We enjoy sitting at the dinner table, as a family, to eat our evening course. It was a difficult routine for me to get accustomed to. I grew up eating dinner while sitting on the floor of the living room and watching television. I’m not entirely sure if my entire childhood was this way, because I have an extremely foggy memory. The memories I do have, though, had me watching The A-Team, or M*A*S*H, or other 80′s entertainment while eating a delicious bowl of my mother’s goulash.

For Sarah, it was important to her that we eat as a family, at the table. I struggled against the change at first, but it’s now status quo in the house.

A few days ago, the sunlight angled into the kitchen and against the wall behind me at the dinner table. Inspiration struck! I told Tyler to look at the wall as I raised my hands. Within moments, the shadowed representation of my ten fingers transformed into a Doberman Pincer. For a moment, I fooled myself and had to look around. Convinced there were no other dogs in the room, I put my attention back on the wall. Time for sound effects to really show Tyler the magic I held.

As I moved my thumb down and up, I said “Bark bark bark bark bark!”

Apparently, Tyler didn’t see the ultra-realism in front of him, because he shouted, “COCK!”

I blinked. “What’d you say?”

“Cock. Cock cock cock cock CAWWWWWWWWWWWWK!”

“Tyler, I don’t think I unders-”

“COCK!”

I’m not sure how long Sarah knew what was truly happening. I suspect she knowingly allowed me to sweat for a few moments before speaking.

She said, “Yes, Tyler, that does look like a duck. Quack quack quack.”

“Cack,” he agreed.

I gave Sarah the ol’ stink-eye for a moment. Then, I turned back to my ultra-realistic duck and said, “Quack quack quack.”

Dinner is fun.

The scene: Tyler and I are hanging out. It’s a real scorcher outside, and Tyler is sitting on the floor with a cup of ice water. Presently, he is putting his hand into the cup, pulling out a piece of ice, and eating it. It’s getting close to dinner time, so I decide to ask Tyler about it.

Me: Do you want pizza?

It suddenly strikes me to cook the pizza outside on the grill. Now, I’m more excited than normal for the prospect of eating pizza. Tyler’s also a big fan of pizza, so this should be a guaranteed win for me.

Tyler: No, I drinking ice.

——————————————-

The scene: Tyler and I are playing in the house. Tyler got wrapped up in his barn animals and farm toys, and soon forgot that I was even there. Bored, I played a drum solo with my hands on the carpeted floor.

Me: *thump, thumb, bang bang bang thumpthumpthump*

Tyler: “Daddy, no say that daddy please.”

Me: *correcting Tyler’s grammar* “Daddy, please don’t do that.”

Tyler: “No no won’t no don’t no do that please daddy.”

Close enough, I guess.

——————————————-

The scene: Currently, the only time Tyler is allowed to have his pacifier is when he is napping. He doesn’t have it during the day, and he doesn’t have it while sleeping at night. I’ve set a hard line of him being completely done with the pacifier by his second birthday, so I’ve been telling him that pacifiers are for babies, and that Tyler isn’t a baby anymore.

I also have to introduce you to another character in the house. Abby Dabba is a stuffed dog that Tyler and I made at the Build-A-Bear store for Mother’s Day. When you squeeze his hand, he says – in Tyler’s recorded voice – “Happy Mommy’s Day, LUH-LOO!” Luh-loo is how Tyler said “I Love You” back when we made it. The dog’s name started as Abba Dabba, but Tyler soon changed it to Abby Dabba.

Abby Dabba is sitting on the top of the couch. Tyler spotted a pacifier lying around and tried putting it in his mouth. I promptly reminded him that he wasn’t a baby, and he wasn’t taking a nap. He then climbed onto the couch with it.

Tyler: “Abby Dabba have paci. Go sleep.”

Me: “You’re going to give Abby Dabba a paci so he can take a nap?”

After a few short moments of fiddling with the pacifier and with Abby Dabba, Tyler drops the pacifier onto the floor.

