Parenting is Like Training for the Olympics

“Hey daddy?”

“Yes son? I’m right here by the way. Right in front of you. In fact, besides the dog, I’m the only living creature who can communicate in English with you…right now…this very moment. So, there’s really no need to begin your ten-thousandth question with my name.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes Grayson.”

“You think I can have a friend over this afternoon?”

“Probably not buddy. Your mom and I have to do a couple things.”

“Can you do them while I have a friend over?”

“No Grayson. Seriously, we’re going to need you to have some down time and just read or play on your own so we can knock out this project.”

“Are you going to begin the project now? Can I have someone over before the project?”

“No, we’re getting ready to do the project.”

“How about after? If someone comes over during I’ll be out of your way and you can work on the project.”

“Grayson. Stop talking. Stop asking questions. The answer’s no!”

“Why?”

“Because I’m your father and I explained enough that we have plans and they don’t include you having a friend over!!”

I walk away to get water. Three steps into the kitchen I hear the boy say, “Hey daddy?”

And at that very moment in time you realize the patience, control, training and strength an Olympian must feel when they’re seconds from their race. Fuck yeah I just compared parenting to being an Olympian! Are you gonna look me in the eye-balls and tell me I’m wrong!?!

My son’s questions are becoming mind-numbingly painful. To the point to where I feel like I should set aside an hour a day to take his future teacher out for drinks after the school bell rings each day.

But you know how I get by?

I dream.

I dream of a day. A sunny, yet cool day.  

And I have a handshake agreement with the world that after this next conversation with my child goes down it will be erased from his memory.

And for once I have a green light to answer the boy’s questions how I see fit.

And it goes down like this:

The Boy: “Daddy?”

Me: “Say Daddy again I can assure you I won’t close the door or turn the fans and radio on the next time your mom and I have sex!!”

The Boy: “Can I have a play date?”

Me: “You're adopted and Santa's not real.”

The Boy: “Why are you so stressed?”

Me: “Because my dear boy, your questions are like a weed eater against my shin….relentlessly slicing me until I feel like walking into traffic!!”

The Boy: “Wanna go kick the soccer ball?”

Me: “Fuck yes!”

And then we go outside, kick the ball with great music playing in the background. And that’s when I start asking the questions…

“How was camp dude?”

“Are you excited for soccer season to start?”

“You know I love you right?”

And when he becomes a teenager, roles will reverse….and he…he will be the one blogging about his dad’s incessant painfully boring questions. And he’ll be wishing them to stop.

So until then, I’ll keep perspective and keep answering to my new beloved name, “Hey Daddy?”

How Santa Will Make My Son An Episode Of Intervention

It’s the holidays!

And you know how I know?

Because everyone’s becoming just a bit more of an asshole than they normally are. Even the kids! Hell, the dog has even gotten into the holiday spirit by gnawing on the strap of my man-purse I carry to work every day.

He’s never done that before!

Ahhh the holidays. When people pepper-spray you for buying video games at half-price at a Wal-Mart instead of doing what you should normally do at Wal-Mart….bring your best camera and search for great pictures to upload to www.peopleofwalmart.com.

I found a catalogue over Thanksgiving weekend the daughter had taken a liking to. Upon opening it I thought, “oh cool, she’s circled a few things in……oh…oh she’s circled everything in here.”

The son is still an incredibly devoted believer in Santa. Which sucks for two reasons…

1) It’s gonna break his heart and be rough as hell on him the day he finds out that fat bastard is really his MILF mom tossing extra un-wrapped gifts under the tree late at night while his drunk dad stands naked next to her whispering loudly, “just look at it…I’m making it look like helicopter blades!!”

I can’t help but see an episode of Intervention 20 years from now when my son’s all cracked-out, crying on national TV saying his addiction started when he learned Santa wasn’t real.

2) He thinks he can get whatever in the hell he wants. All “I gotta do is ask Santa!”

It’s like a huge middle finger being jammed in our faces when the boy asks for an iPhone, we rightfully say no, and he responds with that. It makes me want to out Santa right then and there.

But then we wouldn’t get away with my favorite phrase which keeps him in line, “really? You’re gonna give your sister a swirly in that toilet while Santa’s watching? Wow man…you’ve got balls of steel.”

Then there comes the wife. I procrastinate. I’ll occasionally look at commercials showing other rock-star husbands blowing the socks off their wife with cars, jewelry, vacuum cleaners and more. I can’t afford a new car, the wife sells all the jewelry I buy her and I might as well cut my own throat before buying her a vacuum cleaner.

So I wait. And wait.

And wait.

Until a couple days before Christmas and decide to fight the crowds. Bitching the whole time about finding no place to park, the long lines waiting to check out and the check-out ladies being rude because I had the gall to actually purchase something from them today.

I bitch about not being thanked as I hold the door for some jack-wad whose arms were full and mumble angrily to myself as I get stuck in endless shopping traffic.

