Christmas Cards

Here are photos pertaining to the boys first Christmas on Sarcastro Mountain.

In a rare moment of truce, the boys help Grandma Sarcastro make Christmas cookies.



Under threat of disinheritance, I am prevented from showing photographic evidence of the existence of Grandma Sarcastro.



Discipline began to break down early. Once the it became obvious that this was a photo-op, all bets were off.

The identity of the woman on the right working in the kitchen remains a mystery.





Soon, this would explode into a dispute regarding who is doing what in the cookie making process.



The camera would have to be put down and the children separated.




Even the normally camera shy 11, was pleased enough with his haul of presents to momentarily look at the camera. Despite all appearances to the contrary, he did not get a Red Ryder BB gun.

He'd shoot his eye out.










By the time we got home and opened more presents, the standard level of malaise and disinterest soon set in.

Besides, there was a game on.

Birthday Boy

Today is the day that 8 becomes 9.

9 is so much more mature than 8 was. 9 gets up without a fuss and feeds the pets. 9 gets dressed without having to be threatened like his predecessor. 8 was notorious for being uncooperative in the morning. 9 is such an improvement.

At least he is today. We still have another 364 days to see if the changes are permanent.

There was some coercion involved in getting his teeth brushed this morning. He claimed he didn't know how. He forgot how to brush his teeth between this morning and yesterday.

9 will get a new bike this week. Let's hope he doesn't forget how to ride it. It took me half the summer to re-teach him how to swim, so it is possible he forgot how to ride a bike and brush his teeth.

Still, 9 just seems so much more mature and sophisticated compared to 8. It is, however, troublesome how he seems fixated on how much money child actors like Dakota Fanning make. His star making role in the school play is partly to blame. Personally, I think the fault lies with Zach and Cody.


As long as he doesn't turn out like Danny Bonaduce, Todd Bridges, Kirk Cameron, Macaulay Culkin, Corey Feldman, Corey Haim, Edward Furlong, Brad Renfro or Mickey Rooney, I'll be happy.

Toilet Training

When the baby arrives, I'll be going out of my way to avoid changing diapers. As we all know, baby poop is the worst kind. Whatever I have to do to get out of doing my share of the butt wipin', I'll do. Note from the doctor, called up by the Army for one last secret mission, lost coming back from the Trojan war and stuck on an island full of pigs, cyclops, hot chicks, polar bears, lotus eaters and mysterious hatches--I don't care which. Any excuse will do.

I don't have any specific aversion or phobia related to this desire to not be involved in the baby's crap. Honestly, I just don't want to do it. It reminds me of a conversation I had many years ago with one of my employees. We were discussing slavery. Harold, being black or Afro-American as is apparently the new preferred nomenclature, had a very strong opinion regarding his role in the antebellum South.
"If I was back in slave times, I'd be a house nigger!"
"How come, Harold?"
"I gots allergies!"

That's what I need; an allergy to dirty diapers.

Meanwhile, I'm planning ahead for the toilet training. There are many books and experts with various theories about the best way to go about this.

I have my own ideas about how this will go.














(photo credit:Justin Cook, University of North Carolina)

Thank Heaven for Little Girls

Walter Jowers has a touching column about his daughter in this week's Scene. Like many men, he wanted a son and settled for a girl. He soon learned that having a daughter was an unexpected delight.

Before Mrs. Sarcastro and I learned the sex of our forthcoming male child, Knucklehead and I were discussing kids over a couple of cold beers. He told me with a gleam in his eye how cool it was to have a daughter. It makes you step up your game a few notches. He wished a daughter upon me.

Now, I don't know nuthin' about raisin' no girl child. I grew up in a house where the men outnumbered the woman three to one. That is the current ratio under my roof as well. The boys and I are able to fart, burp, loudly announce our intentions to go "drop the Browns off at the Super Bowl", and generally be rude, crude and socially unacceptable. Boys will be boys after all.

Wouldn't we have to change our ways if a girl child came into the picture? Gone would be the days of insinuating a weak femininity towards the boys because they whine about their food touching on the plate. No longer could the word "girl" be used in a pejorative sense. As in, "You fight/hit/throw/cry/argue like a little girl."

It may be a genetically encoded deal that we menfolk think we are supposed to produce boys. It continues the bloodline, such as it is. A man without sons is not a man, we are told thanks to the Bible, the history of the world's monarchies and the Chinese government.

What life skills do I have that I could pass on to my daughter? Kicking 35-yard field goals, shooting pool and cheating at cards are areas of expertise that are not considered desirable in young girls. Unless, of course, she's Tatum O'Neal.

When we went to get the ultra-sound that would determine the baby's gender, we had discussed our preferences. First and foremost, as long as the kid isn't born with the heart on the outside or a damn set of fins and a blowhole, we don't care if it is a boy or girl. When the tech showed us the child's little hammer hanging between his legs we were both very happy. Mrs. Sarcastro felt relieved as she had only previously raised male children and wouldn't have to break stride. She probably wasn't looking forward to the years from about 13-21 with a daughter. I also felt that this would be easier as I would not wind up going to jail for shooting teenage boys.

I couldn't help but feel a twinge of melancholy, though. A sort-of feeling of a missed opportunity had passed by. I wouldn't ever know the challenges of girl-raising. That gleam in my eye would be different from the gleam in Knuck's eye.

Having a daughter would have been pretty cool.