bite of anything. By the end of the meal, I’ve usually surrendered. Cheerios sit in piles on the kids’ plates and I pound wine because there’s only ten minutes left before bath. Good times!

If Tom and Padma want to come up with a way to spice up the quickfire portion of Top Chef next season, come to me. I want to guest judge. Here’s the episode.

Padma: Chefs, please welcome Dennis Teravainen. Mr. Teravainen is a father of four who lives in the suburbs with his wife. He moonlights as an executive chef at Chez Gawaine, while working a day job fighting ambulance chasers. He spends countless hours of his work days arguing with unhappy people who insult him, while writing pointless reports for hours at a time that no one reads. After he commutes in bumper to bumper traffic for a drive that should be 20 minutes but lasts 65 minutes instead, he enters a home with crying children and his wife asking whether he remembered to call the painter for an estimate yet. Today, you will step into his shoes for your quick fire challenge. Dennis?

Dennis: Thanks, Padma. Chefs, you will have thirty minutes to prepare a meal that feeds two adults and two children. To simulate how I feel when I am about to prepare a meal during a week night, I first need to smash you over the head with this frying pan. Next, you can choose to carry my 18-month old or leave him on the floor where he will cry to the point that you may, too. My 3 year old will follow you around to chat, but she’s irresistible so you can’t ignore her. Oh, and you have to feed our fourth child with wood to keep the gas bill down while you cook the meal. Chefs, I encourage you to drink the Chardonnay in front of you like it’s your last supper. Your time starts now.

Cue the quick fire anthem: ba-da-da-dop-dop-da-dop-da-dop-da-doo-doo, etc. and the knife sharpening sound effect.

Okay, maybe it’s not so bad but you get my drift.

So what else? Um, let's see, not much. I fell asleep at 10:30 on Saturday night with Tilly on my chest. Wild and crazy weekends over here.

THE WIFE and I are still sleeping in separate bedrooms at least until Tilly starts to sleep a little more than in two hour stints. My house mate got annoyed at me for signing an email to her as “DT” the other day (instead of honey bunny or something along those lines I guess) but we patched things up and we’re a “team not on vacation” again just trying to power through until the family routine normalizes. I have been impressed with how well THE WIFE is functioning on such little sleep especially considering how much she loves to get her snooze on. So if you see THE WIFE in the coming weeks, give her a high five and a hug. She deserves it.

As for the fourth child and sixth member of our family , I recently sat down to tell him that I was his biological father and THE WIFE is his adopted mother. He said he knew already. Smart kid.

Anyone want to come over for dinner?

Completing the Trilogy

Matilda Carol Teravainen. It’s taking some getting used to when writing her name. Tilly arrived today, the 27^th of January, at 12:44 p.m. 7 pounds, 6 ounces. 19½ inches long.

During the last few weeks leading up to today, there was so much I intended to accomplish. Thank you notes from Christmas. Finish preparing our taxes. Complete our mortgage refinance application. Open a twitter account to tweet updates throughout the day today. Finally wrap up a play I’ve been writing. Post a blog.

Unfortunately, the job has been really busy lately so I’ve been putting in a lot of hours there. Over the last few weeks in particular, by the time I made the commute, ate dinner with the fam, finished baths, dressed the kids in PJs, read books, sang our songs, said goodnight, cleaned the kitchen, took care of our fourth child [See Sidebar] and tidied up the rest of the house, it would be 9 o’clock. By then I didn’t want to do anything except sit on the couch and watch something awful on television (hence the new interest in The Bachelor.) I’d go to bed and wake up early the next day, and the whole routine would start over again. Meanwhile, all of the “to do’s” remained unfinished.

At the same time I was procrastinating with these minimally important side projects, I was putting off serious thought about the much more significant event of Tilly’s impending birth. Anytime I pictured the big day, I basically just tried to forget about it as soon as possible. There was too much to stress about, which was totally beyond any control. So why think about it?

Of course, adding a third kid to the mix and the big picture considerations (another mouth to feed, another who will plead for outfits that all the other cool kids have, another college tuition, another wedding, etc) were cause for nominal concern. But lurking below the superficial layer of “concern” was a deeper more genuine fear that haunted me. My inner psychiatrist-slash-Jillian Michaels offered the following psychoanalysis: my efforts to ignore January 27 was a simple coping technique to protect myself from the triggers of emotional trauma following Gus’ birth that I had otherwise buried and locked away in a place I don’t like to revisit. (Damn, I should’ve gone to med school.)

