All the kid asks for are crackers and milk. But at least he said please, so I happily retrieved a few Ritz crackers and tried to hand them to him.

“No dada! Bowl!”

Of course, how could I forget? He needs to have all of his food in a bowl or else he can’t eat it. So I fetched a small plastic bowl and I dropped the crackers in. And that’s when Will lost his fucking mind. I’m serious. He cried and cried and screamed like a friggin lunatic. And for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why, because I had given exactly what he wanted.

Even though Will is extremely communicative right now and able to express himself very well for a 2-year-old, his fit of rage left him temporarily speechless. His chest was heaving and he couldn’t stop the sobs long enough to speak. Finally, after several minutes and a whole lot of soothing, I was able to extract from him the reason for his hissy fit.

It was because one of the crackers had a piece missing.

I shit you not. The edge of one cracker had crumbled slightly. So because of that nearly imperceptible little flaw, my son could not eat ANY of the crackers currently in the bowl. I thought maybe he just had a hangup with crackers, so then I went and got the deli cheese out of the fridge, which I know he loves. And sure enough, he was totally excited for it. But before I gave him a piece of cheese, I ripped a very small piece from the corner.

Bad idea. He threw another hissy fit of epic proportions.

At first I was confused but then it all kind of started to make sense. When Will sits in his booster seat to eat at the table, before he dines he needs me to roll his sleeves up. Even if he’s not wearing sleeves. Hell, even if he’s not wearing a shirt. Doesn’t matter. I still need to pretend to roll his sleeves up so they won’t get messy. And when it comes to the food on his plate, you cannot fuck around. If there are two separate foods on his plate, they sure as shit better not be touching. God help you if they’re touching. He will allow different food to be on his plate, however the food must be in his Mickey Mouse plate and stashed in the ears because there is a divider that keeps the food separate.

But it goes beyond food.

Will has a bunch of toy cars with which he loves to play. Some of these cars have doors and hoods that open up. But they can absolutely not be opened while he is playing with them. If a door or hood is ajar it ruins his whole playtime experience. He will lose his mind. And if the cars or trains or blocks aren’t lined up directly in front of him in neat rows, it’s all over buddy.

When it’s time for bed, Will has to have his “friends” with him. He has to be holding Lambie, Monkey and Bear. And when he goes to sleep he clutches them to his chest tightly, and then rolls over three times before settling on his stomach, as I sing him the same verse of the same song to lull him to sleep. Note that I once tried to sing another verse from the song, and all hell broke loose.

I wondered how the hell my kid could be like this. I’m so messy and not organized whatsoever. My desk at work can best be described as chaotic (although I pretty much know where everything is) and there is a constant flow of dirty clothes littering the floor and my side of the bed. So how, I asked myself, could my kid be such a freak.

Just then I walked by our bedroom closet, and the answers suddenly revealed themselves.

I always knew MJ’s side of the closet was neat, but I had never really studied it before. What I saw wasn’t just neat, it was organized to the nth degree. See I put my “nice clothes” on hangers in the closet. I throw them in there haphazardly and don’t give it a second thought. But MJ? She not only has her good clothes in there, she divides them up even further. I realized she has dresses she wears socially separated from her work dresses. Then the business suits and power outfits are separate from that.

Intrigued, I went into her dresser.

While I have a drawer for underwear, she’s got an underwear system. On the left side is the frilly stuff. Lace, thongs, all the cool shit. In the middle it became the second-tier stuff. Still sexy but definitely a step down. And then, on the right, are her everyday undies. Faded and worn cotton numbers. The kind married guys are used to seeing except for special events, when she harnesses the left side.

On and on it went. Socks, shirts, jeans, pants. Everything had its place. Not to mention MJ doesn’t like her food touching either. I once made her a burger, put it in a bun, put the bun on the plate and then scooped her some baked beans. And the baked beans touched the bun!! It was a near catastrophe I tell you.

