Yesterday Malcolm and I enjoyed a quintessential parenting moment. We had a bit of a hectic evening: the kids didn’t want a play date to end, we fought over whether macaroni and cheese was an acceptable dinner and Malcolm out-negotiated me over the necessity of having a bath. Brushing teeth was a struggle and my choice of pajamas was definitely not up to scrub. I wondered how things were going to end when we finally settled down to read books at the end of the day.

To my surprise, we shared a moment. It was one of those moments when both of you are totally present and the rest of life just fades away. As we read books together, Malcolm asked questions, pointed out words that he knew how to spell, and told me silly stories. He rested his head on my shoulder the whole time, and it was pure bliss.

It got even better when we put the books away and shared a nice little snuggle. Amy often comments that the evening snuggle is one of her favorite experiences with Malcolm now. It transports her back to the days when all Malcolm wanted to do is sit on her lap and give her hugs, an expression of pure love. Last night, I felt the same way. He put his little hands on my face and gave me a tender kiss, and then looked at me and said, “Daddy, I love you. Good night.” I almost melted. It reminded me of when he was born, and I first looked at him and told him how happy I was to see him. I said, “I love you Malcolm, you will always be my special boy.” Then, shifting as if thinking of something else to say, he stuck his finger into his nose, ate half the disgusting blob on his finger and wiped the other half on my cheek before turning and closing his eyes. Rats. Good night indeed, you little shit.

A growing group of parents are dealing with it by sanitizing the shit out of their kids. Each contact with germ laden materials is immediately met with a visit by the hand sanitizer fairy with the hope that a cleaner child is somehow a healthier child. In this world, there is no five second rule and touching anything at the doctor’s office is a strict no-no. Forget about play dates with the snotty kid from school. Germs are the enemy of the people and must be eradicated by any means necessary.

Well, I am here to tell you today that this is all nonsense.

I need a name for this drink

Sure, it’s handy to have a high-alchohol gel on hand to take quick nips from when you desperately need some hair of the dog to combat last night’s festivities, but it’s just not worth it. A recent Slate Article interestingly found that what this 100 million dollar a year industry doesn’t want you to know: these hand sanitizers won’t stop you from getting sick. Worse yet, a recent study found that pervasive use of these products will actually make you sicker later in life. The theory goes: if you expose yourself to germs early on, your body learns how to deal with them. When you don’t, your body struggles with germs later in life (in the same way that people who take up golf later in life suck at it.) Consider early childhood germs the equivalent of locking your child in a closet with a box of cigars so that they will think smoking is a disgusting activity. The kicker is that, since sanitizers can’t kill all of the bacteria, the bacteria that survive become resistant to anti-bacterials and become something totally frightening called “super bugs.” There’s only one place in this world where “super bugs” should be allowed and that’s in a smash up derby.

In light of all this, we have made a conscious decision to expose Malcolm to as much filth as possible. In China, we smiled when he grabbed a lollipop from a local kid and licked it, and smiled even more when he dropped it on the ground (in Tianenmen Square, mind you) and then plopped it back it his mouth. If he starts licking the backs of seats on an airplane, we call it, “character building.”  We don’t have a five second rule. In fact, we slow cook meals on the hood of the car. If it’s true that “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” Malcolm will become a bodybuilder (until he dies of E.Coli exposure.)

Oh sure, we tell Malcolm to wash his hands after pooping in the middle of dinner, but we don’t sweat the small stuff. Germs are everywhere, and each disgusting lollipop he eats is one bug that won’t get him later in life. One day he’ll figure out on his own that there are places his tongue doesn’t belong, but only because it’s embarrassing and not unhealthy. So let your kids give eskimo kisses to the snotty kid and at school, and if one day your kid’s  sandwich accidentally falls into a homeless person’s shoe, let it slide. They’ll be better off for it. We don’t carry around a diaper bag anymore, but, even if we did, it wouldn’t have Purell in it. No need to, it’s in the flask!

Now, I prepare for almost nothing. If we get stuck in the car, I’m going to have to eat Malcolm. I have no bag of treats and no toys. If Malcolm is thirsty when we out in the world, we have to find a drinking fountain. If either of us soils our undies, we either go commando or go home. (If any of you are thinking of making an action movie called, “Go Commando or Go Home,” you better act quickly. I’m gonna trademark that phrase!) He can play with anything he can get his hands on, but he won’t get his hands on any toys or books we have at home. These now stay at home.