To be clear, I wasn’t scarred emotionally because of the potential for Tilly to have Down syndrome. (The odds are only about 1 percent higher for an expecting couple who has one child with DS already.) If anything unforeseen during pregnancy was to be discovered upon birth, I figured it would be more like a hermaphrodite situation, a missing hand, or maybe even blindness.

The real fear that scared me was simply a repeat of expecting everything to be typical and conventional instead of life altering and traumatic. Specifically, I think of the pediatrician’s face when she entered the room to deliver the news about Gus. Me knowing what she was already going to say in my heart of hearts. Gus turning blue in my arms 30 seconds after we learned of his diagnosis. Going to Children’s. Waiting for heart surgery any hour. You get my drift.

But of course, as THE READERS know, Gus’ story has been a happy one. We have come a long way over the last 18 months. Knowing that Gus and we as a family were able to handle all that chaos reaffirmed that we were capable of adapting to whatever adversity comes from the accompanying medical baggage of a new child. But I still hoped and prayed that Tilly’s arrival would be less tumultuous. Specifically, no drama.

As today’s date approached, a few signs of encouragement manifested unexpectedly. In an audiobook about Dante’s Divine Comedy, the narrator talked about how Dante was greeted in the first layer of Paradise by a beautiful woman named Matilda. “Hmmm,” I thought, that’s encouraging. A few weeks later in a different audio book about the history of Ancient Greece, the narrator talked about a poet who declared that the 27^th day of the month is the best day of the month to untap a cask of wine. “Uh-huh, I like where this is going.” (Apparently, today’s date is a holiday for a Greek saint involving feasts and celebration.) Then, this morning, the clock radio woke us up with “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.” How do any of these signs and Cyndi Lauper relate to the birth of our third child? I have no idea. But I decided to interpret them self-servingly as positive reinforcement that all would be well.

Fast forward to our arrival at the hospital. Taxes, thank you notes, and the other side projects remained incomplete. It was finally time to power through two situations that I had been privately dreading.

Moment of Dread 1: when they take THE WIFE away to do her spinal before the operation begins. The “delivery partner” has about twenty minutes of solitude to put on scrubs and reflect silently until someone comes to get him or her. It’s a lonely calm before the storm. Fortunately today, instead of pacing and imagining every worst case scenario that could occur, I decided to sit calmly in a chair with my leg crossed. Cool. As a cucumber. Like the Fonze. When a nurse came for me, I snapped to attention. Bring it on.

Moment of Dread 2: the operating room experience as a bystander. I think I’m okay with seeing blood and guts. Just not THE WIFE’s blood and guts. I steered my head clear of any view of her internal organs and took my seat in the chair next to her head. The sheet was up and I couldn’t see anything. THE WIFE and I held hands and chit chat to pass the time.

“Hi.” “Hi.” (a few moments pass) “Did you set the DVR for Top Chef?” “Yeah.” “Cool.” (a few more moments pass) “How you feeling?” “Good.” “Want to have a baby?” “Okay.”

Meanwhile, my inner monologue was almost chanting to no one but my cranial auditorium “Please just be healthy. Please just be healthy. Please just be healthy. Don’t freak out. THE WIFE will see it on your face. Oh wait, there’s a mask over your face. Nevermind. Please just be healthy.” And so on.

Finally, the last part that I hate came. The tugging, pulling, tweaking, and moving that the doctors are doing to tug the baby out. The sheet was still in the way but I could tell that this was the yank part. THE WIFE squeezed my hand.

At last! Our powerful battler was here. And she was letting everyone in the room know that she’s not that psyched about it. A newborn cry never sounded so great. I realized that Led Zep’s “Whole Lotta Love” has been playing on the radio. Another great sign.

When I finally got to see Matilda up close for the first time, my untrained eye scans her for any unusual signs. No penis. (Phew.) Ten fingers, ten toes. (Sweet.) Greta wanted to call her sister Purpleicious after she was born (apparently Boya was only an in utero name) and at this moment, Matilda really is purple. But the color looks like normal-because-she-was-born-two-minutes-ago purple. The pediatrician from NICU arrived. Clean bill of health. I could finally exhale. I needed a sandwich.

