Ah, all of those enjoyable and delightful tasks that no one ever really warned you about when telling you just how much more love would permeate our home once we brought our beautiful child into this beautiful world.

Granted, our daughter has brought forth an unending stream of love and silliness and joy and laughter and now seems completely prepared for teenagehood, as a kindergartner.

But I don’t recall the warnings about vomit cleanup (or any other excreted substances, for that matter).

I mean, folks were quick to point out that I would be tired all the time and feel sick a lot; true, true. But this vomit-cleanup thing, don’t recall it.

And I’m talking about that chunky, healthy, too-big-for-the-drain puke. The real stuff. I’m talking about needing to double-wash the clothes and the sheets and the stuffed animal and blankie she won’t sleep without (that has retained that vomit odor a full 48 hours after the fact). Please do excuse my slightly graphic writings, but I really wanted you to get some “local color” as they say in comparative literature courses.

So at what point do we - the parents - get the deserved appreciation or payback; ever?

Not that I want a ticker tape parade, but will we ever feel that the endless nights we stay awake, and the butt-wiping and cooking and cleaning and overall devotion to their well-being; is the sheer joy of parenthood just so darn immense that we do all of this because our little ones are just so precious that it’s *worth* it?

Yeah, it probably is.

What is worse than the day you go back to the office after an 8-day vacation?

Seriously, can you come up with anything?

The overloaded inbox, the caffeine rush (from the six pre-office coffees that I downed), the “how was your trip” conversations, the catch-up on office gossip, the missed meetings, the missed calls, the eighteen voicemails to delete (who talks on the phone anymore anyway?), and the disapproving looks from co-workers to whom you did not return with a gift (I brought a few “close” colleagues some dark chocolate and had to hide the fact from others).

Not to mention the return to the ghastly food court, the “gray” (literal and metaphorical) cubicle, the need to not eat because I just spent 8 days eating and not exercising, the recurring thoughts that your colleagues have rummaged through the personal effects on your desk, and the return to the desk where you forgot to get rid of endless papers that now crowd your computer and your mental productivity space.

Sigh.

Time for a lunch break; maybe I’ll go get some $6 Chinese in one of those non-eco-friendly styrofoam containers that always has sauce sneaking out of the cracks and inevitably gets all over your hand.

Did I mention that I need a post-vacation vacation?

Holy cannolis!

Call off the dogs. The gig is up. The show is over.

It is now scientifically proven that fathers are smarter than non-fathers - go forth and procreate!

Well, maybe…take a look at this and tell me what you think.

“Loving a woman and fathering her children changes a man’s body and brain in ways that make him more canny and resourceful,” Kuchinskas writes, “while improving his ability to handle stress…”

Very interesting indeed.

Okay, so the successful union of sperm and egg did not actually make me a smarter homo sapiens, but my brain has now been supposedly altered so that I am now more “canny and resourceful.”

Really, how so?

“In humans, studies have found that married men have lower levels of the hormone testosterone, while new fathers exhibit higher levels of prolactin. Both of these conditions positively influence a father’s parenting skills by increasing his sympathy and motivation to help his offspring.”

So I am supposed to be more sympathetic and be motivated to “help” my offspring. Gotta say I’m not really buyin’ this whole science/brain/hormone thing. I have been pretty darn motivated ever since her little head popped out, not sure I’ve become more sympathetic or inclined to help, but hormones are indeed a powerful force.

The coolest part is that “…a study by the Wisconsin National Primate Research Center suggests that lower testosterone could actually be triggered by a newborn baby’s smell.”

And that I believe: the moment I smelled her for the first time, I knew that life would never be the same.

What do you think - has your man become more sympathetic since the birth of your offspring?

In honor of the upcoming “holiday” I wanted to enlighten you all with the ability to bask in my own glory, my effervescence as a proud member of the “Neanderdad” (borrowed term) clan.

I begin this here post by alluding to - yet another - poignant note at the NY Times, all about thanking our spouses: here it is in case you missed it.

It was bit tough to wrap my thickening head around the idea that perhaps I am thanked too often at home for doing little things and I am therefore congratulated for doing what I should do. Huh?

So, here’s a little cheat-sheet for my wife to follow, just in case she forgets when she should thank me and when she should just let it be.

TEN TIMES WHEN I WANT TO BE THANKED AND APPRECIATED (not an “exhaustive” list):

1. When I open old jars that are really hard to open (such as pickles, or other items that typically last for a long time and whose jar usually sits in the pantry for many months)
2. When I reach something on a high shelf (especially if it cannot be reached by spouse standing on a footstool)
3. When I perform an unprecedented act of home repairedness (such as the recent replacement of a lavatory basin faucet handle - the thing that makes the water turn on and off)
4. When I assemble a highly complicated piece of IKEA furniture
5. When I wipe our child’s butt after a particularly gnarly bowel movement
6. When I meticulously separate paper and plastic/glass for the weekly recycling pickup
7. When I water the plants with Miracle-Gro
8. When I hang pictures level on the wall
9. When I remember to shave and shower in the morning
10. When I make the bed
10a. When I remember to put the seat down

PROPER TERMINOLOGY TO BE USED FOR SAYING “THANK YOU” FOR ABOVE-MENTIONED TASKS:
1. “Thank you, honey. Boy, you are strong.”
2. “Thank you, dear. Wow, you are so tall.”
3. “Thank you, sweetie, you are such a MAN.”
4. You get the idea…

How often do you thank your significant other, and when?

