Clint, Tiberius, The Man With No Name.

She hates them all.

Flint, Max Power, Studly Mcwhoopass.

She hates them to.

Poncho, Dutch, Hawkins.

She won't even consider those.

Desmond, Jack, Killian.

Those won't fly.

In short, my new child may be born without a name.  It is his mother's fault.  Not good old dad, dad wanted to set him for life with a name like I Drink Your Milkshake Hoss.  Imagine signing that on your IRS forms.  There is no way that guy gets audited.  In fact, I bet he doesn't even have to pay taxes.  All because his Dad stood on that ledge and declared to the world, HERE IS MY SON, HE DRINKS YOUR MILKSHAKE!

And it could be very funny, for only a short period of time.  However, like previous pregnancies, Hossmom has lost some of her sense of humor.  Perhaps it's the constant back pain and getting up 12 times a night to pee, I'm not sure.  But she doesn't laugh at my silly quite as much as she used to.  In fact, I'm beginning to think that she may hate me and blame me for her current condition.  It's too soon to tell, but I believe she may be putting anti-freeze in my morning breakfast that she cooks. 

I'm just kidding.  Hossmom doesn't cook.  That's crazy talk.

Now some of you may be thinking, Hey Hossman is having another boy.  I'm here to tell you, I don't know.  We were supposed to find out but she changed her mind.  When?  When the doctor asked us if we wanted to know.  I said yes, she said no.  I said what?  She said shut up.  I said make me.  She said my sour cream enchiladas suck.  I cried.  Good times.

So I don't know the sex of the baby and it appears that "we" have elected to be surprised and that "we" really don't have a say in the matter.  Instead of coming up with one name now, we have to come up with two.  We have the girls name and I love it.  But for some reason, we are beyond stuck for a boys name.  Mainly because my wife gets all wishy washy on this stuff and I have the inability to consider real names, like John.

For the last three months we have been discussing this and for the last three months she has shot down everything that I have said.  For the first month, I was actually serious about it.  I threw out good names.  Nolan, Ronan, Sawyer, Liam, etc, etc, etc.  They were met with "maybe", "meh", "humphs".  1000 names met with 1000 unenthusiastic responses.  So I've gone to the fringe and now I am considering naming my kid Johnny Biceps.

I think our children know the tension that this has created in our family, they can sense it like they can sense weakness.  If you show up with one ounce of wavering confidence in this house you will soon find yourself playing a "story" with Barbie as she fights off the evil Transformers.  Oddly, Barbie rarely wins and ends up swinging at the end of a rope. 

My son has broken our stalemate and proudly proclaimed that he has a name already picked out so we should just shut our piehole.  He has decided that if he is to have a little brother, he shall be named Arbity, and the world shall rejoice.

I like it.

So that's where we stand, that is the name of my new kid and that is how we refer to him while he is in the womb enjoying my fabulous sour cream enchiladas that Hossmom can't get enough of.  But now there is a new argument between us.

Hossmom says that it should be Arpitty, with a P.  I say that my son clearly said it's Arbity, with a B and only one T.

We asked my son about it.  He said

SQUIRREL! and has refused to discuss the topic any further.

Yup, only 4 more months of this.


Don't Use The Hammer.

I didn't give my son a hammer.  We should all remember this.

I have taught my children to use hammers, of course I have, I am a good father and everyone knows that responsible hammer ownership is in the constitution some where.  So I have taught both of my minions to use a hammer and use it well.  I have taught them that things that are alive, you don't hit with a hammer.  I have taught them that you can hit things that are dead with a hammer, but it's pretty gross.  I have taught them that steel and metal deserves to be hit with a hammer.  And that, is the mistake.

My garage is, as you would expect, my sanctuary.  No one is allowed to give me "design ideas" for my garage.  No one is allowed to tell me how to "decorate" my garage.  No one is allowed to hang anything on my garage walls.  It is a place where work gets done and not a place where the pretty gets admired.  I have a whole other room for the pretty.  It's the basement and if she puts in the lotion in the basket, maybe she can come admire the garage.

