Category Archives: parenting

Name Envy

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Every time I hit the park with the kids, I come away with name envy. Nobody under the age of 10 is named Jack or Suzie anymore. At our neighborhood playground, we’re swinging with kids named Stellar and Finger. Magic and Fellow. Seriously, I know a kid named Mars. We take gymnastics with Fate and Beta. Beta! How cool is that? My wife and I took a more traditional route in the name department, although, we did name our son after the dog. That’ll be fun to explain when he’s old enough. (Does anyone know what age is the right age to tell your child they were named after a golden retriever?) Cooper’s a great name, but is it as great as Fast-track Johnny? Is Addie Shore as memorable as Skittle?

Before I had kids, I thought parents were setting their kids up for failure by choosing outlandish names. Can you imagine a woman named Pickle leading a business seminar? Or a dude named Nintendo running for Congress? And let’s face it, if you name your girl Glitter or Champagne, she’s going to be a stripper. That’s a scientific fact.

But now, I say the wilder the name the better. It’s actually a little shocking that it’s taken so long for our names to evolve into the awesomeness that we have today. (Does anyone out there have a kid named Awesome?) Why stick to tradition? Instead of naming your kid after a beloved relative, name your kid after the thing you love most. You love canned meat? Name your kid Spam. Or Vienna. Of course, if I had followed that rule, I’d have twins named TV and Budweiser…which would be awesome. Everyone loves TV and I guarantee you that a boy named Budweiser would never get picked on in school.

Really, all you’re doing when you name your kid Pabst, is taking the opportunity to tell the world just how cool you are. I get it. Sometimes, the ironic t-shirt and mustache just aren’t enough. You need to take it a step further and name your son Singlespeed. Well how about just cutting to the chase and name your kid after the sexual position used during conception. Talk about honesty in advertising. The world would know immediately what you’re into, no bumper stickers necessary. Introduce the neighbors to your daughter named Missionary, and they’ll know you’ll be voting Republican this November and probably won’t be having any late night parties. But strut your son named Wheelbarrow around the company picnic, and colleagues will envy your sense of adventure.

Probably best to keep that kid named Orgy under wraps though.

Independence Day

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How do you work Maxim magazine, public urination, and 3am donut runs into the same essay? You write about toddler independence–that golden period in a kid’s life when she figures out she can do things for herself, but has no idea about the consequences of eating carbs after 7pm…or public nudity.

Check out my latest blog at Breathe Magazine. And before you ask–no, my kids didn’t suddenly become two cute Asian girls. Although I think the new iPhone 5 has an app for that.

 

 

Inspirational Messages (and other bulls$#!)

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I hit rock bottom today and almost bought a journal with inspirational messages in it. You know, a leather-bound, important looking book with messages printed at the top of each page like, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.–Wayne Gretzky”, or  “A wise man will make more opportunities than he finds.–Francis Bacon.”

Maybe I’m jaded, but I have little patience for inspirational messages. Who has the energy for inspiration? You know what gets me motivated? Coffee. Eight hours of sleep. My wife naked. The mortgage. That’s about it.

What can I say? I’m a simple man with simple needs.

So screw you, Sir Francis Bacon. I don’t need your inspiring quips.

Now, what I do love, are misspelled inspirational messages. Like this beautiful little nugget on my coffee cup. Right on the lip of the cup, it reads, “Love the Momet.”

It’s my favorite mug. I love to sip my coffee in the morning and wonder, “what’s a momet?” (I put the emphasis on the “e”). I picture the momet as a cute, furry animal with a blonde stripe down its back. Maybe it was was prized for its pelt by Germanic tribes during the 15th century.

But in the spirit of posters with kittens hanging on trees, I’ve come up with my own inspirational messages for other parents with young children. When times get tough, (you know, around 6pm every freaking night) just think about one of these gems.

1)    Money can’t buy love. But ice cream can.

2)     Take a deep breath. They’ll be in public school soon. Then they’re the city’s problem.

3)     Somewhere, some scientist is working on a study that claims Vodka is a superfood.

4)     You can’t beat your children. But subtle manipulation using the promise of Disney cartoons and M&M’s? There’s no law against that. 

