Keeping up with kids necessitates keeping a lot of stuff on hand. Depending on the age of the kids in question, supplies for an average outing include diapers, wipes, an assortment of medications, toys, crayons & paper, snacks, sippy cups, spare outfits... and possibly more.

Moms have solved this problem with the diaper bag, typically slung over the shoulder. But let’s be honest and call a diaper bag what it really is. No matter how you dress it up, a diaper bag is... well... a purse.

When a man starts toting around a purse, I don’t care what the purpose is, you’re one step closer to being a cross-dresser. If that’s your thing, fine. But that’s not how I roll.

So the question becomes, how do you handle the gear without edging into manlady territory?

For a while my answer was pretty simple: a backpack. Backpacks are rugged, outdoorsy; born of soldiers and trappers. All the carrying capacity of a diaper bag, without the testosterone-negating power of a shoulder bag (pun alert!) dragging you down.

But backpacks still pose a problem, one similar to their feminine counterpart: the black-hole syndrome. Any man who has enjoyed the company of a woman has been mystified by this phenomenon. Women have the amazing ability to fit seven cubic feet of cosmetics and sundries into a one-cubic foot bag.

While it is an impressive feat, finding anything in a purse is a logistical nightmare, rendering the convenience of carrying a bag all but moot. The same holds true for a diaper bag and a backpack. Even if you organize and pack it carefully in the morning, by the time you’ve rummaged through it to get what you want two or three times while keeping up with a toddler, the system is gone and you end up digging for five minutes to find the diaper rash cream or spare pacifier.

And when you have four kids like I do... forget it. If you’re distracted that long, three of them have suddenly gone Code Adam on you.

I need something light, easily portable, inherently organized and, preferably, virtually hands-free. I stumbled upon my answer a few years ago preparing for a camping trip: a simple field vest. All the pockets, fairly evenly distributed, and varying in size.

With one of these, everything you need to carry has it’s place. Easy to find, and easy to put back when you’re done, or when you need to quickly grab one of your Teeny Houdinis before they get away.

So now, instead of running to the store or the playground or the zoo with my Parent’s Purse apologetically slung on my shoulder, I’m guiding my kids on a suburban adventure looking like Anderson Cooper on-location.

And when the weekend rolls around, I can divest myself of the diapers, meds, toys and snacks, reload with a pocketknife, a poncho, a water bottle and some trail mix, and I’m ready for a hike.

Now I can be a SAHD without having to turn in my Man Card.

So... today I’m sitting on the couch, and i just want to cry.

I know, it’s not very manly to want to cry, much less admit it. But the next time you’ve covered in snot and vomit and milk and cheerios crumbs... none of it yours, by the way... I dare you to tell me you don’t feel the same.

I realize something. Children are born cute and sweet as an evolutionary defense mechanism. If nature didn’t balance out the disgusting, abrasive side of small children with copious amounts of adorable, the story of humanity would have been a short, fast march to extinction.

I love the outdoors, and for the last month I’ve felt an almost unbearable yearning for an extended camping trip. Like three or four days... maybe longer. And I’m under no illusions that this urge is anything other than my fight-or-flight response kicking in.

Because, while there is nothing more rewarding than parenthood, there is nothing more difficult than staying home with a houseful of kids. You know why Bear Grylls likes to go to the most inhospitable places on the planet for a week or two at a time and eat bugs and snakes and scorpions and sleep on bare rocks or a hard palette made of tree branches? Because he has two young kids at home, and he needs to get away to relax. That’s why.

I have four. I’m just sayin’.

For the last five weeks the kids have been passing around illnesses like trading cards. they’ve even been kind enough to share them with me. We can’t even make it to the park for a few hours of running off the built up energy, which means there is a mad case of cabin fever compunding the cases of actual fever we’re dealing with. There is no escape...

This morning everyone seems okay at long last. Everyone wakes up happy. Vidalia, who has been out from school all week, is finally well enough to go back. We go through the normal morning routine... breakfast, clothes, backpacks and off to school. Finally, it’s just me and the little two again, and they’re both sitting quietly watching Backyardigans.

I sit and breathe a sigh of relief. Princess toddles over and gives me a big hug and climbs up in my lap. A big ol’ slice of adorable. “It’s a good thing little kids are cute.” I say to her. “Forget about Man vs. Wild. This is Man vs. Child, and you need all the help you can get just to survive.” She looks up at me and laughs. Finally things are back to normal.

And as The Smile, across the room, declares ”Ew! I have yucky poop!”... Princess throws up her apple juice all over me.

