Stopping The Time Continuum

My son is slowly killing me!

It’s true. And he’s doing it with one simple little phrase “hold on, one sec!”

With that one little phrase the boy truly feels the time continuum comes to screeching halt.

Parents slow to a grind. Soccer games, swimming lessons, school, homework…everything that he should be helping to arrive to on-time is slammed with a huge “pause” button and shelved for kick-ass things like shuffling through eight-foot-high stacks of Pokemon cards, SpongeBob, and burying his sister in pillows.

Of course if I were being truthfully honest I’d take a portion of the blame. After all, I am the dumb-ass that waited until it was time to go before I ask the boy to stop what he’s doing, stand, put on a coat, and walk out of the large rectangular door.

No, I clearly must secretly enjoy the pain and still go by adult time rather than children time.

Instead I say, “OK, grab your shoes and coat and let’s go!”

Son: “Hold on, one sec daddy.”

He then immediately throws on the jittery, jerky, fast-moving motions like he’s going as fast as he can to finish what he’s doing so he can leave as per my request.

His eyes are darting all over the room like he’s trying to locate his shoes and coat, but in reality in his tiny little brain he’s thinking, “OK, if I stand here long enough looking like I might implode he’ll leave to go get my shoes for me giving me enough time to finish watching SpongeBob while I give the dog Macy’s favorite dolly to chew on while we’re gone!”

Me: “Grayson, seriously…you’re shoes are right next to you. Put them on your feet and let’s go!”

Grayson: “OK daddy…one sec!”

This is when he quickly runs up the stairs.

Me: “Oh my god!!! Where in the world are you going son?!!”

He then throws on the fake urgent mumbled voice knowing damn good and well I can’t hear a word he’s saying and that I’ll be way too lazy to go up the stairs after him.

Me: “Dude!!!!! I’m going to carry you out the door in one second!!”

He then comes running down the stairs with absolutely nothing in his hands, blows by me, and heads to the table to start shuffling through his Pokemon cards.

Which makes sense because in his mind time has literally stopped. The bitching and stomping his old man is doing is not really happening. The clock hasn’t moved one second.

He dropped the “hold on, one sec” so he’s got all the time in the world.

Meanwhile the blood has rushed to my head leaving my fingers numb, a gray hair pops to the surface of my massive head, and my heart is pounding out of my chest as I try like hell to keep my cool.

This is the point in which I shock the hell out of him by breaking his little time stopping trick, grab him by the back of his shirt and physically move him towards his shoes and the door.

Which is always met with, “OK DADDY!!! I was just about to get my shoes….geeeze!!!”

And now, I’m an asshole, the worst father ever, and in his mind, the poster-child for lack of patience.

Tomorrow I think I’ll wake him up at 5 a.m. to start getting him ready for the 8 a.m. start-of-school bell.

Think he’ll learn his lesson then?

Yeah, me either.



My Loud-Ass Son

What’s a normal morning like in our humble little abode?

Our family slumbers peacefully as dreams of bunnies, cotton candy, and Jennifer Aniston fill the air.

My eight-year-old son slowly raises his head, steadies his eyes and surveys the room to see if there’s even the slightest smidge of sunlight creeping through the blinds.

He then climbs backwards down the ladder from his loft.

Half way down he stops, places feet side by side, then leaps landing firmly on the ground as if this swan-like move would set-off sparkles, lights, and song birds filling the air with joyous sounds celebrating Grayson’s entry into a new day.

Instead, I leap five feet in the air screaming “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!!!” as the windows still rattle.

Just then the boy walks by our room naked except for his little tighty-whities on his way to the bathroom.

I lay back down trying to calm myself as I listen to his pee randomly hit the floor, then the toilet water, then the floor, then the toilet water. I try to figure out what he’s spelling.  

Just as I begin to find a happy place, WAM!!!!  The sound of the toilet seat and lid slamming onto the porcelain of the bowl has me clawing at the sheets.

My wife…sleeps through every second of this.

As he walks by I firmly whisper, “Grayson!! Stop being so loud. Your sister doesn’t go into school till 11 a.m.!! We want her to sleep AND you’re gonna wake up the dog!!”

“Fiiiiiinnnnuh daddy!” he says in a louder than normal tone reeking of “what the hell’s your problem old man?”

I look at the clock and see he’s up 15 minutes before the alarm was set. I reach over and just as I start to turn the alarm off I hear, RUFF….RUFF…..RUFF!!!

Followed by my son screaming at the top of his lungs, “DADDY???!!! I CAN’T FIND A MATCHING SOCK!!!”

The wife picks her head off the pillow reaching for her phone to see what time it is just as a tear forms in the corner of my eye.

I slowly rise and throw on some clothes. As I walk out of my room I run smack into the daughter who’s carrying her blanky and headed towards the stairs.

