The Pop-Pop Chronicles: "Cell Phone Madness"

A little over a month ago, I decided it was time - almost three years - to retire my beloved cell phone, a Samsung Galaxy. Now mind you, this was the ORIGINAL Galaxy, not the II, or the super-sized III or IV versions - that's how long I had been using this relic.

My original intent was to upgrade to the newest Galaxy, but then I went online to my cell phone provider's website to see what kind of deals I could get with my upgrade eligibility, I came upon an interesting tidbit of information: I could get an Apple iPhone 4s for - drum roll, please - FREE! Between my upgrade eligibility, a sale on the 4s while Sprint was pushing the new 5s, plus a discount for ordering online, and some other instant rebate, I wouldn't owe a penny if I ordered the iP4s. Suddenly, my desire to stick with one particular cell phone product line - particularly when I had only used ONE phone in that line - wasn't so important anymore. And so, within a couple of days, I was the newest member of the i-Nation...

Fast forward about a month, to a few Saturdays ago. As usual, I had a pretty full day planned. I went to the corner carryout to grab a Scrapple Egg and cheese sammich, then on to pick up some groceries. After putting away the groceries, I ran back out to drop off and pick up some dry cleaning, by which time my daughter C-2b was ready to head off to work, which meant the beginning of my babysitting duties for grandsons GC-2 and GC-4. 

I got these two little ones packed up to head to church with me for choir rehearsal for my Gospel Choir (one of three choirs I direct and play for), after which we headed back home, hopefully for a little nap time (Pop Pop included). We got home, got off our coats and ate lunch, and then we plopped down on the living sofa to watch TV.I reached for my iPhone, only to discover...that I didn't have it...

Now, even though I'm not exactly the biggest talker in the world, I'm still like the  rest of you cell phone addicts: misplacing my phone puts me in a state of hysteria. I'm not sure if the resultant separation anxiety is more akin to a loved one missing or withdrawal from some addictive drug, but whatever it best compares to, my urge to find that danged phone was immediate and more intense with each passing minute, as I turned the house upside down - illogically, since we hadn't even been home that long. After that, I patted down GC-2, a frequent phone burglar; no luck. Then I started retracing my steps in my mind; have I even used the phone today? 

Finally, I decided to not just mentally retrace my steps, but physically do so. I got the boys and myself back into our coats, and off we went, to the dry cleaners, the carry out restaurant, the grocery store, the church. No one acknowledged having a lost phone turned into them. Well, I DO have insurance on the phone; guess I better use it...

I got online, filed a claim to replace my phone, paid the $100 deductible, arranged for the phone to be delivered to my job, and then spent the rest of the weekend suffering withdrawal symptoms. Come Monday, I received the new phone, then ignored doing actual work so that I could spend time doing what really matter, namely activating my phone and loading it up with my contacts and favorite apps. HALLELUJAH!

Home I went, relieved that the agony of being with my cellie was over. I ate some dinner, and headed up to my bedroom for a little peace and quiet, which I knew would short lived before one or both boys came crashing through the door. Sure enough, after a few minutes, here came GC-2 and GC-4 bum rushing my reverie. Only there was something that caught my attention; GC-2 ran up to me with something suspiciously familiar in his hand...

"Here, Pop-Pop", he said, holding out what looked exactly like my damned iPhone...WHAT THE...?

I reached for my cell phone holder; the new phone was there, so GC-2 hadn't pick-pocketed me when I came in (a skill that he is a little too damned good at), which means the little chump HAD MY PHONE THE WHOLE TIME...

"How the? What the?" I couldn't even get a complete sentence out. I mean, I had patted him down Saturday. I had looked through the whole house trying to find this phone? How did he manage to keep it out of sight for two days?

Finally, I collected myself enough to sputter, "Where did you get this from?" Apparently, this was funny to GC-2, as he turned tail and ran out of the room laughing, with his little brother bouncing out behind him, leaving me with one extra phone, one hundred fewer dollars, and an infinite amount of frustration and confusion over a question I'm never going to get the answer to...

The Pop-Pop Chronicles: "A Messy Situation"

 Andy Dufresne, who crawled through a river of shit and came out clean on the other side. 

