Fodder of the Year

Father’s Day was very uneventful, which is exactly the way I like it.

I have a hard time celebrating holidays that to me hold little or no sentimental value. Translation for all of you cynics out there: Yes, I’m tired of getting busted for not putting thought into “holidays” that roll around each year at the same time only to become a repeat offender (great album by Richard Marx) in the crappy husband category because the kids and I haven’t done jack squat for Traci until the day of. There. I said it. Happy?

But how about a honest show of hands: Who really wants to wait in line for over an hour at Outback Steakhouse on the day they open five hours early so that everyone can celebrate Mum? Not me.

Adversely, I don’t want to suffer outside in a hundred degree heat while waiting to celebrate my alleged greatness over a Bloomin’ Onion either. All I really want is some extra time with my kids, the couch, and the Playstation and we can call it good. And a slice of chocolate chip cookie with icing on it from Great American Cookie wouldn’t hurt either.

So yes, my Father’s Day was what some might deem boring. Dull. Lackluster. Nothing special to the casual onlooker.

I call my dad. Brady asks to talk. I wait through seven or eight rings and hand Brady the phone when I finally hear my dad’s voice.

“Happy Fodder’s Day, Papaw.”

I should note that while I’ve made this grand declaration about not wanting a big deal made of the day, Brady has just told his Papaw something he hasn’t even told me yet, and it’s already one in the afternoon.

“Um, we’re going to the grocery store. And to get somefing for my daddy that I can’t talk about.”

A cookie. I hope it’s a nice big cookie with an excess of chocolate icing. And milk – we’re almost out.

“I also swam in my nana and my papa’s pool yesterday wiffout my fwoaties. Okay, well, love you. Bye, Papaw.” He hands the phone back to me and jumps off the couch.

While translating for my dad, I hear the front door lock behind my family as they embark on their clandestine mission. Dad and I spend the next twenty minutes or so catching up and talking baseball before saying goodbye to spend our respective Fathers’ Days relaxing on our respective couches.

Somewhere between the fourth and sixth innings of my second PS3 baseball game, the troops return, weighed down by a rainbow assortment of blue, red, and green reusable grocery bags, two Sunday papers complete with coupons for a story I’ll share with you at a later date, and freshly made cookies from the greatest sliced cookie store ever.

“We brought you sumpfing,” Brady taunts as he stands in front of me, blocking the television as I try unsuccessfully to hit a wicked curve ball that bounces a couple of feet in front of home plate.

I push him to the side, just in time to strike out. I don’t acknowledge the shopping sack full of sliced cookies. The kid shouldn’t think I’m that easy, which for the record I am.

“Are you out or in?” he inquires of my player’s status. At four he’s still learning the finer points of baseball while simultaneously finding a way to put his own spin on it.

“Out.” No thanks to you.

“What team are you?”

“The Texas Rangers.”

“Again? You should be the Pigeons.”

I give him a confused, yet curious look as to why he’d suggest I should be a professional baseball team called The Pigeons. Before I can ask, something in the kitchen distracts him and he steps out of my line of sight to investigate. It’s then I see my opponent’s mascot on the TV screen. A brown and orange bird.

 “They’re not pigeons, Brady. They’re Orioles,” Kacie says, in her best know-it-all big sister voice.

“From Baltimore,” I finish.

We share a glance. I’m satisfied in knowing that my love of baseball has effortlessly passed itself on to her. She’s good to go with the knowledge that for now she’s still smarter than her little brother.

“Oh. Well you should make a team and call it the Pigeons. That would be cool.” He retreats to the kitchen with the bag full of cookies.

The banter between the three of us is nothing out of the norm for a Sunday afternoon – or any day for that matter - and serves as a reminder that I don’t need one day out of 365 for my kids to show me that they love me.

My little contributions to society have been brainwashed to love me every day (a little less when I’m grounding them), not because I’m Daddy, and certainly not because they think it’s funny that I put up such a fight in resisting their advances in renaming me “Dad” but instead because I truly am that awesome. But mostly, they love me on days like Father’s Day because buying me a cookie slice means that by default they too get cookie slices.

How’s that for Fodder of the Year? And I didn’t even have to leave the living room.

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My Kids Are Smarter (Mouthed) Than Yours

My kids are like robots. They’re smarter, faster, and more functional than I am.

I suppose I can only blame myself for making such awesome offspring. Sure my wife helped, but only in areas where it really matters - like kindness, empathy, and unselfishness. All of the other useless attributes they get from me. Like wit. Sense of humor. And killer good looks.

