Quirkee.com

Freedom. It's a word that means so much and can represent something so little. We are free to choose where we live, where we worship, what sports teams to cheer for, and the clothes we want to wear. We also have the freedom to be morons, pick our noses in public, and eat junk food all day.

We are free to dance and free to sing, even if we have no rhythm and are completely tone deaf.

We are free to drive an SUV, a hybrid, ride a bicycle, or walk. We are free to spend our paychecks on gasoline so we can go to work and earn more gas money.

This Sunday, July 1st, is the day four years ago when my life completely changed. No, not the day I got out of rehab or jail. It was the day my son was born. All of the sudden it was no more late nights out with our friends closing down bars after work. No more midnight runs to the nearby bowling alley to squeeze in a few games and a few bowling pin shaped beers. From that day on it was diaper, feed, burp, change diaper, feed more, burp, change diaper, sleep for a few hours, then start all over with a clean shirt on.

We quickly got the routine down and the few hours of sleep every night were enough for us to stay alive. The bags under my eyes were eventually replaced with extra laugh lines. The hair on my head is a different story. Not long after our son was born my first gray hair appeared on my goatee. I plucked it. Then one appeared on the side of my head so I plucked that sucker, too. They say if you pluck them more just appear. That's OK by me because at the rate my brown hairs are vanishing I would much rather have more gray hairs than no hairs at all. I already keep a nice short cut and I estimate that in about five years I'll just shave it bald - but only if I can find out how to reconfigure my wine cork shaped head by then.

Every once in a while things around Camp Grayson become a little redundant and I find I have nothing new to write about. Sure, I can come up with a paragraph or two about poop, or translate a bit of conversation with the Little Mister to fill up some blog posts, but having enough material to write a full article on can be like trying to squeeze that last little amount of toothpaste stuck to the inside of the tube. You might get a little drop to clean your teeth but your breath still stinks.

When I run out of "toothpaste" for my articles, I spend a lot of time reading various blogs written by the many mommies and daddies out there. Since the creation of blogs, there have been thousands of parents talking about their joys and struggles of raising children. With the increase of stay-at-home-dads around the world, many have turned to the Internet to write about their new jobs. I also belong to several forums where guys rant and rave about everything from strollers and toy recalls, to beer and sports. Many of the dads on the nationwide forums have never met face to face but have developed friendships nonetheless. One forum even has a poker room where you can blow your wad of funny money while sipping suds at your computer. It's not quite Vegas but it's a heck of a lot cheaper.

The other day we were driving along in my truck when my wife looked around and said, "Have you just totally given up? This truck is a mess!" It isn't really a mess, just littered with random little toys, preschool art projects that haven't made it inside yet, at least one sippy cup that may have milk in it but I'm too afraid to look, and my wife's gum wrappers that for some reason don't make it into the trash tray.

I used to keep the inside of my cars clean and empty. This was not necessarily because I am a Virgo, but because my dogs would travel in the car with me to the park a lot and would tear things up. I also had a few cars that a lock didn't work on so I kept them clean and empty to keep thieves away.

Having always been somewhat of a picky eater, my time spent in the kitchen whipping up fabulous meals were few and far between. When I think back on the years I spent growing up at home, the only vivid memory of me in the kitchen with my Mom helping her cook is on Sunday mornings making cinnamon rolls. Pillsbury rolls, not homemade ones. This was not because my Mom can’t make homemade cinnamon rolls, but because it was Sunday morning and we were usually in a rush to get ready for church.

My first year of college at Texas Tech University in Lubbock, TX, I lived in a dorm like most freshmen and meals were "prepared" in the dining halls. I consumed more Count Chocula, Apple Jacks, and chocolate milk that semester than any one person should ingest in their entire life. That was also the first time I remember eating a steak.

Little Mister has been a thumb-sucker since the day his tiny newborn hand stopped shaking long enough for his lips to get a grip on it. We have many cute photos of him with the fleshy noise plug jammed in his mouth. He would go to town on that little sucker! It was nice because he never liked a pacifier but had a way to soothe himself back to sleep at 3:00 AM so Mommy didn't have to break out her nipples after he turned eight-months old.

Little Bit (our 16-month old) could give a hoot about her thumb or a pacifier. If it wasn't Mommy's chest she wanted nothing to do with it. This made the 3:00 AM awakening more often than not. When she wakes up she screams like there is no tomorrow! Actually, she screams like the "no tomorrow" was the day before yesterday.

Now that Little Mister is about to turn four-years old, we have been talking to him more about stopping his thumb sucking. He is the only one in his preschool class that does so, but so far none of the kids have made fun of him. It is starting to affect his front teeth and we don't want him to be made fun of for having a lisp. I tried to speak too fast when I was a young kid and stuttered all the time. The other kids made plenty fun of me, but for the most part I was able to let it go and say something funny so they would laugh with me instead of at me.

All of you new parents or soon to be new parents out there – this is your warning! The parenting gods are watching and listening to you. The parenting gods are unstoppable forces of nature that derive pleasure out of making judgmental moms and dads suffer for their words.

If you are a mom or dad who has ever said something like, “My children will never ______,” that may mean trouble is in your future. If you say your child will never use bad words in public then they will more than likely prove you wrong during communion at church.

“Godammit! This bread is stale!” they will eloquently say to the minister.

It’s my own fault, really. If I didn’t provide her with so many reasons to laugh at me she wouldn’t. Luckily for me she knew what she was getting when she agreed to marry me. Maybe she just wanted somebody around to make fun of for the rest of her life. I’m fine with that. If my purpose in life is for her to have somebody to rag on, then so be it. I know I’m somewhat goofy.

Take for example my dance moves. I remember as a kid going to dances, or to clubs as a younger adult, and I could boogie! My moves were smokin’ and the dance floor actually caught on fire once. I heard somebody say it was just a cigarette butt that got dropped on a napkin, but I knew better. That wasn’t burning paper I smelled. It was the fiery soles of my shoes.

My wife repeatedly asks me to not dance in front of the children. She doesn’t want them to pick up any of my moves. She says she wants them to actually learn how to dance right. I don’t buy that line for a second, though. I think she is just afraid the neighborhood kids will want to hang out at our house all the time for dance parties.

When my wife and I first met in our early twenties we both lived a minimalist décor lifestyle. This was not necessarily by choice, however, but mostly because we were broke and moved around the city to different rental properties. Lugging around a bunch of stuff every year was not something we wanted to do while paying daily rates for a U-Haul. As the years passed we began to amass extra stuff and our small rental units became a little more cluttered.

Six years ago we finally bought a house and it was twice as big as any place we had ever lived. Again, not by choice, but by the simple fact that our house was bigger than our collection of furniture, kitchen accoutrements, art, lamps, etc., we were once again living with a minimalist décor. Our house was open and inviting, free of clutter, and comfortable for guests when they entered the front door to one of our many parties and backyard bar-b-ques.

Then came the children.