Over the past recent years my children have been more engrossed with easily accessible media, whether it be television, their kindles, iPods and the like. Through such easy access they often hear and see content suited for ages well beyond their years. One of those topics includes love and sex. When my children were younger and still fell short of comprehending the actual acts of sexual intercourse, we gave vague explanations of how babies are made or what actually transpires between a man and woman during love making. We consistently defined such acts with snuggling and kissing, yet my children became more inquisitive along the way with suspicions that there was always much more involved. Of course they were correct, but how were we to go about offering any details?

My youngest son, now 8 years old, seems to have always been overly eager to investigate the workings of the female anatomy. We jokingly referred to him as our “little pervert” ever since he was 3 years old, specifically after catching him flip through Victoria’s secret catalogs. I still remember checking on him one evening shortly after sending him to bed, as he was unusually quiet in such a brief time span after retiring to his room. I peeked into his dark bedroom to discover that he was reading a magazine with the assistance of a toy miner’s helmet equipped with a headlamp. My first reaction was pride- my 3 year old was reading books already! or at least attempting to!! When I asked the little guy what he was reading he held the Victoria’s Secret magazine in the air and said “Boobies”!! Of course I had to laugh but I also felt proud that he was not shy of presenting his interest in women. As the years went by he remained as intrigued as ever, always asking questions. Until recently, if you had asked him how babies were made he still was under the ideology of what we had also explained to him…..that a man and a woman lie down and start kissing, followed by the man putting a seed from his mouth to the woman’s, she swallows and the baby starts growing in her belly. It may seem silly, but as parents we were not always prepared with the proper and quick explanations to many questions our children had.

In this last week I decided to sit down with my son and give him the real scoop on what intercourse and conception entailed. After delivering the news he simply ensued with “Bravo! That’s gross but awesome!” I nearly fell apart.

Although we were certain my 10 year old daughter was aware of the factual process we confirmed the same to her and she just quietly melted in anguish, softly asking if that’s what we did to make our children. After giving the affirmative thumbs up she replied with “So you had to do that to Mom FOUR times? Ugggh”. My son chimed in with “They probably do it a lot more than that!!!” – to which we all had to laugh.

One of the reasons we thought it was time to divulge the proper information was because we preferred they heard the facts from us rather than from TV or friends. There are even some films falling under the PG rating in which cases of rape and sexual abuse may play undertones. With such topics at hand we furthered the sex talk into those areas as well. We wanted our children to understand the severity of criminal acts relating to molestation and other abuses so that they could understand the monstrosities many people are subjected to in this world, and moreover begin ingraining street smarts. My children were floored when I revealed a main purpose of child abduction, and were shocked that it was not just directed at young females but boys as well. They thought such things were absolutely horrific yet simultaneously enlightening. Things made sense.

I want my children to respect the connection people make when they are intimate, yet I also want them to walk the streets with open eyes in order to prevent pieces of shit sickos from taking advantage of them. I want them to stay sharp.

My son still “offers” to get the mail in hopes that he’ll have at least the length of the driveway to check out a lingerie magazine, still jokes about wanting to salami a hot babe, and still humps the banister periodically, but at least he’ll grow with some perspective of how things physically work and respect the opposite sex.

 

In the midst of the Orlando massacre I almost opted not to post material of my usual nature today, however I decided that Americans must continue their ways in an effort not to let these extremists get the better of us. So just to spite the fuckers that create terror I will post this piece I had written hours before I personally discovered the incident in Florida.

Here we go.

Whether you’re 2 years old or 82 years old, some things never cease to be humorous. Whether you’re a stay at home parent, or the CEO of a blue chip corporation some things never cease to make us laugh. Whether you are in a crowded room,  standing alone with a stranger in an elevator, or sitting at the dinner table with your family some things just simply cannot cease to make us chuckle. One of those things happens to be the timeless and au natural art of passing gas.

Not too long ago my day began just as any other. I awoke early enough to run out for coffees, make the children lunches for school and leave the house in timely fashion to hit the gym before going to work. Just before leaving the gym I felt my belly grumble, yet I didn’t give it much thought at the time. As I was driving the 5 minute route from the gym to the office I passed some gas in the car. It was one of those poppers in which the freed gas actually possessed bubble like properties and edged its way up my crack and begged me to lean forward in order to be able to jump out of the back of my pants. In a hurry the bubble erupted, resulting in an odor that seized any fresh oxygen within the automobile. Of course cracking the window only circulated this toxic monstrosity throughout the Subaru like a tornado in Kansas. I had to laugh to myself as I imagined what looks and comments I would have received had my family been in the car with me. Yes, I laughed to myself.

