I have the flu. My son has two ear canals that resemble a head of cauliflower and my daughter is coughing up more phlegm than Marlon Brando (before his death). I stayed home yesterday, feverish and feeling as if I got hit by a freight train, kids all happy that they were born, my cell phone ringing like crazy from people that want something, mostly a hose to put out financial firestorms and I had the AUDACITY to not put my son's clothes away. Shame on me.
This morning, I should have been able to guess where the conversation was going. The night previous, sweat beading from my forehead, my wife asked me what I did all day. It wasn't WHAT she said, but HOW she said it. As if two living children was not enough, a house that had not burned down to the ground, a clean kitchen, kids toys picked up off of the living room floor, etc. etc. I thought I did pretty well for being sick as a dog. Apparently not enough. My son was sitting on her lap. When you speak to an infant, they hear BLAH BLAH BLAH. My wife thinks they hear everything word for word. She says, "Jacob, Mommy has to clean the whole house before company comes Thursday, and finish the laundry that DID NOT GET DONE TODAY, but only after she works all day tomorrow" Of course, being the cynical bastard I am, say, "and when Mommy is done with that, she needs to paint the outside of the house, but you are too young to help, let alone understand the English language." I got up, and went upstairs to transfer the laundry from washer to dryer, grumbling the whole way.
So this morning, I am asleep. My wife had been up since 7:30, unable to sleep because she had "all this stuff to do" before Thursday. I don't know what the big deal was about Thursday anyway. It is dinner with her Dad, someone whom no one likes anyway. So what? We aren't aiming to impress anyone. Regardless, she was stressed. Fine. Why kill me about it? So this is when she said those terrible words...."you did not put Jacob's clothes away." She plops my son on my chest, him looking at me with a big smile, drool oozing onto my face like a miniature Saint Bernard. She reminds me how I failed to put away his wardrobe and I said, "I will do it tonight I guess. It isn't that much." She says, "but everytime I turn around there is one more thing for me to do." What? Still confused and slowly starting to wake up completely, I said "I will help you tonight, I promise." She rolls her eyes as if i wasn't getting the point. I got the point, OK? It wasn't done, but Jesus...move on. Oh no, she says, "You just wouldn't understand." Then I killed Kennedy all over again. "Are you on the rag?" She picked my son up and left. OOPS. I guess I didn't understand.
Never say that to your wife or girlfriend. The fact is, yes, she is on her hell week, PMS fully a blaze, but she didn't need reminding of that. She simply wanted me to say, I WILL BE YOUR DOMESTIC BITCH FOR THE NEXT 36 HOURS. But, I was half asleep. My brain was foggy. Sue me.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Monday, December 19, 2005
When Kids are Sick
I learned a valuable lesson this weekend when it comes to sick kids. Never roll your eyes at your concerned wife. It has a tendency to ruin marital bliss. Now, I am not sleeping on the couch because of it, nor are we not speaking to each other. Mother's worry, father's roll eyes. Father's tell kids to "rub some dirt on it," when approached with a partially detached appendage. Mother's will rush to the E.R. It is the Venus/Mars scenario in real life. I just rolled my eyes. OOPS....
My son has a URI. Not to be mistaken for a distant drunken Russian relative, a URI is a Upper Respiratory Infection. Not infarction. Don't use that term around mothers either. It tends to lead to panic attacks. It is sort of like saying "bomb" in an airport, minus the FAA marshals tackling you. It could be a number of things. I say cold, she says tumor. I say congestion, she says Leukemia. I say drainage or an ear infection, she says Last Rights. Get my point? It is a travesty that my son is suffering through a cold....err, Bronchitis or pneumonia. Here is the kicker. He knows the minute he coughs when the sun is down, someone will come hold him. Now, in defense of my wife, his cough is bigger than he is. That says a lot since his dinner consisted of a water buffalo and a keg of beer. He really is miserable; cranky and somewhat lethargic. I do feel bad for him. I really do. But factor in my wife saying he just "threw up the Hudson River. He must be starving," and I lose a bit of sympathy for him. Thank God he didn't have a hangnail too, lest we would throw him into a plastic bubble.
