Sunday with Dad (Anyone got a spare helmet?)

My Sunday with Dad (Anyone have an extra helmet?)

              Hey world, I'm back and I'm in need. Does anyone have a helmet and body armor fit for a 5 month old? It's an emergency- my life is in danger.This past Sunday, for three plus hours I was under the care of someone who can be best described at a blind lumberjack without a cane. This man, also known as my father, rumbled through the house while unintentionally playing chicken with my skull. You see, as he moseys along to his next distraction, Mr. Coordinated, i.e my father, tromps upstairs and through doorways without a care in the world. Meanwhile, my head and body narrowly miss taking on the role of a stunt double in the in the last scene of the film Titanic.
            Now, let me make something very clear, it's not like I don’t try to do everything in my power to anchor my father.   After all, I am my mother’s son as well as my Uncle Alex’s nephew… I am clever and never wrong. Case in point, the moment I awoke I dropped a bomb that would make Dr. Robert Oppenheimer proud.  Seriously, this thing had a mushroom cloud that was visible from far beyond the confines of Diaper City.  And, while Dad was mopping up this mess, I doused him with a stream golden goodness that would make a 49n'er go diving for gold.  Do you think "You got to be f'n kidding me" is today's way of staying "Eureka, were rich!"? Anyhow, between the bomb and the golden standard of facial cleanses, Dad was fully occupied for a good 20 minutes.  Yet, like all good sessions of basking on the changing table do, it came to an end.  This time, with my father deciding it was time to take a little stroll.
            Like I asked earlier, anyone got a helmet?  I kid you not, going on this walk with my Dad was the equivalent of playing the video game Frogger, except the stroller embodied the frog and my Dad was the joystick.   That guy bypasses stop signs, plays 'stroller hopscotch' between  sidewalk and the street and... that not even the worse part! When people honk,  he waves at them like their saying hi.  Well that was until some polite, forward thinking gentleman  yelled,  "Hey ass hole, it's a fucking street, not your personal pedestrian  walkway."   Don't worry, Dad just waved, smiled and then....just kept walking.
            Oh, by the way, it was on this so-called morning stroll that Captain Oblivious chose to make use of his time by practicing Spanish.  That's right, ear budded and unaware, my father butchered the Spanish language; while at the same time trying to control our spastic dog with one hand and guide the stroller with the other.  Traffic accident here we come!
            If my Dad speaking Spanish to himself is not embarrassing enough,  he concluded our walk with a solo performance of Taylor Swift's “Shake It Off”.  Yup, you want misery, just think, my father, his voice, mumbled Spanish and Taylor Swift…  Try to shake than mental image off.
            Anyhow, after our walk, Dad spent the next two hours venting to me about how some fantasy team of his blows.  Why the hell would I care about some stupid fantasy of my father?  Is he serious?  That’s right Dad, brilliant idea.  Let’s spend our Sunday glaring at a computer screen, cheering for players who beat their wives and call it fantasy.  Seriously, again, does anyone have a helmet? I need to cover my ears.
            It should be noted, that given my displeasure for my father’s piss poor priority list, I screamed for the majority of those last two hours.  Finally, Mom came home and life returned to normal.  She fed me. I napped. And when Dad went off to watch football, wearing some of the ugliest orange and blue anyone has laid eyes on; Mom and I took another walk.  This time, no helmet was needed, as like all of our daily walks, I simply listened to Mom as she vents about my father.  I tell you, it is music to my ears.. father's these days.

Anyhow, if you have a helmet, please let me know.

Anderson (The Main Man) Ridder

Anderson "The Stud" Ridder

One of the perks of being an infant is I have no idea what my sexual orientation is...I mean shit, I could be straight, bisexual, queer or all of the above.  Obviously, it should be clear to all that my future sexual desires are completely out of my control.  Mom and Dad say they will love me no matter what… I wonder if they will be saying that in three minutes when they see the Picasso I created in my diaper?

Anyways,  I must admit, suppose ten years from now I determine that I am straight. Well let me tell you, if that is the case, I better remember my infancy and I better remember writing this blog because I am living the f’n dream.  For one, my first three days outside the ‘pee pee pool’ consisted of me being coddled all day everyday by women.  I mean talk about heaven on earth; the entire new born unit does not have a single male nurse on staff.  It’s similar to a strip club, but unlike Vegas, I’m the stage and the nurses hands are the dollar bills.  “Make it Rain!”