-Stephen King, "The Shawshank Redemption"

So under her newest schedule, C-2b  works the day shift on weekends, and unless GC-2 and GC-4 are off with their fathers or their fathers' families, I get to play babysitter. On this particular weekend, GC-2 was with his father; that left the little one, GC-4, as my running buddy. So on Sunday, I got up and got us dressed for church. We were in preppy mode that morning, wearing matching button down shirts and khaki pants. In addition, I slid into a brand new pair of Ralph Lauren Polo canvas and leather shoes to complete the look. Nothing fancy, by any means, but pretty cool and comfortable:

So off to church we went,and we ended up enjoying a nice service. GC-4 was well-behaved, and several compliments on how good Pop Pop and Grandson looked were thrown our way (alright, alright, they were more for him than for me); a couple of people even noticed my new shoes and remarked how much they liked them.

After service was over, I switched into one of the many hats I wear at the church, in this case that of the Youth Choir Director. I held a quick rehearsal with the kids while GC-4 played with his Auntie and a couple of smaller kids. After that we all gathered to eat a little food left over from an affair at the church from the night before. While we were standing around eating and chatting, little GC-4 toddled up to me, hugged my legs...and GRUNTED...uh oh...any parent or grandparent knows that grunt; that means the little one is doing his business. Get ready for a diaper change. But then I looked down. OMG!!! That can't be? Is it? It is! I saw it, I realized what it was, then I said it...this little boy had liquid shit running out of the bottom of his pants legs!

And when I say "running", I mean it was running, flowing like molten lava out of both pants legs. As GC-4 clutched on to my legs, I looked down behind him; there were freshly formed stains the color of  French's spicy brown mustard formed along the outline of his diaper (that last grunt must have just blown the doors off that protective barrier the diaper is supposed to provide. Even better: behind and a little to the left of him was a seemingly-too-large-to-come-out-of-that-small-body-yet-somehow-expanding puddle, that had the same sickly mustard yellow color. I momentarily froze as I tried to figure out how to handle this scenario in the least nasty way possible...

I picked the little one up, holding him at first at arm's length, and headed off to grab his diaper bag. The poor little thing was in such distress, however, that I couldn't help put pull him close to me , even though he was still leaking, and that meant I was about to become a poopy mess as well. That's why they make washing machines, I guess. I grabbed the diaper bag, found a spot to lay him down to strip him down (We really need some changing tables in this church), and got down to business, with my mother standing by holding a plastic bag to drop the bio hazardous materials into. And after a few minutes of crying and squirming (and that was just from me), the deed was done: GC-4 was clean (well, as clean as he was going to get without a bath), dry, and in a new outfit, the contaminated stuff was bagged up, and I was able to breathe a sigh of relief. The deed was done - well, at least THAT deed was done. There was one little matter still to be attend to, which I was reminded of when I looked up and saw all these faces looking back at me with expressions that said, "Hey, Pop Pop, you gonna go clean that shit up now?"

DAMMIT!

 (Sorry, Lord, please forgive me...)

So I handed off the baby to my aunt, and stood up and looked down at my poop-stained shirt, pants leg, and - NO, NOT MY NEW SHOES! Sure enough, the little darling's entrails had dripped along the side of my right shoe. What else could go wrong? Well, they are canvas; I can wash the shoe or scrub it or something...I trudgedthe janitor's closet to grab a mop and bucket, and I found...neither...aye yi yi. This led to a mad, semi-panicky scramble around the basement: from the janitor's closet to the kitchen to the pantry, to the bathrooms, and back again, all in search of the missing mop and bucket. Finally, I gave up, and resigned myself to cleaning this mess up the old fashioned way, on my hands and knees. What the heck, I already had poop on me, right?

I grabbed a roll of paper towels, covered the mess and went to grab some bleach and a pair of rubber gloves. When I got back, the poop, in all its liquid glory, had mostly absorbed into the paper towels, so I scooped all of that up, wiped up the excess, and grabbed the bottle of bleach, drizzled it over the area I had just wiped up. And then I was reacquainted with a nice little lesson in Physics...

You see, if liquid falls and hits a smooth, dry, hard surface - like a floor - it's going to do what, class? That's right, it's going to splash. And when it splashes, the liquid tends to travel outward in a parabolic arcs, and if something - say a brand new pair of shoes - is in the path of those arcs, then what happens? That right, class, the liquid will get on whatever is in the path. And if that liquid is bleach, and your shoes are canvas, then what happens, class? That's right, the shoes get fucked up...very good, class, you all are so smart...smarter than the Angry Nerd, apparently...

