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?

My week — in headlines

I've been writing headlines for so long that I am loathe to stop now.

After years of penning scads of these short yet hopefully punchy blurbs, I see headlines in my day-to-day life sort of how Neo sees the Matrix, John Nash saw numbers and Jay Cutler finds surliness in any situation.

From my family to the sports world, here are some of this week's Father Knows (Travis) Best headlines:
Toddler counts to six, fends off MIT
(Quote from story: "It's too soon," Crazy Toddler said during a tense after-bath press conference. "I gotta figure out why Elmo only has eight fingers before I can even BEGIN to think about college.")

Yankees, Phillies take pity on 'little ones'
How else can you explain these powerhouse teams trailing 3-2 to the Rangers and Giants, respectively, in the baseball playoffs. I think they felt bad for these beleaguered fan bases and decided to throw them temporary bones.

Two-year old: 'Bye-bye moon'
I'm not sure why Crazy Toddler (CT) says farewell to the moon every time he sees it. Perhaps he truly disdains it and is simply hoping it will go away forever. It's exactly how I feel about ESPN football analyst Marcellus Wiley.

Cowboys give away ball, Super Bowl aspirations
Dallas still has a chance to make the playoffs, but does anyone think this underdisciplined, overhyped team has any chance to play in the biggest game of the season, which will be held in their own stadium? If you do, I have a slew of Brett Favre "Back in 2012" T-shirts I'd love to sell you.

Big-headed boy wrestles away living-room championship
I was convinced I would win tonight's "King of the Hill" battle between me and CT this evening. I was proved wrong when the lithe youth slammed a wall of plastic blocks into/through my face. This little dude knows how to maximize his talents. Or, as a TV sports talking head undoubtedly would say, "From a testerone standpoint, CT has a lot of testerone." Thanks for that enlightened commentary, Marcellus.

Duke ranked No. 1 in preseason poll
For those of us who enjoy rooting against Coach K, having the Blue Devils basketball team put on such a pedestal before the season starts is delightful. It will make the fall from the top that much more sweet.
(NOTE: I will face a stern talking to from my wife for that last comment, but I'll gladly take my lumps.)

Here's hoping my next headline reads: "Young dad sleeps through alarm during son's world sleeping record." 

The one in the cartoon socks? He wins.

My kid could elicit laughs and comments like "He's so cute!" while wearing a Member's Only jacket over a "I Heart Kim Jong Il" T-shirt.

That's not a statement about my son being so amazing. That's simply the way it is with children; they can pull off almost any look. And I'm seriously jealous about that.

Case in point: I'd most certainly be ostracized for wearing that same (hypothetical) Kim Jong Il T-shirt. (NOTE: Luckily, my Jong Il fanhood went south a few years ago. All Jong Il apparel has long resided in the giveaway clothes box in the spare room, next to my five-sizes-too-big Fila ski jacket from junior high and my MC Hammer pants.)

In fact, I'd be laughed out of most rooms if tried to sport almost any of my son's ensembles. You name it, he has the confidence and dimples to make it work. Overalls on top of pastel polos. T-shirts featuring super-cheesy sayings. Cartoon-emblazoned socks. Black pants with tan shoes. Sweatpants to church on Sunday.

My envy has convinced me to sabotage his outfits time and time again (after all, I help control what he wears), but I've come to realize he's immune to such shenanigans. You win, Crazy Toddler. You win.

Add this to the long list of reasons Peter Pan was a smart dude.

Can a 2-year-old wax my car?

Should a barely 2-year-old be expected to wash and wax the car?

OK, that's my bad. I probably shouldn't have asked my Crazy Toddler (CT) to do that. But seriously, how am I supposed to know what he can and cannot handle at this age?

Here's my best guess, based on my limited experience thus far — along with what I've gleaned from dozens of TV sitcoms:

Realistic Expectation: CT will refrain from throwing food all over the floor, wall and me.
Unrealistic Expectation: He will clean up the aforementioned mess with a Swiffer mop.

Realistic Expectation: CT won't smack me in the face with a sippy cup when he's upset.
Unrealistic Expectation: He will calmly utilize time-tested nonviolent conflict management tactics to diffuse tense situations.

Realistic Expectation: CT will allow my wife and I an hour or so a day of quiet time as he plays with some blocks or something to that effect.
Unrealistic Expectation: He will drive himself down to the mall with a fistful of quarters and play video games for five hours at a time while his mother and I watch movies, take naps and talk about CT behind his back.

