I'm a Selfish Prick

The family and I took a stroll through downtown Chicago yesterday to snap a few photos of my boy’s Flat Stanely for his “what Flat Stanley and I did during Spring Break” homework project. As we’re walking around Millennium Park I notice a family with four kids come strolling by.

My normal response to seeing families with three or more children is to drop to my knees and give big props to the magnificent creature who thought-up the procedure to make a man’s testicles incapable of producing baby-batter ever again.

After completing this feat, I dusted off my knees and continued to watch in amazement to see how this family would deal with four young kids in a tourist-infested area. And what I saw was the wife, slowly, strategically backing away from the family and then disappearing into the crowd. It was absolutely magical.

I so badly wanted to call her out on it…but in a cool way—like offering her a beer to celebrate her efficiency. You know…while the wife and kids continue on and I promise to catch-up later.

The wife and I always wanted kids and knew we wanted them while we were still young so that when we got into our early 40s they would hopefully be moving on to college; or signing their multi-million dollar football deal; or marrying some incredibly rich dude who pays me to never work again so I can hang out, drink with him and make him laugh all day while my daughter makes us meals.

We were amazingly fortunate and able to crank out two little nippers pretty quick and thus the journey began.

I feel there are two majorities of people out there: those who LOVE children and were born to raise them, and those who love children, enjoy raising them, but subconsciously can’t freakin’ wait till they’re 18 years old.

It’s not really something you 100% know about yourself until you have a kid or two of your own. Then it hits you out of the blue and you realize which majority of people you fit into.

A couple months ago the wife and I were riding in the car, alone, when I reached over, grabbed her hand and said, “thank you for letting me pay that nice young doctor fellow to take a knife to my coin purse.”

“What are you talking about now?”

“I love our kids more than anything and you know that. But I can honestly say that I’m way too selfish to ever have more than two kids.”

I cringed because I’d just crossed that line of things you should never say out loud. We clearly already knew we were done after two, but we never revealed to each other why.

A reassuring smile of relief crept across her face as she held her hand up for a high-five and said, “me too!! Waaaayyy too selfish. I love my sleep, my blanket, and my quiet way too much. But I do love the kids…don’t get me wrong. I really really love them!”

“Oh yeah, no…that’s a given. We have stupid love for them…but still…can you imagine more of them?”

“NO…no…I can’t.”

We made love later that night. She made me wear a condom… “just in case.”

My Little Rat Bastards

We can’t have nice things and we all might as well be naked.

Anyone with kids knows this fact. Nothing is sacred anymore.

Peeing at the toilet—you might as well be peeing at half court during the NCAA tournament.

Furniture—globs of dried snot, food, and baby jesus knows what else all over it. Yeah, you want to come visit me now don’t you?

Car—it looks like a muddy soccer game took place while a Crayola factory exploded inside my Nissan.

Nothing’s off limits with these damn kids.

The daughter’s just a messy beast.

She’s broken long-standing records of being able to completely trash a room at mach speed. Sunday morning the wifey was busy defending herself from my quest for morning sex while we continued to hear the pitter-patter of the daughter’s feet back and forth between her room and downstairs.

When I finally surrendered and decided to go make coffee I walked down stairs only to find a massive doll house, two baby doll cribs, five Zhu Zhu pets and two dozen stuffed animals being read-to by my daughter, and what looked like the biggest cat-fight between a gaggle of Barbies strewn all over the couch. Oh, and she apparently had “breakfast cooking for us” on the toy stove, refrigerator, and sink that was set up in the middle of the room. All toys she gathered from her room and the basement into our living room.

The boy is a damn disgusting, snot-filled tornado.

When he has a cold he refuses to breathe through his mouth so all you hear snot being shuffled around in his nose as bubbles randomly escape. He loves to crawl on the floor of public places; go under tables at dinner; touch nasty, dirty things laying on the ground; and every one of his shirts and coats have crusted sleeves from constantly rubbing them along his nose.

And unfortunately he inherited the profound skill of being able to just flat-out break shit. When I was dating the wifey in high school, I broke lamps, chairs, tables, dishes and so much else at her mother’s house.

The finest example of my son’s skill I can provide are these three lovely trophies sampled from the boy’s trophy collection.

This baseball trophy used to sport one kick-ass bat that actually made t-ball look like the manliest sport ever invented.

I loved this bobble-head soccer trophy...it didn't even survive the car ride home before his head sprung out of joint making him look like Rain Man trophy.

This Pele-looking bad ass flying through the air to score the deciding game-winning goal lost his foot a while back. We have it in a baggy sitting next to the trophy in the boy's room.

But I wouldn’t have them any other way. Despite seeing the girl licking the window on the train heading into the city… Despite the boy picking up a lonely discarded M&M along the street and eating it… Despite the fact every time you tickle my daughter she sounds like a Whoopee cushion going off… Despite the fact my boy won’t let me see him naked, but every time I pee he’s right there staring… I wouldn’t change a damn thing about them.

They’re disgusting, dirty, hilarious and beautiful. They’re my rat bastard kids.

This Past Month I Did Some Shit

Wifey got back yesterday after 5 days of being by her family’s side to put her cousin to rest. The next day her phone lit-up with a jobby job offer that seemed too good to be true. Five days a week – 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. – the same time the kids are in school so no childcare required. At least not till summer time.

