I'm A Hypocrite Father

“I love you Grayson.”

That’s what a little piece of yellow paper had written on it that the boy found under a book on his desk. My 9-year-old third grader had a little lady falling for his redheaded ass.

A part of me wanted to high five him, do a chest bump and let him take a swig of my beer. But the father of a daughter in me took over and immediately I began to fume.

My hypocrisy regarding my views of youth and relationships was already beginning to creep its way into real situations sooner than I’d anticipated.

Since the day we saw the sonar of our precious little wienerless fetus on the screen during the pregnancy, I knew the day would eventually come when I was standing with a shotgun in front of the daughter’s bedroom door while tossing a pack of condoms to the boy.

Since the day the wife spat our little daughter into the world I’ve been randomly polling the women in my life regarding how their father’s dealt with them as teenagers.

The responses:

“My dad wouldn’t let me date till I was 18.”

“My boyfriend snuck into my bedroom constantly at night.”

“I had my first baby when I was 17.”

I stopped asking after that last response.

Next, I quickly decided I should make a list. That’s what the old school 80s After School Specials always recommended… “when you’re in a pinch on a tough decision, turn on some Poison and make a list!” So I did.

How I Will Treat Relationships the Boy & Girl Have As Teenagers

Boy: Lend him my quality porn collection so he can learn how to handle himself in the sack.

Girl: Show her medical videos of people with horrific cases of gonorrhea and syphilis.

Boy: Provide him with condoms so he always has protection.

Girl: Sleep on the floor next to her bed with a shotgun so that she’s always protected.

Boy: Make sure I don’t cockblock him when he has a girl over to watch a movie.

Girl: Sit on the couch next to the daughter’s male friend and drink a bottle of whiskey while cleaning my chainsaw and staring at him as they watch a movie.

Boy: Explain to him he should be free, enjoy his youth and not lock himself down with a girl for years.

Girl: Drill into her head that you don’t really understand love and relationships till you’re 29 so she should just wait till then to kiss a boy or anything else ookie like that.

It was at this point the wife ripped the sheet out of my hands, balled it up, slapped me and said “get a grip you gap-toothed idiot. We’re going to treat them the same, give them both the exact same tools and opportunities. We’re going let them screw up and learn from it. We’re going to support them through the whole thing and arm them as best we can to make good choices. We can’t guard their every move.”

And she’s right. It’s the only thing to do. I don’t ever want to look back and know that I was too overbearing and sheltered them from becoming who they truly are. I want them to make mistakes, have their hearts broken and learn all the amazing and sometimes painful facets of love.

I touched the wife’s shoulder, smiled a “you’re right” smile at her, then stopped by the girl’s bedroom to make sure all the hidden cameras had fully charged batteries in them.

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!!!

The Boy Drops The F-Bomb

So my son dropped his first F-bomb over the weekend.

Yes, it’s my fault. I do have a pretty filthy mouth and try so very hard to keep it clean around the kids. But, we live in a small house and sometimes I forget my place and well…a word may sometimes slip out.

I have to say though…he used it absolutely perfectly.

Here’s how it happened.

The boy’s on a travel soccer team. This past weekend he had a tournament about 45 min. away from our house. After his first game we spent a few hours wasting time before he had to play game number two. And, what’s more fun that wasting time at a Mexican restaurant with an oversized margarita?!

While enjoying my beverage I take out the trusty phone and check out the radar (I’m one of the biggest weather geeks on the planet). That’s when I see a whole big blob of shit headed our way.

Me: “Dude, looks like you’re game is gonna get cancelled. It’s about to storm pretty bad.”

The Boy: “No way daddy. It’s sunny and nice outside. We’ll play it.”

Me: “I’m looking at the radar and we’re gonna get nailed by Mother Nature. Trust me dude.”

The Boy: “Whatever daddy. We’re gonna play.”

Me: “Wanna make a bet?”

The Boy: (After thinking for a few seconds he gets a grin and says) “Yeah! Let’s bet!!”

Me: “If you play even a half-second of your game, I’ll give you a NuttyBuddy every day for 5 days.”

At this point the boy’s literally bouncing in his seat with joy because how could he lose?! The sun is out for shit-sake!

Me: “If the game gets cancelled though…everyday next week, as soon as I walk in the door from work, you have to take my shoes and socks off and rub my feet.”

At this point he immediately stops bouncing in his seat. The daughter starts dry-heaving and the wife says, “oh dear lord, don’t do that to him. He’s just a boy!!”

The boy starts looking out the window at the sky, then at me, then at the sky, then…he puts out his pinky and says, “it’s a bet. Pinky swear it!”

With the bet now underway I sat back to let the day take its course. Literally five minutes later it starts to get dark outside and the sky opens up.

Ten minutes later the wife checks her email on her phone and reports, “oh no Grayson. The game just got cancelled.”

And THAT’s when it happened. Slamming his elbows on the table and letting his head fall to his empty palms in shame he says, a little louder than a mumble, “fuck!”

Shocked at the word that just came out of his mouth, he immediately looks up at me as his face turns beat red. He then looks at his mother and immediately buries his face in his arms out of shame.

And thank baby jesus he did, because the wife and I ask quietly as we could started laughing like hell.

It's not like he used it in a harsh way by including it in a verbal bashing to someone. He used it absolutely perfectly because having to take your old man's shoes and socks off and rub his feet after a long day at work is definitely a "fuck" moment.

Daddy? What's My Penis For?

You know those Saturday’s when you’re just kinda hanging out?

The kids are doing their own thing. You’re zoned out plowing through the newspaper while the wife is obsessively drilling through Facebook and for a brief moment that’s when you realize “no one wants anything.”

