My Son the Ninja Wedgie Master

The wedgie….it’s played so many rolls in my life over the years.

Most recently my son is obsessed with giving the daughter a wedgie when he rough-houses with her. It’s origins are beyond me. When I was in first grade I can promise you giving someone a wedgie was not even on my radar. I think I was more worried about whether I had the most bad-ass lunch box in the cafeteria or not, and if I would get called on to read allowed in class that day.

But I walk in the room yesterday and find my son standing on the couch while holding the back of my daughter’s pants which is now halfway up her ass – and they’re BOTH laughing like hell.

Earlier in the week I’m playing Mario Kart with the little bastard and I’m getting so entranced by the world of Wii, that I didn’t even notice the boy had put his remote down and snuck behind me. Seconds later I’m wearing half my boxer-briefs up my ass.

Instead of making him use his toothbrush to clean my skibbies, I sit him down and explain how he could really hurt someone by hoisting their entire body in the air by tiny shreds of cloth slicing through their poop-shooter. He laughed during my entire speech.

When I was in middle school there was a ritual that the eighth graders would go after the sixth and seventh graders on the soccer team and give them wedgies in the locker room or out on the field. I ran like a little bitch that day….through woods, jumping benches, even down to the parking lot where parents were waiting to pick up the very kids that eventually showed me that in fact your tighty-whities can stretch from your ass to the top of your head.

But even then – I was 11 years old – not 7!!

Wedgies can be alluring in so many ways. Thongs….love em. Panty lines revealing a hidden wedgie problem underneath…perfect. Bathing suit creeping up the wrong way….I’m looking. Whale tail revealing itself…I’m thanking the lord. My son hanging his sister by her underwear….not cool my man, not freakin’ cool.

But then I over-think it like I do EVERYTHING, and I’m all: “holy shit – is my kid gonna be a bully?’

 I mean, I wasn’t a bully growing up. I was too focused on trying to make everyone like me. I was the class-clown, usually at my own expense. So where is he learning this crap and who’s ass do I have to kick?

But then I watch him more closely with other kids, at his school, in his class, around the neighborhood….and he’s just like me. He throws himself to the ground constantly getting kids to laugh at him. He makes farting noises with his tongue cause the kids laugh. And he shows his teachers pictures of me naked because they’ll give him an A on tests if he promises to just STOP.

He’s a good dude, he’s just learned that lifting his sister up by her Hello Kitty panties makes her laugh. And now he knows, when he does it to daddy, you get threatened with having a Wii control shoved up your nose.

Herding Cats is Making Me Crazy

I thought I’d just give a quick run-through of this past Friday morning. A somewhat typical morning in my family’s house.

4:41 a.m. – My alarm goes off. I make the snooze bar my bitch for a little bit, by 4:55 a.m. I’m out of bed. Kick back some water, head off to the Y and have an awesome spin class.

6:45 a.m. I cruise back up to the house. It’s the wifey’s first day of work. Before I left earlier, I had re-set the alarm for 6:30 a.m. to wake her up while I was gone. I slowly look up and no lights are on.

“Shit!”

6:46 a.m. I open the back door and I hear someone stomping up the basement stairs, turn the corner…it’s my daughter. She continues, then stomps up the stairs to the second floor. She’s carrying clothes. I think to myself..well, that’s a start!

Daughter – “These mommy!! I WANT TO WEAR THESE!!!”

“Oh fuck..” I say as I drop my gym back. I walk into the kitchen to make a quick cup of coffee and WWIII in its very infancy upstairs. I think, "bye sanity..it was nice knowing you. It was such a short relationship."

7:00 a.m. Slowly I walk up the stairs..

Wifey – “Grayson, get your pants on son!!”

Son – “IIIIIII AAAAAMMMMMM!!!!”
Wifey –“Macy..no, you cannot wear that you wore it yesterday and it’s dirty, put this on now!”

Daughter – “But it’s blue!!! I’ll look like a boy!!”

I hesitate for a second before reaching the top of the stairs, only because I remembered there’s still a ton of beer in the fridge. Then I continue up… I look in my son’s room and he’s still in his little red undies tapping on his fish tank…jeans still on the floor. My daughter brushes by me to go down stairs – still wearing the pink dress she was told to take off. Wifey, checking her ass out in the mirror to see if she has panty lines.

Me – “Macy…get back in your room and change please. Grayson – are you trying to get your fish to help you put your pants on? Come on man – it’s simple…one leg at a time, button, zip – score – you’re all done!”

My daughter falls to the ground screaming and crying. Son – “I FORGOT DADDY sheeeshh..never give me a second to do ANYTHING!!”

My chest puffs out and I start stomping towards my son’s room, “son, you’d better respect me…do you hear me? Don’t talk to me like that ever again!! Now put your pants on now!!” He falls to the ground crying, but somewhere in the crying he manages a, “yes sir.”

I turn feeling as though I’d won one battle. “Macy, get those clothes on now, or I’ll put them on for you and you won’t like that!!” She stands, walks to her room and throws herself on top of the clothes she should be wearing.

7:11 a.m. - I storm in our bedroom pissed. “Fuck!” I mumble under my breath. The wifey is all: “I know, I just don’t understand why it’s got to be so damn hard. Every morning I have to…..” her voice slowly turns into Charlie Brown’s teacher as I start to pull my work clothes out to iron.

Five minutes later, my son walks in our room, STILL in his underpants, holding a picture from his room and says, “Daddy…what was the name of this fish I caught again?”

It took a second for the disbelief to fully hit before I could speak… “Grayson..is this a joke? Seriously, are you kidding me?

Son, with his arms out, eyes big, true confusion on his face, “What daddy? What do you mean?”

Me – “Seriously…are there cameras in here? Are we con Candid Camera? Is that douche gonna jump out holding balloons with my family laughing and tell me it’s all been a joke?”

Son – “DADDY!!! Just tell me what the name of this fish is!”

Me – “FIVE minutes ago I told you for the 4^th time to put your pants on and you’re still in your skibbies!!! What are you doing? Son – you have to focus!!! GO…PUT…YOUR…PANTS….ON….NOW!!!!”

Son…immediately becomes the victim, starts crying, stomps off angrily and screams, “Daddy you’re so mean, I just wanted to know the name of the fish!!!”

This went on for another 10 min. before I turned into the atom bomb, flew myself into each kid’s room, dropped myself from their precious angle-filled skies, and exploded. There was a lot of tear debris, screams could be heard for miles, the cat was in the basement trying to tunnel out of the house, but no lives were lost.

We should be able to fire our children if they don’t perform simple tasks well when asked. Then, you put an ad in the paper, interview new children, and hire the right ones. Then…life would go on blissfully with beautiful songs, rainbows, helpful – well behaved children giggling and bringing you beers….ahhh…if only.