Why and How and Thank You Very Much

Over the last four years, I’ve shared stories with you of birth and death, sickness and health, not to mention bodily functions, birthday parties and bubbles. I’ve shared elated and somber, and all else in between, just as is the normal flow of life’s constant waterfall.

Why I’ve done this requires a twofold answer:

1)   To have a record of ups and downs that my boys will hopefully want to read some day to restore memories they were probably too young to hang onto.

2)   To scratch the left-brain itch that brought me from Ohio to Los Angeles 15+ years ago to become the TV writer I never became.

But how I’ve done it is a different story, and one I’ve never really talked about. It’s not that it’s a secret, but rather I must admit that it’s only recently that I’ve realized that I’ve taken this privilege for granted: every word I’ve published in the last four year has been possible due to one person, and she’s known around here as Mrs. Dude.

Today my wife Shana turned 40 years old. We were just kids when we met, if you consider 27 the tail end of adolescence. Now a dozen years, a couple kids, 5 homes and an incalculable amount of joy she’s brought me later, I want to present her with a small fraction in return.

When I’ve had deadlines she’s never blinked an eye while I’ve sequestered myself with my digital quill and ink until the task is complete. Oh, and those incredible conferences which have literally changed my life? My wife is the one who encourages me to go, despite my entirely-self-imposed guilt, even knowing how much extra work it means for her on days when I’m not home to get the boys fed and delivered to school on time in the morning, make dinner or get them bathed and bedded for several days in a row. Needless to say she carried and bore the two Junior Dudes, too, which are tasks obviously way out of my wheelhouse. 

And for all this, I say thank you, Shana.

Through nearly eight years of wedded bliss and stress, plus another four of dating/engaged trepidation, I’ve been beyond fortunate to have the world’s most calm and patient partner by my side. When I get frazzled about being late to a 3-year-old’s birthday party, she’s the one who restores logic to the equation and reminds me that no one will ever remember or care that we arrived 10/20/30 minutes late. Clearly this is an unintended side effect of marrying a math teacher.

I tend to be my own harshest critic and those moments when she returns me to earth often make me feel not only like I’ve just discovered an endless canteen while lost in the desert, but also that I didn’t know water even existed.

Though I know she’ll likely not see these words, given how hard she works at her full-time job, tutoring other kids on the side AND co-grooming two of the sweetest, yet most devilish, boys on earth, I felt compelled to share this for her, and for our boys, and for you to know how we all got where we are today.

It was legendary rock concert promoter Bill Graham who once said “They’re not the best at what they do. They’re the only ones that do what they do”, about pioneering jam band the Grateful Dead. Excelling at any chosen task is a challenge. Blazing a trail and doing things unlike they’ve ever been done before requires patience, vision and endless supplies of energy. I was beyond fortunate to hitch my wagon to someone who has off-the-charts levels of all three and who helps instill those traits in our family on a daily basis. For this, I am grateful and I trust that my boys will realize someday how lucky they are to have such an incredible mother and role model.

I’m even luckier to call her my wife.

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The Joy and Pain of a Work at Home Dad

As a full-time work at home dad, I will admit that sometimes I miss the camaraderie that comes from working in a communal space, where coffee pots drip all day and phones ring endlessly. Though I enjoy the flexibility of my current position, which allows me to drive my boys to school every morning and be there when they arrive home every afternoon, sometimes I do long to be able to discuss last night’s Parks and Recreation with a real human being in the flesh instead of the randomTwitterverse.

One of the biggest career challenges I’ve faced was when I began working for a company with a completely remote workforce just before my younger son turned 1-year-old, which coincided with when Mrs. Dude began teaching full-time. She and I made the bittersweet, yet necessary, decision to hire someone to watch our son at home while I was working just a few feet away. Though I keep a separate workspace from our living area, it was frustrating every time I left my office to refuel or relieve and saw him frolicking with the nanny. I desperately wanted to drop what I was doing every time and roll around with my Littler Dude.

