I Guest Blog On A .org Site!

I was just as shocked as you. I got a very nice email from a gentleman last week who kindly asked if I’d like to do a guest post for his blog DaddysHome,Inc. I immediately checked out the site and it’s an official non-profit dedicated to serving as a resource for stay at home dads. A real live .org!!

Immediately I thought, oh shit! I’m going to have put my big-boy pants on to write something for this guy? I’ll probably have to go to the damn library, put footnotes on it, and maybe even quote a PhD.

The owner of the site, Shannon, quickly put my fears to rest. “We’re all dudes, just do what you do best my man.”

So, I wrote about how the wife and I (mainly me) thought we were pregnant earlier this week.

And…here’s the post – enjoy! And makes sure you poke around the site a bit more…it’s pretty kick-ass.

The Scare!



Hire My Dumb-Ass!

With there being just a slight gap between my last paycheck and the new job I’m about to take, the wifey and I have realized the slight forthcoming pinch to our finances. We’ll make it work, but it’s definitely raised question marks above my head about whether I should try to land a quick one-day or two-day job that could put some walking cash in my pocket till I’m employed again?

With the wifey’s approval to the idea, I sat down and quickly took inventory of the many skills I’ve gained naturally or through this extended break as a stay-at-home dad. Once I exhausted the list and eight beers along with it, I quickly hand crafted a classified ad I plan to run in this week’s paper. I figured throwing it up on my blog couldn’t hurt either.

So…if you’re in the need and a skill seems to fit…let a brother know and give me a call!

Help Wanted

• Young, strapping lad looking for small, non-handy-man jobs to be accomplished around the house.
• Able to provide light hammering of nails, painting, yard mowing and weed-eating.
• Incapable of anything requiring plumbing, electrical, picture hanging, wood cutting, leveling, or other type of manly-man focused household activities.
• Enjoys long walks along the beach and may occasionally look out of his peripherals to view the random bikini-clad lady.
• Eclectic skills abound, ranging from professional beer taster, Jager-bomb maker, running buddy, shower soap holder, sex slave, compliment giver, beer fetcher, break-dance freak of nature, twitcher, professional thumb wrestler, make your friends laugh at my lisp-er, stay up late laughing at other people’s expenses-er, put soft socks on me after a few too many beers and tell me to walk down these wooden stairs and watch me tumble-er, willing to see what can fit in the gap between my teeth while you watch-er, drinker and laugher.

Please note that if I:

• Wear no pants on Friday
• Am caught using your interweb machine thingy
• Watch your pay-per-view
• Destroy CDs in your music collection I believe is pure shit
• Drink all of your beer
• Cram a full day’s worth of work into the 35 minutes before you come home, then fake looking exhausted and saying, “wow…what…a…day. I am beat!!”
• Look you straight in the eyes and say, “yeah, it seriously looks good doesn’t it?!” when you ask, “did you even paint this fucking room today?”
• Twitter about all the insane stuff I find throughout your house (this includes TwitPics)
• Access your Facebook account
• And, hide random empty beer bottles, condoms and pictures of “spy horse” throughout your house

then I cannont be held responsible for said repercussions and damage.

Disclaimer

The party responsible for hiring WhyIsDaddyCrying must hold all responsibilities for said activities and damage and are forbidden from demeaning, beating, laughing-at, Twittering about, or calling his wife regarding any of these issues. You will NOT call the police. WhyIsDaddyCrying holds all copyright regarding anything stolen, TwitPic’d, written about, looked at, sat on, or beer-spilled on. If I look at you, you are considered copyrighted by WhyIsDaddyCrying. WhyIsDaddyCrying is not sold in foreign countries and may be harmful to your health. If you speak to, look at, lick, shake hands with, or brush-up against WhyIsDaddyCrying, please call your physician immediately and tell him/her your situation. WhyIsDaddyCrying is not harmful to children under the age of 18, but should be kept far far away if you’ve witnessed him ingest more than 2 bottles of wine and/or Jager. WhyIsDaddyCrying is not a laxative nor a diabetic cleanser.

