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True Confessions of a Stay at Home Dad
In May of 2011, I dismissed class for the last time and began a new chapter in my life, full-time dad. I taught middle school for seven years, but with two kids and a third on the way, I wasn't able to give as much time to teaching as it required, plus I wanted to spend more time with my own kids, instead of someone else's.

My wife and I have been married for nine years. She spends her days (and some nights and weekends) as an OB/GYN, or as my kids like to call it, “catching babies.”

We have three kids. First Born is eight years old, but likes to pretend she’s in college. Our son, Middle Man is five, but we’re convinced by the way he talks about things like “beautiful sunsets” that he’s an old soul, and our youngest, the Blonde Bomber is only three, but already has the attitude of a teenager.

Our kids provide us with an endless amount of stories. Writing and retelling these stories for Indy’s Child has been my part-time job for the past three years.

You can contact me on Facebook at True Confessions of a Stay at Home Dad or via email at indyschildpete@gmail.com.

One Bad Decision After Another

One Bad Decision After Another

August 25, 2013 | 06:41 AM

Yesterday was basically just a series of bad decisions... one right after another.

First there was the festival we wanted to go to. Instead of going when it was cool in the low 70s in the morning we waited until the afternoon when it was in the mid 80s.

Second, I thought it made sense to park at our friend's house and walk to the festival instead of paying $5 to park there (reoccurring blog theme, I'm cheap). The walk seemed shorter in my mind. It ended up being a mile and a half, each way.

We all left the house hungry.

The bottles of water we took were warm.

We forgot sunscreen.

The kids were still tired from being up way too late at a neighbor's house the night before.

After the kids ate, we let them get dessert, which our youngest daughter put in her hair and our oldest daughter spilled it down her leg and into her shoe.

We ate there, but not enough food to be full, so when we finally did get back home we still needed to cook dinner, even though that's the last thing either one of us wanted to do.

So there you have it. How to turn a few hours on a perfectly good Saturday into a hot, complaining, sticky, grouchy mess.


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