You Like Me, You Really Like Me

So apparently some insanely awesome editor at Babble.com took it upon herself/himself/itself to add my blog as the #7 position in their Funniest Dad Blog category of the annual list of top 10 Dad Bloggers.

And I’m pretty damn proud of that. I mean, it’s kinda like a pat on the top of the head from parenting world to say “who’s a good boy?!!” as I sit on the kitchen floor slamming my tale to the ground in happiness while hoping someone accidentally drops a beer.

When I found out I immediately texted the wife: “Hey – I just made the annual babble.com top 10 Funniest Dad Blog at #7 position!”

Five hours later she texted back, “how much is the check you get for that?”

Me: “Nothing.”

Her: “Oh”

Then I texted my brother (@ibeenorm) the same thing.

His response? - “neat”

I didn’t care though. I felt good about myself. So….I decided to pull out a pen, some paper and write my thank you list for all those who made this award-winning #7 a crowning achievement in my blog life.

So, here it goes.

I’d like to thank all the other sperm that allowed me to reach the egg first. You guys and girls put a lot of trust in me to not fuck this life up and I’m forever grateful. It sucks to be you right now.

I’d like to thank my children. You give me lots of great material, memories and amazing moments. If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t drink so much, crouch naked in a corner crying at night and probably have tons more sex with your mother.

My brain. I’d like to thank my brain for being demented and twisted enough to pull together the words on this blog. I know the wife wants me to filter what you produce way more than I do, but we both know life would be so much lamer if I did.

I’d like to thank my dad for showing me how not to parent.

I’d like to thank my house for only having one damn bathroom in it. Because mornings should be spent with your wife in the shower, son brushing his teeth while holding his nose closed and daughter at the doorway holding her crotch and jumping up and down screaming “hurry up daddy I have to pee!!!” while you have your a.m. poop.

The wife….the apple of my eye.

What the hell does that even mean? I know it’s super old. It’s been in the bible and Shakespeare used it, but how the hell can an apple and someone’s eye merge to join a literary phrase pertaining to someone you want to bone the hell out of?

I’d like to thank the wife for letting me obnoxiously flail around in her life as the third child in the family and for not chopping off my pecker in the middle of the night so that I’ll stop chasing her around the house with it while screaming “just look at it!!!”

Finally, I’d like to thank the Interweb Machine Thingy. Because of you I can spew my insanity onto endless pages. Thank you for becoming my therapist and for allowing me to dump on you with no regard of self preservation or respect of others.

Now let's go celebrate!

Mommy, Where Do Babies Come From?

The other day the fam and I were driving along when the boy dropped the bomb of all bombs.

No, not the bomb he dropped yesterday when he said: “Macy, do you smell something?”

Macy: “No, why?”

Grayson: “Cause I just farted and it’s horrible.”

No, not that bomb, although, that little interaction does illustrate the truth that girls are soooo much smarter than little dudes.

Here’s what I mean.

So, we’re driving along and it’s quiet, which means either there’s some pontification going on, or all holy hell is about to break loose.

This is when pontification reared its ugly head.

Grayson: “Mommy, are you going to have another baby?”

The Wife: “No honey, it’s not possible. I mean, your daddy and I feel that our family is complete with just Macy and you.”

Grayson: “No, I mean, just say you wanted another baby, you would have to re-marry someone, right?”

At that point the wife looks at me and I immediately go into “Look As Though Traffic Is Horrible And You’re Trying To Plow Your Way Through So You Don’t Have To Engage In Conversations With Your Children About Where Babies Come From” look.

Macy: “Grayson!!! Baby’s come from a seed in the mommy’s belly, silly!!”

Grayson: “Macy!! Shhhh. Seriously mommy, if you wanted another baby you’d re-marry someone, right?”

The Wife: “No honey, I would have another baby with your father, but we have decided that we don’t want to expand the family any further. We love Macy and you and our family is perfect!”

