Funeral

I’m not the kind of guy to cry at funerals. I didn’t cry at my grandma’s, I didn’t cry at my grandpa’s. Lately, I’ve wondered if that was a reflection of me or them. I don’t think it’s either. A lack of tears is not a lack of love. Don’t worry, this post isn’t going to be a somber one. It’s just something that’s been on my mind for some time now.

I guess what got me thinking about death and funerals and my lack of waterworks is all the good that is happening in my life right now. For the past year and a half Cristina and I have struggled financially. Living paycheck to paycheck is sometimes the best we could hope for. And though we haven’t fully emerged from those mirky waters, I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel.

I'd be remiss not to acknowledge that us coming this far without divorcing or sacrificing the well-being of our children is a testament to the loving, selfless family members we have. I personally feel inclined to mention that my mom has been our rock that we can always count on. Whether it is spotting a month of rent or “lending” (because God knows I haven’t done good to pay back my debts, but same day I will!) us a money to pay for gas and two weeks worth of groceries, she always does whatever she can (and can’t) to help our little family through the hard times.

The overall tone of Avocado Mornings has been light and funny, accentuating only the good in our lives,  but the truth is without the dips and valleys, the peaks don’t seem as high. When the kids get to this blog post in an attempt to get a glimpse of what was going on in their home around this time, I hope they realize that they became the people they are not just because Cristina and I did all we could, but because Cristina and I did all we could and had the help of our families to fill in the gaps of our shortcomings. 

Three day weekend

Lately I've been scheduled to work Monday Tuesday and Thursday, (at least for the last three weeks) and let me just say I look forward to the weekend more and more with each fourteen hour shift that passes by. These wonderful three days where I feel like a stay at home mom are everything to me. And my favorite part is answering baby Darcys unrelenting question "mom are you going to work?" With a big NO! and of course a happy dance to follow.

Then of course Sunday rolls around and ugly sister Monday is so close by that it makes me wanna stop time or quit my job. 

And In hopes of my babies reading this when they're older, I've decided to start documenting anything and everything. (Sorry guys my posts won't be as eloquent as the ones Darcy posts)

With that said here are a couple of pictures from our Sunday cook out. We made burgers and hotdogs (well for Darcy a weenie burger) and of course everyone's favorite ... corn! Even Dexter had some ... well no, not really breast milk only for that fattie.  

 

Speedy Gonzalez and Her Little Mexicans

     Patis (or as my Millie Cakes seems to prefer, Nana) took her grandkids shoe shopping yesterday, giving me some time to work on real estate stuff and Dexter some peace and quiet to get some rest. Really, he always gets rest but when Mills is here the house is anything but peaceful.

     It’s funny to see your kids take on their own personalities and develop their own tastes in things. My mom let them pick their own shoes and Darc came back with some stylish blue Nikes, while Millie picked some neon tangerine ones. Though Millie can be rough and tomboyish, she does a good amount of acting like a dainty little girl.

     Once Cristina got home from work, Darc made sure to put on a display of how fast his shoes made him run. And of course, like the awesome young mom my wife is, she suited up and joined him at the starting line. I swear if Darc bears an uncanny resemblance to Cristina, in any respect, it’s in his long lean legs. Why Cristina didn’t end up a cross country Olympian, I don’t know.

     I can just imagine her now, racing to finish line, winning gold and doing a touchdown dance of unholstering her guns and blasting them high in the air – Speedy Gonzalez, the pride of the Aranda family. 

You say Weenie Burger, I say Burger Dog...Tomato, TomAtoh.

     It's been a little over a month and a half since we graduated from our humble little apartment in the lower valley to a quaint house with the one thing that Cristina and the kids had been wanting for awhile - a Yard. And even though we were unpacked over a month ago, the place just hasn't felt like home. 

     That all changed this weekend. With my parents nursing hangovers (well maybe that's a little harsh, they were just really tired) from a birthday party hosted on Saturday, and Cristina's parents enjoying a Sunday to themselves, we took it upon ourselves to throw our very first family cookout. The burgers and weenies were a little over cooked but ultimately, I got the job done. Darc even got a chance to reenact a dish from one of his favorite shows, Uncle Grandpa. 