After arriving at the office I felt the grumbling grow rapidly and realized that the experience in my car had only been the beginning. As little gases continued to leak Chernobyl like toxins, a trainee who sat close to me in the office began to simultaneously cower, cringe and wince with nowhere to hide. I found this rather amusing and commenced working on my aim as I released further radioactive spats of bitter currents his way. I was unable to evoke containment of my laughter and arrogantly even swayed newspaper in order to develop circulatory wind patterns at the distress of my colleagues. I was completely entertained. Funnily enough all of those who were affected by my nuclear seepage could not help but laugh as well, even though they begged for mercy.

The grumbling continued.

Later that day I arrived at home, entered the kitchen and nabbed some bites of dinner whilst chatting with my kids about their day. Suddenly a dark and hot gaseous strain of venom escaped through the thick fabric of my jeans and collided with the loving people I call family. My wife, in horror, asked what was wrong with me, yet with an uncomfortable smirk. My children laughed but also thought it was gross. Even the dog looked at me with concern. And I chuckled feverishly. As I continued to rip platoons of radically horrific napalm bombs my family pleaded with surrender – yet they still in some awkward fashion found it humorous.  At one point my wife could not bear it any longer, and in front of the children proceeded to yell at me “are you still shitting your pants?”, to which my 8 year old son spit out all of his dinner in laughter. He repeated my wife’s words, laughing all the while, “hahahahaha shitting your pants”……. and all of us had to giggle.

The moral of the story is that farts will always be funny, no matter how horrible they may seem. I think of my kids tooting away at inopportune moments, whether it be in a restaurant or other public venues. At the time I may be embarrassed but I do in some form find it funny as well. Sometimes my children let one go from laughing too hard, or when they sneeze so abruptly resulting in a SHART that requires a double check to see if they are in need of fresh underpants. And we don’t get mad- we find it rather amusing. I loved it when the rude lady at the cash register was gifted with a rotten treat my 13 year old left lingering for her to deal with throughout the next few customers- it was awesome. That will teach her to reprimand my children without authority. I bet her nose hairs are still growing back.

Or the waitress who conveyed such lack of patience for a family with kids? My awesome 6 year old practically shit her double chocolate dessert just as we paid the check, and I remember waiting for the smoke alarms to engage. As we were leaving my wife and I looked back and noticed how the mean waitress nearly dropped the plates she collected from our table due to the hard hitting wall of flatulence my darling daughter left behind. Karma is a bitch lady!

How about that elevator ride with a stranger? You hope they get off at the 2nd floor so you can hold it in a touch longer, but they press the 11th floor button and unknowingly enter the danger zone as you drop it like it’s hot and get off at the 3rd floor. You laugh your brains out as you leave this person to experience a ghastly chamber of fumes for 9 floors. I’m laughing right now as I still wonder how that poor lady survived!

Or how about when you are sitting at one of your children’s spring concerts, and one of those lingering demons escapes as you cross your legs. I have a tactic though… I quickly look around as though someone else has just violated my area, causing the other parents around me to suspect each other.  It’s just too funny watching the parents’ faces as they hope they don’t get blamed for the thick smog that has surfaced from my deepest inner vault. And you know what? Although everyone thinks its yucky, they all smile as they band together and pinch their nostrils shut. Farts may cause uncomfortable situations, but they are always funny- at least in retrospect.

“Bottom burps” are a often just reminders that we are still in touch with our our inner child- no pun intended. In some strange order of things, we all find humor in laughing gas.

 

 

It has recently dawned on me that one day, in the not too distant future, my children will become too old for snuggles and cuddling. My oldest daughter is now 10 and still begs for me to lie with her until she falls asleep. She’s by far the easiest child to sleep with and she’s just as yummy to snuggle up to as the day she was born. Yet I fear that the day will come soon where she either no longer wishes to have me get comfy in that awesome bed of hers, or where snuggling with my daughter becomes a punishable offense. The latter of course has it’s boundaries but I question when that day will come.

