Mentoring To Earn The Man-Card

Over the weekend I found myself at one of three soccer games planned for that lovely day. As the daughter runs her little butt up and down the field, I talk manly-man stuff to another dad plopped next to me.

Running, dreading our daughters moving into the inevitable realm of dating, vacation plans….those were just some of the many topics rambling from our mouths as we killed yet another Saturday on the sidelines.

My son wanders over, throwing a soccer ball in the air and catching it over and over again, trying desperately to find a way to work into our manversation. Finally, a very brief lull in the conversation takes over and that’s when the boy says:

“So, I’ve been hit in my balls four times in my life. Twice by a soccer ball, once by a baseball and once by my sister who did it on purpose! How many times have you guys been hit in your balls?”

I can’t say I was shocked because I’m used to his random-ass comments, but I was definitely not expecting that. So I reached down, flicked him in the head and said “dude, seriously? You really want to have a conversation about balls?”

And that’s when it hit me. That actually would be a pretty damn good conversation for three dudes to have while killing time. I mean, what guy doesn’t have a great story about getting hit in the balls? TV shows make millions by showing random nut shots. 37.8% of YouTube’s total content comprises of testicles getting dealt with in surprising fashion.

I didn’t realize it then, but I did later….my son is slowly developing the requirements to earn a man-card.

Then a shudder went down my spine as I realized what a huge responsibility it is to guide a young chap through developing those requirements.

I mean, he’s well on his way and Saturday was a perfect example. 1) he struck up a random conversation with two dudes by trying to tell funny stories about their balls, 2) he took a soccer ball to the face, bent over, sucked it up without running with tears for his mommy, 3) after finding out I was making spaghetti that night he asked, “you’re gonna put a bunch of meat in it right?”

But on the flip side, that same day, he 1) did a cartwheel, 2) played with a hula hoop for a while, and 3) watched a 30-minute My Little Pony cartoon with his sister.

It’s all about balance. The key is to teach the boy to do manly shit with dudes, and un-manly man-card revoking stuff when dudes aren’t around but ladies are. That’s still considered manly because then it just means you’re trying to get laid.

It’s when you reverse those two that you start to get into some real shit. For example:

Telling another dude his shirt looks nice. NO

Asking another dude if his mommy dressed him this morning. YES

Starting a conversation with another dude by placing your hand on his shoulder and saying, “hey guy, how’s it goin’?” NO

Starting a conversation with another dude by nodding and saying “what’s up shit-brick?” YES

Sitting at a bar with a bunch of dudes, watching the game and ordering a Malibu with Diet Coke. NO

Sitting at a bar with a bunch of dudes, watching the game and ordering a Newcastle and shot of Jack Daniels. YES

Wearing coordinated outfits with your wife at parties while holding her hand all night. NO

Walking by your wife in the living room and stopping to tell her she smells good. YES

It’s tricky business earning your man-card. It’s even more difficult to keep it. I’ve got a long road ahead of me.

Grow The Hell Up Already!

The other day the wife and I stood up from a two-hour session of financial budget crunching and strategery to stretch, high five over renewed resolutions and try to ignore the suckness that is adulthood.

It was about that time our boy came down stairs to inform us of his struggles with having to give up half the pack of gum (per my request) to his beloved sister.

This would eliminate two whole pieces of gum from the boy’s life.

Two…

Pieces of gum…

Causing much sadness, regret, torture and just outright anger.

Gum.

For shit-sake…GUM!!

It’s moments like this that you want grab the precious little angel by the neck, strap him in a chair and introduce him to the vicious world of bills, jobs, commuting, groceries, dogs shitting all over your yard, babysitter fees, and taking a shower hoping for sex only to find out tonight’s “Netflix’s mega-shownight!!” only to find out hours later that your wife made that whole damn naming convention up.

There are times when the girl is breaking down because we want to comb her hair so random lice-infested birds flying by don’t claim her furry skull as a future home.

There are times when the boy can’t believe his father met him at the school bus in his 1991 shiny blue running tights and shirt picturing a huge sandwich with SILF written under it.

I remember as a kid believing my world was going to end because I had to wear a pair of “jams” my mom made that puffed out in the front like I had a “butt in front.”

I was devastated.

Probably the most common phrase ever muttered between parents is “if only I knew how miniscule my problems were as a kid.”