Tyler: “Abby Dabba no have a mouth.”

The scene: We’re at the dinner table (by the way, it seems that a lot of these “conversation” posts start this way), and I’m telling Sarah that one of the blogs that I read is going away because the writer doesn’t have time to keep it active.

Me: I need to write a post soon; I’ve been slacking.

Sarah: *nod*

Me: Hmmm… What to write about? Tyler, what should I write about?

Tyler: uhmmmmmm, eyebrows.

To drive the point home, Tyler puts one ketchup covered finger to each of his eyebrows. I thought about explaining to Tyler that, while I’m sure there are a couple people somewhere in the country that may find themselves reading a post about eyebrows, I just wasn’t too sure any of those readers were familiar with my site. Additionally, I’m not too sure I’d WANT them visiting my site. Instead, I told Tyler that I would attempt to find a way to write a post about eyebrows.

So, eyebrows.

The scene: Tyler, who has been, of late, very much in daddy-mode, is in my arms. He is melting my heart with a plethora of hugs and will not allow me to set him down. As such, I’m simply walking around the house, holding my son and quite eagerly accepting these hugs. I walk into the kitchen, where Sarah is working. She is making a new dish with noodles and sausage and lots more deliciousness. Presently, she is cutting a large, white onion.

Tyler: Uhnyin!

Sarah: Yes, Tyler, mommy is cutting an onion for dinner.

Tyler: TyTy have it.

At this point, Sarah rolls her eyes. I don’t see this happen, but after living with the queen of sarcasm and cynicism for nearly seven years, I can sense these things. Sometimes, I swear I can hear her eyes rolling at some lame joke of mine. The reason for the the eye rolling is two-fold. First, Tyler wants to “have” everything. He has only recently stopped asking to have mommy’s and daddy’s morning coffee. The second, and more significant reason is that I love… love… LOVE raw onions. I could eat handful upon handful of chopped raw onion. I have, actually. It has gotten to the point that I am warned at family dinners that “the onions are for EVERYONE, not just you.” Sarah, and probably everyone else that is commonly withing two feet of me, hates it. It turns out that no amount of telling those same folks the positive effects that consuming onions has on one’s heart and health can erase the negative effects they have on one’s breath.

Sarah handed Tyler and myself a sizable piece of onion, which we both promptly set to consuming.

Tyler: Spicy.

Me: Yeah… I guess you could call an onion spicy.

Tyler: More uhnyin peez (please).

Sarah, to me: I blame you for this.

Me: What?! Why?

Sarah: Don’t even.

The scene: Sarah is at the kitchen counter, preparing her dinner plate. In a moment, she will join Tyler and I at the table, where we will all enjoy a delicious meal of homemade tacos.

Sarah: So, Tyler tried to pull one over on me today.

Me: (unsurprised) Yeah?

Sarah: Yep. Apparently, he thought he could distract me from brushing his teeth by telling me he had to use the potty.

I am completely nonplussed at this attempt on his part. On a previous occasion, I told Tyler that it was “time to take a shower with daddy.” He, quite adamantly, told me that he did not agree. As a final Hail Mary, before I physically picked him up to carry him into the shower with me, he started saying “teeth, teeth, teeth,” thinking I’d forget about the shower and brush his teeth instead.

Sarah: (continuing) So I called his bluff and put him on the potty.

Me: (snickering) I bet he was like, ‘CRAP.’

Tyler: Crap, crap crap crap crap. Crap crap crap.

Me: (looking at Sarah with an I-know-I-just-messed-up expression) *blink*

Sarah: (with the I-told-you-so tone that women are masters of) I’ve warned you about that, Joe.

Tyler: Crap crap.

The scene: Tyler and Sarah are lying on the floor, playing with trains and train tracks. I’m lying on the floor playing with cars. Tyler lets out one of the juiciest sounding farts we’ve ever heard from him.

Me: Holy cow, Tyler! Did you just toot?