This adorable face was staring at me every time I'd grab a drink or snack. It was refreshing and upsetting at the same time.

Sometimes I could do just that, but for only a fraction of the amount of time I would have preferred. Other times he’d run into my office just to see me or sit on my lap for a moment and when the nanny kindly took him so I could resume working, I felt like a part of my soul was being forcibly yanked out every single time.  The irony of my great new job permitting me to be home with my son, while not really being with him, was a struggle that took some time to come to terms with. It was almost a relief when he started pre-school this past fall so that I was no longer faced with the temptation to build block towers instead of PowerPoint presentations on a daily basis.

Working from home is the kind of gift which not everyone wants or appreciates, and that’s OK. The Catch-22 I’ve frequently considered is being able to trade my zero-mile commute for a higher paying job requiring an hour or more each way in L.A. traffic. Now, if my kids need me while I’m working at home just a few minutes away, I can be there if they are sick or to attend their holiday shows at school, no questions asked. What would I do if I worked 25 miles away, which in L.A. terms can be anywhere from 30 minutes to 2 hours in traffic?

The view from my desk chair.
My boys are never really out of sight.

The traditional familial roles which my generation, and countless more before us, grew up with have been thrown out the window and just as women’s lib was such a big issue almost 50 years ago, maybe it’s time to consider this an era of men’s liberation. Men can be engaged parents who stay at home to raise their families or work in or out of the home and still take an active role in parenting. The days of the incompetent “Mr. Mom” father are long gone, so it’s time to finally quash that lame stereotype, just as we have so many other archaic cliches. It was nice to see that the tide is turning during several recent Super Bowl ads featuring actively involved fathers. 

Still, when friends mention going out for happy hour after work and I tell them I’m already deep into making Mac & Cheese for my boys at 5:30pm, the dormant phantom limb known as my office-working days starts to tingle. Then I go eat some of Kraft’s finest while looking at some adoring adorable faces and it all feels OK because I know I’ve made the right decision for my family for now.

This is my happy hour.

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Come hang with me on Instagram for more great pics like those in this post. 

Life is a Beach: The #PowerOfDad

There are an unlimited number of incredible things that you can only do in Southern California, (Disneyland anyone?), though without a doubt my favorite chill-time activity is spending time at the gorgeous beaches. You might be surprised to learn that growing up in the Midwest I didn’t have a lot of high quality beach time. Of course I didn't have poor quality beach time either because there are no beaches there, or at least not the kind you’d want to hang out on.

Over the last 14+ years I’ve been a regular at various beaches throughout the LA area. For me it’s about the serene infinite rolling waves, clear blue skies that seem to extend forever and, my favorite thing, the feel of sand between my toes. Trying to describe the sensation, beyond terms like “perfection”, would be like trying to explain music to a person born without the gift of hearing. Spending time at the beach is pure magic and always brings a big smile to my face.

Naturally, that passion is one that I was eager to instill in my boys. We first took the Little Dude to Malibu when he was about 7 months old and for the last 4 years, we’ve been summertime regulars. Adding his brother to our beach-going clan last summer was a bonus for everyone and this year it’s even better now that he can walk.

Looking for sand crabs, building sand castles and running along the shoreline always makes my boys’ faces light up with pure bliss. It’s hard to tell if their love of the beach is inherent or inherited, but really it doesn’t matter. Their euphoria derived from running down the coast while pulling 10-foot-long strands of seaweed (in a game the Little Dude created, appropriately titled “Seaweed”) would make even Oscar the Grouch smile from cheek to cheek. And I’m man enough to admit that that can be me some of the time. Life is hard. Parenting is harder. But my boys make all of it worthwhile, day in and day out.

