Shawn Peters: No Pun Intended

No Longer Down With the Sickness

"Daddy, I kind of like being sick... except for the sick part."

My daughter may be on the way to being a master manipulator, but yesterday, as she was reclining on the couch with a cup of tea and The Simpsons on our DVR, her slight fever, runny nose and side-order of pink eye had Hazel off her game enough to be honest. 

And if I'm being honest, I knew exactly what she was saying. There was a time when I enjoyed being sick too.

The Real Birthday Boy

"When I wake up on my birthday," my son Teddy said with a look of total seriousness, "I will get up, jump up and down on my bed, and sing, 'It's my biiiiiiirthday, it's my biiiiiiiirthday." He said it every day for the past week.

After 38 days of blogging in preparation for my own birthday on August 30th, my experiment ended and all focus turned to Teddy's fourth birthday. Frankly, it was a more than welcome change as I think we're all better at doing for those we love than we are at doing for ourselves. But doing for Teddy is even easier. You see, Teddy loves me more than any human being has ever loved anything, and yes, that includes Robert Downey Jr.'s love of Mexican Black Tar heroin in the late '90s.

Day 7 -The Drop-off

I'd forgotten how crummy it feels. 

The tears. The too-tight hug around the neck. The wave at the window with one of us fake-smiling and the other one real-screaming.

For the past 15 months, I hadn't had to drop a child off  at daycare even once, and it had been almost two full years since then-toddler Teddy begged me in earnest not to leave him for the day, pleading for me to take him home or to work with me. It was different back then, when Teddy went to a home daycare three days a week. He was two, and thus built to tantrum, and I knew my little guy would transfer all feelings of love and need from me to Chris, his caregiver, as soon as I left. 

That wasn't the way it was this morning, as I took my only son, a few weeks short of his fourth birthday,  to a full-day pre-school and daycare not far from our old house. 

Day 15 - Bye Lines

This isn't my only new work in print today. I have a 400-word piece (at that length, it's really a piece of a piece) in today's Boston Globe Sunday Magazine. Usually, I write an e-mail to all my friends and family a few days in advance to alert them so everyone can  look out for it and the ones who actually get the Globe can read and frame the article. (To be fair, only my mother does that last part... but she may be the only one reading this post, so I'm playing to my audience.) I also usually give my columns a little run up on my Facebook page as well. It's all part of the paltry PR machine that I run with a minimum of effort.

However, I had to be reminded by that same mother I mentioned earlier that I had a Globe column today. Frankly, I'd forgotten. Part of that has to do with the fact that I've had a "new article" every day for more than three weeks as part of my "38 and Counting" blog-a-thon and birthday task. When you're pimping your wares for 23 straight days, sometimes you forget when you've got a "special" to advertise.

But I think there's another reason I didn't give this latest piece of major media the "major media" treatment. It's because I have learned a small lesson about dangers of letting it feel like a big deal.

Day 16 - The Worrier's Creed

Two days... no Domino.

Sara and the kids left for Maine mid-week, and I was out late on Thursday. When I got home, I was greeted by Mahjmallow, our all-white, demure and  domestic female cat. She wanted some attention and some food and some water, so I obliged. But there was no sign of her brother, Domino. 

No biggie.

Domino, with his black fur, save two white spots on his underside, is more independent, prone to spending the entire day our jungle of a back yard, chasing turkeys and catching smaller prey. Several times this summer, Sara and I have awoken to gory feathered presents left in our bedroom from his nights out hunting. 

But he wasn't around in Friday morning either, even when I refilled the cats' metallic food bowls, each Meow Mix nugget making a telltale "clinkety-plink" that usually calls both felines in a hurry. Domino was a Domi-no-show when I got home last night as well. I opened bags of treats and pleaded with Mahjmallow, "Where is your brother?" Needless to say, if she knew the answer, she wasn't talking.

I waited all night for Domino to turn up, but it never happened, and so as I drifted off to fitful sleep, I worried. I worried about what might have become of Domino, and what I'd tell the kids, and when I should tell them, and whether we'd be allowed to adopt another cat if we were honest about the fact that we let our cats outside. I worried about everything... because that's what I do.

