Remember last Halloween? We went to a pumpkin patch, went for a hayride, picked pumpkins, and Tyler gutted and carved his very first pumpkin? Well, it was actually his second Halloween and pumpkin, but the first he’s had an active role in. And afterward, he smashed the pumpkins.

Well, right after we gutted the pumpkins, we all picked out a handful of seeds, cleaned them, dried them, and placed them in a baggie over the winter. Winter’s over and it’s time to plant those seeds now.

First, we made a hill for the seeds, or “baby pumpkins” as we were calling them. Then, we poked a hole in the top of the hill. Three seeds went into the hole. Once the plants sprout, we’ll thin them; meaning, we’ll pull the two weakest plants, and let the strongest grow in that hill. We made a total of three hills.

Once the seeds were placed into their new home, we filled the hole with dirt and patted it down. The hole was only about the size of a quarter and a couple inches deep.

After finishing this on the first hill, it was time to build the second hill. Spacing is important in gardening, especially when dealing with a plant that grows as aggressively as pumpkins tend to. We chose the spot for the next hill and started gathering dirt. We poked a hole, put three seeds in, filled the hole and patted it down again. Then, we did the same for the third and final planting location.

Sarah bought Tyler his very own watering can so that he can help with gardening this year. With all the seeds being nestled snugly in their beds, it was time to put use to the watering can. We filled Tyler’s watering can, and the larger one that Sarah and I use. As Tyler emptied his watering can, I filled it again and again from the larger one. The little stinker lost half his load to spillage just walking from the hose to the pumpkin patch.

To keep the plants moist, we need to put mulch down. This will help retain heat and moisture; keys to life in the plant world. Tyler and I retrieved our wheelbarrows. Both wheelbarrows are very old. Mine was handed down from my father-in-law, whom it was handed down to from his grandfather. Tyler’s used to belong to his mommy. Sarah’s dad brought it down last year, in very rough shape, to pass onto Tyler. After some sanding, painting, clear coating, and new hardware, it was as good as new. We got to work shoveling mulch into the wheelbarrows. Tyler picked up very quickly and had no qualms about the manual labor.

Tyler was pretty pooped after all the hard farming. Sarah took him in the house for a nap. Sarah wasn’t feeling that great as it was, so she took a nap as well. While they slept, I put up some chicken wire around the patch, and made a very special sign.

Ladies and gentlemen, I would like you to see Tyler’s very own pumpkin patch. He is very excited about it, and smiles every time we talk about his pumpkins. We haven’t had a chance to water the seeds because it’s been raining the last two days, and we just planted them three days ago. With any luck, we’ll be posting pictures around September or October of Tyler’s very own, homegrown, pumpkins.

I told Sarah that this was a “Daddy and Tyler project,” because I think it’s important that Tyler has specific “daddy time” and specific “mommy time” along with the family time that we spend together. I feel tinges of guilt about it because, on a level, I feel like I’m excluding Sarah. That’s not the case at all, and to be honest, I’d never be able to do anything like this were it not for her. Aside from the advice she’s given and some of the stuff I picked up from her gardening last year, I wouldn’t have ANY of the above pictures if she wasn’t there to take them for me. For that, I’m very grateful to have had her help.

Is your family important to you? If something were to happen that put the lives of your loved ones in danger, how would you react? It’s not until something really happens that you realize just how important your family is to you and just what you would do to keep them safe.

I swear to you, this is all true.

Sunday night, I slept poorly. It was easily the worst night of sleep I’d had in months. I lay in bed, tired but wide awake, as if there were an energy in the air keeping me awake. I’ve had nights like that before, where my mind was furiously working through a problem that it just couldn’t let go of. That wasn’t the case two nights ago. I simply could not drift off to sleep, and I didn’t know why. I dozed in and out a few times, and finally went downstairs around two in the morning. My head had begun to ache and throb, so I went down for some little white pills and some water. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, aside from the fact that I should have been cycling into a REM sleep cycle. The house was silent.

After swallowing my two pills, I made my way through the dark house and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Back in the bedroom, and under the covers, I settled in and hoped the sandman would visit.

And I lay there, eyes closed but still wide awake. Tired but alert. Again, I was hit with the feeling that there was something in the air, keeping me awake. Soon, I finally began drifting  to sleep. Slowly. Just as I reached that in-between state, the state where we sometimes jerk ourselves awake with a subconscious body spasm, something terrifying happened. I heard somebody in our house. Specifically, I heard a door being shut. A door in my house. The one place where I have an expectation of safety for myself and for my family.

There was no thought. No wondering what I should do, or if I really heard what I know I did. The only thing that ran through my head was “my family.” The next few moments are burned into my memory as a strobe-effect; simply a series of images. The ceiling fan, as my eyes fly open. The bed sheets, in mid-flight, as I rip them away from me. My feet hitting the floor and me pushing off the bed. Delilah taking post at my heel. My hand closing on the door frame. In just one more moment, I will be down the stairs in two jumps, praying that I hit the light switch with my first attempt. Then, I don’t know, but I will protect my family.