The joy we share on our bi-weekly trips to Zuma and other quiet spots on Highway 1, is a pleasure that I look forward to from the moment we get home from our last visit until we arrive for our next. Knowing that I now have the ultimate beach playmates, for whom this sandy retreat is second nature, makes our outings so much more rewarding than I ever could have imagined while growing up in my beach-less childhood. Even typing this warms my heart, brings a smile to my face and makes me look forward to Sunday, our next family beach outing.

With Father’s Day on the horizon, I’m partnering with Oral-B and Life Of Dad as part of their #PowerOfDad campaign. They are celebrating fatherhood’s little moments, as I’ve been doing on Instagram over the last few weeks, and the dads that bring smiles to their families every day. Check out this great video they made and share your favorite fatherhood moments, videos and pics on Facebook/Twitter/Instagram with the #PowerOfDad hashtag.   

In their second year of this Father’s Day program, P&G Oral Care has partnered with March of Dimes, a leading organization for healthy, happy families that celebrates mothers and fathers every day.

P&G Oral Care is also joining forces with members of “Football’s First Family,” New York Giants’ quarterback Eli Manning, his father Archie and his daughter Ava – to celebrate fatherhood’s little moments.

And because things like gingivitis and plaque don’t make for good Father’s Day gifts, check out the brand new Oral-B 7000 BLACK power toothbrush. It oscillates, rotates and pulsates, which are 3 of the most important “-ates” in dental care today.

You’re probably wondering by now how many oscillations and pulsations per minute the Oral-B 7000 Black provides. If you guessed 8,800 & 40,000 respectively, you are correct. And since you are supposed to brush for 2 minutes per session, that’s 17,600 oscillations and EIGHTY THOUSAND pulsations per brush sesh. Your teeth could be shining like Danny Torrance after you use this for a while.

Plus, they had me at “Tongue Cleaner Mode”.

And if you click here, the kind folk at Oral-B want you save some dough on your new brush with a coupon that will bring the price down. Your father would be proud of this act of financial responsibility.

Disclosure: I partnered with Oral-B and Life of Dad, LLC for the #PowerofDad Father's Day promotion and was compensated for my involvement, though the truth is that I really do love the beach and tongue cleanliness. 

Hey, I'm all about Instagram these days.

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Why I'm Not Afraid of The Shamrock Shake

You know it’s going to be an off-kilter day when you wake up with a neck kinked so badly that you can’t turn your head and it’s not even the worst thing that happens before you get out of bed that morning.

Today is St. Patrick’s Day for some people and plain old Monday to others. And for those of us who live in Los Angeles, it’ll be remembered for The Shamrock Shake earthquake that jolted hundreds of thousands awake at 6:25AM and started our days and weeks off a little more frightened than normal.

This summer marks 15 years that I’ve lived in Los Angeles and I’ve experienced my share of quakes during that tenure. But today’s quake was a bit different than every other I’ve experienced, and if you haven’t lived through one, it is definitely an experience. And not the kind you want to unnecessarily have.

Before today I hadn’t actually felt an earthquake in many years, maybe five, probably more. Maybe it’s because I grew up in Ohio where earthquakes occur only slightly more frequently than Halley’s Comet appearances and its more novelty than anything else when they do. Or maybe it’s because I didn’t grow up here in LA, as my wife did, and wasn’t forced to live through the destruction of “the big one”, the Northridge Quake, which celebrated its 20^th anniversary just a few weeks ago, as she did. It’s not that I don’t take tremblors seriously, but I’ve just never let them burrow into my psyche. Until today.

Living in fear is a difficult way to make it through calendar flips and not something I like to propagate. But now that I have my two boys I guess my view is a bit askew.

You see, this morning when I felt that first telltale shake, my 4-year-old Little Dude had just woken up and was in the bathroom for his morning pee. It took me a second to calculate what was happening when I felt the ground’s movement and I’ve been through quakes before. Imagine being a toddler whose life awareness is expanding exponentially on a daily basis. To him, everything is still new and as he reminds me several times per day, “Everything is Awesome!” Thankfully my son doesn’t yet know about the reality of natural disasters. To him, this was like his first time in a bounce house again. After a minute of curiosity, he just wanted to watch Chuggington.  

