Son officially more astute than Cowboys fans

Unfortunately, my 4 1/2-year-old son has finally figured out that errands aren't "a treat," as I had originally convinced him. He's officially more savvy than Dallas Cowboys fans who think "American's Team" will ever win another Super Bowl.

Rockwell would have hated our snow days

The American picture of children in the snow: lovely snow angels, soft frolicking, warm smiles and the promise of hot chocolate.

Real-life children in the snow: indistinguishable snow angels, constant shivering and rampant crying that stems from the snow that gets lodged in the way-too-big gloves once your children inexplicably remove them.

Fine line between melting heart and meltdown

If I die, please tell my story.

OK, in reality my Crazy Toddler's rare yet outrageous tantrums aren't going to end my life (you can't die from frustration, can you? Otherwise there wouldn't be any Chicago Cubs fans left.) But if I end up in the hospital with self-inflicted injuries stemming from repeatedly slamming my head into the wall, please warn the rest of civilization about my son, because:

• A) He's capable of mass destruction during his epic fits of rage.
• B) Based on what they see when CT is around people besides Mom and Dad, many can't even imagine he is capable of the aforementioned tantrums.

I guess this should make me happy in one sense. It's embarrassing dealing with a wild child in public, and luckily CT spares me this most of the time. But on the other hand, no one believes you when you vent about parenthood but all anyone sees is your kid's halo and quiet demeanor.

I wouldn't really mind all this, except that I'm slightly afraid one of these days CT will do some serious damage when everyone least expects it. I wouldn't be surprised to open up the newspaper (you know, one of those archaic bundles of paper featuring current events and comics) and read any or all of these headlines:

• Tike spurs massive playground fight over 'spilt milk'
  Raging youth cries 'milk fall down!' 
• Police: Lack of sleep caused recent toy store fracas
  Postponed nap brings draws cranky kid's ire
• Businessman: Parents responsible for eardrum disaster
  Child's piercing screams damage local man's hearing permanently

I'm not saying my son is unmanageable, but that's because I've seen what he's capable of. I know precisely to reap the benefits of his adorableness and when I need to put on a helmet and protective cup and simply ride out the storm.  If you can't recognize the signs of a pending meltdown, you'll never know what hit you.

All I'm really saying is this: If you meet a child with the letters "CT" tattooed, along with barbed wire, on his biceps, proceed with caution. The subtle different between a two-hour nap and one-hour nap might also be the difference between a delightful game of tag and a metal train to the retina.

Sick days are for sleep, not 'Saved By the Bell'

My son has mastered something I am still working on after 28 years: sleeping when sick. And I'm a little jealous.

Yesterday my son more or less napped for the entire day, because he was really sick and totally loopy. He had no problem crashing four hours on end, regardless of his surroundings or the position he was in.

I simply can't do this.

When I get sick enough to stay home from work, I usually make the age-old mistake of saying, "I'll just rest on the couch with the TV on." The problem is that this has never worked for me.

Soon after lying down, I find myself sitting up, typing away on the laptop and watching TV reruns that I normally miss because of my job. (Hey, if you have a chance to watch five consecutive episodes of "Saved By the Bell: The College Years," you take it. You ALWAYS take it.)

Soon my "day of rest" has become a day of staring at a computer screen (not unlike what I would have been doing at work) and screaming at the TV because Zach and Kelly never seem to really, you know, click or make it work. The timing is always off, or what have you.

As my son's vocab continues to expand, I'm going to need some tips on how to turn my sick-day doldrums into droopy-eyed bliss.

Head-banging 101

So, I found out my son can't properly bang his head to rock music. In fact, he can't even do the subtle man-nod to rock music.

It's not for a lack of tutelage. I've tried teaching him the art of a well-timed head thrust during a driving rock anthem, but he's not up to the task. The best he can manage is a furious sideways head waggle, as if he thinks his head is a generic can of orange juice for which pre-consumption shaking is vital.

Don't get me wrong; the kid has moves. Crazy Toddler (CT) is like a young Kevin Federline — everything from the Charleston to the macarena. But he if ever wants to look the part in a testerone-laden free-weights workout session, he'll need to develop the head-bang, or at least a variation. Even a slight nod on beat would suffice.

CT has his work cut out for him.

Talking rocks

Talking rocks. I mean, not when self-important adults do it (Are you listening, 95 percent of sports and news commentators out there?). I'm referring to when my 2-year-old son does it.

Ever since my wife first found out she was pregnant, I've been looking forward to when my child could communicate with me on a level beyond pooping and screaming. Now that the time has arrived, I'm far from disappointed.

Everything Crazy Toddler says is cute — and every aspect of the process. The way he grasps at each syllable, elongating words to ridiculous lengths. The shouting of run-of-the-mill words to give them added significance. His insistence on saying "goodbye" to people/places/things when he first sees them.

I was starting to think Bill Maher and Michael Savage had soured me on the English language for good (and on humans in general, for that matter), but I think I'm coming back around. It's all thanks to CT.

Here's to actually knowing what my son is thinking. And another "cheers" to laughing our butts off when our kids can't say things correctly (just make sure to leave the room first).

What's up with the stupidity?

What's up with the stupidity among NFL quarterbacks?

Normally in this blog I try to deftly mingle sports issues with the comings and going of fatherhood. But today I'm loathe to compare to son to the overabundance of block-headed quarterbacks. It's simply not fair to him.

• Jay Cutler threw four interceptions to the same dude yesterday. At some point don't you consider throwing it to the opposite side of the field, or through a tire swing or something?
• Brett Favre is slinging ill-advised passes like a drunken Jeff George or, well, Brett Favre. He has officially become the old man who refuses to wear pants, even when the doorbell rings. Brad Childress needs to be the crotchety wife who hits the old man upside the head with a hard-backed Civil War coffee-table book.
• Philip Rivers is just north of a nervous breakdown. He needs to rent "The Shining," then watch it repeatedly. Consider it a self-help video, man.

I could go on. And on. Aren't quarterbacks supposed to be the smart ones?