"Buffalo Dan"

It's cute when kids get to the point in their speech development when they begin repeating phrases that you continually say.  You can really see who they are taking after, mom or dad, as these little phrases begin to reflect their personality.  Yesterday, my son, James, said "Crap!"at the dinner table after my wife had realized that she forgotten to finish something for work.  My daughter, Ana started saying "Oh, come on!  Really?"  after having spent a lot of morning traffic sessions with me in the car. 

But, sometimes, these can cause a lot of concern in the eyes of people from the outside looking in. 

When my oldest, Danny, was about two years old, he was really picking up phrases really well.  He could repeat whole blocks of dialogue from his favorite movies and sing entire songs.  These of course, were from constant repetition.  Another thing that he would hear repeatedly, from the time he was born, was something I would say after bath time.  While drying him off and doing the after-bath lotion rub down, I would always say, in my best, creepy Ted Levine voice, "It puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again."  I know, I know...That's just wrong.  But at the time, I thought it was kind of funny.  For over two years, I would do this almost every day.  Until, one day....

The apartment complex that my ex-wife and I lived in at the time was always full of the in and out residents.  Almost every night, we could hear music, laughing and the occasional domestic fight.  One particular night, it seems that the downstairs neighbor had had enough of her other-half's shenanigans. There was a lot of screaming and apparently he started bleeding at one point.  The next morning, as I was getting Danny ready for the day, there was a loud knock on the door.  I stopped what I was doing and opened the door to two uniformed police officers. 

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, sir.  We were called last night to a domestic dispute downstairs.  We are asking all the neighbors if they heard anything that might help shed some light."

"Honestly, Officer, I can't think of -"

And that's when it happened.  Danny comes running from out of the hallway, completely naked, lotion bottle in hand.  He looks right at the police and says, in that little kid voice, "It puts lotion on skin, or else it gets hose again."

"What did he just say?"  The two officers looked at each other, and then back at me with an eyebrow raised.

I couldn't help but start laughing nervously (And those of you who know me personally know how creepy I look when I laugh nervously) "Oh - That?  He...Ha!...He's just being silly!"

At this pont, Danny has approached the officers, extending the bottle out to them, saying louder and angrier "It puts lotion on skin!  It does this whenever it's told!"

The only thing that could have made this even worse is if Q Lazzarus' "Goodbye Horses" was playing in the backgroud and Danny had a mouth full of poorly applied lipstick...I just looked at the officers (who at this point had begun smirking), dropped my head, and closed the door.

I sometimes wonder if "speech therapy" is really a term used for the therapy that parents require while their kids develop speech...

Fun With Numbers

A converstaion with James, my two year old...Okay.  Really, he just babbles and I translate it into English...

James:  ...Okay, carry the 7...and divide by...

Me:  What are you working on?

James:  Just finishing some statistics.

Me:  Statistics? About what?

James:  Just odd things that I've noticed.

Me:  Such as?

James:  Such as....Were you aware that 73.23% of your day at home is spent with a talking animal of some sort on the TV?

Me:  Really?

James:  Yep. And also that 4 out of 7 of my nap times are actually spent awake, making shadow puppets on the wall that resemble various objects that share the shape of an arm? Like a snake or an eel or the Washington monument or an arm....

Me:  What?

James:  Oh, here's a fun one! 26.29% of the people that meet you think that you smell like rice pudding.

Me:  I can't remember the last time I even had rice pudding!

James:  Hmmm. I would definitely check into that...And 33.33% of your children don't think you're funny....

Me:  Who?

James:  I'm just reporting the facts...This one is fairly odd. When asked, the average baby in this house would rather eat a dead skunk's back thigh than to ever eat that stuff you try to pass off as tuna noodle casserole...(mouthing words) It's really bad...

Me: That's weird. Your mom says it's bad too...

James: How interesting! Because I have also learned that 97.87% of the time, Mom is right and you are wrong.

Me: Well, here's a statistic for you, Baby Einstein. 50% of the people in this room have poop in their pants.

James: ...That's just mean

Dumb and Dumber

I firmly believe that parents maintain a slow decent into stupidity.  As your kids get older and learn more, the dumber your own thoughts become.  Perhaps this is why teenagers believe emphatically that their parents are "so dumb."  Because they are so dumb.  Because YOU made them that way!  Over sixteen years, the task of raising you has sucked any possibility of logical and rational thoughts from their brain. 