Sarah: It was more of a shart, doncha think?

Me: Oh, please don’t teach him words like that, babe.

Tyler: Shart.

*sigh*

What you need to know: We’re taking a pretty relaxed approach to potty training. We ask Tyler if he wants to use the potty, and let him decide. If he says he does, we encourage him and help him. We talk to him about pushing his pee-pees and poo-poos into the potty. Sarah’s had a couple positive results, while I’m always left with an empty potty when Tyler decides that he’s done. I made a deal with Sarah (that I won’t detail here) that has her stepping up her potty training game. Tyler says that he doesn’t want to try the potty more than he says he does, so Sarah offers incentive on occasion. In the form of an M&M.

Sarah: Tyler, do you wanna use the potty for one M&M?

Tyler: Two.

He ain’t no fool. Not my boy.

I love my son. I swear I do. Every day, I tell myself that I could not possibly love him more than I do at that particular moment. Then the next day, I realize that I love him more than I did the day before.

But he can really annoy the hell out of me sometimes.

Over the holidays, I was off work for two weeks. Sarah and I alternated sleeping in and waking up with Tyler. We spent entire days just lounging around, playing, and relaxing. Interspersed with these times of zen were periods of chaos, which is to be expected during any holiday season. Me being at home gave Sarah the opportunity to have a bit of a break from full-time, non-stop parenting. A break that she needed and deserved. A bit to her chagrin, Tyler also thoroughly enjoyed my sudden availability. On a few occasions that Sarah felt the overwhelming desire to give Tyler a hug, or read him a book, he shunned her in favor of me. So, while I know that she loved having me around, the flash of green that sparked in her eyes a few times did not go unnoticed. Quite the contrary, because I can relate.

My return to work Monday was an adjustment for all of us. Although I talked at length with Tyler about it on Sunday, telling him that I had a great time but that I had to back to work the next day, and although he said “yeah” at all the appropriate moments, signaling that we were on the same page, I get the impression that my eighteen month old little man didn’t fully grasp what I was conveying to him. Maybe I should have just said “Daddy work morrow byebye luh-loo.”

It also didn’t help that, due to both work and treacherous roads/weather conditions, I had to spend a night away from home on my first week back. Tyler hadn’t seen me in forty-five hours after having me at his disposal for two weeks. That’s like 8 months of separation, in toddler-years, right?

When I got home – after six hours of white-knuckled driving, mind you – and had given Tyler my undivided attention for the better part of ninety minutes, I made the mistake of thinking I could talk to my wife for a moment or two. Tyler turned his attention to driving his little police car on his road-rug, so I started to tell “HI” Sarah about “HI” my “HI” long day “HI” when Tyler decided that “HI” he absolutely HAD to “HI” talk to me “HI” again. I tried to “HI” talk over him “HI” and continue my “HI” conversation with “HI” Sarah when I finally “HI” had to “HI” bend to Tyler’s will.

“Hi, Tyler. How are you?”

“Ashdin.”

“Oh, did your truck get into an accident?”

“Yeah! Figgst.” He jumped up and ran to his toybox, returning with a tiny toy wrench.

“Are you going to fix it? Yes, good job, Tyler. You are fixing the truck.”

“Yeah,” he said as he pretended to tighten a bolt on the tire. When he finished, he went back to playing. Me, unable to be the better man, unable to just let things go and attempt to finish my conversation with Sarah, waited until he was well into playing with his car. Then, I decided to poke the sleeping bear.

“HI HI HI HI HI HI HI HI,” I said in my best try-to-be-as-annoying-to-Tyler-as-he-was-to-me voice. It worked, too. He turned to look at me.

“HI,” I said again.

Tyler replied flatly, without even a hint of humor, “Done.”

Why you little shit, I thought. Before I could even make an attempt at a reply, Sarah broke into laughter. I joined her. It was good to be home.

