Fellas, do you guys remember when you were a little kid and you said you had to pee and your brother or a friend said, "I gotta go too," and then one of you said, "Sword fight!" So you ran into the John together, dropped trow, and peed simultaneously into the same bowl, moving your stream back-and-forth across the other guy's spray, likely hitting the seat and the floor in the process. You have all had a sword fight or two in your day. Stop lying.
Would if I said that my 4-year-old son and I have done this a few times? I'm thinking that you would say I'm the most immature and inappropriate father you have ever come across, and that really wouldn't be too far from the truth. I know it is stupid to do, but every once in a while we will have to both take a leak before leaving the house and it just kind of goes down that way.
What usually happens is we unholster our weapons at about the same time, but he starts firing away much quicker. Sometimes he is done before I can even get started because I have an old as hell engorged prostate the size of a 16-inch softball softball. Sometimes I'll say to him, "You win again, buddy. You got the quickest weenie in The West. My old wiener just can't hold a candle to yours.
So, the other day he beats me to the punch again and goes, "I win again, daddy. You got the oldest, slowest, yuckiest wiener in the world." Now, wait just a minute. I may have said old and slow in my analysis during previous competitions, but "yuckiest" was entirely his own editorializing. Uncalled for if you ask me.
Okay, just a quick blog post I have been kicking around in my head. Hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday season despite the current pandemic situation. And I hope none of you call up the Special Victims Unit for the slightly inappropriate father son activity you just read about.
I needed a pic of Ice, and the one with bagels was obviously the funniest. Apparently it's because he has never tried bagels or coffee? Fascinating.
The wife and I knock back a tall glass of Metamucil every night. It's a nice little ritual. Pour the glasses full of water, scoop out the powder, stir it around, chug it down, usually feels clumpy and gross. But it helps you poop.
Then the other night I was in the next room (think I was blogging with you people) and heard Mrs. Noisewater doing the Metamucil ritual; I could hear the clinking of the spoon against the glass. And she never offered me a cup! A severe breach in Metamucil etiquette if you ask me. But we got it straightened out. We are going to keep each other honest and be the most regular couple you ever met. Like clockwork.
In other news, the wife had a nighttime zoom meeting, and I was in charge of the kiddos. I put Desi, the almost 1-year-old, to bed, but he was crying like crazy. Erik, the almost 4-year-old, was too engrossed in the movie he was watching to remember to get to the toilet to pee. He ran in there and told me that it was too late. He hasn't had an accident like that in months. Must have been a good movie. As the pee is pooling up in a puddle around his bare feet he says, "Crap-a-doodle-doo." That's one of those phrases that I don't really realize I say, but right when you hear it from your kid, you know it's your doing. I was super stressed out at the time with my daddy skills not going well, so hearing that gave me a much needed laugh.
What's up with you, good people? Enjoying any good quarantine nights lately? Had a good laugh you can tell us about?
Young Erik Noisewater is 2 and a half years old now, and we got young him in a soccer program. As much as I dislike the sport, it really is the best introduction to team sports for little kiddos. Believe it or not there are some toddlers in his group who you can already tell are going to be great athletes. Erik is just okay as far as the coordination and athleticism goes, but he makes up for it by being a great listener and rule follower. Each class has 10 toddlers, 2 coaches, and it is required that there is one parent per kid out there running around making sure everything goes a little more smoothly. But it's still pretty much like herding cats every Sunday.
I had to take him to a make up class on Thursday after work. All day at work I was hating everyone and pretty much thinking about how everyone seems to be deep down an asshole at heart, and believe it or not I couldn't wait until the soccer practice that afternoon to see play soccer with my great little dude - my little hope for humanity homie. But when I got there the weeknight coach was neither of the nice fellas I was used to from the Sunday class. He was a little weasely-looking, hunched over, eyes half opened and not appearing to be focused on anything in particular creeper who reminded me of a combination of Doctor Riviera from The Simpsons and Igor from the Frankenstein movies. I feel like I could not have been the only parent in the room to have that gut feeling like this maybe is not the best dude to be around kids. Let's put it this way: They give all the kids stamps on the hands at the end of the classes, and when I overheard a coach saying that they cannot put stamps on the kids' bellies anymore because a parent complained, I knew right away it had to have been after this dude lifted one too many kids' jerseys. I tried to describe his vibe to Mrs. Noisewater, and he is a guy who it is hard to say if he would be into men, women, or god forbid kids. It almost seems like he would check off the none of the above box because he is into getting romantic with animals or trees or something far more divergent.
Little of this
And a little of this. And that's our coach.