Last night, after he rolled over and caused such a clatter, my mother-in-law and wife ran upstairs to see what was the matter. And what to their wondering eyes did appear? A kid in a crib. OH MY! Not that. Quick get him out of that thing before it implodes and takes him with it! So, he came downstairs and my wife made him a three ounce bottle. Three ounces? That small amount of food would aggravate a Rwandan. Go big or go home. He sucked that down and of course was pissed that he was short changed sixty-four ounces. So I got up to make more. With my back turned and only God as HER witness, he began to cough, gag and then I heard what was the "shot heard round the world." BRING A TOWEL! So I did. I brought a bedsheet...err....kitchen towel to mop up what I thought was vomit. I saw some drool. Nothing resembling formula or phlegm interlaced with formula. Just some drool. I said, "what happened?" BIG mistake. "He just threw up. He has to be starving." She doesn't watch many documentaries about the famine in Africa. Threw up? When I throw up, it is obvious. Hell, when anyone throws up, it is obvious. I did not see obvious. My eyes were starting to roll. I asked, "what did he throw up," to which my wife replied, "the 3 ounces he just ate." Now, remember...I saw the three ounces in the bottle. I remember its volume. I remember the color and the smell. Formula smells like sweaty gym socks left in a hot car on a summers....let's say...fortnight. It stinks, OK? Regurgitated formula smells a little worse. His burps resemble Acetone. Don't smell it. Don't see it anywhere, but it still happened, right? Wrong. Eyes roll in direct sight of the mother. OOPS again.
So then the hugs and rocking comes. He is crying, mostly to peel away from the Mommy velcro and just drink the bottle. That and he is tired. VERY tired. Mostly, if I was in his head, I would bet his words were, "I promise I won't cough anymore if you just lay me back in my bed." He had more drugs in him than Jimmy Hendrix. He was so delirious, he probably didn't know what he wanted. Eyes rolled again. Then I heard Britney, "OOPS I did it again...." He did eat...he did sleep and all is well. he will go see the doctor today. Before you stone me to death, I did apologize to my wife for rolling my eyes. Everyone has the right to worry. Just not all the time . =)
My son has a URI. Not to be mistaken for a distant drunken Russian relative, a URI is a Upper Respiratory Infection. Not infarction. Don't use that term around mothers either. It tends to lead to panic attacks. It is sort of like saying "bomb" in an airport, minus the FAA marshals tackling you. It could be a number of things. I say cold, she says tumor. I say congestion, she says Leukemia. I say drainage or an ear infection, she says Last Rights. Get my point? It is a travesty that my son is suffering through a cold....err, Bronchitis or pneumonia. Here is the kicker. He knows the minute he coughs when the sun is down, someone will come hold him. Now, in defense of my wife, his cough is bigger than he is. That says a lot since his dinner consisted of a water buffalo and a keg of beer. He really is miserable; cranky and somewhat lethargic. I do feel bad for him. I really do. But factor in my wife saying he just "threw up the Hudson River. He must be starving," and I lose a bit of sympathy for him. Thank God he didn't have a hangnail too, lest we would throw him into a plastic bubble.
Last night, after he rolled over and caused such a clatter, my mother-in-law and wife ran upstairs to see what was the matter. And what to their wondering eyes did appear? A kid in a crib. OH MY! Not that. Quick get him out of that thing before it implodes and takes him with it! So, he came downstairs and my wife made him a three ounce bottle. Three ounces? That small amount of food would aggravate a Rwandan. Go big or go home. He sucked that down and of course was pissed that he was short changed sixty-four ounces. So I got up to make more. With my back turned and only God as HER witness, he began to cough, gag and then I heard what was the "shot heard round the world." BRING A TOWEL! So I did. I brought a bedsheet...err....kitchen towel to mop up what I thought was vomit. I saw some drool. Nothing resembling formula or phlegm interlaced with formula. Just some drool. I said, "what happened?" BIG mistake. "He just threw up. He has to be starving." She doesn't watch many documentaries about the famine in Africa. Threw up? When I throw up, it is obvious. Hell, when anyone throws up, it is obvious. I did not see obvious. My eyes were starting to roll. I asked, "what did he throw up," to which my wife replied, "the 3 ounces he just ate." Now, remember...I saw the three ounces in the bottle. I remember its volume. I remember the color and the smell. Formula smells like sweaty gym socks left in a hot car on a summers....let's say...fortnight. It stinks, OK? Regurgitated formula smells a little worse. His burps resemble Acetone. Don't smell it. Don't see it anywhere, but it still happened, right? Wrong. Eyes roll in direct sight of the mother. OOPS again.