So what’s my life going to be like? Apparently I’m going to be surrounded by ridiculous amounts of needless organization while sitting on the couch that must be exactly parallel with the carpet. I’ll be eating perfectly round circular food and pieces of cheese with sharp 90-degree angles. All of our plates will be replaced with cafeteria trays that adequately isolate our meals, ensuring everything is contamination free.

Basically I’ll be rooming with Jack Nicholson from “As Good as it Gets.” Minus the good-natured racism and witty repartee.

You have a buddy, a great guy (reverse gender if you’re penis-deficient) who you love to hang out with. He’s fun, he’s smart and everyone likes him. He’s the life of the party. If he were a rug in The Dude’s house he’d really tie the room together. You catch my drift.

But then Capt. Cool Friend gets a girlfriend. At first you’re excited because she’s super hot. Blindingly hot. The level of hot where you can’t look at her without getting a little uncomfortable in the pants. And for five seconds you’re more envious of that friend for landing such a gorgeous woman than you’ve ever been of anyone else in your life.

But then she opens her mouth. And suddenly you’d rather sever both your ears than listen to one more narcissistic word from her perfectly formed lips.

Gisele Bundchen.

I’m not friends with Tom Brady. But I have been a psychotic fan of the New England Patriots since birth, and because Tom Terrific brought me three Super Bowl trophies I long ago declared my ever-lasting man love for him. And for a long time, he was perfect. The only thing he did wrong was date Tara Reid for a short time, ruining the 2002 season. Even when Bridget Moynihan pulled the goalie on him in late 2006, saddling him with a kid despite their break-up, I didn’t hold it against him. Tommy Boy could do no wrong.

Until he married that twat Gisele.

She is a Victoria’s Secret supermodel. She is 1,000 different flavors of gorgeous. She oozes sex. So needless to say, at first I was happy for him. The best quarterback in the NFL marrying the most successful and beautiful supermodel of all time? It made sense. And all the male (and surely some of the female) fans idolized him even more than they already did. Just imagine what life would be like, we thought, with Gisele Bundchen to come home to every night.

But as it turns out, it would be a nightmare.

Gisele became a mother for the first time last December. Since then, she has opined on nearly every hot button parenting topic. Most recently, she told Harpers Bazaar UK, that breastfeeding helped her keep her figure. Which is all well and good, but Gisele took it juuuuuust a little too far.

“Some people here (in the US) think they don’t have to breastfeed, and I think ‘Are you going to give chemical food to your child when they are so little?’ I think there should be a worldwide law, in my opinion, that mothers should breastfeed their babies for six months.”

Look, I’m pro-breastfeeding. OK? I think breastfeeding is a good thing. The healthiest thing. Got it? Gooooo breastfeeding. But being an advocate for breastfeeding is one thing, tearing down non-breastfeeding mothers by insinuating they are chemically poisoning their offspring is something else entirely. And then suggesting a ridiculous “worldwide law” to FORCE all mothers to mirror all-knowing Gisele the supermodel, is on a whole other crazy planet.

What about the mothers who try their damndest to breastfeed but can’t? Or the ones who simply hate it? There are a myriad of reasons a woman might not breastfeed, but whatever that reason is I can guarantee you one thing: it’s none of Mrs. Tom Brady’s fucking business.

Although I was initially shocked to read Gisele’s comments, I quickly realized I shouldn’t be surprised. You see, this is not the first time she’s stuffed her perfectly manicured foot into her gaping runway of a mouth.

Shortly after her son was born, Gisele spilled all the details of the delivery and the weeks leading up to it. How she gave birth at home. How she gave birth naturally, meditating the entire time without uttering so much as a scream. Then — and I’m willing to bet this made most women consider hiring a hitman to hunt Gisele down — she was back modeling on the runway just weeks after giving birth with her flawless body back intact. And in addition to yoga and doing kung fu right up until her son was born, here’s her big secret:

“I think a lot of people get pregnant and decide they can turn into garbage disposals. I was mindful about what I ate, and I gained only 30 pounds.”