So I left church a little while later, spotted with mustard colored pooped stains spattered on, and a pair of twice worn navy blue shoes that were now speckled pink from the bleach I used to clean up the mustard colored poop off the basement floor of my church. A couple of the teenagers tried to convince me that the shoes looked cool the way they were now; funny, no one wanted to try them on, however...Meanwhile, the 13 month old troublemaker who started all of this mess - pun intended - slept peaceably the rest of the afternoon, whilst his grandfather cleaned himself and their clothing, and threw out his formerly brand new shoes...

"The Pop-Pop Chronicles", episode 2: "The Bachelor Pad???"

One of the things that used to really piss me off during my years with babymama was when I'd come home from work and find a room re-arranged or with newly purchased accessories in place. I mean, I appreciated that she wanted to put forth an effort into making the house look nice, but damn, how come I didn't get any input into how those changes would come about (I mean, it's not like she didn't have some say and/or control over any and everything else that went on; I couldn't get a say in where to put this, or what to buy to go there?). Her attitude about it was along the lines of, "You're a man, you don't know anything about this stuff; you don't need to have any input in this. Go take out the trash or cut the grass or something."

After babymama and I split, and I found myself on my own, living alone - for the first time, at age 40 - I figured I was going to learn everything I could about decorating and interior design and put together a bachelor pad to die for! HGTV became my favorite channel to watch, I spent as much time browsing assorted decorating magazines as I did my normal sports fare when I was in bookstores, and everywhere I went, I spent (too much) time checking out the decor and trying to figure which ideas I could steal  use as inspiration.

So I got my crib hooked up bit by bit, until it became a nice little bachelor pad. Nothing real fancy, no high end, overpriced items, nothing particularly trendy, but everything fit me. And along the way I took whatever advice and feedback I got to try to improve my little spot, but it the end, every choice was ultimately my own, so that my crib truly was someplace I looked forward to coming home to. And then after a few years of apartment living, I moved into a row house on the east side of Baltimore, nothing fancy, by any stretch of the imagination, but definitely a place full of all kinds of possibilities. My brain went into overdrive planning out ways to really create a stylish bachelor pad for myself.

But then...

"Daddy, can Darius (GC-2) and I (C-2b) move in with you?"

Sigh...

Don't get me wrong, I love all my children and grandchildren dearly, and I'd do anything for them, but...let's just say that I knew the notion of having a well-kept, nicely decorated home was about to go out of the window. In spite of (or perhaps because of)  being raised in a home run by the fanatically orderly babymama, keeping things neat is absolutely not a priority for C-2b. In fact, her slovenliness - along with the fact that she and the almost 30 year old, living with his disabled aunt (even his own mama wouldn't let him stay with her), unskilled, unintelligible (yet thoroughly convinced of his possession of skills and intelligence unrecognizable to anyone else on the planet), irredeemable dumb ass with whom she, for reasons unknown and unfathomable, chose to procreate (more on him in a future episode) didn't have a job between them - got her kicked out and, thus at my doorstep with a 5 month old baby in tow. So while no one would ever accuse me of being a neat freak, I had at least prided myself on having my home in a state where it was always visitor-ready; anyone could pop in at any time, and I wouldn't be the least bit embarrassed by anything that was seen once the visitor(s) came through the front door. But with the impending arrival of C-2b and GC-2, I had a bad feeling that was about to change. How little did I know...

In a little over two years, as C-2b has gone from not working to working nights, as GC-2 has gone from a 5 month old to a whirling dervish of a 2 and half year old, and they (we) have been joined by the arrival of GC-4 in April. As a result, my home has progressively gone from being a newly moved in sanctuary with fresh coats of paint, newly finished hard wood floors, and everything in its place to
an obstacle course of all manner of toys, shoes, boxes, strollers, and the like, not to mention a formerly immaculate set of furniture that seems gain a new stain every day, not to mention a sink that seems permanently full of dishes - well except for the ones that are left in every other room that C-2b eats in.