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It’s been several hours since Tilly was born. Other than the obvious excitement and relief of her arrival, the day progressed in relative peace and quiet. THE WIFE and I have basically just taken turns cuddling with our little lady, in between the occasional phone call. This is what we used to assume happened for everyone. But now we realize this is what you appreciate and hope for everyone to experience.

Thanks to everybody for all the good thoughts and vibes. And to all of you who asked if we needed anything, I just thought of something: are you free to babysit three kids under three years old next week? I’ve got taxes to do…

And Then There Were (Almost) Five

No I haven’t retired the blog. I could bore you with excuses but it really comes down to me just being lame.

Baby Boya arrives this Friday. Number three’s true name remains confidential so as to preserve some excitement for the big day. We’ve also had to prepare Greta mentally for the reality that the baby’s name will not actually be Boya but she can call her new little sister whatever she likes. And, no, the baby’s name will not begin with a G despite Vegas laying the odds at 2:1 for “Guinevere” or “Gertrude.”

Come this Friday – assuming Boya waits that long – Greta will be two weeks shy of her third birthday and Gus will have just turned 18 months old. Apparently, there’s some kind of unintentional 18-month symmetry going on between the three mini Ts. This is probably a good moment to take a quick snapshot for the family chronicles. We’ll start with the eldest.

As of a few weeks ago, Greta decided that she wants to pee on the potty all the time. Finally. After bribes with candy, toys, pee pee charts, fancy underwear, cash, a convertible, and a declined offer that we pay her college tuition, Gigi is batting about .900 since she took the plunge.

The only remaining challenge now appears to be aim. I’m not much of a coach in that department. I’ve been trying to help when pressed into duty, but the geometries of her stream and body positioning is still a work in progress for me to process. For the first time in my life, I understand why gals do the whole squat thing.

Poop is a different story. Basically, Gigi requests a diaper when she feels a movement coming on, which is fine by me. THE WIFE and I are just relieved that Gigi’s not intimidated by a toilet anymore. Now if only we could get rid of the bed time binkies. Speaking of which, of all the ridiculous products out there that parents waist money on, I can’t believe there isn’t a patch/gum/methadone-like gismo to wean a kid off a pacifier. Wait, I think I’m on to something. Get me Gerber’s research department on the phone, stat. Forget we had this conversation.

Before we move on to her brother, two new and frequent mannerisms that merit recording are: 1) her hands on the hip and 2) the run-on sentence using “because.” In either or both cases, Greta is usually in the midst of an animated lecture about an important event from her day’s activities. Here’s the scene:

DAD enters the house after getting home from work. GRETA comes running to the door to greet him.

DAD: Hi everybody. (closing the door)

GRETA: Daddy!! (wiping her hair from her face)

DAD: Hey! How was your day?

GRETA: (placing one hand on her hip and moving the other as she speaks) Good. Augey took my dolly because he was being fresh because … because … we were with Mommy and then we had cheerios because I ate them because we were watching a show because… Daddy, do you want a sticker? Here is a princess sticker. But you can’t have it because I need it because we sang songs today -

And so on. Overnight, she’s morphed into this totally entertaining little girl. She owns me and I think she knows it already. Now onto her brother.

August is equally entertaining and impressive. He adds a new skill to his repertoire almost every day it seems. He isn’t walking just yet, but he can stand and shuffle along the edge of a couch or ottoman with skillful ease. We just started to practice using a walker from P.T., which has been a hit.

Of course it may not be quite as important as walking, but G-man’s dance moves are already off the charts. Whether he’s sitting or standing, the shoulder shimmy is textbook perfect form. Give him a beat, and he’ll start grooving. Doesn’t matter if it’s the Final Jeopardy theme, Jam’n 94.5, or if we’re practicing Happy Birthday at the dinner table. As soon as Gus hears a song, he starts boppin’ around and the dance-off is on.

As for talking, Gus practices his words and uses sign language with pretty good success. Ask what a lion, pig, or cow says, and he will probably give you an endearing roar, snort, or moo. Or he might ignore the request. Or he may just motor boat an inviting bosom. You never know.

Naturally, the little guy isn’t a total angel. Gus never resists an opportunity to yank Greta’s hair. On any given night at dinner, he may eat like the glutton from 7even or he could react like Tom Colicchio eating parsnips. My biggest gripe about the G-man, though, is his total disdain for being dressed. Every time I put clothes on his body, he thrashes, spins, ducks, weaves, and gripes about it to the bitter end. The one analogy that always comes to mind is a rodeo cowboy lassoing a runaway calf.