My three-year-old son, The Smile, loves The Backyardigans. So, it came as no surprise that, as I get home from taking his older brothers to school, that he's on the couch and proclaims 

"I wanna watch Back-bardigans." See, it's cute how he substitutes one letter for another. Right?

Right. 

Anyway. I'm putting away the umbrella and taking off my coat, and and not really listening when M asks "Okay, which one do you want to watch."

We have Netflix, and they've got three full seasons up... but The Smile gets in these moods where he only wants to watch the specific episode he wants to watch. No other episode will do. Of course, he doesn't know the titles... instead he focuses on a single line he hears in an episode, and THAT becomes the de facto name. So, there's the "Swamp Monster one" and "The Motorcycle One" and the "Pizza One." It's fun enough to try to figure out which title in the list belongs to the episode The Smile wants to watch on any ordinary day. 

Today was no ordinary day. 

"I wanna watch the 'F#@%ing You' one."

Instantly, I have traumatic flashbacks of "look Dad, I'm a bitch!" M soldiers on valiantly.

"Which one?"

"The 'F#@%ing You' one."

Trying not to laugh and cry at the same time, I duck into the dining room so he can't see me. The conversation continues.

"I... um... I don't know which one that is. What happens in it?"

In his sweet, high, musical voice: "It's the 'F#@%ing You' one."

"Baby... I don't know what you're saying, but it sounds like you're saying a naughty word... no... I'm not really laughing; stop smiling... it really doesn't sound nice. Lets talk about what happens in it so we can figure it out"

Finally I have an idea. "Hey... is Pablo in this one?" He is. "Okay, what does he do?"

"He's looking at Tahsa's house and dey chasing da wermins."

If you're not familiar with Backyardigans, this is still probably gibberish to you. But M and I together cry elatedly "BUGGING YOU!"

"Yes!" The Smile says excitedly.

"Bugging."

The Smile, nodding "F#@%ing."

"No, no. With a 'B.' Buh-- buh-- Bugging"

"Oh. 'Bugging You?' "

"Yes. Bugging you."

And so, with great relief, we started the episode, which is indeed titled "What's Bugging You." 

See? It's that cute little letter-substitution thing again. So, keep that in mind if you're ever alone with The Smile, and he starts speaking to you with the vocabulary of a hardened combat veteran. I swear he's not cursing; he knows what exactly he's saying... and it's perfectly innocent.

We adults however, with our minds in the gutter, are the ones who have the problem. 

WARNING: My kids have accidental potty-mouths. What follows is the explicit detail of the ribald and disturbing things that have come out of their mouths over the last 6 years or so. Unless you have the disposition of a sailor or come from a large Irish-Catholic family, turn back now... No, seriously.

I try to be a good role model for my kids. I really do. But if people outside my home ever heard the things I hear... well, there would likely be a trial involved. 

It all started with Vidalia... quiet, patient, with a gentle, even disposition. Sure, he has his moments of temper and strong-willed-ness...but all in all, he's a good kid. Then one day about 3 years ago, we're at my in-laws (of all places), and Vidalia says with a perfectly straight face

"I want some ass cream."

"Excuse me...you want what?"

"Ass cream."

"Um... no you don't."

"Yes I do. I really, really like ass cream."

Of course, what he's trying to say through his lilting southern accent (I blame his kindergarten classmates) is "Ice Cream." But I swear to you, if you heard him say it... well, it's a different meaning entirely. 

...

Fast forward about a year and a half. We're at the movie theater, taking The Avenger (about three and a half years old at the time) to the movies. We've done due diligence at the concession stand and happily munch our way through the previews.

He is reaching his hand into the bag I'm holding just as the screen goes dark and as the crowd hushes in anticipation for the movie to start he proudly announces, "I LOVE COCK PORN!"

"Um... PopCorn! You love POP-CORN!"

"That's what I said!"

His tragic transposition plagues us in public and private settings for about a year. To this day I cringe inwardly when some hospitable host generously asks "Who wants popcorn?"

...

Still, with the two of them, I knew what they meant and could correct them on the spot. But about two weeks ago, The Smile hopped his way excitedly into the den, Plants his hands firmly on the ground, raises his rear into the air.

"Daddy, look! I'm a bitch!"

My fingers were a blur on the keyboard as I quickly checked the Hulu and Netflix histories to see what the kids might have been watching while my head was turned. To my relief, nothing untoward showed up. 

"Um...you're a what?"

Loudly, and clear as day (and still quite proud), "A bitch!"

He does a roll, bounds to his feet and bounces happily back down the hall. 