No one’s screaming “nu-uh!!! I’m gonna tell!!!”

And the dog isn’t at the backdoor slamming his hellish paw against the annoying as shit bell we taught him to ring every time he wants to go out.

Bliss!!!

And that’s when the boy rolled up and muttered to me, “daddy what’s my penis for?”

Working hard not to spit my coffee all over the cute little redheaded bastard, I took a hard swallow and responded, “ummm, to pee with dude!”

The Dude: “Really, that’s it? Just to pee with?”

Dumbass Dad (ME): “Well, I mean, there’s other stuff but you’ll learn about that later.”

The Dude: “Like what daddy?”

Dumbass Dad (ME): “Seriously dude, we’ll talk about it later, it’s complicated and daddy’s tired.”

The Dude: “Is is where babies come from?”

Dumbass Dad (ME): “Holy mother of ….. I mean…man, what are they teaching you at school? Who are you hanging out with!!?!”

The Dude: “No I’ve just been wondering.”

Dumbass Dad (ME): “No, baby’s do not technically come out of your penis.”

The Dude: “What if something happens to it.”

Dumbass Dad (ME): “Well then you put that thing on ice IMMEDIATELY and find yourself a damn good attorney .”

The Dude: “I don’t understand.”

Dumbass Dad (ME): “I’m jumping ahead. You remember when daddy said to make sure and talk to me before you get married?”

The Dude: “Yes daddy.”

Dumbass Dad (ME): “That’s all you need to know right now my man. Now go ride your bike or blow bubbles or something.”

The Dude: “You’ve made me scared to have a penis daddy.”

Dumbass Dad (ME): “It’s a big damn responsibility my son. You shouldn’t take it lightly. Many important people have died or ruined their lives cause they couldn’t handle their penis. It’s a lifetime battle dude…just know that I’ll do all I can to guide you along this bumpy road.”

The Dude: “Daddy, why would my penis go down a bumpy road?”

Dumbass Dad (ME): “Hey – is that the ice cream man?”

The Dude: “No…I don’t hear anything.”

Dumbass Dad (ME): “Who wants to go for ice cream?!!!”

Later that night I cried myself to sleep….

Night Terrors & Helplessness

As I write this it’s Wednesday night.

Last night my son had his first “night terror.”

He’d sleep walked before, resulting in us simply re-directing him to his pallet of awesomeness bedness.

Only this time was different.

He’d spent the day dealing with a 104 temperature. We’d alternated Tylenol and Ibuprofin throughout the day keeping him at a solid 101 to 100.5 temp. Fluids were pumping and he slept like a champ.

Around 6 p.m. Chicago got beat-down by a strong band of storms that left us huddled in our basements waiting for the all-clear.

Then sleep came.

And all was calm and normal.

At 1:30ish a.m. I heard a bang!

I’m a light sleeper. A door could slam three blocks away and after many beers I’d still sit straight up trying to assess the situation.

I walked into the daughter’s room and found her slowly crawling into bed. She’d performed her nightly “I have my father’s genes and clumsily fall out of bed” routine and was recouping.

I checked on the boy who’d been dealing with a high fever all week. And he was burning up.

That’s when I made the parental rookie mistake.

I tried to wake him up enough to take his temperature and that’s when it happened!

His eyes opened.

Pupils as black as night and covering every millimeter of those amazing hazel eyes I’ve grown to cherish.

He looked at me as though I were the devil. His eyes pierced my sockets as though he could see through the back of my skull.

He kicked violently to get free of his covers as his arms shook and his voice quivered to find the words to say, “no….no…I’m OK…I’m OK..just give me a minute, I’m OK!!!!”

Still not registering for a second I believe he’s worried I’m going to give him shitty tasting medicine but it quickly becomes clear that’s nowhere near his concern.

I’m there to guide him to harm.

The wife walks in at this point and holds him tight only for him to wrestle free. Meanwhile I leave to go get a cold cloth to place on his head – an old trick I used to do when he was a baby to calm him back to sleep.

Only….

It was like placing hot coals on his skin.

He erupted in screams like someone was slowly stabbing him and we were the culprits.

Helplessness filled the eyes that I threw upon the wife in desperation for some type of guidance.

And I got nothing.

We were both trapped in this brand-new world of helplessness , together.

The last time I’d experienced it I was alone. I was watching the wife enter hour 3 of labor, trying her damndest to welcome into the world the very child we’re now comforting.

I then made the decision to call 911.

Five minutes later a policewoman showed up.

Her eyes darted throughout the house searching for wrong-doing, as she record our names, and our son’s names. My daughter was peeking out from under her security blanket as she huddled in the corner of the couch.

Upstairs my son had snapped-out of the terror and finally woken up.

By the time I’d reached the last step I could see his charm, whit, love of human interaction slowly winning the paramedics and policewoman over leaving me humbled and feeling like I’ve wasted valuable time.

I profusely apologized to the paramedics and police.

I hugged my son.

An hour after everyone left and we rested our heads on pillows again, the boy woke into yet another terror. Only, this time we knew better how to comfort him and work him through it until he finally put his head on his pillow going back to sleep.

I then spent the rest of the night with the wife making sure he never left our consciousness as we half-slept in shifts through the remaining 1.5 hours of night.

And when the sun rose I was on my back.

Thinking….

I’m so lucky.

I cannot imagine living the life of parents dealing with children inflicted with diseases, syndromes, etc… that keep them from living any type of life that could be considered normal.

I am humbled by them.

My heart aches for them.

And I’m thankful.