Macy: “Grayson, you’re so silly!!! Babies come from seeds in the mommy’s belly. They grow from there.”

Grayson: “Well how do the seeds get there?”

Macy: “I don’t know.”

Grayson: “Mommy?”

The Wife: “Have you been working on your spelling words today Grayson? Cause you have a review test on Friday!”

Grayson: “How does the seed for babies get into the mommy’s belly?”

At this point I’m pulling close to the guy driving in the next lane, motioning for him to roll down his window in the hopes I can sell him on letting me climb into his car for safety.

The Wife: “We’re not going to have anymore brothers or sisters for you kids to let’s rock-out to some Barenaked Ladies!!! Turn it up Dad!!”

Me: “Sounds good!!”

As I turn up the radio…..

Grayson: “I know what you’re doing. At some point I still want to know how the seed gets in the mommy’s belly! I won’t forget that question!”

We have no idea how the girl knew babies come from a “seed.” I’m just glad she doesn’t know how the seed gets there, otherwise I’d have to put on my biker outfit and go stomp some ass somewhere.

But regardless, I’m ready for the boy to bring it back-up so I can tell him where babies come from.

“Son, babies happen when the mommy slips and falls on the ground and the daddy goes to help her up, then slips and falls on top of her. When they get back up the mommy has a seed in her belly and 9 months later a baby is born.

“Now who wants ice cream?!!!”

I Used To Sneak Out

Let me start this post by noting that my mother reads my blog. She occasionally leaves me little messages on my personal Facebook page putting me in my place after reading posts like the one about her chasing my brother and me around the house with wooden spoons.

I’m a bit lucky that so far she hasn’t sent me a gift from this website www.BoxOfShit.com.

But, I think after this post my luck will run out. So, mom…get up and just walk away from the computer. Go on….leave woman!!

Is she gone? OK, let’s do this.

So, I used to sneak out of my house with such regularity as a kid you’d think I was practicing for an Olympic gold medal in it.

I knew my parents nightly routine like the back of my hand.

9:10 – 10:36 p.m. – Fight like cats & dogs

10:36 – 11:21 p.m. – Father takes his drunk ass upstairs to watch HBO late night softcore porn

11:22 – 11:48 p.m. – Father passes out, mother follows suit.

12 p.m. – The house falls silent and the countdown is on till the coast is clear.

Waiting till the coast is clear for sneaking out is the hardest and longest time of your lives. I can’t tell you how many times I’d wake up to my alarm going off at 6 a.m. and screaming, “SHIT!!!!”

But one day I was digging through an old dresser in our guest bedroom and found this old-school clock that had an alarm only a mouse could appreciate. I set the alarm, put all my faith in it, and at 1:01 a.m. it went off.

I quickly snapped the alarm off and sat straight-up in bed listening.

My father was in his regular deep deep slumber which sounds like a mix between a 1920s broke-ass sawmill and two constipated virgin elephants trying to make sweet love.

My mother, she always slept like a rock. I can’t tell you how many times as a kid I’d run into her room frantically trying to wake her up  to impart upon her the very exciting news that I was about to throw-up all over this lovely house of ours. By the time she woke up to my childish nudging and whispering, “mommy… I think I’m going to...” I would inevitably puke all over the floor and bed beside her.

A smile crept across my face as I knew I had found a way to get in sleep while also being able to escape for a while in the middle of the night.

The next piece was huge. Putting together the elaborate mental puzzle I’d created that when put together, revealed the exact locations to step when walking down the carpeted L-shaped stairs to freedom.

The key to it all…banisters. After three steps I could place my hands on both banisters and swing my anti-gymnastic-skilled-ass passed five steps and a half-landing.

The last three steps always squeaked the loudest so I had to turn around and take those them backwards so I could steady myself with my hands.  

At that point…it’s game-on and I was out of there.

I never really had a purpose to sneak out at night. Very rarely would I meet-up with a friend. When I did it usually ended with them saying, “why in the hell are we doing this? I’m tired dude!!!”