At least I'm learning.

Checking it twice: Volume I

Check out this list of the top five throughts going through NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell's brain as the first quarter of the 2010 season comes to a close:
5) "Remember when Ben Roethlisberger's biggest problem was that he didn't wear a motorcycle helmet?
      Those were the days."
4) "If we drop Brett Favre off at a nursing home, will he even know the difference?"
3) "Michael Vick? A starting quarterback again — and with good statistics? Man, I owe Tony Dungy $10."
2) "If I promise Kurt Warner a year's worth of free dancing lessons from Emmit Smith and Jerry Rice, do you think he will come back to the Cardinals?"
1) "Man, my fantasy football team sucks. I can't believe I drafted myself in the second round. Stupid, stupid, stupid! You never should draft an administrator until the end of the draft."

Athletes inside the TV haven't appreciated me

As my friend at Life of a New Dad said recently, "I need to be rid of things that take too much time from my family."

His recent blog post about time management for dads detailed why, now that he's a father, he watches far fewer baseball games than ever before. Replace "baseball" with "football and basketball," and you've got my situation down pat.

The amount of time I used to spend viewing football and basketball games is legendary. In fact, I was so over the top with this stuff that now I have a difficult time convincing anyone who knows me that I have turned over a new leaf.

The truth is, these days I usually only watch the two or three teams that I have been ardently following since I was a young child. (NOTE: Listening to sports radio shows via podcasts and streaming are excluded from this conversation. Now back to my regularly scheduled blog.) Between being a first-time homeowner since late last year and a first-time dad for a little more than two years, my weekend TV sports binges have given way to prolonged train track planning with my Crazy Toddler and arduous yard work at length.

I'm not going to lie and say I always yearn to play with my son instead of watching that key late-season football matchup on a Saturday afternoon. Sometimes it feels like work, especially compared to the sweet, sweet laziness that drips from a jam-packed Sunday schedule. Regardless, CT needs that interaction. And I can actually have a significant effect on him, whereas the teams I root for don't seem to benefit from my devotion all that much.

How dare they? Don't they know how angry I get when they lose?

Evidently not. It's all good, though. I've got a burgeoning family that cares about me more than any of those uniformed guys inside the TV ever have.

I won't be wrapped

I'm drawing a masculine yet gentle, stern yet supportive line in the sand.

I'm taking a stand against the "little girl wrapped around daddy's pinky finger" stereotype. I'm sick of hearing about it all the time, which is why it's going to come to a screeching halt with the birth of my daughter about 4 1/2 months from now.

Look, I'm not naive (at least, not about this). I'm sure thousands of men have promised to refrain from the money-draining, inconvenience-fostering practice of never saying "no" to their daughters. But I'll be the first to actually do it. I have the resolve of Lance Armstrong (does resolve = unnaturally high quantity of red blood cells?), the stubbornness of Jerry Jones, the penchant for discipline of Tom Coughlin and the checking account of Maurice Clarett. This should make for a successful combination, don't you think?

No, I'm not a monster. I will love and take care of my daughter. I will show her affection at every turn, and I'll bend over backward to improve her life. But this finger won't be wrapped. No way.

Part of why I'm adamant against being wrapped is that I've seen how this often plays out. The majority of the ridiculous women I know were first ridiculous little girls molded by ridiculous(ly) spineless dads.

I'm putting an end the ridiculousness. Who's with me?

The great toy aisle debate

I made the classic inexperienced father mistake today: the toy-aisle oversell.

It's allowable — while not ideal — to take a young child into a big-box store's toy section. However, one should only proceed into the aforementioned area if he is highly familiar with the acceptable balance of excitement and boredom.

That's where I made my mistake.

Look, I was in charge of my son — by myself — for a few hours this morning/early afternoon while my wife hosted an autumn-themed tea party. (NOTE: Autumn and tea are the two most overhyped things in the female culture. Very weird.). After lunch, I figured Crazy Toddler (CT) would have fun being carted around a big store, amid a sea of shiny products. I was correct — in fact, a little too correct.

CT was pretty stimulated from the get-go once we entered the children's zone. The "Toy Story" aisle alone was ridiculous. Since when do second- and third-tier animated characters get their own action figures and sound-creating dolls? When I was a kid, I don't remember seeing 1-foot-high Green Lantern figures that spout catch phrases when squeezed. Maybe I just wasn't paying attention.

