"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...

 

 

 

Baltimorons on Rehab

I pass by this place every morning heading out to work. There sure are lot of Baltimorons who have used illegals substances over the years; there's a line going  halfway down the block every time I go past there. The sign always gets me: "Open Access to Treatment. IN and OUT  - 15 Minutes!!!"

Oh well, I guess I can't knock them; at least they're trying...

I'm Baaaaack! And another year/decade/half century older...

Okay, so you a few of you have noticed I haven't posted in over a month, and have inquired why. It's taken me a while to figure it out myself; I mean it's not like there aren't plenty of assorted idiots, assholes,and just plain batshit crazy folk walking around giving me material to speak on, and I do have plenty of ideas and opinions to write about - I just haven't done it. But why?

Well, at first I thought I was just tired. I mean, I did recently have another addition to the house, with the arrival of my newest grandson, Kevin. But his older brother, "Hurricane" Darius has been around for a couple years now, and he has a patent on making me tired, so this new one isn't adding much to that, for the most part. Then I thought, oh I've just been so busy...but hell, I'm ALWAYS busy with something, and that hasn't stopped me from blogging.

Finally, I had to face facts and get over my denial: I turned 50 last month, and for all the weeks of insisting to anyone who asked that it was no big deal, just another day, I wasn't going to feel any different, etc., somewhere in my subconscious it actually WAS a big deal. And though I didn't feel depressed about the birthday, or succumb to overthinking / overanalyzing what it all means, and though I had a great time at the party my family threw for me (THANKS! LOVE Y'ALL!), on some level I think the milestone did have an effect on me, and temporarily threw me into a brief state of paralysis by (unaware) analysis.

Anyway, I'm baaaaack! and I'm FIFTY, DAMMIT. I've been on this earth a half a friggin' century, since before there were personal computers, cell phones, texting, sexting, instant messaging, iPods, iPads, DVDs, CDs, mp3s...before anyone ever heard of rap, hip hop, disco, punk, grunge metal, or New Jack Swing...before reality TV, HBO, Showtime, MTV, or satellite radio...before the major North American sports leagues all had 30 or more teams, before a man walked on the moon, eight years after Brown vs. the Board of Education, and two years before the passage of the Civil Rights Bill -- and a few decades before anyone thought they'd be alive to see a Black President of the United States.

So yeah, I'm OLD! But I embrace it, and everything on me still works pretty good (wink), including - maybe especially - my brain (you know, since it's the one part that gets used on a regular basis). That means you will be hearing more from my half a century ass in the very near future. You have been warned...

Doing What You Doo-Doo

So I was at church recently, and at some point in the service I got up to use the restroom. As I got near to the restrooms, I saw an old friend of mine that I grew up in the church with.

"Hey", she said, "Can you check on my nephew (who's about 4 or 5)? He's been in the bathroom a while now. I don't know what he's doing."

"No problem."

So I opened the door to the Men's Room, took a step in, and -to quote the late, great Richard Pryor - "the funk rushed out and knocked me to my knees!" Well, OK, not really, but lil' Dude was seriously lighting the bathroom up. As I looked towards the stall, I noticed that he had taken off his shoes and socks, and they were laying on the floor. I guess he plans on being here for a while.

"You okay in there?" I asked.

"Yeah. uuunnnnnhhh [bloop bloop]"

"Your auntie sent me in here to check up on you."

"uuuunnnnnhhhh [bloop bloop] I'm still doo-doo-ing! uunnnnhhh [bloop]"

"Uh, yeah, I can tell. Well, I'll let your aunt know that you're all right."

"Okay. uuunnnnnnnhhhh [bloop bloop bloop]"

So I made my way the urinal, did my business, washed up - all while lil' Dude was continuing to machine-gun pellets into the toilet (what did this kid eat?) - and started to leave when a terrifying thought hit me:

"Uh, you know how to wipe yourself, don't you?"
.
"Yeah. uuunnnhhh [bloop]"

Ooooh, good. 'Cuz Auntie would've had to come in here and finish that job herself...

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...



More adventures at my Favorite Baltimoron Store

So I went to the neighborhood Food Depot, my favorite Baltimore store, to pick up a couple of odds and ends. I bypassed the carts and picked up a basket, with the intent of getting in, picking up maybe 5 or 6 items, and getting out. However, as often happens with me in this store, I ended up with more than I came for. There was a sale on yogurt, so I picked up about 12 cups of those, then I passed by a few other things I just had to (NOT) have, and next thing I know my basket was stuffed with about 20 items, give or take.

I trudged past the 10- and 15- items or less express lanes and over to the regular lane with the shortest line. When I made it to the conveyor belt and got ready to unload my goods on it, the cashier, seeing me holding a basket instead of pushing a cart, said "Sir, you can take your stuff to the express lane."

"But I have more than 15 items," I said.
"Well, you can take it to the 10 items or less line."

Say what, now?

"Umm, you know," I said, not being able to resist an easy bit of smartassery, "if I've got more than fifteen items, that means I also have more than ten items."

Woooooo, that heifer was MAD with me...but oh well, what can you do?