get that out of your mouth

the five stages of insincere grief

One: Your child realizes they have done something wrong and been caught.

Two: They blame everyone and anyone other than themselves.

Three: They create a poorly constructed excuse that implausibly frees them from all blame.

Four: They finally admit under duress they were responsible for above mentioned wrongdoing.

Five: They give a half-hearted, lame apology without making eye contact or feeling any remorse.

Addendum: They instantly forget they did anything wrong and are quite willing to immediately repeat wrongdoing.

Guilty conscience be damned.

one nation under bubble wrap

Our children go out to play in helmets, kneepads and other assorted armor.

They wash their hands in anti-bacterial soap.

They march off to attend structured play dates.

They wear sunblock, insect repellent and grimaces.

They won't ever know a bottle rocket or Roman candle.

Our children are hermetically sealed for freshness.

They appear safer. 

I guess appearances count for something.

conversational vomitorium

When one of my boys pukes, it becomes the topic for the week.

All conversation either starts or ends with the subject.

Conversations that have nothing to do with it take abrupt turns 

and run headlong into it.

Puke, becomes all we talk about.

I puked a lot huh Dad?

Yes.

I puked four times.

Yes you did.

Puke came out my nose.

Yup.

That was a very bad day.

It sure was. Want to go to the park?

My puke was red Dad.

Park...?

What If I puke in the park?

You won't puke in the park.

I puked on Mom.

Ugh.

What if I puke on Mom at the park?

Ahhh...

Maybe we shouldn't go to the park because I could puke on Mom there.

Okay.

But maybe we could take the puke bucket to the park.

Huh?

Then I could puke in the puke bucket at the park and not on Mom.

Honey, you puked two days ago, you're okay now.

That was a very bad day, huh Dad?

Yup.

I puked that day didn't I Dad?

For the love of God, change the subject!

Okay Dad, but puke is yucky. And it came out my nose...

it's summertime

For me,

the sleeping form of my three-year old splayed across his bed,

arms stretched over his head,

hair matted to his forehead,

mouth open,

chest rising and falling rhythmically,

smelling like the sun,

overcome by a complete and graceful exhaustion,

is how summer feels.

the heart of darkness

Ow.

Oof.

Shit.

Why is there

a big rock

on your floor?

You were playing jungle?

And rocks live in the jungle?

Yes, I know my toe is bleeding.

I hit it on that big damn rock on your floor.

Yes, I know it's hard to walk in the jungle.

I need to be more careful?

Thank you for the warning Kurtz.

You think this is funny?

No, I don't need a Diego band-aid, thank you.

I should wear boots next time I kiss you goodnight?

Hiking boots?

Okay, then.

Goodnight.

He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision — he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath — "The horror! The horror!" - Joseph Conrad

the abduction of sanity

Dear Strangers,

Consider this your official warning.

My children are ready for you.

And the indignities they have in store should you unwisely try to abduct them

are enough to make the stalwart quiver.

To give you a taste of the pain and suffering they have planned, please read on;

Me: "We never go with strangers do we lads?"

Boy 1: "No! And if they try and take us we bite them!"

Boy 2: "Yeah! And we scratch their eyes!"

Me: "Uhmm, we run."

Boy 1: "But first we kick them!"

Boy 2: "And punch them!"

Boy 1: "I would punch them in their head."

Boy 2: "And make them bleed!"

Boy 1: "From their head!"

Boy 2: "Head blood!"

Boy 1: Bloody head blood!"

Boy 2: "Yeah!"

Boy 1: "Yeah!"

Me: "You two have serious problems."

Boy 1: "No Dad, we are problems, for strangers."

Boy 2: "Yeah!"

 

vengeful gods at play

They lay scattered. 

Broken. 

Confused.

What began as a normal day has taken a sudden and horrific turn.

Their systematic order, unmasked.

They limp away dragging limbs that no longer function.

Some lie crushed and still, chitinous forms, fetal against the concrete.

Survivors march in circles, wondering where their methodical line has gone.

Life as they know it, is over.

It's the ant holocaust.

My boys hover over this killing field of their own making.

In awe at their own power.

beatitudes, revised

Blessed are those who keep their pie-holes shut during the administration of a chastisement directed at the other sibling.

Blessed are those who go to their rooms to think about what they've done 

without having to be threatened with bodily injury.

Blessed are those who refrain from stripping naked in front of company.

Blessed are those who get in their car seat without having to be told 47 times.

Blessed are those who blow their own noses. On a Kleenex.

Blessed are those who aim straight when going to the potty.

Blessed are those who stop themselves before they illegibly scribble their names on the side of my home with rocks.

Rejoice and be glad.

Because great is your reward.

Donuts, probably.

the life, aquatic

My five-year old son is so close to actually swimming, he may even paddle out of the tadpole class this summer.

He kicks.

He paddles.

He kicks and paddles at the same time.

He is propelled forward as a result of these somewhat synchronized movements.

And then it comes time to get a breath of air.

This is where it gets interesting.

Instead of just lifting his head out of the water, 

he drops down, bounces off the pool bottom, and pops back up for oxygen.

This, looks exactly like drowning to most observers.

He sinks, then pops up and thrashes. Sink and thrash. Sink and thrash.

Until he reaches the safety of the pool's edge.

I, cannot watch this.

It is like watching an endless loop of your child drowning.

The bouncing tadpole of death.

This shit haunts me.

even the music is spooky

Hello Mr. Weird Ice Cream Truck Man I flagged down on my bike and led to my home.

How are you?

Uh-oh.

One of your eyes is wandering.

Are you looking at me?

Or merely making eye contact with a schizophrenically induced hallucination

you suddenly seem to be conversing with? 

It seemed like a good idea to chase you down and bring you straight to my front yard 

where my two beautiful boys were eagerly awaiting your arrival.

But now I don't feel so good about it, Mr. Weird Ice Cream Truck Man.

Oh no.

You're grinding your teeth, Mr. Weird Ice Cream Truck Man.

I have made a parental guardian mistake.

I'll tell you what Mr. Weird Ice Cream Truck Man, 

I'll just go ahead and pay the exorbitant price you're asking for three Bomb Pops

and lets forget this whole thing ever took place, okay?

Please erase the vision of my children from your twitchy memory circuits.

In fact, forget my street exists.

Repeat after me, "there are no kids who like ice cream on this street."

Please stop smiling like that Mr. Weird Ice Cream Truck Man.

Please?