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.



My Loud-Ass Son

What’s a normal morning like in our humble little abode?

Our family slumbers peacefully as dreams of bunnies, cotton candy, and Jennifer Aniston fill the air.

My eight-year-old son slowly raises his head, steadies his eyes and surveys the room to see if there’s even the slightest smidge of sunlight creeping through the blinds.

He then climbs backwards down the ladder from his loft.

Half way down he stops, places feet side by side, then leaps landing firmly on the ground as if this swan-like move would set-off sparkles, lights, and song birds filling the air with joyous sounds celebrating Grayson’s entry into a new day.

Instead, I leap five feet in the air screaming “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!!!” as the windows still rattle.

Just then the boy walks by our room naked except for his little tighty-whities on his way to the bathroom.

I lay back down trying to calm myself as I listen to his pee randomly hit the floor, then the toilet water, then the floor, then the toilet water. I try to figure out what he’s spelling.  

Just as I begin to find a happy place, WAM!!!!  The sound of the toilet seat and lid slamming onto the porcelain of the bowl has me clawing at the sheets.

My wife…sleeps through every second of this.

As he walks by I firmly whisper, “Grayson!! Stop being so loud. Your sister doesn’t go into school till 11 a.m.!! We want her to sleep AND you’re gonna wake up the dog!!”

“Fiiiiiinnnnuh daddy!” he says in a louder than normal tone reeking of “what the hell’s your problem old man?”

I look at the clock and see he’s up 15 minutes before the alarm was set. I reach over and just as I start to turn the alarm off I hear, RUFF….RUFF…..RUFF!!!

Followed by my son screaming at the top of his lungs, “DADDY???!!! I CAN’T FIND A MATCHING SOCK!!!”

The wife picks her head off the pillow reaching for her phone to see what time it is just as a tear forms in the corner of my eye.

I slowly rise and throw on some clothes. As I walk out of my room I run smack into the daughter who’s carrying her blanky and headed towards the stairs.

“Morning daddy! Can I have cereal? I’m hungry?,” she says in her precious little princess voice a mere four-and-a-half hours before she needs to be at school.

“DADDY?!!,” screams the boy who’s standing literally seven feet away, “did you find a sock? And I don’t want cereal…can you make waffles?”

“I don’t want waffles!!!,” screams the darling six-year-old girl as the dog is now clawing at his cage while yipping and barking to join in the hellish ordeal taking place at 6:30 a.m.

And from there it continues.

All because of my loud-ass son.

Attachment Issues

My daughter is one of those girls that stays attached to her mommy at all times.

Occasionally it works to my advantage.

Like, when the daughter puked up a vat of semi-digested popcorn the other night.

I got stuck cleaning chunks off sheets while the wife got to hold the daughter's hair back as she "talked to Ralph on the big white phone."

Other times...well, it's not so awesome.

Like, when 10 adults and us spend the first hour of a dinner party having to spell out naughty words so the daughter doesn't learn what "flashing, douchebags, and quickies" are.

It's been a long and painful road watching the daughter remain attached to the wife in social settings.

I stay out of it waiting for the wife to drop her Jedi-mind-trick-ninja-awesomeness stuff on her. In the old days that would result in the daughter perplexed and left hanging with kids before she knew what happened.

Now, the daughter just laughs and gives the wife that, “time to step-it-up a notch loser” look within seconds of saying, “hey look, an awesome movie’s on in the other room!!”

However, this past weekend was huge.

The family hit an awesome party which for the first hour the daughter decided she was 38 and ready to be an adult with everyone.

I watched as she made eye-contact with the adults as they told stories. She smiled at punch-lines. She was entranced at long tales recounting drunken nakedness through the neighborhood.

That’s when I knew the attachment had to be broken.

Visions of the daughter being 12 years old, drinking beer, hanging with the adults, telling stories we’re all drunkingly laughing at while wondering “who invited the super young chick to the party” filled my head.

NO!

She needed to hang with the kids.

And that’s when I come in.

Scooping the daughter up, tickling her as I lead her to the massive cookie stash just steps from the “Night at the Museum” movie blaring next to the gaggle of kids with juice-stained mouths.

Within minutes she was double fisting sugar awesomeness and being swept up by the kid-magic.

And I…I escaped back to the world of drunkin stupidness. A couple hours later, she was in the middle of the room doing the robot as we all laughed our asses off.

A circle of adults and kids were her audience as she juked and jived around the floor. The same little girl who a few hours ago wouldn’t let go of her mommy’s leg.

The wife and I basked in the light of hope that our little angel might finally be breaking out of her shell. Doubtful…but hopeful.