Call Today If You Need Simple Jobs Done!

1-800-468-3825 or email whyisdaddycrying (at) gmail (dot) com



Oooh...and one more thing!

Two days have gone by…and we’re already at the “oooh…and one more thing!” phase as the wifey walks out the front door to her jobby job. Oh how evil the flip-side of the coin is. There’s a part of me that thinks that after dropping an “oooh…and one more thing!” list on me, the wifey jumps in the car, cranks the radio, and bee bops her fine ass to work knowing I’m at home throwing stuff animals at my son’s imaginary friends, punching pillows, kicking cushions, and wasting valuable time that could be spent taking care of the “simple activities we’d talked about this morning.”

Wifey: “Hey, so are you picking up the kids today from school?”

Me: “Uh..yeah, I can…but I’m supposed to be making calls, and working on getting a job right?”

Wifey: “Yes dear, but I just thought you….oh, just forget it, I’ll do it.”

Me: “No…I want to do it, I just don’t want it to become this….”

Wifey: “Oooh …and one more thing, could you clean the cat litter box? I just walked down in the basement and it smells like your dirty underwear down there.”

Me: “My dirty underwear is down there…”

Wifey: “Oooh….and one more thing, please don’t spend any money, we really need to be careful.”

Me: “We needed milk…and you said, ‘oooh…and one more thing, could you get some hummus’ remember….!’”

Wifey: “Yeah… I remember, but do you really need all that beer!?”

Me: “Yes!!! Yes I do!!! Do you really need all that..”

Wifey: “Oooh…..and one more thing …can you please just wash one load of laundry…?”

She was a stay-at-home-mom for almost a year. I feel like such an ass cause I can count on my hands, and five of my friends’ hands, how many times I dropped the “oohhh” bomb on her before bolting out the door with the confident feeling that when I got home, the children would be dressed in their dinner clothes, smiling, pulling chairs out for me, asking me how my day was while dinner was wafting through the air, and birds were grasping my top coat and hat to be put away.

And now the shoe is on….yes…the wifey’s foot. And, she doesn’t mean it maliciously. At least I don’t think. I like to think she has no clue that she’s pulling the payback page right out of the book and shoving it up my ass. I like to think she’s giving me payback, without even knowing it! But, that would just be my ignorance showing again.  

My Chest is All Swollen

Swollen from my first experience as a proud dad after watching my son win something. Not like a soccer game, or a video game…but a bike race.

For the past couple weeks the boy’s been coming home blabbing about some bike race at the zoo nearby. My floppy ears perked up a bit, given that we’ve put some serious miles on his bike this summer. I was all: “that’s cool, dude. We should do it and see how you do!”

It was somewhat on my radar, but nowhere near like it was on his.

Come Sunday, he woke up pretty early. He climbed in bed and said, “daddy, I couldn’t stop dreaming about the bike race and buying a cap gun.” Oh…I forgot to mention, I promised him I’d buy him a cap gun the day before, because he broke a catapult gun a friend had given him that day.

I’m getting sidetracked here, but bare with me… I fucking hate Wal-Mart. I don’t mean hate like I don’t like it. I mean hate like I want some science experiment to go completely wrong so that a huge giraffe is born and goes on a tirade obsessing over eating Wal-Marts across the country and when he’s done he takes a big steamy poop on the empty shell of a building encircling it with signs that read… “I shit on you Wal-Mart. I shit, and spit on you Wal-Mart” (read in a bad French accent). I hate it like that. But…we went anyway because I was confident it was the redneckiest store around that I was confident would have cap guns.

Later that day it was time for the race. My little guy has on his kaki shorts, a red polo shirt, and green checkerboard slip-on Vans. I was all: “Umm..you sure you wanna wear that for the bike race?”

And he was all: “yeah….why? Should I tuck my shirt in?”

We get to the zoo and we’re waiting in line….a long line. He’s not saying a word, he’s just looking around. I finally said, “are you OK dude?”

And he said, “daddy, I’m nervous.”

“It’s cool if you wanna bail and just watch the race.”

“No way…I’m gonna win this thing!!!” he yelled.

