get that out of your mouth

deductive reasoning

After a particular grueling question and answer session with my oldest boy
I threw in the towel and parried the oft-asked question “why”
with the lame answer, “because my brain told me.”

My lad scrunched up his face in disdain at the weak answer
and said, “Dad, your brain is just a round circle of grey goo.”

My round circle of grey goo couldn’t come up with a retort to that.

small amounts of red

One thing is on my mind this evening.
Who decided how much ketchup to put in those little packets?
We have been camping in the desert this week
and brought like a million of them with us.
But they were not enough.
Each packet holds about two fries worth of the stuff.
Which is crap.
We put a man on the moon and we can't figure this out?
The greatest country on the planet can't hook
its citizens up with a decent amount of disposable ketchup?
We used to be a vaguely impressive nation.

I hear Nero fiddling.

the revenge of peter cottontail

Easter.
A chocolate holocaust.
My children bounce off walls like rabid ducklings.
Dried, chocolate drool rings their mouths.
Thoughts get dropped in mid-sentence.
Wild, dilated pupils scan the room for missed eggs.
They are not even enjoying it anymore.
Yet they cannot stop.
Silver wrappers flutter down like dead leaves.
The way Easter is now celebrated,
you would think Jesus died in a horrible chocolate factory accident.

goodnight boys

Scamper my little rabbits.
Into your warrens.
Burrow deep.
For night is here.

maybe

I say “maybe” a lot to my kids.

Maybe.

A murky, elusive word that binds me to nothing.
And leaves all my options open.

“Can I have a pet monkey Dad?”

Maybe.

“Can we wear our pajamas all weekend Dad?”

Maybe.

“Can we get some real piranhas Dad?”

Maybe.

“Can we put a tee-pee up in our living room Dad?”

Maybe.

“Can I get a tuba Dad?”

Maybe.

But probably not.

for the love of god, blow!

I have one burning question for my children.
It is a simple question, yet it haunts me.

When will both of you be capable of adequately blowing your own noses?

I mean spotless.

I long for this day.

I will celebrate this day.

Want to know how I will celebrate?

I will take all the waded Kleenex, currently harbored in the pockets
of approximately 92 percent of my clothing and throw it in the air like ticker–tape.

You two can then merrily parade under it as it falls back down to earth.

a wee bit of an irish temper

This morning I wished my five-year old a happy St. Patrick’s day.
He immediately asked me if he had school.

I said, “yes.”

He said, “what kind of a holiday is St. Patrick’s day if I have to go to school?
This is the worst holiday ever! I hate St. Patrick's day!"

I said, “stop crying and go put on something green my sad little leperchaun.”

way beyond thunderdome

Gold is over a thousand dollars an ounce.
The end of civilization is nigh upon us.

I have begun to teach my children how to make fire with sticks.
Every evening, we rub sticks together and anxiously look for smoke.

I have also increased my boys “how to fight like monkeys” training.
They pretty much know how to do this already, a lot of screeching, scratching and biting.
But in the future, people will really need to know how to fight like monkeys.
So, we practice.

Next month we are going to learn how to make spearheads from rocks.
And clothes from dead squirrels.

The upside of civilization crumbling is I’m very close to closing out their
college fund and spending the money on an armored dune buggy.

To take family trips in.

Like the trip we will soon be taking to escape the looting hordes.

it smells, minty

Last night, my kid stuck a tic-tac up his nose.

I didn't even know tic-tacs still existed.

They do.

And they are still the perfect size for sticking up your nose.

Little, glossy, oval, nasal temptations.

My guess is many tic-tacs have gone up many noses.

Tic-tac Inc. should think about launching a nostril suppository.

I don't know what it would do, but they've got the shape down.

The tic-tac crisis ended when my son forcibly expelled it.

His final words of wisdom on the matter were this;

"Dad, the best way to get a tic-tac out of your nose is to blow really hard."

He then asked if he could eat it.

who's there?

Dear three-year old,

Enough with the poorly told knock-knock jokes okay?

Your cuteness wore off about four thousand tellings ago.
And you've forgotten the punch-line like the last thousand times.

So, now here we both are, staring at each other blankly, waiting for you
to remember the punch-line so I can laugh weakly and without much heart.

It’s orange you glad I didn’t say banana.

Not just banana.

And bailing out on the entire joke and just saying “poop” or “butt”
completely undermines the structure of a well-told knock-knock joke.

You, my joke telling challenged friend, are not destined to be a stand up comedian.

Which is okay.

Because I don’t want to have to support you when you’re thirty-six.
Or listen to your mangled jokes for the next 33 years.