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?”

A New Sexual Vocabulary

So my parenting alarms have been on high alert recently for some reason.

I think it’s because the oldest little bastard is nine now. He’s at that age where he starts learning things at school, which he brings home and kindly unleashes on to our seven-year-old daughter.

But for some reason all things related to sex have me feeling like I’m a sweaty crackhead in the middle of an intervention fumbling with my fingers, looking around paranoid as shit at everyone and everything near me.

Driving in the car the other day Kings of Leon, Sex on Fire came on and the boy’s singing the lyrics.

And I’m cringing, holding the steering wheel tight as can be as I hear a rare silence from the back seat. And all I can imagine is what’s going through his head….

Boy’s Head Thoughts:

“Oh look, something shiny. I should make a fart noise right now. Wonder if I have a booger? I really hate my sister. I wonder why my penis is bigger than my dad’s? I should ask for a play-date for the 438^th time today. Hey….this is kind of a cool song. Sex? What’s sex? Let me ask…”

Thankfully that question never came out.

And then there’s the bedroom situation in our humble abode. Three bedrooms literally on top of each other.

You can hear EVERYTHING.

So we deck each room with fans to cut down on hearing the boy snore. Hearing the girl fart all night (not kidding). And to eliminate any sounds of the wife and I having our monthly “relations.”

But at the end of the day, our door still doesn’t lock and we have no idea what’s happening in the hallway on the other side of it.

I guess I could pipe Kenny G. into the hallway to force them to wear earplugs. I could set trip hazards connected to pots and pans. Or we could just move our location to the basement next to the cat litter box.

So many choices…

Regardless I’m fearful because I feel the older the kids get the stealthier things will need to be.

I’ll never forget coming home as a teenager and hearing one of my parents have relations with a step parent. It was one of the most horrifying experiences. So I exited the house, re-entered and slammed the ever-living-shit out of the door just to make damn sure they knew I was home.

I cock-blocked the hell out of them and don’t regret it to this very day.

So maybe the best thing to do is to retrain ourselves and the responses we have to sex to sound like we’re having the most interesting conversation in the entire world.

So as my curious little bastards stand in the hallway they hear their mother emotionally saying:

“That’s sooooo curious!!”

“OH MY GOD!!!! I remember that time too!”

“Yes, yes, YES!! We can take the kids to Disney World if they stay in their rooms at night!!”

Or hear their daddy grunting:

“Oh, oh, oh those shoes match your outfit perfectly!”

“Yes, keep doing that to your hair cause it’s beautiful.”

“Oh my god I think I’m going to come to your holiday party this year!!”

But in reality we all know the real new retrained phrases will be:

Wife: “Are you done ironing your clothes yet?”

Me: “I’m sorry, I thought I’d last longer than that at scrabble.”

Football got me sex!

Last night after the little bastards’ heads nestled calmly on their little cartoon-covered pillows and the dog assumed his position as chief asshole in the house, the wife and I turned on Monday Night Football.

At first I was shocked she was actually sitting there watching the game with me not all, “I think Cake Boss is on!” Or, “I have a new episode of Sister Wives, wanna watch?”

Those are the phrases that usually get me reaching for my beer and heading out of the room at the speed of light.

That’s when she started it:

The Wife: “Why is it called ‘football?’”

Me: “Seriously?”

The Wife: “I mean, they had to name soccer soccer cause football was already taken, so why did they name it football? Why not pigskin or man-game or tight ends?”

Me: “There wasn’t a single word in that entire question that remotely made sense. I award you no points and may god have mercy on your soul.”

The Wife: “You seriously need to stop stealing lines from movies. Why didn’t you ever play football? Cause you whittle mommy wouldn’t whet you? Hummmm? Scared da big bad player might hurt your whittle bones?”

Me: “You know I’m over a foot taller than you and could literally crush you with my thumb, right?”

The Wife: “I think it’s awesome that they’re wearing pink though. I mean…they do make pink look sexy as hell.”

Me: “I’m wearing pink right now… Wanna see?”

The Wife: “Only if it’s a pair of pink underwear made of $50 bills.”

Me: “So what I’m taking from this conversation is that you want to role-play in the bedroom. You want me to dress like a football player supporting breast cancer month? Is that what all this is about.”

The Wife: “Are you gonna look like that quarterback right there for the Colts? Cause I could have me some of that!!”

Me: “You mean the guy who right there who likes like he fell straight out of a Def Leppard video from the 80s? I’ve got an old mullet wig down in the basement I could toss on if that’ll help?”

The Wife: “Quick…go get it and turn the game on the HD flat screen downstairs. I’ll be right there…”

Thanks Cults new quarterback Curtis Painter! I owe you one buddy!



Bacon

So, yesterday I got to have a daddy/daughter day.

To kick it off I did what any self-respecting father would do.

I made bacon.

And we ate it…and life was good.

It then got me thinking. Bacon really is such a unique, diverse, and satisfying food.

It can be served with just about any other edible combination – peanut butter, strawberries, honey, and…well…..bacon.

Then it got me thinking even further about how bacon could change...well, the world!

1) Served before every business meeting:

Manager: “Before Bob begins his report, would anyone like some bacon?”

2) Excellent in hostage situations:

Hostage Negotiator: “That’s right, just let 10 more hostages go and we’ll deliver four crispy and warm slices of bacon.”