Parenting While Sick: The Sixth Circle of Hell

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I’ve been struggling with a nasty flu that hit me fast. I’m no doctor, but the high fever, cold sweats, and general misery are all symptoms of a radioactive spider bite. So I’m thinking there’s a good chance I’ll come out of this thing with super powers, which is exciting, but also kind of unnerving because my frame isn’t exactly built for a leotard, you know?

Sadly, the doctor disagreed with my diagnosis. There would be no superpowers. It was just something viral that one of my kids brought home. Children truly are the gift that keeps on giving.

Throughout all this, I got to enjoy a couple of brutal days of parenting while sick. My wife abandoned me for “work,” leaving me with 12 hours of quality time with two 3.5-year-olds and a 101 fever.

It’s a little known fact that “parenting while sick” was actually the punishment given to heretics in the sixth circle of hell in Dante’s Inferno, but Dante’s editor thought the punishment was too harsh, so they went with flaming tombs instead.

Every typical parenting duty—getting the kids dressed, fixing breakfast—is a slow, agonizing torture when your fever is so high you can feel your toenails grow. Suddenly, a simple request like, “daddy, can I have a juice box?” becomes a monumental feat of heroics. It’s only 12 steps from the couch to the fridge, but she may as well have asked me to squeeze the apple juice from a stone.

I spent a lot of time “supervising” from the couch…with my eyes closed.

On the upside, I learned that my two little toddlers are really sweet children with an amazing capacity for empathy. My daughter kept bringing me various trinkets (a watch, a juice box, a salt shaker) and saying, “this will make your body better, daddy.” My son didn’t throw a single tantrum over the color of his milk cup, the volume of the TV, the wattage of the light bulbs—the things that usually set him off. Instead, they played well together, building an entire city of block towers, and asked me throughout the day if I was feeling any better now.

I also learned that I’m probably a better parent when I’m sick, which is surprising. I’ve always known that I’m a great “tipsy parent” (no one loves their kids more than I love my kids after four beers), but I’m probably the world’s worst hungover parent. The combination of physical pain and emotional guilt is too much for my feeble mind to handle.

Sidenote: I’ve always suspected that potheads would make great stay-at-home parents. Is anyone more patient or better at craft projects? I don’t think so.

Anyway, when I was sick, I was way more patient than I usually am, and by patient, I mean I let the kids do whatever they wanted.

Goldfish and donuts for lunch? Sounds good. Want to build a tower out of old batteries and scissors? Wash your hands first.

I just didn’t have the energy to fight the good fight for nutrition and safety. Maybe tomorrow.

For the Ladies

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The six scariest words you’ll hear from your three-year-old: Look daddy, I have glitter glue.

The six scariest words you’ll hear from a heavily bearded man who drinks too much and spends most of his time with two three-year-olds:  I’m blogging for a women’s magazine.

What could possibly go wrong? Check it out.

Read Breathe, people. Read Breathe.

Lie to Me: Five Lies I’m Proud of Telling My Kids

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Parents lie to their children. That’s a fact of life. Some do it better than others, but we all do it. Could you imagine a world where parents were honest with their kids?

“Actually, Timmy, there’s a really, really good chance that you won’t be an astronaut. Considering your complete inability to understand long division, you’re probably going to sell cars when you grow up. Now let’s talk about Santa Claus.”

So we lie. Mostly about the little things. My parents were great at it. The most famous lie my parents ever told their kids happened during a move from Georgia to Texas. My parents told their kids that it was against the law to transport a dog across state lines.

Brilliant. The dog was a pain in the ass, they didn’t want to take him along. I understand this now, and it serves as inspiration for my own suite of lies that I rely on to get through the day.

The key to a good lie, is to lay the blame on a third party. For instance, let’s say you want your kid to wear a jacket. Tell him it’s an order from his pediatrician. “Dr. Love (our pediatrician) says you have to wear a jacket when it’s below 50 degrees. I’m sorry, son, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

We lay a lot of shit on Dr. Love. “Dr. Love says I’m not allowed to carry you on walks anymore. You have to walk on your own. I know, I think it sucks too. We should talk to Dr. Love about it the next time we see him.”