As I watch my little rascals go about their day-to-day lives, it’s become increasingly apparent that their smart mouths are going to land one (probably both) of them in the clink. Jury’s still out if it’ll be a normal jail in the states for sassing off to a cop during a routine traffic stop or a prison in some third world country while participating in Doctors Without Borders. I should probably teach them how to play dominos just in case.

There’s really not a day that goes by where one of my children doesn’t impress me somehow, not because of their grades or charity or willingness to cuddle with Daddy despite having better things to do, but because of just how much they are like their old man. The quick witted things that come out of their mouths makes me all teary eyed and proud to be a parent. A mentor.

It’s like the wheels are always in motion with these two, as if they’re just waiting for Traci or myself to slip up and leave the door wide open for them to respond with some off-the-cuff remark. So when the wheels do come off it shouldn’t really come as a surprise, yet it always does.

Because of this, I’ve come up with a list of five outlandish things each of them has said in recent weeks that only substantiates my point and furthers the fact that I have the smartest (mouthed) kids in the world. I’ve held nothing back. For you to know me, you have to know them. Not some cutesy painted image of them wearing pastels on a lazy spring day, but the real them. The unplugged them. The them I have to put up with on a daily basis.

Here you go. Don’t be jealous.

1)      Brady: Daddy, step on that ant and squish it. Then it will be dead. Like my mommy’s grandma.

2)      Kacie: One day I’m going to move away to college. Then get married. Okay, maybe not married, but I’m still going away to college. Which means I won’t be here every day when you get home from work. Try not to cry. Especially right now, Dad. Sheesh.

3)      Brady: I can’t wait to watch that Yogi the Bear movie! I love him. And Owie.

Traci: Owie?

Brady: Yogi the Bear’s friend.

Me: You mean Boo Boo?

Brady: That’s what I said. Owie.

4)      Kacie: Can we not talk about penises?

Me: Your brother started it. Not me.

Kacie: He’s four. You haven’t been four in a long time. Like decades.

Me: If he wants to ask me about his penis then we’ll talk about his penis.

Kacie: Dad! Please! I don’t want to hear, talk, or think about penises.

Me: Remember that. Until you graduate college. Then maybe not until you’ve secured a good job for yourself. But at least graduate college first. Then you can think about penises all you want.

Kacie: If you mention that word again I’m going to talk about Justin Bieber until you beg me to stop.

5)      Brady: Daddy, you and my mommy have to make a baby.

Me: No, no we don’t.

Brady: Yes. You have to. You can create one.

Me: And how are we going to create one?

Brady: I have paper and Crayons. You can use them.

It’s hard to do anything that resembles actual parenting when your children are always spouting off crap like this, especially when they’re saying it while you’re trying to dole out punishments. I mean, how is one supposed to be taken seriously as a parent when the phrase “Go to your room!” can’t even be uttered with a straight face? I smile. They smile. I laugh. They laugh. I send them across the room to their mother so that she can succeed where I failed. It’s a vicious cycle that only perpetuates the notion that sometimes my parenting skills are downright anemic.

It’s all good in the Parent Hood though. Their daily shtick means that I get to write down anything I want regarding their antics and then share said antics with the world. If it embarrasses them then maybe it’ll teach them to be nicer to Daddy and occasionally allow (or at least pretend to allow) me to have the upper hand in all of this. Fair trade if you ask me.

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My Life Has Come to This

I’ve been informed that today is National Bike to Work Day.

As many of you know, I wrote in March about how I was thinking of riding a bike to and from work several days a week in an attempt to save money at the pump and get fit. Can I just say that the very notion of my riding a bike to work might have been the singled dopiest idea I’d ever come up with in thirty-five years of dreaming up stupid ideas?

I arrived at this conclusion one afternoon while sitting at a stoplight on the way home from work. As I waited for the stoplight to favor me, I saw a man and woman riding unicycles across the intersection of Proposed Bike Route #4.  Yes, I said unicycles.  You know…the bikes that don’t have handlebars or a second wheel? Stupid, I know.

Both people were struggling to cross before the light turned against them. I found myself hoping they’d fail, that traffic would bear down on them quickly, forcing the couple to jump ship just in time to watch their stupidcycles get crushed beneath a semi. Harsh? Yes, but these characters were invading my bike route – the route that I’d spent weeks researching and travelling and timing and adjusting and travelling all over again. Proposed Bike Route #4 was not theirs.

