Why Won’t They Do Anything Funny?

I think we’re in a rut.

Nothing exciting is happening.

The house is staying clean.

Demon Spawn has mellowed.

The oldest goes to school, comes home, does his homework, plays his nonviolent/age appropriate video games and goes to bed.

The baby still gets into everything he can but other than an incident involving him drinking hand sanitizer and immediately throwing up everywhere nothing really new or exciting has been happening on that front.

I’m still at home.

My wife is still working.

Maybe I should look at it in a more positive light and say we’ve finally got a good routine down, but when you’re looking for funny things to post about it really feels like less of a positive thing.

Maybe I should start making shit up…

Ponderings

At 3pm this afternoon my home will be getting visited by my four-year old’s soon to be kindergarten teacher.

The house looks as if the interior was devastated by the world most localized and driest tsunami.

I cleaned the house twice yesterday.

I obviously must clean it again today but at what time do I start cleaning as to finish it in time for the teacher’s visit but not give the children enough time to destroy it again?

Hmmm?

And just imagine, at one time I used to contemplate philosophy, science, religion and art…

Team Work

I really should be proud that they’ve started working together as opposed to fighting all the time.

And I should be impressed with how clever the plan was.

Because it was clever.

Oh so, so clever.

But the end result, well… I wasn’t pleased.

Everyone else; kids, wife, friends, visiting Nana, they thought it was hysterical.

They thought it was so damn funny…

But when one of your children, your own flesh and blood, the fruit of your battered loins nut punches you just so you’ll double over in pain long enough for another of your despicable brood to shove a spit wetted finger in your ear and shout “wet willy!” at you as you try not to throw-up from the pain…

That’s just…

That…

I mean…

Man…

Just…

Fuck that kind of team work!

The Dog

About 45 mins after my wife should have been at work she showed up at the door of our house holding what looked like the illicit love child of a black fox and a chihuahua.

“He ran right up to me in the parking lot. He’s so sweet. He’s clean. He seems to be good with kids. He has a collar but there’s no tags. I’m going to try to find his owner. He’s your responsibility until I do. I’ve got to go back to work. Love you, goodbye.”

And then I was standing there holding a small fluffy black dog while two small children ran/crawled around me excitedly yapping.

“Daddy, I want to hold the puppy! Daddy! Puppy daddy! Pup-puppy, puppy puppy, daddy daddy, puppy, let me hold, let me, puppy, daddy hold, puppy pu-puppy pup puppy puppy puppy!”

“SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEE!! SCREEEEEEEEE!!!!! BAH! GAH GAH BAH! SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

So I put the dog down and Demon Spawn gently petted him and spoke to him in a quiet, calm voice and told him how this would be his new home. I then explained to Demon Spawn that he was lying to the poor dog. Then Demon spawn cried  and cried.

The baby crawled close to the dog and screamed as loud as he could at it. The dog walked away. The baby crawled close to the dog and screamed as loud as he could at it. The dog walked away. This repeated for a bit. Then the baby felt completely comfortable with the dog and the dog decided that the baby was no real threat, that’s when the baby decided to try and eat the dog.

The baby still somehow has all his fingers.

It’s must be a really good dog.

 

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.

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.

 

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…

 

 

 

The Family Pet

Something funny/disturbing has recently come to my attention; my two oldest sons, my wife and I seem to have a baby as a pet.

For the longest time our youngest, know around these parts as “the little baby”, was just that, a little baby. He spent all of his time sleeping, eating, pooping… You know, baby stuff. Then he started to crawl and eat food. Somehow these two abilities slowly morphed him from our precious little bundle of joy and the pride of our family to the family pet.

He has all the tell-tale signs of a pet. Much like a dog he spends most of his time on the floor looking for scraps of food that were dropped. Like a cat he almost never comes when you call him. We always have to watch to make sure  he doesn’t get into the trash. He crawls around our feet at dinner time (after he starts screaming to get out of  his highchair, we do try to do these things in the proper manner) begging for food from our plate. He bites, scratches and makes incredibly annoying noises in the middle of the night, once again, like a cat. And like some the more exotic pets out there he has the ability to grasp objects which makes his destructive force disproportionate to his size. Oh, and he likes to chew on shoes.

These pet-like quality’s have caused some confusion. I’ve told my wife to” just crate him” , when I meant to say put him in his play-pen, on numerous occasions. I’ve  found the two older boys calling for the baby by going “here baby, baby, baby” while gently patting the floor in front of them. Also I have to constantly keep watch to make sure my three year old isn’t putting food down on the floor to feed the baby. We seem to be just short of the point where we’re scratching the baby behind the ear and telling him what a good boy he is.

It’s not all bad though. So far he seems very loyal and really likes a pat on the head from the older boys. He likes to play fetch. And he is very cuddly and loves to curl up in a warm lap to take a  nap.

 

Three Years Old and In Great Condition

My wife and I had an interesting conversation last night… I guess that’s not exactly right; my wife said some interesting things at me while I sat, head in hands, trying to internally list all the reasons why I shouldn’t try to sell my three year-old on the black market. Yeah, that definitely describes the situation better.

Anyway, yesterday, I had not only found the end of my proverbial rope but I was trying to find a way I could hang myself with it, just so I could get some peace and quiet. In other words, it wasn’t the best of days. And this was before my wife got home and we had to go shopping. (Shopping with my children, especially the three year-old demon spawn, is a whole new layer of frustration. Something about a store, particularly Target or Wal-mart takes my usually “high-spirited” children to a level where even the most crunchy, peaceful hippy type parents turn to each other and talk about how our kids just need a good ass woopin’. I think it’s the fluorescent lights.)

So we went shopping, and by time that ordeal was over I was so angry and frustrated with demon spawn that I was sputtering incoherently and yelling in everyone’s general direction, which of course lead to the kids to react in their usual way when I get to this point, laughter, because I’m obviously the least intimidating man on the planet.

“Daddy’s overflowing with frothing rage. It’s funny. I dare you to go punch him in the balls!”

“No, you punch his balls. Tehe! BALLS! BALLS! BALLS! Punch daddy in the BALLS! Hahaha!”

My wife, who was sweet enough keep her own laughter to small hidden chuckles, sent the boy’s out of the room and had me sit down so we(she) could talk.

“Remember when you worked and I was home all day with a three year-old and a baby. It was awful, just awful. What helped was taking them out everyday. I mean, I was always nauseous because I never knew what kind of terrible things would happen or when he would have a complete break down. And we could never stay through an entire class or activity. And all the other parents would stare, judge and whisper to each other but, you know we were out of the house and he eventually grew out of it when he was around five…”

“Well that’s only a year and half or so…” I said slowly and quietly from behind clenched teeth.

“Exactly!”

My sarcasm can be very subtle at times, even to the people that know me best.

So, if anyone is interested in a three year-old child, I’ve got one for sale. He’s quiet, polite, never screams for no apparent reason and always does what’s asked of him. He is also an incredibly reasonable child who acts in the most logical of manners at all points in time and I’m getting rid of him for cheap!