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Entries in war (3)


How I Saved My Son's Life

For the better part of a month I’ve been fighting the wife like a heavy-weight champ to NOT build a loft bed from scratch for our first born male’s room.

The initial response?

Wife: “Oh, so you’re saying I CAN’T build a bed from scratch?”

Me: “No I ummm….we should maybe…I ummm…Well, first, I love you. Second, he is the only male.”

Wife: “What in the hell does that mean? Are you going off to war or something?”

Me: “Going off to war…haha. You should seriously design t-shirts and…”

Wife: “No, I’m serious. You don’t think I can make this?”

Me: “Ok, you know what? We’ve been married long enough for me to drop some truth knowledge on you woman! Yes…I think you building a tall, loft bed in which our first born will rest his sleepy head at night is a bit of a risk considering you’ve never ‘wood-worked’ in your entire existence. There…I said it. Now what?!!!”

Wife: “Now what? Well that’s easy. First off, I’m closed for business starting now! Second, I’ll build your coffin you bearded terrorist. And you’ll sleep like you’ve never slept, just keep talking!”

Me: “Did you just threaten my life? Damn that’s hott.”

For weeks this went on. She’s searched on Ebay for lofts nearby. We’d call, finagle, and always walk away empty handed.

And for good reason, they were a mix between placing a wooden fortress in the boy’s room, or allowing him to sleep on top of four rickety sticks of wood.

Then, the light bulb went off.

Me: “Honey, look outside. You see all that snow on the ground, icey sidewalks, and that little dog freezing over in the corner of our…oh shit, I forgot I let the dog out an hour ago. Anyway, you’re going to spend 90% of your time out there in that building your first loft bed.”

Wife: “What are you talking about? I already decided we should buy the one from Ikea.”

Me: “Suuuuurrrreee you did sweetie. Sure you did.”

Wife: “Go get the dog before I do that jugular ripping-out thing Swazey stole from me and used in Road House.”

And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is how I saved our first born’s life from a sure death at the fruit of his mother’s labor.



The Age of Not Listening

It’s starting to happen.

The boy is getting the taste of the tragic disease which doctors call the “I’M NOT LISTENING” syndrome. What does it stand for?

The horrific I’M NOT LISTENING syndrome is an acronym for “I May Not Open These Listening Instruments So Try Elling Nomeone Ielse Noure Guff!” (screw you!!! I tried to come up with an explanation for the acronym but damn all those n’s and ending with a g!!! Think you can do better?  Leave it in the comments!!!)

Anyway, the I’M NOT LISTENING syndrome is basically where a kid, usually a teenager, completely, totally and blatantly ignores and defies your commands whilst in a public arena.

As with most kids these days, the syndrome seems to be hitting kids at a younger age. And…well, our boy has been infected.

It first starts out with him ignoring your first request while looking at the other adults for approval remarks that tell him "yes…yes I am being a bad-ass."

All it takes is one misread gesture and it all goes downhill from there.

You want examples don’t you?

Example #1

Standing with a group of neighbors enjoying the afternoon, a few beers and riveting conversation when all of a sudden the boy decides it would be genius to show the world his razor like precision of a soccer ball kick in our direction.

Me: “Grayson! Please don’t kick the ball in our…”

*The ball goes flying and I stop it mere inches from destroying the face of a neighbor.

Me: “Seriously Grayson!!! Really!!?! Come on, you know better.”

*As he launches ball #2 towards the group nailing the wife in the butt.

Me: “Grayson!!! Do you hear the words that are coming out of my mouth, son!!?!”

The Boy: “Can I have the balls back? I want to kick them again?”

Me: “You must be insane!!!”

The Boy: “What? It’s just soccer.”

Me: “I told you twice to not kick them at us and you didn’t listen and kicked them anyway.”

*Two minutes later ball #3 slams into my back causing me to drop my beer. I turn with “that look” and the boy takes off in a sprint that would make Hussein Bolt look like a chump.