At the end of the day, though, we hug it out and patch things up by bed time. Around 8:30 p.m., I carry Gus up the stairs to his room while he blows kisses or blinks pretty eyes to THE WIFE with his legs wrapped around my waist like a little monkey. Too cute.

And that’s that. THE WIFE is ready to burst. She stopped picking things up off the floor about three weeks ago. My close calls with death due to tripping over unseen hazards are off the charts. Most recently, a middle of the night leak brought me into unexpected contact with Uggs on the bathroom floor and what would have been a sure concussion and ACL tear if not for my Jedi-like reflex to curse and stumble into the towel rack. I said nothing, of course, lest I endure an exaggerated eye roll, a loud and dramatic sigh, hands on the hip (I wonder where Gigi gets that one,) and the “You don’t even care that I’m pregnant” comeback that ends any disagreement.

Now I’m second guessing whether to leave that last paragraph in or not. Eh, screw it. We’re in the home stretch.

Seriously, though, THE WIFE has been a trooper. Once she gets to the point when the bottom of her shirt starts to ride up on the belly, I know delivery day is close and THE WIFE’s been through the ringer. Between the heart burn, the waddle walk, the sleep “hots,” the post-salty dinner cankles, and not having seen her toes while standing in a while, the poor thing’s ready.

Bottom line, Boya needs to get here. We’re all waiting for you, young lady, you hear me? See you on Friday!

Gifts Are For Getting, I Mean Giving

Two days to Christmas. Still trying to get into the spirit. Tried to kick start the season's magic this morning by surprising a few of the people I encounter during my everyday work routine.

First stop, the gym. I’ve been going to Gold’s in Southie for about six years. Up until Dave began working at the front desk, there’ve been a handful of stooges who never look up or acknowledge your arrival/departure. But my boy Dave is always friendly and chats if you engage him. Poor guy opens the gym at like 4 a.m. every morning. Hardworking kid.

Today, I was stoked to give a card to Dave with a bunch of scratch tickets. I walked in and sure enough, one of the original stooges was covering for him – of course with her head down reading her phone not saying a word to me as I passed by. O for one.

Next stop, the garage across the street from my office. There are two wonderful attributes about the garage where I park. Number one, it’s cheap. Twenty dollars a day. That’s pretty damn good for downtown. Tough to beat. Number two, this place looks like it could fall apart any minute. Customers aren’t even allowed in the basement anymore. It would be an absolutely perfect scene for a zombie apocalypse movie. The structure is so decrepit and creepy. Water dripping randomly from ceilings. The occasional rat scurrying from one dark corner to another. My spidey sense is always tingling if I’ve worked late at night during the dreaded walk to the car.

To access a parking spot in the morning at this place is a total shit show. There are about six men who simultaneously coordinate where to move your car. Usually, I park on the third floor roof. Generally, the handlers bark orders to you in heavily accented-English until you move the car to a spot where a different guy yells at you about why you’re parking there. When you tell him that so-and-so behind him told you to park there, an argument in a foreign language inevitably ensues. It’s awesome. Seriously, though, the guys work through all of the crappy rain in the spring and fall, freezing temps in the winter, and stifling heat in the summer. Their only refuge is a small shack with a desk, two lawn chairs, and a space heater or fan depending on the season.

So for the garage guys this morning, I bought six hot chocolates from Dunkins. When I walked the trays of cocoa over to the elder statesman of the crew, he shrugged me off because he was upset one of his underlings did not instruct another motorist to pull his car further up, thus leaving too much room between parking spots in one of the aisles. I continued on to one of the friendlier dudes and offered a cup. He looked at me slightly befuddled, not quite understanding what I was doing. I placed the trays on the desk in their shed and walked away. Merry Christmas. O for two.

Final stop, Boloco. I order a large “Truck Stop” burrito on a wheat tortilla with eggs, cheese, salsa, potato, and bacon with a large coffee every morning I work in Boston. And I mean every morning. I’m addicted.

Usually, I am greeted by the store manager Beatriz or my man Laz. Both of them wrap a mean Truck Stop. We’re at the point now that they start making my order before I’ve even placed it. We chat small talk as I pour my coffee and they work their magic on the goods. The crew is super nice. I look forward to the familiarity of our routine as we begin our work days.