So Tree-Humper, as odd as he may be, was running a pretty good class, but my supposed great listener and rule abiding son is completely doing his own thing. When it is time for little kicks, he is toe bashing the ball across the gym. When they are all supposed to wait in line, he is booking it to the other side of the room and trying to hop over the barricade. More often than not he seemed to be doing the exact opposite of what Doctor Igor was asking of him. I pulled him aside a few times to say, "We have to listen to the coach, Erik." There was a look in my boy's eye like, "That's not happening, bro." Who was this kid? I was used to him being one of the best in the class and feeling kind of bad for those parents who chased around their kid who seemed to have zero interest in what the activities were and seemed in their own world. And now my guy was that kid. He was the worst in the group. And I was so looking forward to this class after a crap day at work. Now I was stressed and needed a beer. Because of a 2-year-old soccer practice? Yes. And if I'm being honest with you this thought came in my head: I'm so disappointed in this kid. What? How shitty to say that about a 2-year-old? They are going to do terrible shit when they're in their terrible 2's, right? I know this. But I'm just being honest about what was in my stupid head at the time because you're my people and you're the folks I can be real with.
Out of his mind that day. But a winning smile.
Then just as the class is wrapping up, when I can already taste the cold Apex Predator I'm going to need after this day of work and this kid wearing me out, the kids are all huddled up, putting their hands in for a big go team, and someone else's kid punches Tree-Humper square in the nose for no reason at all. Wham! A perfectly placed blow, and the coach is actually hurt, his eyes are watering, and he completely stops teaching and just tries to recover. One mom asks if he needs an ice pack. He declines. Maybe he is just being dramatic, but who knows. What we do know is that . . . in a last second buzzer beater turn of events . . . Erik was not the worst kid in the class that afternoon. I really shouldn't have taken pleasure from a toddler socking a creepy coach dead in the nose, but I was flicking thrilled. It was beautiful.
That's all I got, friends. What you got on tap this weekend? If you're like me you are going to clock this weekend in the beak with a right hook like Erik and his daddy's new favorite teammate.
I knew that part of the fun of having a kid would be teaching them about things that you're interested in, but I had no idea how fun it would be - or that some of those things would be built into daily routines. And of course like most every other aspect of my life, a lot of these daily sayings are references to songs that his daddy likes.
Whenever there is thunder outside I got Erik Noisewater saying "Thunder!" to the tune of "Thunderstruck" by AC/DC. We can cue each other, actually, because one of us can say thunder and the other will say "oh-woah-woah-oh-wo-oah" and vice versa. Because he is so into vehicles like a lot of two-year-old boys, he has evolved it into "you've been . . . Thunder Truck," which is actually pretty damn awesome. Then if I say "Dirty Deeds!" he will respond with "done dirt cheap, and that one has evolved into "Thunder Jeep," which needs to the band name of a doom metal band coming to a town near you.
Then we have a couple go-to songs during bath time. The other day I was in the next room while his mom was giving him his nightly bath, and I heard him saying, "And here comes the water!" I was laughing my ass off because that's something I say to him when I dump water on him to rinse off the suds and it's from "Fembot In a Wet T-Shirt" by Frank Zappa. Then when it is time to pull the drain up and get out of the tub I say, "Why don't you . . . pull the plug?" It is fricking adorable to hear your son sing death metal.
He also likes to sing "Strange Magic" by Electric Light Orchestra. Another good one for him is "Werewolves of London" by Warren Zevon, where he can hit the "Aaaaooooo" when I sing the end of a verse thusly:
Little old lady got mutilated late last night
Werewolves of London again
Aaaaaoooooooooo Werewolves of London.
I swear I don't even realize I'm singing these things with them, which is perhaps why the songs span across all sorts of genres. Recently I overheard Mrs. Noisewater turning to the page of Dragons Love Tacos where the dragons get into the spicy salsa and spit fire everywhere, burning the house down, and I hear "hell fire!. Mrs. Noisewater knew something was up. "Why is our son saying "hell fire?" She asked, but she knew it had to be his insane father. That's from Arthur Brown, a a goofball who was singing with a mask and spitting fire (long before KISS) with sometimes high pitched metal style vocals (long before Judas Priest). While the wide range of artists he would influence is nothing short of incredible, the end result of what he sounded like was at times comical, as it is with this song. This is why I laughed my ass off when I heard young Erik singing it.
Arthur Brown's "Fire" is just about the perfect jukebox sabotage song. Any of you ever put a song on the jukebox that you know is super goofy and obnoxious just to see the reaction of the patrons? Or maybe it's one that you can't even stand yourself so you play it 10 times in a row and leave? I actually texted my good friend Haircut who recently moved away to give him the ammunition of using "The Crazy World of Arthur Brown" for the next time he strikes. What haircut does could actually be referred to as remote jukebox sabotage because he will be bored at home and with the Touchtunes application on his phone he will cue up a string of particularly shitty songs to play at a nearby bar. He scares me because this is the type of man who could become a computer hacker, someone who F's with people without even seeing the reactions of his targets.
