WhyIsDaddyCrying

Mentoring To Earn The Man-Card

2012-04-26T11:08:47Z

Over the weekend I found myself at one of three soccer games planned for that lovely day. As the daughter runs her little butt up and down the field, I talk manly-man stuff to another dad plopped next to me.

Running, dreading our daughters moving into the inevitable realm of dating, vacation plans….those were just some of the many topics rambling from our mouths as we killed yet another Saturday on the sidelines.

My son wanders over, throwing a soccer ball in the air and catching it over and over again, trying desperately to find a way to work into our manversation. Finally, a very brief lull in the conversation takes over and that’s when the boy says:

“So, I’ve been hit in my balls four times in my life. Twice by a soccer ball, once by a baseball and once by my sister who did it on purpose! How many times have you guys been hit in your balls?”

I can’t say I was shocked because I’m used to his random-ass comments, but I was definitely not expecting that. So I reached down, flicked him in the head and said “dude, seriously? You really want to have a conversation about balls?”

And that’s when it hit me. That actually would be a pretty damn good conversation for three dudes to have while killing time. I mean, what guy doesn’t have a great story about getting hit in the balls? TV shows make millions by showing random nut shots. 37.8% of YouTube’s total content comprises of testicles getting dealt with in surprising fashion.

I didn’t realize it then, but I did later….my son is slowly developing the requirements to earn a man-card.

Then a shudder went down my spine as I realized what a huge responsibility it is to guide a young chap through developing those requirements.

I mean, he’s well on his way and Saturday was a perfect example. 1) he struck up a random conversation with two dudes by trying to tell funny stories about their balls, 2) he took a soccer ball to the face, bent over, sucked it up without running with tears for his mommy, 3) after finding out I was making spaghetti that night he asked, “you’re gonna put a bunch of meat in it right?”

But on the flip side, that same day, he 1) did a cartwheel, 2) played with a hula hoop for a while, and 3) watched a 30-minute My Little Pony cartoon with his sister.

It’s all about balance. The key is to teach the boy to do manly shit with dudes, and un-manly man-card revoking stuff when dudes aren’t around but ladies are. That’s still considered manly because then it just means you’re trying to get laid.

It’s when you reverse those two that you start to get into some real shit. For example:

Telling another dude his shirt looks nice. NO

Asking another dude if his mommy dressed him this morning. YES

Starting a conversation with another dude by placing your hand on his shoulder and saying, “hey guy, how’s it goin’?” NO

Starting a conversation with another dude by nodding and saying “what’s up shit-brick?” YES

Sitting at a bar with a bunch of dudes, watching the game and ordering a Malibu with Diet Coke. NO

Sitting at a bar with a bunch of dudes, watching the game and ordering a Newcastle and shot of Jack Daniels. YES

Wearing coordinated outfits with your wife at parties while holding her hand all night. NO

Walking by your wife in the living room and stopping to tell her she smells good. YES

It’s tricky business earning your man-card. It’s even more difficult to keep it. I’ve got a long road ahead of me.

Grow The Hell Up Already!

2012-02-15T12:26:57Z

The other day the wife and I stood up from a two-hour session of financial budget crunching and strategery to stretch, high five over renewed resolutions and try to ignore the suckness that is adulthood.

It was about that time our boy came down stairs to inform us of his struggles with having to give up half the pack of gum (per my request) to his beloved sister.

This would eliminate two whole pieces of gum from the boy’s life.

Two…

Pieces of gum…

Causing much sadness, regret, torture and just outright anger.

Gum.

For shit-sake…GUM!!

It’s moments like this that you want grab the precious little angel by the neck, strap him in a chair and introduce him to the vicious world of bills, jobs, commuting, groceries, dogs shitting all over your yard, babysitter fees, and taking a shower hoping for sex only to find out tonight’s “Netflix’s mega-shownight!!” only to find out hours later that your wife made that whole damn naming convention up.

There are times when the girl is breaking down because we want to comb her hair so random lice-infested birds flying by don’t claim her furry skull as a future home.

There are times when the boy can’t believe his father met him at the school bus in his 1991 shiny blue running tights and shirt picturing a huge sandwich with SILF written under it.

