The Past Few Months in Pics

Just a few of my favorite pictures the wifey took over the past few months. Enjoy!

 

My Six-Year-Old the EMO Teenager

Seriously…what the fuck has happened to my sweet little, Opie Taylor-lookin’ six-year-old?

After school, he comes strolling out, gives his mom a quick nod of the head, like “sup” and just keeps strolling by. Doesn’t want anyone talking to him, hanging near him, or anything. He gets in the car and he’s all EMO and shit. He’s pushing his hair down in the front and looking angrily out the window.

In my mind I’m wondering what in the holy hell does he have to be all emotional about at this age? Did Suzie refuse to share a cookie with you? Did Samantha not accept your Valentine? Did Timmy get a pubic hair before you did? Did the teacher make you learn how to write the letter B when you really wanted to write D? Did I forget to put the PB in your PB&J? Did Kanye steal the stage from you?

He’s got this other thing going on that makes me want to turn a fifth of anything upside down….. He’ll kick his sister. She’ll scream. I’ll say, “Grayson!! Stop kicking your sister.”

Then he leaps up, looking shocked, both arms sticking out with palms up, eyes wide opn, and starts launching into a high-pitched, screaming explanation as to why he just kicked her and how it’s her fault.

I cut him off. “Grayson, I don’t want to hear it, just stop kicking her.”

He then says, “You never listen to me. You never wanna hear what I have to say. You don’t care!” He then goes stomping off crying and sits in his bedroom curled up. I swear, if he had a radio with headphones, he’d put them on, stare at his Clash poster on the wall, and write long prolific poems in his journal about how misunderstood he is.

I’m not ready for this shit just yet. So I write the following while on my knees:

Dear Whatever You Are That Turns Kids Into Teenagers:

Not fucking yet, please. My kids rocks and he’s too young to cross over to the dark side. Keep his voice high-pitched, his mouth smiling, and his brain uncluttered from all that testosterone.

That’d be greeeat. Thanks!

Grayson’s Dad

 

It's All About the Boobs

Yesterday I was sitting on the couch with the kids, watching some boob tube, when a commercial comes on.

Most parents know that when a commercial comes on, usually the children snap out of the TV coma and begin random acts of destruction. So I was braced for the worst. But instead, my daughter says:

“My head almost reaches mommy’s boobies.”

My son pops up from his seat – “My eyes can look right at mommy’s boobies. Come stand next to me and let’s see how far away you are from looking at mommy’s boobies.”

They then proceed to stand next to each other and begin the arduous process of calculating exactly how far my daughter has to grow before her eyeballs see eye-to-eye with my wifey’s rack.

I honestly didn’t know what to say or how do I react. Do I stand up, lift the boy off the ground by his shirt while screaming, “those bad-boys are mine damn it. You keep your dirt-crusted, goopy eyeballs off them, ya hear?!” Or do I say, “hey children, come sit next to daddy mmmkay! Listen, those are mommy’s personal body objects that are not to be discussed, touched, or looked at, mmmkay?!” Or, do I stand up and say, “Oh yeah, well my belly is even with your midget mother’s boobies which puts them in perfect range for…….” Umm…I didn’t chose that one.

Nope, instead I smiled, chuckled, and realized that those precious mounds I so often admire from a far have entered a new phase. I’ve seen many a boob phase over the past 7 years – pregnancy, birth, nursing, post nursing, etc… And now…measuring stick. I gave up the whole, “I don’t like to share” thing a long time ago.

Regardless of what phase they’re in, they’re fabulous and one of many attributes that make wifey a sexy sexy MILF. Now if I could only get her to agree to let me take pictures for my blog post….

Picking A Good One

We drove North West of the Chicagoland area today in search of some killer apples. I've never been apple picking before.... Funny enough, I was the only one in the car, my kids included, that could say that.

I pulled a chapter from the Obama presidency and gave a historic speech to the kids before they put their first ass-cheek in their seat. I was all: "If you love your country...if you love your fellow man...you'll stay buckeled...you'll respect your parents.....when daddy needs to hit the ABC store on the way, you'll offer him an extra quarter to help pay the liquor tax.....thow shalt not beat your sister!!!

Whatever mojo that speech created, sat well with kick-ass Macy:

And when we arrived...it was like a playground for my talented wifey to break out the camera and do her typical, but amazingly talented magic. Enjoy...I know I do. And I have to add...we will always love that midwestern sky...  :

I'm the Meanest Father Alive!

How is it that we can drive from Chicago to North Carolina (14 hours) in one day with the kids and have it be somewhat sane, but from our house to the grocery store – maddening?

It seems to be the case these days. We can’t go anywhere without:

“Stoooooppp Macy.”

“Mooomm….she’s crossing the line”

“Daaaddd, Grayson just said I’m not his friend anymore.”

“Mooommm….Macy unbuckled from her seatbelt.”

…..and it goes on and on. I spared you the blood-curdling screams, the crying, and the death threats the wife and I impose on them.

This past weekend I hit my limit. We’d spent the entire day going fishing, getting ice cream, looking at replacement fish, playing with friends, roasting marshmallows, and riding bikes. We were on our way home and the screaming, yelling, kicking, telling on each other started and I lost it.

I finally reached the point where I would actually order, and use, a My Therapy Buddy while swaddling myself in a fucking Snuggie, sucking my thumb, rocking back and forth naked in a closet.

I’m all: “you know what – I should start treating you like my father treated me. No more bike rides, no more ice cream, no more fishing, no more playgrounds, no more anything. You mow grass, wash my car, wash windows, rake the yard – you earn your fun time.”

The daughter totally didn’t give a shit. She was all, “whatever jagoff, you know you’re not gonna do shit to us. Now fetch my sippy cup bitch!”

The son – whole different story. He started uncontrollably bawling. The whole way home this went on. Finally I pulled him aside. “Dude, why are you so upset?”

“That’s the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

And it hit me – the kid thinks I’m gonna instantly turn his life of bliss into a replicated childhood like mine.

Now don’t get me wrong – I got to go swimming, ride bikes with my brother, do some playing, etc… But, that was usually when my father was “traveling” and rarely, if ever, involved the guy. When he was around, fun times were few and far between.

“Grayson, I said I ‘should’ do those things. I didn’t say I ‘would’ do those things. When I was growing up my daddy didn’t go on bike rides with me. He didn’t take me to parks for hours at a time. He didn’t do a lot of things. I would never do that to you. I just want you to appreciate what we do do for you.”

You could see his little sponge brain soaking in words flowing from my undersized mouth. He quickly cheered up, quit the crying, gave me a hug and took off.

Ten minutes later he was kicking the shit out of his sister on the couch.

I didn’t ever expect to be telling my son about things from my childhood this early in his life. But it seemed to make sense to me. It seemed to be the right time to teach him a lesson he could relate to. It seemed the right time to strengthen our relationship a bit by letting him know how lucky he is to have a dad who loves him to pieces and makes sure their time spent together is kick-ass and not getting your ass-kicked.

Regardless, I still can’t wait till the little bastard can push a lawnmower.