How do you know you’ve watched too much Game of Thrones ?When you start seeing White Walkers everywhere… including while you’re reading a bed time story to your kids:
Stellaluna is a freaking ice zombie!!!!
SPOILER ALERT….
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❄️ If there can be a dragon white walker… why not a cute bat from a children’s picture book?
My son is fearless… Jackson is literally more manly than his dad. I’m ok with that. I look at it as if I’ll always have someone around the house to take care of the dirty work… kill the spider on the ceiling, set the mouse traps in the attic and take care of crawling under the deck to clean out the old wet leaves that gather all winter.
I’ve written early blogs about how I hate the stuff I call “Yuck”. Bugs are disgusting. They are dirty and full of germs. I don’t even like butterflies (they are just colorful bugs). I know kids are supposed to play in the dirt, eat mid pies and like insects and snakes and stuff. I get it. I once had and ant farm (for like 20 minutes). Jax thinks ants are cool. He loves chasing moths around the house when they get in the house.
Yet what i witnessed today, the pictures his teacher sent me, those… for all intents and purposes ends our relationship as father and son. The only way we can go on living in the same house is if we cut off his arm that touched that disgusting alien looking life form. I’m saying he has to go around armless… we can replace it with something. Just can’t be the arm that handled those bugs.
Bottom line Jax… it’s the arm or your father… You’re move…
Read more about my feelings on YUCK: https://chroniclesofanewdad.com/2014/10/27/ocd-and-yuck/
I am not the bravest warrior on the battlefield, let’s face it, elementary school principal isn’t exactly the most daring profession in the world (important yes), but its not like I am running into a burning building to save someone’s 13 year-old Siamese cat or fighting ISIS soldiers who strap suicide bombs to themselves. I do what I do, because I love to make a difference in the lives of children… and also so I don’t have to go on high speed car chases after bank robbers.
I won’t lie, I still set my house alarm when I am home with the garage doors shut, I won’t go downstairs at night without turning all the lights on first. I’m not much of a risk taker. Going blind would SUCK and going blind because you going blind because you didn’t heed all the warning and tried to be a tough guy would be so horrible. Like, you have the warnings and more importantly you have the very scientific and high-tech Solar Eclipse Viewing Glasses right at your finger tips. In 1979 (the last full solar eclipse) there wasn’t an ease of shopping like Amazon Prime or Target. You didn’t have the ability to view this eclipse while saving your retinas was not possible.
But what do you do if you didn’t get those fashionable 1985 movie theater-style 3-D glasses and your son wants to look at the eclipse? Well you make your own Eclipse Viewing Device of course…
Going out to see the #solareclipse like: 
PS: Such an underrated song: Total Eclipse of the Heart- Bonnie Tyler
The time has finally come. That time that every parent fears: their child’s school performance/play. I’ve seen so many of them as a teacher and principal and they, from that side are amazing. An opportunity to see 300 students whom you work with each day, who’ve you’ve seen grow abs improve each day, put it all together and show off their growth.
Growth mindset, that’s what it’s all about as an educator. But as a parent. We want to see the end product. We want to see an end product from start to finish and then get the heck out of there. I don’t want to watch everyone else’s kids spin around in circles, or cry on stage. It’s uncomfortable for everyone. You feel bad for the teachers who have to don the kindergarten Three Little Pigs costume and be the only ones up on the stage to know the lyrics and Dane moves. There’s the parents who are standing just off to the side yelling stage directions to their child who they feel should be acting on the next Nick Jr. Hit show and you as the parent who’s just happy your kid hasn’t run off stage and peed in the bushes.
Then there is the fact that you’ve worked a full day and have nothing in your stomach but a granola bar and three cups of coffee. All you want is every performance to last just long enough to snap a few pictures to stick on Instagram and time it so perfectly that it looks like your child knew every part of the play. Then you can set it as your profile picture on Facebook so it looks like you have the next Robert Deniro on your hands. The worst part though… the transition time in between class performances. Class A runs around the stage, the poor teachers looking like Rocky chasing that chicken. They might as well be herding cats. Poor Class B is having kids who are screaming and crying dragged onto stage so their parents can clap and wave. It’s painful to watch as 17 hours pass in between songs when all the audience wants is a smooths and quick transition like when Netflix only makes you only wait five seconds to watch the next episode. No time wasted, no one hurt, one class off… the next one on… everyone’s happy.
However, there’s always that one child. The show-stealer, the ray of light, the savior. You know right away that they are meant to be on that stage… to bring entertainment to the masses. To bring joy and happiness to the masses as soon he/she takes the stage. It usually happens after a lull in the show. Maybe a few classes performed a nursery rhyme or too… maybe they just stood still and smiled. But then it happens… a child comes from the clouds and struts his stuff right to center stage. You can tell from that twinkle in their eyes that something special is about to happen. Then you hear the intro. The beat drops like your at an old school Notorious BIG concert. It’s the Lion King… you instantaneously know that child is going to put on a show like no other. “I just can’t wait to be king…” the perfect metaphor for what is about to go down. The king of the Pre-School Play is about to dominate the make shift stage in the center of the parking lot.