But what if we hadn’t been so lucky as to only suffer a few tipped picture frames today? The quake’s epicenter was about 10 miles from where we live, which is not very far in earthquake terms. How do we explain these things that no one wants to talk about to our kids, these mysteries of the unknown that appear in our realties usually only after affecting us in very destructive ways.

These local anchors were not expecting this today. 

The first inclination might be to move. I knew that was where Mrs. Dude’s mind was headed as soon as I felt the first big wave. But no place in this country, or any other, is perfect. Just yesterday L.A. had cloudless blue skies and 95 degree “winter” weather despite much of the country still being buried waist deep in snowdrifts despite Spring’s commencement just a few days away. The South has hurricanes, North has blizzards and Midwest tornados, not to mention dust storms, thunderstorms, drought and other plagues that Mother Nature unexpectedly confronts us all with to keep us on our toes and insurance companies in business.

As parents we don’t have time to freak out about everything that could happen. We must be prepared for those freak instances when they actually do occur, inevitably at the worst possible times, like the infant who desperately needs a new diaper the moment you pull out of the driveway. Managing adversity and predicting the unpredictable are instincts that parents must possess for our children are our most valuable assets, the kind worth sacrificing everything for if need be.

So as the ground shook, and my older son finished his business, my next thought was where’s the baby and should we go grab him? Checking the video monitor next to my bed he was sound asleep in his crib and had somehow missed the whole event, true irony considering how light of a sleeper he usually is. Though the grass may always seem greener on the other side after one of these incidents shakes us up, we regrouped as a unit and moved forward with our day. Unafraid. 

The First Last

I’m often nostalgic around this time of year because June is a memorable month for me for many reasons. June contains Mrs. Dude’s birthday, my brother’s birthday, my mother’s birthday and Father’s Day. And that’s just the first two weeks. But there’s two other dates that also always stand out in my memory: June 11 and 12.

Each of those two dates changed my life in a similar but very different way. June 11^th was the day I graduated from college and June 12^th was the day I graduated from high school. Only someone with a partial photographic memory (used most frequently to recall old completely random info) would remember those specific dates so many years after they occurred. For while the dates may have been insignificant relative to what happened on them, they stick in my mind as placeholders.

June 12, 1994 is a far more notorious date than just because I graduated from high school on that day. That date will live in infamy as the date O.J. Simpson allegedly murdered his ex-wife. But that event is obviously only part of what makes it memorable to me. It also marked my final time spent at the Richfield Coliseum, (where my school’s commencement was held), which closed a few months later. I’d spent countless great nights among my first 18 years at the Coliseum attending concerts, sporting events, and even an NHL exhibition game that had to be canceled midway through because the ice melted.  My final trip to the Coliseum marked one end of my childhood and a new beginning as I moved on to college a few months later.

A month after graduation I went to a Grateful Dead concert, one of many I attended over the years. This particular outdoor show was marred by a huge rainstorm that dampened the crowd, both figuratively and literally. But there was one moment in the second set that has stuck with me through the years. When the band played Saint of Circumstance and got to these lyrics: “Sure don’t know what I’m going for, but I’m gonna go for it, for sure,” I knew college, and the future in general, was going to be a mystery and an adventure. 

June 11, 1999 marked the culmination of my formal education and the official first steps of the rest of my life. At lunch after my graduation ceremony that afternoon, I told my family of my intention to move to Los Angeles later that summer. I didn’t know exactly what I would do when I arrived, but I figured I could wing it. I was young, smart and eager to get started on whatever I’d be doing next.

Cut to almost 14 years later and I’m still trying to figure out what I’m going for. Not that that’s necessarily a bad thing. Every choice I’ve made since then has led me to today. Some decisions have been great and some not so great. Obviously one great one was marrying Mrs. Dude, who collaborated with me to produce both Junior Dudes.

