With & Without Kids

For a week-and-a-half I’ve been kid-free! The wife took them to North Carolina a week ago. After seven days she left them with family and came back to spend a week with just the two of us.

Yeah, it’s been a bit weird. Not in a bad way…just in a, it’s been kind of weird way.

I’m expecting screaming at any second from one of the little bastards. Maybe a machine gun of requests for food, toys, bike ride, or to play a game. But it doesn’t come…just blissful silence.

Here’s what I’m talking about:

Life With Kids

The Boy: “Daaaaddddyyy!!! Macy just kicked me in my shin and told me I was stupid!!”

Life Without Kids

Me: “Hey honey!? Come quick and watch this!! I can rock my thingy back in forth in perfect time with the metronome!!”

Life With Kids

Me: “Yeah, so today Bob came up to me and….. hold on Grayson I’m talking to your mother. And so Bob came up to me and….Macy, I just told your brother I was talking to mommy – please hold on. So Bob said to me….Grayson!!! Listen to me son. I’m trying to talk to mommy. Now please…WAIT!! So Bob says….Oh my lord, seriously Macy? I’m trying to talk!!!!!”

Life Without Kids

Wifey: “Honey, please…I just want to do yoga in peace. Do you really have to sit on the couch drinking a beer and eating popcorn? I’m not a movie!”

Life With Kids

Wifey: “OK…it’s been an hour. I’m pretty sure they’re asleep, but let’s try and be quiet just in case. Damn we really need to get a lock on this door. We would seriously traumatize the hell out of the kids if they walked in right now.”

Life Without Kids

Driving home from work and only ten minutes away from the house I get a text message: “Meet me in the basement, and hurry.”

I do miss the little rug-rats. I miss them more than ever. But damn I’m enjoying this time with just the wifey. It’s weeks like this that make me appreciate the time I have with my kids now…and makes me smile at the impending time I’ll have with the wife when they’re all grows up.

The Wife & I Discuss the Off Road Commode

Yesterday I happened upon this absolutely stellar, award-winning, high-class commercial in the Interweb Machine Thingy.

Doing what my wife hates the most, I immediately say, “honey, seriously, come watch this...”

As a side note, that is by far the worst phrase you could ever utter to my wife. She HATES when I ask her to watch videos. But then, nine times out of ten, she laughs her ass off. I know at the end of the day she’s writing in her diary: “…and then my sexy-ass husband showed me the most hilarious video and I almost peed myself watching it. God I love that man!”

Actually, it went a little bit more like this:

Wife: I don’t understand. You shit right behind your truck?

Me: Ummm…well yeah, I guess so.

Wife: That’s just stupid. Then it’s right next to your truck. And worse, it’s at the tailgate. What if you bag a deer? Then you’ll be stepping in your own shit while trying to put the deer carcass in your truck bed.

Me: Did you just say “tailgate,” “deer carcass” and “truck bed” to me? I want you so bad right now it’s ridiculous.

Wife: You’re a douche. Seriously, that is the dumbest damn thing I’ve ever seen.

Me: Maybe he dug a ditch, shat in it, covered it back up, and went back to ruthlessly killing innocent deer which he justifies by saying they’re overpopulated, which they really aren’t we’re just encroaching on their damn habitat.

Wife: Here we go again. Blah blah blah…nature…blah blah….save the animals…blah blah… Can you at least go pour me a bit more wine while you’re talking?

Me: Look, I was just trying to show you a funny-ass commercial that’s trying to pass off a trailer hitch toilet seat as a luxury item to rednecks that enjoy killing shit.

Wife: It’s hilarious. Can I leave now?

Me: I’m going to buy one for you for your birthday and make love to you on it.

Wife: OK, first, that’s just dumb. Second, you don’t have a trailer hitch. And third, if you did, you’d have to ask me how to hook the toilet seat up to it.

Me: That’s why I’m buying it for you and not me!!

Wife: That actually might be kinda sexy.

Me: Oh my God – are you serious? Cause I’ll order it right now. Actually, I’ll get on Craigslist and see if anyone close-by is selling them so I can pick it up now. Oh, and I need to buy a trailer hitch and find someone to weld it on…

I paused and realized while I was off on this wild goose chase, my wife had relocated her sexy-ass to the couch where she was drinking her wine and watching her show in peace.