And then, two months ago, Supermom told the Boston Herald that her then 6-month-old son was — wait for it — potty trained. I’m serious. She said a 6-month-old was already dropping regular deuces in the potty.

Mmm hmmm. Sure. What’s not believable about that?? First she only gains 30 lbs because she didn’t become a fat ass garbage disposal like most women. I’m sure that had nothing to do with the fact that she makes 80 kajillion dollars a second and can afford her own cooks. Her own army of gourmet chefs actually. Then she has a pain-free delivery made enjoyable by meditation. Reports are she made pancakes for breakfast the next day. Next she loses any trace of the baby weight in .84 seconds after giving birth and gets back on the runway. Yet she still has enough time to needlessly potty train an infant. And now she has proclaimed herself a “world legislator,” creating laws for all of womankind to follow her in her perfect ways.

All Hail Queen Gisele!

Now look, I’m all for breastfeeding. And good for her for losing the baby weight so quickly. But keep in mind, beauty is her profession. She has to look that good or else the well dries up. Not to mention the vats of money she and Tom have to spend on trainers, health food, etc. I also think 6 months is absurdly early to potty train a kid, but to each his own. And she said she wants to live on a farm with Tom, Baby Ben, and lots of chickens and ducks. That’s fine, although Tom may prefer goats.

The problem I have with Gisele isn’t her actions, it’s her know-it-all, holier-than-thou attitude and the seemingly perpetual need to reign supreme over the rest of the parenting world.

So even though I’m just a peon, I’d like to make my own law. I think all leggy supermodels who are traveling down this road called parenting for the first time like the rest of us, should shut their uppity mouths when they only have a few months experience on the job. And in this case, I think said supermodel should concentrate all of her energies on keeping my star QB happy so the Patriots can roll to a fourth Super Bowl.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to tend to my non-potty trained, formula-fed 2-year-old who was brought into this world by a drugged up mama who gained considerably more than 30 lbs during pregnancy, but still managed to remain the hottest bitch this side of the Cape Cod Canal.

Alexandra Christine Gouveia.

MJ and I don’t know for sure if we were having a boy or a girl. It was still kind of early to tell, not to mention the legs were fused together which made it hard to determine the sex. But we both agreed we were having a girl this time around. After all, I figure only a girl could be this much trouble!

We liked the idea of a boy’s name for a girl. We would’ve called you Alex for short. And as an added bonus you would’ve been named after one of our best friends, Alex (aka TheBear on these forums). Your initials, ACG, would’ve been the same as mine. And I have no doubt you would’ve been smarter than me and more beautiful than your mother.

A few people have asked why we don’t just save the name if we like it so much, and use it if we have another daughter in the future. But that sentiment right there epitomizes all my fears.

My biggest worry through all of this is that no one will remember Alex.

After all, she wasn’t born. She has no birth certificate. There was no funeral. Although MJ and I will always remember her, the rest of the world will surely forget. And to me, there isn’t much worse in the world than irrelevance. People tried to comfort us by saying there had to be a silver lining, or that somehow some good would come of this. But those words carried no weight in my mind. How could they? My baby and our dreams were dying right in front of our eyes. How do you possibly find any good in that?

Well, I found the answer.

The response I received after posting my encounter with the protesters was nothing short of overwhelming. It was viewed by thousands of people all over the world. It was on the front page of Twitter. And of those thousands, hundreds left comments and sent e-mails that made me laugh, made me cry and just plain moved me.

I did not have a master plan when I decided to turn my camera phone on and give them a piece of my mind. I just knew they had hurt my wife, and I will confront anyone who injures her in any way. I had no intentions of making a political statement or becoming a lightning rod in an already contentious and deeply personal issue. I simply knew I wanted to show their hypocrisy and hopefully show other people the hurt protesters indiscriminately spew at women who all have different backgrounds and different stories.

I had no idea the kind of chord it would strike with people around the world.