My 10 year old daughter happens to be the Einstein of the family which in turn makes it extremely difficult to win an argument, or at the least calls for hiring a lawyer in order to escape said argument somewhat unscathed. Her vocabulary is unparalleled to a point where I continue the conversation as if I know exactly what she has said, but I then sneak off to google the words on my phone. She is however, still my baby and often requires the love and affection any girl her age deserves.  In the evenings she still longs for either my wife or myself to snuggle her before we retreat into the sanctuary of a quiet house and find some time for ourselves to relax. She’s usually the last one awake, fighting the fatigue that has finally sought her out, all in an effort to be close with us. So what happens when she starts getting closer to womanhood? Or at least teenager status? Do we just get cut off from snuggling from one day to the next? Her hair still has that baby smell, and much like Frank Barone (Everybody Loves Raymond) I often cash in on any opportunity to “suck in the youth”.

Will my children remember the days that their Papa snuggled them to sleep, or warmed them up at bedtime on a cold winter’s night? My 6 year old daughter and 8 year old son persistently urge us to snuggle them in the retiring hours of the day. We are still asked to read to them or tell them funny stories of when we were children. Will they remember us sleeping in their beds while clutching the puke bucket in one arm and their feverish, quivering bodies in the other? Will they remember seeking us out in the middle of the night to find comfort from nightmares or the simple longing to be with Mama and Papa?

My almost 14 year son of course requires no snuggles,  and it would frankly be quite awkward if he still did. He’s entering his freshmen year, dealing with puberty and other challenges brought forth by adolescence. Yet I feel sad about it- did I take all the bedtime opportunities I could have when he was little? Did I tell him enough stories? Sing enough songs to put him to sleep? Did I hold him tight enough with reassurance when he tried to sleep with Chicken pox? Did I make sure he always at his cup of water to get him through the night? I feel like I didn’t.

I guess the oldest of siblings are often our best teachers as parents. We realize, through them, that there are “last times” for everything when your children grow. The last butt wiping, the last song they need to fall asleep, the last of running your fingers through their hair as they doze off. The last little kisses on the neck to sooth them as they are coiled against your chest. The last of covering their cold feet with your warm legs. The last time you fall asleep in their beds.

As much as I take pride in my children’s growth and progress, I can’t help but wish to turn back time. And they’re still young. Will that wish haunt me forever with even stronger remiss?

I can tell you one thing-  when it comes time for my youngest child’s “last” snuggles, they will have to fucking rip me away- even if it means  getting arrested for snuggling.

 

In our last session we covered the ever distressing facets of Dickheaditis which is found to manifest itself in young males, and I concluded the seminar with a promise to further explore the atrocities derived from a well known illness called Bitchophilia. So let’s proceed.

Unfortunately both of my daughters exude prime examples of this sporadic disease and I’m sad to say that the results have taken it’s toll on both my wife and I. Before having children of my own I would have typically attested the common traits of Bitchophilia to adult females only, but I realize now that my chauvinistic ignorance was to blame back in those years. I have discovered that this disease can spread like wildfire and exemplify the brutal wrath of young girls between the ages of 6…. and once again our experience is limited with an end point of age. Although Dickheaditis can often be predicted and prevented, Bitchophilia is completely erratic and often leaves victims in a treacherous  aftermath of emotional monsoons. Let me take you on a ride through some typical attributes associated with this malady  (no pun intended but I’ve theorized that Bitchophilia is a distant derivative of “malady”).