  

Next, I need not forget that during the last three months of my forced encapsulation I got caressed by every woman and their mother.  Seriously, my mom’s belly was like a Versace designed rabbit’s foot, every lady had to rub it for good luck… And in turn, this little guy got free massages.  From grocery lines to our treks to dumbass four legged creature land (otherwise known as the dog park) ladies would go out of their way to rub Mom’s tummy.  Gentlemen, one question, who need’s massage parlors when you’ve got in utero parlors?  

Finally, as a mature four-week-old, it has become evident that women f’n love me.  I am the graham cracker, the chocolate and the marshmallow all wrapped up into one.  Women just want s’more of me.  Let me explain.  Since I left the hospital my parents have had an absurd amount of people enter our house.  Each time that a lady arrives at our door, they come with fresh food and immediately ask my mother if she is doing okay. Once they get these formalities completed; Wabam, they proceed directly towards the beacon of awesomeness.  Like my Mom's friend said, "He makes my ovaries hurt." The sad thing is, I actually kinda feel bad for my Dad as not a single girl gives a shit about him.  That’s probably because I look like my Mom, thus I am far better looking.  Simply put, it’s not my fault that I am absurdly cute, its a gene thing.  Needless to say, it should be obvious to all by now that the women of this world cannot resist the aura of Anderson “The Stud” Ridder.

Infant Fit- Why I am in Better Shape Than All Of You.

For the past few week, my fathers has been talking about this activity called Crossfit.  Apparently Crossfit is a really intense workout program he self-indulgently uses to keep in shape.  Hearing him talk about this fitness activity it becomes abundantly clear that the whole thing can be described in two words: cultist and overrated.  To be honest, my opinion is not just for Crossfitters, it applies to pretty much anyone and everyone over the age of two weeks.  From Yogis and Triathletes, to hikers and Zoombaers, all non-infants brag about their method of physical prowess.   When moronic adults discuss their extra-curricular  purposeful movements, they inevitably boast that their method is the most difficult, the most effective and ultimately, the key to obtaining a body like a newborn who partook in 5,000 umbilical cord skips each gestational day.  Hearing these so-called athletes yap about their various “strenuous” activities, I think to myself, “Wow what a bunch of ninnies.  (I was reprimanded by father for employing another word that start’s with a P, apparently it is offensive.)  Do these people have any idea what fitness really is????”

Look, every morning I am obligated to CRAWL up Mount Everest and K2 just to eat.  That’s right, two massive mountains.  Again, that’s crawling, not walking.  Oh yeah, I do this all without the benefit of extra oxygen.  Sir Edmond Hilary ain’t got shit on me. Oh wait, upon summiting these massive peaks I celebrate with some… lip ups!  No champagne baths in this man’s world.  That’s right, I rep out 1,000 lip ups upon summiting each massive mountain.  Yes, for those who are confused, no arm’s needed in my world, I can press 75% of my bodyweight with just my lips.  Impressive, obviously!  I may look like a shriveled old dude -- but I am a Ridder.    

Okay, I get it, so I summit the two highest peaks in the world, and while at these extreme altitudes pound out countless body weight lip ups, but to those apathetic souls who still remain unimpressed- try this on for size.  Once I complete the above mentioned feats, I don’t replenish my energy with a Gatorade or a Power Bar.  This stud does not have time for that laziness.  Instead, I use my remaining energy to develop and tone my abs.  Sit Ups?  Hah, that’s for wimps.  If you really want to develop a six pack like Mark Walberg in the 1990’s, you must hiccup for an hour straight.  And at the end of this parade of hiccups, a strong, forceful imitation of Old Faithful from the mouth really pushes those abdominal muscles to max.  Needless to say, I think it is high time that people recognize that their method of fitness is, well, pathetic.   My name is Anderson Thomas Ridder, I do Infant Fit and I am badass S.O.B.  Challengers???     

The Hospital, otherwise known as Heaven.

For the past three days my parents have been dying to go to someplace they call “home”.  Wow, I have only been earthified for three days and it is already abundantly clear that my so-called caretakers are utter morons.  Why in the name of everything that makes life outside the uterus fantastic would anyone want to leave the hospital?  I have two words to my so-called Mom and Dad- ABORT MISSION.

