Drink of the Week: Mother Earth Endless River

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Brewed in tiny Kinston, N.C. at Mother Earth Brewing, Endless River is a super light  German kolsch style ale. It’s tasty enough to get excited about, but light enough to drink all day long. Get a small cooler, ice, and a six pack of Endless River and spend your entire Saturday in your front yard, drinking the bottles slowly while you knock out last minute Fall home projects, like painting your brand new fence cliché white. Normally, painting a fence sucks, which is why you’ve put it off so long. But today, you’ve got beer, and more importantly, the kids aren’t your responsibility. Because you’re painting the fence. Getting shit done. You can hear them screaming inside the house (something about wanting the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches cut into circles, not triangles), but that’s not your problem today. Your spouse is on tantrum duty. Because you’re painting the fence. Monotonous tasks never felt so relaxing. It’s like a little vacation. Put the headphones in. Have another Endless River.

Hop Scotch…Or Just a Scotch, Please

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You know what your local playground needs? A margarita machine. And if you’re installing a margarita machine, you may as well go ahead and put in a fully stocked bar. Obviously, there would be some added liability issues with a playground that had happy hour, but the pros completely outweigh the cons. Don’t believe me? Read my latest blog at Breathe, and be convinced.

 

 

I Learned It From Watching You, Dad!

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Can you pass irrational fear onto your children genetically? Like hair color? My kids aren’t scared of monsters or witches or dogs or getting hit by a car or catching West Nile. But volcanoes? Terrified. They stay up at night worrying about the hot lava, even after my wife and I explained to them that we live about 2,000 miles from the nearest volcano. We showed them that we’d have to get on a plane and fly far, far away. Then we’d have to get in a Jeep and drive a long way. Then we’d have to hike for miles before ever having to worry about being burned by hot lava. (Sidenote: Now, every time they see an airplane, they assume the passengers are going to see a volcano). 

Still, my son is obsesses over volcanoes and is concerned with his favorite things melting. “Daddy, does Buzz Light Year melt?” I have no idea what the melting temperature of Taiwanese plastic is, so I just tell him no. God help us if he ever sees that scene in Indiana Jones where the bad guy’s face melts off. He won’t sleep for weeks.

He’s also really concerned with turning 4. “I don’t want to be 4,” he says, crying a little. Even though his birthday is months away, he agonizes over getting older. This morning, while on the way to one of the brief periods of peace in my life commonly referred to as “child care,” he was staring out the window and said, with a hint of melancholy, “I just want to be 2 again.” Sigh.

What the fuck?

I tried to tell him that being 2 wasn’t all that great. He couldn’t ride a bike. Couldn’t poop in the potty. Couldn’t get Daddy a beer from the fridge…but he wouldn’t have any of it. He’s not even in kindergarten yet, and he thinks his best years are behind him.

My wife told me his irrational fears weren’t genetic, they were learned. Which is a round about way of saying I’m passing on my own neurosis to my children just by being in constant contact with them. It’s like a communicable disease.

And she’s right. I’m scared of just about everything. Some examples: Falling over the second story railing at the mall. Being pushed in front of traffic by a stranger while waiting at a crowded crosswalk. Deportation (I was born in the U.S., but you never know). Public bathrooms.

Public bathrooms are probably at the top of my fear list. One of the things I admire most about my very naïve children is their ability to poop anywhere. Gas station bathroom with an inch of mystery liquid on the floor? “Daddy, I have to poop.”

Personally, I can only poop in two places: My own bathroom, when everyone else in the house is asleep, and Barnes and Noble, but only within 20 minutes of the store opening. Any later and I start imagining all of the people that have beat me to the throne.

I’m also scared of getting hit by a foul ball at baseball games. Strokes (do you smell burnt toast?). Werewolves. Cartoon-induced seizures. Getting charged by a rhino in Africa. Hula hoops. Mascots for professional sports teams. Having to get a real job.

I could go on. It might be easier to list the things I’m not scared of. It’s a short list. Sex. Puppies. Although puppies have unusually sharp teeth. Why is that?

And here’s a short list of things I’m not scared of that I probably should be scared of: Strippers. The bowl of communal nuts at a bar. Drinking while boating. Liquor distilled in a bathtub. Backyard fireworks shows.

But I digress.

So, in the great Nature/Nurture debate, have I passed the tendency to fear irrationally onto my children genetically, or am I simply teaching them to fear the world by putting my own neurosis on display day after day?

I guess the end result is the same either way: two kids who use an inordinate amount of hand sanitizer and who don’t trust the mailman. On the upside, it’s kind of fun to see what the kids will be scared of next. There were a couple of weeks where both kids feared all kinds of different shellfish. For a few of days, my daughter was scared of iguanas. Who knows what fears will surface in the future! Cumulus clouds? Cured meats? Republicans? Cloggers? The sky’s the limit.

Let me know what you or your kids are scared of. The weirder the better. No judgment here.

 

 

Grocery List

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What are my thoughts on “The Greatest Generation”? (Hint: It involves their tendency to use profanity in public). How is the grocery store a lot like a strip club? Will I be arrested for dishing parenting advice like “make your kids run hill repeats before taking them out in public.”?

Find out the answers to all these questions by reading my latest blog at Breathe Magazine! 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

Drink of the Week: PBR, 24 Ounces

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No, not a Tall Boy. A 24 ouncer, which is like, a third bigger than a Tall Boy and demands significantly more commitment. Preferably, the beer should be pre-warmed in the bottle cage of your road bike. Enter that road bike and Super Tall Boy PBR in a sprint race up the side of a mountain—the kind of race where Olympic medalists show up, and everyone talks about “tapering their training.” You should immediately get disqualified from the race because your wife beater and jean shorts don’t meet US Cycling Association “standards,” but then demand to race anyway, promising to donate all of your winnings to the charity of the USA Cycling Association official’s choice. Drink that warm PBR slowly, at the finish line at the top of the mountain, in front of that USA Cycling Association official. Preferably, you should drink it with at least two other friends, also over-worked, over-tired dads dressed in jean cutoffs and wife beaters. Because sometimes, dads need to get together and do something that embarrasses their wives.

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.

Drink of the Week: Smooth Ambler Gin Martini (two of them)

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I found this small batch gin outside of Lewisburg, West Virginia. They get the grains, and botanicals locally, and have won a couple of bronze medals at weighty spirits competitions.

I’m usually a beer guy, but it’s been a rough week full of sickness, tantrums, and potty accidents—and that’s just me. Don’t even get me started on the week my kids have had.

Pour copious amounts of Smooth Ambler gin and two splashes of olive juice into a shaker with half crushed ice and half cubed ice (no, I don’t use vermouth). Shake the hell out of it, so the ice breaks down, watering the gin just a little. When you pour the martini into your glass, the liquid should be slightly cloudy and just a little bit slushy with ice crystals.

Drop a jalapeno stuffed olive into the glass and drink it fast, while it’s still ice-cold. You have another one waiting.

Find Smooth Ambler here.