It didn’t matter though, I’m still buying it…

It's Fantasy Father's Day Time

So Sunday’s our big day dudes!! This is it…our time to shine. Our time to throw our chests out like we’re the hardest working hooker on the block.

It’s Father’s Day!!

For some reason I always get my hopes up for this holiday - like a kid before Christmas. I imagine it being an epic holiday and find myself getting more and more jazzed as the day approaches. Then…well, the reality of fatherhood slaps me in the face.

Here. Let me illustrate for you. Take a gander at my fantasy Father’s Day versus the real Father’s Day.

Fantasy Father’s Day

Wake up to a warm, naked wife with freshly brushed teeth kissing me while her hands wander about under the sheets.

Reality Father’s Day

Son with ass-breath standing inches from my face saying, “DADDY!!! Wake-up daddy! I’m hungry. Can I have breakfast pplllleeeassse!!!?”

Fantasy Father’s Day

Wake up from post-sex morning nap to find my wife handing me a warm cup of coffee and the Sunday Times. She says, “hey, I’m gonna take the kids to the grocery store, why don’t you go for a nice long run, take a shower, then I’ll give your feet and legs a good rub-down.”

Reality Father’s Day

Walk downstairs to a destroyed kitchen with cat puke on the floor. Step on one of my daughter’s Zhu Zhu Pets, find there’s no more cream in the refrigerator, and roll my eyes as I answer the boy’s same question six times in a row.

Fantasy Father’s Day

Walk downstairs after my foot-rub and my living room is filled with all the top dudes in my life, a keg, and golf on the big screen TV!

Reality Father’s Day

I don’t get a run in, the kids refuse to eat their breakfast and start breaking down when I click off their favorite TV channel.

Fantasy Father’s Day

Golf’s over and a party van rolls up in front to the house to pick up the dudes and me. Once inside we realize all the wives got baby-sitters and we’re all gonna rip Chi-Town up for the night!

Reality Father’s Day

The girl pee’s herself, the boy’s hamster has escaped, and the wife “really wants to take advantage of that sale at Kohl’s tonight.” I open the refrigerator to find only one beer and it’s a damn Milwaukee’s Best and we’re out of wine.

While my fantasy Father’s Day would be bad-ass…I admit, I’d take the reality Father’s Day any day because without it, I wouldn’t have earned the right to stick my chest out in pride that day.

I’m just kidding…Give me the Fantasy Father’s Day!!! It’s just one day I’m asking for!!

Happy Father’s Day dudes!!!

The Wife & I Discuss Sex Toys

A month ago I got a Twitter direct message (DM) from the loverly @maniacalmom saying she was headed to Vegas, “send me your mailing address and I’ll send you a care package when I get back.”

Truth be told, I get random DMs on Twitter once in a blue moon but nothing like that. While I love my girl and her blog, I didn’t really know what to do with that DM or how to respond, so I just didn’t.

Two weeks later she sends another DM saying “I’m back – send me your address and I’ll send your care package.”

“Ummm….I’m a bit scared. Are you going to show up, throw me in a well, tell me ‘it rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again’ and then wear me?” I politely asked?

Then I get her virtual business information which looked legit and I folded…I sent my address and today we got the package!!

Wife: “Wow…now who the hell is this woman again?,” she asks as she looks at the package contents strewn across the table while keeping a constant eye on the stairs for any prying eyes from the little nippers.

Me: “She’s that lady on Twitter who said she wanted to send us some gifts after her…”

Wife: “What the hell is this?”

Me: “I can’t tell from the plastic, but it looks like it’s shaped perfectly to fit around my…”

Wife: “And is that a dolphin?!”

Me: “That my dear, is AWESOME! It looks like a hollowed out dolphin thingy that totally hides this little vibrator thingy so the kids have no idea it’s a magical mystery tool designed to send mommy’s eyes rolling in the back of her head!!”

Wife: “What? Why are you bringing the kids into this? You’re sick.”