Am I the only one who thinks that we always do too much for our kids’ birthdays?

I know there have been some past articles on the subject, but we are 4 weeks and counting until our daughter’s number FIVE birthday, and the storm has been brewing.

Let’s take a look at the list of stuff that needs to happen, and then we can make an objective decision as to whether a five year old really needs this much to happen, just to celebrate the day of her birth (shouldn’t moms be more worthy of gifts on that day?).

Heregoes:

1. Create list of all school and other friends to invite
2. Choose party destination (because we now refuse to do it at our house because it was a literal zoo for the first three years)
3. Coordinate time and date with destination; send deposit
3a. Pay balance and wonder if it would have been cheaper to do it at home
4. Mail invitations (yes, we could have done an evite, but the destination sends you pre-made postcard invites that are more fun); also had to buy postcard stamps for this step
5. Field incoming RSVPs and keep track of who’s coming; casually remind those who do not respond by the day before that we kinda need to know - now
6. Choose bakery from among 73 in local area
7. Choose cake or cupcakes; actually go and pick up chosen baked goods on day of party and bring them to party destination while driving in the breakdown lane and AC blasting (which inevitably causes post-nasal drip)
8. Choose pizza place; coordinate pizza delivery for date and time desired
9. Provide (researched) gift suggestions to all interested relatives
10. Deal with screaming children for 90 minutes
11. Be thankful that we have an SUV (a small one) so we can carry all of the presents home
12. Decide how many of the old toys can go to the Salvation Army
13. Earn PhD in box-opening (online certificate)
14. Convince ourselves that our daughter is not spoiled
15. Vow to have a “small” party next year

Tell me: What has been your partying experience?

I’ve been blabbing to anyone who listen (and even those who won’t) that my first book is coming out in August and it’s super funny and super poignant and buy it, buy it, buy it. It all feels very narcissistic and self-congratulatory and awkward, and this morning I finally realized why.

While the book is about me and my penis and my struggle to recover from a crippling episode of clinical depression, the real hero of the story is my wife.

I didn’t realize it at the time, mostly because my brain was virtually immobilized and up on cinder blocks in some musty repair garage, but my wife saved my life. I was in no condition to be a parent, a husband, or even a guardian. I lost control of myself. I had nothing to offer – emotionally, spiritually, supportively – and yet she stayed. She filled the roles of mother and father, husband and wife, disciplinarian and playmate. She fought for me. She suffered for me. She endured for me when she had no endurance left.

I don’t know how she did it. I spent most of the last year writing the book, going back to those dark, ugly places to re-examine how badly I was broken, how hopeless and helpless I was, how difficult I must have been to live with, talk to, and understand. It is not a pretty picture, and it occurs to me that the easier course of action for her would have been to err on the side of self-preservation. To shield the kids from seeing their father crumble into a huddle mass of tears and weakness. But she didn’t feel that way. She stayed. She stuck it out. And we’re better for it.

With Mother’s Day looming, the annual dread of finding the right gift has again surfaced. But this year, thanks to my newfound awareness of the impenetrable love and support my wife has shown me, the search is harder than ever. Although she’d probably say a convertible Benz would do the trick, I have this feeling that no material possession or sappy Hallmark card could ever do justice to the gratitude I feel for her sacrifice during those tough years.

I suppose the only way to communicate that is to show, not tell.

I almost bought one of those cute Starbucks mini Mocha Frappucinos this morning, but then I didn’t. Instead, I came into the office and created a homemade iced coffee, with FREE coffee (and ice), supplied by my kind employer.

Love. The. Perks.

For lunch, I will head across the street to the local deli for a sandwich on wheat, unlimited veggies, for the cool cost of $3.45 ($3.62 with tax); to drink? Water. (Also free.) Of course, I should really be making my lunch, though I take this one small luxury and enjoy it, and I don’t go to Cosi (8 bucks for a two-ingredient flatbread sandwich? I don’t think so.)

We are surviving fine with one car even though a second would mean we wouldn’t need to borrow my wife’s parents’ second car every week and even though we actually - ironically - have a two-car garage. Reduce the family carbon footprint and save on gas - bonus.

Our 1950s home could use a whole set of repairs, but nothing dramatic, so we will do some now, some later, and some, much, much later (new sprinkler system, because hoses work just fine).

It’s not as though I am overly anxious about money - or lack thereof - but the bank account ain’t really growing so much, if you know what I mean, so we’re living frugally, buying what we need; we aren’t depriving ourselves, per se, rather just remaining prudent.

