December 6, 2013 at 11:08 pm , by Nick Shell

3 years.

Dear Jack,

I remember those sort of strange nights as a kid when my dad was in charge of providing me grub and conversation. But it was a nice change, too.

Every once in a while, like tonight, there is that rare occasion where it’s just you and me for dinner time.

What’s for dinner? Ah, leftover Annie’s Mac and Cheese in the fridge, which you insist on eating on cold- and of course, I don’t argue.

Applesauce too. Even half of an unfinished English muffin pizza that Mommy made you from… a few (?) days ago.

Classy meal.

No table required. We both just dined on leftovers from the fridge, at the bar. You quickly resorted to losing the spoon and just eating with your hands.

I was impressed with your barbaric ways.

Lucky for you, there happened to be a chocolate covered cream treat that Mommy had brought home from work.

You even got dessert! Score!

But yes, the conversation during “Daddy does dinner” nights is… sort of caveman.

All I know is, there is silence interupted by grunts. Not to mention, no real eye contact. What would have been at least a 25 minute meal had Mommy been there, it gets edited down to no more than 8 minutes when Daddy’s hosting dinner.

I think part of the reason is because we have to save our energy for our “post dinner scuffle.”

There’s the part where we can go in the hallway and I roll Mommy’s exercise ball at you like you’re Indiana Jones. And where Daddy becomes a ridable bull.

And your favorite, where you grab a random kitchen utensil and use it to “chomp Daddy’s pasta hair” while riding on my shoulders.

So, yeah. Dinner time’s a bit different than Daddy, instead of Mommy. As much fun as we do have together for dinner, I still know you’d rather Mommy to be in charge of dinner instead.

That’s cool.

I can still roll her exercise ball at you anyway.

Love,

Daddy

November 18, 2013 at 9:27 pm , by Nick Shell

3 years.

Dear Jack,

Your 3rd birthday, this past Saturday, marked the first birthday of yours where you’ve been old enough to truly decide for yourself what you wanted to buy with a gift card.

And you instantly knew what you wanted to buy: a remote control truck.

The proud smile on your face in this picture says it all.

As Mommy and I took our time looking for Christmas gifts for your cousin Calla, you so patiently (!) followed us around; never saying a word or begging to leave.

Instead, you toted around that remote control monster truck; the box was as nearly as big as you are.

You were so happy to be getting a “big boy toy.”

Honestly, I was a bit surprised you wanted such a complicated toy.

Or maybe you actually are old enough to want a remote control toy?

Once we got home, we wasted no time whatsoever tearing the box apart.

While you definitely wanted me to teach you right away how to use the remote control to make it go, about ten minutes later you were on the ground, pushing the thing across the carpet.

Sure, it was fun for you getting to drive your new remote control monster truck across your parking lot of Hot Wheels, but I suppose you missed the hands on experience of pushing a toy and making the motor sounds yourself.

The most fun part of it for me was hiding the remote control behind my back while you played with your truck on the carpet, then making it suddenly drive away from you, then having it come back charging at you.

I cracked up at your response the first time I did that:

“Daddy, it moves by itself!”

Your innocent answer made me so happy. Plus, I loved helping you suspend your belief that this toy truck really does have a mind of its own.

The remote control, as far as you’re concerned, is optional.

Love,