F-You Daddy!

The wifey and I have had a long-time agreement that when it comes to things like making the kids’ lunches for school, putting them to bed, giving them baths, cleaning their puke off the ceilings, etc…we take turns. And it’s a beautiful thing, this agreement is. Only catch is, the boy loves to have me lay in bed with him and talk once the lights are turned out. So, while I never get a night off, the flip side is that I’ve built an incredible level of trust with him.

In fact, I’ve kind of become his shrink. He lays there, bares his soul, then looks to me for advice. And while I may or may not be the most top-notch guy on the planet to ask for advice from, I feel I still do a stand-up job.

Here are just a few of the conversations to date. (Please note names of the boy’s friends have been changed to those of famous people as not to identify anyone):

The Naked Lady

Boy: “Daddy…R. Kelly has a picture of a naked woman in his room.”

Me: “A naked woman? Really? Did you see it? Does she look good?”

Boy: “Yes I saw it.”

Me: “Well where does he keep it?”

Boy: “Behind a poster.”

Me: “Wow…well Grayson, you and R. Kelly are a bit too young to be looking at pictures like that and looking at women in that way.”

Boy: “I know daddy.”

Me: “If that happens again I want you to bring the picture to daddy immediately, OK?”

Boy: “I will daddy.”

She’s Mine…No She’s Mine!

Boy: “Daddy…Matt Damon and Ben Affleck fight every day on the playground over Fergie and I really don’t like it. They’re both in love with her.”

Me: “What do you mean ‘fight?’ Like throwing fists and hitting each other and stuff?”

Boy: “They grab each other and try to throw each other to the ground. Whoever hits the ground first loses.”

Me: “And then what, the winner scoops Fergie up and carries her off into the sunset?”

Boy: “No…the winner is Fergie’s boyfriend.”

Me: “Does Fergie know this?”

Boy: “No. But they fight all the time and are always telling her they love her and she keeps saying she doesn’t love either of them.”

Me: “Do you like Fergie?”

Boy: “Yes.”

Me: “Here’s what you do. Never tell her you love her because you don’t, you’re too young to even be talking about love. Treat her like you would any other of your friends. Go play with her, get to know her, and let her get to know you.”

Three Days Later…

Me: “So are Matt Damon and Ben Affleck still fighting over Fergie?

Boy: “Yes, but daddy…I ignore it and have been playing with Fergie and her friends for the past couple of days. And we’re friends and have made up a bunch of games together.”

Me: “Atta dude…”…and a manly man tear slides down my cheek.

F-You Daddy!!

Boy: “Daddy…I know how to stick up my middle finger.”

Me: “You what?!”

Boy: “Gary Busey taught me how to stick up my middle finger—see!”

Me: “Whoa…dude. Put that thing away. Do you know what that means?”

Boy: “No, but it’s such a huge finger and everyone laughs when I do it.”

Me: “You know the ‘f-word’ that you’ve talked about hearing before?”

Boy: “Yeah. Oh, daddy? That word is written on the table next to my keyboard in computer class.”

Me: “Wow…well, anyway, sticking your middle finger up is like saying the ‘f-word’ to someone. It’s not good Grayson. Don’t ever, EVER do that again. The school will send you home and mommy will cry.”

Boy: “She doesn’t cry when you do it.”

Me: “That’s different. When I do it to mommy it means ‘I love you.’”

Two seconds later the boy flipped me off and said “I love you daddy!” All I could do was give him a hug and say, “Grayson, don’t ever stick your middle finger up at me or anyone else again. And, I promise I won’t either… whenever you’re watching me.”

Hire My Dumb-Ass!

With there being just a slight gap between my last paycheck and the new job I’m about to take, the wifey and I have realized the slight forthcoming pinch to our finances. We’ll make it work, but it’s definitely raised question marks above my head about whether I should try to land a quick one-day or two-day job that could put some walking cash in my pocket till I’m employed again?

With the wifey’s approval to the idea, I sat down and quickly took inventory of the many skills I’ve gained naturally or through this extended break as a stay-at-home dad. Once I exhausted the list and eight beers along with it, I quickly hand crafted a classified ad I plan to run in this week’s paper. I figured throwing it up on my blog couldn’t hurt either.

So…if you’re in the need and a skill seems to fit…let a brother know and give me a call!

Help Wanted

• Young, strapping lad looking for small, non-handy-man jobs to be accomplished around the house.
• Able to provide light hammering of nails, painting, yard mowing and weed-eating.
• Incapable of anything requiring plumbing, electrical, picture hanging, wood cutting, leveling, or other type of manly-man focused household activities.
• Enjoys long walks along the beach and may occasionally look out of his peripherals to view the random bikini-clad lady.
• Eclectic skills abound, ranging from professional beer taster, Jager-bomb maker, running buddy, shower soap holder, sex slave, compliment giver, beer fetcher, break-dance freak of nature, twitcher, professional thumb wrestler, make your friends laugh at my lisp-er, stay up late laughing at other people’s expenses-er, put soft socks on me after a few too many beers and tell me to walk down these wooden stairs and watch me tumble-er, willing to see what can fit in the gap between my teeth while you watch-er, drinker and laugher.

