October 1, 2013 at 11:59 pm , by Nick Shell

2 years, 10 months.

Dear Jack,

A few weeks ago when you began your obsession with trying to find a pink Hummer on the way to school, I finally had to break the news to you as softly as I could:

“You don’t see a lot of pink Hummers on the road, Jack. You really don’t see a lot of pink cars at all, really.”

Since that day, you have been using my phrase “you don’t see a lot of” to refer to any possibly peculiar or slightly rare vehicles you see as we drive around Nashville.

“A blue dump truck!” You paused for two seconds, then continued, as if recovering from deep thought:

“You don’t see a lot of blue dump trucks.”

This weekend I helped you make the poor man’s version of a Thomas the Train table by connecting all your plastic Take-N-Play tracks and playsets across our coffee table and couch.

You’ve got this new Hot Wheels van that serves as, I assume, a post-Rapture, pre-Apocalypse survival vehicle.

The entire back of the van is enclosed in what I think is supposed to be bulletproof glass, containing inside a tiny bed, a giant computer, and what appear to be giant tanks of oxygen.

As you considered letting the van cross the bridge from the table to the couch, alongside my Gremlin from the 1980s, you proclaimed, “You don’t see a lot of weird orange vans.”

The reason this story is funny to me is because when you say “you don’t see a lot of” it makes me think of you as a little adult.

That just doesn’t sound like a phrase a nearly 3 year-old goes around saying.

(However, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that using unusual, adult-sounding phrases is actually pretty typical of kids your age.)

I’ve heard that raising an “only child” is like raising a little adult.

I could see that…

 

Love,

Daddy

 

September 19, 2013 at 10:04 pm , by Nick Shell

2 years, 10 months.

Dear Jack,

Recently Mommy and I started going to a new Sunday School class, which mainly consists of other parents with young kids.

One young wife, who is very pregnant with her first child, learned that I daily document my experiences of parenthood with you, here on The Dadabase.

She responded, laughing, “Oh, well I guess that means we will be coming to you for parenting advice!”

I laughed with her, but seconds later, thought to myself, “Actually, I don’t really give advice. I simply just write about each baby step as well as every major milestone that I observe as a parent. But I don’t actually give advice, day to day. Not really.”

It’s been a process, for me, though.

I remember a couple of years ago, when I talked about and endorsed the “cry it out method” on a weekly basis.

By default, the cry it out method was right for our family, but it obviously isn’t for everyone.

I think it used to sort of matter to me that in my mind, my way was right, and the other ways were wrong.

Another example was how I used to be, in essense, anti-attachment parenting.

These days, I don’t want be known for what I am against, but instead, for what I do believe in.

This moment might be me trying to process that concept.

It’s amazing how little “being right” matters to me anymore. Maybe it’s because I’ve learned that for the most part, “being right” is a relative thing.

Back in 2011, I cared more about trying to convince people of stuff.

Not anymore. These days I just narrate my life and let the free market of freethinkers take its course.

And so it shall go for all other future events in your life:

I will talk about what’s going on, covering which personal decisions and lifestyle choices I encounter as a parent, but I don’t think there is any part of me that cares about converting anybody anymore, to whatever viewpoint I have.

Yet still, I am very passionate about what I talk about; it’s just that I only really talk about what I am passionate about.

It’s actually funny to me now, considering I used to care about “being right” in parenting.

The way I see it now, is that I don’t give parenting advice, I just simply go through new phases in my life, consisting of both baby steps and major milestones. If my perspective and narration accidentally serves as advice, well… then I will consider myself accidentally honored.

 

Love,

Daddy

August 4, 2013 at 12:19 am , by Nick Shell

2 years, 8 month.

Dear Jack,

At one point last week on our family vacation in California, I ended up becoming the official “adult in charge of all the kids” for about an hour.

It just so happened that you and your cousins discovered the random packs of balloons sitting on a shelf in the garage… along with the water hose behind the house.

Who was I to deny your rights to create and destroy water balloons?

My motto is that “it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than it is for permission.”

I wasn’t sure if Grandma, or any of the other parents of your cousins, would have a problem with it, but I took my chances.

Turns out, Grandma (Mommy’s Mommy) later told me that’s why those balloons were there- to make water balloons.

Look at this picture of you holding one. It’s hilarious, ridiculous, and pretty awesome, actually.

You look like an Austrian weight lifter.

I started out by making you legitimate sized water balloons, but I could tell you wanted more of a challenge.

So I started filling them up so full of water that you could barely carry them, because you were so inspired to keep them from dropping and bursting, that it become like a competition to you.

Or at least good ole fashioned manual labor.

And it wasn’t just the water balloons.

You took great pride each day in washing your Thomas the Train tricycle.

I mean… your monster truck.

If I had to calculate the percentage of time you spent actually riding it versus how much time you spent giving it a wash, I would say 30% riding versus 70% washing.

So that means the majority of the time you were “playing” with your tricycle, you were technically working instead.

When it comes to playtime, you don’t play around.

Literally.

 

Love,

Daddy

 

 

 

July 23, 2013 at 2:33 pm , by Nick Shell

2 years, 8 months.

Dear Jack,

Something I am really enjoying about our vacation this year is that you have older cousins here to babysit and entertain (and “dote” on) you the entire time.

Granted, that doesn’t mean I have noresponsibilities. I’m still helping with meals, baths, and bedtime. But for the most part, I sort of feel like I’m actually on vacation a little bit more than usual.

You’re having plenty of fun and it’s okay that I have more of passive role this week.

And that takes me back to a question I asked earlier this month in “Still, Though, I Think I’d Be Happy With Just One Child.”

Here’s an excerpt:

“My reasons for wanting another child, when I sporadically do, are never sincere enough or truly legitimate… If we’re going to grow our family, I want it to be ‘for the right reasons,’ and I’m not even sure what they are anyway.”

So since I wasn’t sure, I asked my friends on Facebook, “What are the “right reasons” for having another child?… What are the wrong reasons?”

My friend Alissa summed it up perfectly, in my opinion: “The right reasons are if you want another child. The wrong are if other people tell you you should.”

On top of that, my friend Rhonda gave me an answer I related to 100% at this point in my life:

“Someone asked me this the other day, and when I got honest it just came down to not wanting the responsibility & stress of more children. Selfish maybe, but true. No plans right now to have any more.”

I love her simple honesty.

It’s true for me, personally. Because it’s not that I can’t handle the responsibility and stress of a child. Instead, I am saying that the responsibility and stress of another child, in addition to one already, is enough of a reason to justify not having another child.

Others may disagree, but I don’t see anything selfish about admitting that.

I don’t see it as selfish for me to feel, think, and say out loud that you make our family complete and that if it’s up to me, at this point, I would choose not to take on more responsibility and stress like that. Again, that could change.

Like clockwork, Mommy could find out we’re having another baby around your 4th birthday. That seems to be the ironic plot line for families of three who plan to remain families of three, at least.

I guess we’ll see, kid.

 

Love,

Daddy