Her paycheck won’t be “extra money” by any stretch. But I still can’t help but think of how I’m going to use the money to get my half-sleeve tattoo finished, or to get the roof replaced, or to dangle in front of my kids’ faces only to quickly snap it away as they reach for it, or to….wait…what honey?!!….yes dear…. Ummm…or to pay bills.

This past month seems to have been about change. The wifey of course experiencing the largest. Me having my daily routine thrown off for a couple weeks – which as any Type-A person knows, is like having your security blanky burned right before your eyes. A change in my waist size from not being able to work out for many days. And, now a new routine with the wife going back to work. On the horizon – hopefully one more large change….

This past month I got a massive dose of stay-at-home mommy life…make that, single stay at home mommy life. We laughed, we all cried, at times I was tied up and beaten with various stuffed animals, occasionally I was proud, yesterday I repeated myself 379 times, on Monday my daughter took a massive poop while the boy tried to wait patiently cause he had to pee, Sunday we bought a cap gun and a Lil Pet Shop birdie, Tuesday I scooped 4 days worth of cat shit, Friday my son said “daddy….you’re a weird man.”

This past month I truly loved spending the time I did with the little bastards and enjoyed experiencing the parts of their days that I miss when I’m at work. But I was glad to get back to my somewhat normal day-to-day life. With enough time, alcohol, and therapy…I’ll forget how challenging it is and look forward to doing it again.

This past month was the first full month of my blog and I gotta say I’m kind of digging it. Who the fuck knows where it’ll go…but it’s definitely providing me with a killer outlet for my ramblings…..

Death, Lesson, Inspiration, Timing…..Livestrong

Anyone who read my earlier post about putting a sex magazines and blow-up dolls under my pillow could have seen it coming, right? Either I post a follow-up about how I can’t even walk to the train anymore cause I’m so freakin’ over-sexed….or….I write about death – the death of an innocent,  young, frugal, vigilant, Democratic, healthcare reform advocate, fish. A young, brilliant-colored little guy named – Swimmy.

Quick flashback for those too lazy to read older posts. Friend tells story of how her son puts shark tooth under pillow, wakes up to can of tuna. My wife tries to one-up her. Son puts shark tooth under pillow wakes up to fish in fish bowl. Daughter disappointed she didn’t do the same so puts shark tooth under her pillow that night. Wakes up to fish next morning.

There…so, we get back from a relaxing, long day at a folk music festival – friends are about to come over – wife walks up to me and says,

“Swimmy is dead.”

I say, “fuckin’ who?”

“Swimmy”

“You wanna have sex now when friends are about to come over?”

“Jackass!!! – Your daughter’s fish – Swimmy – is fucking dead!!”

Me – “oh…..shit….that sucks….”

Swimmy was a good kid. I mean – he really did nothing but make my daughter happy every morning when she thought about feeding him – and every night when she wanted to use him as fuel to delay the inevitable.

The dilemma – should I tell her now when friends are walking in and involve them in the drama. OR – wait till we’ve had too much to drink, are ready for bed, and risk her seeing the fish and have her spend the remaining hours of the night crying? We decided to tell her now - “your fish died, sister.”

She took it hard. She cried. She cried hard. And even my son cried hard. Just earlier that day I explained to him why his mom was crying – “her cousin, Brett, who she grew up with has cancer and was told by doctors there’s nothing they can do.” Death took on a whole new meaning for my son today……

It’s kind bizarre and sadistically funny how shit seems to work out in your day-to-day life. One day you’re blogging about the stupidity of bringing in fish that will inevitably die and cause drama to your life. The next day you’re putting the pieces together about how that seemingly thoughtless act turned into a life lesson for the three greatest people in your life…and yourself.

I’m posting the picture of my kids by Swimmy’s grave not as a joke…..but as fuel to spark memories in my readers of their first loss…their first pet…their first family member…their first death.

My wife’s cousin, Brett, is a fighter. Fuck that – he’s the damn Man! He’ll win this fucking battle against cancer, because the love behind his fight is undying, relentless, passionate, and one of the most moving experiences I’ve ever witnessed.

Livestrong Brett!

I Have to Pee Standing Up, Again?!

All my life I had been peeing standing up.

As a wee lad I'd wake early, stumble to the potty with my tiny morning wood and Underoos and pee all over the toilet. In high school I'd pee standing up in the ratty men's room while getting as close as I could to the urinal so no one could check out my junk. In college I'd pee standing up....well pretty much anywhere, stupidly grinning and pointing at my junk.

Then our boy was born. The bathroom was right next to his bedroom and every time I'd pee standing up the noise would wake him up. Awake baby + nighttime = suicide material. So I started peeing sitting down. And you know what? It's fucking nice!

I mean – the only time I do it is in the middle of the night and the only reason is because it’s like I’m peeing and sleeping at the same time. I can just lean my oversized watermelon head on my fist and trot-off right back to La La Land.

But recently, I’ve fallen victim to the woes you women-folk have to deal with. Remember when I created the mind-numbing image of me as a boy with a tiny morning boner peeing all over the toilet….yeah – I have a 6-year-old who’s currently enjoying that sprinkler action. So in the middle of the night when I settle in for a relaxing unmanly sleep/pee – I sit in his piss.

So now…I’m forced to give-up a secret enjoyment of life. And that’s not cool. I’m pissed about it (that pun was not intentional).

I will forever hold it against that kid and look forward to the pay back – me, 90 years old, laying on my back as he changes my wet adult diaper.