A Week of Halloween Hell

It started last Wednesday when my wife brought home the costumes.

“Look Daddy! I’ma Mario, I’ma gonna win!”

“Daddy, It’s a me, Luigi!”

“Dum dum dum da-dum da-dum, da-da da-da da-da dum da-dum da-dum! Did you hear Daddy!?! The Mario theme! Daddy, Daddy, did you here!?! DUM DUM DUM…”

“Look Daddy, a Koopa. I’ll jump on it!”

“OW! Daddy! He called me a Koopa and jumped on me!”

Thursday we hid the costumes.

Friday we went out and got decorations and pumpkins and apple cider and we told the kids that we were going to carve pumpkins and decorate on Saturday and the kids cried and fussed and asked why we couldn’t do it “NOW!” and they wanted to decorate “NOW!”.

Saturday I went and got a bottle of good dark rum to spike my apple cider with.

Sunday we broke out the costumes so we could head to the local renaissance fair for their Halloween weekend festivities, which was sort of like a drug free, candy filled Dead show if the show was held in a village deep within the boundaries of the Nerdling Realm.

Monday was more costume mayhem, but this time fueled with candy acquired from the ren fair.

Yesterday was pretty quiet.

That brings us to today, All Hallows Eve.

The morning started with confusion regarding the rules about my oldest wearing that fucking Mario costume to school, but we managed a compromise that made sure no one was happy and sent him off.

Since waking up my middle child has asked me once every five minutes if it’s trick-or-treat time yet.

And the baby has a case of the poops that has caused him to scream as if he’s been passing razor blades all morning.

I’m not sure what the future holds for the rest of this day but I’m guessing it will include more tears, poop and possibly some vomit.

Happy Halloween.

 

Censoring My Children’s Media (and how I suck at it)

 

Yesterday I was cleaning while I had a little pop-punk playing in the background on one of the free internet radio sites when I realized my kids were dancing around me to the song “Fuck Armageddon… This is Hell” by Bad Religion. Noticing this I stopped cleaning to see what other songs the kids may have heard while I wasn’t paying attention. There was some stuff from NOFX,  Propagandhi and some other bands that, well, if you’re not familiar the genre lets just say that there’s no lack of profanity in the lyrics. I mean, it’s no hardcore gangsta rap or anything, but still, there’s plenty of words in there that I don’t want my three-year old using while we’re shopping.

“Wait,” I  then thought. “Is the only reason I try to censor profanity in our home is because I don’t want others to judge me?”

And the answer is yes, it’s pretty much the only reason.

I honestly have no problems with profanity. Actually I think it’s often the most straightforward way of voicing your opinion about certain situations. I mean, what can be more succinct than a calmly stated “fuck that”? And because of this I have a difficult time disciplining my children for using profanity at home, especially when they use it correctly or it makes me laugh. But I still try to censor it.

Then I realized the only reason I have a problem with sexual content on TV and movies is because I’m scared to explain sex to my kids. I don’t want them watching that filth because I don’t want to explain a blowjob joke to a seven-year old. The idea of that just plain terrifies me.

Really the only thing I censor for the good of the children is violence.

And I obviously do an awful job at that considering how hard my oldest laughs while beating hookers to death while playing Grand Theft Auto

 

 

 

 

Confessions of a Horrible Husband and a Public Apology to My Poor Neglected Wife

Today is my wife’s birthday. I completely forgot about it until Facebook reminded me. Not once during our morning together did I remember to utter the words “happy birthday”. There was no singing. No fanfare. Nothing birthday related. Just the usual morning routine.

So, to my wife I say:

I’m sorry.

I’m a terrible, awful, thoughtless husband.

You are awesome and I suck.

You are smart and I am dumb…

Ect..

You turn this age, which I will not reveal, only once and it deserves some sort of acknowledgement in a prompt manner, which I failed miserably at producing this morning.

I would probably be lying if I say that this situation will never arise again during our lives together, but I can promise you it will be a long, long time before I’ll have to make amends for this particular mistake.

Or at least I won’t forget next year.

Probably.

So once again I am very sorry.

Happy Birthday!

(and this apology is good for one free foot massage)

I Think It Might Be My Fault

I’ve thought about it a lot recently and I’m starting to think that all of the problems I have with my three year old are on my end.

See, I keep trying to apply logic to the situations that arise.  If you try to use logic with a three year old it just causes confusion and frustration on all sides.

A three year old doesn’t understand logic. Their brains just don’t work like that.

What I need to do is get down to his level so I can understand what he’s going through. I need to understand how he feels. How he thinks. How he sees the world around him.

So if anyone knows where to get some PCP or “bath salts” let me know.

Children vs. Bootcamp

I’ve never been in the military. It’s not as if I have a problem with it, both my grandfathers fought in WWII and my father spent Vietnam in Panama sampling the more interesting flora and fauna, but when I hit eighteen we were at relative peace with the rest of the world, the military was cutting back and I honestly had no interest in being physically and mentally tormented for a prolonged period of time in boot camp  just so I could be all that I could be.

Now that I’m a stay-at-home father of three I believe not only that I am prepared for the mental  rigors of boot camp but believe it would be a sweet release. (The physical stuff would destroy me right now. After over a year of staying home with the kids all the muscles that I developed over years of physical labor have all but disappeared and I now get winded tying my shoes.)

I’ll admit that most of what I know of boot camp comes from second-hand accounts and the movies, but it seems, on the most basic level, that boot camp consists of spending your days trying to accomplish goals while people, whom you’re not allowed to physically assault, scream at you at the top of their lungs, all while you’re suffering from extreme sleep deprivation and physical exhaustion.

Seems a lot like my life.

Then there’s the tearing you down to build you back up aspect of boot camp that I hear about. This is where the Drill Sargeant makes you feel as if everything you do is wrong to break your spirit just so you can be rebuilt into what they want you to be.

Once again, seems a lot like my life…

Three year old Drill Sargeant Demon Spawn: “PRIVATE DADGITATED! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!?”

Me: “A PBJ, Sir!”

DSDS: “DID I ASK FOR A PBJ PRIVATE?!?”

Me: “Yes Drill Sargeant!”

DSDS: “NO I DID NOT! I ASKED FOR A CHEESE STICK!”

Me: “But Drill Sar…”

DSDS: “ARE YOU QUESTIONING ME PRIVATE?!?”

Me: “No Drill Sargeant!”

DSDS: “NOW GET ME MY GOD DAMNED CHEESE STICK!”

Me: “Yes Drill Sargeant!”

DSDS: “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING PRIVATE?!?”

Me: “Getting you a cheese stick Drill Sa…”

DSDS: “CHEESE STICK?!? CHEESE STICK?!?!?!? ARE YOU TRYING TO POISON ME PRIVATE?!? I DO NOT LIKE CHEESE STICKS, I NEVER HAVE LIKED CHEESE STICKS AND THE FACT THAT YOU WOULD EVEN CONSIDER THAT I WOULD EAT A CHEESE STICK MAKES IT CLEAR TO ME THAT YOU ARE DUMBER THAN THE DOG SHIT STUCK TO THE BOTTOM OF MY BOOT AND NOWHERE NEAR AS PRETTY! NOW WHERE IS MY PBJ?!?”

I’m still waiting to be built back up.

Oh, and boot camp is only twelve weeks long. I’ve been home with the kids now for over a year and there’s no break in my foreseeable future.

On the plus side, when the mental torment does end, I probably won’t be getting shot at on a daily basis, so there is that…

 

 

 

To My Dearest Wife – Happy Eighth Anniversary

My dearest Wife,

I have searched far and wide, and across multiple supermarket card isles for anything that could fully expressed my love for you, on this, our eighth anniversary. Alas, Bi-Lo, Harris Teeter and the super Walmart has let us both down, so instead I am writing  this letter to share with you,  and many strangers on the internet, how deep my love for you flows.

And oh how it flows. Like a mighty river coming down a mountain my love flows for you, rushing over boulders and cascading down cliffs into deep plunge pools where large trout likely live waiting for a well presented streamer,and those plunge pools in turn flows into some nice pocket water that may be kind of hard to navigate but if you’re careful you should be able to fish it down to where the gradient evens out a bit creating a good calf-deep riffle that tails-out into a glassy pool that seems like a great place to find a thick hatch of some kind but it’s often kind of hard to tell with these things when you don’t know how fertile the river is, of course this is my dream river so it can be as fertile as I want it to be…

I’m sorry Sweetie, the river analogy just won’t work, it’s way too distracting for me. So scratch the whole “my love flows deep thing”.

I’m going to start over now…

With a late ninety’s catch phrase popularized by a crazy scientologist.

You complete me. Cliche but true. Without you I would probably be a complete mess, spending my nights in a haze of booze, weed and sex, spending my days bumming around America’s streams and rivers, working odd jobs just long enough to make enough money to get to the next fishable piece of water. I would be constantly drunk on the freedom of the open road…

Wow, this is not going well.

Um…

I couldn’t have asked for a better partner in life.

You are possibly the only woman alive who can put up with my particular brand of bullshit.

You are beautiful, smart, kind, a wonderful mother to our children and you like my cooking.

In twenty years when the children are finely out of our house I can’t imagine that we’ll ever have that bleak moment where we look at each other across the table and realize that we have nothing left to talk about, because there will always be television, comic books and science. And jokes about tyrannosaurus rex having short arms.

You are truly my best friend and I would be completely lost without you.

And if something did happen to you, rest assure I would never remarry, because my first move would be to pack up the kids and move to Alaska, where there are no available women. Plus I would be too heart broken after loosing the love of my life.

Happy eighth anniversary, I love you more than you could possibly know.