3) Premature ejaculation?

Husband “I’m sorry honey that never happens to me. Come on...don’t be mad. Hey, guess what? Who has two thumbs and a plate of bacon for his special girl? This guy!!!”

4)      Making oral sex much more appealing to the wife:

Frank: “Hey hun, I ummm…I was thinking maybe tonight I could ummm…you know…like, get a little oral or something?

Wife: “Jesus Frank!!! Is that all you think about, huh? My mouth going down on you? Damn it!!”

Frank: “I wrapped it in bacon!”

Wife: “Let’s do this!!!”

5) Wrapping paper for shitty presents: (overheard at the wedding)

Guy #1 “Hey? Who’s the jagoff that re-gifted the picture of his grandmother holding a poodle with ‘You’re My Favorite Grandson’ shaved in its fur framed in a Kenny G.-singing frame?”

Guy #2 “Who gives a fuck? It’s wrapped in bacon dude! I’m stealin’ it!”

6) Tricking the kids into taking vitamins.

Mother: “Oh look Timmy! Someone left a bacon ball sitting on the counter. Guess I’ll have to eat it.”

Timmy: (Grabbing for his shank attached to his ankle) “Back the fuck off…I’ll cut you ma… Don’t touch my bacon ball. That’s right…walk away…don’t even look at it…keep walking…”

7) To keep from having to talk to the Mother-In-Law:

Step 1: Cook 23.4 lbs of bacon in flat strips.

Step 2: Spent 89 drunkin’ hours sewing said 23.4 lbs of bacon into a size 38 coat.

Step 3: When mother-in-law arrives and starts digging into every inch of your life invite her to go for a walk. Before leaving, slip on the coveted bacon jacket. As you walk down the street, Nature will slowly begin to attack you with louder and more viciousness by the second forcing you to retreat back to the house and retire for the night in your bedroom in a fit of trauma next to the stocked cooler you’ve managed to previously hide under the bed.

I strongly support everyone trying all of these and more. In fact, you should comment and let me know how bacon has forever changed your life!

A Glimpse Into The "Woman Bible"

Last week I put my manhood on the chopping block and provided a small glimpse into the “Man Bible.”

I received a humbling and positive response from many of the married ladies out there for revealing the drive behind their loving husband’s caveman-like antics.

The only problem is the dudes out there were a bit outraged. I apparently broke a huge man-code by revealing this bound gaggle of typed words by which we live and breathe as men.

I was promptly informed by a “Man-Committee” that I had exactly five days to right my wrong.

So, I started racking my brain. I thought long and hard….

And that’s when it hit me!

If’ there’s a Man Bible…there’s GOT to be a Woman Bible.

I leapt from the toilet my thinking chair and immediately ran into the bedroom and began ransacking the wife’s dresser.

Bras, panties, pajamas, and barrettes all went flying in the air as I frantically searched. I found nothing.

I plowed through her jewelry, make-up, and lingerie. Nothing.

Then it hit me. She’d put it where I would never go in a million years.

In the box of Tampons!!

One minute later I had in my hand a small, pink book, smelling of perfume, tampons, and estrogen.

After giving two quick chest bumps to thank baby Jesus above, I threw myself to the floor to start tearing through it page by page.

So…in an effort to make things right in the world again. I give you snippets from the “Woman Bible:”

Page 33, Part C – When walking by your husband act as though he does not exist. DO NOT make eye contact or let him catch your eyes landing on ANY part of his body. Men can feel your sight and will immediately interpret any look as though you want to have sex right then and there.

If by accident you get caught looking at your husband immediately implement Page 743, Part A – Spontaneously having your period out of convenience.

Page 528, Part DD, Section 1,290,473 – At the end of the day you’re going to want to remove your bra to let “the girls” relax. Learn to do this without removing your shirt if your husband is near.

Regardless he will think the act of removing your bra means you want to have sex. However, keeping your shirt on through the process reduces his immediate erection and spastic lunge to mount you by 11.8%.

Page 1, Part A – You will spend the remaining time as a wife deflecting your husband’s hands from groping your breasts and buttocks. When your wife term is over you will be as skilled as a ninja warrior.

Page 69, Part T, Section 2 – It is extremely important that you consistently move things around the house so that YOU are the only one that knows where they are. While your husband will display extreme frustration with never knowing where anything is, it will reveal a calm, yet strong demand you have over the house.

Page 33 – Every naturally born woman has within her the ability to shrink a man’s testicles into pin-sized pellets with just one vicious look. This look CANNOT be taught. Know that it exists within you. Explore your inner self and you will one day find “the look.” You will know when you have found it…and so will your husband.

Page 189, Part F, Section 8 – Your boobs are magic. No matter how small or large they are, you will find they entice your husband to do many unwelcoming things. Bending over at the right time to pick something up revealing just enough boob will immediately drain blood from the husband’s brain leaving him senseless and unable to say “no.”

But be careful not to give it all away. Never let him see the entire boob…but just enough.

OK. That’s all I’m able to share.

However, for $199.99 an hour, endless amounts of Newcastle, and a letter from my wife promising to show me her whole boobs completely uncovered and I’ll gladly share with you the rest of the Woman Bible.

Just shoot me an email and we’ll make it happen!