I remember as a kid believing my world was going to end because I had to wear a pair of “jams” my mom made that puffed out in the front like I had a “butt in front.”

I was devastated.

Probably the most common phrase ever muttered between parents is “if only I knew how miniscule my problems were as a kid.”

But we still appreciate them and understand them because we were once there.

We panicked when we walked into school with the knock-off Members Only jacket.

I freaked when kids called me names on the soccer field.

For shit sake my most favorite song for years was “The Rainbow Connection” by Kermit the fucking Frog!!

But I keep telling myself and the kids…this time…is just a blip on the radar of your life.

Years from now we’ll be drinking beers at a pub with the kids while laughing over the fact they’d fight over some dorky game called Angry Birds.

Or that the kid who bullied them in the school bathroom now pummels their Facebook page with Amway products.

The hardest part is not telling your kids to let the bullshit parts of childhood roll off their backs…it’s instilling the strength in them to believe in themselves.

I for one am guilty as hell of that.

Death, Vaginas & Religion - Oh My!

2012-02-13T12:14:02Z

Every year my father gives me a $50 gift certificate to The Fresh Market. He has one right near his house in North Carolina. But in Chicago, where I live, the closest one is an hour away.

So, I decided to make the road trip with the 9-year-old boy so we could have some dude time.

The following is a so very true conversation we had on the way there:

The Boy: “Daddy, do you think I lie?”

Me: “Absolutely not. You’re the kindest soul I know…well, except for when you’re beating the ever living hell out of your sister.”

The Boy: “Yeah. Sometimes I just can’t help myself. Especially when she walks around the house singing!! I just want to scream!”

Me: “The fact you don’t lie is one of the greatest qualities about you Grayson. Even if it gets you in trouble you always tell the truth. Don’t lose that.”

The Boy: “I do lie sometimes.”

Me: “When?”

The Boy: “Like when someone’s opening a gift I gave them and they’re asking me what’s in it. I always lie and say a car or a dog or something stupid like that.”

Me: “That’s not lying my man. That’s just being a cool guy.”

The Boy: “Do you believe in a second life?”

Me: “You mean reincarnation? Where after you die you come back as something or someone else?”

The Boy: “No, like a life in heaven?”

Me: “I think the better question is do you believe in that?”

The Boy: “I do. I think there’s a second life.”

Me: “Then that’s what matters. What you believe in is what you use to guide your own life, your own decisions and to decide whether you’re living your life the way that makes you feel good about yourself. You don’t use it go judge people. Everyone’s different and believes different things. But we’re all human beings who deserve to be loved while we’re here on this big round blue ball.”

The Boy: “What big blue ball? You lost me with that.”

Me: “Earth son. Earth. You know…what with all the water on it and what not.”

The Boy: “How did mommy’s daddy die? Mommy said it was something with his heart.”

Me: “He killed himself son. He struggled in his life and made a very bad, selfish decision. Now he’s not here to watch mommy be a mother to you. He’s not here to meet you. But we love him anyway. And…if that hadn’t happened, I never would have met your mother and you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

The Boy: “That’s sad.”

Me: “It’s very sad. But your mom’s an incredible woman and continued living her life and is now the best mom you could ever dream of having.”

The Boy: “Yeah, she is awesome. Sometimes I call girl’s private areas a butt in front.”

Me: “What?!!!!”

The Boy: “Yeah, it looks like a butt crack in the front area.”

Me: “It’s called a vagina son. It’s not a butt crack.”

The Boy: “A va..gi…vagenia….a what?”

Me: “You have a penis that you pee from right? Well, girls have a vagina and they sort of pee from that area, kinda.”

The Boy: “Do babies come out of there too?”

Me: “Good talk Grayson. I think it’s time I introduce you to Led Zeppelin’s fourth album while we fart and burp and act like total dudes the rest of the way to the store. I love you dude.”

The Boy: “I love you too dad.”

The Punishment

2012-02-07T12:38:28Z

“That’s it! You’re not going to your sleepover at your friend’s house tonight!”

It’s those few, short, simple words that have a tendency to come flying out of my mouth before registering in my brain. Because, if it had registered, I would have quickly thought to myself “Take away his Legos, but for shit-sake man don’t cock-block yourself by pissing away a night alone with no kids!”

But when your little bastards push your buttons all day, your anger boils over, drowning your common sense leaving you incapable of making anything even closely resembling a good decision.

You stand there red-faced with heart palpitations as you scramble for a punishment that’ll reach deep into the soul of your kid. And that’s when it happens. You sternly command some of the dumbest shit you could ever come up with.

Things like:

“No TV for a week!!”

“You’re spending the afternoon watching The Sound of Music in Spanish…in slowmotion…twice!”

“You’re making dinner tonight for everyone!!”

“You’re in your room for the entire weekend!”

And the worst part about it, you have to stay true to one of the top 10 parenting rules of all time:

“Follow through with your punishments.”

It only takes 0.008^th of a second before you realize the hell you just created for yourself.

You now have to entertain the kid who just lost TV privileges while every ten minutes hearing him say, “daddy!!! I’m booooooored.”

You now have to listen to the Sound of Music in Spanish…in slow motion…TWICE!!. You have to supervise his cluster-fuck of an effort at making dinner, or be stuck at the house for the entire weekend with nothing to do because your son was too much of an asshole to stop kicking his sister’s blanket with his shoe that has dog crap on it.

The worst is when you have to watch your loving spouse fall victim to the punishment trap.

It’s like a slow motion train wreck as she slowly mouths the angry words, “ffffiiiiiinnnneeee….nnnooo…..slleeeepppp oooovvveeerrr fooooorrrrr….yyyyyooooouuuuuu!!!”

Meanwhile you’re pointing a laser pointer at the wall near your kid’s head hoping he’ll catch a glimpse of this wonderful distraction outside his peripherals and begin rabidly chasing it while you tackle the wife preventing what clearly would have been the second biggest mistake of her life.

“What the hell are you thinking woman?!! Just make him hug his sister and let’s call it even!”

It takes a real friend to tell you when you’re screwing up.

This is precisely why the wife and I have a game plan. We try to gang-punish.

We both walk over to the situation so when one of us screams, “that’s it! You’re painting the living room for the rest of the day!!”…the other one can chime in and say, “is what we’re going to punish you with if you do that to your sister one more time!!”

Which works most times…except when you’re both pissed beyond your limits. Then it backfires big-time.

That’s when I yell, “I’ve had it! No sleep over for you tonight!”

And the wife yells, “Or ever again!! You’re never having a sleep over ever! For the rest of your life!!

And then we all cry.

Glitter Bitches!

2012-01-19T12:26:24Z

Glitter is evil.

A year after the wife and I moved into our first home she invited a former roommate to visit.

A day later we’re throwing a neighborhood bash in her honor. Beers are flowing. The grill is smoking with orgasmic fumes of cooked dead animal flesh.

I’m hanging out in a chair, laughing, trying to be funny, and enjoying many a beverage.

That’s when it happened.

I look up to see the wife’s former roommate standing before me, unnaturally interested in the rambling mess spewing from my distorted lips.

Then a pause.

Then, she screams “glitter bitches!!!!” as she unleashes two handfuls of glitter all over every inch of my person.

Head to toe, in my eyes, up my nose, in my mouth, contaminating my beverage….everywhere….glitter.

It was absolutely brilliant. The fact she even waited more than 24 hours upon her arrival to pull this award-winning prank made it even that much more respectable.

Since then, I’ve had an undying hatred for glitter.

Almost three years later we moved after two ankle biters graced our presence. Upon opening a couple boxes we still found glitter.

Fast forward to the X-mas holidays of 2011….

I finish volunteering in the boy’s 3^rd-grade classroom holiday party and take a slow jaunt down to the daughter’s 1^st-grade class to see if the wife needs help wrangling the little bastards around Ole Saint Nick projects.

When I walk in the classroom my sights lock immediately on a gaggle of desks jammed together in a U-shape. Kids on one side. One lonely, helpless woman on the other.

And in-between…glitter hell.

The kids’ activity was to turn a cup upside down, cover it in glue, throw glitter on it, and BAM!!! an ornament guaranteed to hit every household trashcan the second it’s pulled from the book bag.

Everything around me blurred as I watched on the kid taking handfuls of glitter and dumping it on the kids head next to him. Another was putting handfuls in his pockets. Next to him a girl sneezed, wiped her hands across her face leaving a fantastic handlebar mustache of glitter.

Volunteers throughout were completely ignoring this one table, hurriedly making themselves look busy as glitter overtook the station like a sand storm.

It was absolute and total hell on earth.

Being the jackasses the wife and I are, we jumped in to help as best we could. And glitter has re-entered our lives yet again.

Bad things happen in threes, or so they say. The third time glitter overtakes my life, it better damn well be in the form of dollar bills, strippers, or Goldschlager.

Do they even make that shit anymore?

A New Sexual Vocabulary

2011-12-12T12:32:34Z

So my parenting alarms have been on high alert recently for some reason.

I think it’s because the oldest little bastard is nine now. He’s at that age where he starts learning things at school, which he brings home and kindly unleashes on to our seven-year-old daughter.

But for some reason all things related to sex have me feeling like I’m a sweaty crackhead in the middle of an intervention fumbling with my fingers, looking around paranoid as shit at everyone and everything near me.

Driving in the car the other day Kings of Leon, Sex on Fire came on and the boy’s singing the lyrics.

And I’m cringing, holding the steering wheel tight as can be as I hear a rare silence from the back seat. And all I can imagine is what’s going through his head….

Boy’s Head Thoughts:

“Oh look, something shiny. I should make a fart noise right now. Wonder if I have a booger? I really hate my sister. I wonder why my penis is bigger than my dad’s? I should ask for a play-date for the 438^th time today. Hey….this is kind of a cool song. Sex? What’s sex? Let me ask…”

Thankfully that question never came out.

And then there’s the bedroom situation in our humble abode. Three bedrooms literally on top of each other.

You can hear EVERYTHING.

So we deck each room with fans to cut down on hearing the boy snore. Hearing the girl fart all night (not kidding). And to eliminate any sounds of the wife and I having our monthly “relations.”

But at the end of the day, our door still doesn’t lock and we have no idea what’s happening in the hallway on the other side of it.

I guess I could pipe Kenny G. into the hallway to force them to wear earplugs. I could set trip hazards connected to pots and pans. Or we could just move our location to the basement next to the cat litter box.

So many choices…

Regardless I’m fearful because I feel the older the kids get the stealthier things will need to be.

I’ll never forget coming home as a teenager and hearing one of my parents have relations with a step parent. It was one of the most horrifying experiences. So I exited the house, re-entered and slammed the ever-living-shit out of the door just to make damn sure they knew I was home.

I cock-blocked the hell out of them and don’t regret it to this very day.

So maybe the best thing to do is to retrain ourselves and the responses we have to sex to sound like we’re having the most interesting conversation in the entire world.

So as my curious little bastards stand in the hallway they hear their mother emotionally saying:

“That’s sooooo curious!!”

“OH MY GOD!!!! I remember that time too!”

“Yes, yes, YES!! We can take the kids to Disney World if they stay in their rooms at night!!”

Or hear their daddy grunting:

“Oh, oh, oh those shoes match your outfit perfectly!”

“Yes, keep doing that to your hair cause it’s beautiful.”

“Oh my god I think I’m going to come to your holiday party this year!!”

But in reality we all know the real new retrained phrases will be:

Wife: “Are you done ironing your clothes yet?”

Me: “I’m sorry, I thought I’d last longer than that at scrabble.”

How Santa Will Make My Son An Episode Of Intervention

2011-11-30T12:27:12Z

It’s the holidays!

And you know how I know?

Because everyone’s becoming just a bit more of an asshole than they normally are. Even the kids! Hell, the dog has even gotten into the holiday spirit by gnawing on the strap of my man-purse I carry to work every day.

He’s never done that before!

Ahhh the holidays. When people pepper-spray you for buying video games at half-price at a Wal-Mart instead of doing what you should normally do at Wal-Mart….bring your best camera and search for great pictures to upload to www.peopleofwalmart.com.

I found a catalogue over Thanksgiving weekend the daughter had taken a liking to. Upon opening it I thought, “oh cool, she’s circled a few things in……oh…oh she’s circled everything in here.”

The son is still an incredibly devoted believer in Santa. Which sucks for two reasons…

1) It’s gonna break his heart and be rough as hell on him the day he finds out that fat bastard is really his MILF mom tossing extra un-wrapped gifts under the tree late at night while his drunk dad stands naked next to her whispering loudly, “just look at it…I’m making it look like helicopter blades!!”

I can’t help but see an episode of Intervention 20 years from now when my son’s all cracked-out, crying on national TV saying his addiction started when he learned Santa wasn’t real.

2) He thinks he can get whatever in the hell he wants. All “I gotta do is ask Santa!”

It’s like a huge middle finger being jammed in our faces when the boy asks for an iPhone, we rightfully say no, and he responds with that. It makes me want to out Santa right then and there.

But then we wouldn’t get away with my favorite phrase which keeps him in line, “really? You’re gonna give your sister a swirly in that toilet while Santa’s watching? Wow man…you’ve got balls of steel.”

Then there comes the wife. I procrastinate. I’ll occasionally look at commercials showing other rock-star husbands blowing the socks off their wife with cars, jewelry, vacuum cleaners and more. I can’t afford a new car, the wife sells all the jewelry I buy her and I might as well cut my own throat before buying her a vacuum cleaner.

So I wait. And wait.

And wait.

Until a couple days before Christmas and decide to fight the crowds. Bitching the whole time about finding no place to park, the long lines waiting to check out and the check-out ladies being rude because I had the gall to actually purchase something from them today.

I bitch about not being thanked as I hold the door for some jack-wad whose arms were full and mumble angrily to myself as I get stuck in endless shopping traffic.

And it’s at that last stoplight that I realize….the holidays and I need each other. Like my future cracked-out son needs his drugs, I need the holidays to be angry about something. I thrive off the rush of anger that I got on December 22 and 23 when I’m last-second-shopping for my wife. It makes me feel alive. It makes me…

LOVE THE HOLIDAYS!!!

My Son Is Al-Qaeda

2011-11-28T10:57:41Z

I’m pretty sure my kids are terrorists.

But never at the same time. No….one always has to be America.

I can only break it down to you as though I were the inter-web-machine-thingy.

So let’s say I’m Twitter.

On this particular day the boy is Al-Qaeda and the daughter is America.

Twitter lay in bed thankful to be at the top of the food-chain in its household as it enjoys the silence. The fan is turning as it should to drown out barks from the incessantly annoying beast that lay caged below. Twitter’s bride is asleep next to it kindly keeping her nighttime breath-funk from darkening its nostrils thanks to the “Great Wall of China” pillow barrier she’s built between them.

And the little bastards sleep. Life is good…

But that’s not what Al-Qaeda has planned for the day.

The boy wakens. There’s no haze on the brain, delay in reaction or hesitation in what the goal of the task that lay ahead contains.

He MUST create chaos and disrupt order!

Taking the last step from its Ikea-built loft onto the cold November wood floor, Al-Qaeda stops to listen for the lay of the land. The sun is not up yet so its senses must be keen.

The humming of fans and calm feeling of peace bring a smile to Al-Qaeda’s face as it tip-toes slowly from its room towards America’s lair.

Standing eerily at the country’s doorway Al-Qaeda contemplates… “shall I pounce or douse the toilet and floor with my urine first?”

Al-Qaeda chooses to give the bathroom a thorough golden shower first. But it’s made a mistake because it has yet to realize it cannot pee without slamming the lid down upon completion.

That is when Twitter’s senses become awakened and keenly aware something is afoot!

Twitter immediately turns his eyes to the closet mirrors and watches as Al-Qaeda slowly and methodically makes its way towards America’s doorstep. Twitter tweets, “I see something #alqedaisgonnafuckshitupyo”

America lies peacefully sleeping, clutching its soft, pink blanket.

Al-Qaeda’s brain shuts down. Rationale escapes. There is but only one thing left to do.

Pounce America and make it cry!!!

And with that Al-Qaeda unleashes itself running full-fledged, uncontrollably towards what will end in pure hell just as Twitter swoops in from behind with a “occupy my daughter’s bedroom quick!! Terrorists!!”

But it’s too late.

Al-Qaeda lands solid on America, crushing its dainty hands below. A scream bellows from America.

America has been crushed…but not for good…because Twitter is there to rally the masses.

The wife comes crashing through the door, tossing Twitter aside and grabs Al-Qaeda by the arm.

“What is your problem boy!?!!! We’re sleeping, your sister’s sleeping and your dad’s standing over there tweeting like a douche?! GO TO BED!!!”

Al-Qaeda slowly sleeks away to its cave. America rolls over in its fuzzy blanky calmly going back to sleep. And, the wife gives Twitter a death-look as it tweets, “wife just rocked a whole batch of awesome parenting. Now off to snuggle with her and sex away the night!!”

This….this is just a small moment in what is the life of being parents of two organizations who want nothing but the utmost harm done to the other.

*Editor’s note

Dear Government:

My son is NOT actually Al-Qaeda, nor does he have any affiliations with Al-Qaeda or even know what in the hell it is. Please do not kick down my door, steal my computer or put me in any situation in which Matt Lauer must interview me following a segment in which he “investigates” whether Kim Kardashian’s ass is real or implants.

Love,

The Call & Repeat

2011-10-31T11:52:44Z

I've written before about how our family has a "safety call." Actually it's just a reason for us to be obnoxious in public.

If we can't find each other we just simply scream "cuhcaw!!!" at the top of our lungs until the other person yells it back.

But recently I've taken it upon myself to create a "party call." You know, when you're on the dance floor and some dude is all "oooha oooha," and then everyone repeats it back to him.

Well, no matter where I am with the kids, they seem incapable of not repeating that sound back when I make it.

I give you, Exhibit A:

I'm Insane...So I make My Kids Insane from WhyIsDaddyCrying on Vimeo.

You Like Me, You Really Like Me

2011-10-27T11:27:12Z

So apparently some insanely awesome editor at Babble.com took it upon herself/himself/itself to add my blog as the #7 position in their Funniest Dad Blog category of the annual list of top 10 Dad Bloggers.

And I’m pretty damn proud of that. I mean, it’s kinda like a pat on the top of the head from parenting world to say “who’s a good boy?!!” as I sit on the kitchen floor slamming my tale to the ground in happiness while hoping someone accidentally drops a beer.

When I found out I immediately texted the wife: “Hey – I just made the annual babble.com top 10 Funniest Dad Blog at #7 position!”

Five hours later she texted back, “how much is the check you get for that?”

Me: “Nothing.”

Her: “Oh”

Then I texted my brother (@ibeenorm) the same thing.

His response? - “neat”

I didn’t care though. I felt good about myself. So….I decided to pull out a pen, some paper and write my thank you list for all those who made this award-winning #7 a crowning achievement in my blog life.

So, here it goes.

I’d like to thank all the other sperm that allowed me to reach the egg first. You guys and girls put a lot of trust in me to not fuck this life up and I’m forever grateful. It sucks to be you right now.

I’d like to thank my children. You give me lots of great material, memories and amazing moments. If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t drink so much, crouch naked in a corner crying at night and probably have tons more sex with your mother.

My brain. I’d like to thank my brain for being demented and twisted enough to pull together the words on this blog. I know the wife wants me to filter what you produce way more than I do, but we both know life would be so much lamer if I did.

I’d like to thank my dad for showing me how not to parent.

I’d like to thank my house for only having one damn bathroom in it. Because mornings should be spent with your wife in the shower, son brushing his teeth while holding his nose closed and daughter at the doorway holding her crotch and jumping up and down screaming “hurry up daddy I have to pee!!!” while you have your a.m. poop.

The wife….the apple of my eye.

What the hell does that even mean? I know it’s super old. It’s been in the bible and Shakespeare used it, but how the hell can an apple and someone’s eye merge to join a literary phrase pertaining to someone you want to bone the hell out of?

I’d like to thank the wife for letting me obnoxiously flail around in her life as the third child in the family and for not chopping off my pecker in the middle of the night so that I’ll stop chasing her around the house with it while screaming “just look at it!!!”

Finally, I’d like to thank the Interweb Machine Thingy. Because of you I can spew my insanity onto endless pages. Thank you for becoming my therapist and for allowing me to dump on you with no regard of self preservation or respect of others.

Now let's go celebrate!