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Words That End In "Yuuah"

It’s gotten to the point where I go to work and am all, “I know, but I called him two days ago-yuuah!!” in a really whiney voice.

That’s what our seven-year-old has done to not only me, but the wifey and daughter.

Take a walk back to non-kid days with me.

It’s Saturday in our 850-square-foot apartment we comfortable fit into. It’s 10:30 a.m. and the wife and I have woken at the same time. Tossing bad-breathe in the air like it’s Chernobyl on crack we laugh and remember back to when we were kids.

Wife: “You remember when you’d be all, ‘fiiiiiiinnnnneeeeyyuuuuahh!!’ at your mom?”

Me: “Are you kidding? I was the king at adding the ‘yuuah’ to the end of anything. Essentially it’s the closest a kid can get to ‘fuck you’ without getting jack-slapped into the next century.”

And so it became our “thing.”

Example Numero Uno:

Me: “So, you uhhh….you wanna fool around a little?”

Wife: “FIIINNNEEEEyuuah!!!”

Example Numero Dos:

Wife: “Honey, please take the garbage out before I cut you!”

Me: “FIINNNEEEEEyuuah!!!!”

I’d toss out example number three but Google’s being a bitch in telling me how to say “three” i.e. “tres” in Spanish.

Didn’t you hate when your professors used to say “i.e.” in college? I’d use it all the time with the wife and friends and I won’t lie, I almost got stabbed at a party one time using “i.e.” as part of my fighting vocabulary.

But I digress. And holy shit I’ve gotten off track.

The bottom line, all that “fiiiinnneeeyuuahh” stuff’s gotten us in to one hell of trouble. It’s the boy’s new favorite ending to every sentence.

Even so much so that our neighbor’s kick-ass kid who’s three calls my five year-old “Macy-yuuuuah.”

So, our family has embraced it. The other day we spent the day ending all our sentences with “yuuah.”

Daughter: “I gotta go boom boom daddyyuuaahh”

Me: “Hey look honey! If I see you naked, then jump up and down I can make three parts of my body clap at once-yuuuah”

Wife: “You scare me-yyuuuahhh”

Sure, we’re teaching out kids the improper use of language.

But in the end, it was so freakin’ awesome to see my son use his sense of humor to laugh at himself, which in turn will cause him to stop doing it.

At least that's what the book How To Parent Like A Champion said would happen.



Oh How I Dread "The Talk"

This past weekend I’ve been doing the pool hardcore-style.

School starts Wednesday for the little bastards so I figured I’d try to get into the wet-stuff as much as I possibly could. The pool that is...

As I slide my white-assed self into the pool waters and started tossing the little nippers around I quickly noticed…holy shit, there’s a lot of teenagers around here. And like being thrown into a warp-speed, throw-your-head-back kinda light-year geeky TV-effect I was projected to 2020 - my daughter’s 15, wearing a bikini, at the pool and I’m in the corner clutching a beer crying while thinking, “I really really need to have ‘The Talk’ with her.”

I’m scared shitless of “The Talk.”

I’ll never forget my dad giving us “The Talk.” I was 12 (I think), which would have made my brother 14.

My dad was all liquored-up and probably felt it was time for my brother to hear about the birds and the bees so shit, why not the younger brother too?!

Long story short, for the next year or so, I was confident sex was when a man lays next to his wife, places his penis inside her, then they both go to sleep. That’s right…with the penis still inside her.

And I remember I had two HUGE questions.

1) What happens if the dude has to go pee in the middle of the night?

2) What the hell does a jack-o-lantern have anything to do with sex?

To this day when someone says jack-o-lantern I suddenly become 12 again and hear my dad say, “and then the man jack-o-lanterns into her.”

A part of me feels like when it’s time for “The Talk” I should just find a picture of a penis, hold it up in front of the kids and wait two minutes till everything in the room feels really awkward.

Then I’ll turn to the girl and say, “this is a penis. Boys have the penis. If a boy shows you his penis, I’ll kill him. If a boy talks about his penis to you, I’ll kill him. If you touch a penis, I’ll kill you and him. There is no need for you to see, touch, talk about, experience, or go near the penis until you graduate college.”

Then I’ll turn to the boy and say, “if your sister sees, touches or comes near a penis, I’ll kill you. If you see or hear-of anyone coming near your sister, thinking of your sister, or dreaming of your sister with their penis, tell me and I’ll kill them.”

Then, I’ll buy them both some new music, hug them, and send them on their way.

OK, I’m exaggerating…but I’m also kind of not.

I’m thankful to have plenty of time to plot my war-plan to protect my kids’ innocence as best I can, while making sure I arm them with enough knowledge so that when they do fuck up, it’s not life altering.

In the meantime, I’m just going to enjoy tossing them around in the pool and watch them fight with all their might to come right back to my open arms.



It's What's For Dinner

Son: “Dad, what’s for dinner?”

Me: “Pork chops in a pineapple-glazed honey sauce with jasmine rice and edamame .”

Son: “AWWWWWW!!! NOOOO Dad!!! Aw come-on!! Can’t we have pizza?”

And that’s how our nights begin these days.

The kids love rice. They love honey. They love pineapple. And if you put a bowl of edamame in the middle of a room and unleash the little bastards they’ll literally fight to the death until it’s all gone.

Feeding edamame to them is like tying down a small child and throwing it into a room full of zombies. Yeah…like that.

But when you lovingly toss it all together on a plate, gleefully place it in front of the troops, stand back and wait for the overwhelming cheers…all we get is the kid’s version of Chef Ramsay.

“Dad! What the fuck is this you donkey? Come here…taste this! It’s crap dad! Crap!”

I absolutely love cooking. There’s nothing better than cranking the radio, pouring a full glass of red wine and knocking out a killer meal. But with the birth of two little rug-rats we’ve fallen victim to the lure of eating out.