I blame potty training for becoming a douchebag dad. When I no longer had to lug around extra diapers, the backpack, and all the bells and whistles that came with it, became expendable. It’s similar to bathing when Amy leaves town for the week. Why bother if it’s not really necessary? Sure Malcolm would enjoy having a snack every now and again, or have something to do at the park that doesn’t involve chasing squirrels with sticks, but at what cost? I wear the badge of a potty-trained son with honor.

Daddy, why are the other parents so much better than you?

The saddest part about all this is the toll I take on those around me. The other parents on play dates give their kids snacks, and then look at me reproachfully when I have nothing to offer Malcolm. While other kids are enjoying chocolate milk or apple juice, Malcolm and I are holding our noses while drinking from fountains in disgusting public restrooms. Other parents lug bags full of Star Wars guns and soccer balls, while I bring nothing but my charming personality and propensity to show off butt crack. They notice. It almost makes me want to be a better parent. Almost.

This is bliss. (Actually, it's Drew)

Both dating and play dating involve a lengthy search for what really matters: compatibility. Sure, a nice rack or kids with awesome toys are nice. But if the kids don’t play well together or your date annoys you, things won’t last. The first time we got together with one of Malcolm’s play group friends at, the other kid just rolled around on the floor and tried tackling Malcolm. It wasn’t a play date, it was a wrestling practice. Similarly, the most beautiful woman I have ever dated had this really annoying habit of not returning my phone calls. It was like she didn’t even acknowledge our relationship, and that grew to be very irritating. At some point, you have just have to decide that it isn’t worth it any more and look for greener pastures.

Both rituals also involve finding an acceptable forum for the early encounters. I find that initial play dates at either kid’s house are extremely difficult, as the “home” child has a hard time dealing with the nervous energy and ends up not wanting to share. I try to do all first play dates on neutral ground, and things go much more smoothly. The first date location is also very important. Obviously, you can’t do a first date at your house, and if someone agrees to a first date at your place, they probably look or smell like a troll. Find a neutral site with the right balance of people, noise and alcohol. The wrong location can doom either relationship.

Both involve dealing with rejection. I dated a girl in high school who had a mustache. Not a slight one, either. She looked like Borat. So, imagine my surprise when she stopped making out with me, left, and never returned my calls. I couldn’t help but think, “YOU HAVE A MUSTACHE!!! I’M AS GOOD AS YOU’RE GONNA GET!” Similarly, Malcolm’s friend at school is cool, has a cool older brother, and has cool parents (one of whom is an artist). I tried many ways of getting the boys together, even offering at one point to just take the friend with Malcolm and I to the park, but alas, each advance was shot down. I eventually realized that they just weren’t that into me, and stopped asking. Sigh.

Lastly, both dating and play dating involve hanging out with a lot of losers. I once dated a woman who smelled like formaldehyde. A high school girlfriend looked like the boy from the movie “Mask” and used the word, “pudnucker.” I’m sure the woman I dated thought I was a pretty big loser when I revealed my political affiliation as “Anarcho-Marxist.” Similarly, I went to a play date at someone’s house and they had naked family pictures hanging in the living room. (That is one thing about hippies that I will never understand.) We had one kid over to our house and instead of drawing on the easel, he threw it across the room. I have lost track of the number of play dates that have ended prematurely because Malcolm or the other kid have hit/bit/kicked/slapped/poured battery acid the other. And yet, the search for that special someone must continue.

And continue it does, until you find that special someone. Malcolm has a lot of good playmates, but he just added one more. Note to current friends, don’t be jealous, I’ll get around to writing about you someday, just not today. Malcolm had his first play date last week with his friend from school, Josh. Of course, we followed the rules and went to a nearby park, where the boys ran around together, played imaginative games like tree house or fishing, and when they played Star Wars characters, they were both on the same side. They are smiling and happy together and, although they each melt down occasionally, they seem eager to continue with play dating relationship. Seeing such happiness really makes you feel good as a parent, especially when you recognize the river of shit you had to wade through to find the good play mate. I am sure that it will only last until the mom, who is cool and mustache free, tires of me and decides that we are no longer worth it. Until then, I can enjoy the ride.

I thought that you might want to experience what Malcolm has to go through in a typical day, so I put together some of my choicer nuggets. If you want to really simulate Malcolm’s experience, read the following quickly and in a loud voice.

Remember how much you practiced hitting the ball? It shows!

Maybe you wouldn’t have spilled that if you were sitting down in your seat.

Don’t taunt me, you might not win next time.

Great job putting on your socks! One of them matches your shirt.

Nobody likes a sore loser. Stop crying.

That’s why football is a dangerous sport.