Day 22 - Father of Two Only Children

I'm not a conventional multi-tasker. In fact, I'm much more of an air traffic controller. When faced with a smorgasbord of tasks, obligations or situations, I don't so much tackle them all at once, but rather put them in line and "land" them one at a time until they're all done and down.

I've always been that way, for better or for worse.  It's a trait that usually comes in handy at work, where projects usually have clear deadlines and priorities, allowing me to do each one in sequence, accomplishing a lot more in the space of an hour, or a day, or even a week than I would if I had tried to blend them all together. I'm the same way with household chores. If I think about the fact that I need to clean, cook, pay bills and patch a wall, I'll end up doing none of them. I've got to turn that "to do list" into four "to do post-its" that each have just the one thing. 

But when it comes to parenting, my natural mono-tasking approach has been severely tested our decision to have two children. Kids, unlike work projects or chores, have only one deadline. "Now." 

Day 29 - Post-Nasal Duel

I've got a mediums-sized summer cold. I thought it was a "little" summer cold but last night it decided to wake me up every half-hour on the half-hour with rapid-fire sneezes and a nose that runs like a Kenyan in an Olympic year.

Still, it's no biggie. I'm not running out for dinner and  a strep test, and the lack of body aches or fever don't have me crying "Swine!" Give me some Nyquil and plenty of Puffs Plus and I'll be fine in a week. 

The issue is that Sara, my wife, has it too. Her version of this virus-built-for-two involves less Kleenex consumption and more dry eyes and fatigue, but really it's just a hoarse throat of a different color. 

Day 37 - Wired for Addiction

It's my daughter, Hazel's ninth birthday today, and as is our family tradition, we're stretching out the festivities until they basically have holiday weekend status, with a second-night seder included.  Our rained-out trip to Water Country yesterday was replaced by an afternoon of all-you-can-eat sushi and Wii. Today featured birthday breakfast at Dunkin' Donuts, a Chinese food-fest luncheon and more Wii with the extended family over for the afternoon, and then a four-friend sleepover party complete with Aryan Nation cake (vanilla frosting on white cake) festooned with Mario Kart characters (or is it karacters?).

It's been a blast, but I'd be lying if I didn't admit that watching the pattern progress got me thinking about addiction. 

Boys in the (Bachelor)Hood

It's not often you get to live a fantasy.

Sure, some guys drop two weeks salary on a baseball fantasy camp so they can go pull their hamstrings and tear their labrums in front of a few retired ballplayers while wearing the uniform of their favorite MLB team. And I know there are plenty of fellas who lay out their credit cards for a trip to the Champagne Room in a quest to make another type of dream come true.

But the one fantasy I think most men who have families share is the idea that if they were a bachelor, suddenly unfettered with all the responsibilities and requirements of being a husband and father, they'd be unstoppable.

Working all day, drinking all night, playing all weekend. Some sort of George Clooney/Hugh Hefner/Bear Gryls hybrid.

Well, for the last five days, I've been living the dream, as my wife, Sara, has taken our two kids up to Maine for a stay at her family's house on the far-side of Penobscot Bay. Since Thursday morning, I've been a solo act, completely free from diaper changes, bedtime routines, bathroom sharing and piggy-back-ride-giving. In fact, I haven't had to get anyone dressed but myself in five whole days! DiMaggio never had a streak that improbable.

I'll admit, I had been looking forward to this week of bachelorhood for quite a while, ever since Sara announced she wanted to take the kids away for the week before the 4th of July. My barely-evolved man-brain began whirring at the very mention of a week at leisure. Oh the debauchery I was going to wade into. Golf. Booze. Drugs. Parties. Women...

Of course, then I realized that the "women" thing wasn't going to happen, and not just because 13 years of wearing a ring has left an indelible combination tan-line/indentation on my finger. I met Sara when I was 19 and haven't even tried to "pick up" a woman since Nelson Mandela was still in jail. Putting me out on the singles scene would be like releasing a lion, raised in captivity, back into the Serengeti... except instead of a lion, I'm more of a diabetic raccoon.

