I’d been planning to launch this blog for a long time. A couple years ago I stumbled onto some mom blogs and was immediately taken by what the moms were writing. I lost several afternoons just poring over moms recounting both their triumphs and failures. It seemed like no matter the topic, they always seemed to be able to look at themselves with humor and grace.

Some were tracking the development of their babies, or the things they’d given up in the pursuit of motherly perfection. Others were laying out a chronicle of the forks in the parenting road that come up every day. Should I bribe my child with chocolate?  Do other moms get the urge to scream “Shut the fuck up!” to their kids? Shouldn’t I be grossed out by the plastic bag in my pocket that’s holding a poopy diaper? It was all relevant and yes, important. It inspired parental strength and empathy.

I came to see the blog as a magic stone, able to kill a pet store worth of birds all at once. It could be a place to just have some fun writing, but also be a handy cathartic outlet for when I need to shed some guilt for something stupid I did that’s going to result in my child growing up to be a stripper or heroin addict. It could also provide me with a place to write notes to each child about the things going on in their lives at that moment, the things they aspire to be, the things I aspire to be for them. Or on a more somber side, a place where I could give them life lessons far in advance of needing them, in case I’m not around to teach them myself (ala My Life).  What a great gift I could give to my kids, and it would last their lifetimes.

So I set off to create my dad blog. But what about my kids? They’re too young to decide for themselves if they want any attention that might come their way because of the blog. And frankly, there are enough bad people out there to provide toy chests full of heebeegeebies about putting my kids in the public eye. (Attention weirdos: please read this post. Second paragraph. Thank you.)

So I thought I’d ask a few of the prominent mom bloggers out there: Are you using fake names for yourself and your family? Are there things you’re doing to protect your home and family from weirdos? Do you worry about images of your kids being made available to everyone on the planet?

I sent emails to mom bloggers with these very questions. Nobody responded.

Then I realized - those sound like the questions of a weirdo! You know what else? Sending follow up emails that start “I’m really NOT a weirdo!” didn’t seem to help.

Left to my own devices I’ll almost always err on the side of caution when it comes to Agalia and DJ, and since nobody felt like talking to a weirdo I had to make the call myself. So if you’re wondering why the black rectangles over the eyes of everyone in every picture - now you know.  I’m just doing a little weirdo-proofing.

Thanks to Nutmeg today for pointing out something that was probably obvious if you’ve ever tried to comment on any of my posts: you can’t.

I don’t know the how or why - it doesn’t appear that it was a lack of expertise on the blog commenter’s part; more likely it was a lack of expertise on the part of the blogger.

Ever walked around town with the missing sock stuck to the back of your shirt?   That’s how I’m feeling today.  Kinda stupid.

Many apologies to those who tried to comment and many thanks to those who try again.

My sweet Agalia,

I am so enjoying this winter with you and your brother. You’re almost three and a half and while I don’t know where your gregarious tendencies came from, I’m looking forward to you getting older, because I think you’ll end up getting Mom and I invited to all the cool parties.

Lately I’ve been worried about exposing my shiny little diamond to the world. So polite and considerate, almost never would you do something to hurt another person’s feelings or make them feel uncomfortable. Seeing how some other kids and even adults are out in the world, I’ve been trying to plan how we can console and encourage you when your feelings get trampled by a world that can sometimes be unkind. You’ll be starting preschool very soon, outside of our watchful eye and warm embraces. Just for a few hours a few times a week, but enough time for a few mean kids to take the luster from my little jewel.

But I’m also seeing that along with being extroverted you’re persistent. We went to swimming class yesterday, and like the previous few classes as we walk down the stairs toward the pool, you clutching my hand and the handrail for stability, you greet everyone going up with a sing-songy “Good morning!” You also greet the people just below us on the stairs. And the people behind us, too. Going down those stairs takes a long time.

Most everyone returns the address and the enthusiasm, but should someone not return the greeting? They’ll keep receiving it, louder and slower (and closer) until they acknowledge your well wishes. You’re gonna get a “good morning” out of them if it takes all day.

Your determination and friendliness seem to win over just about everybody, and in doing so it helps me to believe that the world is filled with a lot more good people than a nervous father would otherwise think. Maybe I don’t need to worry so much about you.