 

     He calls it a Weenie Burger, but I think it looks more like a Burger Dog. Either way, I can think of more unappetizing things I concocted as a child. Have you ever heard of a Hot Cheetoh Sandwich? Or how about a Hot Sauce Burrito?

     Millie had a blast in the three kiddie pools (thanks Mom!) that Cristina arranged into a makeshift miniature Waterpark. I'm pretty sure that when we make our next big move, a pool will be a must. 

    I can see now why it was so important for Cristina to have a yard. I guess I forgot all the fun that comes with enjoying family and the sun in your own little private escape. 

Brain Drain

     Before I weave this blog post's theme from a list of excuses as to why I haven't found the time to post, let me just assure you that when life happens, the last thing it leaves room for is documentation for future reference.

     But the Arandas are back baby, and with a new vengeance! No, not really...there's no vengeance, just a whole lot of spit-up, poopee diapers and teeth pulling when it comes to teaching Darc to peel his eyes from technology and feast his gaze on more educational things. 

     Despite Cristina and I wanting him to dabble in the finer things, as we did when we were children, like reading Goosebumps and learning to work with numbers using a makeshift Abacus made of strings of corn husks and dry frijoles (that was Cristina, by the way), I must admit that Pokemon on Netflix and his fascination with Mario on my old Super NES has brought us closer together. Hopefully nobody catches on to the fact that I like those things more than he does, though. 

 

     Everyday is a struggle when it comes to finding the balance in our household, and the virtue least regarded is always cleanliness...NO, NO, NO...we do shower! And when I say "we" I literally mean "we all shower together"....sometimes. If you're a parent, you know that the word privacy is...wait, what does privacy mean again?

 

     In the end, I'm happy to be posting again. Especially because I've returned with a new take on composition, one that's more sustainable. Before, I aimed for a carefully scripted thematic approach, where if the blog post didn't feel like it had a purpose then I'd sit on it for days and days until I could manipulate the rhythm and flow so that it felt like a story, carefully crafted into a poeti....blah blah blah...you get the idea. 

     Not anymore, though. Now, you get what you read - the thoughts from my head as a slush of brain drain.

Birds and the Bees?! Dad, Please...

     This post is long overdue. To be specific, it is two weeks late. That is because two weeks ago we welcomed the arrival of the fifth member of our family, Dexter Christopher Aranda.

6lbs, 18inches, and, most importantly, healthy.

Unfortunately for little Darc and Millie, Dexter's birth was something out of a movie.

     You know that opening scene where the main actor reminisces on the one traumatic childhood event that forever influenced the course of his life. That will be Darc, reflecting on the birth of his little brother and how, at four years old, he had learned more of the birds and the bees than any four year old before him. 

     In short, Darc saw more than he should have and in case you're still wondering exactly what I mean just know that little Darc was so close to the "explosive" miracle that is child birth he could have delivered his brother himself and cut the umbilical cord - which by the way, I didn't even get to do this time around. 

     Before you go revoking my father of the year title, though, just know that everything that could have gone wrong that day, did go wrong. 

     For starters, earlier that day, Cristina demanded we have Peter Piper Pizza for dinner, despite my craving Papa John's. For crying out loud, she didn't even get a chance to eat a slice before the contractions literally knocked her off her feet.

     With both her previous pregnancies, cramps were nonexistent. And because the birthdays were both planned, she always had an epidural in place just before she could ever fully appreciate the existence of epidurals. Not this time.

    As if that wasn't enough to set the tone for an event that was going down three weeks too soon, we found ourselves in a hospital - which we hadn't yet registered Cristina in - with nobody to watch our kids. There I was, crammed in the corner of the delivery room with two toddlers witnessing their mother in the throes of childbirth and I didn't even have my selfie stick to get a properly angled photo.

   

   
     It's like Dexter knew that the growth of our little family would culminate with his birth and so he had to "go out with a bang." I just didn't think he would take it so literally.