The night before, I stuffed ten scratch tickets into a Christmas card. I wrote a note to Beatriz and Laz that they have full discretion to distribute the tickets as they see fit. Unfortunately this morning, Boloco was a little busier than normal because my stop to get the hot chocolates set the whole schedule back. Laz was not in sight but luckily Beatriz was present, and she seemed pleasantly surprised. I didn’t swing and miss this time, but it was more like a foul tip to stay alive. Alas, the Christmas spirit was still sputtering inside me. At least I have Christmas morning with the kids to look forward to, which is a good segue.

Greta watches this cartoon show called Olivia. (Damn, the theme song is stuck in my head now.) Olivia is a little girl pig who’s got a great imagination. Every episode, she takes a quick pause in the action to declare one of her rules in life. I’ll take her cue from there.

Rule of life number 700. Here’s my philosophy on gifts. Keep in mind, I freely admit I am a high maintenance pain in the ass when it comes to receiving a gift. But I try to apply these same rules when giving a gift.

A. As Paul McCartney so eloquently put it (at least I think it was Sir Paul), the best things in life are free. Homemade presents are almost always the best. They’re thoughtful. They’re creative. They’re cute. And, as is self-evident, they don’t cost anything. Translation: they don’t impact the Teravainen Family budget. While I may not have appreciated the “free” kind of gifts when I was single and child-less, I do appreciate a cost-free gift when it looks like THE WIFE has purchased enough toys to entertain a small village’s entire child population.

A sub-paragraph to this section also includes the classic “This coupon is redeemable for a foot massage” et cetera that every lame husband or boyfriend will cut from construction paper and color with markers when they were light on funds and/or made it to the store just after it closed the day or hour before said gift-giving event was to occur. (Seriously, who doesn't like a foot massage?)

One other codicil in this arena is if the gift giver possesses a special trait for which they’ve received special training or education. For example, the guy who knows how computers work. If and when I ever win the big one, I will definitely hire a full-time help desk employee who is immediately accessible and does not begin our conversation by asking if I restarted the computer. At this time, I have an iTunes account on three different machines with overlapping but not universal databases of downloaded music. I stand a better chance of explaining the theory of relativity to a CVS cashier than I do of somehow consolidating all of the songs onto my current laptop. I digress.

B. “Things” are a dangerous hit or miss. I pretty much possess any tangible item that I either want or need. In other words, if there’s something I want, I go and buy it for myself. (Again, see the disclaimer above as to my pickiness.) By extension, I loathe trips to any stores that don’t sell either liquor or books. Consequently, a trip to a location with parking for more than 1,000 vehicles, long lines at a customer service desk for exchanges and returns, or decorations for a holiday taking place three months from now, is generally not what strikes me as a good way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

A sub-paragraph to this section would be how I detest clutter. If I was ever a contestant on Fear Factor, I could handle lying in a coffin full of snakes or centipedes (though it would be extremely frightening.) I could even endure standing at a very tall height, which gives me vertigo or initiates what I imagine the beginning of cardiac arrest feels like. So if you wanted to give me the bends and incite a severe anxiety attack, lock me in a hoarder’s bedroom. When television shows depict homes for sale and there’s hardly anything in the place except furniture and a token decoration, that’s my nirvana. Thus, fewer things means less clutter.

When applying this rule to children, you get a mixed bag. Greta will probably build a mound of all the toys she gets from Santa this Sunday, and roll around in them like she's just won the lottery. But Gus will probably enjoy rolling over bubble wrap with an equal amount of glee. Rule of thumb: go with your gut.

C. Edible/drinkable gifts are definitely appropriate. Presents that may be consumed can also double in the (A) category to the extent that homemade perishables can be considered free, if the ingredients are already lying around in one’s pantry or crispah (that’s Masshole for fridge.) Plus, a cake or cookies only take up space temporarily. Hence, no clutter - phew.

Bottom line, food and drink are functional. Alcohol and desserts are fun. They’re even better when others can share in the experience of enjoying the gift together. And if you can somehow combine booze with sweets, an orgy may ensue.

D. Here’s my blatant contradiction to section A above, which also carries the hit or miss risk of option B. The adventure-slash-experience gift. Vacations, tickets to a concert or sporting event, and insert your creative excursion, are cool and exciting. However, these types of cadeaux generally lean heavier on the checking account.

