March 26, 2013 at 12:53 pm , by Nick Shell

2 years, 4 months.

Dear Jack,

There are several token father-son images that I bet most people are familiar with. One that comes to my mind is of a dad throwing his child high into the air and catching them, as the giggling child delights in the thrill.

Can you believe that’s something I’ve never done to you? I need to consider that.

But there is another stock image of fatherhood thatis a reality for the two of us: you riding my back like I’m your horsie.

I authentically enjoy it. I actually like neighing. I like the uncertainty of not knowing whether you are going to be able to hold on tightly enough to hang on or not.

Sometimes you fall off onto the carpet, then laugh because you didn’t get hurt. I like being your unpredictable beast.

Something else potentially dangerous I do with you is to let you sit in an empty diaper box and pretend you’re driving a Jeep Wrangler up the stairs.

Of course, I’m holding the box myself and pushing you the whole way up.

You scream with excitement once we get to the top, knowing that I’m about to slowly guide you back downstairs on a bumpy ride while acting like I’ve lost control of you and the box. (It looks even more dangerous than it sounds; which is why I’m not showing you a picture of that now.)

But before I do that, I push your “Jeep” down the dark hallway, into your even darker bedroom, making lion noises. You act like there’s a lion in your bedroom as I drive you next to your play tent. At that point, I grab the giant bolster pillow inside of it and pretend you’re being eaten by the lion… all the dark!

This is what you crave from me. Quality time with Daddy typically means I put you in a position where you’re not necessarily sure whether you should legitimately be scared as we play together.

When Mommy’s out buying groceries on Saturday mornings and you and I are playing together in the living room, I pretend to be a giant hissing possum as I slowly creep up on you across the floor. Then you claim safe haven on the couch.

You squeal with joy; yet once I get right up to you, this is what say:

“Daddy, you hold me?”

Then I instantly transform back into your Daddy, from a giant hissing possum.

You and I play scary and rough together. If you’re riding a horse with me, then I am the horse.

If you’re riding a horse with Mommy, it means she’s safely guiding you on a trained horse walking in circles.

You get the best of both worlds.

Love,

Daddy

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