How I Saved My Son's Life

For the better part of a month I’ve been fighting the wife like a heavy-weight champ to NOT build a loft bed from scratch for our first born male’s room.

The initial response?

Wife: “Oh, so you’re saying I CAN’T build a bed from scratch?”

Me: “No I ummm….we should maybe…I ummm…Well, first, I love you. Second, he is the only male.”

Wife: “What in the hell does that mean? Are you going off to war or something?”

Me: “Going off to war…haha. You should seriously design t-shirts and…”

Wife: “No, I’m serious. You don’t think I can make this?”

Me: “Ok, you know what? We’ve been married long enough for me to drop some truth knowledge on you woman! Yes…I think you building a tall, loft bed in which our first born will rest his sleepy head at night is a bit of a risk considering you’ve never ‘wood-worked’ in your entire existence. There…I said it. Now what?!!!”

Wife: “Now what? Well that’s easy. First off, I’m closed for business starting now! Second, I’ll build your coffin you bearded terrorist. And you’ll sleep like you’ve never slept, just keep talking!”

Me: “Did you just threaten my life? Damn that’s hott.”

For weeks this went on. She’s searched on Ebay for lofts nearby. We’d call, finagle, and always walk away empty handed.

And for good reason, they were a mix between placing a wooden fortress in the boy’s room, or allowing him to sleep on top of four rickety sticks of wood.

Then, the light bulb went off.

Me: “Honey, look outside. You see all that snow on the ground, icey sidewalks, and that little dog freezing over in the corner of our…oh shit, I forgot I let the dog out an hour ago. Anyway, you’re going to spend 90% of your time out there in that building your first loft bed.”

Wife: “What are you talking about? I already decided we should buy the one from Ikea.”

Me: “Suuuuurrrreee you did sweetie. Sure you did.”

Wife: “Go get the dog before I do that jugular ripping-out thing Swazey stole from me and used in Road House.”

And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is how I saved our first born’s life from a sure death at the fruit of his mother’s labor.



If I Were A Parental Crack Dealer

“Daddy!!! I can’t go to sleep!!”

Holy mother of all things that make me want to slam my head in the door…that one ranks up there near the top.

Every time the wifey and I hear that, our first response is to pound the pause button on the remote of whatever mindless insanity we’re watching, look at each other and drop our heads in that position that screams “are you fucking kidding me?”

We quickly draw straws (or actually the wife gives me that look like “you better take your ass up there chump!”) and  I make my way upstairs to explain to the children that “daddy has no magical pixy dust to toss in the air allowing my sweet SWEET children to fall patiently and quietly into slumber land.”

This is often met by, “aaawwww come on daddy…my eyes don’t want to shut!!!”

Or, “But it’s not night time yet!!!”

Or my favorite, “can’t I just have dinner?”

As if I didn’t just spend the past hour fighting them to chow their nighttime morsels.

Wouldn’t it be fantasticly awesome if we, as parents, had nighttime flakes allowing anyone we sprinkle them on to experience an eight-hour blissful sleep?

It would be the parental crack we’ve all been searching for.

No longer would Friday nights be filled with fathers surrounding grills, wives sipping wine and laughing in a corner while the kids destroy house and home.

Instead wives would be sipping wine and glaring at their watches like hawks as husbands flocked to their favorite dealer in the hopes of scoring even a dime-bag of the “I Cant’ Sleep Daddy” dust.

Parental mobs would storm the streets burning down businesses and taking over governmental positions to make sure “I Can’t Sleep Daddy” dust was considered “medicinal.”

Then “clicks” would form along the school playground as parents divide themselves amongst “those who have kids addicted to the ‘Sleepy Daddy’ dust,” and those who simply kiss their parents on the forehead, thank them for providing them with the greatest life ever, and nod quietly off to sleep.

Eventually all hell would break loose on the football field as the favorite quarterback, who according to Susan is a “Daddy Dust” user, throws the game-losing touchdown and suddenly it becomes a city-wide school board issue.

Actually, now that I think about it…it’s not worth it. I guess I’ll just stick to the old fashioned parental rhetoric of explaining to the children that daddy’s only magical power is to piss off their mother in 2.1 seconds flat.

And, I’ll save the magical sleeping dust for myself.