This happens several more times over the course of a week. And just as I'm deciding that I'm a pretty liberal guy and I love my son and will accept him no matter what his particular leanings happened to be, I hear from behind me as we're loading up the van to go somewhere, "Look Daddy, I'm a bitch!"

I look up into the rear-view mirror. He has his feet firmly planted in one seat. His hands firmly planted in another, and his body is arched over the empty aisle between them...and I weep openly. 

"A BRIDGE! You're a BRIDGE!" I let out a deep breath. He's two. His "r" sound simply hasn't developed yet!

"Yes!!!" He laughs brightly as I come around and give him a big hug before buckling him into his car-seat, thankfully I figured it out before I had to explain it in public. 

"You are a great bridge, son."

And now I wait nervously wondering what the baby, the little sister is going to say. Hopefully I have some time before she catches me off-guard. Most likely in public in an entirely inappropriate setting and, of course, completely unprepared. When it happens I hope you'll come support me at the trial.

So, today, the avenger turns 5... and he just about made me cry. 

No, not for the typical "my baby's not a baby anymore" thing (though M did have a bit of that going on last night). And, no, not for the (well-justified) "Dear God, this means I'm O-L-D," "Starting-my-own-mortality-in-the-face" reason

No, this is for the "we-may-have-to-rethink-his-nickname" reason.

Before Vidalia went to school, Avenger got to open a present from all of us, so V wouldn't miss it. (It was a Super Why outfit, complete with cape, mask and "why writer"). He was super excited.

About 5 minutes ago, still wearing the mask and cape, he opens a card from his great grandmother which, in keeping with the laws of physics and nature, had a little cash inside. When M asked what he wanted to do with it, The Avenger says"

"I want to buy Vidalia something with it. Something he'll like."

*blink* ... *blink*

I don't know...maybe it's the cape and mask that brought out a desire to help others?

Okay stomach bugs and other assorted nasties...you've had your fun...it's time to move on.

Seems like everyone has been hit lately. As the head of the house, naturally it was my priviledge to be the first one hit. I never actually lost my lunch or anything. But it was a close call a few times. Then Vidalia and M were hit. Can't be sure, but we think The Princess had it...then again, she spits up all the time anyway, so it's hard to tell really. However, she was inordinately fussy a couple of days ago.

Now the avenger is in bed, watching a movie, with a garbage can close at hand. He lost it once a few days ago, was fine yesterday, and had a relapse this morning.

So far, the only one not hit has been The Smile. And I'm really hoping he avoids it altogether, because he's the last hope. He's the mighty Casey, and if he falls victim, there will be no joy in Mudville. Then the HappySAHD will be the TerriblySAHD.

Of course, we should probably be thankful that it's just a stomach bug, and not the EvilPigSick.

This is a story I wrote for my boys a few years ago. Figured I'd share it with you. I'd love to hear your feedback!

I'm not just a SAHD. Technically, I suppose I'm a WAHD---a work-at-home-dad. A SAHD-WAHD if you will. I don't like the way that sounds when I hear it in my head, though, so I stick with SAHD.

When I first decided to stay home with the kids, I thought it'd be cool. I'm a writer, but the actual writing doesn't take all that long. I can do that in 15-30 minute bursts and stolen moments that would otherwise be wasted time. Research and landing prospects is the tough part. But even then, all I need is 2 hours per day, uninterrupted. Just 2 hours! No problem!

Um...problem.

Vidalia (see Cast of Characters) stopped taking naps when he was...what...four years old? He simply doesn't need them. The Avenger NEEDS them. But he doesn't like to take them. As with bedtime, he'll come out 1000 times to potty, to get a sip of water, to tell me he's afraid of the dark

"It's 12:30 in the afternoon, buddy. It's not dark"

"But I'm afraid to be alone!"

And so on. The Smile, as with just about everything else, readily accepts naptime, and often seems to enjoy the thought of laying down for a few hours.

The net result is usually this:

1. Vidalia's at school.

2. I put The Avenger and The Smile down for naptime

3. The Smile goes to sleep

4. The Avenger asks if it's time to get up yet. 5 minutes have passed since I put him down.

5. The Avenger has to go potty, even though he just went.

6. 30 minutes later, it's quiet. Too quiet. I catch The Avenger watching the TV from the hallway.

7. See #4. It's about an hour into naptime.

8. See #5.

9. The Avenger is thirsty. Probably from going potty so often. That's just not healthy is it?

10. See #5.

11. The Avenger finally falls asleep. It's been about an hour and a half since naptime "began." I settle down for my two uninterrupted hours.