This year on June 12^th, I was daydreaming in the car while cruising on another sunny L.A. day, and reflecting on my high school graduation that occurred so long ago and so far away on that date.  Though my ride wasn’t long, I had a lot of time to think about all I’ve done since then. And when I reached my destination, I parked the car, and then ascended a staircase I’d climbed a hundred times before and picked up my Little Dude from the last day of his first year of school. His journey is just beginning. 

Leaving Room 5 for the final time. . .

Sowing My Wild Oats

I’m not someone who is big on labels, which is only part of the reason I wouldn’t call myself a metrosexual. I like to look and smell good, but not too good. Given that I live in Los Angeles, I’d hate to intimidate all the movie stars with my debonair style, rugged good looks and emerging pot belly. But when it comes to grooming, I take things a little more seriously. One reason is because I live in a place where there are 300 sunny days a year and I don’t want my face to resemble an old catcher’s mitt as I age.

So I’ve always tried to take care of my skin. I have very sensitive skin on my face and shaving really irritates it, so I always use decent razors, gels and creams to minimize the red bumps, razor burn and general discomfort that shaving imposes on my delicate punim. I’ve always shaved only once or twice per week to alleviate the unpleasantness. Besides, I look studlier with a chinful of stubble. Or at least that’s one excuse for not shaving.  

For the last few years, I’ve used some pricey shaving stuff from Kiehl’s, which is a fancy-ish brand. Mrs. Dude had a friend who worked there and gave me a bunch of samples to try many years ago and I was hooked, except on the price. But the resulting minimized bumps and burn on my freshly de-follicled neck made subsequent purchases worthwhile.

So when I was asked recently to try out Aveeno’s new Men’s Line (which consists of a Face Wash, Shaving Gel and After Shave), I was skeptical if anything could be better than Kiehl’s for my fancy skin. Given my high brand satisfaction, I normally would have just declined the offer, but there was one reason I didn’t: My wife.

Mrs. Dude has long sworn by Aveeno products for her own use and we’ve used Aveeno baby bath stuff for both the Little and Littler Dudes since they were born.  And since all three of them are completely adorable, I figured that maybe I should see if I was missing out on something and try out the Men’s Line.

Aveeno’s big claim to fame is that they use oats in their products, which is supposedly good for cleansing and moisturizing skin. I don’t know about that, but I do know oats taste great in cookies, so I figured it was worth the gamble. Especially since they sent me the products free of charge.

But before I tried the Aveeno line, I tried the Kiehl’s stuff one more time, to have a baseline reading on the inevitable post-shave redness level of my cheeks and neck:

Four days later, to make sure my skin had fully rebooted itself, I busted out the Aveeno Men’s products.

First I washed my face with the Face Wash (duh), then I followed my normal pre-shave routine that includes putting a wet hot washcloth on to loosen up the hairs. I pumped out some of the Shave Gel into my hands and spread it onto my face. It has a scent, which I suppose is “oaty”, but smells kind of like cherries to me. Either way, it’s not nearly as cringe-inducing as the menthol-scented shaving creams I used to use in my teen years.  Who decided menthol was a desirable smell anyway?

As I followed my normal shave routine, I noticed that I could hardly feel the blade against my skin, which is very unusual. Once finished, I noticed that my cheeks felt softer than usual and my neck wasn’t on fire, like it usually is post-shave.

But the real test would be the next day, when I skeptically expected the worst. Shockingly, there was not one bump, bruise or cut. I haven’t had that in a very long time. I checked again the second day after shaving and found the same thing.