And it’s at that last stoplight that I realize….the holidays and I need each other. Like my future cracked-out son needs his drugs, I need the holidays to be angry about something. I thrive off the rush of anger that I got on December 22 and 23 when I’m last-second-shopping for my wife. It makes me feel alive. It makes me…

LOVE THE HOLIDAYS!!!

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.

Top 10 Things That Will Be Heard During Our 14-Hour Car Ride South

Tomorrow at 5 a.m. our lovely, adoring, sweet little family will sleepily pile into the over-stuffed car and head south from Chicago to North Carolina for Christmas.

Presents will be packed amongst suite cases, games, and high hopes that Santa will make this THE most bestest Christmas EVER!

Me? I’ll be in the driver seat clutching a large cup of joe looking at the open road thinking “bring it bitch! Let’s do this.” And, I’ll have full intent of making the trip in no less than 14 hours.

Come hell or high water, this car will drive into the in-laws’ driveway by 7 p.m.

Want to make a bet? No?

Well, here’s something you can bet on!

The Top 10 Things That Will Be Heard During Our 14-Hour Car Ride South

1) Grayson: “Macy, stop looking at me. Stop. STOP!!!! Mommy…Macy’s looking at me!!! Can we leave her at the next McDonalds we pass?

2) Macy: “Ewwwww….what’s that smell? Eww…skunk.”

Wife: “No dear…it’s your father.”

3) Me: “So, I says to the guy… ‘that’s what she said.’ Hahahahahahaha”

Wife: “honey, I think you’ve had enough coffee for now, mmmkay?”

4) Grayson: “Mommy can you hear this bell ring? If you can it means you ‘Believe’ in Santa.

Wife: “Yes, yes I can.”

Grayson: “Daddy, can you? Daddy? DADDY!!?”

Me: “I believe in the fact that Indiana is the worst state to ever drive the fu..”

Wife: “STOP! No cursing sweetie. No cursing.”

5) Grayson: “Daddy, is it true that Justin Bieber is a horrible singer and just a pawn of a major music corporation to sell a well packaged, innocent looking young man singing over-produced music to the mass general public in an effort to get rich quick?”

Me: “I love you Grayson. I really really love you.”

6) Wife: “HONEY!!! WATCH THE ROAD!!!  You can Tweet later!!”

7) Grayson: “Daddy I have to go boom boom!”

Five minutes after we stopped for Grayson to go boom boom:

Macy: “Daddy, I have to go boom boom.”

8) Macy: “Mommy, where do babies come from?”

Grayson: “Yeah, good question. Where do they come from?”

Me: “Wow…that IS a good question. Honey, where do babies come from?”

9) Wife: “Oh look, a town named Grayson! Let’s stop!”

Grayson: “Really?!!! Cool, yeah let’s stop!!”

Me: “Next person that speaks dies. It’s that simple. Words come out of your mouth and you stop living. Less speaky, more sleepy!!”

10) Grayson: “Daddy? Where is mommy?”

Me: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Grayson: “She’s not in the car daddy. I just woke up and she’s not in the car. Where is she?”

Me: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It should really be a fun trip! Happy Holidays readers!



I Play Fake Santa & Survive

So, last week I was asked/told by a friend of ours that I would be playing “Santa” at her family’s holiday party.

“I talked to your wife and we both agreed you’d be terrific playing Santa at my family’s holiday party. You’ll be so good and the kids will love it. I’ll bring the suit by your house so you can make sure it fits. You’re the best, thank you!”

That’s pretty much how the conversation went as she hopped in her car and drove away.

A day later I tried the suit on and scared the ever-loving-shit out of my kids by walking downstairs sporting the Santa threads.

I then carefully broke it to them that I was to play Santa at a party this weekend and they have to be super secretive about it.

Reluctantly they agreed.

Party day arrives. We cruise into the shindig. The wife is scanning the room for a coat room while I’m in desperate search of anything with alcohol in it.

A few glasses of wine later it’s Santa time! 

I head down to a 1950s tiny little backroom bathroom to make my epic transformation. I ask the wife to come with me so she can give me final touches.

And, of course the daughter comes with us because she’s attached to the wife at the hip.

I’m fairly confident our daughter is scarred for life after watching her daddy slowly turn into the Christmas fat guy.

But she did a good job documenting everything on camera.

Like…me putting my fake boot cover thingies on.

The wife giving me a final prep.

And the scarring picture of all…mommy kissing Santa!

And finally!!! I was ready. (side note…the wife took this picture, not my daughter so please don’t come after me with a pitchfork.)

I bust-up to the scene and the kids are actually buying it!! No one’s kicking me in the shin or farting on my knee.

It all goes kinda well.

Even both my kids fake it really well!

Afterwards the boy informed me that when he was sitting on my lap and put his arm behind me “your back was really sweaty and gross.”

If that’s the worst thing that happened….I’ll take it.

Will I ever play Santa again? Hell no…but I’m glad I did it. At least my daughter was the only child traumatized from the entire event.