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Why is Daddy Crying?

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A Rookie Mistake

So, I screwed up.

I made a very rookie parenting mistake. It’s the rookiest of all rookie parenting mistakes.

I make the kids lunches every morning. It’s my minimal contribution to the day. So, yesterday morning I go in the kitchen to begin this thankless process of packing a delicious, healthy meal which my kids will only eat half of.

I throw four pieces of bread down, grab the mayo, mustard, turkey, lettuce and cheese and immediately notice the counter is full. No room for me to work my sandwich magic.

What’s taking up so much room? A big package of Halloween Oreos. So, I pick it up and it’s surprisingly light. A bit astonished at this since we just bought the package yesterday, I open it to see how many are left.

One. One cookie is left.

All I want to do is throw this damn package away since it’s taking up crucial counter space needed for me to get my sandwich makin’ business on.

I grab a plastic bag, throw the cookie in it and toss it into one of the kids’ lunch pouches. Then, I throw the empty package away.

BOOM! Problem solved.

I finish making their delicious lunches, throw their lunch pouches in their book bags…my work here is done.

Fast forward to 8 hours later. I’m cranking away at work when I get a text from the wife who’s picking up the little bastards at school. And that’s when the rookie mistake slams me in the balls…..

Immediately I feel like the biggest asshole ever. My little girl is sitting in the back of a car, crying because her daddy that she loves so much decided to deny her a round, crumbly, chocolate Halloween treat in her lunch. In her brain I might as well have reached my hand into her chest and ripped her heart in two.

Not only that, my hands are now tainted with favoritism and she has proof which no doubt will be rubbed in my face for the rest of my life. The infamous "Halloween Oreo cookie my daddy loves my brother more than me" incident.

I can see myself sitting across from my strung-out daughter and a therapist during the taping of an Intervention TV episode 10 years from now learning that she uses crack to fill the void left by the uneven treatment in distributing Halloween Oreos within the family.

I couldn’t have that. I will not turn my daughter into crack addict!!

So, I did this:



To Lie or Not to Lie

Some kids are complete and total liars. They will blatantly look you in the face and tell you the most obvious lie. 

Like most kids, my daughter has just a smidge of that in her…but only when she’s trying to get out of trouble. 

Me: “Macy – did you just eat a Nutty Buddy when it’s 9:30 in the morning?”

Her: “NO!!!”

Me: “You have chocolate on your face and hands. Wanna try that again?”

Her: “I DIDN’T DADDY!! You never believe me!!!” as she stomps off to her room with a Nuddy Buddy wrapper stuck to her shoe.

The boy, he can’t lie…at least not yet. He was born with what has to be the cleanest soul this planet has ever seen.

That sounds like a parent’s dream, but I walk a fine line with getting information out of him because I don’t want to turn him into a liar. 

It’s truly amazing. I could ask him about shit no one would ever know the truth about but him, and he’ll give it to me straight. It’s like he thinks I have some Jedi master all seeing eyeball up in the heavens watching his every move, so I know when he’s lying.

Me: “Grayson, did you flick a booger onto your sister’s bed while no one was around this morning?”

Him: Silence…nervousness.

Me: “Grayson?!”

Him: “Yes daddy, but she flicked a booger at me yesterday!!” 

But the best thing in the world is that he’ll even give me the truth about anything pertaining to me. No longer are the days I put on a pink dress shirt and ask the wife, “hey – does this look good on me?” Only to hear her say, “yeah, you look great, I think you look good in anything.”

No more do I deal with, “hey hun, you think I need to lose 10lbs?” Only to hear, “you could need to lose 50lbs and I’d still think you look terrific.”

Now, I have the Grayson.

I simply set him down, stand before him, brace myself for the fact that some of this truth is gonna sting like a bitch and start asking questions.

Me: “Does this pink shirt look good on me?”

Him: “It looks horrible dad. You should never put it on again.”

Me: “Do you think I need to lose 10lbs?”

Him: “No.”

Me: “25lbs?”

Him: “Yes”

Me: “Does mommy ever turn and look at my butt when I walk by her in the den?”

Him: “No”

Beautiful, huh?

But, I have to keep my guard up around that little bastard because I have no doubt the wife’s using him in the same way. He’s like a larger version of the teddy bear babysitter cam I have implanted in the wife’s dressing area. I have to make sure everything I say and do around him is wife-appropriate, which can be exhausting.