• You’ve had a long work day and arrive at home to find that chaos is already brewing. Your wife is in tears as your 10 year old daughter is on a rampage. At 10 years girls can be quite vicious. She simply won’t accomplish any given tasks or much less respond at all. Your wife went from requesting and yelling to finally pleading, and yet this little girl became even more defiant. Your daughter resorts to slamming the playroom door open and closed repeatedly- not twice, not three times, nor four times…..but 5 fucking times until the hinges almost come undone, ensued by “you’re so freak’n mean!” with a screeching pitch.  At this stage, medically speaking, the high speed fluctuations in red and white blood cell counts have catapulted the child into a Bitchophilic state. The only cure here is “time”.
• I peacefully fall asleep on the couch in front of the television. Somewhere around 2 or 3am, my unconscious body feels uneasy. My Spidey sense is tingling. I’m in a deep sleep mode, but something is plainly amiss. What could it be? My inner voice is now eerily calling, “open your eyes”. As I slowly roll my head from the back of the sofa cushion I notice it, and before actually comprehending what it is, my heart starts the attack. It’s the girl from “The Ring”!! ….standing right in front of me in a Frankenstein-like posture, long hair hanging down in front of her face with the only light source protruding from the television behind her- Fucking eh!!! You realize its your 10 year old daughter but processing that fact takes a really long, long shitty ass minute. You ask her what the hell she’s doing and she replies”I was waiting for you to move your body into a position that would leave me room to get in with you”. Normally when my kids wake me up I send them back to bed but I was still so shuttered by the “Grudge Girl” that the idea of finding comfort with another human being was all too pleasant, so I let her in. This element of Bitchophilia is called “Ghost Bitch”. It can occur about once a month and is a leading cause for prescription heart medication.
• Why, oh why are the children always in a rush to get out of the bathroom, but never in a rush to get in?  My six year old daughter would rather let urine tinkles escape than lose momentum in whatever fun she’s having. This often results in a stinky pee pee area, as the few squirts saturate her ladybug underwear and even her pants. The odor gets to a point of danger- if she were 30 miles upwind from a bear she’d be complete toast. Or worse yet,  you haven’t realized her failure to wipe properly and let her wrestle with you at bedtime when all of a sudden her crotch skims your nose, resulting in tears as though you just chopped the most venomous onion known to man. I categorize this under “Stanko Bitcho”. I know it sounds like a harsh term for a 6 year old, but then so are the toxins that have resonated in your eyes which have begun to disintegrate your cornea. Besides, I didn’t come up with these terms, they’ve been constituted by medical professionals.
• Your wife has given signs that you might get some hanky panky and you start singing  the old Sinatra song “Luck be a lady”.  The boys are fast asleep and you only have to conquer the little ladies. They procrastinate with blabs and giggles but by lying down with them you usually attain expedient results. They finally fall asleep. Now the trick is to get the first leg on the ground while holding onto the headboard behind you for decent support. When your second leg is about to lose contact from the child you must immediately replace is with enough cushion to provide a makeshift presence allowing the child to sense that you’re still there. You’ve learned this tactic from Indian Jones when he replaced the treasure with a bag of sand. The next step is to shift your body off the bed while using your arm to keep pressure on the mattress. If the child notices the mattress rising too quickly from lack of your weight, then you’ve lost another 15-20 minutes. Now that you’ve made it to the floor, make sure all fours stay on the ground to increase surface area and decrease the percentage of likely creaking in the floorboards. You’re halfway there! You start hearing the James Bond tune in your head. Then you hear a creak as you exit the room, so your head finds the turning radius of an owl to look back and make sure their tender sleeping bodies have not been affected- and they haven’t. You back down the stairs on all fours, keeping those very same appendages on the sides of the stairs to again reduce the probabilities of creaking sounds. You’ve made it downstairs, but don’t run to your bedroom just yet as the tremors from your heels contacting the floor may attract danger. Stay in commando mode until you reach your destination. You must, at all costs, continue the black ops ploy until having executed the arrival at your landing pad(the bed). You’ve finally made it only to find your wife is asleep, once again resulting in no sex for daddy. So what do you do? Watch TV, fall asleep, and wait for Ghost Bitch.
• You take your six year old girl to the hospital at 10pm for one of the usual reasons- high fever, extreme sore throat, false prediction of appendix issues when all it really was is gas…. etc etc. As you are led from triage to her bed your daughter sees an elderly lady asleep on an emergency bed hooked up to various tubes, and your little girl loudly proclaims “Papa look! That lady is dead!”. You look, in horror, over at the lady who has just opened her eyes in shock of what she has just heard. She gawks at you with blame as if you’ve failed to explain to your daughter that this woman is not yet ready to meet her maker.  I’ve marked this as “Grim Reaper Bitchophilia”.

It is difficult to summarize all the facets associated with Bitchophilia as my conscience takes over when tackling my baby girls publicly. However, I will state that I am scared shitless of what life will be like when they are teenagers- what infections might I have to face then? The thought of living with 3 women simultaneously dealing with PMS in a few years is already intimidating enough. It might even be a good enough reason to invest in a timeshare, no? Oh the atrocities……

 

Yes, it’s a fact- my sons have a disease that can come and go at any given time, flare up into huge outbreaks, or ever so slightly stage itself in mild doses. It’s an infection called Dickheaditis. This disease is common among boys between the ages of 8 and well …. we are unsure at what age it ceases.