The scene: Due to a work project, I have been gone for 36 hours. I haven’t seen my family in over 48. The previous two days have been hellish, tiring, and have left me with a very sore back. I saw a dead guy, and a bunch of people in critical care and possibly dying themselves. Drained, Tired, and eager to be home, I carry my bags into the house.

Sarah: Hi honey!

Delilah: Wagging tail, patiently waiting her turn.

Tyler: DADA!!!! *wraps his arms around my legs*

All is good.

The scene: We’re all in the living room. Delilah is resting on her bed. Sarah, Tyler, and myself are playing with stacking blocks and farm animal toys. Tyler stands up, walks to Sarah, and gives her a hug. My heart melts at this random, unprovoked showing of love and affection.

“Dada,” Tyler says as he turns to face me.

“Yeah buddy?” My voice drips with enthusiasm, for I know that one of those delicious hugs is heading my way next. Tyler lifts his hand and points into the dining room.

“Out.”

*blink*

“Out?! You can’t kick me out. This is my house, not yours.”

Unfazed, Tyler repeats his simple, and ludicrous, command. “Out.”

In a happy, going-along-with-the-gag tone, I reply. “Fine, I’m outta here!” I stand up and storm from the room. Secretly (and irrationally), I’m crushed.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out how he learned this. Tyler’s dear old dad, yours truly, says the same thing just about every night at the dinner table, including the pointing.

“Delilah, out.”

We have a “one strike and you’re out” system when we’re eating. The moment Delilah goes scavenging under the table, we send her into the other room. Sometimes we don’t notice until we hear a slurping sound as she tries to lick a piece of cheese off the floor. Or when we try to figure out why Tyler has his hand under the table and is giggling hysterically (those two are gonna be trouble). Or, most recently, when Tyler narcs her out himself by shouting “LILAA!” (that’s my boy) when she starts nuzzling and snorting around the general vicinity of Tyler’s highchair.

Delilah is a smart dog. A damn smart – and stupid – dog, in fact. When I, or Sarah, tell her “out,” she knows that the jig is up and it’s time to get out of town so that she may live to fight another day. We really don’t even need to say the word though. Most times, I can just point to the doorway and she will make her (sulky) exit. She can sit, down, shake, and out with hand signals only. Like I said, damn smart. Although I can point OR command her out of the room, I have a tendency of doing both.

Tyler picked up on it and promptly copied me. He pointed out of the kitchen and commanded, “Lilaa” pause pause pause “OUT.”

I laughed. Sarah laughed. Laughing was a mistake.

“Lilaa” pause pause pause “OUT.”

And then a few days later…

“Dada.”

“Yeah buddy?”

“Out.”

What’s that they say about imitation and flattery? I’m not flattered.

The scene: I’m in the kitchen, cleaning after dinner. You know, loading the dishwasher, wiping counters, the works. Sarah and Tyler are in the living toom, playing with Tyler’s farm animals and tractors.

Sarah: Can the cows go for a ride?
Tyler: Moooo.
Sarah: Hop in, cows, let’s go to the slaughterhouse.

I paused for a couple moments, pondering whether I really heard what I thought I did. I failed in my attempts to think of another word that she may have said that would make more sense while playing with a sixteen month old.

Sarah: You can hop in too, horse. We’ll swing by the glue factory first.

*blink*

Me: SARAH!!!!!
Sarah: *wild laughter*

I walked into the office, so I could document the conversation I just overheard. For blogging purposes. And for Tyler’s psychiatrist in 25 years.

Sarah: Uh oh, TyTy, I think I’m in trouble.
Tyler: Tub.

No Sarah, dear wife, you’re not in tub. Not yet. But I would like to submit this post as Exhibit A, in the event of any future litigation. I just want to make sure my hands are clean when the bailiff calls forward the parties for “The State of Indiana v. Sarah”.  Don’t worry though, Tyler will still think you’re the most beautiful mommy in the world, even if he does have to talk to you through three inches of polycarbonate thermoplastic, and see you in a bright orange jumpsuit.