J.J. Goodman: Writings, Musings and More

In the span of four days my beloved offspring turned eleven months old and celebrated her very first Christmas. And this dad's head exploded. I think there are still bits of my brain in the Christmas tree.   (Okay, first, ew. And second, EW!)   Oh grow up. My head didn't really explode. Figuratively, however, there's bits-o-brain everywhere. My daughter is eleven months old. In less than a month's time, she'll be one year old. And for the record, can someone explain to me again why we measure baby life in months? She'll be a year old. Yes, technically, that's also twelve months. I don't know why but it annoys me when people say "oh my little one just turned twelve months old." Your kid is ONE, Brenda. One year old.   (You get annoyed at the most random things.)   I do. I can't help it sometimes. Don't ask me about what happens when I see people who have their windshield wipers going too fast.  

[Warning: Post contains profanity for comedic purposes. Deal with it.] Well here we are at ten months old and... wait. Did she… she didn't. Did she? She did. She DID. Those were steps. Honest-to-goodness steps. She walked. Dear sweet bejeebus holy crap on a cracker, my kid is walking.   Fuuuuuuuuuudge. Only I didn't say fuuuuu… fuck. Okay? I said fuck. Pretty loudly if I recall. My daughter is walking. WALKING. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.   (Take a deep breath there sport. Babies do that.)   She wasn't even ten months old yet.   (Oh. Well… fuck.)   Right??? Yes, dear readers, my daughter, at the ripe old age of 9 months and 22 days decided that crawling is so pass é . I mean, seriously. Crawling is for babies. That's like ordering a non-fat, low-foam, high temp soy latte from Starbucks when everybody is ordering a skim milk, mid-foam, high temp latte.   (I… don't think that's a thing.)   I hope not. Because if I got stuck behind

When people tell you that time goes by fast when you’re raising and caring for a baby, believe them. Believe the ever living f*ck out of them. (How does one believe the f… never mind. We don’t want to know.) All I’m saying is that the time does goes fast. Like, Buffalo Bills fans leaving the stadium during the third quarter of a 41-9 blowout fast. (Bitter much?) I’m a Bills fan. It’s in my blood.   Anyway…. I admit that I am sorely remise in my writing my parenting prose lately. It's been three months, and for that I do sincerely apologize. Several months ago, as many of you know, I took on a new writing gig that has taken up a good deal of my writing time. And, frankly, my creativity. Add to that the regular stresses of work, some work travel for both me and my betrothed and, well, here we are. My daughter has now been alive on the outside as long as she was on the inside. Holy. Crapballs. As fast as time itself has gone, my daughter has grown equally fast. At

Hey gang. So, er, um… yeah; I am admittedly writing this post about a month later than I normally would. I was honestly a bit surprised, and humbled, when several of you asked when this post would be coming this year, if at all. As a writer you always hope people are reading your work, but you never really can be sure that your words are coming through. I will totally admit that I had a bit of a “they like me, they really like me” Sally Field moment when people reached out, and for that I thank you. Now, for you newer readers in the last year that are wondering what in the hoppin hell I’m talking about, I’ll explain: Even newer readers should know by now that I wear my heart on my sleeve and I am unafraid and unashamed about sharing the innermost workings of this overactive mind of mine here on these pages. Well, turning forty years old five years ago was obviously a milestone, and one with which I struggled a little. Trying to find the best way to express what I was feeling at the

In the span of three days my daughter turned six months old and I turned forty-five. Years. Forty-five years old. That can mean only one thing. (That you’re ol—) Shut it you. (But it was like you were ask—) Zip. It. *sigh* Yeah. Fine. It means that this guy has got himself a ticket on the one way train to Oldmanistan and she’ll be pullin’ into 62 nd station right about the time my offspring matriculates from high school. Of course, that assumes there will still be schools then. The way this current governmental administration is going, I could be having this conversation around the time she turns eighteen: Offspring:       Dad, tell me one more time why we have to live in this bunker? Me:                 *blink blink* Offspring:       Never mind. I’ll just go to my cot and read 1984 again. (You seriously need help.) Preachin’ to the choir, my friend. Anywhoos… Yeah, this birthday kind of hit me. Thirty-five hit me hard because at that point I had n