Stopping The Time Continuum

My son is slowly killing me!

It’s true. And he’s doing it with one simple little phrase “hold on, one sec!”

With that one little phrase the boy truly feels the time continuum comes to screeching halt.

Parents slow to a grind. Soccer games, swimming lessons, school, homework…everything that he should be helping to arrive to on-time is slammed with a huge “pause” button and shelved for kick-ass things like shuffling through eight-foot-high stacks of Pokemon cards, SpongeBob, and burying his sister in pillows.

Of course if I were being truthfully honest I’d take a portion of the blame. After all, I am the dumb-ass that waited until it was time to go before I ask the boy to stop what he’s doing, stand, put on a coat, and walk out of the large rectangular door.

No, I clearly must secretly enjoy the pain and still go by adult time rather than children time.

Instead I say, “OK, grab your shoes and coat and let’s go!”

Son: “Hold on, one sec daddy.”

He then immediately throws on the jittery, jerky, fast-moving motions like he’s going as fast as he can to finish what he’s doing so he can leave as per my request.

His eyes are darting all over the room like he’s trying to locate his shoes and coat, but in reality in his tiny little brain he’s thinking, “OK, if I stand here long enough looking like I might implode he’ll leave to go get my shoes for me giving me enough time to finish watching SpongeBob while I give the dog Macy’s favorite dolly to chew on while we’re gone!”

Me: “Grayson, seriously…you’re shoes are right next to you. Put them on your feet and let’s go!”

Grayson: “OK daddy…one sec!”

This is when he quickly runs up the stairs.

Me: “Oh my god!!! Where in the world are you going son?!!”

He then throws on the fake urgent mumbled voice knowing damn good and well I can’t hear a word he’s saying and that I’ll be way too lazy to go up the stairs after him.

Me: “Dude!!!!! I’m going to carry you out the door in one second!!”

He then comes running down the stairs with absolutely nothing in his hands, blows by me, and heads to the table to start shuffling through his Pokemon cards.

Which makes sense because in his mind time has literally stopped. The bitching and stomping his old man is doing is not really happening. The clock hasn’t moved one second.

He dropped the “hold on, one sec” so he’s got all the time in the world.

Meanwhile the blood has rushed to my head leaving my fingers numb, a gray hair pops to the surface of my massive head, and my heart is pounding out of my chest as I try like hell to keep my cool.

This is the point in which I shock the hell out of him by breaking his little time stopping trick, grab him by the back of his shirt and physically move him towards his shoes and the door.

Which is always met with, “OK DADDY!!! I was just about to get my shoes….geeeze!!!”

And now, I’m an asshole, the worst father ever, and in his mind, the poster-child for lack of patience.

Tomorrow I think I’ll wake him up at 5 a.m. to start getting him ready for the 8 a.m. start-of-school bell.

Think he’ll learn his lesson then?

Yeah, me either.



The Teaching Of The 5-Second Rule

It’s one of the top 5 most epic rules of all time. And, I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to teach it to my boy.

I spent the first 6 years of my fatherhood watching the kids crumble into tears and tantrums after fumbling a delicious goodie from their hands.

“Quick! Pick it up, pick the dirt off and eat it!”

“NNNNNOOOOOOO!!!!!!” was always the tearful response. And there it laid.

To make it worse, my obsessive cleaning of my hands in their classrooms as a volunteer has taught them that the outside world is nothing but a smoking germ factory. This only fueled their desire to consider their popsicle kaput.

We tried it all, “What? Dirt on it? Awesome!!!! Eat it quick, that stuff’s like a magical crispy awesomeness or something!!!”

“You’re not gonna eat that?” Then I’d reach down, snatch the popsicle up and cram it down my throat to show it was OK. I only did that once. It was like throwing gasoline on a match next to a paper factory.

Then, a few weeks ago, a light bulb went off. I remembered that I have the short-lived “my daddy knows everything and walks on water” powers.

So, in my most confident, happenstance voice I said to my son, “dude, you don’t know about the coveted 5-second rule?”

“The what?”

“Son!!!? Seriously? After all this time? Oh my…oh my.”

“Daddy, what!!?! Tell me!! What about the five…ummm”

“The 5-second rule Grayson!! It’s vitally important. Are you sure you’re ready? Are you sure you can handle this?”

“Daddy tell me!!! Please!”

“OK my son. If you should happen to accidentally drop a piece of food on the ground for a length of less than 5 seconds that doesn’t touch pee, poop, dead animals, your sister, or anything else that may cause death, you can simply blow it off, and eat it. That is all.”