In the instant before I pulled myself into the doorway, I remembered something crucial. Earlier this day, my little tyrant of a son learned how to open his own door.

I stepped around the corner to see him standing before me. Innocent. Relief – and fresh anger – swept over me. In the fog of near-sleep, Tyler’s newly acquired skill had been forgotten. Also forgotten was the fact that this was the third or fourth time tonight that he had gotten up. The two main differences were that he was much quieter before, and that Sarah got up those times to put him back to bed. On this particular instance, he opened the door and (I think) accidentally slammed it behind him.

In an angry whisper, I told him, “Get your butt back into bed, right now!” In my head, I added, Jesus Christ, boy, I almost killed you.

“Mommy,” he cried.

“Mommy is making her night nights. You get into your bed, now Tyler!”

As I tucked him in, and my heart slowed back into its normal rhythm, I kissed Tyler’s cheek. “It’s time to sleep, Tyler. You stay in this bed, okay?”

Tyler whispered, “yeah.”

“You do not get out of this bed again, and you do not open your door again, got it?”

Still in a whisper, “yeah.”

“I love you, buddy.”

“luh-loo.”

I pulled his door shut, and tied a shirt sleeve around the knob, hoping to make it more difficult for Tyler to turn, should he disobey my orders. He didn’t, and he slept through the rest of the night, presumably in his bed.

Today, Sarah reversed the door knob so that we can lock him into his room. And, today, Tyler took an unheard-of three and a half hour nap.

We’re still smarter than you Tyler.

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*

I sometimes wonder just how many people have an inner voice that talks to them. All of us? I have one, and I hope I’m not alone. In my younger years, the voice was very feeble and timid. When I became upset with a situation, the voice would whisper, “umm, Joe? Hey, uhh, maybe we should calm down for a second?” Of course, this was akin to spitting into a volcano to lower the temperature of the lava.

Older (sigh) and wiser (ha!) now, I embrace the inner voice. He guides me though some difficult situations and keeps a sense of levelness about. It helps that the inner voice knows how to talk to me and make me listen. When I find anger trying to take hold and tunnel vision setting in, he kicks me off the road that I’m cruising along. “Joe! Dude, you need to chill the f*** out, like right now!”

I guess it’s like any long-term relationship. Eventually you just get tired of the other person’s shit and tell them whatever’s on your mind. Inner voice gets tired of my shit a lot.

I’ve been telling myself, every single day, that I really need to write some blogs. And it wasn’t just a need; I want to write some blogs. But it seemed (seems) that there just weren’t (aren’t) any words. Sure, I have a lot of things that I want to write about, but when I put my fingers on the keyboard, they just sit there.

And I’m pretty sure I know why.

I do most of my writing when I’m feeling depressed. Even when I’m writing about fond memories or something funny that happened, I’m usually at least mildly depressed about life. Fortunately for me, and unfortunately for my desire to blog, I’ve been feeling pretty darned good lately. I’ve undertaken a really intense workout program called P90x, which I believe to be the culprit. I certainly don’t know the science behind it, but what I do know is I have some sort of chemical imbalance that results in me going through phases of strong depression. What else I know is that, since I’ve started working out consistently, I’ve felt better than I have in years.

I’m not saying that I’ve been unhappy at home or with Sarah or Tyler or work. I’m not saying that at all, so I hope my general message doesn’t get misconstrued. I’m just saying… well, that’s the problem: I don’t know how to say it. Depression’s a bitch like that.

Well, ol’ inner voice over there (I nod my head slightly to the right) got tired of hearing me lament on my lack of blogging. As I read the latest news on whichever news site I was perusing this very morning, I found myself pausing for a moment to think that I really needed to —

Oh you big baby! Write then! Write something, anything! Just quit complaining.

Like so many other times, inner voice is right. I’m not a world renowned novelist with a case of writer’s block just three books into his seven book contract. I’m some guy, in some small town, that loves sharing his life with all of you.  So, here I am, writing something, anything.

Crap! I intended to write about Tyler’s two missing fingers, but this post went left when it should have gone right. I sometimes feel like a need a GPS for life. Anyway, that will be my next post, I promise. Unless I don’t complete it before Wordless Wednesday. Coming soon: The Case of the Missing Fingers.

I’m committing a blogger faux paus here by explaining my absence. I guess it isn’t really a faux paus, but maybe more of a pet peeve of mine. I don’t need to visit a blog to see a post that says “I know I haven’t been around, but I promise to post something soon.” That’s akin to calling someone to tell them you have to tell them something and will call back later to do so.

But here I am, getting ready to explain why my blog has fallen dormant for a bit (and why my unread blogs are in the triple digits right now). So, either skip this post, or just buckle in for a couple paragraphs.