And that is the main reason I’m probably just going to teach him to lie.

Me: “Now, when mommy asks you if I started drinking at 11 this morning you tell her no and I’ll give you $25, OK?”

Him: “OK dad.”



Embrace Your Boner, Brother!

Weeny bikini bathing suits are named that for a reason. And our dear, Olympic bronze-medal-clad American rower Henrik Rummel showed us exactly why.

Those non-sexy suits are named that cause you can see everyone’s weeny weenie. Unless you’re sporting a raging, impressive hard-on, like my man Rummel was whilst on the award’s stage at the Olympics.

As you can imagine, his upright manhood made quite the stir on the interweb machine thingy. So much so, that he felt the need to make a public statement in which he claimed his pecker was not an actual erection, but merely his junk got stuck in that famous up-right position when he climbed into tight man-pants.

This upset me to no end. To the point to where I felt I needed to write him about his unfortunate boner situation.

An Open Letter To Olympic Medalist Henrik Rummel:

Dear Mr. Rummel:

Congratulations on winning the bronze for our great country. To say you did us proud would be an understatement. Your team did a miraculous job stroking yourselves into the history books. We are humbled.

I’m writing you to address the situation in which you’ve found yourself since the moment you took stage to receive your coveted medal. If you will, indulge me in a quick childhood story of mine.

When I was just a wee lad – I think around the age of 8 or 9 – I was on a swim team. We were all issued red weeny bikinis to wear for practices and meets.

For some reason the older kids took to calling me “boner.” I can’t quite remember getting a boner back in those days. It could have been my little pecker just poked out the front… or maybe it was reacting to the amazing feeling of that thin 80s bathing suit material and actually did get erect.

Either way, I had no clue what a boner was. I thought maybe it was badass, like I was getting some nickname relating to a skull and crossbones or a Harley Davidson motorcycle club.

But then I started noticing the laughter that followed being called “boner.” I was being laughed at damn it. I had to get to the bottom of this boner thing immediately.

Since there was no Google back in those days I did the next best thing and went straight to my mom.

“Mom? What’s a boner?”

I remember those words coming out of my mouth like it was yesterday. And two minutes later I was horrified. I wanted to burn that weeny bikini and never wear it again. I spent the rest of the season with my hands in front of my crotch or towel around my waist.

You see, my Olympic friend….looking back at it, I realize I should have embraced my boner.

I should have reveled in the fact my little pecker could even be seen at that age. I should have started introducing myself to people as “Boner.” I should have strutted my stuff by all the teenage girls on the swim team and been all “hey baby. Yeah….it’s real. It’s all me. Wanna hold hands?”

Instead I hid it.

You have an opportunity to represent everyone out there who’s erect pecker has revealed itself to the masses through a thin veil of material. Stand up, stick your chest out and proclaim to the world, “that is my boner, and it IS sticking straight up in the air!!”

Then take that medal and hang it from your man-wand while saluting the red, white and blue of this great country of ours. You’re an Olympian! A bronze medal winning Olympian and you have every right to get the biggest boner of your life and embrace it in front of the world.

Do it for America! And know that we’ll be right there in our living rooms proud as hell and turning to our wives to ask, “mine’s bigger than that, right?”

Your Biggest Fan,



Parenting is Like Training for the Olympics

“Hey daddy?”

“Yes son? I’m right here by the way. Right in front of you. In fact, besides the dog, I’m the only living creature who can communicate in English with you…right now…this very moment. So, there’s really no need to begin your ten-thousandth question with my name.”


“Yes Grayson.”

“You think I can have a friend over this afternoon?”

“Probably not buddy. Your mom and I have to do a couple things.”

“Can you do them while I have a friend over?”

“No Grayson. Seriously, we’re going to need you to have some down time and just read or play on your own so we can knock out this project.”

“Are you going to begin the project now? Can I have someone over before the project?”

“No, we’re getting ready to do the project.”

“How about after? If someone comes over during I’ll be out of your way and you can work on the project.”

“Grayson. Stop talking. Stop asking questions. The answer’s no!”


“Because I’m your father and I explained enough that we have plans and they don’t include you having a friend over!!”

I walk away to get water. Three steps into the kitchen I hear the boy say, “Hey daddy?”