“What do you mean that is all?”

“I mean, that is all. Drop an ice cream cone, quickly grab it, blow it off and keep chowing.”

“Really? That’s a rule?”

“I won’t lie, it’s saved me from being hungry many a-time. But keep in mind! It doesn’t work for gum, candy, etc… that’s been laying around for days. It has to have fallen within the 5-second time period.”

Immediately the boy dropped his pretzel stick on the ground and looked up at me.

I started counting, “One-one thousand, two-one thousand…”

The boy quickly snatched the pretzel stick back up, blew on it, then looked up at me again. I smiled at him and waited.

He took a bite, slowly chewing it to make sure it didn’t explode his jaw or cause him to clutch his chest and fall to the ground riddled with impending death. Then a huge smile came across his face and he mumbled, “so awesome.”

My job here is done.

F-You Daddy!

The wifey and I have had a long-time agreement that when it comes to things like making the kids’ lunches for school, putting them to bed, giving them baths, cleaning their puke off the ceilings, etc…we take turns. And it’s a beautiful thing, this agreement is. Only catch is, the boy loves to have me lay in bed with him and talk once the lights are turned out. So, while I never get a night off, the flip side is that I’ve built an incredible level of trust with him.

In fact, I’ve kind of become his shrink. He lays there, bares his soul, then looks to me for advice. And while I may or may not be the most top-notch guy on the planet to ask for advice from, I feel I still do a stand-up job.

Here are just a few of the conversations to date. (Please note names of the boy’s friends have been changed to those of famous people as not to identify anyone):

The Naked Lady

Boy: “Daddy…R. Kelly has a picture of a naked woman in his room.”

Me: “A naked woman? Really? Did you see it? Does she look good?”

Boy: “Yes I saw it.”

Me: “Well where does he keep it?”

Boy: “Behind a poster.”

Me: “Wow…well Grayson, you and R. Kelly are a bit too young to be looking at pictures like that and looking at women in that way.”

Boy: “I know daddy.”

Me: “If that happens again I want you to bring the picture to daddy immediately, OK?”

Boy: “I will daddy.”

She’s Mine…No She’s Mine!

Boy: “Daddy…Matt Damon and Ben Affleck fight every day on the playground over Fergie and I really don’t like it. They’re both in love with her.”

Me: “What do you mean ‘fight?’ Like throwing fists and hitting each other and stuff?”

Boy: “They grab each other and try to throw each other to the ground. Whoever hits the ground first loses.”

Me: “And then what, the winner scoops Fergie up and carries her off into the sunset?”

Boy: “No…the winner is Fergie’s boyfriend.”

Me: “Does Fergie know this?”

Boy: “No. But they fight all the time and are always telling her they love her and she keeps saying she doesn’t love either of them.”

Me: “Do you like Fergie?”

Boy: “Yes.”

Me: “Here’s what you do. Never tell her you love her because you don’t, you’re too young to even be talking about love. Treat her like you would any other of your friends. Go play with her, get to know her, and let her get to know you.”

Three Days Later…

Me: “So are Matt Damon and Ben Affleck still fighting over Fergie?

Boy: “Yes, but daddy…I ignore it and have been playing with Fergie and her friends for the past couple of days. And we’re friends and have made up a bunch of games together.”

Me: “Atta dude…”…and a manly man tear slides down my cheek.

F-You Daddy!!

Boy: “Daddy…I know how to stick up my middle finger.”

Me: “You what?!”

Boy: “Gary Busey taught me how to stick up my middle finger—see!”

Me: “Whoa…dude. Put that thing away. Do you know what that means?”

Boy: “No, but it’s such a huge finger and everyone laughs when I do it.”

Me: “You know the ‘f-word’ that you’ve talked about hearing before?”

Boy: “Yeah. Oh, daddy? That word is written on the table next to my keyboard in computer class.”

Me: “Wow…well, anyway, sticking your middle finger up is like saying the ‘f-word’ to someone. It’s not good Grayson. Don’t ever, EVER do that again. The school will send you home and mommy will cry.”

Boy: “She doesn’t cry when you do it.”

Me: “That’s different. When I do it to mommy it means ‘I love you.’”

Two seconds later the boy flipped me off and said “I love you daddy!” All I could do was give him a hug and say, “Grayson, don’t ever stick your middle finger up at me or anyone else again. And, I promise I won’t either… whenever you’re watching me.”