But we do live in the land of Range Rovers and BMW X6s - we basically emptied our savings account to buy a house in an amazing neighborhood that is zoned for one of the best elementary schools in the state, and while we can certainly justify the purchase, you look next door at the $1.5mm house that really isn’t all that big, but whose 3 kids all go to private school and whose mother doesn’t work, and it makes you wonder: if we didn’t live in such an affluent area, would we be happier if we didn’t feel inadequate because our grass was (literally) not as green as the house across the street?

So this post has evolved from where do you save money in your everyday to how much do you feel like you’re just running to keep up and can’t quite get there…

Well, speak your mind!

I have probably hit on this topic before (when I confessed that I didn’t know how to make pasta). But to piggyback on my last post about the ways in which men and women deal with unemployment, the interesting thing was that most of the comments focused on the fact that us men just don’t even SEE what needs to be DONE, whereas the domestic duties are somehow genetically programmed into the female brain - is this really true (or are we - I - just lazy)?

For example, I don’t walk into the kitchen and see the crumbs on the counter that need to be wiped or the dirty floor or the “mess” on the counter, but I know my wife does.

I say things like: “It looked clean to me.” (And it really did, but somehow it wasn’t.) So how are we to explain this phenomenon?

I mean, I will admit, growing up I was a bit of a slob, and the running joke with my wife is that when we met, she didn’t realize I had a big armchair in my apartment because IT WAS COVERED WITH CLOTHES.

Funny stuff, right?

I mean it is undisputed that men and women are wired differently - emotionally and otherwise - but do us guys just not see the dirt, do we not care about the dirt, or do we actually, possibly like the dirt (being closely related to primates as we are)?

I really struggle with this, not only because it causes friction at home, but because, honestly, many times I really, truly believe that a domestic task is done, that I am proud, that my wife will approve, and yet somehow I “missed a spot.” And I am not asking for points just because I’m “trying.” I am genuinely interested in this topic because it seems to be such a sore spot in so many households (”he doesn’t do anything”) - so why?

What’s the deal in your house and can we blame it all on bad genes?

Interesting post over at the “Well” blog on the NY Times cites a study that says us fathers are impacting our daughters’ career choices, and I’m wondering if that’s a good thing.

Of course we as parents influence our children, but this post made to stop to think: will my job/career, which essentially entails working endlessly in front of a computer (not unlike many others) push my daughter into a career in tech? (Not to mention that my wife does similar work - so have we already decided what she will do when she grows up? *the question that I asked last week*).

So it’s not that I’m unhappy with what I do, rather, it’s yet another thing that I have now become more fully aware of in terms of its impact on my daughter’s development. (Beyond the is-she-going-to-learn-how-to-read before I did and all of those other psychotic developmental questions that can drive parents insane.)

And when I look at the issue a little deeper, I see my career as something that may not be entirely “tangible.” All of my work ends up on the internet. I am not in a traditional role of a doctor, lawyer, teacher, writer, where there are specific criteria and, for some, a creative element; instead, if someone were to ask my daughter what I did for work she would likely answer: “He works on the computer.” Is that really what I want her to end up doing?

The ironic element in this discussion is the fact that I could not have ended up doing something more different than both of my parents (contractor turned social worker and early childhood educator), and while I realize that I am not a daughter, perhaps my influence will be that my daughter sees how she may not want to spend her life in front of a computer and become/do something completely non-technical.

If you asked her yesterday, she would have said she wanted to be a dentist.

I can’t wait for her to fit me for dentures.

What do you think about influencing our childrens’/daughters’ career choices?

So with all of this “time off” that I’ve had to reflect on my life, I’ve begun to wonder if I’m still chasing all the things that I wanted, way back when.

Growing up in Boston, home of the Red Sox, Celtics, Pats, and Bruins, I was a devoted Bostonian sports fan, and needless to say, I wanted to be the next Dan Shaughnessy or Bob Ryan (or Bill Simmons).

I dabbled in the “announcing” of sports, my first try being the starting lineup of my high school varisty basketball team, whose names I thoroughly butchered. (So much for becoming the next Bob Costas). I did become the beat reporter for the women’s basketball team at my prestigious D-3 college (and they were 0-21 in my freshman year).

But those dreams have faded (just like my lame idea to become a comparative literature professor - ha!), or the next film editor for The New Yorker.

Then I thought becoming a teacher would be grand, expanding the minds of the young, shaping them to love Shakespeare and Henry James…foolish.

So do I really LOVE what I do now, a cross between technology and marketing? Do I wake up every morning with a zest for life, knowing that I am making a difference in the world?

Of course not.

But I am challenged and learning, helping businesses grow, and working with new technologies - cool, but not life-affirming, and certainly nowhere near where I thought I’d be.

I would say, then, that I am lucky to have the right genes to be happy enough where I am, still with many interests, even if my boyhood dreams did not come true.

What about YOU?