A further obstacle with type D gifts for married men and/or fathers, however, is the amount of coordination required to lock the event on the books. Military strategists have easier times planning an assault on well-defended targets than some males do when attempting to schedule events that do not overlap with their significant other’s rigid calendar of social appearances and family obligations. Let's face it, guys like to propose a "let's meet for beers tonight" by e-mailing each other at work around 3 p.m. and taunting those who might have problems getting clearance. Ladies prefer a six-month lead time, though one year's notice is better because it might be book club night and they're supposed to bring an appetizer on the night you want to get drunk with your stupid buddies you "see all the time."

E. When in doubt, cash is king. Yes, this option may be impersonal. Money isn’t fun to wrap, per se, but honestly how cool would it be to open eight boxes containing single bills in different denominations? Wait a second, I think I have a game show idea.

Cold hard cash also clearly undercuts all of the philosophical considerations that make the “free” gifts warm and fuzzy as explained convincingly in the aforementioned Section A. But everyone has bills to pay, mouths to feed, and rounds of mudslides to buy when you're lucky enough to meet with the guys at The Backroom, right?

By extension, gift cards are not a bad idea.

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While my tongue-in-cheek diatribe above may suggest otherwise, I wish everyone a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. After a roller coaster couple of years, my family of four and a half has truly gained an appreciation for the important things in life like good health and happiness. My sincere love and affection to all of our immediate and extended family, which especially include those of you we are fortunate to consider as friends. I hope THE WIFE and I are able to give back to all of you in 2012 and beyond as much as you have given to us during our years together. Cheers.

An Ode to the Ole Sweet Tooth

One last reminder. Special guest DJ appearance this Saturday, November 19, 2011 at 10 p.m. Tune your dials to 91.3 if you're in Easton. Otherwise, fire up your Internets and type in http://tiny.cc/wshl. THE WIFE will be broadcasting live for your entertainment.

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Eighteen days status post-Halloween. A few notes for the old file.

Greta was a strawberry. She participated this year more enthusiastically than her two whole prior halloweens. In the weeks leading up to the big night, she said over and over “Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat.” Once we actually made it to the front doors of our neighbors, however, Greta stood paralyzed and unable to say anything. The neighbor would say or try any of the old tricks, but my girl wasn’t budging. She would just hold out her bag without ever breaking eye contact, staring the treat giver into submission. Once she felt the thud of a candy, Greta was outta there. Well then.

Gus was a green dragon. He was a trooper, tagging along for the ride in a wagon. He was actually pretty tolerant of wearing the costume. Overall, his participation was very similar to Greta’s the year before: but for Mom and Dad dressing him up in a silly suit, he would have been happier just lounging at home. Maybe next year, Greta will actually say “Trick or treat” and Gus will be walking up to the doors next to her, while their baby sister squirms in a hand-me-down costume.

Before I go on, here is where I mention how freaking lame the people are who were home and just kept their lights off. Other than religious objections which I’m not talking about, who would be so lame as to not at least fill a bowl with the cheapest candy you can find on sale at CVS or Shaw’s and leave it outside on a chair? I was shocked by the number of non-participants in our neighborhood. And I’m pretty sure they’re not Jehovah’s witnesses. Anyway, whatever the Halloween equivalent of Bah Humbug is, that’s what I say to you non-Halloweenies. So there.

By now, THE WIFE and I have unsurprisingly done a number on the kids’ candy loot stash. Greta and Gus pulled in a good haul this year. They scored us lots of the old favorites. Some of our neighbors (the high rollers – definitely not us) even went so far as to give out full-size candy bars. No way we were feeding our kids that crap. Only we get to eat that crap.

Generally, we raid the bags after they go down for bed. THE WIFE and I definitely don’t go digging within ear shot of Greta. If she hears a candy wrapper crinkling, Greta will hunt you down and shame you into returning the candy to her stash. As we’ve been sniffing through what remains, it dawned on me to tally a list of my first round draft picks.

1.) Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. C’mon, you didn’t expect anything else here did you? Seriously, though, the bar for me doesn’t go any higher than a Reese's. And, I swear the Halloween edition of the R.P.B.C.’s has something in them that make the cups better than at any other time of year. I know Hershey’s would never reveal if they mix up a different batch for the October editions, but they are my kryptonite. Best.