Today's lesson: when taking pictures of your child, hide your beer!

I told you not to put so many rubber fish in your mouth.

Eating your boogers is gross. If you do that, no one will want to be your friend.

It’s not nice to tell strangers that they can’t come to your birthday party.

How did it make you feel when that boy hit you in the face with the shovel?

Seriously, take the fish out of your mouth.

Do you think it would have been a good idea to go to the bathroom before we left the house?

You don’t need to lie, I don’t care if you wore your rain boots at school, but I do care if you lie to me.

If you don’t eat all your veggies, you’re not going to grow up and be good at baseball like Pedro Sandoval.

If you don’t take those stupid fish out of your mouth, your going to the hospital, one way or the other!!!

And on, and on, and on. I am not sure why I do this, but I think it’s because I heard once you let behavior go by without counseling it becomes tacitly acceptable. The inverse is also true, if they don’t know what you like about them, they’ll resort to stuff they know you don’t like. I don’t know, maybe I just need to drink a big tall glass of Shut The Fuck Up. At least, that’s what they might tell me in Glengarry Glenross.

After we applied, the preschool informed us that they wanted Malcolm to do a two day observation visit. I am not sure whether they wanted to see whether he was a genius or a pervert, but I figured that the joke would be on them; he acts like both! The kicker was that the observation was free. Free day care to a stay at home parent is like the $2.99 buffet for seniors tethered to their oxygen tanks in Reno casinos. Jackpot! I have never been so elated over one of our decisions, and but a little irritated that we didn’t apply to more schools. He could have been in observations for the whole spring! Sure, they may reject his application if he tries to brain one of the other kids with a plastic dinosaur, but even if they do, we’ll get some free child care out of it.

Good luck getting inside this brain!

Another potential pitfall occurred yesterday when I dropped Malcolm off. When I first got there, a woman told me that they were going to perform a “slight” psychological profile on him. She told me not to worry, it was more about learning the things he knows how to do and the things he doesn’t than any real evaluation. My initial inclination was to say I wasn’t going to let them poke and prod around Malcolm’s brain, but that risked making the whole thing go kablooey. I eagerly agreed and left. When someone gives you a fistful of Brazilians, you don’t throw them away.

I know what you must be thinking, “Paul, you’re not that bright, whatever are you going to write about?” Fear not, naysayers, there is one thing that I do indeed know a lot about, and that is being me. I am going to write a book about my goofy experiences as a stay at home dad. I like making people laugh and want to get the word out that being a stay at home dad is a fun and rewarding experience. I am going to hit two birds with one stone and hope that both birds die. Then, I’ll sell the birds for a lot of money and use that money to put Malcolm through school. That’s the plan, anyways.

I figured I would start with the reason this blog came into our existence, our trip to Europe a few years ago. The trip was very challenging and I think will be a interesting backdrop for me to tell my silly stories. It will be a mixture of a travel memoir, foodie journal, and stay at home dad expose. If you need a frame of reference, think Jason Bourne with a toddler and an affinity for fried dough.

Why I am I telling you this? I tell you everything! This blog got a lot easier to do when I realized that I should just write about everything that we are going through. Well, this is what I’m doing! I am sure I will fuck things up in this endeavor like I do with everything else that I set my mind to, so count on reading about missteps I take down the long path to literary stardom.

From time to time, I will write posts about the process of getting the book published. I’ll also be working on sample chapters, so some upcoming posts might seem weird. I didn’t want you to get worried that all of a sudden I had an apartment in London or was getting thrown out of French boutiques.

So that’s what I am up to today. If you want a glimpse of what a book of mine would be like, print this out and take it with you to the bathroom. Let me know how it goes.

I used to be a regular sweatshirt guy. Then, my I started an ambitious expansion program which necessitated finding things to mask my expanding girth. After an unfortunate incident involving a girdle and a brief period of asphyxiation, I decided the best approach was going to be to just cover up my midsection. See, with a hoodie, I can put my hands in the front pocket. That way, the people who look at me will think that the bulge in my midsection is just the result of my hands resting in the pocket, and not the result of an infatuation with cheeseburgers and popcorn. Pretty smart eh? Now, getting ready consists of the following: take off pajama bottoms and replace with shorts. Throw on hoodie. (If day begins with letter T, brush teeth and apply deodorant.) Leave the house. The hoodie, as you can see, is the most versatile piece of fashion since mom jeans were invented.

