House Rules

Bub was driving me batshit the other day. Disrespecting his sister, saying no, getting time-outs, and generally just being an obnoxious little bunghole. It’s not necessarily his fault; we are in a state of transition, i.e. living in my brother and his wife’s apartment with access to only about 5% of his toys. But something had to be done. So in lieu of ripping his arms off, I spontaneously came up with THE RULES. I think it’s some pretty good improv work—feel free to borrow them, if it suits your lifestyle:

Rule #1—LISTEN. Specifically to Mommy and Daddy, but just in general. Listen. The implication being that if you’re fucking up, it’s probably because in some way, shape or form, you need to refer back to this rule.

Rule #2—BE NICE. Specifically, to your sister. But also to Mommy, Daddy, kids at storytime, tiny spiders dangling over your race track and beautiful foliage outside. Except dandelions; those are weeds. This is the second big, blanket rule. Odds are if someone is crying, it’s likely because someone else has broken Rule #2.

Rule #3—SHARE. That’s it, just share.

It’s not exactly the ten commandments, or the Bill of Rights. But it’s a start. Like Miranda, Bub has been read his rights. He understands them. We went through a hands-on, interactive training seminar, followed by a short multiple choice quiz afterwards. In fact, he now knows them better than I do.

“Bub, we do not bonk your sister with the tape measure. What’s Rule #1?”

“Listen.”

“Damnit, I meant what’s Rule #2?”

“Umm, be nice.”

“Yes, that’s the one. And what happens when we break the rules?”

“We get a timeout.”

“That’s right.”

“Umm, what’s ‘damnit,’ Daddy?”

Damn you, Rule #1. You work a little TOO well.

I’m sure at some point we’ll have to amend these a bit, add some, like We Don’t Give Urban Goats Laffy Taffy. And so on. But so far, so good, though I sense a sequel already in the making. Spoiler alert! It’s We Don’t Interrupt Daddy Ever (But Especially When He’s Operating Power Tools). It’s currently working its way through legislation, but it’s expected to pass.

The Things We Say

It must be awesome to be our neighbors. To hear what goes on in this household without REALLY knowing what's going on. It's probably way more boring than it sounds. Though it sounds kind of like this:

“You have to suck it. That’s it. Now suck it harder.”

“Can you suck it for me, Mommy?”

“No, you have to suck it yourself. Come here, let me show you. Like this. Now you try.”

“Why aren’t you eating your dinner?”

“Not everything’s a why question, Mommy.”

“I’m riding Daddy’s face! You like that, Daddy?”

“Open your legs, Mommy.”

“How do we ask?”

“Can you open your legs please, Mommy?” Then, “More, Mommy—I can’t get in!”

“Daddy, HP is eating me. Don’t let her eat me!”

“I’m washing my BALLS!”

“I like babies.”

“Oh, that’s sweet. Your sister’s a baby.”

“I EAT babies.”

“We don’t eat babies, Bub.”

“I’m gonna eat HP!”

“No, we don’t eat people.”

“Why we don’t eat people?”

“Because they’re high in cholesterol.”

“Yes, we do. We DO eat people.”

“Eat me, Mommy. EAT ME! WAIT! Don’t gooooo!”

“That’s no way to talk to your mother, Bub.”

“Wanna eat me, Daddy? Why are you laughing? Eat me, Daddy. EAT ME!! I’m food.”

What’s Yours is Mine

English is a crap language for kids to have to learn. It makes no sense it so many ways. But it also makes for some entertaining discussions. Take possessive pronouns, for example. Hilarity can easily ensue.

This all started with an innocent discussion at the lunch table:

“Daddy, eat your sandwich.”

“I already ate my sandwich, Bub. You eat your sandwich now.”

“Daddy, wanna eat your sandwich?”

“Mine’e gone, Bub. Do you see my sandwich?”

“Daddy wanna share your sandwich?”

Oh, I get it now. He doesn’t know the word ‘my,’ so he’s using ‘your in its place. And I thought he was just slow…

“You mean YOUR sandwich?”

“Yes, your sandwich.”

Well, that didn’t help. Damn English.

“No, you say MY sandwich, Bub.”

“My sandwich.”

“Say ‘You wanna share my sandwich?’”

“You wanna share my sandwich, Daddy?”

“Nah, not hungry. Already ate my sandwich.”

When you don’t clarify, you can find yourself in situations not unlike this one:

“Where’d your privates go?”

He was trying to bait me into another fun-filled game of pre-bath private peekaboo. Oddly, I wasn’t in the mood. But this did make for a concrete, if awkward, teaching moment.

“Well, Bub, MY privates are in MY pants.”

He flashed me.

“Boo! There they are!”

“No, those are YOUR privates.”

“Ohhh, where’d YOUR privates go?”

Damnit.

“I told you, they’re…”

“BOO! There they are!”

Again with the crotch shot.