Before children, I read novels.  I went to museums.  I enjoyed independent films and music.  I used to watch the History Channel and offer deep insight during debates about U.S. foreign policies...
But, over the last ten years, my reading list has removed the classics such as "Great Expectations," "Of Mice and Men," and "Dirty Jokes and Beer" (It's still funny even after watching Drew Carey's professional self-destruction by hosting The Price Is Right).  And in their stead, I have been reduced to anything published by Scholastic.  The closest thing I've come to as far as an art museum since my oldest was born is the display of scribbles on any piece of paper that little hands can reach in my house.  Which makes it difficult to conduct any personal business at all.  "Yes, sir, my insurance policy number is 581ZA-duck-pony-sailboat...(deep sigh)...I'll have to call you back..."  And the only music or movies I enjoy during waking hours of the day involve talking animals or cars or shoes or houses or really just about anything that shouldn't talk.  The only news broadcast that I have the pleasure of hearing is the weather.  And that's only to know how to dress the kids for the day. 

And, so, it is only natural that we will slowly digress into childish thinking.  Words escape us.   Logic is incomprehensible.  Even our taste in food slides backwards.  I have gotten to the point where Froot Loops are my preferred breakfast cereal in the morning.  And with this devolution, I have caught myself thinking the dumbest thoughts I've ever thought.  Thoughts that I would have had when I was still very young and developing.  It's endearing in a small child.  But it's frightening in adults. 

Let me explain.  Today, while I was driving to pick the kids up from school, I passed a restaurant. And immediately upon reading the name, I thought to myself, "That sounds either extremely disgusting, or fantastically delicious." And I continued to dwell on this for about two blocks before I realized that "Spin! Neapolitan Pizza" probably didn't mean "chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla pizza." Seriously, that was a sincere thought that entertained my brain for more than five minutes.

As you look back at your own parents and some of the things they did or said, just remember...You made them that way.  Did you ever catch your dad grilling hot dogs, wearing nothing but a bath robe and a pair of boots in the middle of winter?  Perhaps, he was diminished to that level from the years of the insufferable Barney.  Remember the time that you saw your mom putting scratch'n'sniff Rainbow Bright stickers on the wall of the coat closet?  Ever hear them talk about the rise of the Ottoman Empire and how comfortable it must have been?  That's all you, baby!  Not enough proof?  Think back to your mid-twenties.  Were your parents not so much more normal once you had been out of the house for a few years.  Of course!  They had time to re-mature back into adults.

So, don't fret.  Even though you catch yourself looking at Nickelodeon as a major television network or hear yourself saying "I like to fill my bathtub with gumballs and pretend that it's a race car," just know that soon, in the next few years, you too will be able to become a fully-functioning member of society again.

Happy Mother's Day

It's Mother's Day; the day we designate for the women in our lives who have given us life, or life to those whom we hold dear.  And even though this blog is about being a husband and a father, I think it's important to pay tribute to the moms.  Because without them, we men would not be fathers...or sons...or anything for that matter...We would LITERALLY be nothing without the moms of the world...In fact, I dare to say, that without my mother, I wouldn't be where I am today...

So, to make this Mother's Day special, I have decided to bring in a "guest blogger."  My two year old, James, has been bugging me over and over to have a crack at a post, and I figured what better day than this.  So, without further ado, I am proud to release this Daddy J and Baby J exclusive:


Let me start by saying, I love my dad.  He's funny and hard working and has blessed me with his intimidatingly handsome looks.  But, he's no mom.  I mean, he tries...He really does...But there's somethings that only Mom can do. 


I poop my pants.  A lot.  I've maintained my amateur status thus far, but only because I prefer to stay true to the art and not get sucked into the commercialism of the pros.  And no matter what I eat, and no matter how much it has "peculated," Dad cannot control his gagging.  Every time he changes me, it's as if he's never seen poop before.  "Oh, Sweet Humberto!  Bah!  It's so bad!  I think I can taste it.  It's smell is so terrible that I can feel it moving through my skull and melting my eyes from the inside!"...What a drama queen...Mom, on the other hand, keeps me honest to my wok by keeping a stone face, no matter what I throw at her.  Not only is she my biggest critic, she's also my biggest fan.  "Good Job!" she will always exclaim every time she unfastens the adhesive strips covering Elmo's face.  (And, for all the parents out there, just remember:  Dirty diapers are like the New Radicals song..."You always get what you give.")