Shortly after I posted it, the e-mails and comments started trickling in. And then the flood gates opened. I was bombarded with notes of thanks and atta-boys. And I was appreciative of that. But then the testimonials came in and those changed my life forever.

Some of you shared deeply personal stories with me. Some of you were in the same position as we were, with a fetal abnormality deemed terminal. And like us, your problems were unnecessarily and cruelly compounded by these people who say they’re “only trying to help.” And then there were those of you who made me openly weep, telling me stories of how you were impregnated after a rape. After suffering the indescribable atrocity of being sexually violated like that, the thought of hostile zealots shouting at you all because you didn’t want to carry a rapist’s baby made me sick to my stomach. I can’t even imagine. One by one, on and on the e-mails kept coming. And I read each and every one of them, committing them to memory and keeping them close to my heart.

And that’s when I realized Alexandra’s brief life absolutely meant something. Something very important actually.

Alex may never have seen the light of day, but it’s because of her I was able to shine a light on the bullying and fear-mongering being performed on “God’s behalf.” And limited although my resources may be, I was able to share our story with thousands of others. Even people who consider themselves pro-life, who e-mailed me and told me our saga had changed the way they look at the issue. Sure we still don’t agree on the issue, but that’s OK. I’m not looking for everyone to have the same viewpoint here. What I am seeking is respect. Basic human decency. Something those pro-life (an misleading characterization if ever there was one) protesters are severely lacking.

And I can say without hesitation that our 16-week-old Alex changed a handful of opinions.

She also did something equally important. Little Alex made me a better man, father and husband. Life is never more precious than when you lose it. As pained as I was by losing Alex, she made me love my wife and son even more. When those people cut down my wife at her weakest point I felt the very core of my male DNA power up to prehistoric levels. I went into Protector Mode. At that point the only difference between me and my caveman descendants was my cell phone camera. Not that I didn’t love my wife before, but this reminded me just how much I love her. How strong and beautiful and wonderful she is. And it also renewed my appreciation for Will, who is happy and healthy. I will never take that for granted ever again.

So we will think of another name if we have a daughter in the future, because we already had a daughter named Alex. And while we never got to meet her, we will love and remember her forever. And hopefully so will some of you.

This story bothers the shit out of me.

If you don’t want to click over, basically the story is about a growing number of parents who rely almost exclusively on text messaging, e-mails and instant messages to communicate “secretly” so little ears don’t pick up on it. From the woman in the passenger seat of a car texting her husband in the driver’s seat so she doesn’t wake up a sleeping child, to the couples who schedule sex through texts and e-mails, these parents claim this kind of electronic communication is a “complete parental survival tool.”

This, of course, is complete bullshit.

I know, it might surprise some of you that I feel that way because I loves me some technology. I have a Blackberry I check constantly. I’m permanently attached to my laptop while I’m at home. I’m forever on Twitter, Facebook and tending to the blog, and I’d consider selling Will to the highest bidder in order to purchase the new Droid Incredible.

But relying almost exclusively on non-verbal communication is detrimental to a relationship. Think about it.

First of all, the very thought of texting my wife while I’m in the same house is stupid. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about a flirtatious text that leads to something romantic later. That’s great and should be encouraged. I’m talking about the ridiculousness of texting MJ while we’re under the same roof if we have anything of consequence or importance to say to each other. Let’s face it, you can’t always project sarcasm or tone in a text. People invariably read e-mails and texts with suspicion, which often leads to misunderstandings.

Second, did you read the remarks from the pretentious asshat of a parent in the story who ramps up his vocabulary to confuse his kids? If he’s thinking about going out for ice cream, he’ll say to his wife “Should we give the elder a frozen confection?”  Obviously this yuppie prick is completely full of himself, because if I use that language in front of Will I want to help him understand what all the words mean. I don’t want to be a secretive douchebag who feels smug about outsmarting a little kid. To this jerkoff I say “I fully intend to showcase my pugilistic abilities on your visage.”

