March 23, 2013 at 9:59 pm , by Nick Shell

2 years, 4 months.

Dear Jack,

Last Friday as I was just about to walk you out the front door of your daycare to take you to the park during my lunch break, you gave me a courteous announcement:

“I pooped.”

That’s good, because I don’t keep a separate diaper bag for you in my car. So I walked you back to your teacher, Ms. Heather, to have her change your diaper before we left on our excursion.

She gladly did, as she always seems so happy to do her job. But I admit, I felt like I wanted to tip her.

I never carry any cash on me anyway, but it just made me think:

Of all the annoying things I’ve ever felt pressured or obligated to tip…

like the bathroom attendant at fancy places I never go to anymore…

or the barista who I no longer buy coffee from because it seems even more insane to pay an extra 70 cents to get soy in my already nearly 5 dollar drink now that I’m a vegan…

it just seems that if anyone really deserves a tip, it would be anyone other than a family member who changes your diaper.

As I signed the bill as we left the ER earlier this week, I had to stop myself from doing the math to figure out what the tip was supposed to be. It’s just that the people in the emergency room who helped ensure your life was not in danger did a deed worth tipping for.

Changing your diaper and saving your life: Those are things that wouldn’t make me feel awkward, annoyed, or obligated to tip.

As for the bellhop… meh.

Love,

Daddy

March 23, 2013 at 9:06 pm , by Nick Shell

2 years, 4 months.

Dear Jack,

My favorite song on Country music radio right now is one about a man whose brother was killed in the war and who drives around his brother’s pick-up truck as a form of therapy.

You’ve heard Mommy and I sing “I Drive Your Truck” by Lee Brice enough times that you started singing it too.

However, I feel that your version of the song misses the sentimental and emotional aspect that songwriters Jessi Alexander, Connie Harrington, and Jimmy Yeary intended.

Your version is more of a lighthearted comedy:

“I drive you truck… it was accident!”

Whether you unintentionally rewrote the lyrics on the spot or whether you honestly thought those were the words, I can’t not laugh when you sing it.

The funniest part about it is how you assume you did something wrong, by mistake.

I picture you beboppin’ around a parking lot, stepping in to someone else’s truck, and driving to the other side of town before realizing… you have the wrong truck! And I picture all of this happening with you being your current age and height.

As your vocabulary is expanding, you are learning new words to fill in the blanks when you don’t know what the right words are. This story is a great example of that.

One phase you’ve recently picked up is, “Are you kidding me?”

You haven’t quite got the expression of it down, though. When you say it, it’s more monotone, but then you laugh at yourself for saying something you know will make Mommy and me laugh, even if you don’t know why we think it’s funny.

I see how you are figuring out in your head how to be a comedian. Strangely, one of your first cases involves a very good, but not funny, Country song.

Love,

Daddy

March 19, 2013 at 9:40 pm , by Nick Shell

2 years, 4 months.

*Warning: Contains oversharenting.

Dear Jack,

My style of bathing you, compared to Mommy’s, is much more observational than it is hands-on. I basically just let you play for 15 minutes, then I hurry up and scrub you down at the very end.

I love watching “The Jack Show.” So entertaining.

Anything and everything becomes a toy. Like a cup. Or a spoon.

Last week you grabbed a cup, and then immediately afterwards, a spoon, to capture your… well, I’ll just quote you:

“It’s my tummy!”

You were so proud of yourself for “catching” what you thought was simply an extension of your stomach.

I guess, technically, or actually, it is.

Mommy and I have talked about it several times, but we still haven’t been able to figure out what words to teach you for that, or those.

Nothing seems right. Saying the actual word feels too… official. Saying a nickname feels too… ridiculous. It’s too soon, I think.

We are in that interesting limbo state where it doesn’t come up enough in daily conversation for you to really need to know what to call it, or them.. Really, that bath last week was the first and only time I’ve ever heard you recognize what’s underneath your diaper.

Granted, you watch me “go potty” nearly everyday; running over to catch a front-row seat for the action. So maybe you just assume that’s what people’s tummies look like? Or at least boys’ tummies.

Until further notice, it’s your tummy.

Love,

Daddy

March 13, 2013 at 10:29 pm , by Nick Shell

2 years, 3 months.

Dear Jack,

Sometimes you are just hilarious. What makes it even funnier is when you don’t even know how funny you are being.

Last month in “Getting Dressed? Ain’t Nobody Got Time For That!” I explained how leaving the house in the morning isn’t always so easy, especially when you’re in the mood to just go to daycare in pajamas.

Well, you and I were recently having one of those kind of mornings…

You were physically struggling so hard with me as I tried to put on your pants, it reminded me of a WWE wrestling match. You were so upset with me you were crying and throwing a classic tantrum.

I’ve learned by now not to let myself get emotionally caught up in something like this: I realized you and I were not having a rational discussion or disagreement. Instead, it was very irrational.

You had to get dressed, so I continued to calmly communicate that to you as I pulled you shirt over your head.

Then, in your angst, you accidentally hit my shin pretty hard.

I didn’t react at all, because again, I wasn’t emotionally invested in our struggle- I just knew it almost time for us to leave the house and you still were not fully dressed.

The look on my face surely portrayed one confused dad as you tromped on over to the corner of the living room, putting yourself in time-out. You continued crying loud enough to wake our neighbors, stomping your feet and waving your arms in protest.

Yet… you were the one to place yourself in the time-out corner. I never said a word or even gave you my “mad dad” look.

I was too confused to laugh at that moment, so I used that opportunity to pack my lunch.

Then, as I turned my back to make my way to the refrigerator, I saw you strangely moving sideways like Boom Boom from Super Mario Bros. 3, still crying and flailing around, trying to escape from your self-imposed time-out session.

So I let you.

It was a peaceful and sophisticated car ride that morning. We talked about monster trucks and Cheerios, like nothing ever happened.

Love,

Daddy