     Amidst all the confusion, and moments before the doctor coached Cristina through the final big push, I noticed Cristina's leg was slipping from one of the leg holsters, so I stepped up to reposition her and offer my support, leaving behind the kids. Looking back now, that's when it all went wrong. Naturally, Millie burst into tears, so after I took her into my arms and returned to Cristina's side I didn't realize Darc followed after me. By this time, the doctor told Cristina that Dexter was halfway out, and this is where Darc's curiosity got the best of him.

     "There's too much blood. I don't like blood," resonated throughout the hallway as I carried him and his sister out to the waiting room.

     The whole situation left a bad taste in our mouths, the doctor's especially. Maybe that will teach her to wear a face mask next time.

     After the dust subsided, what emerged was yet another reason for Cristina and I to feel like God is smiling down on us.

       

Flamenchy Purse

When I'm in my early forties and my teenage daughter is begging me for whatever high end purse is trending at that time and I'm wondering why in the world a simple generic brand won't suffice, show me this picture and slap me in the face.

For the past month, my dainty Millie has been clutching anything with a strap in the same fashion she is this Flamingo handbag we found at the mall, so it was inevitable that I'd find myself buying a purse for my petite princess. But, of course, Cristina didn't want just any old knockoff knapsack. She turned into one of those crazed pageant moms that go Dr. Frankenstein on their glitter-dunked mini Gagas, and deemed unworthy every bag we came across.

In the end, I'm the one who spotted this flashy fowl and I knew Cristina would approve. She did... and so did Millie.

Looking at this picture makes me incredibly satisfied as a father, but I can't help but think I've created a monster.... a credit card maxing, head-to-toe matching, never enough accessorizing, mall monster. And just like Dr. Frankenstein destroyed himself trying to silence his horrid creation, I too will eventually attempt to silence the mall monster that is my offspring.

Except, when compared to a young woman with all her complexities, an eight-foot tall, freak of experimentation with incredible strength and a penchant for bloodshed is a complete teddy bear. I'll tell Emilia that "enough is enough" and that no 16 year old needs a Givenchy, then three minutes later, after the wrath of Hades is unleashed, you'll see me with my tail between my legs and Cristina trying to pick up what's left of my manhood.

To be honest, though, as long as I get a slice of cookie cake from Mrs. Field's, my little monster can have whatever she wants.

Princess Millie

I always heard that girls are harder to raise than boys, but I never thought that would ring true so soon. I mean, my daughter is barely one year old.

My son was all smiles and curiosity at that age. Emilia is all smiles...and grins...and glares. I'm not sure if it's a girl thing, or if she inherited a particular gene from my mom, but she pulls off "malevolent" and "sassy" like she's an evil Disney Queen. 

Don't get me wrong, she just as easily can be a complete Disney Princess with her endlessly deep eyes and genuine giggle. She's just so different from what I was used to for the three years before she arrived. To some degree, her and her brother are polar opposiblings.

Darc is optimistic and social, spending most of his days in varying degrees of happiness. But with Milly, it's a roller coaster of temperaments that range from pensive and peaceful to short-tempered and irritable. And me trying to understand her emotional nuances conjures up the image of a confused gorilla trying to tell time with a mood ring. Not only does the gorilla not grasp the concept of time, but even if he did he wouldn't be able to tell time using a mood ring. At the end of the day, I'm wired more like my son, and in our analogy we're just two monkeys eating bananas.

It doesn't mean I stop trying though. If anything, I think she's made me to try harder. Because of her, I'm more sensitive and attentive - two things I should have been better at anyway because I was already a dad and a husband before meeting her. In that respect, she's made me a better person.

I just hope I can do the same for her. At the very least, I want to show her how a loving husband is supposed to treat his Queen, and a supportive father his Princess. And, in this analogy, Darc is the jester. Just kidding, he's the handsome monkey Prince, my son.