It is precisely these reasons why the hoodie is the official fashion item for the stay at home dad. I don’t know if I should reveal this, but once you are initiated into the inner sanctum of the stay at home dad world, you are ushered into a small room for initiation. After some “rites of passage” involving two or three dozen hot dogs and a 12-pack of beer, you are presented with your very own hoodie to wear as a badge of honor. You then go forth and save the world, one child at a time. You can tell how experienced a stay at home dad is by the number of stains he has on the front of his hoodie. They are similar to the rings on the inside of an old redwood tree. It doesn’t matter how new the hoodie is, they follow you like the stink of a rental car even after you have returned it. I got a brand new  hoodie a month ago, and it already has four stains on it, one for each year I have been at home with Malcolm.

It’s not all fun and games though. I recently lost one of my favorite hoodies of all time. I was pretty bummed when I lost the skull hoodie, I loved it and the kids that I hang with loved it too. The loss was about as emotional for me as losing our cats or Amy having jinxed the Giants into losing the World Series. I don’t know where you are out there skull hoodie, but know this: you will be missed. And tell the girdle that I am still mad at him.

I blame myself. Early on, I learned that I could sneak vegetables into places where they could not be detected. I put tiny bits of asparagus in the spaghetti. I put microscopic amounts of red pepper into quesadillas and spinach into places where even Popeye wouldn’t expect it. One day, he asked what all the little green flecks of green in the mac and cheese were. I told him it was broccoli. He burst into tears and told me that he didn’t love me anymore.

If only it were this easy every time

Now, he doesn’t trust me. He knows that big saucy dishes with tons of ingredients have things in it that rabbits eat. I guess he feels the only way to counteract my sneakiness is to simplify things to the extent where he can easily tell what’s in his food. We have come to some sort of truce, and he will eat raw whole vegetables provided he is satisfied with the sexier portions of the meal. His dinner plates look like he’s anal retentive: each separate food group isolated from the others and segregated to different parts of the plate. He then dissects each portion of the plate in descending order of unhealthiness.

I’m a simple man, with simple hopes and dreams. I want my family to be happy and healthy. I want my boy to grow up and realize that eating food is a social and joyful experience. I want cook like Alice Waters, eat like Luciano Pavaratti and party like Tiger Woods. And one day, I want us to sit down as a family and eat the same thing.

Anyone got any ideas?

Actually, this is good. I can talk about my blog. I started this blog to talk about what it is like to travel to Europe with Malcolm and Amy. Then, I wrote long posts about funny things that happened to us in the world. Now, my blog posts are shorter (yay!) but occur more often (boo!).  They usually have a specious link to reality and reveal a shocking lack of taste. I try to also show lots of pictures of Malcolm.

I write this blog because I enjoy trying to make people laugh. If you have ever met me, you can undoubtedly tell a story or two about how I have removed my pants at an inappropriate setting or taken a conversation so far outside the bounds of polite society that you cringe and laugh at the same time (Linging? Craughing?) I am a ham, and this blog allows me to ham it up. I am forever grateful that Amy lets me do this instead of clean the house or learn how to cook meatballs. Plus, I writing about the pain of child rearing is cathartic. I don’t really know what that means, I just want you all to be impressed that I know how to use fancy words (like craughing!).

That’s where you all come in. You brighten my day when you tell Amy or I that you enjoy reading this. I love waking up in the morning and a) I don’t find any Vietnamese men around and b) I find reader comments on the blog. Comments on a blog are like applause after an ice skating routine. I don’t watch ice skating, but I imagine it would be pretty embarrassing to finish your magical routine only to have an entire arena sit on their hands. A comment tells me that you’re reading and that you might be coming back tomorrow. I really do appreciate them.

So, here’s what I want you to do. If you like the post, leave a comment. It obviously won’t be as witty as the stuff I write, but that’s OK. I am quite clever. You can tell me what you ate for breakfast. You can tell me what book you are reading. You can tell me that you find me oddly attractive, like if you put Tom Selleck’s head on a corn dog. You don’t even have to introduce it, just write things like “Biscuit, or Catcher in the Rye.” Sharing is caring, and I would love to hear from the people who read this. I guarantee that if you leave a comment with a totally useless piece of information in it, I will smile. If you are so inclined, you could also become my fan on Facebook, the button should be on the right of this page. Then we can share irrelevant information on multiple platforms.

Lastly, tell a friend.  I don’t know where this thing is going, but I could get their faster if everyone in the world read my blog. Actually, you know that place in the world where all the people are doing all that suffering? It would all end if they just tuned in to bigdaddypaul.com. The only way to save them is to get the word out. Thanks everyone! And now, without further ado: