get that out of your mouth

gender war

My three-year old’s hair is beginning to hang in his face.
Mind you, it is not hippy in any way, shape, or form, just shaggy.

Last night, my five-year old delivered a crushing blow to his self-esteem.
He said, “you have girl hair.”

Girl hair.
Ouch.

My little one dropped to the floor and writhed in pain over the comment.

His tears fell in his hair.

kindergarten mussolini

My children have begun to lose interest in anarchy.

They’ve decided to give fascism a try.

They march around like they’re in charge of train schedules.
They pretend to have very important secret documents.
Their rooms have become underground bunkers .
And they have begun to repetitively chant ugly things in order to stir each other up.

For instance, my youngest said he didn’t feel good the other day.

My big one began to chant, “Puke! Puke! Puke! Puke! Puke! Puke! Puke!”

“Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!” is another one they use often.

“Die! Die! Die! Die!” also gets a lot of play.

The goal seems to be to say these things until one of them
is spurred into some violent action against the other one.

All they need are jackboots and a decent logo.

more lessons in bad parenting

We have begun uselessly threatening our foul-mouthed boys
with hot sauce on the tongue if they don’t clean up their language.

We have never given them hot sauce, but we now use it as a deterrent.

The other day my five-year old said,
“when I grow up and have kids and they say bad things,
I’m not going to just say I’m going to give them hot sauce,
I’m really going to give them hot sauce.”

It’s good to know he is well on the way to being a better parent than I am.

oxford worthy

My youngest has created a brilliant new word.

Meaniac.

Derived from the root word “mania.”
Add a little mean in there.
And voila, my new favorite word in the world.

He uses it well too, usually when crying and very angry.
He practically spits it at you.

I love it.
I actually get him mad just to hear him say it.

global warming can't come soon enough

My kids eat snow.

Pretty much any kind.
Powdery snow.
Wet snow.
Icy snow.
Dirty snow.

They know not to eat yellow snow.
But that is about it.

The other day I found one of them scraping some nasty, dirty street
snow up and putting it in his yap.

I said, “that snow is dirty and nasty, don’t eat it.”

He said, “I’m going to.”

I said, “A dog peed on it.”

He said, “No one didn’t, it isn’t yellow.”

I said, “You can’t see the pee, because the snow is so dirty.”

He said, “ Huh?”

I thought I won.

He then said, “I don’t care, I’m still going to eat it.”

And he did.

lessons in bad parenting

My children have begun to lie.
Shamelessly.

Bold, red-handed lies.
Lies no one could pull off.
They, know lying can be effective,
but they haven’t mastered the skill yet.

We have given them the “don’t ever lie to your parents talk.”

And it, predictably had zero effect on them.
So, I have decided to fight lying with lying.

Me: “Hey guys I brought home a chocolate cake!
Who wants to eat it in their bed
and watch cartoons on the new television
I just bought for your room?”

Them: “Us! Us! You are the best Dad ever!”

Me: “Oh shoot, sorry I was lying.”

Them: “You didn’t get us a TV?”

Me: “No.”

Them: “Sob."

Them: "Can we still have that chocolate cake?”

Me: “Nope. That was part of the lie too.”

Them: “Sob.”

I follow it up with a brief discourse on the pain lying can create in their lives
and how it can hurt others around them.

Which I can physically see going in one ear and out the other.

i am the muffin man

Good morning boys,

What?
No good morning for your Dad?
You want what?
No, I don’t care how many muffins you eat.
Sure, go ahead and have another one.
What?
You haven’t finished the one on your plate?
You only like the top of the muffin?
No problem!
Mom makes you finish them before getting another?
Mom isn’t here, is she?
Yay!
Go get yourself another muffin.
They’re in the kitchen.
You know that?
Great!
More muffins for everyone.
Because I am so tired of hearing you beg for another muffin,
I can’t stand it.
Does it matter to you that you have half a muffin on your plate?
Hell no!
A whole muffin is always better than a half.
Everyone knows that.
So, go ahead.
Have another muffin.

abbreviated ritual

I have dramatically reduced the length of all nighttime stories.

In fact, my renditions are now shorter than Cliffs notes.
Here’s how it kind of goes;

Me: “Once upon a time there were three bears and goldilocks ate their porridge
and they caught her, the end. Go to sleep.”

My kids: “Dad, that was short!”
Me: “And sweet. Go to sleep."
Them: “That’s not how it really goes!”
Me: “That’s how it goes now. Go to sleep.”
Them: “Awww...”
Me: “Awww nothing, there are poor, starving kids in Vietnam
who are so starving and poor they don’t even get any stories.”
Them: “Huh? Where’s Vietnam?“
Me: “It’s a country on the Indochina peninsula."
Them: “Where’s the Indochina peninsula?”
Me: “It’s in Southeast As…”

Suddenly, I realize I have spent more time justifying my speed storytelling
than actually telling the entire story.

Me: “Go to sleep.”

personal space

You, old man we don't know.

Don’t touch my kid.
See how he instinctively flinches
when your gnarled tree root of a hand reaches for him?
He doesn’t like it.

And you didn’t ask his permission.

Your face looks like it was carved from a dried apple.
I find it fascinating.
But I imagine it’s scaring him.

Plus you smell kind of funny.
Like a hamster cage.

I’m sorry you’re so old.
I know you mean him no harm.
But his youth will not rub off on you.

And you didn’t ask his permission.