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Why is Daddy Crying?

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Entries in spork (2)


The Kids Take Over My Blog

I’m one lucky bastard to be able to work from home 75% of the time. But the days I do go into work, well, it’s a bit of a commute.

But, being the news junky that I am, I slide the shades down over the eyes, make oh sweet love to my coffee, and slip on a little easy National Public Radio (NPR) to listen to.

But the past two weeks…well, it’s been fundraising time at the ole NPR station.

For those who don’t listen to NPR, here’s the quick skinny:

It’s a private non-profit. So, they need members and donors to survive which means they fundraise on the radio a few times a year.

And, when they do…well, it makes you want to slam your head into a concrete wall.

BUT!!!! It did get me thinking. What if I treated my blog like NPR?

Here’s how it would probably go down:

Me: “Hi, and welcome to Why Is Daddy Crying. Today my son walked down the stairs and claimed he took a “really solid shit,” and ten minutes later my daughter was caught feeding a pencil to the dog to chew on.”

Grayson: “But, before we go any further, did you know that for just $1 a day for 365 days you could become a “stalker” member of my dad’s blog?”

Macy: “That’s right. With your membership, you will get a tiny sheet of paper to keep in your wallet or purse that tells others you stalk Why Is Daddy Crying. In addition, we’ll email you plastic fake teeth fashioned by renowned modern artist Akejeudh Von Piekdhjak. The teeth are perfect replicas of the massive front gap-teeth Why Is Daddy Crying lives with each day.”

Grayson: “You know what Macy, this hour only….I’ll even throw in a spork that Why Is Daddy Crying tried to kill himself with the last time I got out of bed and interrupted mommy and him knocking boots.”

Macy: “WOW!!! That spork is legendary! Remember the time the dog tried to eat it and daddy snagged it just in time and started chasing the entire family down the block with it? Now THAT’s a gift!”

Grayson: “It sure is sister-lady. In fact, I’ll go even a step further. Six years ago my mother informed Why Is Daddy Crying that he was going to be a dad with their second child.

“At that very moment he performed the rare, and never-seen-before action of “shartuking.” That’s right Macy. The man literally shat, farted, and puked all over himself.

“Now, it wasn’t his sexist moment in life, but we were fortunately there to capture the moment and strip and bag the man of his clothes."

Macy: “WOW, Grayson…that is phenomenal.”

Grayson: “Yes, yes it is Macy. Now, for those listening. If you make the decision to give $5 a day for 365 days, supporting Why Is Daddy Crying at the ‘come around the corner and I’ll let you ‘see it’ level, then you’ll get a 6 inch by 6 inch swatch of the clothes he wore upon the shartuking incident.”

Macy: “I don’t’ even know what to say. That’s flat-out epic Grayson.”

Grayson: “It won’t happen again in our lifetime Macy, that’s for sure.”

Macy: “So there you have it…it’s your choice. Give at the ‘stalker’ level or the ‘come around the corner and I’ll let you see it level’ – either way, your money is going to support a man who we sadly call our dad, except for when he’s face down on our front lawn…then, well…we refer to him as the ‘jumpy house.”

Grayson: “So give today and support our ongoing efforts to make our dad cry.”



No More Eating Out for Me!!

I’m absolutely done with taking the family out for dinner. Done! Can’t stand it any longer…

It always begins with deciding where we’re going to go. The boy wants pizza and the girl wants chicken strips.

The boy wants sushi and the girl wants chicken strips.

The boy wants Subway and the girl wants macaroni and cheese…with chicken strips.

During this riveting debate is when we’re eagerly shepherding the little demons to get shoes on. This is essentially the equivalent of trying to teach a cat to sit while someone’s using a laser-beam to play with it.

After a spirited race to the car, always won by the boy because he elbows the girl sending her cart wheeling to yet another scabbed knee, we wait while the daughter spends 10 minutes gathering every essential toy scattered throughout the vehicle before getting buckled.

I’ll spare you the drive because it’s just too damn painful to recount.

Then alas we arrive and make our grand entrance. This is always the best part of the night. The second they walk in, they quiet down, put their hands by their sides and take in the scenery.

Diners gaze upon their young innocent faces, smile, and nudge their loved ones usually saying, “oh look…he looks just like Opie and she’s just a princess.”

Little do they know that in the time they’ve uttered those words, both kids have managed to figure out the first 12 ways they’ll make us both cry, pay-off the cooks to spit in my food, and waged a bet on who can make me say, “guys, stop it!” the most.

Then the menus come and they want nothing that’s on it.

Then I order three beers at once which gets the typical waitress response of, “Oh, will someone else be joining you?” as she reaches for more menus.

“No, it’s just us. So again, we'll take water for the kids, margarita for the wife, and I’ll have three beers. Thanks!” This is when the waitress either tells me that’s illegal or slowly backs away from the table.

Almost immediately the daughter hands me the little piece of paper holding the napkin and silverware together and says, “daddy!! Paper airplane.”

“Say please sweetie.”

“Yes ma’am!” And that’s always followed by giggling from both kids and it goes from there until dinner is served.

This is when both kids begin an intellectual discussion about life, the names of all the presidents, whether Barbie poops at night while they’re sleeping, what we should name the daughter’s first tooth she loses, and why daddy wants to do serious harm to Alvin and the Chipmunks.

Twenty minutes later the wife and I have finished and the kids haven’t even taken a bite of their food.

All and all it could be significantly worse. And there are occasionally good eating experiences.

But after last night’s escapade of my daughter mimicking the Italian busboy to the point where he’s contemplating shoving a spork in my jugular. I’m done…

Now I’ve moved on to the phase of just throwing a pile of sushi and chicken strips on the floor, turning the TV on, and slowly escaping with the wife to the back porch to drink beer and chill in silence.