My brother used to make the journey from time to time with me. But again, why? We get to hang out all day every day. Why waste sleep and risk getting caught to do it under moonlight?

So, I’d just walk or ride my bike. I’d go to the lake nearby and throw rocks from an old decrepit concrete pier. I’d occasionally leave a tennis ball in my girlfriend’s mailbox so she’d find it and think I was a badass rebel.

I experimented with smoking and alcohol.

But most importantly I was living that very moment of my life exactly how I wanted to live it. There were no rules. No parents. No one was watching.

Parents weren’t fighting. My father wasn’t asking me to make him drinks.

The escape I’d created in my room with music, my piano, writing poems, and reading lyrics had gotten so much larger. It was now filled with fresh air, endless roads and no boundaries.

But despite all the freedom and time alone with my brain, there was a tiny little piece of me that found motivation to sneak out of the house from the idea that I might get caught.

I figured, if I was caught, it would show my father that I was in control of me and capable of leaving his tiny kingdom whenever I wanted. I could defy him. I could break the chains whenever I felt like it.

And like that the night would be over. It was time to head home.

There was always this one corner that was six houses away. As soon as I turned that corner I’d have a clear shot of my parents’ bedroom windows.

Light on – I’m screwed.

Light off – Home free. Just make it through the front door and the rest can be explained by sleep walking.

In all the times I ventured into the night, I never came home to find a light on.

I never came home to find my mother and father sitting downstairs holding the letter I left on my pillow every time I snuck out that read:

Dear Mom:

I am OK. Nothing bad has happened to me. I snuck out of the house to just go for a walk and be alone. I know it’s very dangerous for me to do and I’m sorry.

I love you and will be home very shortly. I hope you will not be too mad and if you found this before dad woke up all I ask is that you don’t wake him or tell him until we talk.

Love,

Justin

A few times a year when I can’t sleep in the middle of the night I’ll get up, toss on the running gear and go out for a short three-miler. As my feet pound pavement I look at all the rows of houses dark and filled with slumber and I feel free again.

Free like a 14-year-old boy gliding through the streets of his neighborhood at 1:30 a.m. without a care in the world and nothing to lose.



A Letter On Bondage To My Son's Future Wife

Dear Grayson’s Future Wife:

I’d like to start this rambling batch of mess off with a big “I’m sorry!!”

Actually, I don’t really know why I’m apologizing. Your husband’s the one that really screwed it all up for you!

Let me start from the beginning.

It was a Fall day.

Grayson’s mother-dearest was working from home and it was a holiday which means your fella and his sister, were home taking full advantage of unsupervised hell-raising.

Much quietness fell upon the house.

This was followed by loud banging, crashing….and yes, crying.

Your man’s mom ran down the stairs to find her daughter wrapped in clear masking tape around her ankles, wrists, and waist.

Words flew. An understanding was reached. In short – no more bondage activities were to “EVER” take place again.

An hour passes and again the wife questions the quietness of the house.

Scared out of her mind to go in search of her offspring, she continues to work with a keen-ear to the sky.

Moments later there comes a predicted slam to a wall, followed by the horrific screaming of the boy.

Leaping from her chair she runs towards the sounds of death only to find your dear husband bound by his ankles and wrists with masking tape. His head was resting uncomfortably against the wall.

“I tried to leap the first step mom but I missed and my head slammed into the wall,” was what the dear boy muttered to the wife.

Ten minutes later she managed to finish un-wrapping your husband from his sadistic bondage get-up before calling me.

I immediately suggested she take him to the ER just to make damn sure his claimed “fuzzy eye-sight and muffled hearing” were just an effort to instigate the wrath of our parenthood punishment on the daughter for wrapping the boy up.

After sitting in the ER for an hour your husband’s mother was met with a doctor laughing his ass off as he read the chart detailing why his next “patient” was sitting before him still chaffed from where the tape was ripped off his skin.