No such luck.

Upon my arrival home that day, I decided to give the bike another shot. It didn’t reciprocate. The bike hates my guts. So I humbly come to you to say that there will be no riding one to work any day, let alone on a day when the rest of the nation has decided to make a mockery out of me.

Instead I’m compelled to tell you that my life has come to this: Walking on the treadmill with cellophane wrapped around my belly after an intense P90X workout. Yes, I feel like Sunday’s leftover pork roast when I hit the gym, but it was either this or Skinnygirl Margaritas. I went with the option I felt would dock me the least points on my steadily declining Man Card. The jury is still out.

*Please insert jokes in the comment section below. Ridicule from the usual members of the Peanut Gallery gladly accepted, but I’d like to hear from some of my newer readers. Winner will receive nothing but my utmost respect. And contempt.*

**Kacie, this does not apply to you as I am restricting your commenting privileges. Love, Daddy.**

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Teen of My Heart

My daughter has betrayed me. Again.

Today, without first asking for my permission, Kacie has entered the world of teenagerdom – or teenager dumb. Either or. And both, really.

This is where, for the next six years, she’s made the commitment to make my life hell. By enlisting in the not-so-clandestine organization T.E.E.N. she’s accepted a seven year mission to push limits to the extreme and force her mother and me to create new limits where there once were none.

I know nothing about raising a teenage girl. I was barely coping with being a parent in general, when I just had “kids.” It was okay before because I knew what it was like to be a kid – mainly because I still am one. I was finally getting it down. Coming into my own.

But this is different.

I don’t speak Period or Feminine Hygiene Product or ­­­Miniskirts & High Heels. I don’t know what it’s like to have your heart broken by some boy who’s decided just eighteen hours after the world’s longest makeout session at a party you didn’t even have permission to be at in the first place that he likes your best friend better than he does you.

I can’t ask my mom for advice. Yes, she raised five kids (three of which were girls), but she’d be zero help. Her only response would be: “Remember when I told you this day would come? Well, it’s here and I’m not even going to pretend to feel sorry for you.”

Surely there’s a support group out there to help walk me through this. Like a Craigslist for dads. Maybe Dadslist? Mydaughterbrokemyheart.com? Suckstobeme.org?

When I looked at her this morning it was like a stranger was staring back at me, smiling, waiting for me to make the first move even though she’d already made it. All I could do was kiss her on the head and tell her to have a good day and then quickly bail before the floodgates opened and my mascara started to smear.

But at some point in the next few hours I have to go home and face her. No matter how hard I may try to pretend today like nothing’s changed, everything’s changed. I’ll learn to be okay with it. Eventually. Just not today.

Kacie – I love you. You’re more than anything I could have hoped for and better than anything I’ll ever deserve. But you’re grounded.

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Taking Back Television

This is where, if I were a real man, I’d say that my wife is right. But I’m not and to be quite honest am perfectly okay with that.

She’s been pestering me to get rid of some (all) of the TVs in our possession, or at the very least dumb down our cable subscription. I’ve said it before -- that’s just a horrible idea on so many levels. But as farfetched as her drastic measures come off, I’m thinking there’s a solution somewhere within the madness that could work if it means my regaining control of the remote.

My recent epiphany stems from two separate instances yesterday that made me realize I watch, or at least hear, too many children’s television shows on a daily basis. These shows all have catchy tunes that get stuck in your head like a bad song from the 90’s. And because the shows and even the commercials are played on what seems like a continuous loop, it’s easy to find yourself repeating lines of dialogue (or shouting them when Swiper is swiping) in unison with your kid without even realizing you’re doing it.

I submit for the defense:

Instance One

A friend and I are at work discussing possible lunch options. He’s been begging me to go out to eat with him. By begging, I mean giving me a hard time because of the diet I’ve been on for the last three weeks and my decision to punt foods that helped put me in my current dietary predicament. It’s become part of our daily shtick.

He suggests burgers. Ice cream. Tasty chicken tenders, fries, and sweet tea from Raising Cane’s (which I would absolutely love to say yes to but am putting off for a few more weeks). Burritos de Freebirds. I say no to all. He rolls his eyes, displeased in my new lifestyle choices and how they now affect him.

He turns back to his computer and pouts. And by pouts, I mean drops the subject and gets back to work because he really had no intention of going out for lunch anyways because he’d brought his. I decide to turn the table and get his hopes up for an hour-long jailbreak from the office.