The most common forms of Dickheaditis usually coincide with either a parent’s request to fulfill a chore or when a parent has disallowed their son from doing or having something they desire. There are other various causes as well. I prefer to offer some some examples rather than getting into the deep medical history on the origins of Dickheaditis and why the body and brain seem to malfunction while the subject is symptomatic. Please note there are also sub symptoms of Dickheaditis which I shall delve into as well.

• You’ve forbidden your 8 year old son from watching TV due to having a messy room and he plainly states that you treat him like garbage. Such a statement is a Dick statement, thus he’s temporarily contracted Dickheaditis.
• You’ve taken your 13 year old son skiing for the day and let him stay up late to watch Sunday night football. He subsequently says that he “freaking hates you” because you won’t let him take his Ipod to bed at midnight. This symptom of dickheaditis has now temporarily paralyzed him into a dickheaded state which will only dissipate with much needed sleep.
• Your 8 year old has just finished his little league game while you froze your ass off to watch him pick flowers in the outfield for 7 innings, it’s 8:15 at night and he has a meltdown because you won’t give him 30 minutes on the playground. The other parents watch as he has a tantrum in the parking lot, he calls you “mean” and you wish there were less witnesses so you could strangle the little dick. This dicky move results in a full blown case of Dickheaditis during the car ride home, causing your worst palpitations ever and possibly even contracting Dickheaditis yourself!
• You happen to be home early from work, excited to see your kids get off the bus and spend the afternoon together. But then you discover the sour look on your 13 year old’s face when he realizes your car is in the driveway and his plan for a 3 hour Ipod escapade of texting friends is doomed. I call that “sour dick syndrome” which is a common sub symptom of Dickheaditis.
• Your 8 year old son has spent the last 45 minutes trying to force the birth of a stubborn poop log, all while sitting sideways on the toilet so that he can use the sink as a desk to draw his own comic book. In the meantime the “dangler” has been swaying against the adjacent side of the toilet seat like tall wheat grass in the wind. He concludes his session by wiping but forgets to clean the seat and furthermore hasn’t noticed that each time his butt cheeks rub against the other side of the toilet seat he smears it all around himself. This model of Dickheadtitis is called “Shitty Dick”.
• Your 8 year old has just had a tour of duty in the bathroom as stated above and decides to watch TV naked on the all white carpet. You are now left with a rug that resembles a zebra’s hyde. This sub symptom is called “rectus carpus”- see what I did there? In any case it’s classified under Dickheaditis.
• How about when your 13 year old tells you his baseball game is at a certain location and you realize that, after 3 innings of watching and wondering why he hasn’t been up to bat, you’re at the wrong field! “Scatterbrain Dick” is the coined term here.
• Both your boys are asked to do something and they forget the objective of the mission as they pass by the fridge or pantry to find snacks. You politely remind them twice and then resort to raising your voice with the 3rd and 4th requests, to which they arrogantly respond “Jeez, who pissed in your cereal this morning?”. This frequent recurrence and sub form of Dickheaditis is better known as “Dicko Arroganto”.

There are too many cases to cite, but such a disease should not be taken lightly……If not immediately treated with repercussions such as punishments, yelling or immediate sleep etc then you may have an incurable situation on your hands.

Stayed tuned- I will eventually cover the atrocities of a an infection my daughters sporadically contract, which in the medical field is termed as “Bitchophilia”.

 

 

My oldest son, now almost 14 years old, has entered the realm of sports where he and his peers execute plays with precision and thought as though winning is the only reason to play. Of course these teenagers still play the game as if it’s exactly that, but an element of indifference to the outcome of the score has ceased to exist. They realize that thinking ahead, calling out the possible double play prior to the next pitch and applying their acquired tools, could possibly result in the best possible outcome- winning the game. My wife and I enjoy watching his games as the higher level of play does create excitement and entertainment, not to mention make us very proud when our son has just one handed a grounder to throw the runner out at first.