Figuring this must be a fluke, I tried shaving 3 more times with the Aveeno products over a couple weeks and these remarkable results held up. I never found even one bump, which had never happened before in my 25 years of shaving. Given that the Aveeno products’ retail cost is about one-third as much as the Kiehl’s stuff, I seriously considered hopping aboard the USS Aveeno. But then inspiration hit me.  If the Aveeno products were so great because of the oats, why couldn’t I just make my own shaving cream (of wheat)? We have plenty of raw oats in the house for cooking, so I figured I could save even more money by doing it myself. So I made a bowl of oatmeal to shave with. Seriously.

And the amazing thing was that it actually worked.

It wasn’t the best shave I’ve ever gotten, but it wasn’t bad. It was, however, the messiest shave I’ve ever had. My sink and t-shirt were covered in oats and that was a bad combo.

The oats worked fine for the cheeks, but not so great around the chin and more sensitive areas, so I decided to switch back to the Aveeno shave gel mid-shave to finish the job off right.

As someone who has worked in sales for a long time I’m not easily sold on new products because of bells and whistles, and I have another blog post coming soon that will prove that, but this Aveeno stuff rocks. The three products’ average cost is about $5.00 each, so I could get the whole set for less than one bottle of the Kiehl’s stuff I had been using. My only complaint about the Aveeno line is that there is no everyday-use facial moisturizer. Or if the After Shave is intended for this purpose, I think it should have SPF15 in it. Otherwise, I’ll need to use two products on my face, and that is just a bit too much for this quasi-metrosexual. I need to keep my street cred somehow.

Disclaimer: Aveeno Men’s provided product samples free of charge and compensated me for this post, but the opinions expressed are completely mine, for better or worse. Also, RIP to the bowlful of oats who gave their lives for the betterment of my skin. 

My Final Blog Post?

When I started this blog nearly two years ago, I was doing it to scratch an itch to write that captivated me during college and inspired my move to Los Angeles 12 years earlier. I really didn’t think anyone would ever read anything I wrote. Even the lovely Mrs. Dude rarely even reads my posts unless I specifically point one out to her. It’s not that she’s not interested, it’s because she’s busy. And so am I, which is both the reason I haven’t blogged much lately and also why I’m not sure if I will continue to do so for very much longer.

My first blog post was written when the Little Dude was 19 months old and still napped in 3 hour blocks every afternoon. He continued that pattern throughout my first year of blogging, which always gave me plenty of time to write about the hi-lar-ious things toddlers do. But last summer everything changed. First, we moved him from a crib to a big-boy bed. And second, his brother, the Littler Dude, was born.

At face value, I assumed that neither of those events would have much impact on my schedule but I couldn’t have been more wrong. When no longer bound to the spatial limitations and high walls of his beloved baby cage, the Little Dude deemed that naps were no longer necessary, much to the chagrin of his mother and me. But there was nothing we could do. We tried forcing the issue, but if he fell asleep it was for a very short time and we usually had to spend a longer period just trying to get him to go to sleep than the duration of the actual sleep. So we cut out naps and instituted an afternoon chill period, which usually consisted of watching Toy Story or Toy Story 2. Every freakin’ day. And as someone who is easily distracted, I have a hard time focusing with a lot of external noise nearby, even if it’s just Buzz and Woody, so I started writing at night after he went to bed. That time block was subsequently eradicated a month later when the Littler Dude arrived. Goodbye, blog.

In a Facebook post shortly before baby #2 arrived, I asked my page what to do to prepare for our new arrival. Beyond countless people urging me to sleep, sleep and sleep, a blogger friend named The Robot Mommy suggested I stockpile blog posts for when I had no time to write. I shrugged that off, telling myself that #2 was bound to be the good sleeper his brother was, so I’d have plenty of free time.  And the Littler Dude is a decent napper, but there is only one problem: his brother is still awake during those nap periods. And with energetic 3 ½ year old toddlers there is minimal downtime. I’m just thankful for the Pixar DVD catalog for some small respites it has brought me and Mrs. Dude over the last seven months.

