Filthiest baby alive

My wife and I recently met friends and their progeny at the Discover Mills mall near our home. Because we live in a suburban Mecca there are actually two malls near us, Discover Mills and Mall of Georgia. I usually take my daughter to Mall of Georgia because it's kids' area has a playhouse complete with slide, comfy benches and a plethora of children's books filed away in mahogany bookshelves. The Discover Mills play area has a few giant concrete bugs to play on and the occasional hypodermic needle.

Just teasing. It was probably just used for knitting.

Anyway, Discover Mills has a Lego store and an As Seen on TV store. Now do you see why we went there? Regardless, it's not the kids' play area I want to talk about; it's the food court surrounding it. Specifically I want to talk about the wonderful parents we saw and compare them to the bad parents we are.

First let me alibi and say I never eat fast food. Never. I gave it up years ago after I found it disgustingly necessary to limit my drive-through meals to only one in a twenty-four hour period. Shouting into the clown once a day is gross enough. Any more than that and a person becomes some weird Isle of Dr. Moreau creature that's half human and half polyunsaturated blubber. That being said, I promptly went up to the fry gal at Burger King and ordered a Double Cheese combo of my own volition. I ate it.

All.

And a Hershey chocolate pie. It had been years and I thought what the hell? What's the worst that can happen? I get cancer? Ha! I laugh in the face of cancer. Ha ha! Ha hahaha cough cough wheeze. Moving on.

I not only ate most of the fries myself, I decided to share some of them along with the burger with my one-year-old daughter. Did my wife get any? No. She was too busy scarfing down Sbarro's pizza. We like to pretend pizza, regardless of its origin, isn't fast food. Same goes for fried chicken.

Quit making fun. You're not the boss of us.

Our daughter was happily sitting in a grungy highchair to which we hadn't even cared to give a precursory wipedown with a moist towelette. Furthermore, while we do own a Baby Easy Clean Shopper, it looks so good up in Meryl's closet that we can't bare to bring it down and use it. When my kid licks the edge of the communal food court table, I just avert my eyes and bury my face in two all-beef patties.

Across from us is this similarly aged couple with their two boys, both of whom are running around the lead-based play area in their bare feet. No big deal. The kids are probably up on their tetnus shots. I'm just telling you so you get an idea of the local color.

Anyway, while my family is all devouring whatever badness is in front of us, this neighboring husband and wife team spend a good five minutes scrubbing everything around them with baby wipes. He cleans the top of the table. She wipes the edges of the table. He cleans the seat of the highchair. She washes the arms of the highchair. They even clean their own chairs, including the backs I didn't see what they all ate, but the youngest member of the family got to snack on YoBaby brand yoghurt.

How do you spell that anyway? I don't feel like looking it up. Is it yoghurt? Yogurt? Yoh Gert! Idunno.

My question is this: If you're such a germphobe, why are you even taking your kids to the food court at a local mall to eat? And then more importantly, when you get out the wipes and hand sanitizer are you really wiping said germs away? Or are you just wiping them around?

That's almost as bad as guys who after using the restroom hold the door handle with a paper towel and then drop the paper towel on the floor. As if the bathroom door handle is the only thing in whatever venue you happen to find yourself that has germs on it. And while I'm on the topic, guys who meticulously wash their hands after taking a leak in a public bathroom are all just giving the rest of us a bad name. Unless you routinely urinate on your hands, this is superfluous washing.

Do you wash your hands after shaking hands with someone else? After picking up an item someone hands you? After you scratch your head do you wash your hand? Why does touching the fifth appendage merit extra hygienic aftermath? I've never understood the logic in that. Frankly, I don't think there is any.

Our table received no scrubdown, and my daughter probably had schmutz on her moosh from the breakfast she ate earlier in the morning. She's still alive. But like I said, we're bad parents that way. Do not replicate.