And Mom cooks better than Dad.  Well, it's not that  Dad's culinary skills are poor.  It's just the SAME THING day after day.  I know when he says that he's cooking, I can count on spaghetti, mac 'n' cheese, or chicken nuggets.  And even though I love those things, a little variety would be nice.  But trying something new is not Dad's strongest point.  A creature of habit, Dad is more predictable that a third-season episode of the A-Team.  My mom is always willing to try something new.  She's constantly buying cookbooks, re-pinning recipes and watching Food Network for ideas.  And the crock-pot!  When that crock-pot gets fired up, I'm like Pavlov's dog; just slobbering all over the house.  They should change the name to "Crack-Pot," because I just can't stop eating anything she makes in that thing. 


But, the biggest difference between the two is my mom's ability to put me down to sleep.  Dad creates shadow puppets, has my stuffed animals talking to each other and makes funny faces while we're laying down.  I wish he would get the hint that all of that is fun, but it's not going to get me to sleep any faster.  Mom can get me down in no time, flat.  She sings me to sleep with the "Hail, Mary!" song.  She caresses my face and hair.  She kisses me gently.  And, let me tell you, there is nothing more soothing than the feeling that you are truly and sweetly loved, eternally.  How could you not fall asleep to that?  I mean, when you know that someone is there, making sure that you are always taken care of and would do anything to keep you happy and safe, it's the most relaxing thing in the world.

I love my dad, but I am forever a "Mama's Boy."  I will never love anyone the way that I love you, Mom.  And I can't wait to show you everything that you have taught me as I grow up.  I'm going to make you as proud of me as I am of you.  And, when you get really old, I'll even change your diaper without gagging...Happy Mother's Day, Mama!

- James "Mijjy" Sallman

Date Night!

I look forward to my little "date nights" with my wife.  A quiet dinner alone, a movie, an afternoon at the museum...Anything as an escape from the day to day life.

But, even though we call them "dates," they're not really the same as the dates we used to have.  For instance, we used to be that couple that would annoy the wait staff at a restaurant.  "Oh, we're sorry!  We've just been sitting here talking for twenty minutes and haven't even picked up the menu..."  Now, we have heard almost everything that we have to say.  And, frankly, we are just so excited to eat a meal without the usual child interruptions (spilled chocolate milk, arguments about who gets to use what color crayon to help the "pirate through the maze to find the treasure chest full of chicken nuggets," or the littlest one with the constant desire to move from the high chair to the "big boy chair" and back).  We just want to get our food and eat in silence.  Newly dating couples want someone to talk to because they are always alone, and married couples just want a meal where everyone will just shut the hell up.  And, of course, to people who are not married in the restaurant, we sound like we are fighting.  But in reality, that's just how married couples learn to communicate; in loud, quick statements. 

"Get the shrimp!  'Cause I'm getting the steak!" 
"I am getting the shrimp!"
"Okay!"

And what we do is also so different from when we were dating.  Movie selection is not as compromising as it once was.  I used to walk into a chick flick without hesitation while holding her hand.  From our courting process to even early into our marriage, I saw "Sex and The City," "Valentine's Day," and "He's Just Not That Into You."  She also went to see "Smoking Aces," "True Grit" and "Shoot 'Em Up."  We didn't care what we saw just as long as we were together.  Going to the movie now takes too much time and preparation to plead your case on why your selection is better that theirs.  It seems now we don't go to the movies as much, anyways.  Probably, because we don't want to sit alone in different theatres...

Movies are an easy date for married couples with children, though.  Two hours, in and out.  Get home, pay the babysitter, put them to bed, date's over.  Time is a huge factor.  You can't go to anything over two hours, for fear that the babysitter will call with the message that a child is sick...or the dog is on fire...or that the police were very polite.  So, that eliminates a lot of concerts, amusement parks, and dancing at night clubs (however, that last one is completely okay with Gina after she witnessed my latest performance on "Just Dance" for the Wii.  It's nice to be able to see what you look like while dancing to Katy Perry's "Hot and Cold" before taking it out to dance floor).

Really, anything without kids can turn into your own little mini-date.  The fifteen minutes alone before they wake up as you drink a cup of coffee together.  The three minutes that they are in the bathroom and you can hold hands on the sofa.  Or the twenty seconds that you get when your kids are "hiding" behind the curtain in the next room while you just look at each other with a half-delirious, half-numb gaze.  Basically, any period of time at all without the children in the room with your spouse is a "date."  Or at least you have to tell yourselves that, or else you may go months without having one.

It's not that I don't love my kids.  I love them unconditionally.  I would jump in front of a bullet for them.  And they love me and my wife just as much as we love them.  They just don't realize that the way that they show it is really annoying!  And it destroys our stability a little bit each day, every day, all day long.  And, so, if you don't take little, tiny breaks from them, you'll eventually snap.  You'll have that moment when your six year old daughter won't eat dinner and you'll explode into saying, "You will eat what I made!  Because eating is one of the basic fundamentals of living.  So, if you don't eat, you will die!  And I am not explaining to SRS that you died because you don't like red peppers in your spaghetti! They will put me in jail!"