And finally we get to the paragon of motherhood who admits that when she has something important to talk to her husband about, she bribes her kids with a $1 bill to leave the room. Something they may regret in the future when their little darling is dangling off a stripper pole feverishly collecting $1 bills and the attention she never got as a child.

I know some of this is exaggeration, but I really do think the lack of face-to-face communication between spouses can have serious negative impacts. Can you imagine sending a text to your wife from another part of the house that says “Depressed lately, thinking about quitting job” or even worse, “I don’t think u & i r working. TTFN.”

Parents never have enough time, and no doubt we rely on texts that say “Can you pick up a gallon of milk?” and “Running 15 minutes late.” That’s fine. But talking about complex issues that directly affect a marriage via e-mail or instant message? That’s messed up. Not to mention it sets what I believe is an awful example for our kids, as the spoken word and face-to-face conversation are quickly being phased out of our lives by ever-expanding technology.

By the way, I’m on the couch and I figured I’d try this out on MJ, who’s in the bedroom 15 feet away from me. I texted “How bout a little sumpin sumpin?” She said, and I quote, “If you wanna talk to me get your sorry ass in here and talk to me. Why the hell are you texting me you lunatic?”

See? If MJ had texted me that I would’ve never been able to enjoy the scorn and derision in her voice. I guess we’re old fashioned.

MJ and I always planned on having two kids.  Ideally they’d be about three years apart because we never wanted to know the sheer joy and ease of having one potty-trained  kid, only to have to go back to diapers with a newborn.  Better to have six-plus years of diapers all in a row.  So Will just turned 2 this month. If you’re bad at math, that means I have T-minus 3 months and counting to put the proverbial bun in the oven.

In a perfect world I’d do just that. MJ would be pregnant tomorrow.  Then, in a few months, we’d sell our condo and move into a cute little single-family Cape with a fenced in yard for Haley. New baby would come home to an impeccably decorated nursery and all the white picket fenced goodness the American Dream has to offer.

But those aren’t the cards we’ve been dealt.

Simply put, we’re in rough shape. Very rough. To the point where some extremely large changes are probably coming. We don’t have the money to pay all of our current bills, so needless to say the added financial burden of another child seems more than slightly incomprehensible. So for the past few months we’ve been crunching numbers and having some really serious discussions about what we should do.

Last week I was dropping Will off at daycare and our provider was holding a 5-month-old baby named Maggie. Her phone rang and as she scrambled to answer it, and she asked me if I’d hold Maggie for her so she could take the call.

And that’s when everything became very, very clear.

As I held that beautiful little girl close to me, all the nostalgia came rushing back. Those huge blue eyes and the goofy, happy, one-toothed grin. I stared at her in amazement, tracing her fleshy miniature fingers and remembering the joy I felt when I did the same thing with Will. Speaking of Will, he loves babies. LOVES them. He’s so gentle and caring with little kids, and each time I ask him whether he wants a brother or a sister, he happily chirps “sister!” The kid was destined to be a big brother.

Then I thought of my own brother. Sure we couldn’t breathe the same air growing up, but eventually Nate became one of my best friends. And even though we fought all the time, we were also constant playmates and built in friends. We were each other’s measuring sticks for sports, school and everything else. And now I don’t know what I’d do without him. And there mere thought of Will growing up without someone to pal around with (or protect if it’s a girl), is too tragic to consider.

Look, if the question is can we afford to have another baby then the answer is no. We cannot. But you know what? We can’t afford not to either. Because more than anything, we both feel the most important thing is our family. And while Will is spectacular, our little unit is not yet complete. And we’ll do anything in our power to make sure that it is.

How will that work financially? I have no clue. Not a single fucking one. But I know it’ll work out because it has to. Because it’s what we’re going to do.

And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but after having that magical moment with Maggie, I guess a girl wouldn’t be so bad.

WHEN YOU’RE DONE HERE, CHECK OUT FATHERHOOD FRIDAY OVER AT DAD-BLOGS WHERE THE DADS ARE PROBABLY MUCH LESS OF A PUSSY THAN I AM TODAY!