12. Fifteen minutes later, The Smile wakes, well-rested and full of energy.

13. Vidalia gets home from school.

14. The Avenger wakes about half an hour later.

15. The Happy SAHD is up at 2am doing research and wondering if it's too late to call up a new prospect...

Still, there are benefits. I'm there. I get to participate. I get to watch them learn and play and grow. Of course, sometimes it's hard to remember how lucky i am at 2 o'clock in the morning ;)

The world is a strange place to me. That's probably my fault. Fear has never really bothered me. I tend to regard it as a curiosity. "Hmmm, that makes me feel uneasy... I'm going to  get closer and have a better look."

ASIDE: I'd probably be the second victim to go
in any good horror movie (you know, the first
usually gets killed through no fault of their own...
just minding their own business and WHAM! But
the second guy...he hears the thud in the base-
ment and goes to check it out...even though the
power's out and all he has is a wet book of
matches.)

Yet, for some reason, natural selection has been kind to me. I haven't been weeded out of the gene pool just yet.

But, as I said, it's left me with a view of the world that apparently many don't share. And as I walk through the store, or at the park, or even at events at Vidalia's school...I'm left with this image of parents walking around with these large cocoon-like pods in their arms. The pods are thick, leathery, obviously well-suited to protect whatever's inside...yet these people carry them around like antique glass Christmas ornaments.

There aren't really any pods, of course. It's actually the children. Come here. Don't run off. Get down from there. Don't touch that. No. Stop. Don't.

M and I have this discussion frequently. I have no desire to protect my children from the world. I'll give you a minute to digest that, just in case you're like most people. Here, let me say it again.

I have no desire to protect my children from the world.

Don't get me wrong. I intend to protect them from serious harm. I don't let them run with knives, or wrestle strange dogs, or talk to candy they don't know. You know, common sense stuff. But I don't have a pod. I don't grab them when they're jumping on the bed. I don't tell them to get out of that tree. I don't say "quit your rough-housing." Why?

I have no desire to protect my children from the world...I want to prepare them for it.

Instead of saying "Stop that right now!" I say "If you keep that up, you're going to get hurt." They have a decision to make, and they have to deal with the consequences.

Don't worry, I hear you. "But...but they're just kids! They don't know how dangerous things can be!"

You're right, of course. They don't. And they never will until they get to experience it first hand. Many kids want to jump on the bed, and they jump like madmen as long as they can before someone stops them. My boys still like to jump on the bed too, but they're pretty darn careful about where they are and how high they jump...because they've all fallen off. They understand that gravity is a harsh mistress.

The most insane recent example of the pod people is the president's recent speech to school kids. I mean Holy Cow. I don't give a rat's ass what you're politics are (I personally hate all politicians regardless of what side of the aisle they're on)...the outcry against the president's speech was utterly ridiculous. The reason given was "he's going to indoctrinate the kids with his socialist agenda."

Really? No, really?

It was a 15 minute speech. If your child can be indoctrinated as a socialist in 15 minutes, I'd say that's YOUR fault, not the president's. Second, the text of the speech was online. I read it. No a whole lot of propaganda in there But even if there had been...I would have addressed it at home later that night. "Okay...so what do  you think he meant when he said capitalism is the food that sustains the horrid beast of western excess?"That way, the next time someone makes that argument, or a similar one, they can say for themselves "...wait...that argument is wrong because..."

And that gives me comfort. Because eventually they are going to be out in that world on their own. I'd rather my kids be familiar with the sorts of things that might confront than the alternative...unzipping the cocoon and sending them off to college on their own at 18, completely unaware. Unless you're planning on carrying the cocoon for the rest of their lived.

Now THAT'S a thought that scares me...

...they're all sleeping. It wasn't easy, but I assure you no pharmacology was involved.

The Avenger always seems to have the most trouble with bed time. And he's stealthy like a ninja. You'll be there watching TV or banging away on the computer keyboard, and out of nowhere---

"I need to tell you something."

Once you swallow your heart and re-secure its proper placement, you turn, and all you see is an eye, an ear and some hair peeking out from behind the doorjamb.

"What is it, buddy?" You try to minimize the aggravation that laces your voice. What follows is a request for a sip of water, or the announcement that a trip to the restroom is imminent, or one of half a dozen other excuses for getting out of bed and causing you to require a change of undergarments. For the third time that night.

Then again, this is The Avenger. Perhaps he's just putting me through my paces for the things I've done to him throughout the day. I'm have to pay more attention and see.

Now I'm off to the mirror to see how many new gray hairs I've got tonight...