Then there is the younger level of baseball. In our younger son’s case this level is referred to as the “Minors”. This is the first year where the kids actually pitch the games. Here you have an array of players, some of whom are already showing talent and some of whom can’t get over the fact their their wieners are covered by that ungodly piece of plastic known as a the “cup”. Although the level of play may not be the main attraction at this stage, there is a layer of entertainment that just can’t be beat. It might come in the form of the geeky kid in left field wearing his cap sideways while shooting at non existent aliens with his hands as if continuing the video game he left behind just 30 minutes ago. It might be the kid in right field who is swatting flies with his back to the infield just as the ball rolls by. It might be the batter who’s 8th in the lineup and bails to the dirt every time a pitch comes hurling, even if that very same pitch is way outside on the opposite part of the plate.  We actually saw a kid hit the dirt in fear of getting beaned by a ball that was literally 15 feet out in front of him. Or how about the 2nd baseman and shortstop who can’t stop talking about the new Batman movie all while a pop up is about to land right between them? I still think about the kid on deck who decided that it was more important to hit the snack bar and was nowhere to be found when his turn came up to bat. They ended up spotting him on the playground with half a snicker’s bar in his mouth. These moments in baseball are not about winning or losing, double plays, stealing home to tie up the game and definitely not about the parents getting too serious. Don’t get me wrong, as the father of the smallest kid on the team I pray to the baseball gods for him to make contact when he’s at bat, or to at least go for the catch when a blooper comes his way. However I do take it with a grain of salt when he decides to do his best Michael Jackson dance while standing on 3rd base, or how he sings “we are the champions” when his team is down by 12 runs.

This level of the game is about getting the boys to start thinking as a team, respecting their coaches’ wishes and learning the game the right way. So if that means they are all simultaneously going to adjust their new jock straps while taking the field for the first week, look down and give those cups a knocking every 5 minutes as if to check their packages are still in there, and do it all together while trying to crack a few hits and get a few outs, that’s fine by me- not to mention it’s freaking hilarious to watch. Funny balls.

Lots of requests to re-post this one after word got out! Here you go folks….

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There was a time when I thought the feat of changing an infant’s diapers might be the greatest challenge in keeping the hygiene of a child. I was dead wrong. Any parent will recall to the substance I then referred to as “Death Tar”- the black soil a baby would poop with super glue like properties. This outer world material could have permanently sealed my roof from a 100 year typhoon. After the “Death Tar” stage I thought my wife and I had weathered the worst and might find ourselves closing in on easier times in the poo poo universe, but noooo- that was way too presumptuous.

The next phase took on another life of it’s own, most notably what I referred to as “crap back”. Oh yes, the wonderful days of “crap back”. This stage came between the age of seven months and 2 years old. You might have noticed this appetizing incident because you happened to smell a strong odor protruding from the neck area where the shirt was venting a gaseous fume so toxic that you were close to calling the CDC. Oh yes I was close to calling someone! The “lava” had erupted all the way up the child’s back and was oozing upward against gravity, ready to consume the child’s head if not stopped by radical forces. The worst of the “crap back” phase was when you finally stopped the car after you couldn’t figure why the baby had been so upset for the last 1 hour during your car trip. Not only did the seemingly flesh eating blob climb vertically again, but it had also practically singed the car seat to a point where stopping at the next department store for a whole new car seat was the only option. Some of you may find this particular blog “disenchanting”, but those of you who are parents know exactly what I’m talking about (perhaps you’ve just never found the time to verbalize it- well right now I have the time).

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Some of you may be wondering why I am articulating these lovely portraits as all of my 4 children have outgrown the diaper stages. Well let me explain- the shit diaries continue so be warned!!! Besides the kids forgetting to flush, still getting poop on the toilet seat, not wiping properly etc etc, there are new and beautiful adventures in the planet of the log droppers. For example, they might wait so long to go that they get to a point where the massive “Paul Bunyan Log” brings pain and tears, so you end up holding their hand through it, all whilst waiting for the Blue Ox to join you at any moment.

One of my children has an actual pre-bomb ritual in accordance with the anticipated “session”. In order to be at peace this child needs to be fully undressed, and become one with the earth so that the next 45 minutes can be focused fully, with mind and spirit, on the soul purpose of success on the throne.

The journey of my children in the bathroom has not yet seen the light at the end of the tunnel- no pun intended…

 

 

The finest hours are far and few between. The moments in which a Father or Mother find peace within the home can sometimes only be achieved through tactics that require deception and utilizing channels one would normally find arbitrary, such as taking a shower or sitting on the throne. On occasion deception is required  to excuse oneself to engage in such every day activities. For example, when the shit hits the fan at home I suddenly come down with non existing pressure in the stomach and state the need to use the bathroom. Do I really have to go? No. However I do occasionally manage to squeeze a dangler to keep up the perception that I’m actually busy using the toilet. It usually gives me enough time to avoid the wrath of my wife after I’ve screwed up at something or elude the arduous task of explaining to my daughter why she has to clean her room, thus letting Mom take over the court proceedings.