CT was excited enough without any help from me. So why did I start pushing every button and "Try Me" spot I could find? Beats me. Soon it was time to leave, and CT acted like I had dragged him away from a play date with Elmo himself.

Obviously, this one's on me. Lesson learned. Toy aisles don't need any help being excited. They've got that covered.

Luckily I had a trick up my sleeve today. Parks were invented solely for this type of situation.

Every action has equal, ardent overreaction

If everyone overreacted the way our pervasive sports media does, our lives would be a lot different.

When you turn on ESPN or scan CNNSI.com on an autumn Monday, the "experts" are more than eager to fervently tell you which football teams are transcendent and which ones are cesspools of gridiron despair. Luckily one victory the following week — whether by 1 point or 60 — will undoubtedly reverse a down-on-its-luck team's fortunes by 180 degrees.

What if we did this with our children?
— "He did WHAT to the couch cushions???? That's it; this kid is destined to be a loser. Let's just drop him off at the closest payday loan store (probably within about three feet) and be done with it."

Our entertainment?
— (Circa 1990) "Man, that episode was weird. I guess I'm out on 'Seinfeld.' That show will never amount to anything."

Our friends?
— "I could have used a little more 'oomph' from Steve during that phone conversation. Next stop: deletion from my phone. That's a 20-year friendship down the drain. Bummer."

Our employment?
— "Huh. No more creamer in the staff lounge. I wonder who's hiring these days?"

Sometimes people/teams have a bad day. But it's just that: ONE day. I'm pretty sure Colin Cowherd isn't getting fired for accidentally pressing the wrong button at the wrong time.

 

It's his "No Easy Way Out"

I think I found my son's "No Easy Way Out" — in a supremely unlikely place.

Robert Tepper's soul-jarring, synth-heavy rock anthem, famous for its placement during the driving montage in Rocky IV, is the song that gets my blood boiling for everything from weight lifting to grocery shopping (you need a little testosterone boost for those shopping-cart battles with the blue-hairs).

For my son, Crazy Toddler, I'm pretty sure the same effect is spurred by the hit cartoon "Wonder Pets."

I know, I know. This is a fairly tame, very positive program featuring talking pets that are the best of friends. Not exactly the stuff that chest bumps are made of.

But it seems to work for him. Today CT was watching that show — a very tame moment even by "Wonder Pets" standards — and I caught him pumping his fists and quietly saying "boom" two or three times ("Boom" is our special phrase for everything manly and physical.).

Huh.

No worries, though. Whatever gets the job done. And if he needs to tote a portable DVD player and a "Wonder Pets" disc into the lockerroom at halftime of his college basketball games, so be it.

Tony Robbins, eat your heart out

When did I apply for the title of "Motivational Speaker?"

The other day — in the middle of a loud, cartoonish, syrupy-sweet pep talk to my son — I realized how much energy I constantly put into convincing my Crazy Toddler (CT)  to do stuff.

"Let's eat these ca-RAYZY peaches, OK buddy!!!"

"Oopsy! But you're OK!!! No boo-boo for you! Yay! Yay!"

"Peeing in the potty is the coolest!!! Let's all do it, OK! Yay!"

You get the idea. My voice has gotten two to three octaves higher and much louder since CT entered my life. I can only image what goes through his head when I go off on one of my overly demonstrative, way-too-enthusiastic rants. He must be thinking something like, "This dude needs to get a life. I've never seen someone get this excited about peaches."

That's just the Tony Robbins in me, I guess.

Viewing world through NFL Preview-tinted glasses

Thanks to my good friends at ESPN, Sports Illustrated, etc., I'm beginning to see the world through NFL-Preview-tinted glasses.

The month of August tends to do this to me — and the ever-increasing glut of media nonsense makes the situation more dire each year.

You want proof? Last night I dreamed up this 2010 Playtime Performance Preview for my Crazy Toddler:

Key 2009-10 statistics:

• Pieces of plastic food eaten: 14
• Book pages torn: 37
• Balls thrown at Daddy's face: 142
• Half-eaten fruit-bar shards fused to living-room carpet fibers: 1,343 (single-season record)

Strengths
CT is one of the most electrifying ball kickers/throwers in the game today. His ability to throw a tiny soft football at the same time as kicking one of those irresistible big-box-store bouncy balls has scouts drooling — but still not as much as CT drools.

