The Truth About Parenting Acronyms

So, there’s a ton of new parents out there in the world today trying to muddle their way through the management of their little ankle biters.

As the proud owner of a 6 and 8-year-old, I feel it’s my duty to impart upon them just a sample of the parenting acronyms they might encounter on playgrounds or during play-dates.

Much like government agencies, parenting is riddled with acronyms that at first seem to sound like simple words…but really mean something entirely different.

Come with me…let’s take a quick gander at just a handful…

DAMN

Diapers Are Most Negative!!

KIDS SUCK

Karate In Daughter’s Sunday School Usually Changes Karate

I FEEL LIKE MY WIFE WILL NEVER SLEEP WITH ME AGAIN

I Forget Every Evening  Little Leopards Intuitively Kill Elephants Mostly Yearlings While I Feel Lonely Lethargic Nervous Even Vigorously Ravenous So Listen Equally Even People We Intelligent Thespians Have More Equal Agnostic Gains As Iguana Nightcrawlers.

I HATE PREGNANCY

I Have A Terrific Energetic Passion Regarding Early Gestational Notions Around Nurturing Child Yolks

YOUR KID SUCKS

Your Obnoxious Ridiculous Kid Is Doing Significant Sucky Uncouth Cock-o-mainy Krazy Shit

I LOVE YOU

I Love Only Vaginas Even Your Orange Undergarments

POOP

People Often Ooze Poo

Those are just a few of the many many parenting acronyms that exist. So, next time you hear me tell my wife “I LOVE YOU”….well, you’ll know what I’m really saying.



My Daughter's First Boyfriend & Me

Recently I’ve been getting a small test as to how I will react when a boy becomes smitten with my precious angel of a daughter.

We have really good friends that live just a few houses down from us on our block. They’re proud parents of a two-year-old and a four-year-old boy.

The four-year-old is a down to Earth kid. He always says, “hello Justin” whenever he walks in the door of our house or sees me outside. Just yesterday he stopped by my at-home desk and said “how was your Easter Justin?”

You just can’t help but smile at a kind young little bastard like that.

He’s two years younger than our daughter, but at this age it doesn’t really matter.

He loves to play with her and she loves the fact she can pretty much manipulate him to do whatever in the hell she wants him to do.

Play school? Done!

Play veterinarian? Done!

Play stuffed-animal tea party? Done!

And so they’re friendship has blossomed.

When she eats her lunch, he’s sitting almost on top of her.

Macy: “You don’t have to sit so close to me.”

Neighbor Kid: “I know, I just like to Macy!”

This is when my mind starts to get the best of me.

What if the neighbor kid is working me over?

What if he’s trying to get me to fall head-over heels in love with his little dimples and innocent interest in how my day’s taken shape, just so he can drop a Jedi mind-trick cloud of oblivion over my weary brain so I’m cloaked from seeing the obvious….that he’s slowly taking my daughter from me.

I know, I know, they’re four and six.

But they grow up.

Hair starts protruding in awkward places, little hormones start revving their engines and next thing you know the sweet little neighbor kid has me rambling about what a dick my boss is while sweet Macy ganks $40 from my wallet so the two of them can sneak out later, buy some liquor and make-out at the neighborhood park.

I’m watching that little guy.

What he doesn’t realize is that I’m playing along with his little game. While he’s being all nice to me, I’m being super nice right back. Not because he’s four, cute and armed with a winning personality.

No.

But because I’m keeping my enemies close. Watching….learning….remembering.

When I hand him a plate of chicken nuggets, grapes, and a cup with ice cold 2% milk I make sure our eyes meet as I give him just a split-second glare that says “bring your A-game little man and let’s dance.”

And when he smiles right back and says, “thanks for making me lunch Justin,” I immediately know he’s accepted the challenge and the game is on.

Only time will tell who the winner will ultimately be.



To My Wife On Our Anniversary

On this day, 13 years ago, I married my best friend.

We started out as high school sweethearts.

Then we went to separate colleges only to see each other about once a month or so.

Despite the fact I did everything in my power to look like a complete and total douchebag...

Example A "The Chops"

...we remained together, eventually moving in with each other after graduating college.

On April 18, 1998 I married the woman of my dreams.

Since then I’ve enjoyed the hell out of making two beautiful children which my gorgeous wife unfortunately had to spit out of her amazing body on two painful occasions.

Dear Kim:

I still get all tingly and stuff thinking of the first time I saw you as you cruised across the classroom in your tight white jeans.

I still get all tingly when I wake up before you, open my eyes, and see you in the early morning sunlight.

You’re so beautiful.

I’d kill to have even half the confidence you have.

I’d kill to do this all over again once it’s all said and done….with just a few tweaks and changes….

I can’t pass your pillow without burying my face in it.

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve smelled your bathrobe.

Your laugh is infectious.

Your smile is gorgeous.

And your style as a mother is absolutely award-winning.

You rock the hell out of non-kid time

And when it’s complicated you’re sympathetically smart.