“No, Bub, listen. YOU say MY privates. Repeat after me. Where did MY privates go?”

“…”

“Say it with me. Where did my privates go?”

“Where’d your privates go?”

Getting loud, gesture-y now: “No, Bub, repeat: WHERE DID MYYYYY PRIVATES GO?”

“What are you guys doing in there?” Mommy yelled.

“GRAMMAR!” I screamed over my shoulder, “NOW WHERE DID MY PRIVATES GO?!”

“In your pants, Daddy.”

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

**This is actually a few months old. He's since gotten much better at differentiating his privates from mine.

The Crappiest Birthday EVER

Today is Mommy's birthday, and she is really getting the shaft. Not only is she at her second day at her new job (where few people know her name, let alone the day she joined planet Earth), but we just moved the whole familial unit 2400 miles out to sunny Portland. We are living with my very generous brother and wife; though friendly takeover seems more apropos of what we've done here. We've even displaced the poor cat.

Anyway, it does seem to happen that nearly every year in the eleven that we've been together, something is in the way of her birthday. One year we were moving to Vegas, last year she was eight months pregnant and COULD NOT FUCKING EAT SUSHI. Always something. Several were spent traveling, including this one:

It makes them memorable in their own way, but not necessarily they way she may want. Birthdays should be relaxing, mellow. All spritzers and neck massages. Not a stress-cloud of uncertainty hanging over us, raining applications and credit checks and references all over our parade. Me going to the DMV instead of the ice cream cake store. WTF? And, yes, I did schedule a quick apartment viewing for right after we pick her up from work. Oh yes he did.

But one thing I know she always wanted was a blog post. This is that post.

So happy birthday to you, my beautiful, stunning, strong, independent, feisty, occasionally backseat-driving wife. You are the only one for me. You keep me righted and call me on my shit. You lift me up, even though I'm clearly much heavier than you. You're a wonderful, natural mother to our kids. You even taught one how to tongue. You are tireless and stubborn and I love that. And you pull it all off with that effortless grace I fell in love with so long ago. I could go on and on, but naptime is almost over.

In short, you are the water that dilutes my juice in this sippy cup called life. Or maybe it's the other way around. The point is we mix for a mean cocktail, you and me. This is a brand new chapter in our rich narrative together, and like anything worthwhile, it's scary as hell. But let's go kick this town in the teeth, what do you say? Here's to you, baby. Happy birthday.

For Whom the Bells Toll

I'm Bowie, he's the curmudgeon.

I don’t know if fight is the right word for what’s going on here. It’s more of a feud. An ongoing disagreement of indisputable facts in my favor. It all started when we were in the car and Bub says:

“The bells are on Wayne, Daddy.”

Let me decode. There is a church with a belltower containing these said bells that is on our normal walking course around the hood. And those bells are on Lakewood Avenue. I mean, that’s a fact. So far as I know, they have always been on Lakewood Avenue. There’s been no gerrymandering of church bells or relocation efforts from the parallel street known as Wayne. The bells, in a very tangible, ringy-dingy way, are physically housed on Lakewood.

“Ahhh, the bells. Yes, Bub, but I think the bells are on Lakewood.”

“Bells are on Wayne, Daddy.”

“No, I’m pretty sure they’re on Lakewood.”

“Actually, they’re on Wayne, Daddy.”

“Well, actually, if by Wayne you actually mean Lakewood, then yes. They’re on Lakewood.”

“No, they’re on Wayne, Daddy.”

Okay, see I thought we were having a friendly little disagreement, and then he says, NO, DADDY, YOU’RE WRONG, I’M RIGHT. Uh uh, little buddy. This sass will not stand.

“Okay, Bub, let’s just go see where those bells are then, huh?”

It was actually on our way home. Not that that mattered. I couldn’t lose our first fight—it would just send the wrong message.

So we drove up Berwyn, stopping right at the corner of Lakewood. Perfect view of victory.

“See there, Bub? There are bells. Right there on Lakewood. I realized this is a tad awkward because you can’t read, but if you COULD read, you would be able read that street sign. Do you know what L-A-K-E-W-O-O-D spells?”

“WAYNE!”

“No, man. L-AKE-WOOD. Lakewood. The bells are on Lakewood. Point for Daddy. Thank you, good night.”

We didn’t even make it to Clark Street.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Bub. Hey, it’s okay. You thought they were on Wayne. Only one street off. Honest mistake. It’s easy to get confu--”

“Bells are on MagNOLLLLLLIA!”

“No no, Bub, Magnolia is one bell-less street in the other direction. I just proved to you beyond a reasonable doubt that the bells are most certainly not on Magnolia. They are definitely on Lakewood. Got it?”

“Yessss.” Pause. “Um, Daddy? The bells are DEFINITELY on Wayne, Daddy.”

Happy Father’s Day, everyone.

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

Just sayin...