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.”

Straddling the Line

It’s been just over a week since I lost my job.

I’ve woken up in the morning, helped get the kids ready for school and out the door. I’ve written blog posts. I’ve cranked-up my obsession with working out to a level to where I’m sure I’ll get injured soon.

I’ve been pissed as shit. I’ve been depressed. I’ve spent my time feeling helpless, letting distractions rule me, and occasionally fed-off bursts of incredible support and energy.

Yeah…right now, I feel like a victim and I’m not scared to say that. But it’s been nine days…and now I straddle that line.

On one side I can continue to slip…turn a blind-eye, wake up months from now with still nothing.

On the other, I can move on, flip my chin to what’s left behind, all while leaving small motivational bits and stories in my wake.

The way my son looks at me after everything he does makes me feel like a rock star. The way my daughter snuggles closer to me in the mornings when I crawl into bed with her to wake her makes my heart break. My family is my motivation. But pride, as a man, is my downfall. And my pride’s just been buried six-feet down and a tombstone reading “you were fired” has been slapped down forever marking my time on this orbiting rock.

But I won’t dwell. I won’t be gotten the best of.

I’ll never forget laying in bed with my wife in college, then after we first moved in, then after we had kids….and a million other times where I’ve said…. “I’m gonna make $1 million before I turn 30.” I’m 34 now.

But with time comes lessons, some learned harder than others. Risks – bring on a whole new meaning. Love – we could all write books about love. Family – it’s what defines you, and later, you find the pen in your hand with a wife and children eagerly looking at you to begin writing their chapters. Jobs – they’re the essential component in the glue holding everything together but it DOES NOT make you the person you are.

The loss of my job does not define me. It’s humbled me. It’s made stop dead. It’s made the musical soundtrack of my life adjust yet one more time. It’s made my vision of life, family, love, profession….change…..again.

When I was a kid I told myself I’d never be like my father. When I was 10, I told my brother the same. When I was a teenager, I told my future wife the same tale. When I was in college I wrote endlessly about it. When my first born entered our lives I journaled this continued promise vowing this transformation would never happen.

My current situation has me closer to being my father than I could have ever imagined I’d experience.

So I’m putting the gloves back on. The mouthpiece is back in. And I just glanced over my shoulder to see if my family showed up for their front row seats. And I can see them all lined up, leaning forward, looking at each other for reassurance, but throwing fake confidence my way. And I’m loving it…cause I’m about to cross back the fuck over and move on..far….far away from that dividing line…and fulfill a promise made long ago….to more than provide…but BE someone.

Steve Irwin Took Over My Body

So every day I commute into the city on the train. It’s about a 20 min. ride with about 6 stops along the way. But shhhh…don’t tell wifey, she thinks it’s an hour train ride with 18 stops along the way and that I have to walk up-hill both ways to get to and from the iron beast.

I love the train...I get to listen to music, read, catch-up on work, go through emails, and stare randomly at strangers…a hobby of mine I’ve perfected.

Yesterday I hopped on a late train and was beat. Just before it takes off, I got in the simultaneous double-wammy of shit situations. I’m 6’3” so I take up some room in the seat. Along comes Mr. 6’1” overweight dude who feels like squeezing in next to me. At the exact same time comes this mousey-looking lady who slides in right in front of me with her just purchased, fresh out of the oven, roast beef sandwich loaded the fuck down with onions.

Once my urge snap her neck, bust out a window and throw Big Boy on to the tracks subsided, I kicked into observation mode. The mousey lady plowed through a sandwich like I’ve never seen anyone do. Meanwhile, with her other hand, she’s doing shit in Excel on her laptop that makes The Matrix look like ColecoVision. All of a sudden I see her snap her head to the right and look at a dude across the isle.

I quickly pause my iPod to get the low-down on what’s getting her panties all in a wad and I hear it ….a loud pop… Her head immediately snaps back at him with another “die you son-of-a-bitch chewing gum popper” look. This onion-eating, whole sandwich swallower, Excel goddess hates gum-poppers. I thought that was the oddest fucking thing. And this dude couldn’t give two shits. He had his headphones on and was playing some game on his cell phone and suckin’ on a tallboy Bud Light.

I felt like the Crocodile Hunter reborn. I wanted to take my umbrella like a mic. and have Big Boy take the camera as I crouch behind the seat in the isle and start filming me as I said (*in an awfully shitty Australian accent):

Krikey!! We have an incredible stage being set for what will play out as blood-bath of amazing proportions. Mother Nature’s fury will be unleashed on this suburban commuter train. Just over this seat I’m crouched behind is a healthy Type-A, male-hating, accountant known as Psycho Scary Midget Bitch. Her natural predator is just on the other side of this seat…a scumbag shoe salesman who purposefully leaves his zipper down on sales calls, is known on Twitter as @sexyramone, and has masturbated twice a day since he was 12—the Annoying Sloth Bastard. His mating call is the popping of gum, which agitates the Psycho Scary Midget Bitch. In a mere seconds…he’s going to give what will sure to be his last mating call as the Psycho Scary Midget Bitch is going to spring from her habitat, slice him from groin to chin before he……..

Just then my train stopped and I had to get off. I was dying to know how it ended….just as much as I was dying to escape the horror of onions, gum popping, sneezing, Big Boy, cell phone screamers, and a shit-ton of other nightmares loading that train down. But I can tell you one thing.... she sure as shit knew Excel.