2.) Kit Kats. I don’t think KKs get as much street cred as they deserve on the Halloween scene. Very underrated. Chocolate over a crispy wafer. Pretty damn good.

3.) Watchamacallits. Truth be told, Greta and Gus didn’t score any this year. And I’m not sure they are even sold in Halloween snack size batches. But I love these candies.

4.) Almond Joy. Another candy that flies under the radar if you ask me. Damn good.

5.) Snickers. If I’m at a candy vending machine and I’m hungry, I’m buying one of these. I imagine these rank higher on the list for others because they always seem to go faster than anything else. As far as getting a good bang for the buck, Snickers are a solid choice in my opinion.

And that’s where the list ends. Milky Way, Rolos, 3 Musketeers, 100 Grand, and Hershey’s chocolate bars are all decent, but they don’t crack my top 5. Agree or disagree? Would love to hear you weigh in.

Now I'm off to the dentist. And the gym. After just one more Reese's.

On the Radio, Oh Oh

18 years ago, I was 18 years old. Back then, I was absolutely confident that I knew everything I ever needed to know. By the time 2011 arrived, the only thing that became certain to me was that I barely know anything.

For the time being, though, let’s suspend reality and travel together back to 1993. THE WIFE and I had begun our freshman years of college in Vermont, she at Castleton State and me at UVM. Heavy woolen sweaters, Birkenstocks, and flannel shirts were de rigueur. Kurt Cobain, Chris Farley, Jerry Garcia, and Tupac were still alive. Pearl Jam was still making music videos and absolutely owning the “Grunge Era.” The only reality tv in existence was Season 2 of The Real World. O.J. Simpson was still a free man filming Naked Gun movies and Miller Lite ads. I did not own a computer, mobile phone, Facebook account, blog, or an e-mail address. I did own a bulky camera with film that I wound after snapping a photograph that only became visible usually weeks or months later after dropping it off at the pharmacy for developing.

At school, I was officially “undecided” in my major, with a lean towards pre-med. Sports medicine, I thought. Or maybe gynecology. [Shrug and an eyebrow raise.]

THE WIFE, on the other hand, declared her major to be communications. She was going to be Veronica Corningstone, your trusted local female news anchor.

I made it through one semester of chemistry and two semesters of biology, before realizing that classes with labs really sucked and bullshitting measurements was really tough to pull off. Pre-law, it would be then.

THE WIFE, meanwhile, kept her original focus alive. Somewhere along the way, she got a gig as a part-time radio disc jockey at the local college radio station WIUV, 91.3. She divided her air time between The Lemonheads, Arrested Development, The Samples, Big Head Todd, Dave Matthews Band, and Lenny Kravitz, while discussing that night’s parties at the Rugby house or The Pickle Barrel. (I admit I just googled bars in the Killington VT area on that last one – I don’t know if it even existed back then. THE WIFE is asleep already and I don't think that detail is wake-up worthy.)

After graduation, we both left the Green Mountain State and headed to the Bay State. While my med school intentions were long gone, THE WIFE’s potential to be a media member was still alive. She took a job at a Boston radio station selling air time.

Eventually, the 90’s became the 00’s. Real World season 47 made way for Jersey Shore. E-mail, Internet, cameras, and social media of any kind all fit on one single, wireless telephone that fits in one’s pocket. Untalented people obtained their own television shows on E!, Bravo, or MTV by 1) making sex videos that go viral on the Internet 2) being a rich, dumb, and bitchy wife, or 3) pulling up your shirt to show abs a lot.

While all of this was happening, THE WIFE’S career had steered totally into sales and Internet advertising by the late 2000's. Her D.J. days were long behind her.

Then one day in 2009, Greta and I were about to pick up THE WIFE from work. I found a Memorex cassette while searching for car keys. We got in the car and pressed play.

I heard a voice. It was familiar yet it sounded different. A young woman and her girlfriend Mary were discussing how they were intending to spend Spring Break. Then, a song by Phish or The Pixies played. Hey, I knew those girls!

Greta and I picked up THE WIFE. I said Gigi really missed her, so she should sit in the back seat. With the ambush succeeding, I pressed play on the tape again. Shocked, THE WIFE laughed and asked me indignantly where I found this recording. We reminisced about the good old days. My brain took notes.