Then again, maybe I do. My future flashed before my eyes a few days ago while I was playing with you. Going with a dad standard, gripping you by your middle I tossed you into the air and caught you. It’s always been a go-to move to cheer you up or make you laugh. You giggle nervously for the fraction of a second we aren’t touching, reaching as hard as you can for my arms to snatch you from your free fall. But not this time.

As soon as you were airborne, instead of reaching for me, you stretched your arms and legs straight out and craned your neck back to take in the view from above, like a bird in flight. Or a stunt woman. Instantly images flashed through my mind rapid-fire: Agalia on a dirt bike at the X Games, dirty blonde hair with bright pink highlights streaming like fire from under a bright green helmet as she soars over the crowd, barely touching the motorcycle, doing some crazy trick jump; Me at the hospital, hovering over a young woman in a sterile blue room lying in a bed with an arm and a leg in big, bleached-white casts, telling me about how it doesn’t really hurt that bad; Me answering the door at Thanksgiving, greeting an adult Agalia with a front tooth missing from a recent extreme sports mishap. “It’s a funny story, really” you tell me, as a bit of spit spurts from where your tooth used to be when you say the word ‘funny’.

Mom has a wild streak for roller coasters - she pines for the biggest drop or spin like an eagle trapped in a cage - if only she could be free, oh how she would soar. In. sane. I think you’ll be carrying the torch for that segment of our family DNA into the future.

Please be safe, baby girl. I fear your dental health depends on it.

“But Dad, Mom said I could bring some Little People with me to the store.”

“Did you just say butt?”

“I said but, not butt.”

“Did you just say butt again?”

Obie, when we first picked you up from the animal shelter you were a mess. Your age was estimated at 9-11 months, but nobody could be sure because you were found in the woods with no collar. In the middle of January.

You were so skinny when we brought you home, face drawn in, ribs sticking out. Thankfully, giving you lots of good food was an easy fix. But along with malnutrition, you must have also been abused as a pup. That repair wasn’t anywhere near as easy.

When we first brought you home I learned that dogs have inner eyelids. I learned this because you closed yours, no doubt in response to the stress of being in a new place where you didn’t know if a raised hand held a tasty treat or a painful smack for you. These closed inner eyelids made it impossible to play any games with you to help you feel like part of the family; balls would bounce off your head like you were blind and furniture made the house an unkind obstacle course. So fearful were you of a beating that we didn’t get to see what your belly looked like for the first six months you lived with us. You weren’t going to expose your soft side to anybody, so you’d lay down and even sleep with all four paws firmly planted on the floor.  And forget about kids. You barked with hair up on your back if you heard children on television, and were beside yourself with fear and anger if you heard actual kid voices in the neighborhood. Visitors to our front door got spitting snarls and snorts, no matter their size.

So you can imagine our worries when we first got pregnant. We loved you, but in the family pecking order the kids are on top. You had come a long way since we’d brought you home but if things didn’t improve a lot more, you were going back to the animal shelter. It’d kill us to do it, because we knew you’d probably never survive getting yanked from a place you called home for 4 years, where you learned to trust us enough to expose your belly, that treats weren’t something you had to lunge at (we weren’t going to tease you by pulling them away at the last second), only to go back to that cold place with hurricane fencing for walls that stunk of piss and fear. But we’d do it. We’d have to.

In trying to avoid that unthinkable outcome, we started training you. I taped baby crying noises on a mini-cassette recorder and stuck it in a toy stroller along with a baby doll. Every day I’d walk around the house with the recorder blasting, passing out treats, trying to numb you to the sound and show you that nothing bad happens when kids are around.

Today my friend, almost four years later, you made me proud. While mom took Agalia out for some preschool testing, DJ and I were looking at animal pictures on the web. You don’t get much exposure to DJ because you and Ajax are so big and he’s still so small. But DJ wanted to see you and Ajax today. Demanded it. So we had a guy party: You, me, DJ and Ajax.  DJ was pumping his fists and feet, squeaking and squawking with delight at being among you and Ajax.  From you there were no raised hackles, no snarls or bared teeth.  Then, as meekly but earnestly as you could, you crept ever closer to DJ on your elbows until you were just able to reach him with your mouth.

And you gave him a big kiss.  Nice work, bud.