Clip #1:

Loyal readers will recognize Dom’s old nemesis, The Little Gym Olympian, mercilessly shoulder-checking my little guy to the ground. To his credit, Dominic doesn’t miss a beat. He’s back up and kangaroo-hopping in mere seconds.

Clip #2:

I had some reservations about posting this one because it did end in tears. However in the end, the flawlessly executed WWE-style Frog Splash from the pint-sized princess in pink was simply too hysterical to withhold from you, my faithful readers. And yes, I went and hugged him as soon as I stopped taping. Apologies for the length of the clip. I was too lazy to edit it, but I think the build-up actually adds to the suspense.

Yep, that’s my little guy who comes flying in at about the :10 mark.  Just to set the stage, the goal was to sprint, land on the springboard and jump over the jump rope, a feat accomplished by the majority of the children. Dom, on the other hand, failed miserably, largely due to the unfortunate body shape that was passed down from his father. The men in my family are built for power, not for speed. . .or coordination.

I also love when Dom totally punks the teacher and denies his high five. What the teacher wanted to celebrate is still beyond my comprehension—I guess maybe the fact that Dom wasn’t concussed? And don’t get me started on the preschool Olympian with the perfect front roll in the forefront of the frame at about :24 seconds in. That little freak-of-nature showoff is intentionally trying to make Dom look even less coordinated by comparison.

In a way, Dom is kind of like the anti-Natalie Portman. He has the raw energy and emotion necessary to be the Black Swan, but lacks the grace required to be believable as the White Swan.

Well, I guess the world needs “mathletes” too.

Kerry and I were a little nervous to unleash Dominic on Riley. Dom is firmly entrenched in his “My Phase,” and while he’s starting to understand the concept of sharing, he still has some work to do before being released into the general population.

Just to be clear, we were nervous for Dominic, not Riley. Riley is six months older, two feet taller, and able to execute a technically-sound, UFC-style rear naked choke (good parenting, Dwayne). I put my money on Dom stealing a toy, being violently taken to the ground, and then tapping out within 37 seconds of Riley entering our front door. I could not have been more wrong.

At the Rainforest, Riley and Dom pointed out animals together and engaged in thoughtful dialogue like:

Riley: Dat monkey!

Dom: I see monkey too. See ‘im?

Riley: Yeah! Dat monkey!

Dom: See ‘im?

Repeat endless loop until forever

Back at our house Dom and Riley sat together and read through a pop-up book:

Dom: Dat elephant!

Riley: Yeah!

Dom: Dat giraffe!

Riley: Yeah!

And who would have thunk it? They also had a mutual appreciation for pizza and the movie Cars.

I was pretty sure that Dominic just made his first friend. However, my suspicions were confirmed after Riley got a time-out for some minor infraction or another. Here is the actual conversation I had with my son:

Dom: I wan go see Riley.

Me: Riley is in time-out, buddy. He’ll be out soon.

Dom (pointing towards Riley): I wan go dat way.

Me: I know buddy, but Riley is in time-out.

Dom ignores me, runs and grabs two plastic animals, then proceeds to sprint in between my legs

Me: Dom, come back here, Riley is in time-out.

Dom: (handing Riley a Hippopotamus): Daddy, I wan be in time-out too.

Two and a half year’s old, and my kid is already harboring a fugitive. I’m not looking forward to when Riley gets his driver’s license.

While my marriage may be a democracy, my relationship with my son is much closer to what I like to refer to as a “benign dictatorship.” As any good dictator knows, it’s important to suppress the will of the proletariat to prevent an uprising. In this, the first of my 37 part series, I will discuss three important ideological rules of any benign dictatorship:

Rule #1: Control the Supply of Goods and Services: A strong dictator will create demand for a particular good or service and then suppress the supply of said good or service to manipulate the behavior of the proletariat.

When my son first transitioned to a toddler bed, he quite literally got up 113 times before we finally got him to fall asleep. Fortunately, I am a shrewd dictator who studied economics and understands the power of creating unnecessary demand and then increasing the price by suppressing supply.

First, I went to the store and purchased a series of safe plastic toys, including a car, an airplane, and an elephant. Each night thereafter, these bedtime toys have been introduced to Dominic five to ten minutes before it’s time to get under the covers. He is allowed to play with them in bed while we read him poems and say his prayers. However, each time he gets out of bed for more than a three count, he loses a toy, thus suppressing the supply of bedtime toys and subsequently increasing the price of getting out of bed.

I suggest starting with five or six toys the first night to give yourself some additional leverage until your child learns the rules. It may sound a bit cruel, but remember that he gets to keep all of the cool new toys if he simply stays in bed.