So my struggle to find free time has definitely hindered my creative productivity. And I hate that. But I’ve been thinking a lot about a “chicken or egg” conundrum that has furthered my inactivity around these parts. The big question is: should I spend more time away from my kids to focus on my blog about parenting, or should I spend that time actually parenting my kids so that I have something to blog about even though I’ll subsequently have no time to write it?

I started this blog at a major crossroads in my life. My mother had recently passed away. I was just starting a promising job opportunity. I had started writing again after an extended break and inspiration grabbed me like a whirlwind and wouldn’t let go. Oh, and I had a spirited pre-toddler on my hands. Seemed like a Royal Flush, but now two years later I have a Full House and don’t know what to do.

That job didn’t turn out how I thought it would and now I have begun searching for a new opportunity. My blog has seen its share of ups and downs. I’ve had several exciting blogging opportunities come around, but haven’t hit the big time yet, not that I ever expected to. But I am responsible for 3 mouths to feed, beyond my own which is the lowest priority, and now must begin anew. Again. I have started putting out feelers again, but haven’t yet found that great job that will send me to Hawaii on a monthly basis to write about the quality of massages at luxury hotels. So now I have a greater conundrum on my hands. Do I spend my time focusing on raising my family and blogging about it or finding a better way to support this family, so that we can move onward and upward and finally begin living the life we’ve always wanted. Mrs. Dude and I have got the two great kids and our health and those are two remarkably lucky things. It’s just everything else that we now find ourselves searching for. Will I find it on my computer screen after another endless web search? Or might it be lurking in the satisfaction of helping the Little Dude learn to read?

In an ironic coincidence, as I was typing that last sentence and trying to think of a way to wrap this up, the Little Dude just arrived home from the park and excitedly ran in to see me, so my writing time is over for today. But one look at his smiling face makes it all worthwhile and reminds me why I do the things I do. All of them. I’ll be back soon to tell you more. . .

What would you do if put in my position? 

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Hit the Spot

One thing I’ve struggled with for a long time (i.e. my whole life) is getting places on time. It’s not a disrespect thing, as people often say about others who are often late, but rather it’s an “I always forget two things in the house when it’s time to leave” thing and have to go back in to retrieve them. It's the perfect combination of ADD and OCD, if there is such a thing.

So when we received the invitation in the mail for my niece’s Bat Mitzvah across the country, two things came to mind:

1)      I was excited for the Little & Littler Dudes to play with their cousins

2)      I didn’t know how we’d make it to LAX with enough time to catch our flight

For most people, it probably wouldn’t be a problem. But this was our first trip with two kids and all of the accoutrement they require. Mrs. Dude is an expert trip preparer, but there was still the variable logistics of actually executing the gameplan.  

Having lived in LA for 13+ years, I’ve flown back to Ohio countless times over that period and almost always taken a nonstop morning flight around 11:00am. For some reason the airline (whose name rhymes with Shmunited) discontinued that flight for the two-week period which just so happened to coincide with our trip. Not sure why, but presumably they wanted to ensure this trip was even more fun for us by forcing us to stop and change planes en route.

Our flight was scheduled to depart at 9:57am and we live almost 30 minutes from LAX. In most cities, that would be a 30-40 minute trip. In LA it can take anywhere between 30 minutes and 2 hours, and no, I’m not exaggerating. Knowing we had to drop our bags at least 45 minutes before departure, we had to be at the ticket counter by 9:12am. I figured leaving the house at 7:00am would give us plenty of time to do the following:

1)      Drive the 30 miles

2)      Park the car

3)      Unpack the car, carseats and kids and transfer them all to the shuttle

4)      Get on shuttle to airport and hope they drive fast

5)      Unload bags from shuttle

6)      Get the bags inside and drop them at the counter

7)      Get through security

8)      Make it to gate before they close the plane’s door

Naturally we forgot a couple things and didn’t end up leaving until 7:30am. The race was on. Though I’ve performed this jig many times, it never gets any less stressful and this time the stakes were higher than ever. If we missed our flight, we were really screwed. The diapers were packed.