Me: What about Ming-Ming.

David: Huh?

Me: For lunch.

David: Ming-Ming?

Me: The Asian restaurant by Target??

David: (confused) You mean NewNew???

Me: Oh, right. Ming Ming is the duck on Wonder Pets…

Instance Two

Last night I’m taking my final Short Fiction test of the semester. For the life of me I cannot remember several answers to what should be some pretty easy questions. My mind was beyond blank.

There was one question in particular that asked about David Barthelme’s short story “The School” and what kind of animal walked into the classroom at the end which caused the kids to go crazy. Sounds simple enough, right? Nope. All I could come up with was a dinosaur. Why a dinosaur, you ask? I was picturing the story as it played out in my head, which turns out really wasn’t the story by David Barthelme at all but instead an episode of Dino Dan.

The culprit is Nick Jr., which is always on at our house. And while it’s a pretty good influence on my kid as far as television is concerned, I’d really like Brady to watch a little more in the way of classic cartoons and a little less pre-school entertainment while I’m around. I mean, a 35-year-old man singing the theme song for Scooby Doo out in public is a little less creepy than one singing “We had a great day. It was a super way, to spend some time together” from the Fresh Beat Band.

Something has to be done while I still have a tiny bit of dignity left.

My proposal? Not to take television away from the kids but to take it back period. Ground Brady from television just long enough that he moves on to kid shows that are more age appropriate for me to openly enjoy and publicly reference. Make him read instead. Sure, he’s only four but there’s no reason to think he can’t teach himself how to read. I mean, the boy already knows ‘hat’ and ‘cat’ and ‘dog.’ This way, should he be able to pick up on a word like ‘superfluous’ somewhere between Dr. Seuss and Ernest Hemingway, making me look like a genius.

You’re welcome, dear.

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Brace For It

Today I have taken the plunge deeper into debt, and in doing so, have totally fooked myself when it comes time for Kacie to start dating.

You see, she’s getting braces. Right now, actually.

Braces are something Kacie’s wanted for a while. I tell my daughter, like most fathers tell their own daughters, that I think she’s gorgeous. She says that’s not why she wants braces. Instead she says that she just wants to have better teeth, a better smile. I can buy that, I suppose.

For me though, it’s Kacie’s eyes that have always had a way of doing the smiling for her, if that makes sense. It’s something I’ve loved about her from Day One – the way the corners of her eyes crinkle just a tiny bit and her blue eyes seem to become even bluer when she’s happy. But now, because we’ve succumbed to doing right by her teeth, Traci and I are arming our firstborn with a toothy smile that’s going to make her even more beautiful than she already is. I may as well start saving now for the wedding. Sorry, Milky Way. I can no longer afford to entertain you or your other friends from the candy barrio.

Last night I asked Kacie if she was nervous. She wasn’t.

I asked if she thought it’d hurt. She wasn’t worried about that either – she just wanted to finally be able to punt the spacer she’d been using the last two weeks. She said that’s what hurt.

I asked if she was afraid of getting teased. I called her “metal mouth” and “brace face” and something else that I can’t think of offhand. I wanted to test her, to see if she was ready for the possible ridicule that could come with such a commitment.

“Is that all you’ve got, Dad?” She wasn’t fazed. “You’re a writer. I thought you’d be better at this.”

“It’s ‘Daddy,’ just so you know.”

“Dad,” she said with a soft, emphatic tone.

She smiled. My heart tried to give in.

“Um, no. Try again.”

“Fine. And no, I’m not afraid.”

“Okay, I’m glad. Now go finish your homework. But it’s ‘Daddy.’ Got it?”

“Got it,” she said, disappearing into the hallway. “Dad…”

Why wasn’t Kacie nervous or worried or afraid like I was? How, at twelve, could she be so confident about herself and the decision she’d made to get them? Why can’t I be as confident at times as she is?

And who gave her permission to stop calling me “Daddy?” Not me, of course. Was this some evil plot orchestrated by my wife because the kids stopped calling her “Mommy” some time ago? Sorry. I know. Focus.

So now I’m waiting, anxiously, for someone to call or email or text or something and say that everything’s okay…that despite having several months’ salary wired into her mouth now, my little girl is good to go – no different from when I saw her just a few hours ago when I poked my head in her bedroom and blew her a kiss goodbye before leaving for work.