Q: But what if he keeps taunting me by getting out of bed for two seconds at a time?

A: No problem. Parents can manipulate the space time continuum by counting faster when necessary to prove a point. Alternatively, you could just start at three on the second offense.

Q: What if you take away all of his toys, thus removing all incentive to stay in bed

A: If you do it right, it’ll never happen. Make sure the toys are interesting and never give in. If you take a toy and he remains out of bed, simply start a new three-count and move on to the next toy. Show no emotion, except a steel resolve.

If this method doesn’t work for you, you’re probably failing to follow the next law of all successful benign dictatorships:

Rule #2: Do Not Negotiate with Terrorists: A strong dictator will greet all acts of terrorism against the ruling party with swift and severe justice, resorting to a scorched earth policy if necessary.

My son is adorable, but he is not rational, and he completely lacks the ability to delay gratification. He will use any means necessary to get what he wants now. Negotiation with a toddler terrorist, even if occasionally “successful,” only diminishes a dictator’s power. If your toddler could think rationally, it would go something like this:

“I want to watch another Little Einsteins, but daddy just turned off the TV and said it’s time to eat dinner. I’m probably SOL when it comes to TV, but I’ll open this round of negotiations by whining and pretending I have no bones and see what counteroffer daddy puts on the table.”

Even if you successfully negotiate an end to the tantrum, you have just unknowingly reinforced the simple fact that the whining/jelly leg routine establishes a seat at the table. He now knows that while he might not get more TV, he can certainly squeeze something out of you.

Instead, use your three-count again. If you get to three, he gets a timeout—every time. As always, be consistent and don’t show any emotion, no matter how frustrated you may be. Don’t say a word that isn’t a number between one and three. If you’re at a store, timeout can be the car. Get creative. If you’re under a time constraint, restricting the supply of a favorite set of toys can serve as a stand-in for the timeout. As I said above, I’ve found that you must create demand for more than one toy so he always has something to lose.

Rule #3: Remember the “Benign” in Benign Dictatorship: When the proletariat follows the rules of the benign dictator, he should be rewarded with additional foodstuffs and freedom. Even when revolting, the proletariat should be treated with respect.

Always be fair. Always be consistent, and always follow through on promises. Good behavior should be rewarded, whether it’s with a gift or simple praise. When things aren’t going so smoothly, always remember that you’re the adult. You should have more control over your emotions than your toddler.

Note: minus the hilarious metaphor, the methods to curb “stop behavior” described above are slight variations on those described in the book, 1-2-3 Magic. The book also gives some good advice for promoting “start behaviors.”

So for everybody I work with who reads this blog (read: the people who have the power to fire me), I’d like to apologize up front for the rather vulgar punch-line of this, my first post of 2010. I ask for mercy only on the basis that this is a true story and simply too funny and embarrassing not to share with perfect strangers on the interwebs.

Before Christmas, Steve’s wife wrote about how their son, Sam, was telling everyone who would listen that he wanted a “big Woody” for Christmas. Obviously he meant a Woody doll from the movie Toy Story, but c’mon, that’s some funny stuff. (Sorry Steve, I meant to say “a Woody Action Figure.”) Kerry and I had an equally embarrassing experience on our last trip to Home Depot.

We were desperately trying to find a couple of light bulbs that would fit into our ancient bathroom light fixture, while simultaneously preventing Dominic from picking up anything too dangerous. He was inexplicably all-consumed by a rather banal calk display in the center of the aisle (see post’s title). The following is the actual transcript of the conversation that followed:

Dom (holding up two tubes of calk): “Daddy what this?”

Me (absentmindedly): “That’s calk, Buddy”

Dom runs up to a benign-looking older gentleman looking at flood lights

Dom (now shouting excitedly): “I have two calks!”

Older gentleman laughs uncontrollably, coughs violently, and gasps for breath. Kerry’s face turns beet red.

Me (shaking my head): Indeed you do, Buddy, indeed you do.

Dom didn’t get to go trick-or-treating yesterday. He had a pretty high fever and the buzzkill doctor said to keep him inside. We did as we were told. Does that make us good parents or bad parents?

Either way, Kerry and I were really sad for our little guy. We had spent the majority of the week teaching him to say “trick or treat” and his hotdog costume was about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen (and yes, I repeatedly made him say “weiner”). Poor little guy. While he couldn’t go outside, we did let him trick or treat from room to room with Mommy and Daddy, and let me tell you, he got some killer candy. Just for clarification, I mean “killer” as in “name brand sugar-fix” and not “killer” as in “check the tootsie rolls for HIV needles.”