Random musings from an equally random guy

Be forewarned that I have no rhyme or reason to what I am about to say. This evening's entry will likely be a list of short blurbs about the life and times of a part-time miscreant. Furthermore what you read from this point forward may or may not be heavily influenced by the forty-dollar sparkling my wife and I are enjoying along with the prescription medicine I am taking to relieve a toothache. The warning label on the latter clearly depicts a full martini glass covered with the international symbol for no-don't-tell-anyone-you're-doing-this.

I know some would rebound from their blog absence with a diatribe about why they haven't posted anything of merit in a while or apologize for not having commented on others' blogs, but guess what?

We don't roll that way around here.

It's good to be the king.

On May 5th though when many of our neighbors south of the American Canadian border were out celebrating their ancestors' defeat of the French army in the Battle of Puebla(which if you think about it is like celebrating kicking a shortbus passenger while he's off his meds) my daughter celebrated her first trip around the sun. One year has come and gone, and while the days have seemed like weeks this first year has flown as though it were only a month.

My baby's not really a baby anymore. Whereas once my wife and I applauded her holding her head up on her own, now we chase after her as she races to the dog bowl, the toilet bowl or the cleaning supplies to find something new to put in her mouth. Thankfully none of the plants in our home are poisonous. How do we know this? Because I think it's safe to say she's sampled them all. The same can be said for the weeds in our front yard.

I subscribe to a list serve for local stay-at-home dads. For the record, I don't like that term. I only use it for lack of a better one. Trapped-at-home dad is more indicative of how you feel when you sign up for the gig, at least at first.

Anyway, most of the information on these list serves is rather blase. One guy bitches about having to be at home while his wife works. Another complains that he isn't being allowed to join any of the local moms' groups. Someone else talks of his kid's recent trip to the doctor. Riveting news, huh? This morning though I got an email from the guy who heads up the Atlanta stay-at-home dads' group saying there was going to be the "World's Largest Playgroup" at a nearby mall.

Well, the mall was about 30 minutes from my house (90 during Atlanta rush hour) but come on. It's the world's largest freakin' playgroup for Falwell's sake. No way I'm gonna miss that.

Meryl and I showed up at Perimeter Mall and followed the music to this babypalooza. Funnily enough it was located right outside of Spencer's Gifts, and their store window features some scantily clad bimbo hawking a flavored body lotion. I'm just glad someone's still looking out for us stay-at-home dads.

A nearby placard announced the day's festivities which included performances by different musicians, storytimes, raffles for stuff you don't really need or want, and car seat demonstrations.

When we sat down Meryl was happy to stay put and watch the Kindermusik instructors for all of about four minutes. After that not even their peekaboo scarves and rattle eggs could keep her occupied. By the time the woman on stage was singing in her soothing slow voice Shakers away! Shakers away! It's time to put the shakers away!, my kid was making a beeline for the adult party games and blacklight posters across the way.

We left with several of the free giveaways like bubbles, a bib, a onesie and some diaper rash cream as well as two Kindermusik egg rattles that were supposed to have been returned. Unfortunately while chasing down my kid, I couldn't find a Kindermusic recipient quickly enough to give back the rattles. I guess that means the egg rattles aren't giveaways so much as they are stealaways.

Oh well. Life goes on.

In other news, my tooth effing hurts! This is the same tooth (I think) that I wrote about many moons ago back in October of 2005 when I was told I might need a root canal. I ended up only getting a filling and have been pain free up until only recently. I can't believe it! Since that appointment I have been flossing three times every ice age. Life is so unfair.

My wife and daughter and I are going out of town in a few days to visit my sister and brother-in-law along with their new bouncing baby girl. I just hope my tooth doesn't choose family vacation as a time to erupt into agonizing abcess.

If I had to pick one issue about which I see eye to eye with my conservative bretren, it would have to be the crippling effects caused by the oral decay of America. Doesn't anyone care about the children?

In other news, this champagne sure is good.

Peace out.

Love,
Kevin