So, in short….I love you.

I love your smile.

I love your eyes.

I love your voice.

Holy hell do I love your smell.

I love watching you as a mother.

I love that I’ve been able to watch you grow into an amazing woman.

I love you Kim.

I couldn’t imagine my life without you as my best friend.

Love,

Justin



Getting The Kids To Stop Asking "Why?"

You’d think once your kids reach the age of six and eight that the “why daddy’s” would stop.

Yeah, not so much.

It’s gotten so bad that now when I answer the children’s question I try to be completely honest about everything in the answer I give, in the hopes they’ll be so brain-numb afterwards they’ll just walk away.

Example

Child: “Daddy, can we buy Kool-Aid?”

Me: “No, because it’s loaded with sugar which is not good for you and will make you hyper and completely out-of-control which will then get you into trouble with your brother, friends, dog, and us and will then cause mommy and daddy to yell at you and send you to your room with you crying while mommy and daddy stay downstairs and fight ultimately getting a divorce leaving you to have to live with mommy and see daddy on the weekend where I’m living in a one room shack crying, not showering, and surrounded by phone numbers of call girls which are girls that daddy has to pay money to have dinner with him. AND…it contains red dye 40 which will make your head explode from nasty chemicals people pumped into the sugary drink just so it’s the color red in the hopes we’ll drink more of it and provide the boss of the company with more money he can spend on bigger houses and more cars.”

And it worked.

Well…not at first.

At first they laughed and thought it was the most hilarious thing they’d ever heard. Half of what came rambling out of my mouth they couldn’t understand, but for some reason it was just hilarious to them.

Then…the light bulb went off. If I give their mother a long rambling answer they’ll see her immediately get disgusted and walk away.

They’ll learn by example!

So, I waited….and waited. And then…

Wife: “Honey, let’s go to Ikea and look around for a little bit. Maybe have lunch there with the kids.”

Me: “Schnookums, I don’t think that’s really a good idea. First of all the last time we went there both kids ended-up getting the puke bug from playing in the kid’s zone, while you got mad at me for publicly confessing in a very loud manner that you were the hottest MILF within eyesight, and after we made our huge purchase we spent an hour trying to find a clear spot where we could roll the cart to the car without having a 4-foot tall curb blocking us in and eventually we couldn’t so I had to go get the car and fight half the SUVs in Chicago for a space to back in and load the stuff we…..”

I quit at that point because she was long gone.

The kids? They took every bit of it into their tiny little developing brains and slowly digested it.

Then, the magic words came out as I overheard the daughter say to the boy, “I kinda don’t ever want to go to Ikea again.”

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve enjoyed a semi-blissful existence of having the first answer I give be the only answer I have to give.

And my responses are getting shorter and shorter. Usually by the time I’m taking my first breath so I can keep my ramble going, one of the kids just yell “fine daddy!!” And walk away to something else.

Now that, my dear people, is “winning.”

For now…



Me vs. Pooping In Public

So, in a recent rambling post earlier this week I referred to the fact that I have a poop problem.

It’s true. I absolutely HATE to poop in public.

I will literally do anything to avoid dropping the kids off at the pool in a public venue.

I don’t think it has anything to do with OCD tendencies, but has everything to do with the fact that I want no proof that I actually do poop.

Which is ironic given that I’m writing this post.

And, that if you ask me to strip nude and run across a football field, I wouldn’t hesitate for a second.

Dare me to shit in a Wal-Mart bathroom and I’ll quickly opt to slam my head in a door for hours at a time.

True story:

I was the editor of a weekly newspaper, 24 years old, and shooting a triathlon at the YMCA one Saturday morning.

The race was winding down when all of a sudden I got that grumble. Yeah…THAT grumble.

The one where your internal bits-n-pieces flick you in the forehead and say “t-minus 10 minutes ya douche. Find a bathroom pronto or you’ll pay!”

I look over at the beautiful 2-year-old YMCA building and consider walking in to enjoy the elegant lavatory facilities, but pass.

In my psychotic mind I’m all “No….I gotta make it back to the empty newspaper headquarters to unleash the fury.”

Only, I needed to drop off the roll of film I just shot (yes, this was pre digital cameras) and then drive another 15 minutes to the offices.

Jump to 10 minutes later…the film has been dropped off, I’m 6 miles and 18 traffic lights from the office, pounding the steering wheel with closed fists while screaming “I can’t fucking hold it in!!!!” and in my mind seriously considering just letting it go.

I didn’t…..

I held it…..

And

I made it.

And when I sat down…let’s just say I made Niagara Falls look like a rookie.

I’ll save you further details but reveal that six hours later I had visited the doctor’s office and was standing at the pharmacy to pick up suppositories to help with the tiny rip I had from the massive exodus of poo that fire-hosed out of my “exit tunnel.”

In short, my balloon knot had been slightly damaged.

And there you have it…

I don’t like to poop in public. There are so so so many more stories…but for now, I leave you traumatized with that one.

Sweet dreams!