The Toddler Death March, pregnant feet and Man Spas

Taking a break from baseball and wandering back to the usual scattershot approach …

* Since one day my son may read some of this stuff and I’ll eventually need him to take care of me when I’m a feeble old man I want to apologize right now because what I recently intended to be a nice trip to the park ended up becoming the Toddler Death March.
Usually a trip to the local park involves throwing my 16-month-old into his stroller or push car, cruising over to the playground and then running around for a while.
But on a Sunday afternoon I decided to give him a chance to make the several-block round trip by walking while holding onto my hand.
That worked just fine on our way to the swing and slide set.
But on the way back? Totally different story.
I’m pretty sure a loud bonk could be heard echoing through the neighborhood as he crumbled onto the grass just a few steps into our journey home and desperately clutched at my legs asking to be picked up.
It was like a stereotypical war movie where a gravely wounded soldier desperately doesn’t want to be left behind as everyone else runs for safety.
We made it home and he was nursed back to health by dinner, story time with a bottle of milk and a good night of sleep.
Sorry kid, dad had no idea walking a few blocks could be such an ordeal.
You must have felt like Clint Eastwood when he was forced to walk across the desert by Eli Wallace in “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly.”
* You are following TWGB, ETC. on Tumblr, right?
If you’re not, drop by for your weekday fix of totally random stuff.
And by “random” I mean “mostly stuff about baseball.”

* Damn my wife’s pregnant feet all to hell!

After she had our son her feet underwent some strange transformation and almost none of the shoes she owned fit her anymore.
I had to donate two or three large garbage bags full of shoes more than a year ago.  It was like I was married to a centipede.
Seriously, why does anyone need that many shoes?
Somewhere out there there’s a lucky Goodwill shopper with my wife’s former shoe size strutting around in cute looking shoes for next to nothing.
Well, now the pregnancy bug has bitten my wife’s feet again and they’re swelling up at a rapid pace.
They got a little wider after my son’s birth and they’re getting even wider now.
When I suggested she check out this Web site for new shoes she was not exactly amused.
C’mon, suggesting your wife buy clown shoes is funny, right?
OK, maybe not.
I don’t remember a chapter about any of this in “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.”
When she broke the bad, expensive news to me part of my exasperated response was, “You’re Chinese, can’t you bind your feet and save us some money?”
That went over about as well as my earlier suggestion to buy clown shoes.
I may stick my foot in my mouth a lot but at least my shoe size hasn’t changed for more than a decade.
We have to save money somewhere.
* Story time every evening with my 16-month-old son has taught me something very important: I need to write a children’s book.
Almost every book we read to my son seems to have about 50 words spread out across a bunch of cute pictures.
People are making a living off these little pieces of literary fluff so why the heck am I plugging away at a regular job for 40 hours a week?
Stephen King is a damn fool cranking out books that are several hundred pages long at about the same rate that my son fills his diaper can.
There’s a gold mine in children’s books, I can just feel it.
* My wife, as always, amuses me to no end.
While recently lobbying for a prenatal massage at a local spa she pleaded her case by emphatically telling me that I have no idea what it’s like to carry around a big belly.
My response?
“What are you talking about?  Look at my gut! I’ve been carrying around a big belly since we met.  At least at the end of 9 months your big gut goes away and you have something amazing to show for it.”
Let’s face it, it’s not like I’ll ever go into labor and deliver the beer baby I’ve been carrying for more than a decade.
She won the debate and got her massage which left me wondering: Where’s a nice spa treatment tailored for lazy middle-aged guys like me with out-of-control beer guts?
We need pampering too you know.
I really think there’s big money to be made if someone takes a cheesy approach to this and opens up a chain of Man Spas.
How about massage therapists dressed like cheerleaders?  A massage chair with a flat screen TV underneath it and on the ceiling tuned in to ESPN?  A microbrew beer, gourmet steak sandwich and a fine cigar waiting for you after your massage?
I bet that if I opened a Man Spa it’d be like hitting the lottery.
I’d be hated by married women everywhere but I’d be set for life.

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