But I digress.
Hey, sorry for the long break between postings. As far as what has been going on since anyone last heard from me:
1. I completed my second marathon, falling short of my goal of under 4 hours, but beating my time from when I was 9 years younger
2. We are still trying to skate one past the goalie for our second child and continuing to come up short. Tests for both of us look normal, so we just have to keep at it and hope for the best.
3. Tomorrow we are having a party where guests come in Christmas pajamas that will be loads of fun. When I was buying the caramel flavored Baily's that I want to slip in my coffee at said event, a dude slips two big bottles of booze down his inside coat pockets, looks right in my eyes and snarls, "Don't say nuthin!" I got my son riding in my cart and you're going to rob the place and threaten me? So I don't go to that store anymore.
Okay, sorry to go out on that note. Didn't know I was going to talk about that. See you next time.
So far I have made good on updating the old blog once a week again. You know what helped? I have a repeating entry on the calendar in my phone that reads, "Update your blog, you fucking fuck." It helps to capture that anger at myself so that my future self is reminded how mad past self is at himself. And that might be the dumbest most confusing sentence I have ever written on here, but get used to it. Because it will now be weekly again.
The other day I went to the grocery store with Baby Noisewater, and after spending an insane amount of time in traffic, I decided I had earned a drink. We have one of those fancy grocery spots with a bar inside complete with a full band playing. By 5pm it's nearly impossible to get a seat at the bar. So what a lot of customers do is get an adult beverage and sip it whilst they get their shopping done. Since it was a balmy summer evening, I decided a margarita would hit the spot.
As I'm midway through finding all the items on my list I suddenly realized that I was quite drunk. On only one drink! To me, this mason jar had to have been 80% tequila, but maybe it was a combination of a very stiff drink and a very weakened tolerance. Dr. Ken before child was going out every Friday and Saturday night. With-child (that sounds pregnant) Dr. Ken really ties one on maybe once a month. The right thing to do would be to set that glass of demon rum on the bar, but the cheap-ass and drunk-ass in me said, "We can't let this bad boy go to waste, now can we?"
I like to let Baby Noisewater pick out his fun grocery cart: Taxi, police car, fire engine, or pink car. If he picks the pink one, totally cool with me, but this time he went with the taxi. He was reaching over his steering wheel that doesn't do shit for my 'Rita and saying, "Juicy!" I tried to explain to him that it was "daddy juice" and that it was "yuck." He wasn't convinced. I was looking for some frozen fruit for smoothies. The prices are a lot better at the local members only bulk store, but I needed some now. I actually said out loud, "These prices stink!" Then Noisewater started shouting, "Prices stink! Prices stink!" He was hollering"stink" about their prices and I was stinking drunk. We were not a desirable customer combo in the fancy grocery store at this point.
Have you ever noticed that when you're drinking you want to talk people more, and if no one is around you end up talking to yourself? Well, as a social drinker that's how I operate, and having a kid in your cart is pretty much free reign to jabber to yourself like a nut. "How about some bananas? Those look a little ripe, and those shits are organic. Fuck that." Nobody bats an eye when they see you have a baby in your cart along for the ride. And forgive me if I've talked about this before, but people give you a lot of breaks when you're a dad. Everyone helps me out when I'm out and about with my kiddo. Holding doors, offering to help me carry my stroller off of the train. Sadly, I don't see this sort of support for our moms out there, and I think it's because it's expected of them to go it alone out there. Fucked up, right?
I'm going to post you a video for you to give you an idea of how goofy Baby Noisewater and I are and how much fun we have together. Just to explain, his grandfather had recently gotten him saying Geronimo and cowabunga when he pushes him on the swings at the park. Baby Noisewater just knows inherently that cowabunga is funny word. I'm proud of him because he talks a lot for his age, he is polite, he is friendly, and he is loving. All that is great. But the number one thing by far that makes me proud is that he is funny. That's important to me. Tell me he is not funny in this clip? That gag of him biting the book is hilarious and then he says, "eat." He had never done that before. It just came to him. Quite the natural improv. The guy seems to know what gets a laugh out of people, and then he beats it to death like a dead horse, just like his old man. He's a good dude and a solid shopping companion when I'm all burracho'd up on a potent margarita, crossing items off of my grocery list.
It's Friday, my Seven Readers. Tip something back and enjoy it. I booked a sitter and I'm taking the lady out for a nice dinner. What do you have on tap?