Weaknesses
Despite extensive instruction, CT has yet to fully grasp the complex toy-to-toybox technique. At times his innate talent carries him to victory in this regard, but he lacks the consistency that all legendary playtime practitioners have displayed.

At some point CT's rugged good looks and paunchy build will no longer be able to offset this shortcoming.

Prediction
CT has enough God-given gifts to take his leisure time to heights never before reached. But it's more likely that his impetuousness, refusal to consistently nap and penchant for spontaneous urine will stop him short of his full potential. It will be a good year of playing and general carrying on for CT, but not an epic one.

Puff Daddy (or is it P. Diddy?) said it best

A couple days away with "the guys" wasn't exactly what I expected.

The problem wasn't the company; I was accompanied this weekend by two guys who love sarcasm and sports, so suffice it to say I was comfortable. The problem also wasn't the activity; watching early-September college football in person is better than the crisp fall air, Thanksgiving and pumpkin spice lattes — combined.

The problem was that I missed my wife and son more than I ever imagined I would.

Don't get me wrong; it's truly important to get some "Just dad" time once in awhile. Otherwise my one or two favorite pastimes that bring me great joy would quickly fade into oblivion, not unlike Nick Cage's bank account or LaDainian Tomlinson's chances of being called the greatest running back ever.

That said, we had only been on the road for about four hours when the thought hit me: "What is [Crazy Toddler] doing right now?"

At that exact moment, there's a fairly good chance he was carefully spreading some sort of meat sauce all over his high chair. Or chucking his sippy cup at the TV. Or coloring the ottoman. Pick a frustrating option.

But I like to think he was sitting in his Elmo chair, chewing on a disgusting toddler cookie (does Mom the Shopper hate him or something?) and laughing his butt off at a completely unfunny moment in his "Peter the Rabbit" video.

I returned this afternoon from a junk-food-heavy, football-driven trip that lived up to its billing. Awaiting me were work, writing, bill-paying, a continuous cycle of chores and overall day-to-day doldrums.

I also came back to a supportive, beautiful wife and stud of a son.

It was a good day.

Taking my talents to this blog post

I'm officially taking my talents to ... this blog post.

I realize that's already a fairly played-out cliche, less than two months after LeBron James originated it. Now I hear variations of this line — from his announcement to sign with the NBA's Miami Heat — all the time. "I'm taking my talents to the living room, with a Dr. Pepper in hand." "I'm taking my cooking talents to the church potluck." "I'm taking my pick-up basketball talents to a junior-high 'B' team."

This isn't the first time a sports saying has taken the U.S. by storm. Here are some of the best:

—— "Bo Knows." Back when Bo Jackson was the absolute man — a hulking, blazing-fast running back/center fielder — he also was a white-hot pitchman. And his "Bo Knows (fill in the blank)" ad campaign was huge.

In the early '90s, I heard enough variations of this saying to last a lifetime. Luckily Bo doesn't seem to know fame in 2010.

—— "I'm a man! I'm 40!" Some think Oklahoma State head football coach Mike Gundy was admirably defending his player. Others say it was pure arrogance coming to the forefront.

But everyone agrees it was hilarious. The fact that Gundy raged on a reporter regarding a story about one of his quarterbacks isn't funny by itself. It's the way he said it that stands out — like a hungry man yelling at a particularly arrogant slab of steak that he can't afford.

Three years later, you can buy T-shirts, buttons and mugs making light of the rampage (http://shop.cafepress.com/i%27m-a-man-i%27m-40). And I'll buy one if I want to — because I'm a man! I'm 28!


—— "Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee." Muhammad Ali was part man, part quip machine. This saying in particular has developed a solid foothold in U.S. culture.

Even Niles from the TV show "Frasier" once uttered a version of this phrase — albeit far, far over my head. When this spindly twirp character pays you homage, you know you've hit it big. Well played, Ali.

—— "They ARE who we THOUGHT they were!!!!!" Arizona Cardinals head coach Dennis Green's tirade in 2006 is legendary. After outplaying the Chicago Bears in virtually every way, yet somehow losing, DG went nuts, understandably.

Then the nation went nuts with the line, uttering it in reference to everything from mothers-in-law to smug professors. It's a fun line nonetheless.

By the way, this blog is what you thought it was. I'm really sorry.