Please note that if I:

• Wear no pants on Friday
• Am caught using your interweb machine thingy
• Watch your pay-per-view
• Destroy CDs in your music collection I believe is pure shit
• Drink all of your beer
• Cram a full day’s worth of work into the 35 minutes before you come home, then fake looking exhausted and saying, “wow…what…a…day. I am beat!!”
• Look you straight in the eyes and say, “yeah, it seriously looks good doesn’t it?!” when you ask, “did you even paint this fucking room today?”
• Twitter about all the insane stuff I find throughout your house (this includes TwitPics)
• Access your Facebook account
• And, hide random empty beer bottles, condoms and pictures of “spy horse” throughout your house

then I cannont be held responsible for said repercussions and damage.

Disclaimer

The party responsible for hiring WhyIsDaddyCrying must hold all responsibilities for said activities and damage and are forbidden from demeaning, beating, laughing-at, Twittering about, or calling his wife regarding any of these issues. You will NOT call the police. WhyIsDaddyCrying holds all copyright regarding anything stolen, TwitPic’d, written about, looked at, sat on, or beer-spilled on. If I look at you, you are considered copyrighted by WhyIsDaddyCrying. WhyIsDaddyCrying is not sold in foreign countries and may be harmful to your health. If you speak to, look at, lick, shake hands with, or brush-up against WhyIsDaddyCrying, please call your physician immediately and tell him/her your situation. WhyIsDaddyCrying is not harmful to children under the age of 18, but should be kept far far away if you’ve witnessed him ingest more than 2 bottles of wine and/or Jager. WhyIsDaddyCrying is not a laxative nor a diabetic cleanser.

Call Today If You Need Simple Jobs Done!

1-800-468-3825 or email whyisdaddycrying (at) gmail (dot) com



I've Been Reviewed!

Yesterday I had the amazing privilege of having my blog reviewed by a great daddy blogger Stay At Home Dad in Lansing (@tessasdad on Twitter, Chris in real life). This cool cat made a commitment at the beginning of this year to review a dad blog every Sunday throughout the year.

I was shocked earlier in the week when I saw he’d chosen my interweb machine thingy site. So I sat back nervously, fingers crossed, hoping he wouldn’t toss out phrases like:

“This hack douchebag of a father should not only be locked-up and beaten with baby tigers, but his website should be shutdown and used only for torturing terrorists.”

“The last time I read something as awful as this prick’s blog was when I was forced to read journal entries from Octomom during her pregnancy.”

It was like taking my clothes off for a girl for the first time. I was overwhelmingly excited, nervous, and checking out my junk obsessively in the hopes everything would look perfect for the big reveal.

Then yesterday the review was posted and it absolutely humbled me beyond all means. It was thoughtful, insightful, and just a very well written review. Chris had clearly taken the time to plow through the many posts I’ve written and get a great handle on exactly what I’d hoped to communicate through my ramblings.

To read his review: CLICK HERE.

And sign up for my man’s RSS feed because he’s got some great stuff going on at his blog. He is an amazingly passionate father, insightful human being, and damn good at capturing all of it in a well-written blog. Enjoy kids!

And thanks again Chris!

Glitter Bitches!

I’m a huge fan of being on the pranker side of a good prank. Although, when you choose that route in life, you so very often become the prankee, which requires humility, humor, grace, and the rare ability to not get such an itchy trigger finger. Qualities I’m so very far from mastering.

The other day, the wifey stopped off at a grocery store to look for a type of tea that might help curb her appetite.

So she buys “Dieter’s Green Herbal Tea,” a Triple Leaf Tear-brand product. She goes to work, heats up some water, drops the tea-bag in, lets it sit all day, and slowly sips her delicious, thinning, super tea. Later that day, she (how do I put this delicately?) throws-up out her ass for hours and can’t figure out why.

After recalling her day and doing a little detective Google research, she found out this type of tea is a super ninja natural laxative stuff. And the longer you leave the tea-bag in the water, the harsher it is on your system.

All I could think was: Holy shit this is the greatest freakin’ prank tea in the entire world!

And as I drifted off to sleep that night, I couldn’t help but reminisce about other wonderful and memorable pranks I’ve pulled off or experienced…

Glitter Bitches!

Before our children were born one of my wife’s college roommates came up for a visit. So naturally we threw a party. Tons of people were hanging in the backyard, good music, great beers and wine, tons of laughing… I’m sitting on a lawn chair, half-shnockered when the wifey’s lovely and talented roommate calmly walks by me, stop, turns, and shoots both her hands towards me like a crazed spiritual healer and yells “Glitter Bitches!”

Within a matter of 1.3 seconds, I was covered from head to toe with glitter. To this day, I still find a random flake of glitter in my clothes.

