get that out of your mouth

trip

We went to Hilton Head SC for the holidays.

My children spent the entire time in the hotel hot tub,
crushing many potential intimate moments for other guests.

They also developed a great fondness for room service.
Their dream was to get room service while they were in the hot tub.
This did not happen.

They did manage to smuggle a bag of cheezits in though.
And now somewhere in Hilton Head SC,
there is a nasty hot tub that resembles a large vat of queso dip.

I'd avoid it if I were you.

postal

Note to everyone who sent holiday letters telling us how the year 2007 treated you:

Uhm, chances are, if we really cared, we already knew how your year went
because we kept in touch with you throughout above-mentioned year.

We already knew you had to put your dog to sleep.
Or your mother in a nursing home.
Or the fact little Zach just loved tee-ball.
Or that you moved to the country
and now raise chickens and make your own organic soap.

For the love of God people.
If you have to send us a letter recapping your year
because neither of us have spoken to each other in that long,
give it up.
Find some new friends that live closer.
Or an audience more entertained by your mind-numbing, yearly comings and goings.

Because peace on Earth for me starts when this ends.

what kind of guy are you?

I watched a movie with my five-year old this weekend.

During it he turned to me and asked, “Dad, who are the real good guys in real life?”
I mentioned the usual suspects and then I told him he was also a good guy.
He replied, “No Dad, I’m not a good guy,
I’m the guy who likes to lay around and watch TV.
That’s what guy I am.”

That made me laugh.
Soon so was he.
And there we were. Laying around. Watching TV. Laughing.

wiping the fury away

It's good to be a kid in this day and age.

Because in the 21st century, there is less reason for your parents to beat you.

This is primarily due to one invention. The Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.
A sponge that removes marker and such from your walls with little effort.

I can’t tell you how many spankings this thing has staved off in my home.

The other night, my boys drew a large rectangle on the bathroom door.
Then, they filled it with scribble.

Once my initial anger had passed, I asked them what it was they drew.
I was told this: “It’s a keep-out sign Dad. For privacy.”

How about this you dolts, how about you keep out of the mural business?

And don't think Santa and baby jesus didn't see this.
And bring me the magic eraser, pronto.

use their fear against them

There are quite a few places I refuse to go to with my children.

Any restaurant I actually want to enjoy, Build a Anything, and most
of all, Chuckie Cheese.

It’s not a revolutionary parental stance to loathe CC.

But I have hit upon an ingenious solution to help turn children against it.

Whenever the idea of CC is brought up,
I ask my boys if they want to get very bad diarrhea.

Because Chuckie Cheese is where very bad diarrhea germs live.

Now, my kids don't fully understand the microbial world
but they sure remember having very bad diarrhea.

My boys live in fear of diarrhea.
In my house, it is known as “fire-poo.”

While this truth hasn’t completely dissuaded them from CC,
I do see them wince every time I mention it.

And that is something I can build from.

the circle of whyness

This is what having a conversation with my three-year old sounds like.

Me: “Why did you just kick me?”
Him: “That’s why.”
Me: “That’s why, what?”
Him: “That’s why, why.”
Me: “What?”
Him: “That’s why.”
Me “That’s why is not an answer!”
Him: “What?”
Me: “Why did you just kick me?”
Him: “Because that’s why.”

there is no joy in whoville

I am not proud to admit it but the other night
I played the Santa card with my anarchist children.
I told them I would call Santa if they did not stop
trying to burn the world down, ground zero being our living room.
I expected instant submission.
What I received was far different.
They scoffed at me.

Five year old: You don’t know Santa's number.
Three year old: Yeah!
Five year old: You don’t even know his cell number.
Three year old: Yeah!
Five year old: You’re not calling anybody!
Three year old: Yeah! Poop!

Boys, Santa just heard everything you said.
And notes have been taken.

oi! it’s morning

My children climb into bed with us most mornings.
Little bleary eyed, scruffy haired guys looking to be snuggled.
Not really.
They come into our bed like soccer hooligans.
Throwing elbows, head butting and gouging eyes.
I receive a majority of the stompings.
The other day I was viciously kicked in the kidney then kneed in the groin.
As I cureld up in the fetal position and moaned, a cereal payment was demanded.

The disconnect is how they are able to carry out such ultra-violence
while wearing the cutest pajamas in the world.

follycles

I release a pensive sigh.
I suppose every parent reaches this specific point.
I call it “ the tablespoon of peanut butter in your kid’s hair” point.
Because that is, what it is.

My three year old, with a large blob of peanut butter
smooshed on his head.

He happily admits to doing it.
“Hi Dad, I put a lot of peanut butter on my head.”
I look at him with an unfeigned mixture of confusion and pity.
Then I spend a hour trying to get it out of his hair.

Cleaning up peanut butter sucks.

And as I rub, scour and scrape,
I wonder to myself, if my three year old is destined for a life
spent making God’s eyes at a communal worktable.