Fast forward to today. THE WIFE is knocked up with our third bun in the oven. We live in the burbs. We drive a fucking minivan. Our tunes in the car consist mainly of Yo Gabba Gabba, Bingo the Dog, or Are You Sleeping? 1993 is 18 years ago. We are suddenly Old Man and Old Lady Dinkins, cursing at kids that light fireworks in our neighborhood on the Fourth of July because it might wake up our babies! Obv, we're cool.

Fortunately, we stumbled upon a time machine where THE WIFE can be 18 years old again. Thanks to the power of Facebook, e-mails, and a very flexible music director in his sophomore year of college, THE WIFE will return to the air waves once again on November 19, 2011 from 10 p.m. to midnight. DJ Baby Mama will be broadcasting live that night and time from Stonehill College’s campus in Easton. For those within the 5-mile radius of the radio transmission, the frequency is (ironically) 91.3 FM. For those further away, THE WIFE will be streaming on-line at http://tiny.cc/wshl.

This is most likely a one-time event, so be sure to tune in. Orientation and a tour of the studio were last week. THE WIFE is ready to get it going. In the interim, feel free to e-mail her with some suggestions as to music. She hasn't heard about this new fangled thing called an iPod yet. Hopefully, you'll be along for the ride next week to see how it goes.

Greta and Gus, please burn the broadcast onto a CD so you can play it 18 years from now and we can talk about the good old days again!

Waving The White Flag

Well, it’s official. I’m a eunuch. The minivan has assumed its position as the T family truckster, at least for the next three years of our lease. I’m doing my best to avoid being seen near it - let alone in it - or God forbid, driving it.

In a minivan, I just feel emasculated. I’m a soccer mom. I’m swerving in my lane because I’m oblivious to any traffic around me. I’m trying frantically to play a DVD as the kids scream for Nemo as I schedule a parent-teacher conference on my cell phone. I’m yelling at my kids in the back seat to “stop touching your brother’s seat!”

Don’t get me wrong. I totally understand the functionality and the convenience of a minivan a/k/a the F.U.V. I will not debate anyone on those points. And as far as cost goes, it’s the most sensible decision from our budget based on the monthly payment and gas mileage. I get it. The F.U.V. totally makes sense from a graphs and charts perspective.

Just please don’t be offended when I decline the cup of pink Kool Aid (now) fellow F.U.V.ers who try to push the envelope by suggesting how awesome it is to have a Caravan/Town&Country/Siena/Odyssey/Astro, etc. Let’s just call it what this automotive transition is for me – another surrender to un-cool.

As for my car resume, it’s generally unimpressive to those with fancy pants tastes. But to the “cool” car enthusiasts, the history is rich. In order, they’ve gone like this: Toyota Corolla FX hatchback (used); Chevy Malibu Classic (used); Chevy Corsica (used); Dodge Aries K (very used and short-lived unfortunately); Ford Escort (used); Mercury Mariner (lease); Honda Civic (lease); Ford Ranger (used); and Chevy Malibu (work lease). Most of them had affectionate nicknames: Uncle Buck, the Bubonic, or Bu (original Malibu); T-minus Escrat (Escort); the Grand Marnier or Marinara (Mercury); and Ricky (the Ranger.) All of them hosted great memories and adventures.

Granted, most of my rides were not exactly hot rods that a bikini-clad woman might lay on awkwardly while a hip-hop star rapped about the rims during a music video. Nor were my wheels ever the kind of car that one would cruise in during high school to attract attention on Elm Street in Manchester on a Saturday night, by whistling at girls with (very) high bangs well supported by product.

But I’ve always loved my cars. The older, rustier, more dented, or otherwise shanked they were, the more I enjoyed being in them. I especially loved pulling up in one of my beaters at a stop light next to a car occupied by an attractive woman or women. I would flash the gap-toothed grin that said “Who is this mystery guy in a shitty car that’s still smiling like he’s thinking he’s all that?” As one might expect, the usual reaction was the other car driving quickly away from me as soon as the light turned green but you get the picture. It was all about my perspective.

Okay, after writing the last paragraph, it’s dawned on me that perhaps my level of coolness has never really attained Arthur Fonzarelli-like status. Or at least, it’s not the kind of car that dictates whether one qualifies for cool points or not. Sounds to me like it’s mostly about the driver’s state of mind. [Sigh.]

So where’s that cup of Kool-Aid anyway? It’s time to go for a ride.