“Dr. Love says you’re big enough now to open the fridge and get daddy a beer…”

You see where I’m going with this. So, here are five lies I’m okay with telling my children.

1. Elmo is sad because you didn’t take a nap. (Simple, effective…no kid wants to disappoint Elmo. You can use that love to your advantage.)

2. Princesses always pick up their toys after they’re done playing. (I’ve never met a princess, but something tells me they don’t spend a lot of time cleaning up after themselves.)

3. Every time you flick the lights on and off, a fairy dies. (Harsh? Sure. But do my kids constantly flick the lights on and off, anymore? No.)

4. We have to leave this park right now, because there are killer bees. (This one works, but it comes with consequences. My kids are really scared of bees now.)

5. Mommy and daddy have a work meeting, that’s why we have to get a babysitter. (There is no work meeting. Mommy and daddy just need three hours of peace and quiet and a meal that doesn’t include french fries. Okay, even that was a lie. We’re totally ordering the french fries.)

So, parents, what are the best lies you tell your children? Or, what lies did your parents tell you as a kid?

 

Ding Dongs and Duracells

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This is what my son asked to put on the grocery list this week: Pez, batteries, and chocolate donuts. I asked if that’s all we needed from the store for the entire week—maybe we should add some milk, or some veggies—but he stuck to his guns. Pez, batteries, and chocolate donuts. Childhood obesity aside, you’ve gotta respect the kid’s whimsical outlook on life.

It reminds me of a story my mom likes to tell about how I tried to run away as a little kid. She told me I couldn’t run away because I didn’t know how to cook or tie my shoes. I said I’d eat cookies and wear loafers.

Cute, until you realize I was 12 and still couldn’t tie my shoes.

Anyway, there was a time, not too long ago, when I would’ve taken my son’s challenge and stocked the grocery cart with nothing but ding dongs and Duracells. Carpe diem, mother fuckers.

But I don’t carpe diem so much anymore. I’d like to say it’s because I’ve matured, but mostly it’s because I have to get up in the morning and spend a solid 12 hours catering to every whim of my two children. At about 6am, my kids will start asking me, “what are we going to do today, daddy?” I can hold them off with cartoons for a while, but by 7am, if I don’t have a firm plan for the day that includes a craft project and the slim possibility of them being able to pet a live lion, it’ll get “Lord of the Flies” up in here real quick.

I can remember the last time I seized the day. Actually, I can’t remember the actual seizing of the day, but I remember the day after, when I spent a significant amount of time throwing up loudly in the bathroom while my daughter cried outside the door, and repeatedly asked her brother, “what’s wrong with daddy?”

Yeah, that’ll fix any inclinations to carpe the fucking diem.

And let’s say I did some carpe diem-ing with my children, threw caution to the wind and fed the family chocolate donuts for breakfast, lunch, and snack. Do you know what happens when my kids skip their nap? The cat will get shaved.

These days, I have a new motto: Seize the tomorrow. Carpe, uh, tomorrow (sorry, the only Latin I know comes from Dead Poets Society). It takes copious amounts of planning, saving, resting, and monitoring of blood pressure levels to truly seize the tomorrow. Most of the time, I fall completely short, and only manage to seize the couch.

Five…no make that Eight…People I Hate Right Now

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Ok, I know this is a negative topic and the world has enough negativity in it (See Fox News and MSNBC). But I’m stuck on a grounded airplane in 100-degree heat, so I feel like being negative right now. Tomorrow I’ll be in a better mood and I probably won’t hate any of these people. Except number 4. I’ll always hate number 4. So, here you go. People I hate right now.

1)   People who read books in public. Fuck you and your free time. What, you have nothing better to do on a Tuesday at 2pm than sit in a coffee shop and read the Steve Jobs biography? Get a job.

2)   People who close their eyes when they hug someone and hold on for longer than three seconds. A hug should be like taking a charge in basketball—contact should be brief and largely imagined. Better yet, why not just wave goodbye?

3)   People who say, “I’m super picky about my falafel.”

4)   Anyone wearing a scarf.

5)   Parents who go to parenting workshops about conscious parenting. Stop trying so hard. I’m not even entirely sure what conscious parenting is, but I think it means being sober through the majority of your kid’s childhood, so count me out.