Apple Pies and the Marketing Guru

     There's this homeless man that hangs out at the end of a McDonald's drive-thru that I frequent. Lucky for him management has no idea he's camped out in this handout hotspot because let me tell you he makes a killing. Just today, from the 3 cars before me, I saw him receive a hamburger and fries, a soft drink and some cash. When it was my turn to pick up my food, I added a couple of apple pies to my order and handed the homeless dude his dessert. Just like that, he had a full meal - not necessarily a healthy one, but a meal nonetheless. It was definitely a nice gesture on all our parts, and I'm sure the donations didn't end with me.
     Initially, I wasn't going to write about it. As I drove away, I thought about posting the charitable charade on Facebook, letting my friends and family in on my good deed and at the very least entertaining the public with the irony of a marketing guru garbed in, well...garbage. I was going to, but, out of embarrassment, I refrained.
     I refrained because I remembered reading a post on my Facebook feed a couple of weeks ago by a guy I've never met. Apparently this guy's Facebook feed was so heavily congested with charitable acts that he had had enough with posts about good deeds. He didn't come out and explicitly say this, but it's the only situation I see compelling him to talk so disparagingly of how THIS person gave a homeless guy some money, or how THAT person did something nice for another.
     Had he presented his case more rationally and with less f-bombs, I'm guessing the moral to his post would have been that if you do something out of the goodness of your heart then you shouldn't broadcast it to the world and look to social media for affirmation. It makes sense, I mean, does a good deed really count as a good deed if you only do it for the recognition?
     A few hours later, sitting in class, I was about 15 minutes into a thumb-numbing, scrolling session on Facebook when I realized I had just casually skimmed past a video of a girl sexily strolling through Central Park clad only in body paint, an ISIS beheading, about half a dozen memes ridiculing Donald Trump (and pretty much every other presidential candidate), and a couple of videos showing police brutality and racism in America. All this and I didn't bat an eye. I just mentally consumed it along with the ubiquitous video recipes and outrageous pranks. I, like my thumb, had grown numb to the negativity.
     Don't get me wrong, I think any functioning member of society can see this for what it is and just go on with their lives. It's not as if we become so desensitized that our personal relationships and well-being begin to suffer (or maybe they do, but we'll leave that for another post).
     On a grander scale, social media is so much more than the people and their posts. It's an escape from everyday life. It's the humor that medicates the monotony of our jobs, or the heartfelt story that incites human emotion. Sometimes its a clothesline upon which we air out our dirty laundry in attempts at keeping society honest. Other times its the spotlight we share for accomplishments that unite us as a country. It's a contagion of every trend imaginable and an intimate look at the social genome of a population. It's more than just bad and its more than just good. Its us.
     So naturally, I revisited the apple pies I gave the homeless man and I decided to share my random act of kindness, because maybe it will inspire you to do something kind. And if you don't like it, then don't "like" it. But if you do, then pass on the kindness. Or don't. Do whatever you want. Just don't be afraid to talk about it. Because, I can tell you with confidence, nobody is afraid to talk about anything these days.

Darcy, party of 34

I'm not sure if it's the Hispanic predisposition to celebrate even the most unlikely of events, or just his way of letting us know that we're not as good company as we once were, but recently my son opened our dinners up to around 30 or so of his closest friends: a group of toys he simply calls "a party." It's made eating out something of a spectacle.

On the plus side, the servers find the figurine-filled fiesta entertaining, and the ensuing icebreakers usually land us extra good service or a free dessert. And for my ravenous rascals, free food is always welcomed. 

They take after their mother.

To be fair, I'm no different. I was just the one with the charged phone. 

Oddly enough, these parties aren't only reserved for the dinner table; they're all over the place and thrown with no specific purpose. Yes, most of them are hosted in honor of Cristina getting home from work - which, depending on the amount of chaos created under dad's rule, can't be celebrated enough - but I've seen him gather the troops together for no good reason at all. 

I guess, that's where I'm mistaken, though. Maybe that's where I lack imagination. What I see motionless and taking up space, he imagines as full of life and purpose. I simply see "a party" and he sees a warm welcome to a special someone that deserves more than just a hug and kiss; or an audience large enough to witness all the fun we have during dinnertime; or a collection of memories of all the times mom and dad rewarded him with an addition to the party. 