… and that’s just what happens. It just so happens that the new king of the stage was my little boy. Jackson “Fred Astaire” Fragola. It started off slowly, and I could hear the crowd starting to chat amongst themselves. Then it happened, Jax sensing the crowd was in need of something to cheer for, stepped forward and put on a show for the ages.
A few more moves brought ohhhs and ahhhs… and then it happened. The half turn, the look-back smile… and the then… THE RUMP SHAKER! 
It was over, right then and there. He had officially taken over. The crowd lost their collective minds. It was pandemonium…
…And then… just as quickly as it started, it all came to an end. With Jazz Hands and a smile… it was at that moment a true star was born.
When you’re six months old and already outgrew your infant car seat
I remember carrying jax around the house with one arm and being able to pretty much do any household chore with ease. Not with this meatball… he should charge a monthly gym membership for holding him because that’s about the equivalent of doing a full body workout.
No more car seat stroller…we’re in the toddler stroller now.
Lately I’ve been noticing a lot of families with three-plus kids. They catch my eye mostly because I wonder if the parents are secretly a witch or wizard, or a real-life saint. I just don’t get how any set of parents and even more so any single parent hasn’t dropped their children off on someone doorstep with a note from Albus Dumbledore wishing them luck.
I don’t consider myself a perfect parent, nor do I consider either of my children difficult for the most part, but I’d like to think I’m more than capable of handling and raising two tiny humans. Yet, for some reason, having two kids feels like having 18. I honestly feel like there are more kids living here that I don’t know about… just sneak in at night and make messes, dirty more clothes, eat everything in the fridge, take out toys that I didn’t even know we own and pee everywhere (actually that is probably just the dogs). Everywhere I turn I’m stepping on a legit or magnetic letter. I’m either yanking a toy truck from the jaws of a dog or chasing one of them down because they already swallowed a pacifier. If I’m not peeling the skin off of a hotdog, I’m scraping the burnt part of the cheese off of a slice of pizza.
I can’t remember the last time I sat on the couch with the remote in my hand and got to watch something other than Paw Patrol Saves a School Bus or Peppa Pig Goes on Vacation. SportsCenter? What’s that? HBO? Huh? I guess the “time” thing is less of an issue when I think about it. I’m ok with not having alone time. But it’s the constant tornado of baby puke, crying and inanimate object being launched into orbit that continues to put me in the state of disarray.
I just can’t imagine how people can work, workout and have a social life let alone do all that with kids. How in the world did my parents do that with three kids. How the hell did my mom raise three kids and nanny two more at the same time. That’s inhuman. That’s insane. That’s supernatural. There has to be some sort of X-MAN type powers for anyone who can survive with more than one kid.
Just tryin’ cruise through parenthood like:
Six months of magic, madness, misery, and more mesmerizing, memorable moments than I thought possible. Oliver was born six months ago today… mind he’s six months old now, but was six weeks early then.
He’s provided us with more drool, poopie diapers and scream-filled nights than any mom and dad ever thought possible… (Well, at least since Jackson was six months old).
Let’s face it there are certain things in life that are just constants… if you own a dog, they love you unconditionally, if you play football you’re going to have at least one concision in your career, and if you live in Connecticut you are most definitely going to get stuck in horrendous traffic on 84 numerous times… but nothing is more definite in life than the obligitory sibling bathtub picture.
Besides Jackson trying to put Oliver through a touch less carwash, he did try to comfort Ollie when he was crying.
This picture will definitely be shown to future friends, girlfriends, wives and children!
…SORRY SONS! 
brain·wash: ˈbrānˌwôSH,ˈbrānˌwäSH/ (verb)gerund or present participle: brainwashing; make (someone) adopt radically different beliefs by using systematic and often forcible pressure. “the organization could brainwash young people”
synonyms: indoctrinate, condition, reeducate, persuade, influence, propagandize, inculcate “the evidence is compelling that these cult members were indeed brainwashed”
You’ve read the above definition right? Good. Then you clearly know that my sons being Yankees fans is in no way brainwashing. You are BORN a Yankees fan. You aren’t made one. You bleed PINSTRIPES. I grew up a Yankees fan because the Yankees are in my blood. Bronx born, Pelham raised… Yankees for life…
… so what if it takes a little NYY nightlight to help make sure my youngest is on the right side?
It’s not brainwashing if it’s in your blood! 
This kid’s luscious locks have stunned anyone with eyes for the past six months – with “ohhhs and ahhhs” every time the wind blows through his lion-like mane you’d think he’d be on the cover of Vogue at this point. The thing is… he was born with this. Just like this… he was literally born with better hair than most adult men.
I guess a trip to the salon for a wash and blow dry is up next.
“It’s a bold strategy, Cotton. Let’s see if it pays off for ’em.”
“Napoleon, don’t be jealous that I’ve been chatting online with babes… *all day*. Besides, we both know that I’m training to be a cage fighter.”
“It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s Superman!” ….. or is it!??? 
“You think you can hold me?” -Gellert Grindelwald to the aurors who caught him. 
Sorry Sons: Chronicles of a New Dad 