“Morning daddy! Can I have cereal? I’m hungry?,” she says in her precious little princess voice a mere four-and-a-half hours before she needs to be at school.

“DADDY?!!,” screams the boy who’s standing literally seven feet away, “did you find a sock? And I don’t want cereal…can you make waffles?”

“I don’t want waffles!!!,” screams the darling six-year-old girl as the dog is now clawing at his cage while yipping and barking to join in the hellish ordeal taking place at 6:30 a.m.

And from there it continues.

All because of my loud-ass son.

The Boy Shaves His Head To Raise Money For Cancer Research

This past Saturday, my boy walked up to an empty chair surrounded by gawkers and one giddy hairdresser donning nothing but a pair of sheers, and sat down.

Three minutes later he sat bald, surrounded by his beautiful red hair mixed with a sea of brown, blonde, and black hair.

My son raised $1,350 for St. Baldrick’s Foundation – one of the leading children’s cancer research organizations in the world.

His fundraising promise?

That he would sit amongst thousands of other kids and adults around the country on Saturday and have his head shaved to pay respect for the millions who currently struggle, who have lost, and who have won the battle against cancer.

His involvement in this was all his idea and of course we were overwhelmingly supportive.

Thank you to all who donated money.

Some were family, some were friends, some were people on Twitter I’ve never met and only know by the “@” in front of their names.

But we’re all unfortunately bonded by the global battle that is fighting cancer.

And we thank you.

And now…the pics and photos!!!

So, here we have a brave little stud-muffin just one hour before he was to get scalped. When I took this photo eight teenage girls with hair well past their shoulders were getting completely shaved.

And now…the video of the boy going under the sheers…

Grayson's Head Shave for St. Baldrick's To Support Children's Cancer Research from WhyIsDaddyCrying on Vimeo.

Thanks again to everyone!

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.

My Daughter's Training To Become Lorena Bobbit Jr.

So you should see my boy. He’s got a bruised foot, a cut along his left cheek, a tiny cut on his lower lip and somewhere on his oversized thick skull is a small raised bump.

These war-wounds are not from wrestling with other eight-year-old boys. They’re not from a lost battle with a slippery tub or a botched attempt at eating with chopsticks.

No, they’re from our sweet, beautiful, innocent, smiling little blond-headed devil daughter.

She’s taken a liking to making her older brother bleed, bruise, and beg for forgiveness.

Thursday she slammed a door in his face as he was running full-tilt towards it. The left side of his face became swollen, cut and bloody.

Thursday afternoon she threw her cowgirl boot at his head because he called her “meany.”

Friday, he wouldn’t play a game with her so she snuck up next to him then stomped his foot.

Saturday in the car she back-handed him during a giggle fit creating a tiny cut in his lip.

As a result, I have a pile of her most prized possessions next to my desk which I’ve confiscated from her. Beside the pile is a reminder note to myself that on January 15 the girl can start watching TV again.

I feel like a warden of a prison being tormented by a gang leader trying to claim her spot as Chief Badass.

The boy…well, he definitely doesn’t take the lashings like a man.

Instead, he’s turned into a professional soccer player blessed with the greatest abilities to over-exaggerate even the tiniest of pushes.

For example:

The boy’s quietly doing his homework. The daughter comes strolling by him looking beautiful and innocent. The wife and I are in the kitchen wrapping-up dinner.

The girl: “Do you want to play Wii when you’re done?”

The boy: “No.”

The girl: “Please Grayson?!”

The boy: “No, I don’t want to.”

The girl, angered by this latest development in her very complicated and difficult life makes the split decision to take matters into her own hands. She’s going to make the boy pay for his bad decision making.

Her tiny little fist flies through the air, landing on his arm creating a sensation that couldn’t be any worse than a friendly pat on the shoulder.

The boy drops his pencil, a look of horror takes over his face, and neurons begin to flash and fire telling his brain, “holy shit I can get my sister into serious serious trouble if I over-play this tragic event!”

He immediately flies from his seat and onto the ground as hard as he can. A blood-curdling yell leaves his scarred lips, “MAAAAACCCYYY!!! OOOWWWW!!! Why did you do that to me?! Why is this happening to me and my life! You’re so mean and you’ve hurt me soooo badly!!”

This usually ends with the wife and I running into the room to find the boy holding his shin, despite the fact he was hit in the arm, and screaming while the daughter continually says, “I’m sorry Grayson!!!”

But we’re getting a handle on it! Despite explaining to her how much we love her and that hitting is not OK, we’ve also explained vividly how if it happens one more time she will experience a room containing one mattress, a pillow, a blanket, and nothing else.

And it’s times like this that make us, as parents, regret the hell out of threats that ultimately result in a whole shit-ton of manual labor.

Here’s hoping she learns her lesson and stops hurdling down the road to become the next Lorena Bobbit!