My Little Rat Bastards

We can’t have nice things and we all might as well be naked.

Anyone with kids knows this fact. Nothing is sacred anymore.

Peeing at the toilet—you might as well be peeing at half court during the NCAA tournament.

Furniture—globs of dried snot, food, and baby jesus knows what else all over it. Yeah, you want to come visit me now don’t you?

Car—it looks like a muddy soccer game took place while a Crayola factory exploded inside my Nissan.

Nothing’s off limits with these damn kids.

The daughter’s just a messy beast.

She’s broken long-standing records of being able to completely trash a room at mach speed. Sunday morning the wifey was busy defending herself from my quest for morning sex while we continued to hear the pitter-patter of the daughter’s feet back and forth between her room and downstairs.

When I finally surrendered and decided to go make coffee I walked down stairs only to find a massive doll house, two baby doll cribs, five Zhu Zhu pets and two dozen stuffed animals being read-to by my daughter, and what looked like the biggest cat-fight between a gaggle of Barbies strewn all over the couch. Oh, and she apparently had “breakfast cooking for us” on the toy stove, refrigerator, and sink that was set up in the middle of the room. All toys she gathered from her room and the basement into our living room.

The boy is a damn disgusting, snot-filled tornado.

When he has a cold he refuses to breathe through his mouth so all you hear snot being shuffled around in his nose as bubbles randomly escape. He loves to crawl on the floor of public places; go under tables at dinner; touch nasty, dirty things laying on the ground; and every one of his shirts and coats have crusted sleeves from constantly rubbing them along his nose.

And unfortunately he inherited the profound skill of being able to just flat-out break shit. When I was dating the wifey in high school, I broke lamps, chairs, tables, dishes and so much else at her mother’s house.

The finest example of my son’s skill I can provide are these three lovely trophies sampled from the boy’s trophy collection.

This baseball trophy used to sport one kick-ass bat that actually made t-ball look like the manliest sport ever invented.

I loved this bobble-head soccer trophy...it didn't even survive the car ride home before his head sprung out of joint making him look like Rain Man trophy.

This Pele-looking bad ass flying through the air to score the deciding game-winning goal lost his foot a while back. We have it in a baggy sitting next to the trophy in the boy's room.

But I wouldn’t have them any other way. Despite seeing the girl licking the window on the train heading into the city… Despite the boy picking up a lonely discarded M&M along the street and eating it… Despite the fact every time you tickle my daughter she sounds like a Whoopee cushion going off… Despite the fact my boy won’t let me see him naked, but every time I pee he’s right there staring… I wouldn’t change a damn thing about them.

They’re disgusting, dirty, hilarious and beautiful. They’re my rat bastard kids.

My Son's Balls Are Making Him Competitive

Everything is a freakin’ competition with the boy these days. EVERYTHING!!

Going to the car. Daughter gets elbowed from behind and face-plants as the boy flies by to be the first to a door that is still locked and holds not a single trophy for him on the other side.

Walking down stairs….it’s like watching a murder scene in slow motion as he plows by me, throws his sister against the banister and jumps the last five steps so he can crash himself to the floor and claim victory as carnage and blood drip down the stairs in his wake.

Taking a shower. Within two minutes of walking out of the bathroom, I’ll hear the water cut-off and “daddy I’m finished!!!” echoes through the house till it finds my vulnerable eardrums a mere three seconds before ultimate relaxation comes over me. I vow to tape record this so when he’s a teenager and spends a half hour masturbating washing in the shower, I can prove that he has the ability to take one quickly.

Drinking his milk. The daughter doesn’t even like milk…so who the fuck is he racing? He’ll choke it down…white shit spewing from his nose, eyes watering like hell, slam the cup on the table and announce, “finished!!” while still breathing hard and sporting one kick-ass milk mustache. And for what?!

Playing Wii. I’m gonna just throw the damn thing away. I’m determined not to let him win all the time so that he learns to be a respectful loser, but damn….it’s like getting kicked in the nuts every two minutes. It’s painful and makes me cry, fall to my knees and want my mommy to hold me.

I’m competitive, but nothing like this. Is it the red hair? Is it his balls? That’s what it’s gotta be…those tiny little marbles of his are probably working overtime growing, expanding…. It’s like Donald Trump moved into my kids sac, started building skyscrapers everywhere, and decided to run for mayor, start his own TV show, take over the circulatory system, and overthrow his brain chemistry all in one foul swoop.

And the daughter totally provokes it. We’ll be on our way out the door to go somewhere and the boy will be off chasing something shiny in a corner. Then the daughter gets that evil grin and says, “Grrraaaayyyssooonnn….. I’m gonna be first to the caaaaarrrrr.”

And his head will poke up from behind the couch, and immediately he springs to his feet, vaults the ottoman, ducks and slides under my waiting arm to stop him, slams his sister against the front step railing, falls on concrete but turns it into a tumble, and slams into the car door, flipping around claiming victory! And behind him is a pissed dad, a mother picking up a bleeding, crying daughter, and a cat slowly slipping out of the house through the wide-open door while everyone’s distracted.

I just hope someday his competitiveness can be brought under control, harnessed, and used to make mommy and daddy rich beyond their wildest dreams. Until then…..I’ll I guess I’ll just write about it.