The Party

Later today the baby, Demon Spawn and I are expected to attend a party at my oldest son’s school.

I am completely terrified by this.

The baby should be fine, but Demon Spawn, well, I just don’t know how he’ll be. Sometimes he’s shy and quiet in a crowd which leads people to believe I’m a terrible parent because I’m watching this obviously sweet and most gentle of children as if he was a rabid dog. And sometimes in a crowd he acts as if I once, in fit of grief, buried him in the old pet cemetery, which leads people to believe that I’m a terrible parent because I can’t control my obviously evil, rabid dog of a child as he goes through the crowd cutting people’s achilles tendon with a straight razor.

And then there’s my sons teacher who I’m scared of, because I’ve only spoken to her once over the phone. While drunk. At a bar. At 11:30 in the morning. (I have an excuse for this, but…)

Anyway, I think I’m heading into a no-win situation.

Wish me luck.

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The Diet

I made a huge mistake over the Thanksgiving holiday: I stepped on a scale.

Now, as everyone should know, this is the wrong time of year to weigh yourself, but the scale was there in the bathroom and I decided to give it a spin. And it kept spinning, and spinning, and settled on the highest number I’ve ever seen on a scale that I’ve been standing on. I should have known it wouldn’t be good because I had to lean forward to peer over my gut to see the number. I mean, I’m a stocky guy so I’m used to higher than average numbers on a scale but this, this took my “just a big dude” status and took it into the realm of washing myself with a rag on a stick.

Under normal circumstances I would have accepted that it’s holiday weight and I should just wait until after Christmas and its cookies, candies, cakes and all the rest of the tasty hard to resist food that comes with it, but I have a fishing trip planed for the Keys in April and all the fishing will be done out of my kayak; which I now weigh more than its maximum weight capacity.

Seriously. I’m now too fat for my boat…

So I’m now on a diet.

Veggies.

Meat.

Very few to no carbs.

No rice, gravy or fried foods.

No sweets.

No caffeine.

No beer.

No fun…

This better be the best fishing trip of my life.

The Talk

OK, I can answer this.

“That? That is tampon.”

Maybe that’ll be…

Oh dear God NO!

“Well, um… You know how a baby is made?”

Please let him remember. I don’t want to have that talk too. Please let him remember.

Oh good.

“So, the momma makes the egg in the ovary… No, not like a chicken egg.”

Is this kid fucking with me?

“You were joking. Do you want to know or what?”

Say no. Say no and walk away. Please just walk away.

Damn it!

“Alright then, um, the egg goes from the ovary, down the fallopian tube, to the uterus, where the baby grows if the egg gets fertilized.”

Wait, I think I got this. It’s just biology. I know biology.

“If the egg doesn’t get fertilized by a certain time the egg and the… uterine… wall?”

Oh shit, I don’t have this, I have no idea how this part happens.

“Um, anyway it, uh… The egg comes out in a bloody mess and the tampon is like an insertable band-aid that keeps women from bleeding in their pants.”

Oh sweet baby Jesus, did I just say that? What the hell?

Oh no, what is… Oh, I, I think am actually watching what it looks like when a mental scar forms.

“Why don’t you go watch TV buddy. I’ll make you some hot chocolate”

The Joy of Denying

My three year-old, Demon Spawn, has a very peculiar eating habit: he will only eat food from other people’s plates.

I don’t know why he does this. Maybe it tastes better. Maybe he thinks that other people have different, better food that just looks and smells exactly like the food on his plate. Maybe he thinks we’re trying to poison him.

I think he only eats other people’s food because he takes the most profound delight in the act of denying others of things they enjoy.

And it’s not just the food of others; toys, TV shows, peace, quiet, calm, happiness, he wants to deny all these things to people.

His brother picks up a toy, that’s the toy he wanted to play with.

If Demon Spawn wants to watch a show and his big brother says “Yes, I would also like to watch that show”, Demon Spawn freaks the fuck out and demands a different show.

If I want to do anything, anything at all that I might enjoy, well…

I’m pretty sure the child is pure evil.

 

 

The Experiment

So while spending Thanksgiving day at a good friends house my blog, this very one that you are currently reading, became a topic of discussion.

“Yeah man, I’ve turned like five different people onto your blog,” said Kevin, our gracious Thanksgiving day host.

“Sweet. Thank’s dude.”

“Yeah, no problem, but you should post more often,” Kevin suggested.

“Well,” I began to explain.

“Yeah, you really should,” chimed in my wife.

“But I can only…”

“Definitely more often.”

“Yeah, why don’t you post more. Post more. Post More! POST MORE! POST MORE!”

That’s when everyone in the house started chanting and I began to blubber in a corner while trying to explain why my post were infrequent.

Alright, that last part with the chanting and blubbering didn’t happen, but I did try to explain that when your day consist of almost the exact same thing day in and day out, that coming up with new things to write about your life with your horrible children is, well, really hard. And I am really lazy.

But, as a big ol’ “SEE! I FUCKING TOLD Y’ALL!” to Kevin and my wife, I will post everyday from now until the time my posts become nothing but stream of consciousness descriptions of the sounds the colors are making as my insanity carves them into the interior walls of my skull. That or until I get bored with the experiment.

Either way I’m giving it maybe a week.

Enjoy.

Things or Stuff

The baby doesn’t want me to do either of the above.

I’m not allowed, as far as the baby is concerned, to do anything involving anything.

Well, that’s not exactly true. I can sit quietly in the recliner awaiting the moment that he demands the use of my lap for milk and naps. I am allowed to do that.

I’m not allowed to stand at all. That is standing to clean, to cook, to make his highness a fresh bottle, to get up to go to the bathroom, ect..

Sitting is also a problem if while in that position I seem as if I’m accomplishing things.

Excuse me, are you doing stuff? You know how I feel about you doing stuff.

If I do have the audacity to attempt things or stuff I get screamed at for the duration of time those things or stuff take.

If my reaction to the screaming is not sufficient he grabs my leg and bites me until I take notice. I now have no beard due to him exhibiting this behavior during a routine facial hair trim.

I seem to be living beneath the drool covered iron fist of a tiny tyrant…

And there’s nothing I can do about it.

Going Home Again

I live approximately two and a half  hours from my home town, which makes going back and visiting family and friends quite easy.

I despise these visits.

The justifications for these strong negative feelings are varied and pretty damn complicated but the first and foremost, and probably most superficial, reason for hating these trips is being in the car for more than a few minutes at a time with my three children. I’m convinced that my own personal hell will be driving for eternity down a featureless interstate with no exits while the kids scream from the back seat. And I’ll probably need to pee.

One of the other reasons why I dislike going back home is that my home town is Charleston, South Carolina, which is if you don’t know, a foodie’s paradise. (This would be a great place for me show examples with links but I’m a terribly lazy person.)

I love good food.

I’m always broke when I go to Charleston.

This last trip to Charleston I was able to enjoy a lunch from Chick-fil-a, which I admit was kind of a treat due to not eating there since the whole giving money to hate groups thing they were into there for a while, but still, Chick-fil-a? This is a city where your smallest hole-in-the-wall diner serves dishes with shrimp that were caught earlier in the day from local waters and bathroom stalls in the diviest of the dive bars have graffiti dedicated to the fatty rich wonders of foie gras next to the “for a good time call…” graffiti. And I have to eat at a fucking fast food place that’s famous for fried chicken sandwiches and a deep hatred for homosexuals…

As for all the other reasons I dislike going home again, well, lets say they’re directly related to the great bouts of homesickness going back causes.

I miss you Charleston.