In order to find a few peaceful moments in the morning we often try to use preemptive maneuvers to avoid would-be hectic mornings so that all four of my flustered baboons are able to catch the school bus. We attempt early wake-up calls so that they can get dressed appropriately, eat breakfast, brush teeth, wrap up unfinished homework and sign reading logs, get their backpacks in order and have them race down the driveway in hopes that they board the bus unscathed. Why is it that my children have such difficulty in getting out of bed only from Monday through Friday? We put them to bed early enough, yet they only deem fit enough to move at snail’s pace every weekday morning. On Friday and Saturday nights my wife and I let them stay up later in order to delay their wake up times the next morning and give us a chance to catch up on some much needed sleep. However those just happen to be the mornings their bodies decide to wake up super early at the crack of dawn, make a shitload of noise, argue like banshees and make a total fucking mess of the house. It’s freaking mind bending. We’ve even experimented letting them stay up till midnight on days off hoping for one extra hour of snoozing the next morning but they still get up even earlier- whaaaat the fuuuuuck!!!!

Hence the need for the extra long shower, often the highlight of the day. Hence the need to visit the bathroom and pinch some non existent cattle cookies just to read an email in peace. Hence my wife’s need to hit the gym or go get a coffee. The “Hence List” goes on and on…all in the quest to achieve a finer hour.

 

 

First I would like to apologize for my long absence. Many of you have urged me to bring new material as soon as possible and I highly appreciate the wonderful support. Unfortunately personal stress and turbulence around the office have kept me rather busy these last few months, and I’ll post more about that in my next blog- but right now we need to get back to the funnies, and believe me when I say the catharsis in itself should prove helpful to my own mental health as well. So here we go…

Disenchantment. Although I’m far from possessing scholarly insight on relationships, I believe that couples- whether married or not, face excruciatingly difficult moments wrapped in disenchantment. These moments are stapled to all types of personal issues, and flank us when least expected. The slightest human sigh, or even the occurrences of winds changing direction might shift one’s emotions to disenchantment. The wonderful thing about spun language and sarcasm is that even a disenchanting comment may in fact play to the contrary of a negative outcome. The problem is knowing when and when not to deliver.

For example, when you first start dating someone, manners, appearance, chivalry or intelligent humor seem to be the attractive tones both parties are concerned with. If one of the two people dating were to make a remark, even in jest, such as “if you eat all of that main course AND dessert you’ll need to hit the gym tomorrow”,  the person may have to kiss their ass goodbye due to the receiving party feeling that the remark was rude or obnoxious, especially if that person is a woman. If the same remark came from wife to husband after years of marriage the husband would agree and probably not even order dessert, knowing full well that extra effort might be required in the gym the next day. Another example may be after two young people have just begun dating and they awkwardly dance around the fact of how to engage in “getting busy” for the first time. What should they say or how should they bring it up? An experienced married couple may just get done cleaning dishes and 3 loads of laundry after a hard day’s work, put poorly behaved children to bed, look at each other and say “lets go to Mickey’s clubhouse” and start singing “come inside its fun inside”. Hence the next 3 minutes of sex until the first child walks into the room complaining about a fake belly ache or nightmare that didn’t happen just to achieve rights to sleep in Mama and Papa’s bed. We quickly do the “hi sweetie, oh we were just stretching” routine and then let them in the bed. I usually end up on the couch feeling “very blue”, if you catch my drift.

This brings me to the point of how I came to ever so eloquently call my wife a Big Pink Elephant today. Oh yes I did. She had just dressed herself in workout clothes which partially consisted of tight, pink workout pants and then she mentioned her dissatisfaction with her own weight. That’s when I chimed in. I am uncertain, but I presume that women, in general, always feel as though their own weight is unacceptable. Maybe I’m wrong but it seems like even the skinniest skeleton bitches still endeavor to look more like prisoners of war. Again, that’s just my opinion but I believe it holds some clout. That goes for my wife as well -she’s a sexy and small framed woman but still concerned about body weight as seemingly every attractive woman in the world is as well. The point is, after I had made my comment (for which I was prepared to face no sex for daddy) my wife laughed and proceeded to attack me in a playful way, sarcastically proclaiming  that I was terrible. Had I just discovered a new form complimenting my wife? –  To make a comment so extremely contrary to the facts, that it delivers a better result than the old cliche “you’re not overweight honey, you’re sexy”, with which my wife usually ensues “you’re just saying that”. After 10 years of  hearing “you’re just saying that”, I’m not inclined to answer routinely any longer, hence the elephant.