You have a message!

During my first job I was a writer for a weekly newspaper. Small staff, no budget, two phone lines, no answering machine, and the editor’s mother was our receptionist. After returning from an interview, there would undoubtedly be a stack of pink phone message thingy’s that have who called, why, when, and return number on them.

Occasionally, I’d leave one on my editor’s desk with an important person’s name and reason they called. Then the beauty of the prank comes in. I’d put 1-800-, and then make up a three letter word, followed by a four letter word that was sexual—HOTT-SEX, BIG-TITS, GAY-LOVE—find the corresponding numbers for those letters and wha-la! So his message would be like, “Mayor XYZ called with some interesting information, call him back at 1-800-244-8487.” (Go ahead, call the number!)

I Love You, Come Meet Me

By far the most vicious prank I pulled was while I was in college. The interweb machine thingy was still somewhat new to college campuses and chat rooms were all the rage in the late 90s. I found a buddy of mine’s chat room “handle,” and decided to mess with him by creating a female name and going after him for some hardcore loving. The boy immediately got hooked to this mistress of sexiness I created. The entire dorm hallway knew about it and would pack my room for days as I’d chat with the boy for hours at a time. Finally, a sense of remorse came over me and I decided to end it by asking if he wanted to meet me in person. When he said “yes,” I said, “then come on down to room G18 in your dorm and I’ll be waiting.”

Sadly, the boy knew he’d been had, walked downstairs to our hallway, and took the hard pill to swallow of 30+ guys howling and laughing at him. A month later, I got another guy with the same prank. Funny thing is, the guy I got, was in on the prank the first time I did it.

So many good stories and pranks could be told, but I’ll save those for another post, or to share with the boy before he goes off to college. They make life memorable. Besides, everyone should be able to at least tell one story in their lives that involves the phrase, “glitter bitches!”

My New Road

Yesterday I officially became unemployed. My severance ran out, Cobra kicked in, and the wifey and I stood staring at each other holding calculators and shaky, hopeful grins.

Three months ago I was given a choice from my employer – take half the pay immediately and you won’t be guaranteed a job come the end of the fiscal year, or take your full pay and benefits for three months and look for another job. After a weekend of sleepless nights and long discussions, the wifey and I chose the latter.

I’ve had one iron in the fire the whole time—a great job working for an organization that would allow me to rock a newly created position. I’ve worked with, and known, the executive director for a couple years and she is eager to bring me on. The only constraint thus far has been the internal bureaucracy requiring dozens of people to sign off on the job description and another dozen to oversee the posting of the job before it’s awarded to the “qualified candidate.”

Supposedly I’m to start work a week from today.

I’ve changed quite a bit over the past three months. I’ve spent a considerable amount time alone…in my home…on the phone…on the computer….but very little face time with people. I’ve seen my Achilles-heel. I’ve seen it look me dead in the eye with its “sexy come-hither” look. I’ve been angry as shit. I’ve been depressed. I’ve taken it out on my wife, my kids, my friends and family…myself.

I’ve drank too much, felt too sorry, looked for oblivious forces to blame it on such as…karma. I’ve looked back at my life and picked it apart… “what if I didn’t move to Chicago?” “What if I’d taken that job in North Carolina..?”

What if…

And at the end of the day, after all that wondering, I’m still here, in Chicago with my family and friends, about to start a new job after ONLY three months. I’m still here…in my life…not my life’s past…but my life now.

Where it is…right now.

And I’m so fortunate. I’m so lucky to be where I am. I’ve met more people than I care to have met who’ve been unemployed so much longer than I was.

Tomorrow I’m meeting with my new boss to talk further about the job and to begin signing paper work. Within a week or two I’ll be employed again, making a paycheck, benefits, and picking up the pieces. We’ll struggle to fill the short gap between paychecks, but we’re fortunate it’s only a short gap and confident it’ll work out.

But there’s still one thing that’s keeping me from fully enjoying the knowledge of this good fortune. It’s that I know I’ve changed. I’m not who I was three months ago. I’m not who I was two years ago. In fact, I have no fucking clue who I am right now. I feel like I’ve lost some type of identity, direction, path, or journey. I’ve lost something that I desperately need to recover.

I’ve always felt that our 30s were such a fickle time. The 20s it’s all about starting the career and finding that love. The 30s are all about, “OK, I’m in the career, I’ve got my love, maybe some kids on the way….” and then it all hits home. Like a cannon to the chest. You have no idea who you are…

I am fortunate. I have a phenomenal wife. I look in my kids’ eyes and I undoubtedly know they adore me. I have a job on the horizon. I am fortunate.

And so that will be my focus. Despite this nagging, empty feeling of self-purpose, I’ll funnel my energy and heart into family and my career.

I’ll do that, but not without ignoring the fact that this journey has absolutely ripped my chest open and given me front row seats to my soul and then handed me the keys along with the responsibility to choose my new road.

My new road…