And at that very moment in time you realize the patience, control, training and strength an Olympian must feel when they’re seconds from their race. Fuck yeah I just compared parenting to being an Olympian! Are you gonna look me in the eye-balls and tell me I’m wrong!?!

My son’s questions are becoming mind-numbingly painful. To the point to where I feel like I should set aside an hour a day to take his future teacher out for drinks after the school bell rings each day.

But you know how I get by?

I dream.

I dream of a day. A sunny, yet cool day.  

And I have a handshake agreement with the world that after this next conversation with my child goes down it will be erased from his memory.

And for once I have a green light to answer the boy’s questions how I see fit.

And it goes down like this:

The Boy: “Daddy?”

Me: “Say Daddy again I can assure you I won’t close the door or turn the fans and radio on the next time your mom and I have sex!!”

The Boy: “Can I have a play date?”

Me: “You're adopted and Santa's not real.”

The Boy: “Why are you so stressed?”

Me: “Because my dear boy, your questions are like a weed eater against my shin….relentlessly slicing me until I feel like walking into traffic!!”

The Boy: “Wanna go kick the soccer ball?”

Me: “Fuck yes!”

And then we go outside, kick the ball with great music playing in the background. And that’s when I start asking the questions…

“How was camp dude?”

“Are you excited for soccer season to start?”

“You know I love you right?”

And when he becomes a teenager, roles will reverse….and he…he will be the one blogging about his dad’s incessant painfully boring questions. And he’ll be wishing them to stop.

So until then, I’ll keep perspective and keep answering to my new beloved name, “Hey Daddy?”


I'm A Hypocrite Father

“I love you Grayson.”

That’s what a little piece of yellow paper had written on it that the boy found under a book on his desk. My 9-year-old third grader had a little lady falling for his redheaded ass.

A part of me wanted to high five him, do a chest bump and let him take a swig of my beer. But the father of a daughter in me took over and immediately I began to fume.

My hypocrisy regarding my views of youth and relationships was already beginning to creep its way into real situations sooner than I’d anticipated.

Since the day we saw the sonar of our precious little wienerless fetus on the screen during the pregnancy, I knew the day would eventually come when I was standing with a shotgun in front of the daughter’s bedroom door while tossing a pack of condoms to the boy.

Since the day the wife spat our little daughter into the world I’ve been randomly polling the women in my life regarding how their father’s dealt with them as teenagers.

The responses:

“My dad wouldn’t let me date till I was 18.”

“My boyfriend snuck into my bedroom constantly at night.”

“I had my first baby when I was 17.”

I stopped asking after that last response.

Next, I quickly decided I should make a list. That’s what the old school 80s After School Specials always recommended… “when you’re in a pinch on a tough decision, turn on some Poison and make a list!” So I did.

How I Will Treat Relationships the Boy & Girl Have As Teenagers

Boy: Lend him my quality porn collection so he can learn how to handle himself in the sack.

Girl: Show her medical videos of people with horrific cases of gonorrhea and syphilis.

Boy: Provide him with condoms so he always has protection.

Girl: Sleep on the floor next to her bed with a shotgun so that she’s always protected.

Boy: Make sure I don’t cockblock him when he has a girl over to watch a movie.

Girl: Sit on the couch next to the daughter’s male friend and drink a bottle of whiskey while cleaning my chainsaw and staring at him as they watch a movie.

Boy: Explain to him he should be free, enjoy his youth and not lock himself down with a girl for years.

Girl: Drill into her head that you don’t really understand love and relationships till you’re 29 so she should just wait till then to kiss a boy or anything else ookie like that.

It was at this point the wife ripped the sheet out of my hands, balled it up, slapped me and said “get a grip you gap-toothed idiot. We’re going to treat them the same, give them both the exact same tools and opportunities. We’re going let them screw up and learn from it. We’re going to support them through the whole thing and arm them as best we can to make good choices. We can’t guard their every move.”

And she’s right. It’s the only thing to do. I don’t ever want to look back and know that I was too overbearing and sheltered them from becoming who they truly are. I want them to make mistakes, have their hearts broken and learn all the amazing and sometimes painful facets of love.

I touched the wife’s shoulder, smiled a “you’re right” smile at her, then stopped by the girl’s bedroom to make sure all the hidden cameras had fully charged batteries in them.