So then the hugs and rocking comes. He is crying, mostly to peel away from the Mommy velcro and just drink the bottle. That and he is tired. VERY tired. Mostly, if I was in his head, I would bet his words were, "I promise I won't cough anymore if you just lay me back in my bed." He had more drugs in him than Jimmy Hendrix. He was so delirious, he probably didn't know what he wanted. Eyes rolled again. Then I heard Britney, "OOPS I did it again...." He did eat...he did sleep and all is well. he will go see the doctor today. Before you stone me to death, I did apologize to my wife for rolling my eyes. Everyone has the right to worry. Just not all the time . =)
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Least Favorite Thing to hear from your Day-Care Provider
There is one thing you DO NOT want to hear from your child's day-care provider when you pick up your child. Your daughter was in time out for pushing a boy down. So? Good for you, Peyton . Your child did not want to use the potty chair. So? You child did not eat her lunch today. So? She doesn't eat at my house . You child got into the cabinet under the sink and drank bleach, got sick but seems to be OK now. RIGHT ON! . Your child did not take a nap today. Excuse me?
This might be backwards to some, but you have not lived under the roof of my house when said child has decided to NOT like the food she has eaten in the past and has opened the flood gates, here-to-fore known as tear ducts. You also have not been around when, upon the parent's resistance to her request that she not be made to eat such vile food, a coughing fit begins, where the child's mother actually BELIEVES that the child is too sick to nourish herself. You also have not driven 17 miles with the napless wonder, fielding such absurd requests like, "I need my juice/milk/snack/shoes off/puppy in my lap/coat off/hair brushed out of my face..etc. etc. all the while trying to stay alive in the fog. Each 'no' is followed by a screech and fake tears, some disdain for being born, and a request for her own phone line.
So how do you handle this type of child? Move closer to the airport, for starters. Jet wash has a tendency to drown out that pitch of whiny noise. Ignoring it is near impossible. Last night, my daughter wanted chips, a peanut butter sandwich and pudding for dinner. KNOWING she had taken a nap, I thought it best to ask her what she WANTED to eat, thinking doing so would avoid what happened next.
This might be backwards to some, but you have not lived under the roof of my house when said child has decided to NOT like the food she has eaten in the past and has opened the flood gates, here-to-fore known as tear ducts. You also have not been around when, upon the parent's resistance to her request that she not be made to eat such vile food, a coughing fit begins, where the child's mother actually BELIEVES that the child is too sick to nourish herself. You also have not driven 17 miles with the napless wonder, fielding such absurd requests like, "I need my juice/milk/snack/shoes off/puppy in my lap/coat off/hair brushed out of my face..etc. etc. all the while trying to stay alive in the fog. Each 'no' is followed by a screech and fake tears, some disdain for being born, and a request for her own phone line.
So how do you handle this type of child? Move closer to the airport, for starters. Jet wash has a tendency to drown out that pitch of whiny noise. Ignoring it is near impossible. Last night, my daughter wanted chips, a peanut butter sandwich and pudding for dinner. KNOWING she had taken a nap, I thought it best to ask her what she WANTED to eat, thinking doing so would avoid what happened next.
- Hand pudding to child - child says, "I DON'T LIKE IT!" You eat it all the time, frickin liar. EAT IT!
- Hand sandwich to child - child says, "I DON'T LIKE THE BREAD" (we have purchased and used the same bread forever. She had it in the womb every time my wife had toast. LIAR! EAT IT!
- Hand chips to child - child takes chip, takes bite, bites her lip, now associating the excruciating pain to that damn chip. I DON'T LIKE IT! - yes you do, you just don't like biting your own flesh. Most people don't. EAT IT!
Mom, in her loving way and desiring to make the insanity disappear, asks her, "Are you done?" Peyton says yes. I thought to myself, knowing verbalizing this thought would only make things worse. You would have to begin, I would think, in order to be 'done,' do you not? "Can you finish feeding Jacob while I go give her a bath?" GOD yes...another male. Yes, I will satisfy the male. That doesn't take much. Being goofy usually works. I can be goofy. Yes, I will feed the boy child. You take the broken one. Here, son, play with the remote. Want a beer?
So, as I sat feeding my son, I listened to the disaster going on upstairs. Since I was unable to SEE what was actually happening, it sounded like my wife poured shampoo directly into the eyes of my daughter, Peyton. Crying, crying, crying....some splashing. I think her bath was about 8 seconds long, ironically, the same time it takes to ride a champion bull for a score. I hear my wife say, "Off to bed since you won't stop crying," then I hear an audible *THUD*, followed by a lot of crying. This is where my daughter says, "I am going to lay here, forcing you to pick up all 26 pounds of me, and take me to bed if you want me there so bad." My wife's limit is 30 pounds, so we were safe there. All of this, simply because...she did not...take...a nap.
She does not really cry when she gets her shots. Something stabs her and she is just inconvenienced. She gets inconvenienced and it sounds like she got stabbed. I know, say it twice and it will make sense. It is bass ackwards. It almost makes you get your mords wixed. Insanity I tell you. You would think birth control would be more popular.
Monday, December 12, 2005
KIDS SUCK
There is a kid in my neighborhood that has befriended me. Why?!?!?!?! I did not ask for it. I was simply kind to him...and was cordial. People wonder why I am an anti-social bastard. Daniel is why. I am not even go to change the prick's name. He does not need protection "for the innocent." He needs a shower, and his coat needs a date with a Kenmore and some Tide laundry detergent...and maybe a trip to the Orthodontist. Him, not the coat. I am sure my wife can recommend someone....for the teeth. Hell, just keep reading.
It is nice and quiet in my house on Saturday afternoon. The kids are with Grandma, my wife was asleep.....DINGG DONG...DINGGGG DONG. Dog barks...and then barks again....and again. Who the hell can that be? I KNOW...I'll look in my newly installed peep hole in my door. AH SHIT...Christmas wreath is there. Gotta love the holidays. I open the door, and there is Snaggletooth...err...Daniel, and some other kid. Daniel looking as if he just stole second base, sliding head first in the pouring rain at Fenway and the other kid just looking like a retard on a leash next to Daniel. "HI....do you have any work for us?" What the fuck? Do I have any work for you? Yes. Yes I do. It doesn't pay well but my first task for you is to piss off. Second, get off of my porch. Third, walk back home and work on your homework, trash boy. I wish I could have said that. Battling my canine for position at the door with one leg, I simply said no. Oblivious to my answer, here is Daniel, aka PigPen, talking to my dog. "Cmon boy...come on!" Fuck off Danny. Are you blind to the fact I am trying to keep him from attacking you? "Weren't you going to put up Christmas lights?" AHH shit....yes I did say that didn't I? No, Danny, not today. "Why not? Are you a scrooge?" My left calf was cramping at this point, trying my damnedest to hold back a 65 pound Tasmanian Devil with my right leg. Scrooge? You little asshole...I don't see lights are on your place, and there obviously is no running water seeing your appearance. I felt like giving him a couple bucks to go get some Apple shampoo. I even thought about getting him a bar of soap from upstairs. No, Danny, I am not a Scrooge, just have not done the light thing. "You said this weekend you were going to do it." I also said I was going to bang Charlize Theron, but I believe I was drunk when I said it, that, and I decided to move to Nampa, Idaho instead. "Come on, there must be something around here we can do." I then contemplated hiring them to spike the neighbors drinking water with arsenic, but decided against it for the moment. No, Danny, we are all ship-shape here for the moment (sweat now beading on my forehead as I have balanced for 10 minutes on my toes holding the dog back with one leg). "Are you sure?" Let me think some more about it, Danny.....yup, I am sure. Go bug your Dad, or the "man-figure" in your home. "I can't. He is drunk and passed out in the laundry room on top of the washer. Been that way for months. Haven't been able to wash my coat. See? It's all dirty." Wait...he didn't say that. He simply said OK and walked away. I really wish he would have said the first thing, however. It would put my mind at ease.
Yes, I have a date with Danny next Saturday as I am sure he will come by and ask me...again....if I have any work for him. I think I may ask him to dig a hole 6 feet deep, 6 feet long and 3 feet wide....and then lay in it.
It is nice and quiet in my house on Saturday afternoon. The kids are with Grandma, my wife was asleep.....DINGG DONG...DINGGGG DONG. Dog barks...and then barks again....and again. Who the hell can that be? I KNOW...I'll look in my newly installed peep hole in my door. AH SHIT...Christmas wreath is there. Gotta love the holidays. I open the door, and there is Snaggletooth...err...Daniel, and some other kid. Daniel looking as if he just stole second base, sliding head first in the pouring rain at Fenway and the other kid just looking like a retard on a leash next to Daniel. "HI....do you have any work for us?" What the fuck? Do I have any work for you? Yes. Yes I do. It doesn't pay well but my first task for you is to piss off. Second, get off of my porch. Third, walk back home and work on your homework, trash boy. I wish I could have said that. Battling my canine for position at the door with one leg, I simply said no. Oblivious to my answer, here is Daniel, aka PigPen, talking to my dog. "Cmon boy...come on!" Fuck off Danny. Are you blind to the fact I am trying to keep him from attacking you? "Weren't you going to put up Christmas lights?" AHH shit....yes I did say that didn't I? No, Danny, not today. "Why not? Are you a scrooge?" My left calf was cramping at this point, trying my damnedest to hold back a 65 pound Tasmanian Devil with my right leg. Scrooge? You little asshole...I don't see lights are on your place, and there obviously is no running water seeing your appearance. I felt like giving him a couple bucks to go get some Apple shampoo. I even thought about getting him a bar of soap from upstairs. No, Danny, I am not a Scrooge, just have not done the light thing. "You said this weekend you were going to do it." I also said I was going to bang Charlize Theron, but I believe I was drunk when I said it, that, and I decided to move to Nampa, Idaho instead. "Come on, there must be something around here we can do." I then contemplated hiring them to spike the neighbors drinking water with arsenic, but decided against it for the moment. No, Danny, we are all ship-shape here for the moment (sweat now beading on my forehead as I have balanced for 10 minutes on my toes holding the dog back with one leg). "Are you sure?" Let me think some more about it, Danny.....yup, I am sure. Go bug your Dad, or the "man-figure" in your home. "I can't. He is drunk and passed out in the laundry room on top of the washer. Been that way for months. Haven't been able to wash my coat. See? It's all dirty." Wait...he didn't say that. He simply said OK and walked away. I really wish he would have said the first thing, however. It would put my mind at ease.
Yes, I have a date with Danny next Saturday as I am sure he will come by and ask me...again....if I have any work for him. I think I may ask him to dig a hole 6 feet deep, 6 feet long and 3 feet wide....and then lay in it.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
XBOX 360 for SALE
For those who are looking to purchase an XBOX 360 game system for your home, I have one for sale. It will only cost you $250,000. I know, I know. I am taking advantage of people around the holidays, and using a capitalist nature in doing so. Hell, why should I care? If people are dumb enough to pay 600% over retail price to keep their kids quiet, then I am going to milk it for all it is worth.
I remember my parents used to hand the Sears catalog to me and my brother as a kid, with two different colored pens and told us to circle what we wanted. You remember the Sears Catalog, don't you? Before Al Gore invented the Internet in the 80's, it was the phone book sized book that had everything Sears and Roebuck had to offer. While flipping through it, my brother and I would skip through the scantily clad women in bras and granny panties and go right to the toy section. We circled everything, knowing that somehow, Santa was going to get his hands on our little wishbook and we were going to make off like bandits. We couldn't wait until Christmas.
When the day finally arrived, we saw....two things we circled, followed by several things that, albeit were nice, were nowhere NEAR what we "wished" for. SANTA WAS A FRAUD! I was good. As good as an 8-year old can be anyway. I left stray cats alone for 364 days to get.....? AHHHHHHHHHH! Why didn't I get X? Because my parents said NO. Oh MY GOD! They said NO? That's right. No used to be a popular word. Now if you say no as a parent, you might get shot by your kids, alienated by your congressman (which in all reality is a blessing), get hate mail from friends, your house toilet-papered, tires slashed and many other numerous consequences. When did parenting become so dangerous? I would guess right about the time MTV rolled out. Wait, that is too politically motivated. It is about the time fathers lost their balls and mothers became yes women.
So, for kids that want an XBOX 360, and for the parents that pay $1000 or more for one, I have some advice. Take that $1000 and buy your kid a nice commercial lawn mower and a utility trailer to latch onto that Ford Gargantuan you bought last spring. Help them create some flyers offering a lawn mowing service. Make the prices competitive so they are guaranteed some work. have them earn the XBOX. An occasional dusting and vacuuming are not chores, they are required activities for living under the same roof. They should not be rewarded. For every hour that they do not watch t.v., text message, chat or surf the Internet, they get $1. Pretty soon, they will begin to value the things they have and not whine so much. If my kids whine about what the Jones' have, I will walk them over to the Jones' house and offer him to them as a sacrifice. Be happy for what you have, not what you have not.
But that XBOX is still available for $250,000.
I remember my parents used to hand the Sears catalog to me and my brother as a kid, with two different colored pens and told us to circle what we wanted. You remember the Sears Catalog, don't you? Before Al Gore invented the Internet in the 80's, it was the phone book sized book that had everything Sears and Roebuck had to offer. While flipping through it, my brother and I would skip through the scantily clad women in bras and granny panties and go right to the toy section. We circled everything, knowing that somehow, Santa was going to get his hands on our little wishbook and we were going to make off like bandits. We couldn't wait until Christmas.
When the day finally arrived, we saw....two things we circled, followed by several things that, albeit were nice, were nowhere NEAR what we "wished" for. SANTA WAS A FRAUD! I was good. As good as an 8-year old can be anyway. I left stray cats alone for 364 days to get.....? AHHHHHHHHHH! Why didn't I get X? Because my parents said NO. Oh MY GOD! They said NO? That's right. No used to be a popular word. Now if you say no as a parent, you might get shot by your kids, alienated by your congressman (which in all reality is a blessing), get hate mail from friends, your house toilet-papered, tires slashed and many other numerous consequences. When did parenting become so dangerous? I would guess right about the time MTV rolled out. Wait, that is too politically motivated. It is about the time fathers lost their balls and mothers became yes women.
So, for kids that want an XBOX 360, and for the parents that pay $1000 or more for one, I have some advice. Take that $1000 and buy your kid a nice commercial lawn mower and a utility trailer to latch onto that Ford Gargantuan you bought last spring. Help them create some flyers offering a lawn mowing service. Make the prices competitive so they are guaranteed some work. have them earn the XBOX. An occasional dusting and vacuuming are not chores, they are required activities for living under the same roof. They should not be rewarded. For every hour that they do not watch t.v., text message, chat or surf the Internet, they get $1. Pretty soon, they will begin to value the things they have and not whine so much. If my kids whine about what the Jones' have, I will walk them over to the Jones' house and offer him to them as a sacrifice. Be happy for what you have, not what you have not.
But that XBOX is still available for $250,000.
WHEN DAUGHTER'S RULED THE WORLD!
For the second day in a row, my 2 year old daughter has convinced my wife she is choking. I think I am going to teach her how to say "WOLF," simply to make my wife sit back down in the front seat of the car.
My son, who is going to be turning 8 months old tomorrow, grunts, like all male primates. For no particular reason, he will change from talking to grunting. My daughter picks up on this and will grunt back, but her grunts sound more like she has a chicken bone in her throat. Of course, she won't eat chicken. Nor will she eat beef, vegetables, cheese, milk, fish, potatoes or any other nutritious food item. My daughter eats the hell out of candy, though. Before I go off on a completely different pet peeve, I will go back to the choking sound emanating from the back seat.
Yesterday, she fooled me for about .8 seconds, when she began to "shadow" what her brother was doing. Of course, since my wife was still concerned about the pending sunrise, or more specifically, if the sun was even GOING to rise, she was instantly concerned about my daughter eating a Michelin. The Michelin was, as all kids will occasionally eat these, a Fruit Loop. I do not mean a Richard Simmons exercise item, I mean the General Mills cereal. So my wife asks my daughter....all hell, it went something like this.
Peyton, are you OK?
(hack)
Peyton? Is there something wrong?
(cough, cough...follwed by Jake grunting)
HONEY??!?!? ARE YOU OOOOOOKKKKKKKKKKKKK?!?!?!?!!? (starts climbing into back seat)
(hack...followed by laughter)
DON'T SCARE MOMMY!
It is said the daughters keep their dad's wrapped around their little fingers. I disagree. In this case, my wife has proven that theory obsolete. It is quite entertaining to watch my daughter parent my wife.
My son, who is going to be turning 8 months old tomorrow, grunts, like all male primates. For no particular reason, he will change from talking to grunting. My daughter picks up on this and will grunt back, but her grunts sound more like she has a chicken bone in her throat. Of course, she won't eat chicken. Nor will she eat beef, vegetables, cheese, milk, fish, potatoes or any other nutritious food item. My daughter eats the hell out of candy, though. Before I go off on a completely different pet peeve, I will go back to the choking sound emanating from the back seat.
Yesterday, she fooled me for about .8 seconds, when she began to "shadow" what her brother was doing. Of course, since my wife was still concerned about the pending sunrise, or more specifically, if the sun was even GOING to rise, she was instantly concerned about my daughter eating a Michelin. The Michelin was, as all kids will occasionally eat these, a Fruit Loop. I do not mean a Richard Simmons exercise item, I mean the General Mills cereal. So my wife asks my daughter....all hell, it went something like this.
Peyton, are you OK?
Peyton? Is there something wrong?
HONEY??!?!? ARE YOU OOOOOOKKKKKKKKKKKKK?!?!?!?!!? (starts climbing into back seat)
DON'T SCARE MOMMY!
It is said the daughters keep their dad's wrapped around their little fingers. I disagree. In this case, my wife has proven that theory obsolete. It is quite entertaining to watch my daughter parent my wife.
Two Minutes
I seem to write a lot about my family. I want to say that I love my family. I love all my kids equally and I adore my wife. That being said, 95% of the time, I wish I was on a business trip. Not because I despise being around them, but there are certain times where being alone sounds pretty good.
I don't need to go "hang with the guys," or retreat to a bar somewhere to find peace. Wives wonder why there is reading material in the bathroom. It is to make hiding from them and/or the little monsters that they wanted to create easier. Bachelors don't have stacks of magazines in their bathrooms. I think I had a Time magazine in my apartment once, brought by my visiting parents one time and left behind in hopes it would sprout friends. Now, I have 3 kids and 80% of my Presidential library is stocked with reading material, all to be read mid-fit by. My wife must think I have irritable bowel syndrome or a bladder infection as often as I go into the bathroom.
Two minutes to most is 120 seconds. To my daughter it is a lifetime. Whatever is requested of her, the response is "two minutes," followed by two fingers being held up. Time for dinner, two minutes. Have to go potty? Two minutes. Go get your shoes...two minutes! Ask her favorite color, and I would bet my life "two minutes" would come out of her mouth. This morning, watching two minutes of Barney turned into a spike in blood pressure. I am beginning to hate hearing "two" and "minutes," either separately or together. Understand, it is easier to turn on entertainment for a child that comprehends animation and mindless musical puppets while taking care of an infant. If some are appalled by the fact my daughter watches 18 minutes of Barney while the other child is being taken care of then PLEASE do me a favor and go for a walk, blindfolded, in the middle of I-84. How dare I allow my child to watch television in the morning? You are probably the proud parents of a 11-year old gamer with arthritis in his thumbs. Feel free to jump off your pedestal....followed by a tall structure with nothing but pavement below.
To a bombardier, two minutes before dropping a payload on, let's say, Hiroshima, means there is an end result. A two minute pit stop in Nascar will get you fired from the pits. Two minute warnings in the NFL are quickly followed by....a commercial, most likely for Enfamil, but then programming will begin again. 800-yard runs have a two minute time frame. What is the point? Two minutes is still 120 seconds, except to a 2-year old, and even then, it still resembles an atomic explosion when two minutes expires.
120 seconds from now, I won't have a migraine, until I get home, and have to count to 120 again!
I don't need to go "hang with the guys," or retreat to a bar somewhere to find peace. Wives wonder why there is reading material in the bathroom. It is to make hiding from them and/or the little monsters that they wanted to create easier. Bachelors don't have stacks of magazines in their bathrooms. I think I had a Time magazine in my apartment once, brought by my visiting parents one time and left behind in hopes it would sprout friends. Now, I have 3 kids and 80% of my Presidential library is stocked with reading material, all to be read mid-fit by
Two minutes to most is 120 seconds. To my daughter it is a lifetime. Whatever is requested of her, the response is "two minutes," followed by two fingers being held up. Time for dinner, two minutes. Have to go potty? Two minutes. Go get your shoes...two minutes! Ask her favorite color, and I would bet my life "two minutes" would come out of her mouth. This morning, watching two minutes of Barney turned into a spike in blood pressure. I am beginning to hate hearing "two" and "minutes," either separately or together. Understand, it is easier to turn on entertainment for a child that comprehends animation and mindless musical puppets while taking care of an infant. If some are appalled by the fact my daughter watches 18 minutes of Barney while the other child is being taken care of then PLEASE do me a favor and go for a walk, blindfolded, in the middle of I-84. How dare I allow my child to watch television in the morning? You are probably the proud parents of a 11-year old gamer with arthritis in his thumbs. Feel free to jump off your pedestal....followed by a tall structure with nothing but pavement below.
To a bombardier, two minutes before dropping a payload on, let's say, Hiroshima, means there is an end result. A two minute pit stop in Nascar will get you fired from the pits. Two minute warnings in the NFL are quickly followed by....a commercial, most likely for Enfamil, but then programming will begin again. 800-yard runs have a two minute time frame. What is the point? Two minutes is still 120 seconds, except to a 2-year old, and even then, it still resembles an atomic explosion when two minutes expires.