Me: “No…I just immediately thought if the kids found it they’d think, ‘oh cool, a vibrating dolphin with seven different settings—awesome!’ and we wouldn’t freak out as bad if we saw them accidentally playing with it in the bathtub or something.”

Wife: “Well, what are you going to do with your man-tube thing?”

Me: “You mean, Jennifer?”

Wife: “Holy shit you just opened it from the package and you already gave ‘it’ a name?”

Me: “Ssshhh…she’s sensitive. Look at her bumps and goodness. She exists to make us happy.”

Wife: “To make YOU happy? Poor Jennifery, she has no clue what she’s in for.”

And I thought about it…the wife’s right. If I come on too strong I’d hate to think what would happen. I’d go looking for her in my favorite drawer and she wouldn’t be there. The wife would be laying on the couch and feel a tug on her Snuggie sleeve. And to her dismay she’d see Jennifer…

Wife: “Oh my god what’s wrong Jennifer? Why are you crying?”

Jennifer: “He won’t leave me the fuck alone! Not even for a second!”

Wife: “Oh no!!! He’s following you around the house, rubbing against you and accidentally picking up imaginary things in front of you in the hopes you’ll look at his ass isn’t he?”

Jennifer: “Can you hide me under your blankets and let me watch CSI with you and just hold me for a while.”

Wife: “Come on girlfriend…hop in. Mommy’s got you.”

I’ve totally got to play this one cool. I can’t lose Jennifer the way I lost the wifey to her Snuggie and the couch...

My Little Rat Bastards

We can’t have nice things and we all might as well be naked.

Anyone with kids knows this fact. Nothing is sacred anymore.

Peeing at the toilet—you might as well be peeing at half court during the NCAA tournament.

Furniture—globs of dried snot, food, and baby jesus knows what else all over it. Yeah, you want to come visit me now don’t you?

Car—it looks like a muddy soccer game took place while a Crayola factory exploded inside my Nissan.

Nothing’s off limits with these damn kids.

The daughter’s just a messy beast.

She’s broken long-standing records of being able to completely trash a room at mach speed. Sunday morning the wifey was busy defending herself from my quest for morning sex while we continued to hear the pitter-patter of the daughter’s feet back and forth between her room and downstairs.

When I finally surrendered and decided to go make coffee I walked down stairs only to find a massive doll house, two baby doll cribs, five Zhu Zhu pets and two dozen stuffed animals being read-to by my daughter, and what looked like the biggest cat-fight between a gaggle of Barbies strewn all over the couch. Oh, and she apparently had “breakfast cooking for us” on the toy stove, refrigerator, and sink that was set up in the middle of the room. All toys she gathered from her room and the basement into our living room.

The boy is a damn disgusting, snot-filled tornado.

When he has a cold he refuses to breathe through his mouth so all you hear snot being shuffled around in his nose as bubbles randomly escape. He loves to crawl on the floor of public places; go under tables at dinner; touch nasty, dirty things laying on the ground; and every one of his shirts and coats have crusted sleeves from constantly rubbing them along his nose.

And unfortunately he inherited the profound skill of being able to just flat-out break shit. When I was dating the wifey in high school, I broke lamps, chairs, tables, dishes and so much else at her mother’s house.

The finest example of my son’s skill I can provide are these three lovely trophies sampled from the boy’s trophy collection.

This baseball trophy used to sport one kick-ass bat that actually made t-ball look like the manliest sport ever invented.

I loved this bobble-head soccer trophy...it didn't even survive the car ride home before his head sprung out of joint making him look like Rain Man trophy.

This Pele-looking bad ass flying through the air to score the deciding game-winning goal lost his foot a while back. We have it in a baggy sitting next to the trophy in the boy's room.

But I wouldn’t have them any other way. Despite seeing the girl licking the window on the train heading into the city… Despite the boy picking up a lonely discarded M&M along the street and eating it… Despite the fact every time you tickle my daughter she sounds like a Whoopee cushion going off… Despite the fact my boy won’t let me see him naked, but every time I pee he’s right there staring… I wouldn’t change a damn thing about them.

They’re disgusting, dirty, hilarious and beautiful. They’re my rat bastard kids.