Perhaps when couples grow to become very familiar with each other they can let certain things fly, whereas fresher relationships cannot carry such a feat. It’s not that my wife and I ever held back with our comments to begin with….we are actually more like the rated “R” version of “Everybody Loves Raymond”. Instead of “idiot” she might call me a bald headed prick when angered and I might reply with equally distressing terminology, but the tone is more in passing and accepted as such. We might even laugh about what the other just blurted and never take it too seriously. Don’t get me wrong, I won’t be regularly calling my wife a hippo as that’s just plain suicide, but I may be onto something different here.

The day my oldest daughter was born I saw perfection. Please don’t get me wrong. I know all parents immediately fall in love with their children the moment they are delivered. But in my own experience with having 4 children, only my oldest daughter was born perfect. Of course I loved them all the same, but not all of them entered the world ready to win a beauty pageant. For example, my middle son was born resembling a shriveled up piece of leather rather than a little human. It was almost as if he had an extreme case of Benjamin Button-itis. My youngest daughter cried so loudly that I only viewed her as a shrieking chimpanzee, and even the Maternity ward preferred she stay in Mommy’s room. Yet, my oldest daughter had the complexion any female on earth would die for, and an angelic face which translated life through a spectrum I’ve never witnessed before. Eventually, after my other children either dried out or moistened up, they all became insanely beautiful.

3 years later I began threatening other kids my daughter’s age. That’s right, I was ready to kick some diaper ass. How did this come to be? Well I’ll tell you. After I started taking my daughter to daycare, I noticed a little boy that would come over and greet her every day. He openly conveyed his crush on my daughter on a daily basis and it fucking irked me. I thought to myself “Why the hell is this little shit messing with my daughter?”. Yes, I was upset about something arbitrary and petty, not to mention innocent. However, even after rationalizing the boy’s behavior it still fucking irked me. One day, after bringing my daughter into her daycare room, the boy approached my daughter with the intent of giving her a kiss. I immediately bent my knees, allowing our eyes to meet at an even keel, and firmly whispered “if you ever go near my daughter again I’ll take you out”. As he fought back the tears I felt no remorse.

Luckily the staff at the daycare was quite familiar with me and were aware that I was anything but orthodox. After all, they did have first row seats to some of my children’s antics which could have only derived from “Daddy”…..like the time my daughter arrived at daycare with a baseball tee that read “My Papa told me I could kick em in the nuts if they don’t like the METS”. Nevertheless, I was reprimanded by the staff, yet in a soft fashion as they found my vigorous posture towards the boy a tad on the humorous side. My wife later explained that I shouldn’t be taking things so seriously, but how could I not? I decided that this was only the beginning and that I had to prepare myself for a battle with boys for the rest of my daughter’s natural born life.

Later that day I started training my daughter with one-two punch combinations in a series of maneuvers that ended with a sizzling guillotine kick to the groin. I even contemplated polishing an old fashioned rum mug to collect the testicles I might have to cut from any teenage boy with sinful intentions towards my daughter. I had envisioned the garden shears as the perfect “Testie Snippers”. Even though my daughter was still only three years old I knew that “battle ready” was the only type of ready. You might think I’m overreacting, but that’s what happens when you mess with Daddy’s girl.

When daughters are brought into the world, it is the first time Fathers realize that perfection in humans actually exists. Men automatically accept the fact that they themselves had never bestowed such purity, and that our children deserve nothing less than a Father willing to become the ultimate protector of such a blossoming innocence. The mere thought of one crossing that very fine line with daughters evokes added commitment to play the role of human safeguard.

When it comes to our angels, Dads will not hesitate to make boys cry, whether they’re 3, 13 or 30 years old. Boys can rest assured that their soiled pants will be the direct result of dangerously infiltrating the personal space of daddy’s little girl.  So, to anyone that is willing to entertain the idea of treading on thin ice with a man’s little girl, you’ve been warned. Proceed at your own peril.