But we still appreciate them and understand them because we were once there.

We panicked when we walked into school with the knock-off Members Only jacket.

I freaked when kids called me names on the soccer field.

For shit sake my most favorite song for years was “The Rainbow Connection” by Kermit the fucking Frog!!

But I keep telling myself and the kids…this time…is just a blip on the radar of your life.

Years from now we’ll be drinking beers at a pub with the kids while laughing over the fact they’d fight over some dorky game called Angry Birds.

Or that the kid who bullied them in the school bathroom now pummels their Facebook page with Amway products.

The hardest part is not telling your kids to let the bullshit parts of childhood roll off their backs…it’s instilling the strength in them to believe in themselves.

I for one am guilty as hell of that.

Death, Vaginas & Religion - Oh My!

Every year my father gives me a $50 gift certificate to The Fresh Market. He has one right near his house in North Carolina. But in Chicago, where I live, the closest one is an hour away.

So, I decided to make the road trip with the 9-year-old boy so we could have some dude time.

The following is a so very true conversation we had on the way there:

The Boy: “Daddy, do you think I lie?”

Me: “Absolutely not. You’re the kindest soul I know…well, except for when you’re beating the ever living hell out of your sister.”

The Boy: “Yeah. Sometimes I just can’t help myself. Especially when she walks around the house singing!! I just want to scream!”

Me: “The fact you don’t lie is one of the greatest qualities about you Grayson. Even if it gets you in trouble you always tell the truth. Don’t lose that.”

The Boy: “I do lie sometimes.”

Me: “When?”

The Boy: “Like when someone’s opening a gift I gave them and they’re asking me what’s in it. I always lie and say a car or a dog or something stupid like that.”

Me: “That’s not lying my man. That’s just being a cool guy.”

The Boy: “Do you believe in a second life?”

Me: “You mean reincarnation? Where after you die you come back as something or someone else?”

The Boy: “No, like a life in heaven?”

Me: “I think the better question is do you believe in that?”

The Boy: “I do. I think there’s a second life.”

Me: “Then that’s what matters. What you believe in is what you use to guide your own life, your own decisions and to decide whether you’re living your life the way that makes you feel good about yourself. You don’t use it go judge people. Everyone’s different and believes different things. But we’re all human beings who deserve to be loved while we’re here on this big round blue ball.”

The Boy: “What big blue ball? You lost me with that.”

Me: “Earth son. Earth. You know…what with all the water on it and what not.”

The Boy: “How did mommy’s daddy die? Mommy said it was something with his heart.”

Me: “He killed himself son. He struggled in his life and made a very bad, selfish decision. Now he’s not here to watch mommy be a mother to you. He’s not here to meet you. But we love him anyway. And…if that hadn’t happened, I never would have met your mother and you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

The Boy: “That’s sad.”

Me: “It’s very sad. But your mom’s an incredible woman and continued living her life and is now the best mom you could ever dream of having.”

The Boy: “Yeah, she is awesome. Sometimes I call girl’s private areas a butt in front.”

Me: “What?!!!!”

The Boy: “Yeah, it looks like a butt crack in the front area.”

Me: “It’s called a vagina son. It’s not a butt crack.”

The Boy: “A va..gi…vagenia….a what?”

Me: “You have a penis that you pee from right? Well, girls have a vagina and they sort of pee from that area, kinda.”

The Boy: “Do babies come out of there too?”

Me: “Good talk Grayson. I think it’s time I introduce you to Led Zeppelin’s fourth album while we fart and burp and act like total dudes the rest of the way to the store. I love you dude.”

The Boy: “I love you too dad.”

The Punishment

“That’s it! You’re not going to your sleepover at your friend’s house tonight!”

It’s those few, short, simple words that have a tendency to come flying out of my mouth before registering in my brain. Because, if it had registered, I would have quickly thought to myself “Take away his Legos, but for shit-sake man don’t cock-block yourself by pissing away a night alone with no kids!”

But when your little bastards push your buttons all day, your anger boils over, drowning your common sense leaving you incapable of making anything even closely resembling a good decision.

You stand there red-faced with heart palpitations as you scramble for a punishment that’ll reach deep into the soul of your kid. And that’s when it happens. You sternly command some of the dumbest shit you could ever come up with.

Things like:

“No TV for a week!!”