My living room has become something akin to C-2b's efficiency apartment (and believe me, "efficiency" is as big a misnomer as there is in this scenario); although she has a bed in her bedroom, the mountain of clothes and assorted junk piled on it tends to make it practically unidentifiable, and absolutely unusable (at least for sleeping). Thus anytime I come downstairs or through the front door, I am greeted with the snores of one or more of C-2b, her fiance, and/or one or both of the boys - to say nothing of the accompanying aroma of feet and morning breath...causing me to make a retreat as fast as possible through the obstacle course of junk back to my room, my retreat - or at least until C-2b starts getting ready for work, at which point it becomes another playground for GC #s 2 and 4...the end result being that even my poor bedroom tends to look like in  varying stages of disaster recovery...

So in short, friends, if you ever think of just dropping by the house...PLEASE...DON'T...

"The Pop-Pop Chronicles", episode 1: "Puttin' My Foot in It"

"Daddy, can you watch the kids tonight?"


As I've mentioned before, C-2b and her boys, GC-2 and GC-4 live with me. C-2b works nights, which means I end up with babysitting duties 3-4 nights a week. I have a tendency on those nights when I'm going to be watching the boys to find reason to stay out as a long as possible before heading home, because I know as soon as I walk through that front door, GC-2 is going to immediately become my shadow, and my time to babysit is going to thus immediately kick in. Hey, I love my boys dearly, but I like to have at least a little time to unwind after work and before they're all over me, and that just ain't going to happen once I get home. So if I'm babysitting that night, I find somewhere else to be until the absolute last minute before going home. C-2b is not crazy about this (oh well...), and she has her ways of getting back at me (I'm convinced she does, anyway)...

When I received that text at work last Friday asking me to watch the kids, I rolled my eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. Great, like I really want to spend my Friday night stuck in the house babysitting. How she know I ain't have nothin' else to do?

Well: I didn't actually have anything else to do, and that being the case, I almost certainly wasn't going out to try to find something to do. Let's face it, on the nights when I don't have plans (most nights), I'm not inclined to go and make plans out of no plan; I was just going to park my butt in front of the television and watch movies. Would it be nice to do so without interruption from a crying kid or two? Sure, but once GC-2 (finally) expends all of his seemingly unlimited energy supply, he's not budging until morning, and even GC-4 was getting to the point where he is sleeping pretty much all night. Still, can't I just have my Fridays free, in case I get lucky and something (someone) comes along to spice up the night? I mean, that could happen...right?

Hmmm...

Hmmm...

"Yeah, I can watch them."

***

As usual, I found ways to lolly gag and avoid going home for as long as I could without making C-2b late.  As usual, she wasn't too thrilled about this, stomping off to work with an attitude. Too bad, you're getting free babysitting service, on top of paying no rent or utilities. Deal with it. Right away, it seemed as if GC-4, normally very pleasant, was a bit on the cranky side. Hungry? Nope, he spit out his bottle in my attempt to feed him. But then, wait...that smell...OK, I think I know what your problem is, Mister...

We retreated to GC-4's crib, where upon getting his diaper off, I discovered the whole front and back and everything in between) of his bottom to be covered in a Dijon mustard-looking, vomit-smelling mess. Oooh, that damned daughter of mine, I grumbled, convinced that the frequency with which one or the other (usually both) of these boys has soiled diapers that need changing right when I enter the picture is no coincidence. So I got GC-4 all cleaned (which took much more time and effort than should be expected to clean up a 12 pound human), and voila! he was back to being his normal pleasant self. Problem solved. But then I turned around...

There, standing in the middle of the room was GC-2, butterball naked, holding a clean diaper in one hand and box of baby wipes in the other. Seriously, dude, if you can go through the trouble of undressing and un-diapering yourself, and going to retrieve what you need to get freshened up again, WHY CAN'T YOU SIT YOUR LIL BEHIND ON THE POT AND DO YOUR BUSINESS THERE???

"Where's your diaper?"  Blank stare.  "WHERE'S YOUR DIAPER? Boy, I'm not playing with you!"
GC-2 took off running. I took off after him, but within a few steps --

SPLAT!

Alrighty then: there was the diaper, now under my foot. I was so busy demanding the whereabouts of the darned thing, I didn't even see it laying right where he stepped out of it. Lovely...