The day ended with Grayson properly scared out of his mind and assuring us repeatedly that he’d “never tie anyone up again for the rest of his life!”

So this is why I write to you today.

This is why your dear husband has not and will probably never come home with silk wrist and ankle ties from your favorite naughty store.

This is why your bed posts will remain unscathed from crazy feel-good games.

But hey, he does enjoy getting tickled, warm chocolate milk, and announcing to the entire room when he’s gotta go “boom boom.” So, there’s that!

Better luck in your next lifetime.

Love,

Grayson’s Dad



Spank Me Baby!

Spanking… Some do it, some don’t.

But at some point in your parental lives you’ll be forced to make that decision. And even after you make that decision those little bastards will push you so far that you might just re-think it.

Now, I’m not even about to stand proud on my soap box, pound my chest and make a public stance on this issue.

Instead, I’m going to guide you on a little jaunt back-in-time to my childhood to discuss wooden spoon, hair brushes, and belts – oh my!

Why? Because my parents were huge believers of spanking.

My mother was a wooden spoon kind of lady. It was her weapon of choice.

Originally my brother and I thought she mistakenly grabbed one while reaching for a knife, but now we’re pretty confident the stealth speed of the spoon as it sliced through the air, landing effortlessly on our young butt’s just milliseconds before we dodged her thrashing arm was what sold our mother on the dreaded spoon of wood.

Regardless, she was a ninja master with it.

And no matter what room in the house we were in, there was always a wooden spoon hidden somewhere:

• Bathroom spraying water on my brother as he brushed his teeth – WHAP! a wooden spoon across the ass.
• Watching cartoons with my brother and accidentally saying “shit” loud enough for my mother to hear – WHAP! a wooden spoon across the legs and bar of Lava soap in the mouth.
• Mumbling under my breath “I hate you and wish you were dead” after my mother spanked me with a wooden spoon – (sound effect of spoon flying through the air like a throwing star) WHAP! a wooden spoon on the back.

She had skills.

Every now and then my brother (@ibeenorm on Twitter) and I would push her to the point where we’d turn and find her frazzled, raging, and holding a single wooden spoon in hand donning a “let’s dance motherfuckers!” look on her face.

Our reaction was always to put our hands behind our butts and scatter in opposite directions. It was our impulse.

And like a true lioness she always went after the weaker, slower one. But looking back, the smart move would have been to let her hit me first every time because once the initial hunt was over, she would then call the other kid who got away and he’d have to stand there and take it.

Afterward, we’d inevitably end up in the bathroom, bent over comparing black-and-blue wooden spoon marks on each other’s asses to see who would be declared the gold in Olympic Wooden Spoon Dodging.

My father? His weapon of choice was the blue hair brush or a belt. And to make matters worse, he was a lazy spanker.

He was a do-it-yourself vicious spanking machine. All that was required was a crying, shaking child and a weapon.

Many-a-time he’d come home, look at my report card, scream and yell, then say the words we always dreaded to hear: “go get the hairbrush.”

There was no need to argue, no need to negotiate…you were about to get your ass beat.

So you make the long walk up the stairs, sniffling, kicking yourself for being in this situation, and making last minute pleas with any god who will listen that he “please slam our house with a massive meteorite stat!!”

I’d slowly walk back in, hand him the brush and then wait for the second most-hated phrase to be uttered: “take down your pants and underwear.”

The humility of having to drape yourself over your father’s knee, bare-ass sticking in the air, waiting for all hell to break loose was enough to make you want to become a saint for the rest of your life.

But we never learned our lessons. Despite the knowledge of our mother hoarding at least three-dozen wooden spoons sporadically around the house, and our father’s keenness to play our bare-asses like a snare drum with his hairbrush, my brother and I continued to raise holy hell.

We continued to take lashings over the years for some of the dumbest things we had under our control to just simply not do. We were like moths to a flame.

Even today when I’m walking through a store and see a wooden spoon on display I have the sudden urge to pop my brother on the back of the head and call him a “punk.”