 

A Pictorial Look Back

I put this picture on Twitter the other day of the girl rocking out like it’s 1983, and it got me thinking.

I should take a walk back in time through pictures I’ve tossed on Twitter over the past year. I enjoy whipping-out the ole phone camera from time to time in the hopes I’ll catch an unforgettable moment, and toss it on TwitPic.

So, I did just that…I dug through the vaults and now I give you, an assemblage of pictures I’ve snapped and thrown on Twitpic over the past 365 days, complete with commentary:

I volunteer every Monday in my daughter’s kindergarten class. Her “boyfriend” always spends those days drawing thought-provoking pictures of me such as this. His pictures make me cry at night….

Hell yes I played Santa for a friends’ family holiday party!

One of many reasons I can’t wait until the summer. Looong bike rides with the boy along the river.

Sometimes you just have to step outside the box when it comes to requesting a little nookie-time with the wifey.

Unloading chess-jedi-mindtrick-knowledge on the boy…just incase chess becomes a multi-billion-dollar-a-year industry.

And if chess doesn’t work, I’m falling back on roller-derby with my bad-ass daughter!!! Bring daddy the paycheck!!!

Yes, it’s true. Jesus was a tow-truck driver before he became…well..Jesus. I still regret not buying this damn painting from the Antique store.

One of many awesome notes the boy and I pass back and forth every day through his lunch box.

Fuck yeah Pink Ducky got praised by random Spider-dudes in downtown Chicago.

Last but not least, the absolute love of my life on her 36^th birthday.

My Daughter's Training To Become Lorena Bobbit Jr.

So you should see my boy. He’s got a bruised foot, a cut along his left cheek, a tiny cut on his lower lip and somewhere on his oversized thick skull is a small raised bump.

These war-wounds are not from wrestling with other eight-year-old boys. They’re not from a lost battle with a slippery tub or a botched attempt at eating with chopsticks.

No, they’re from our sweet, beautiful, innocent, smiling little blond-headed devil daughter.

She’s taken a liking to making her older brother bleed, bruise, and beg for forgiveness.

Thursday she slammed a door in his face as he was running full-tilt towards it. The left side of his face became swollen, cut and bloody.

Thursday afternoon she threw her cowgirl boot at his head because he called her “meany.”

Friday, he wouldn’t play a game with her so she snuck up next to him then stomped his foot.

Saturday in the car she back-handed him during a giggle fit creating a tiny cut in his lip.

As a result, I have a pile of her most prized possessions next to my desk which I’ve confiscated from her. Beside the pile is a reminder note to myself that on January 15 the girl can start watching TV again.

I feel like a warden of a prison being tormented by a gang leader trying to claim her spot as Chief Badass.

The boy…well, he definitely doesn’t take the lashings like a man.

Instead, he’s turned into a professional soccer player blessed with the greatest abilities to over-exaggerate even the tiniest of pushes.

For example:

The boy’s quietly doing his homework. The daughter comes strolling by him looking beautiful and innocent. The wife and I are in the kitchen wrapping-up dinner.

The girl: “Do you want to play Wii when you’re done?”

The boy: “No.”

The girl: “Please Grayson?!”

The boy: “No, I don’t want to.”

The girl, angered by this latest development in her very complicated and difficult life makes the split decision to take matters into her own hands. She’s going to make the boy pay for his bad decision making.

Her tiny little fist flies through the air, landing on his arm creating a sensation that couldn’t be any worse than a friendly pat on the shoulder.

The boy drops his pencil, a look of horror takes over his face, and neurons begin to flash and fire telling his brain, “holy shit I can get my sister into serious serious trouble if I over-play this tragic event!”

He immediately flies from his seat and onto the ground as hard as he can. A blood-curdling yell leaves his scarred lips, “MAAAAACCCYYY!!! OOOWWWW!!! Why did you do that to me?! Why is this happening to me and my life! You’re so mean and you’ve hurt me soooo badly!!”

This usually ends with the wife and I running into the room to find the boy holding his shin, despite the fact he was hit in the arm, and screaming while the daughter continually says, “I’m sorry Grayson!!!”

But we’re getting a handle on it! Despite explaining to her how much we love her and that hitting is not OK, we’ve also explained vividly how if it happens one more time she will experience a room containing one mattress, a pillow, a blanket, and nothing else.

And it’s times like this that make us, as parents, regret the hell out of threats that ultimately result in a whole shit-ton of manual labor.

Here’s hoping she learns her lesson and stops hurdling down the road to become the next Lorena Bobbit!