After some careful maneuvering, we pulled into The Parking Spot at 8:42am. I'd seen their big spotted shuttles for many years, but had never tried them and now I was putting their service to the test. We had exactly half an hour to get inside the terminal with all our stuff. I knew that the only option in such a time crunch was to valet the car. We pulled into the valet area and an attendant jumped to help us get everything out of the car. When I opened the rear hatch of my SUV, her eyes popped and she quickly grabbed a hotel-style luggage cart and started pulling everything out. Within a minute or so our suitcases, car seats and carry-ons were all stacked Jenga-style on the cart. Thirty seconds later she and the driver had loaded them onto the shuttle.

This is when the trip got exciting for the Little Dude and nerve wracking for me. He was enamored by the shuttle bus. He went and took a seat in the very back of the crowded shuttle and excitedly looked around and out the windows before shouting “let’s go!” as though he was ready to kickstart a horse. Mrs. Dude held the Littler Dude and I watched as his 3-year-old brother made friends with the businessmen who were leisurely headed to their flights, both literally and figuratively baggage-free. 

As the shuttle rolled into LAX, the Little Dude repeatedly exclaimed “this is fun!”. Watching him glow made it fun for me, bringing my stress level down quite a bit. As Prince’s Darling Nikki played on the shuttle’s stereo, we made our trip around the oval LAX upper concourse to our terminal. 

We pulled up, the last stop, naturally, and the driver helped us disembark faster than a psychic on the Titanic. As we juggled our suitcases, kids and carry-ons, we made it to the ticket counter with 9 minutes to spare and dropped our bags with a deep exhale.  Mission accomplished. 

NOTE: I was given free parking at The Parking Spot and wrote this post because they saved me from having to walk 2,000 miles. All opinions expressed within are entirely mine, for better or worse. 

We Are All Wild Things

As I mentioned in The Dude’s Guide to Surviving Your First Pregnancy, I suggest that expectant parents-to-be see a lot of movies in theaters before their little bundle of diaper-destruction arrives.  Mrs. Dude and I were regular theater-goers throughout our relationship until our Little Dude was born.  Since then, I think we’ve gone 3 times in 30 months, or about as often as Lindsay Lohan gets arrested.

We had a scheduled C-Section, thanks to a large breech baby with a short umbilical cord, so we knew when he’d arrive. During our last weekend of freedom, we went to see “Where The Wild Things Are”, the film adaptation of Maurice Sendak’s classic storybook. 

Though the movie was quite picturesque, what stood out most to me was how they managed to turn a book containing a total of 10 sentences into a movie 104 minutes long. Also notable, it featured larger-than-life animatronic monsters, one of which sounded exactly like Tony Soprano. 

"Max, let's grab some Gabagool & head to the Bing"

But Sendak’s tale of young Max and his quest to find his place in the world resonated with me. I’d read the book countless times as a child, but none in the last 30 or so years.  It wasn’t until recently that I realized how much I identified with Max. Like him, I left the familiar place I was raised (Ohio) where I often wore unique non-traditional attire (tie-dye shirts) and moved to a far-off land filled with Wild Things (Los Angeles). 

When I arrived in my new distant land, many things didn’t turn out as I expected. Like Max, I sought to become king of the wild things. And even though that hasn’t happened yet, like Max my journey continues. After more than a dozen years I’ve battled my share of monsters, attended numerous Wild Rumpuses and I’m still here to tell the tale.

Now as I raise my Little Dude, I look forward to the day that he gets to hear Sendak’s classic for the first time.  And I hope that he is not afraid to express his creativity and individuality, like Max, for better or worse.

Maurice Sendak died yesterday at the age of 83.  

May his stories continue to inspire little Wild Things for generations to come. 

Maurice Sendak (on the right) and a friend.