I think my favorite parties are the ones he puts together just before bedtime. They're the ones he works hardest on, pleading with me every five minutes for another five minutes to add the finishing touches. I eventually draw the line and then he's off to bed. That's when I stay behind to admire his masterpiece. 

These are my favorite parties - the ones where everyone else is asleep. These are the parties that are just for me. 

Lazy Sundays

On any given weekend, you'll find either Cristina or I working, or our entire little family spending the day out and about with our parents. Today, however, we did absolutely nothing and I was reminded of just how rehabilitative a lazy Sunday can be.

We're not quite sure if it was sickness induced laziness, or another disorder that presents with bouts of napping, pantry raiding and Netflix binge watching, but treating the first day of Spring as if it were a city-wide snow day might not be a bad family tradition to start.

I can't say everyone in the apartment was as unproductive as Cristina and I, though. Darc decided to help Millie overcome her fear of using her own two feet and from the looks of it, my role as giant robot controlled by the flick of grimy, chocolate covered fingers might be coming to an end.

Growing up, I remember Sundays being reserved for laundry, the occasional trip to the grocery store and pretty much anything else my stay-at-home mom needed done to get 3 brats and my dad through the week stress-free. Even now, I don't recall wearing a wrinkled pair of jeans (I was the dork with the crease down the front of the pants) or not having either a nutritiously packed lunch, or money to buy the exact opposite - at the time, I was convinced cheese fries and pizza was a food group. 

After seeing how cathartic doing nothing can be, we'll definitely be doing this more often. And just so my kids don't grow up oblivious to the importance of good hygiene and preparation, we might do a load of laundry or bake some cookies and call it "meal prep."

The Tightrope Walker

In the Circus of Adulthood, it's the first act and I'm a tight rope walker overlooking a net-less fall, equipped only with a balancing rod that's tempered with selfishness and selflessness. This is what being a husband, a dad and an individual is to me.

It's what turns finding an ideal career into a never ending game of Yahtzee where I'm rolling for the perfect combination of security, monetary compensation and creative freedom. I'm probably looking at it all wrong, though. 

Maybe there's more to "Doing what you love and letting the rest follow" than its flashy font on memes all over Instagram would suggest.

Maybe passion should be my driving for force in the search for the right job.

Afterall, nobody promises Andy Truett a certain number of closed homes in a month, or Pablo Magdaleno a fixed number of brokered insurance policies, yet these two are extremely successful individuals that are lauded for their passion in the workplace - Andy, the past two years with Best Realtor in El Paso, and Pablo with several New York Life accolades. Another thing they both have in common: exceptionally sized salaries.  

Really, it's the perfect litmus test for job satisfaction. Without passion, there's no way to maintain an exemplary level of performance that promotes both fiscal and personal growth, and who isn't satisfied when both you and your wallet are growing.

I'm near the end of the line on this act and it's not as bad as I thought it was going to be. Graduation is right around the corner, I have my Realtor's license, and this blog has opened my mind up to the possibility of writing for a living.

Whatever my family and I decide on, it will be in favor of passion.

Ghosts and Things

     You know that fly that knows exactly how to get under your skin? I'm talking about the one that, despite it being the size of a pea and mostly irrelevant in life, manages to amplify the sound of the beating of its wings by 10,000% by perfectly positioning itself against a single venetian blind - whose acoustical inclination is to echo directly into your ear canal - because, well, he thought you could use the second alarm. That fly, he wasn't here today, but cookie monster was...at the bottom of a giant toy chest pressed up against one of Emilia's light-up toys, which, in all fairness, was putting on a seizure-inducing laser light show equally as jarring visually to my groggy eyes as hearing Darc's cookie monster whimper his final words, " Meee loooove coooookiees" was to my ears. Apparently nobody warned him of Diabetes. 
     Lately, disturbing stuff like this has been happening more frequently at our apartment - a hotwheel, strategically placed bedside awaiting the vulnerability of my fragile feet; an incoherent, possibly satanic, hieroglyphic scribbled violently in orange crayon not more than 2 feet high on the bathroom wall; piles of crumbs - ones that rival those made by Chris Christie when eating, well, pretty much anything - that create Saharan sand dunes of our quaint, recently cleaned couches. 
     Normally, I'd chalk it up to having kids, I mean, who wouldn't, but my mom assured me that my kids can do no wrong. So that leaves only one other explanation: a Poltergeist. 
     I'll be honest with you, though, I'm not as freaked out about it as I thought I would be. I mean, if grimy little hand prints on the TV and half-finished water bottles are the best thing this ghost has got, then bring it on. In fact, I hope it never leaves or gets older and changes its habits. I hope it stays this way forever. 