120 seconds from now, I won't have a migraine, until I get home, and have to count to 120 again!
Monday, December 05, 2005
Kid's Pepto Bismol
First off, let me preface this email by saying, when I was a kid and had an upset stomach, I dealt with it. I am sure I went to my Mom and said, "my tummy hurts," to which my Mom said, "I'm sorry," gave me a hug and sent me back to where I came from. Shit happens, and it usually happens following an upset stomach.
My wife thinks Pepto Bismol is actually medicinal. My teachers had Pepto in their classes, but they used it to write on the chalk board. It wasn't pink. It was white. It is the most worthless drug ever. If people do not agree with me because they have had success with it alleviating some sort of gastrointestinal distress, then you have some sort of mental ailment that doctor's have called HYPOCHONDRIA and should seek more bullshit help to cure that as well.
Now, they have kids Pepto and my wife is happy. So when our daughter whines.....again.....about something that ails her, there will be a remedy. My daughter comes to me the other night and says, "Dad, my tummy hurts." So? Get over it. Of course, this response was triggered by something that has happened in the past, say, 10 minutes ago, when she complained that her socks hurt her feet. Now, I didn't say a word when she told me this, other than, "I'm sorry."
What else is there to say? I am thinking of removing all of her secondary organs NOW so that she does not have to think that a random pain in her side is appendicitis. Kids Pepto would limit all of her GI issues, according to my wife. I,, on the other hand, have a different remedy for what ails her.
Complaint - "My butt hurts."
Remedy - Stop shitting your pants. Poop is acidic and eats the flesh of your anus. Use the toilet. Don't be so damn lazy.
Complaint - "My feet hurt"
Remedy - Then run really fast into the front door. That way, the pain in your head will distract you from the pseudo-pain in your feet.
Complaint - "I am hungry. I want a snack."
Remedy - Then eat your damn food when it is in front of you. It's called breakfast/lunch/dinner.
Complaint - "The puppy scratched me."
Remedy - It was a defense mechanism for you pulling on his ears. Don't do that.
Complaint - "My tummy hurts."
Remedy - I DON'T CARE!!!!!!!!!!!
Now, the last one is somewhat callous and cold, but understand, the other complaints have all happened just prior to the final tummy statement. I think I heard a boy cry wolf. Not sure. One thing I AM sure of. If the kids had Pepto Bismol, according to my wife, my daughter would become immortal.
My wife thinks Pepto Bismol is actually medicinal. My teachers had Pepto in their classes, but they used it to write on the chalk board. It wasn't pink. It was white. It is the most worthless drug ever. If people do not agree with me because they have had success with it alleviating some sort of gastrointestinal distress, then you have some sort of mental ailment that doctor's have called HYPOCHONDRIA and should seek more bullshit help to cure that as well.
Now, they have kids Pepto and my wife is happy. So when our daughter whines.....again.....about something that ails her, there will be a remedy. My daughter comes to me the other night and says, "Dad, my tummy hurts." So? Get over it. Of course, this response was triggered by something that has happened in the past, say, 10 minutes ago, when she complained that her socks hurt her feet. Now, I didn't say a word when she told me this, other than, "I'm sorry."
What else is there to say? I am thinking of removing all of her secondary organs NOW so that she does not have to think that a random pain in her side is appendicitis. Kids Pepto would limit all of her GI issues, according to my wife. I,, on the other hand, have a different remedy for what ails her.
Complaint - "My butt hurts."
Remedy - Stop shitting your pants. Poop is acidic and eats the flesh of your anus. Use the toilet. Don't be so damn lazy.
Complaint - "My feet hurt"
Remedy - Then run really fast into the front door. That way, the pain in your head will distract you from the pseudo-pain in your feet.
Complaint - "I am hungry. I want a snack."
Remedy - Then eat your damn food when it is in front of you. It's called breakfast/lunch/dinner.
Complaint - "The puppy scratched me."
Remedy - It was a defense mechanism for you pulling on his ears. Don't do that.
Complaint - "My tummy hurts."
Remedy - I DON'T CARE!!!!!!!!!!!
Now, the last one is somewhat callous and cold, but understand, the other complaints have all happened just prior to the final tummy statement. I think I heard a boy cry wolf. Not sure. One thing I AM sure of. If the kids had Pepto Bismol, according to my wife, my daughter would become immortal.
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