This Ain't No Griswold's Vacation

I ‘m over at my other gig today… the kick-ass website Dad Revolution where I blog along side a great group of dads every few weeks.

Today I’m writing about how after starting a new job I’m unable to do a family vacation – Griswold-style - because I haven't earned enough vacation hours yet. Instead, we’re pulling together bits and pieces of weekends to create a memorable summer of mini-vacations we hope the kids will always remember.

So check out my latest post on Dad Revolution: This Ain't No Griswold's Vacation.

Volkswagen Made My Daughter Mike Tyson

“Blue One”

“Red One”

That’s the kind of crap I’ve been hearing bellowing from my daughter’s mouth just seconds before she unleashes her tiny, knuckle-clad fist towards my old-man arms, legs, calf, back, or whatever is closest to her fury.

And it always happens when I’m in the middle of something and absolutely oblivious to what’s about to go down.

So the first time it happened I was cooking in the kitchen. Next thing I know I hear, “red one!” and WHAM!!! I feel something akin to a shot in the side of my upper hamstring.

“Ooooh…Macy…what are you doing?!!” I yell.

“Blue one!” she yelled as she slammed her right fist into my hip.

That’s when I realized she was reenacting the Volkswagen commercials! In my kitchen!!

Our kitchen only has two windows, neither of which over-look any street that might carry anything that could possibly even resemble a motor-vehicle. She was totally ripping off marketing genius to kick the ever living hell out of me.

My first reaction? Scream, “green one” and drop her to her knees.

But then, I remembered she’s my daughter…not my brother.

How could I get mad at her? She was victim to a catchy commercial that promotes pounding on someone because you saw a car drive by.

That’s like getting mad a Corona for its commercials showing the wife spraying lime juice in her husband’s eyes for watching a group of sexy ladies in bikinis walk by as he vacations.

I could never get mad at such a delicious frosty beverage. (Pppppssssttt…Corona….step over here…email me at whyisdaddycrying(at)gmail(dot)com to advertise yo!!).

Maybe I should be upset at myself for letting her watch a volume of TV that would result in her memorizing certain commercials. Or for forgetting to put my clothes in the drier last night so that could wear that sexy Hawaiian shirt with the hula girl on the front that I just know everyone loves to see me in.

Regardless…my precious angel was just doing what kids do – act as a sponge, soaking up every bit of information surrounding her, most of which without even realizing it.

Understanding that I kindly patted her on her head, bent down to her eye-level and said, “Macy…I love you baby. I understand you saw that on TV and are just repeating it. But it’s not OK to hit, OK baby?”

“OK daddy.”

Proud of myself I stood back up and watched her walk away. I’d knocked another killer parenting moment right out of the…

“Brown one!” and the feeling of a mini hammer coming down on my left quadricep almost dropped me to my knees as I noticed my son standing beside me.

Family Discussion: A Furry Little Shit

I came home yesterday to all hell breaking loose at the house.

Son: “But mommy I really really want one!”

Wife: “I know you do Grayson. We will probably get you one, so relax.”

Daughter: “Well if Grayson gets an animal I want a cat and I’ll keep it in my room and it’ll be all mine.”

Wife: “You can’t keep a cat in your little room all the time Macy.”

Daughter: “But MOOOMMMYYYY, Grayson gets to keep a hamster in his room, why can’t I keep a cat in mine?”

That’s when it all clicked in my head what was happening.

Me: “Whoa whoa whoa!! No one’s getting any animals. We have a cat and that’s plenty!!”

And then the water works started, followed by high pitched whining flavored with hardcore disappointment.

My son’s best buddy at school has a hamster. So naturally my son HAS to have one. And somehow, when I was away from the house for more than five minutes yesterday, my wife’s ability to slam any thoughts that another furry beast might enter this home permanently became weak. Our kids were breaking her quickly.

Me: “Grayson, what is it you want to get?”

Son: “Oh…daddy, it’s a teddy bear hamster. It’s really furry and really cute and it has long fuzzy hair all over it and I want it so badly daddy. I will take such good care of it and will name it Ted.”

Daughter: “And if Grayson gets a hamster mommy said I could buy two new Zhu Zhu pets!”

This is the point where I look at the wife with a “what in the holy hell are you thinking woman” look on my face.

Wife: “Don’t look at me like that. I pretty much promised Grayson he could have one.”

Me: “But we already have cat shit to clean up. We have a fish in the boy’s room that refuses to die. And now we’re gonna have a small animal that needs it’s wood shred thingies changed, food, water and the boy’s gonna let it get lose at least once and the cat will try to eat it and I’m already freakin’ exhausted….”

Wife: “Pipe-down childhood ruiner and quit over exaggerating. I had two as a kid and loved it. Let the boy have this.”

Me: “Whatever… I’m gonna need you to sign this document nullifying any and all involvement I might have in handling, touching, cleaning, observing, chasing, smelling, acknowledging, petting, and  any other word ending in “ing” that might involve Bob crossing paths with my daily life.”

Wife: “His name’s Ted idiot-boy. Get it right.”