Treehouses

     I’m not much of a daredevil when it comes to making big decisions; in fact, in the biopic of my life, I’m probably played by Ben Stiller’s character in Along Came Polly – I’m just not a big risk taker. It wasn’t always that way, though. When I was 18, I left home for college and spent four years in a little, big city with quick access to bigger, livelier cities like Austin and Dallas. It was a risky move for a sheltered, Hispanic kid, but it was fun, and despite the adversity that any Hispanic person faces when diving head first into places that aren’t as racially welcoming as El Paso, I still saw myself living anywhere but El Paso. Moving just wasn’t a big deal.

     Now at 29 and back in my hometown, however, I don’t think I would ever make the same kind of move. Sure, I have a family now and relocating them to a different city would be equally daunting and uneasy for all of us, but it’s not fear and inconvenience that keeps us from leaving El Paso. I believe, as I’m sure most of you do, that Home is where the Heart is, and so moving my little family, along with all the love in our Hearts we have for each other, would bring meaning to our new abode…our new Home. But what that beautiful old adage fails to mention is how many Hearts are really involved in the making of a Home.

    

     When I left for Waco, at the age of 18, I didn’t realize just how many people were affected by me leaving. But now, approaching thirty, my idea of Home is alot different. My Home is more like a treehouse, with roots digging deep into the cultural soil of El Paso and intertwining with the roots of other families’ treehouses – my parents’, Cristina’s parents’, our siblings’, our friends’, the list goes on. Moving then becomes something more than just relocating, it’s unearthing those roots, exposing those delicate relationships and stressing them, sometimes to the brink of extinction. We move and the strong roots – the real strong ties (moms, dads, brothers, sisters) – resist the stress, but the weaker ones – the more superficial ties (some friendships, acquaintances) – snap. The strong ones grow again and the weak ones die out, but every relationship feels the heartache.

     

     We decided to stay here not because of fear of the unknown, or because it’s convenient to call on family members to babysit, but because the look on our kids’ faces when my mom stops by for a random Krispy Kreme visit, or when Cristina’s mom pops in with a pot of albondigas, is priceless. Because life is short and our time is precious, and most of our time has been spent building these relationships, and growing these roots, and waiting to enjoy the fruits of that work. Because nobody is here forever and we hate regrets.

     

     This is why we chose El Paso. Everyone has their own idea of what Home is, but wherever you end up, make sure you remind your loved ones just how loved they really are. 

Dos Gordos

Round II

Apparently our immune systems were no match for two toddlers with runny noses. As we sit here in the waiting area, we can't help but be thankful for our support system back home making sure our babies are safe and sound while Mom and Dad plead with the doctor to drug us back to life. As a nurse, I know I'll probably just leave here with a prescription for Tylenol, but as a sick mom, I'm hopeful, that by some miraculous act, blood-letting is now a safe practice because my head is about to explode! Okay, enough for now, I'm starting to sound delusional. 

Oreos and Cable TV

     This past weekend was eventful for more than just Cristina and I, and despite us successfully nursing our children back to health, I’m pleased to say that’s not the most exciting thing I have to tell you.

I’m going to be my brother’s Best Man!

Congratulations, Sly and Monica!

     That’s my little brother, Sly. Watching them grow together these past few months, I’m reminded of how quickly love escalates things. It was not even 7 years ago that Cristina and I started dating and a year after that making room for a family. Now, we’re four strong with one more on the way. Love has a funny way of getting what it wants (that or we should really think about getting cable).

