The Meanest Guy

“You know how Ira is the meanest guy in town?”

No. 

“Well, he invites his-self over to my house and my mom lets him stay!”

That’s terrible, why didn’t you warn her?

“I'm like, come on, really?  He'll tear down the house!”

Wait a minute.  Since when is an eight-year-old boy concerned about tearing the house down?  Unless he’s part of the effort. 

- 29 October 2011

The World at Age Three

My wife keeps the news on in the morning while she gets ready for work.  Usually, Justin is busy elsewhere.  This morning, however, he was sitting on our bed watching along with her.  He was uncharacteristicly quiet and appeared to be concentrating hard. 

“I think the world hates John Kerry,” he commented. 

I don’t...what?  If you say so.  What channel are you watching anyway?

- 8 October 2004

How to Read the Room

My wife is an elementary school teacher.  We pride ourselves on limiting screen time and not using television as a babysitter.  Television is a privilege reserved for the weekends but even Justin, at five, knew that his almost three-year-old little brother was about to come unglued.  Who knows what was wrong, it was probably because it was a day that ended in “y”.  I’m not even sure how Justin knew what was coming but there was no beating around the bush.  Justin had obviously been through this before so he graciously gave his permission to break the rules. 

“Mom, go ahead and turn on SpongeBob so the kid won't freak out.”

- 20 March 2006

Family Music Night

Well, what can I say?  My wife had the right idea?  Even if I don’t want to admit it, she did.

Family Music Night was a fantastic idea, for the kids.  Once we arrived, however, it was family out the window and every man for himself.  A word to the wise, a set of industrial earplugs should have been requisite.

There was anxious talk about it all afternoon.  We were “encouraged” to hurry through dinner so that we could arrive as early as possible.  Fretting ensued because I wasn’t driving fast enough.  Logan jogged from the parking lot to the school, the rain streaming off him like he was a duck. 

And when we got there, it was amazing.  It was amazing that I didn’t become homicidal or punch someone in the throat.  He spent exactly 15 minutes running from one instrument to the next, at the “instrument petting zoo”, making more noise than I ever thought was possible.  Such a cacophony I had never heard before.  First, the bass drum, then the snare and finally the cymbals.  He tried a woodwind during a momentary lapse in judgment but it was too serene.  No blistering flute solo here.  Instead, we had the percussion line from hell. 

A network of a hundred of his little friends were only too eager to join in, having the time of their lives.  I felt like they were missing a recovery tent for the parents.  Busted ear drums is now a sport.  And where was my wife?  At home - with a quiet book.

- 1 February 2018

Sleep

Sleep?  Once you have children, there is no such thing.  They’re either keeping you up because they’re there, at your bedside, at your elbow, at the bathroom door or because they’re not there, cruising around God knows where, with God knows who, doing God knows what.  I don’t know what the bathroom door has to do with sleep, but I think you know what I mean.  They’re just everywhere, like gnats. 

Case in point. 

It was eleven-thirty when Logan appeared by my wife’s bedside as silent as a ghost.

“What’s the matter, sweetie?” she asked. 

Logan began to cry. 

“Did you get too warm?” she asked soothingly. 

“What?” Logan said in confusion. 

He was clearly not fully awake. 

“Is your tummy upset?” she asked. 

He nodded. 

“Why don’t you try and go to the bathroom?” she suggested. 

There had been lingering stomach issues in recent days. 

Logan headed out of the room, but instead of crossing the hall, he made a right turn into his bedroom. 

Ashley snickered. 

“Logan,” she called, “the bathroom!”

He reappeared in the doorway. 

“What?” he whimpered, clearly confused. 

“The bathroom,” she repeated. 

He headed for his bedroom once more. 

More snickering.  I couldn’t hold out any longer and joined in. 

“Logan!” I shouted, in between chuckles, “the bathroom!”

Clearly distraught, he headed into the bathroom, turned on the light and closed the door. 

“We’re horrible people,” my wife said, through a snort of laughter. 

We were both giggling now.  A moment or two passed and I heard Logan getting out his toothbrush.  I pointed this out to my wife and more giggling ensued.  I could hear the water running briefly when Logan emerged from the bathroom brushing his teeth.  He turned out the light and went back to bed, still brushing.  I hopped out of bed to intercept him and stead him back to the bathroom.  He spit and rinsed. 

“How does your tummy feel now?” I asked, stifling a chuckle. 

“Better,” he said, relieved. 

I find that a good tooth brushing cures most ailments.  He went back to his room and climbed into bed where he instantly fell asleep.  I returned to bed amidst more giggling. 

“If only it was normally that easy to get him to brush his teeth,” I said. 

“If only it was that easy to get him to go to sleep,” she replied. 

- 4 February 2018

Photogenic

Teenagers.  I’m not much for selfies but since it was just Ethan and me at the Green Day concert I figured, why not?

 

 

I challenge you to find a teenage photo of Ethan when he’s not doing that.

- 1 August 2017

Who Let You Drive?

Teaching your son to drive is kind of fun.  I’m kidding, it’s not.  Suddenly, he’s in charge of a two ton hunk of metal with nothing in between you and that telephone pole but the sense that was given to a flea.  There’s a lot of screaming and crying and bargaining with God.  You try to teach them to be good, safe, patient drivers that employ sense and the brake pedal.  You try, but then you get questions like this. 

“How long can you honk your horn?” Justin asked. 

An ominous question to say the least.

“Until the battery runs out,” I said, knowing that I didn’t want to hear what was coming next, although I suspected that I already knew. 

“Good because I haven’t found an end to it,” he said, with apparent disgust, undoubtedly because he could recall not applying enough horn to someone who clearly deserved it. 

I was right.  Now I remember why I don’t want to ride in the truck with him.  I’m afraid someone will recognize me.  I have half a mind to disconnect the damn thing. 

- 28 January 2018