Example #2

 Me: “Grayson, go brush your teeth.”

*The boy plays with the dog.

Me: “Grayson…seriously man! Go brush your teeth for bed!”

*The boy glances at dinner guests in the next room sipping their wine, then continues to play with the dog.

Me: “You know I know where you sleep right? You know that there’s no way you could possibly stay awake longer than me EVER! Right!!?!”

*The boy talks over me calling for the dog to do a trick.

Me: “You know you’ve told me the girl you think is cute in your class and I could rat you out with one simple little Facebook posting right?”

The Boy: “Love you dad! Goodnight! I’m off to go brush my teeth!”

And that’s my new weapon against the syndrome. “Humiliation.”

I didn’t just spend eight years of my life wiping his butt, picking his boogers, and cleaning his puke just to raise a delightful well-rounded boy.

No, I did it so I could have a life-time of memories which could be used against him at the right moment to get what I want!! In this case…it’s to get him to do what I say the first time.

So stand back Grayson, daddy’s going to win this public war.

Go ahead, ignore me when I ask if you to brush your teeth or go put your shoes on. I just might have a picture of you reading a book while sitting on the baby shitter in the playroom.

Bring it on buddy!!



A Day With Pink Ducky

So we have a ducky. A pink ducky to be exact. He’s a cool dude, hangs out, doesn’t really cause much trouble. The little bastard used to light up from within. When we first brought him into our crazy life he was a rock-star. The kids slept with him…the daughter held him on a pedestal. Mainly because his flashing guts made them feel like the owner of the most bad-ass piece of awesomeness that ever existed.

Then his lights stopped blinking.

He spent a week shoved between the mattress and the wall of my daughter’s bed until he was saved by the ole fashioned sheet changing maneuver. Then he lived on my daughter’s dresser and was there the day fishy died. A week later, the daughter rediscovered him and he was transported to the tub. Since that time, he’s become one of two dozen toys crammed in a bathtub toy baggy, rarely played with, constantly cold, damp, wet, and ignored. Until yesterday.

During a regular shower routine, I noticed pink ducky chillin’ in his bathtub bag. Sad. Angry. Depressed. I scooped him up and said, “hey little man!!! What do you say I make today, YOUR day?”

Three high-fives and a wing-bump later, we were on our way to live life to its fullest. And so….here’s our day….

He drove us to a pancake breakfast where he quickly scoffed one plate after plate after plate of yumminess. He carbo loaded like a master.

After we got home, well fueled pink ducky said, "all right bitches...let's go for a ride!" So the whole family hopped on our bikes and headed out.

Along the way we made a stop cause ducky got wood.

Knowing this would probably be the last time pink ducky ever has a day in the real world, he thought he'd make his mark and let everyone know how he feels about the war.

Worn out, pink ducky ate a quick little snack and setteled in for some TV time and a nap. I took off and took care of some stuff around the house. An hour later I went back to check on everyone and pink ducky was gone. I looked everywhere. Then...I found him.....and was horrified.....

I decided to leave them alone....and let them get done what clearly needed to get done. Lucky ducky.

  Then we headed out for dinner with our good friends, the @momomatic family. It was there that Pink Ducky decided to get his "drink on."

And that wasn't enough.....afterwards he hit the liquor store for more....

Pink ducky didn't just get drunk....he got stupid drunk. He took his clothes off. He streaked a Chuck-E-Cheeze. He got depressed and tried to cut himself open to remove his dead flashy light thingy. He told off-color racist jokes. He even made passes at the wifey. all good stupid drunk pink duckies do....he got sick.

He puked like he'd never puked before. We all got to experience his Mexican dinner all over again. A couple hours later, we cleaned him all up, laughed about the memories, gave each other hugs, and promised we'd do it again soon. I love that little pink bastard.

After I tucked him in to his cozy warm bubble bath for night time, I cried myself to sleep and dreamt of pink ducky and me running through fields of dazies, laughing, and being free, together, and happy.....

The End