Seriously, the hospital is like heaven on earth.  For one, my father gets to sleep on a piece of furniture that must have been invented by Edison’s son, as its design is flawless.. I mean the the entire chair folds out into a bed the size of his torso. To be honest, I would give my yet to descend right nut to sleep on a chair that is truly fit for a king. Of course, beyond the obvious luxurious accommodations, the hospital also has the best service.  Right now, it is 6:00 am and the nurses have stopped by four times in the last seven hours.  Incredible I tell you.  Its not like these nurses just peek their head in either.  Oh no, that would be far too easy.  These nurses turn on all the lights and ask in very audible voices, “Is everyone doing okay?”  They even ask my father if he needs anything while he sleeps.  He is clearly not very thankful for this, as upon their departure, he always grumbles “Why can’t they just leave us alone!  All I need is some sleep.”  As someone who was alone, sleeping in a pool of urine for the 8 and ½ months, I love the attention and the company these nurses provide.  My father’s irrational behavior can only be defined as selfish.  Anyways, in order to make sure my father’s egotism does not reflect poorly on me, I make sure to let the nurse’s know how appreciative I am via a good twenty minute thank you cry.  I conduct these symphonies immediately after they leave.  Finally, and most importantly, my mother is treated like a princess.  I simply can’t understand why she would ever even consider leaving.  Beyond the above mentioned amenities, the Doctors insist that Mom not move a muscle.  They are so attuned to her needs that despite the fact that she makes it abundantly clear that she is able to walk to the bathroom herself, the Doctors insist that she not burden herself with such a laborious chore.  Instead, to adhere to here needs, they, without fail, quickly bring her a beautiful, shiny silver potty pot.  What a treat!  I’m not sure, but I bet it is made of pure sterling silver.  Man, she is one lucky women.  I get plastic and cotton strapped around me like a waist noose, and Mom.. .She gets sterling silver.  Yet, what do I know?  Mom hates the silver pot, Dad proclaims that his throne has screwed up his back and after three days of living the high life Mom and Dad are getting the "Hell out of the Hospital." Of course, despite my obvious disapproval of this decision, it's quite clear that I have little say in the matter. Unfazed by my tears, Dad simply seizes me, straps me to some chair and hauled me out like an infant in a car seat. So much for family decisions! Good bye professional nurses! Good bye luxury! Hello home. Or should I say, hello life with a bunch of f'n amateurs.

My Arrival

Hey World, I have arrived.  For those who don’t know, I have been chillen for the past 37 weeks in my Mom’s tummy.  My time behind this human barrier was far from ideal.  Apparently, according to some unwritten rule, I am supposed to flip upside down so that my head is facing my Mom’s feet.  What a load of crap.  I simply had no interest in making such an acrobatic move. My reasoning was two fold.  For one, to flip, a baby must posses coordination, this skill is simply not in my genetic make up.  I mean seriously, have you met my father?  Secondly, to accommodate for this flip, at least 5 percent of my living space would need to be composed of my own urine.  Really?  Who wants to swim in their own pee?  I tell you, people and their ridiculous expectations.    Needless to say, instead of flipping, I kept myself busy by playing musical toilet with my mother.  Its a great game, a game that I sadly can longer play, now that I’m earthified.  The rules are simple.  Baby kick Mom’s bladder until Mom is forced to sit down. If baby can make Mom sit down before 4 hours have passed, the baby wins! I got really good.  As of July 1st I was pretty much winning every hour. Unfortunately, I never got a chance for a celebratory exit lap through the tunnel of awesome… Believe you me, Doctors just shit on fun.

Anyways, on Thursday July 17, Mom and Dad went to the Doctors to try and force me to flip.  Ummmmm, like I was going to let that happen.  As you can probably guess, despite the Doctor’s best efforts, I didn’t budge.   After the attempt, I can remember Mom saying, “He is a Stubborn Little Shit.”  After Mom’s comment, the Doctor  informed my parents that the Stubborn Little Shit was putting himself in danger and needed  to be extracted from his too tiny swimming pool via C-Section immediately.  

Look, I was 37 weeks.  I had no clue who this little shit was and certainly did not understand why the Little Shit needed to be extracted  What I did know though, is after 37 weeks, I was not going to stick around to find out.  I was ready to head towards the tunnel.  I even let Mom know I was coming by breaking her water dam. Yet, despite my warning, four hours after the Doctor tried to play Tetris with my body, he pulled me from my Mom’s tummy.  I have since learned that living right-side-up and disliking urine pools is unsafe.  Doctors, what to they know?

Regardless, outside of an A-Hole snipping my junk, life in the real word is pretty cool.  My days consist of sleep, boobs and snuggles.  I look forward to meeting you all soon.  The new man in town,

Anderson (Ace) Thomas Ridder (6 Pounds, 7 Ounces and 19 Inches of pure awesome.)