I’ve already mentioned that I had some time off work for the holidays. I had a great couple weeks, and really wanted to enjoy the time I had with my family. I didn’t want to sit at the computer and type up a post when I would rather be with the very subject of my blog along with my dear wife. So I didn’t blog.

I snuck a couple posts in after the holidays, but then I was off to sunny Phoenix for a week (work related). I see my co-workers 2 to 4 times a year, and this was one of those times. With meetings, dinners, activities, a super-awesome sixty minute massage, and sleep, the days were packed full. So I didn’t blog.

I’m like 90% of the U.S. population (that’s a statistic I made up to support this post) in that I’ve made a New Year’s resolution to get in shape. So, this past Monday, I started the P90X program. If you don’t know what it is, Google it. What I will say is that it is the most intense workout I’ve ever experienced. I’ve never been in so much pain over my whole body. To accommodate the 75 to 90 minute routines, I’ve had to sacrifice some of my “computer time” in favor of “exercise time”. I’ve also gone to bed a bit earlier this week, because I’ve been dog tired come the end of the day. So, I didn’t blog.

It also turns out that when one doesn’t blog for a while, it’s difficult to get back into the flow of doing so. I love this blog. I love sharing with all of you. It’s a great release for me, and I thoroughly enjoy going through and reading some of my previous entries. I have a terrible memory, so reading my past posts truly allows me to relive the moments. I sometimes wonder if somebody else has the password to my site and rewrites my posts because the author of some of these entries is damn talented! But having, what a consider to be, too long of an absence, my creativity has began hibernating. And waking that beast is a bitch, so I didn’t blog.

But I’ve missed blogging. I’ve missed your blogs. I’m on day 5 of the P90X and can finally move a little bit, so I wanted to get my blog juices flowing. What better way to do that than to write a post explaining where I’ve been?

So, I’m blogging.

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: 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.

Kaboom. A game that didn’t use the joystick. Instead, you plugged in the “paddles,” a steering wheel-like controller. The premise was simple. You were a stack of three tubs of water. Above you, a criminal dropped bombs. You steer the dial on the paddle left and right to catch the bombs. The criminal dropped ten bombs in the first round, twenty in the second, thirty in the third, and so on for ten rounds. You received one point per bomb caught in the first round, 2 each for the second, and so on up to 10 points per bomb in round ten. To make the game even more challenging, bombs were dropped faster and faster as the rounds progressed, becoming nearly blinding around the eighth round. Miss even a single bomb and you lose a barrel and go back one round.

It was my favorite game to watch. Not for the graphics nor for the premise of the game. Instead, I was hypnotized with the scoring. I don’t remember how young I was (maybe my mom will weigh in with a comment), but I would sit on the floor and try to race the scoring system. It was my goal to yell out score updates just before my parents caught the next bomb.

“1.. 2.. 3.. 4.. 5.. 6.. 7.. 8.. 9.. 10″

“12. 14. 16. 18. 20,” continuing to 50.

“53 56 59…”

You get the picture. Now that I’m a gamer myself, I realize that this had to play hell with my parents’ concentration. Of all the games my parents had (Space Invaders, Combat, Night Driver (we never owned Joust. Why would we not have Joust?)), my favorite game to “play” was called Atari Math. An equation appeared on the screen and the player had a limited amount of time – 10 to 20 seconds, if I remember correctly, depending on which setting you choose – to correctly display the answer using the joystick and the single red button.

And I loved it. Knowing that I could take two numbers and make a third by adding, subtracting, multiplying or dividing awed me. I don’t mean to brag, but I kicked ass at that game. I could even figure out remainder on the division problems. The timer was usually just an afterthought. It buzzed me a few times when a particularly difficult equation got the best of me though.

Twenty years later, plus some change, Sarah and my step-dad are playing a game (secret targets???) on the Nintendo Wii. It astounds me how much has changed. The Atari could display sixteen colors on the screen at any given time, and had a total palette of 128 colors, whereas current systems are capable of millions. Tyler will likely never know what an 8-bit or 16-bit system is. My step-dad is holding the controller like a bow, and pulling his arm back. A sensor captures every movement and displays a bow and arrow on the screen for him to aim at a target. *swish… THWAP*

“Seven,” the game voice-over announces.

Sarah steps up and takes aim, the screen mirroring even the most delicate movements of Sarah’s arm. While I reminisce about a system that had a controller with five inputs (up, down, left, right, and a button), Sarah’s motions are being tracked, wirelessly, on three different axes. *swish… THWAP*

The screen flashes to an instant replay of her near bulls-eye as the announcer shouts her score. “Nine.”

“Ninnne,” Tyler replies with enthusiasm.

My boy, I think. That’s my boy. If this doesn’t prove that he truly is his father’s son, I don’t know what does.