Parenting is like facing a major league pitcher

Parenting is like stepping into the batters box and facing a major league hitter? How so, you ask?

Well, it starts off when you finally get called up from the minors (getting married). You enjoy the honeymoon for a bit and then you find out you're having a kid. The experience is awesome, you really enjoy it, etc. Then you're called to the plate. It's time to hit.

First off, you have no idea what's coming at you. You've read all the scouting reports, you THINK you know that this pitcher has a good fastball and a helluva a curveball. However, don't sleep on his change-up either. And for kicks, he has a nasty splitter that will make you look foolish.

So you first at bat (a year into being a parent), you have all the background you need to give it a go. More often than not, you're going to strike out, maybe walk or ground out to the shortstop. In essence, you're feeling you way around the game (trying to figure out how to do things like wash bottles, mix baby food, etc.)

As the games go by (kid gets older) you start to really get the hang of it. You're becoming quite the hitter. You're spraying singles to left, going opposite field and maybe evening hitting a couple dingers here and there. This equates to getting comfortable in your parenting routine.

So one day, you're at the dish, facing the pitcher you faced when you broke into the league. You know that he's going to start you off with a first pitch strike and probably follow that up with something just off the plate, in the dirt, etc. The key for you during this at-bat is to wait for a 2-1 count when you know he's going to throw that fastball again and it'll more than likely be middle it. He doesn't want to go down on you 3-1. This equates to eventually you start becoming a robot at this parenting stuff and you've pretty much got it master.

You're digging in, asking the ump for some time. You square up, do your routine, settle down and here comes the pitch.

Instead of the fastball, middle in, you get a 99mph steamer that's got a beat for your head, i.e. the major league brush off pitch. Little did you know, you're 4-4 for the night and have been a pain in the butt all night long and all season long for the pitcher. He's had enough. He wants to dirty that nice white uniform you've got on. The pitch comes in, you're scared to death and hit the dirt. Then you're thinking to yourself, "Man, I thought I knew this guy. Thought I had a beat on him."

Well folks, just like in Puke Fest 2008, myself and the wife got a high heater last night from Godzilla, aka, kid #2.

We went to a friends house and were letting the kids run around, get tired, etc. It was really an excuse for the adults to hang together, have some brewskies and chill out. That all went fine and dandy. We get home later that night and the kids are so wound up that they are not tired enough to go to bed. Our strategy here is to feed them some snacks so they get full and tired.

So we did that.

After the quick feedbag session, Mrs. Big Guy took Godzilla out of her chair and said to me, "Did she poop?" So, like any normal parent would do, I sniffed her butt.

Oh yea, she went alright. She exploded. All up her back, into her PJ's, etc. Not until my wife skidded up Godzilla's PJ's did she realize the severity of the situation.

Basically folks, poop was everywhere. It was the nastiest thing I've ever seen come out of something so cute has Godzilla. I literally puked in my mouth. It was fowsty, horrid, wretched, etc. If I never see anything like that again in my life I'll be a happy man.

My point to all this? Mrs. Big Guy and I thought we knew what was going on. We'd feed the kids, put them to bed and then have some adult TV time on the couch - just chill out and veg.

Did that happen?

Nope.

In comes a high heater right at our heads, knocks us on the dirt and reminds us that parenting isn't all that easy sometimes. No matter how much you think you know the scouting report, it never pans out the way you expect it.