So, tonight, is date night with Gina.  As is every night after the tiny people in our house fall asleep.  And our date night is:  ice cream, a syndicated episode of the office, and her falling asleep on my lap as I play "Angry Birds."  And I know what you're thinking: "You could cut the romance in the air with a knife..."  But I love our married "date" nights even more than our dating years.  Because, unlike those dates, I know that I don't have to worry about screwing up and her never calling again.  I  will always have a girl who will call me.  And that makes me the luckiest "dater" I know.

The Most Embarrassing Story From My Childhood

When I was seven years old, my family took the all-American road trip from Kansas City to Disneyland in California.  My parents loaded up the beige station wagon's luggage rack, piled in all four kids, and we set out west.  It was the Sallman's own personal "Manifest Destiny."  It was to be a magical trip.  They routed the trip carefully, in order to see as many sights and visit as many family and friends as possible. 

(NOTE:  There are endless amounts of stories and anecdotes that came from this trip.  But for the sake of this particular post, I am going to focus on one particular leg of the trip.)

On our way through the the Southwest, we stopped in Phoenix to visit my dad's friend and his family.  It became a bit of a pit stop for us, and it was a welcome change from sleeping in the back of the station wagon or on the ground at some random roadside campsite.  And the family was very hospitable to the large number that was invading their home. 

During our stay, the patriarch of the house invited us out to a nearby forest to explore some local caves.  I remember being excited, as I had just begun a rock collection and knew I could round up some interesting additions to my newly formed habit.  We crawled in through a tight opening and once in we were able to stand and explore.  It was very exciting for a seven year old.  But the cold air, and the road trip food and walking around apparently hit me all at once.  As we exited the cave, the rest of the group went to start a fire and prepare a meal for the night.  I, however, needed to find a clear place to squat to relieve the agony that was brewing inside of me. 

I grabbed my dad and asked "Where should I go poop?"

"Oh, well, come here," he proudly proclaimed.  We trekked up the wooded hill about twenty yards and found a tree that forked low to the ground.  As we approached the tree, he found a smooth, long, flat rock and wedged it in tree's fork.  "There," he gleamed.  "Just drop 'trou' and sit on the rock like it's a bench and hang your butt off the other side," and continued down the hill again.

Now, remember, I'm seven when this happening.  I have reached the age where there is actually shame.  Until age six, little boys have no problem using anything as a personal toilet.  Why, just the day, I saw a little kid get out of a car in a parking lot and pee on a light post that was on the main aisle of the shopping center.  He just smiled and waived at all the honking cars.  His mom came out of the store just as he was finishing, screaming "What the hell is the matter with you?!?"   But after age six, we begin to process what is acceptable or not, and are easily embarrassed when we are caught doing these things in public.

I began studying the rock.  I pushed on it to make sure it wouldn't fall.  I checked the angle of the tree to ensure that no dropping could fall onto me or my clothes.  I even licked my finger and tested the direction and speed of the wind to make sure that I didn't catch any back splash.  After playing every scenario of embarrassment through my head, I took a deep breath, pulled my pants down and hoisted myself onto the rock.  A cringe of terror took hold of me for a second as the rock settled into place under the weight of my 65 pound frame.  But then, to my amazement, I began taking care of business.   The realization of the phrase "nature's call" rushed over me as I felt like one with the wild...A caveman.  A undomesticated, feral beast.  I almost began howling in delight with my small white butt hanging off a limestone rock...

...Until, it became abundantly clear that I had completely missed one big calculation in my "preventative checks."  I had been so careful to make sure that I wouldn't fall into or soil myself or clothes with my own waste that I overlooked one major embarrassment factor.  But before I had a chance to correct it, it was too late.  I heard the loud voice from the campsite below.

"TURN AROUND!  NOBODY WANTS TO SEE THAT!"

But, alas, I couldn't turn around.  No seven year old has the ability to pinch and stand and turn around...

And THAT is the most embarrassing story from my childhood.

My Two year old's "Hail Mary!"

When we pray at night, this is what we hear from James, the two year old:

"Hair Mawy, fur of glades,
The Load is with three,
Bless it arm now
Among lemons,
And bless it is the flute
Of thy room, Jesus.

Holy Mawy
Moth or of Got
Play for us sitters
Now, and at the arm of breath.

Almond."