I worked a few days as a nanny (or manny, if you prefer) this summer for a 6-month-old girl. A lot of people have teased me by saying things to the effect of "Oh, you're practicing for when you have your own kids." Sort of, but more I would say that I'm using this experience to decide if I really want to have my first kid in my late 30's.
Here are the pros and the cons I've worked out thus far.
Con: Raising a baby is boring. Yes, sometimes it's beautiful and rewarding and all of that stuff, but a lot of the time it's the most boring thing in the world. No one tells you that. People tell you that it's a lot of work, that they don't get any sleep, but you never hear anyone say how boring it is. Well, I'm saying it. It's boring. I wish more parents would just admit it more.
"Booooooooring"
Pro: It can be a heartwarming and wonderful experience. All I have really done is warmed up some milk and popped it into her mouth, but you can't help but get a feeling inside you that says "I am giving this young being life!" And this isn't even my kid. I imagine it's ten times the effect when it's your own.
This isn't me, and this isn't the kid. But same general idea.
Con: It's messy. The first thing I do when I get home is throw all my clothes in the wash and take a shower because I feel like I'm covered in drool, pee, poop, and woman's breast milk who I'm not even sleeping with. Sometimes the baby will take a dump while she is sitting down and the pressure created by the floor will send the poop clear up her back almost to her neck. Powerful ass on this kid. Mom and dad should be proud. Then you're trying to change her diaper while she tries to kick her feet into her own poop. Good lord. Parenthood is a messy existence.
"And, we're done here."
Pro: Great for meeting chicks. I spend most of my day at a gigantic park in Chicago, whether we're walking around, playing on the swings, or just laying down a blanket and chilling. You wouldn't believe how many women are out there, and they're all just as bored as me! Day after day of baby time leads an individual to want to talk to some adults to make sure you don't lose your ability to converse with people without blurting out pee pee or poo poo. So all these babes want to talk to me, but I'm spoken for. So this really is only a pro for those single dads out there. Or for single dudes that want to use a kid as bait to meet chicks. There's gold in them there baby parks!
"Come, little one! Together we will be the lords of the baby park!"
That's all I got so far. You guys got some more pros or cons, either from direct experience or as an outsider looking in?
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
I was watching an episode of "Parenthood" online, and the commercial they chose was one for "Plan B" emergency contraception. Is that for viewers who notice by watching the show how hard it looks to be a parent?
I know this wasn't a very good blog post and more suited to be a Facebook update, but I wasn't sure if I was ready to tell everyone I started watching "Parenthood" quite yet.
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
I'm halfway, okay, maybe a third-way, through a short story, and I just had to get a break from it and update the old blog. I'll probably post the finished product on here tomorrow.
I'm in the Starbucks, and some woman came in here with the two nuttiest little boys ever, like 2 and 3 years old respectively. She went to the counter and let them terrorize the place, begging for some of the orange soda from the guy across from me and then reaching for my hot coffee. I told them, "No, boys. That's hot." The guy across from me was laughing and smiling and so was I. The mom at the counter didn't even turn around to see what her kids were doing.
Then she sat right by us, and there was something really off about these kids but more in the parenting. She kept saying please when asking them to do things, and it was with this nicey-nice tone. I'm critical of shitty parents in public places, which probably means I'll be worse at it than all of them some day, bribing my kids with cookies like this lady.
In other news, I'm reading "Rules of Attraction" by Bret Easton Ellis, and it's outstanding. Anyone ever read it? It sort of inspired the idea for this short story, the notion that people are always falling for the wrong people.
Also, tomorrow I'm going to a Chicago Cubs game with HLP, James Douglas, and Captain Jack. You know what's funny? I recently had someone tell me that she wanted to get into the blog and get a blog nickname. Anyone else have people requesting that?
Also, I'm not quite ready for this marathon in a couple months, but I may be filling in for LSD in a half-marathon this weekend. My workouts inspired this Facebook update:
Lately, when I work out, I need heavy metal, and when I work out a lot, I eat healthier, buying and enjoying more produce. As a result, I'm going through a simultaneous heavy metal and produce revolution. I call it: Megadeth and Mangos.
I think that the eating healthy thing is great, but the metal thing is really strange because I haven't been this into metal since I was in high school, over 15 years ago. No other type of music can push me in the way that a good and heavy song can. I need that aggressive pace and angry vocals to help me wince through the pain. The ultimate band for this is called Kyuss, and if you haven't heard of them, go buy either "Blues for the Red Sun," "Welcome To Sky Valley," or "And the Circus Leaves Town," all of which are perfect heavy records, not necessarily metal, but heavy, sludgy, progressive, and addictive.
Okay, I'm going to finish this book, hang out with LSD for a bit, and then when she meets some friends for a drink, I'll try to finish this story. Take it easy, Seven Readers.