6)   People who walk around the airport wearing their neck pillows. Is it really too heavy to carry in your hand?

7)   Speaking of pillows, my wife hates people who insist on bringing their pillow from home when they travel. I totally agree with her, and I’ve never loved her more than when she’s bashing a complete stranger based on an insignificant detail like this.

8)   People who upload Facebook photos of the vegetables they grew in their garden. Bravo, you planted a seed and watered it. I’m supposed to hit the “like” button for this? My toddlers can do this. And I’m not just bitter because everything I stick in the ground literally turns to dust. I’m not. I swear.

Please chime in. Tell me who you hate right now. And don’t say self-absorbed bloggers, because that’s too easy.

 

White Trash, or Awesome?

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I understand that putting an above ground pool in your front yard is a bit white trash, but what’s the ruling on a kiddie pool in your living room? My instincts tell me that this also lands squarely on the white trash side of the line, but my kids are trying to convince me that it’s a good idea…and I’m starting to believe them. Is it possible that putting an inflatable kiddie pull in your living room is so far on the “white trash” side that it actually comes back around to the “awesome” side? Like dune buggies, Budweiser tall boys, and Dukes of Hazard reruns?

Think about this. If we keep the pool in our living room, I can sit in it, while drinking a Budweiser tall boy and watching Dukes of Hazard reruns. Nobody in their right mind would say that’s anything but awesome. I’m open to incorporating a dune buggy ride in there too, as long as it doesn’t ruin the rug.

 

Father’s Day

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The kids are working on a super-secret father’s day present in day care today. The teacher won’t tell me what it is and the kids aren’t talking either. We live in one of those alternative towns that’s always on the “Best Places to Live” lists, so I assume the present is something completely worthless, like a Tibetan prayer flag made from recycled restaurant napkins. Fucking hippies. Not that I ever gave my own dad anything worthwhile on Father’s Day. I leaned heavily on the standards (ties and grilling paraphernalia), because, like most kids, all I ever saw my dad do was go to work or operate the grill. He’s retired now and those are still his two favorite things to do.

I think it’s safe to assume the kids won’t be making me an ashtray. I wonder who was the last kid in America to make his dad a Father’s Day ashtray in school? Is there a name for that generational cutoff—the kids who were raised in an era where all dads smoked? The Second-Hand Generation?

Whatever the kids make me, I’m sure I’ll cherish it forever…or at least until they go to bed and I can safely throw it away without causing a tantrum. My wife keeps asking me what I want for Father’s Day, and I keep telling her that the kids have already given me the greatest gift ever. In reality, I want what all dads want: pornography and booze. But some stupid federal laws keep my kids from buying either of those things, so I’ll just smile and take the tie or grilling utensils, just like my dad did.

Besides, we all know Father’s Day isn’t really about fathers. It’s about mothers having a designated day to be nice to their husbands in order to assuage their guilt about incessantly nagging those husbands the other 364 days out of the year. A friend of mine suggested we take a guy’s trip over Father’s Day weekend. On paper, it looks like a good idea—if there’s one day out of the year a dad should get to do what he wants (drink beer on the beach and look at college chicks in bikinis), it’s Father’s Day. But I quickly declined and advised the other dads in the group to do the same. The delicate balance of our marriages would be disrupted if we deny our ladies that singular opportunity to repent for their year of sins.

As for Mother’s Day, that’s obviously a sham too, because as we all know, everyday is Mother’s Day. The entire institution of marriage depends on the husband doing exactly what the wife wants day in, day out. She chooses the restaurant, the movie, the weekend activities, the vacation, the car…Any dude who disagrees is either naïve or divorced. You may think you’re the master of your own universe, but peek behind the curtain and you’ll see your wife is really pulling all the strings.

Do I sound bitter? I’m not. Like all happily married men, I consider myself lucky to be in this situation. There are two good reasons why we’re happily subservient: 1) Our wives are pretty. They’ve agreed to hang out with us and let us see them naked for the rest of our lives. Awesome. 2) Our wives are smarter than we are. You can disagree with this all you want, but the fact is, if men truly called the shots in their family, the household would resort to something like Thunderdome. Nobody wants that. Long live Mother’s Day.