The race track was about 1/3 of a mile around a huge fountain and they raced in groups – preschoolers, 1^st and 2^nd graders, etc… So he was all jacked up ready to bike in the 1^st and 2^nd graders boy division. Then - they called all the 1^st and 2^nd grader boys and girls to the line. That’s when we got a look at which kids were going to race against him. We both knew…he was gonna get his ass drug.

The girls did their race, then it was time for the boys. I said, “Gray…just have fun man. This is so cool – enjoy it! My best advice, stay close to the inside of the loop, look straight ahead, and just go.”

“These are some big boys daddy. I don’t think I can beat them.”

I slapped him on top of the helmet and said, “just ride hard and have fun, man.”

So 20+ 1^st and 2^nd graders line up and he’s looking kinda little. The gun went off and my dude stood up on his pedals and never looked back.

(Son is third from the right in the red Polo shirt)

(From the start he takes the lead)

From the beginning he led and never gave it up. I was going ballistic screaming like a little bitch and was probably being videoed and will soon be on Digg.com as the over-energetic asshole dad who’s kid didn’t get picked last at dodgeball…..but I didn’t care. I ran up to him, with his sister dragging behind, and said – “You won man!!!”

And he said, “I did?”

“Ahh yeah…there was no one in front of you the whole race!!!”

He was sooo freakin’ happy and I thought my chest would explode.

(My little dude crossing the finish line)

That was an amazing experience. I knew he was a strong biker and focused on the event. But I have to say I had doubt. I thought those kids were going to make a meal out of him. On his own…he just went balls to the wall and won.

As a kid I played soccer and I remember getting screamed at many a car ride home by my father because I wasn’t giving it my all. Because I wasn’t paying attention constantly and trying to become a pro athlete at it. Eventually he’d say he wasn’t going to waste his time watching me if I wasn’t going to try…and he came to fewer games.

My little shit did me proud. I feel bad I doubted him, but I just didn’t want to be pushing him too hard. And I’m glad I didn’t because for him and me, it just made his win that much sweeter.

  

 

Super Dad!!....Redux

Today begins round two of being a stay at home dad. The wifey took off to N.C. to be with her family and help them put her cousin to rest. Until Tuesday night, it’ll be me, the two precious bastards, a cat, two fish, and the house.

Last week when I went through this we had a pretty good time. This week…I’m gonna blow the roof of this joint. I plan on planting serious fucking memories in these kids heads—even if it kills me. I mean, the way I look at it, that’s the only real selfish benefit I get out of it.

“What do you mean you gap-toothed, big-eared freak?” you might be asking yourself.

Well, in most circumstances I’d be banking the living hell out of the days I’ve spent as a single dad. I’d be keeping a pretty little row of binge drinking cards, sex cards, oh hell no you’re cooking tonight cards, and why don’t you wipe her ass this time cards. But wifey’s dealing with a death in the family, which just shits all over my capability to get any benefit from being Mr. Mom.

I can’t whip-out my kick-ass cards to ask her to spend the week rubbing my feet, clipping my fingernails, shaving my back, taking care of the kids, feeding me dinner, and watching football. I can’t make plans to hit the Irish pub with the dudes. And I certainly can’t plop down next to her on the couch wearing my crotchless SpongeBob thong and leather mask holding a picture of PeeWee Herman and say “let’s do this.”

So instead, I’m gonna funnel all that energy towards the two midgets in the house. We’re gonna hit a birthday party, ride some bikes, maybe put a dent in Kiddieland, eat lots of ice cream, play kickball, roast marshmallows in the fire pit, and maybe even chase the cat around the house and shave our names in him.

And when the wife comes home I’ll help her move past this tragedy in her life and then over time we’ll all fall back into our routine. Oh sure, I’ll have the urge to ask her to shave my toes…. and even to wear the SpongeBob thong (I may wear them under my pants..just in case.), but I won’t.

Instead, hopefully she’ll look through all the shitty photos I take of the kids and feel relaxed that even though she married a sex-crazed douche – I can still support her in a time of need.