“You’re spending the afternoon watching The Sound of Music in Spanish…in slowmotion…twice!”

“You’re making dinner tonight for everyone!!”

“You’re in your room for the entire weekend!”

And the worst part about it, you have to stay true to one of the top 10 parenting rules of all time:

“Follow through with your punishments.”

It only takes 0.008^th of a second before you realize the hell you just created for yourself.

You now have to entertain the kid who just lost TV privileges while every ten minutes hearing him say, “daddy!!! I’m booooooored.”

You now have to listen to the Sound of Music in Spanish…in slow motion…TWICE!!. You have to supervise his cluster-fuck of an effort at making dinner, or be stuck at the house for the entire weekend with nothing to do because your son was too much of an asshole to stop kicking his sister’s blanket with his shoe that has dog crap on it.

The worst is when you have to watch your loving spouse fall victim to the punishment trap.

It’s like a slow motion train wreck as she slowly mouths the angry words, “ffffiiiiiinnnneeee….nnnooo…..slleeeepppp oooovvveeerrr fooooorrrrr….yyyyyooooouuuuuu!!!”

Meanwhile you’re pointing a laser pointer at the wall near your kid’s head hoping he’ll catch a glimpse of this wonderful distraction outside his peripherals and begin rabidly chasing it while you tackle the wife preventing what clearly would have been the second biggest mistake of her life.

“What the hell are you thinking woman?!!  Just make him hug his sister and let’s call it even!”

It takes a real friend to tell you when you’re screwing up.

This is precisely why the wife and I have a game plan. We try to gang-punish.

We both walk over to the situation so when one of us screams, “that’s it! You’re painting the living room for the rest of the day!!”…the other one can chime in and say, “is what we’re going to punish you with if you do that to your sister one more time!!”

Which works most times…except when you’re both pissed beyond your limits. Then it backfires big-time.

That’s when I yell, “I’ve had it! No sleep over for you tonight!”

And the wife yells, “Or ever again!! You’re never having a sleep over ever! For the rest of your life!!

And then we all cry.

Glitter Bitches!

Glitter is evil.

A year after the wife and I moved into our first home she invited a former roommate to visit.

A day later we’re throwing a neighborhood bash in her honor. Beers are flowing. The grill is smoking with orgasmic fumes of cooked dead animal flesh.

I’m hanging out in a chair, laughing, trying to be funny, and enjoying many a beverage.

That’s when it happened.

I look up to see the wife’s former roommate standing before me, unnaturally interested in the rambling mess spewing from my distorted lips.

Then a pause.

Then, she screams “glitter bitches!!!!” as she unleashes two handfuls of glitter all over every inch of my person.

Head to toe, in my eyes, up my nose, in my mouth, contaminating my beverage….everywhere….glitter.

It was absolutely brilliant. The fact she even waited more than 24 hours upon her arrival to pull this award-winning prank made it even that much more respectable.

Since then, I’ve had an undying hatred for glitter.

Almost three years later we moved after two ankle biters graced our presence. Upon opening a couple boxes we still found glitter.

Fast forward to the X-mas holidays of 2011….

I finish volunteering in the boy’s 3^rd-grade classroom holiday party and take a slow jaunt down to the daughter’s 1^st-grade class to see if the wife needs help wrangling the little bastards around Ole Saint Nick projects.

When I walk in the classroom my sights lock immediately on a gaggle of desks jammed together in a U-shape. Kids on one side. One lonely, helpless woman on the other.

And in-between…glitter hell.

The kids’ activity was to turn a cup upside down, cover it in glue, throw glitter on it, and BAM!!! an ornament guaranteed to hit every household trashcan the second it’s pulled from the book bag.

Everything around me blurred as I watched on the kid taking handfuls of glitter and dumping it on the kids head next to him. Another was putting handfuls in his pockets. Next to him a girl sneezed, wiped her hands across her face leaving a fantastic handlebar mustache of glitter.

Volunteers throughout were completely ignoring this one table, hurriedly making themselves look busy as glitter overtook the station like a sand storm.

It was absolute and total hell on earth.

Being the jackasses the wife and I are, we jumped in to help as best we could. And glitter has re-entered our lives yet again.

Bad things happen in threes, or so they say. The third time glitter overtakes my life, it better damn well be in the form of dollar bills, strippers, or Goldschlager.

Do they even make that shit anymore?