But then, a frightening thought occurred: where the hell was GC-2 running off to? Please, not to MY bedroom! I kicked off my shoe, ran down the hall and, sure enough, there he was standing at the foot of my bed, and its freshly washed sheets. I sprung into action, snatching him up before he planted his unwiped butt on my sheets, and hauled him off to his own room, wiped him down, then put him on his own bed to get the fresh diaper on, washed my hands, and went to retrieve the 10 week old attention hound crying in his crib...

Well, I guess I maybe I COULD get home a little earlier when she has to work...

"The Pop-Pop Chronicles" - Introduction

So most of y'all who know me know that I have two daughters, one son (with my son and younger daughter being twins), and a crew of grandsons (up to four now with the latest addition). You also no doubt know that the twin daughter and her two sons (including the newest grandson) live with me. All of this, as you might imagine, makes for some interesting stories and memories. "Pop-Pop Chronicles" will be my addition to this blog where I share the joys of grandparenthood (my days of raising young kids pre-date blogging, sadly)...

If you're a grandparent or parent of multiple kids, you've no doubt had the experience of , when trying to address one of  your spawn (or one of theirs) by running through a whole list of names before you get to the right one (if you ever do):

"Justin-er-Darius-er-Chris-er-YOU RIGHT THERE, you know who I'm talking to, YOU, BOY, get over here!"

Besides which, whenever I'm telling a story about the kids or (especially) the grandkids to someone who isn't that familiar with them, I inevitably have to stop and explain who is who...
Well, my solution to these problems will be to refer to my descendants by a letter/number. Originally I just started referring to the grandboys as 1, 2, 3, and 4; then I realized I couldn't leave my own children out of the mix. Thus, from now on, in any "The Pop-Pop Chronicles" or other "The Angry Nerd" posts, I will reference my descendants by the following letter/number designations (a "C" is a Child, a "GC" is a Grandchild):

• C-1 = April, my oldest daughter
• C-2a = Justin, my son, and older of the twins
• C-2b = Joy, my younger daughter and younger of the twins
• GC-1 = Christopher, son of April
• GC-2 = Darius, older son of Joy
• GC-3 = Jaden, son of Justin
• GC-4 = Kevin, younger son of joy

Got it? Too bad, you'll get used to it...

 

 

 

Meet the Parents

So as y'all know, I became a grandfather for the fourth time; since the baby and his big brother, and their mom are all living with me, that meant that there were a steady stream of visitors at the Angry Nerd residence for a few days - not all of whom I had met before. In once such instance, a couple came to the door that introduced themselves as Kevin's (the babydaddy's) parents. Very nice couple, friendly, seemed very good together, seemed like they interacted pretty well with their son, and they seemed genuinely happy about having a new grandson. Seems like Kevin is from a solid family; that's a switch (actually, that's not quite accurate; the family of the moron my daughter made her first-born with was quite nice; HE was the problem, not his people, and I'll just leave it at that).

The next afternoon, another unfamiliar visitor was at my door. "Hi, I'm Kevin's mom", she said. And then, in a moment of absolute stupidity, I said:

"Wait, I thought I met  Kevin's mom yesterday?"

The expression on Kevin's mom's face, while maintaining her bright smile, tightened up ever so slightly and subtly - almost imperceptibly... "No, I'm Kevin's mother", she stated (still smiling). "You probably met Kevin's father - and his wife..."

BBBBBRRRRRRRR...it sure got cold in here...

"Ooooh, I'm sooo sorry", I grovelled.

"Oh, it's quite all right", she said, smiled still pasted on her face. "Wow (changing the subject), your daughter really takes after you, I can really see the resemblance."

"Yes, everyone says that", I responded, happy to be let off the hook, and from there we went on to have a nice little chat while my body temperature rose back to normal. Meanwhile, that smile never left her face the entire time...



#4

So I am a grandfather again, for the fourth time - all boys (one of these days I will get a granddaughter, although hopefully no time soon). My newest, Mr. Kevin was 7 lbs, 10oz, and like his big brother, #2, "Hurricane" Darius, took his sweet time making his arrival. But he's here and will be returning to (my) home with mom and big brother in a few days. Something tells me that in the very near future - given the power of Mr. Kevin's lungs - I may be thinking about changing my name to the Sleepy Nerd...