Then there were the parties. I wasn't invited to any. Don't get me wrong, I tried to put it out there to friends and co-workers that I was available for any soirees, shindigs or raves that might be "going off" but I didn't get any invites or e-vites. Maybe I should've hosted my own party, but we were having parts of our house painted while the Sara and the kids were away, so the casa wasn't exactly ready for a fiesta.

But drugs were doable. I took Ambien before bedtime without any worries about the kids waking me up before the drowsiness wore off. I know, the late, great Hunter S. Thompson ain't got nothing on me.

There was a little booze too, but at the end of the day, drinking alone is something you're supposed to do when your wife and kids leave you permanently. Doing it to excess when they're just gone for a week reeks of trying too hard.

So what was left? Golf, and lots of it. I went to the driving range just about ever day and got out to play both days this past weekend... thought I did walk off the course halfway through my round on Sunday because Sara called from Maine needing the number of her doctor. Damn you poison ivy!!! Can't you see I'm supposed to be unfettered?

I also went and saw "Iron Man" and "The Incredible Hulk" back-to-back, a virtually impossible feat to pull of when I'm in family mode. And I ate all the foods that no one else in my family likes too... so that was nice.

In short, my week of bachelorhood, while outrageously refreshing and enjoyable, has affirmed exactly what I, and most husband/fathers already know about ourselves. Thank goodness I'm a family man, because the only way I could be less interesting would be if I were suddenly single.

From Handy to Randy

I had just finished hanging a new screen door on the entrance to Sara's family's house in Maine when I found my wife giving me a look that I couldn't read. At first I wondered if it was a gaze that was meant to tell me she had another chore for me to do while we were alone, opening up the place for the season. 

I had already done my part in getting the water and electric working, put a new spark plug and air filter in the lawnmower, as well as vacuumed up several thousand insects (both living and dead) which had been the house's only inhabitants since October, so I wasn't relishing the idea of having another task I had to complete right away. But when she finally spoke, I learned the meaning behind the look. "You know, I just realized how sexy I find you when you're being handy." 

I'm not going to go into details about what happened next, but I will say that it wasn't another "chore."

Husbands go through their entire married lives trying to figure out what they can do to flick that switch inside their mates' heads. You know, the one that switches the movie of their lives together from PG-13 to R. 

We buy flowers, wear tuxedos, and write poems that we hope no one else will ever see, all in an attempt to be romantic. But it's amazing how often the sexiest thing we can do is to simply do what we do well. Don't get me wrong. I doubt I, or any other man, looks exceptionally alluring while eating a steak-and-cheese while yelling at a football referee through the TV screen, no matter how good we are at those activities. But when a man is in his element, focused and accomplishing what he sets out to do, he's able to exude his best qualities. Confidence. Resourcefulness. Persistence. 

I know that when we first were dating in college, Sara was always turned on by attending my improv comedy performances, a venue where I always felt like I could handle any curveball thrown my way. A female co-worker confessed to me that she can't help getting a little revved up when she sees her husband, a director, at work. Something about the way he is on the set guarantees there will be more "action" later.

I'm sure there is an animalistic element to this truth. Just as female penguins can't help being attracted to males who build the most impressive rock piles in Antarctica, maybe female humans can't help having their sensual synapses fire when they are witness to their man showing he can build and provide for a nest. Lord knows I'm not all that handy. My specialty are things with really explicit directions, so hooking up cable boxes and DVD players. Swapping out lighting fixtures is right in my wheelhouse, and if a job really just requires a screw gun with a charged battery and some patience, I'll usually get it done. But the fact is, I've always shied away from some of the bigger projects because I feared I might make a mess of them and end up having to hire someone else to do the work anyway. The risk reward simply wasn't there. 

But now that I've learned that a hammer and nails can build a better chance for something constructive happening in the bedroom, I'm thinking it's time to get in touch with my inner Bob Vila. You know, start carrying a tape measure and level with me at all times, use lot of construction terms that have overtly sexual double meanings. Heck, I might even start breaking things around the house just so I can fix them before Sara and I head to bed. After all, nothing says foreplay like spackle and some sandpaper. Who needs the Kama Sutra? I'm officially one Time-Life book series away from having the sex life I always dreamed of.