     In retrospect, I think I first noticed that my brother was head over heels for Monica when he gave up chewing tobacco. For six years, he dipped tobacco like it was an Oreo and he was a chubby little boy with a sweet tooth. I apologize for forever ruining Oreos for you, but I want you to know just how hard it was for us to get him to stop. Then Monica came along and poof, no more tobacco. She claims to have nothing to do with it, but I know she did. I know the true power of the…love.

     Although I would have enjoyed for my brother to extend his Best Man invitation to me in some sort of elaborate unveiling party involving a Man Box filled with manly things, I’m proud that he saved all the pomp for his fiancé in asking for her hand in marriage. Rumor has him humbly kneeling before her, affront her entire family in a dramatically staged, impromptu mass where choir bells chimed to the tempo of her gentle tears pattering against the marble as she managed a faint “yes”. Or maybe it was just him kneeling before her and her son asking them to be a part of his life forever. Either way, I’m happy for them. They make a great family, and if you ask me, it’s about time Cristina and I threw in the towel and handed the reins of growing the family tree over to someone else.

Late night Taco Run

  

     It’s funny how of all the little things that remind me I’m a dad – a smelly diaper, a dirty, little finger meddling in my ketchup, a voice from across the apartment yelling, “Dad, come wipe me, I’m done pooping” – nothing makes me feel more like a parent than when my kids are sick. It’s like these tiny little wrecking ball, energizer bunny babies that are normally brimming with curiosity are all of a sudden reduced to helpless little blobs of glum and droopy eyes, and you’re the only one they trust enough to nurse them back to heathenry…I mean health.

     Our little sullen savages landed us a trip to the urgent care center last night, and with Cristina sporting a 27 week baby bump, it was Dad-Bod to the rescue, nestling Millie before the barrage of X-rays and breathing treatments, and holding Darc after his tablet died and the boredom, compounded by his chest congestion and throat pain, drove him to body aches and a theatrical performance I’d say could rival that of Daniel Day-Lewis (he gets that from my side of the family). At the end of it all, we got what we went for: peace of mind and a pair of antibiotics that kept both Gramma, MDs out of our hair (thanks for all that you do grammas!).

     The trip home after a hospital visit is always the part I look forward to, not that there have been many, fortunately. But, usually by this time the kids are medicated and fast asleep on the road to recovery, and Cristina and I are a little less stressed. Not so completely destressed to avoid the drive-thru at Taco Cabana, of course. It was late but we figured it was just what the doctor ordered. RX: 2 Egg and bean breakfast tacos to go.

Slower is Better

     My fondest memories of being a kid are 90s themed and devoid of all responsibility, set to a time when Blockbuster and board games were laying the groundwork for anything but “Netflix and chill”, and a boloney sandwich and Caprisun didn’t come with a disclaimer from the surgeon general. Figuratively, a time winding down at a fraction of the speed it is now; and literally, a time when I didn’t have to specify whether I meant things literally or figuratively. Sure, time is relative and things never seem as languid as when seen through the eyes of an impatient adolescent, but even Einstein couldn’t have predicted the pace that our technology driven era would propel us to. Time is just flying by so damn fast and I hate that I can’t stop it. It’s foolish, I know, but I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t try to challenge the inevitable, just ask my wife. So, in efforts to slow down time, I’m starting this blog. For me at least, the more significant I make something, the longer it lasts, so what better way to draw out time than to archive my life and display it for the whole world to see.

     And before you start to wonder why anyone would dare to entertain the delusion of distorting time, other than the obvious nefarious reasons of course, just take a look at this family picture of mine and admire my four beautiful reasons. And despite my dashing good looks, I'm not inluding myself as one of the four...we're expecting baby Dex in May. I hope you stick around for more!

FYI: The pic was taken earlier this year on my 29th birthday and since then the beard has grown burlier, Cristina's baby bump more pronounced, and the kids more adorable. I'm really bad about taking pictures so I've recruited the help of my wife, so lookout for posts and pics from her as well.