Sitting at a table, having beer brought to you on demand without having to lift a finger while plates of goodness are brought is such a wonderful thing. But damn that’s expensive.

And sushi is…make that “was”…our weakness. We LOVE sushi!!! But damn it’s expensive.

The boy has to learn to eat food that costs less than $50 to create. The girl…well, she would eat chicken nuggets and chicken noodle soup until the world ended.

So, we’ve taken the old school “we used to walk to school uphill both ways” philosophy of parenting.

Last night we fed them pork chops. They tried it. They hated it. They went to bed with empty stomachs. And, yes…I showed them the trash can with their food in it and said, “daddy listened to a story on the radio today where a lady who struggles for food said a good day for her is when she gets half a glass of goat milk and cornmeal soup for the day.”

To help the message sink in further, maybe weekend we’ll take the boy to a soup kitchen.

I won’t categorize the experience as learning through guilt. Instead, I chalk it up as teaching through reality.

I’ll know I’m successful when he cleans his plate and then says, “dad, can we volunteer at the soup kitchen again this weekend?”

OK, now I’m dreaming. So I’ll lower my goals and just shoot for the clean plate.


Cussing & the Kids

“Sit the fuck down and eat your damn dinner!!!”

That phrase has probably been on the tip of every frustrated parent’s tongue at dinner time since the invention of kids. It’s on mine nine time out of ten.

But at the last second, that tiny little filter kicks in, erases “the fuck” and “damn” and cranks out the appropriate, “Sit down and eat your dinner!!”

Cussing in front of the kids is becoming more and more of an issue for me the older they get. The boy is hearing the words at school and even knows how to spell them.

“Daddy, I know how to spell the ‘F-word’. Wanna hear it?”

This is going to shock you but I cuss like a goddamn sailor. As soon as the kids’ heads hit their little pillows I flip the switch off and just let it flow.

But recently, that switch has been a bit lose and I’ve accidently dropped an “ass” or “shit” here and there.  The boy is always quick to say, “daddy!!! You just said a bad word.” Or the wife quickly snaps her fingers at me as I feel my testicles cringe and the hair stand-up on the back of my neck.

It usually only happens when I’ve broken something, or hit my massive noggin on something. I always feel awful after I say it, too.

I follow it up with, “Grayson and Macy, you know you’re not supposed to say those words right?”

“Yes daddy, we know.”

I have a buddy who has “Cuss Friday” with his two boys that are 7 and 12 years old. Every Friday he allows them to say any cuss word they want. The rules:  they can only say it to their father, their mother can never know (even though she does), and if they ever cuss in public or to another person the privilege of the game is over forever.

At some level I can appreciate that. It’s like controlled cussing in a way. But, then I envision what that would be like with my son and me.

Me: “What’s up motherfucker?”

Son: “Not much cock-smoke. Can I have some goddamn juice asshole?”

Me: “Shit yes you can. Go get it your fucking self.”

Son: “Fuck you old man, you go fetch it ass-bag.”

Me: “Don’t be a dick son. I’m not going to get it.”

Son: “FINE!! Goddamn it. I have to do everything!!”

After I play that through my mind I just can’t do it. I think I’ll stick with the modern version of the way it used to be: father works on lawn mower, scrapes knuckles along bolt, says “shit!!!!,” wife who is gardening near-by says “Walter!! The children for goodness sakes!!,” and father says, “sorry kids. Daddy shouldn’t have said that word. That’s a bad word and you should never say bad words.”



Where The Hell Did My Dude-Mojo Go?

This past weekend the wife tossed the kids and all their accoutrements in the car and drove 18 hours to Greensboro, North Carolina to spend the week with our family. I just started a new job in March, so I haven’t earned enough vacation time to where I could take a week off to join in on the trip. So…I was left behind.

I was stoked to be thrown in a spot where I’d have a solid week alone. I’ll admit, when they first drove down the street, I was sad. My daughter had cranked out a cute little picture and my son telling me how much he’d miss me was still ringing in my ears.

I walked back in the house, put on some coffee, walked upstairs, peed, then started to put the seat down when I realized, “what the hell are you doing man?

I immediately threw the seat back up with authority and walked out of the bathroom a new man.

It was time to be a freakin’ dude again. Storming down the stairs with a mission I walked in the kitchen to make a cup of coffee and quickly found myself sidetracked by all the dirty dishes. Immediately I started cleaning. I unloaded and loaded the dishwasher, cleaned the counters, and ten minutes later found myself wiping down all the cabinets with cleaner.

Who the hell had I become? I had an entire house to myself and all I could do was think about dropping toilet seats and having a clean kitchen.

Fortunately the World Cup, USA vs. Ghana game was coming on. But it didn’t get any better. By half time I was drinking white wine and standing on my front doorstep wondering what flowers I should buy for the new front flowerbed I had made.

Instance after instance I found myself doing non-dude stuff.

Finally, I’d had enough. So I went down to the basement, watched porn, then laced up my running shoes and went out for a run. Refreshed and ready to get my man-mojo back, I showered, didn’t shave, and left the deodorant right where it was sitting.

Twenty minutes later I was drinking red wine, eating brie and crackers and watching the news. Now I’d apparently turned 80.

That’s when I decided to just embrace who the hell I’ve become. So what if I plan on spending a couple hours in the garden. So what if I look in the mirror and criticize my body every time I get out of the shower. So what if a tiny tear appeared in my eye at the end of Toy Story 3.

I’m still going to fart, drink beer, watch a few baseball games, run, and check out women at the grocery store. Cause I AM a dude damn it.

I’m a dude with a wife and kids who have apparently spent many dark nights slowly pumping small amounts of estrogen in me while I sleep.


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