I do allow my children to the garage though as I find this to be a great place to have many of the father/children important life lessons kinds of talks.  Things such as "Son, treat your mother with respect or you will one day be nailed to my wall."  The atmosphere is great for those deep learning talks that you must have with your children.  I imagine one day I will explain to my daughter about her monthly cycles in my garage, thus damaging her forever and creating an awkwardness between us that will last a lifetime.  We shall never talk about it after that moment.  But she will also know that this is where I will take "Chester", her future deadbeat boyfriend, and explain to him that if he ever hurts the apple of my eye, he will be nailed up next to my son for disrespecting his mother.

My son and I were in my garage to fix a chair, a pretty old chair.  It is/was quite beautiful.  Made out of what I think to be walnut, mortise and tenon joint work, a thatched back that has, until now, survived my minions.  Walnut is one of the toughest woods known to the every day wood worker and in theory, what you build out of it will be good for the next 100 years.  That was before the Little Hoss testing phase though so as you can imagine, it is broken.

It is broken because that is what my children do.  They break things that have stood up to 25 years of abuse.  25 years and the chair has been just fine.  1 year in my house and all of a sudden a walnut leg gets snapped off.  I am told that it was an accident.  We seem to have a lot of "accidents" in this house.  I don't need to really go into details about how they broke the chair because it's become so common place now that I figure you can just go back and read any of the other 100 posts I've done and extrapolate from there.  You will reach the same point that we are at now, we have a broken chair and my son and I are going to fix it.

In all honesty though, I do love when the minions help me fix things.  They are getting pretty good at it which should show you how much practice they get at it.  We do have a rule here, you break it you fix it.  They seem to like the rule, maybe because they get to spend quality time with dad in the garage.

I have the chair clamped up which took some work as it is an odd shape.  I had to use 5 different clamps to get it just right and get the damaged chair leg flush with the side rail.  It was being stubborn so I needed to whack it.

I grabbed my hammer.....

Then I thought no, this isn't a hammer job.  Responsible hammer ownership begins with knowing what isn't a hammer job.  I tell my son instead to grab my rubber mallet.  It's not a hammer.

The mallet won't damage the wood but it will give me the proper force to smack the leg back in. I let my son help because honestly, what kind of damage can you do with rubber mallet?  Dumb question.

I tell him to whack away.  This marks the highlight of his day.  His father has given him something heavy and destructive and permission to swing away.  This is his moment in the big leagues.  The grin on his face is tentative, like he's thinking I am messing with him.  I smile back at him and nod, yes son, swing as hard as you can.

He brings the mallet up, eyeballs his target and swings with all his little arm.  Boom, he makes good contact.  He even misses my face, which is a plus.

He hit the chair leg right where I wanted him to hit it.  It slides closer to where it needs to be.  I tell him to go nuts. And he does.  Because I am an idiot.

He swings and hits.  He swings and hits.  He swings and hits.

He is in his own little world now.  He's almost feverish.  Dad said he could swing with the mallet.  Dad is not stopping him.  Swing and hit, swing and hit.  This may be the best day of his life.

I'm enjoying watching this.  I'm enjoying his enthusiasm.  I am enjoying his smile.  I am a good father.

Without warning he turns.  He has grown bored.  He needs something new.  He finds it.  The hood of my new minivan.  He swings.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" I scream as I reach for the mallet.  If I could only reach it before it makes contact.  If only, if only, if only.  My fingers come within millimeters of the handle.  I am to late.

BOOOOOOONNNNNNNNGGGGGG!  The rubber mallet makes contact with the hood.  It bounces back.  The shock waves of air expand out toward us like I can see them.  He prepares to take another swing.

My kids destroy stuff.  It's what they do.  It does not matter what it is.  Nothing can withstand their combined might.

This is why I practice responsible rubber mallet ownership.  Well, at least I do now.