Baby Daddy 38: My Son's Poop Face Looks Like Ted Cruz

Well son of a bitch. It has been a whole month since I last posted. You know what fucks me up? The fact that I have mentioned to my wife that I need to post so many stories! What has happened in the last month? Well, let's see. I registered for the Professional Engineering exam. I look forward to not hearing everyone else panic over that. Nothing inspires confidence like hearing, "Congratulations. That exam's a bitch."

(No, I am not taking the Florida Mechanical PE exam, but still. This.)

Our Education and College Planning company took off BIG. I mean, our goal was to crush the competition, and we may be on the verge of doing so. As part of that, we made my personal training services official. They already were, of course, but now I'm charging people money. My wife is kicking ass and taking names. And my son is continuing to wage war on his brothers and sisters. Yes, he's an only child (for now). And yes, I can confirm that not all enlarged genitals are cancer related. Sometimes it is just your child using them for soccer practice. Pele!

(You thought that was Pele, but it is actually my son, going out of his way to kick my testicles)

On a related note, we finally identified why our son's poop face is so familiar. When our son decides to poo, he looks exactly like Ted Cruz. You hear: *grunting* "nhnhnhhh" *grunting* "nhnhnhh" *grunting* "nhnhnhh" and then you see Ted Cruz. And then you smell the unholy death that came out of my son's ass, and you wish that someone would have just sent you anthrax instead. On a side note, there is a Babies R Us that we can never go back to. In as long as it took for me to write a new story, it has taken an equal amount of time for my son to properly evacuate his bowels. And boy, he went for it on this one. You want to silence North Korea? Send my son's diaper to them. Forget 'bathing in fire'. They can wade through that diaper.

On a separate note, I have been working hard to unfuck my head. With all the shit going on at work, the PE exam, the companies taking off, and having a family, I do not have any time for negative bullshit. It is so bad that I listen to motivational speeches on Spotify. I also decided to buy books on The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck and Fuck Feelings. My family bought me a book called, How to Not Be a Dick. I suspect they are trying to send a message, but I cannot be sure.....hmmmm......

And on that note, I am done with my current update. My goal is to start writing more. If nothing else, I need to keep Russia happy. They lit my shit up 45 times in one goddamn day. I would love to go back and correlate the blog hits from Russia, and the news stories going on. Something tells me that they hit my shit up around the time that the Russian Embassy decided to burn their records. And yes, Russia, we know that's what you were doing. Not sure if you are trying to protect the Donald, or cover your own asses, but we know that's what it was. That is, unless you have a better excuse for denying firefighters, when the building is billowing smoke. C'mon son.

Moral of the Story: I'm back (hopefully). Also, I am going to post a lot of short stories, until I find time for longer ones. Also, I will never look at Ted Cruz the same way again.

Baby Daddy 37: We Broke Our Son...Maybe....?

That's right, I said it. We broke our son. We went to war, and he won the battle. With that said, we may have won the war. For those who don't know, our son is five months old. As it turns out, this is a special time in his life, where he starts sleeping like a real person. What does that mean? It means that it takes a fuck-tonne longer to get him to sleep, and he is fast and easy to wake. How do we know? Because that motherfucker woke up four times in the night, for the past week.

Now I know what you may be thinking. That's a lie, I don't know and I don't give two shits. I'd give one, but that's reserved for someone. You know who you are (*Insert winky face*). And so, after a week of non-sleep, we chose to introduce our son to the new sleeping arrangement. What is that arrangement? Well he was going to learn to sleep in a crib, in another room, and without a pacifier. Why? Because I am sick and tired of washing his goddamn pacifier all the time. 

Why am I always washing it? Because he fucking throws that binky on the floor in protest. Seriously. He was fussing up a storm one day, so I gave him a pacifier. That child looks at me, dead in the eye, grabs his pacifier, and fucking drops it. It landed straight on the floor and rolled under the couch. Do you know how gross that is? Nobody vacuums under their couch. That is known as the dead-zone. That is the area that you never look under, you never reach under, and you never acknowledge as existing. I once dropped a $20 bill, and it landed under the couch. Do you know what happened? 

The funny answer would be to say that I left that sumbitch there, until I eventually moved. That made for a great moving day, because I made $20. The real answer is that I retrieved it, and immediately wished that I could cut of my arm and soak it in bleach. I did not do this, of course. Last thing I need is to make my pasty-white self any whiter. Instead, I washed my hands and went to Taco Bell. Yes, I was drunk at the time. Fuck you, you don't know my life. 

But as I was saying, our son was growing defiant, and was needing a new sleep routine. So last night, we went for it. As it turns out, the method we used is called the Ferber technique. What we did is we got him ready for bed, and as he fell asleep, my wife put him in the crib. We then began an hour of attrition. For five minutes, we would let our son cry and scream. We would then spend two minutes trying to comfort him. After that two minutes, we would go five minutes with letting him cry and scream, followed by two minutes of comfort. We did this for thirty minutes, and then extended the crying time to ten minutes, and then fifteen minutes. This went for an hour, and we likely going to go for more.

Now I will tell you, he won the battle. He never stopped crying, and my wife eventually caved in. She started crying and held him tight. My son was crying. My wife was crying. I was downstairs eating my dinner. But guess what? After my wife called him down, my son fell asleep in his crib, without a pacifier, and slept for at least eight (EIGHT!!!) hours! 

Since this time, he has consistently slept 7 hours. Unfortunately that starts around 8-8:30 PM, and thus means that we wake up at 3-3:30 AM.

Moral of the Story: We are still fighting over sleep, but the war is shifting in our favor.