BumbleDad

Weaponized diaper scent.

That’s what’s happening in our nursery right now.  (By the way, when does it stop being a “nursery” and just become a “bedroom?”)

I’ve talked before about the inner workings of the noble Diaper Genie, but that was back when Daphne’s poops lacked the spiciness they’ve achieved these days.  And this heady aroma of very nearly digested human/baby food combo-meals has infested the pores of the Diaper Genie, and turned it into a cylindrical abomination.

I smell of pureed squash and death.

I burned some Nag Champa up there earlier this week in an attempt to calm the stink, but it was overpowered within minutes.  And in the end it just smelled like someone pooped on a head shop.

Conventional weapons are useless against it.

So we’ve given up, and yesterday Jen replaced the old Diaper Genie with a brand new one.

The side effect of this, was that she had to take Daphne to Toys-R-Us.  And, an hour later, here they are headed for the cash register.

This is what’s known as, “Toddler Winning.” 

Now the question becomes, what to do with the old one?  I’ve no idea how to responsibly dispose of that thing…

Entomb it in Yucca Mountain, I guess.

j.s.

Radio silence, broken.

Hi there, everyone.  Sorry about the absence.

I’ve actually been on a mini-vacation.  From work.  From blogging.  From Houston.  From just about everything except hanging out with my wife, while she’s still on her summer break, and with my daughter, whose entire life is like a summer break.

First, most of you probably didn’t see Friday’s post because I uploaded it from the road and Facebook is problematic when switching between accounts.
So HERE IT IS.

Now, as I mentioned there, we road-tripped to Seguin last weekend for a little river time with Daphne.  And I know you’re all really just here for the pictures, so here they go:

First, there was some pool time which, as you’ll see, Daphne absolutely hated.

Here she is being tortured by the sprinkling palm tree.

Behold, the anguish.

Brutal.

Shortly after this video, where you can see her putting together the causative relationship between rapid movement and water displacement, she discovered that she could splash us.

This is the face one makes when you first learn what, “SPLASH GRANDMA!” means.

Then, after sufficient finger prunage time, we toweled her off…

And moved her down to the swing…

Where she promptly fell asleep for about 2 hours, right there in the swing.

These pictures pretty much constitute the entire trip for us.  The weekend was spent in one of those three spots, and everyone seemed to have a good time.

Jib too.

The drive home, however, was another story.  Daphne slept through the first hour of the trip, then awoke with a vengeance and proceeded to wail the rest of the way to our house.

This.  For an entire hour…

All in all, a fun trip.  And we even squeezed in a minor amount of relaxing.  That is, when we weren’t chasing a little girl around.

See you tomorrow.

j.s.

Jen and I have been watching “Stranger Things” lately, and I’ll tell you this:  it’s every bit as awesome as you might’ve heard.

You couldn’t call what we’re doing “binge watching” exactly, since it’s taken us over a week to get to the season finale.  It’s more like, “an episode or two during the few hours that we can stay awake after our toddler goes to sleep-watching.”

If you’re over the age of 30, the nostalgia alone in the show makes it worth the watch.  (It takes place in 1983.)  And the opening credits are a fantastic homage to the horror films of that era, and they set the tone perfectly.

Again, we do still have the season finale left to watch, so it’s possible that I’ll hate how the story ends.  But so far?  So far it’s been really damn good.

That said, I haven’t been all that impressed with Winona Ryder’s performance.  I realize her character is supposed to be an anxiety-ridden mom in the days before Xanax blunted those edges, but she’s wayyy over the top.
I also keep expecting her to morph into Lelaina Pierce and start pumping gas for strangers with her dad’s fuel card, but that’s probably just me.

“What time does Hey That’s My Bike! go on again?!?”

Also Matthew Modine seems like he’s either been replaced by Modinebot-2000, or he only showed up to shoot this thing for the paycheck.  The guy looks completely disinterested in his character, and pretty much mails in the performance.

“They’ll add the emotion in post.”

Conversely, David Harbour has been absolutely brilliant.  He brought serious depth and range to what could’ve been a totally flat caricature of “the town sheriff.”   I’m talking Jodie Foster’s Clarice Starling levels here…  Well, almost.

That and the guy has a friggin’ epic beard.

Anyway, for those of you with Netflix it’s totally worth watching.

But definitely, definitely send your kids to bed first.

j.s.

Now I realize that playing in the grass is a God-given right for all suburban American kids.

It’s one of the trade-offs for living in a cultureless, mini-mall strewn, conformity factory.  And it’s a good one.  Grass is awesome.

But.
Um…
You see…

Well, I have this spider thing.

And I’ve found that I cannot put Daphne down in the grass without wondering what kinds of eight-legged monstrosities are lying in wait under that green canopy, ready to puncture her exposed baby skin with their fangs and inject deadly neurotoxins into her little body.

“Yess…yesss….  Bring the child  to usssss.”

I hate them.  A lot.  In the face.

They didn’t used to bother me.  But one winter of living in a basement in Utah, land of the “Hobo Spider” (a.k.a. the “Aggressive House Spider”), cured me of my tolerance for arachnid coexistence.

Oh, you don’t know of the hobo spider?  Lucky you.

Essentially, they’re brown recluses on bath salts.  Lacking the desire to lurk that’s inherent in most spiders, they instead enjoy charging right at you, fangs bared, and chittering a maniacal spider laugh as you run screaming in the opposite direction.  They’re psychotic.  And they climbed in through my windows at night when it got too cold.

It was horrifying.  And clearly traumatic.

So now, the thought of spiders being anywhere near my daughter tends to trigger me a little bit.

“Wait, there’s what?”

“In the grass?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Stop being silly.”

 “Hey!  You spiders!  Quit scaring my daddy!”

j.s.