More important than her well-being, I need Kacie to hurry up while she’s still groggy and sign the agreement I had drafted this morning that specifically forbids her from falling in love and leaving me one day because some dopey kid thinks she has a beautiful smile and can’t live without her. It’s going to happen. Just ask my father-in-law.

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Who Needs You, Babies?

I love television. It’s an actual part of who I am.

My wife hates this. If it were up to her, we wouldn’t own a single TV. Talk about irrational.

When I was a kid, I used to get grounded a lot. Part of that grounding was the relinquishment of TV privileges. But I, like every child, became smarter than my parents.

Tired of missing episodes of Quantum Leap, My Two Dads, and Cheers I set out to take a proactive stance. I started tape recording my favorite shows so that I could listen to them when watching was prohibited, in effect beating the system.

It got to the point where I didn’t even need to see the shows; I knew the main characters on each by heart. I could imagine the entire episode solely from the dialogue. To this day I vividly remember how Sam Malone was confounded when Rebecca asked why more men couldn’t send flowers. He knew Mormons couldn’t dance, but unable to send flowers?

Having said this, don’t mistake my love of television for a willingness to watch crap. My attention span is limited, and my patience almost nil. I need some sort of story. Good dialogue and well created characters help too. Every once in a while I let my guard down though, and the result isn’t one I’m usually proud of – yet here I am outing myself to the world.

While flipping through the channels over the weekend I landed on One Born Every Minute. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the show, you probably don’t need me to say anything more after I tell you it’s on Lifetime. But just in case the obvious escapes you or you just want me to come out and say it, the show is about childbirth. Yes, childbirth. Sadly, 200+ channels and this was the best I could do on a Sunday evening.

Dear Brad,

We regret to inform you that your Man Card has been revoked and membership canceled. Please discontinue use effective immediately.

Sincerely,

Your Ego

PS – Please check your estrogen levels.

I watched alone for the first few minutes, but eventually the rest of the clan trickled in before the show’s halfway point.

There were three women featured: A woman having her first child, one having her fifth, and the last on her second surrogacy.

The more we watched, the more each of us became involved for our own reasons. Traci remembered the intimacy she felt when carrying our little tax deductions. Kacie watched with a sort of confliction, thinking another kid in the family might not be so bad, but her limited knowledge of the conceiving process creeped her out. My thoughts were somewhere in the middle of longing for another baby to fall asleep on my chest each night and not wanting any part of adding to our grocery bill because the first two betrayed me and no longer fit snuggly on my chest.

“I want two babies,” Brady said, as if we didn’t already know what was on his mind while he watched.

“They’re sleeping in your room, Brady,” Kacie said.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yes, Brady. I’ve had to share a room with you. I’m not sharing a room with them.”

“Yes you are.” I’m really going to have to sign this kid up in debate class. He’s that good.

I looked at Kacie and shook my head, pleading with her to let it go. There was no need to perpetuate the divvying up of our current lack of bedroom space. She grabbed one of the chair pillows from behind her and squeezed the life out of it. She feels we take his side a lot. I wanted to say something poetic, something that a dad totally in love with his baby girl should be able to come up with on the fly. I had nothing.

The show resumed. I let out a heavy exhale. Bullet dodged.

“And a puppy,” Brady finished, adding his own period to the matter, just in case we hadn’t heard him any of the 247 other times he’d brought it up.

As the show progressed, our children saw for the first time a glimpse of what childbirth involves. They heard the screams. They witnessed the tears. They saw, despite Lifetime’s best efforts to blur it out, where babies come from. They were horrified.

Traci and I looked at each of them, knowing their facial expressions would be worth the price of admission. Kacie pulled the pillow even closer to her – trying to balance the maternal feelings with those of disgust. Brady was spread out on the floor, both hands cupped under his chin, propping his head up. His wide eyes didn’t blink and his gaping mouth struggled for something to say.

“Those babies are not coming out of me!” he shouted, staring in my direction, no longer suffering from a lack of words.

The girls laughed. Sure it was funny, but they weren’t the ones being asked to fall on their swords and birth him ready-made companions to play Hot Wheels with. No, this was apparently a job for Daddy…all because I love television more than the air I breathe and couldn’t just turn it off for an hour.

Dear Lifetime,

Why do you have to show such emotionally charged movies and television series that suck me in? Keep up the good work!

Sincerely,

Man Cardless in Dallas

PS – Are you hiring new writers? Please let me know. Thanks.

Now, much like Sam Malone, I find myself wondering what else more men don’t do.

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