He wasn’t doing much better this morning, and when Dom isn’t feeling well, Dom gets whatever he wants from his pushover parents. Today, “whatever he wants” was watching Disney’s Cars on repeat. I now officially know the numbers of Lightning McQueen, Chick Hicks, and The King (95, 86, 43, respectively, in case you were wondering).

I hate it when Dom is miserable. Even though I’d take his illness away if it was possible, I will admit that I do enjoy it when he just wants to lay on me and watch movies all day. It’s hard to slow him down long enough for a good squeeze when his energy bar is at full capacity. Unfortunately, he won’t be nearly as compassionate in three days when he feels fantastic and I’m showing the first symptoms of whatever nasty little virus he gave me by coughing in my mouth seven times.

“You” 

Dom has a fun new game where he randomly shouts out animal names and then humiliates me by making me act them out for his own twisted amusement. (Just for the record, what the hell sound does a giraffe make? It’s keeping me up at night.) Anyway, I try to entice Dominic into acting out his favorite animals instead, because it’s infinitely cuter than a grown-ass man scratching his armpits and making monkey noises. Here is the actual transcript from a conversation I had with my son, proving that the intricacies of the English language are difficult to master:

Dom (pointing at me): Daddy why-in!

Me: Daddy was just the monkey, you be the lion

Dom: me why-in

Me: Yeah buddy, you be the lion. What’s a lion say?

Dom: no, me why-in!

Me: Wait, do you want me to be the lion?

Dom: O-kaaaay!

Me (doing an Oscar caliber lion impression): Roooooar!

Dom (while clapping his hands with delight at my genius): you sick-in. Cyuck-cyuck-cyuck

Me (flapping my arms like an ass-hat): I’m a chicken. Cluck cluck cluck cluck

Dom: no, you sick-in. Cyuck-cyuck-cyuck-cyuck

Me: yeah, I’m a chicken.

Dom (getting frustrated): no you sick-in! Cyuck-Cyuck-Cyuck

Me (the light bulb flips on in my brain and I run to get a photo album. I point to a picture of Dominic): Hey buddy, who is this?

Dom: You.

I think I finally figured out where Abbott and Costello got their inspiration. . .

Both hands where I can see them, mister

Well, I guess someone has to post after Steve, and it’s my turn. Since there is no appropriate way to follow up Jack’s first birthday, I have decided to write about the absolute least appropriate thing I can muster. If you haven’t watched Jack’s video, please do, and save my trite, failed attempt at humor for another day. Seriously.

Without further ado:

My son is infatuated with his junk. Oh, it was cute at first. Kerry and I had a ball deciding what to name it. We gave “ween” and “peen” trial runs, but Dom always seemed very partial to “dingle.” Whatever the latest moniker may be, he quite simply can’t get enough of it.

Last night he asked to use the potty, but then refused to squeeze out a single solitary drop. I’m fairly certain he just wanted to get his diaper off, and I unwittingly granted him an all-access, back stage pass to his funk zone. And wow, does the boy have no shame. He just giggled and laughed and smiled and jammed away. If I’m being honest, the eye-contact was a little creepy.

After we put him to bed, Kerry came into the living room and asked if I thought it was unusual. She then realized that we had been apart for literally 30 seconds and I was already laying on the couch with my hand down my pants.

Sensing that for the first time my physiology gave me some unique insight into the mind of our two-year old, I explained to her that this is the beginning of a long journey, a quest if you will, and that all men must travel this road alone. I assured her that it’s completely normal, and that the best advice is to do absolutely nothing about it, unless of course, he starts exploring his “special purpose” in public.

Since Mark has already firmly established Yahoo! Answers as the absolute authority on everything ever, check this out if you’re still not convinced. Whatever you do, please promise to never label self-exploration as “bad” or reprimand your little boy for exploring his own body (it is his, after all).

I thought Friday was the night. Conditions were perfect. Dom picked his Elmo Potty Time Video to watch before bed, Kerry watched him chug two cups of water before I got home from work, and I was feeling lucky. Conditions were perfect.

Right as Elmo’s dad was having a little pee-pee party for Elmo, Kerry unveiled Dom’s potty in all its glory, to which he cheered and yelled “potty, potty, peeeeee, poopoo.” I removed his diaper and prepared to pounce like a jaguar at the first sign of tinkle. Tonight was the night. Conditions were perfect.

Here’s a quick summary of the rest of Dom’s evening:   

“No-pants, No problem” dance party during the “Potty Time Song”

Taint rubbing every square inch of the area rug

New acquaintance with genitals

A single solitary drop of urine in the potty