Tag Archives: boys

Sleeping In

Sound asleep.  That was me until my alarm started beeping and bonking.  My first emotion of the day was disappointment.  Here’s why.

It was Saturday.  A day to actually sleep in.  Nothing to do.  Sleep until your body says done.  These days, my Saturday-sleep-in is usually cancelled because I’m a professional chauffeur.  My teenage boys need to be at the school for something or on the fields for something else.  And I am the driver.

I guess I’m not really a professional.  That would imply that I’m getting paid for my services.  How many professional chauffeurs drop their clients off and then have to fork over five bucks so that their clients can buy a drink and a hot dog?  I’m guessing “none” is the answer.  But how awesome would that be?  A stupid chauffeur that pays you.

“Sir, we have reached your destination.  Let me get the door for you.  And sir, here is your tip.”  The driver hands you a five-spot.

“Shouldn’t I be tipping you?”

“Oh, is that how it should work?”

“No, your way is good.  But now I can’t believe that you actually got us here safely.”

“Are you calling me stupid?”

“Sort of.”

“Oh.  Alright, here is five more dollars.”

Back on track.  This Saturday I had nothing planned.  No morning events at all.  Boys sleeping in like the good little teenage slugs that they should be.  But there was my alarm—yelling at me like the angry little chunk of electronics that it is.  Rude really.  I rolled over to shut it off, cursing it the whole time.  Bad electronics.  Stupid electronics.  If I had any water left in my nightstand glass you would become smoking electronics.  Who makes the mistake of setting the alarm on a Saturday?  People with evil electronics, that’s who.

With the disappointed emotion in full swing, I turned off the alarm.  Silence again.  Relax.  I can get over this situation.  I can find sleep once again.  And just as I was returning to the dream world, it occurred to me.  It hit me like a ton of bricks—which is a really odd figure of speech.  How unfortunate do you have to be to get hit with a ton of bricks?  Where do you need to be standing to have this happen?  They probably don’t come flying in from the left or right.  They most likely would have to fall from above your head.  My recommendation is to avoid placing yourself just below any apparatus that is holding a ton of bricks—regardless of how stable it looks.  Do not stand below any congregation of a ton of bricks—ever.

So yeah, it hit me.  Today isn’t Saturday, its Friday.  A ton of bricks, landing on my face!  I have to get up for work!  Crap, this is far worse than I originally imagined.  Oh electronics, you are way smarter than I give you credit for.

Hey wait a minute!  Did I really just shut off the alarm?  I should have pushed snooze!  Oh electronics, please magically reset your alarm.  I didn’t mean to shut you off.  I’m sorry I called you names.  You’re awesome electronics, really.  I’m way too groggy to fiddle with your buttons right now.

Now I have to get out of bed without taking my first-thing-in-the-morning-nine-minute-nap.  Now I have to pretend that I have the ability to snooze and wake up after nine minutes automatically—all by myself.  But I don’t have the skills!  This is horrible.

And then I found myself standing on my feet.  I have only the electronics to blame.  Idiot electronics.

Buy my silent book.  It’ll let you sleep in.

Pardon Me Please

Let’s just jump right in.  Shall we?  Everyone passes gas.  It’s natural.  I get that.  What I don’t understand is why certain children need to be taught the do’s and don’ts of letting-one-fly.  The children that I am referring to may or may not be related to me.  I clarify that in order to protect their identity and perhaps their embarrassment.

The other day the four members of my family were driving in my car.  Or maybe it was two other children—I can’t say for sure.  While we were crossing town, someone in the back seat floated-an-air-muffin.  A really big and bad one.  You know, the eye watering variety.  I had to pull the car over for two reasons.  First, I did not want to have to explain to the police officer what happened just before I hit the telephone pole.  Although after hearing of my recent torture, he probably would have let me off without the ticket.  The second reason is that I had to lay down the law on when you can rip-one and when you need to pinch the source.

The lesson started with, “Never, never in the car with other passengers.”  It’s just plain dangerous for the driver.  One day, when you find yourself driving all by yourself, toot-your-horn for the entire trip—continuously if you must.  However, if you’re alone in your car approaching someone who you will be picking up, the butt-sneezing must stop at least five minutes before their arrival.  Moreover, the windows should be lowered all the way down, even in the dead of winter.  Creating the “gas chamber on wheels” and then inviting your passengers in will reduce your total number of friends drastically.

I decided that the lesson should not stop with just the rules of the car.  “Never ever bottom-burp while standing next to your mother!”  I understand that you think it’s funny to do that standing next to the Dad.  I’m not sure why I accept that, but I do.  It’s probably some sort of genetic cross up that began a zillion years ago.  But as for dropping-the-bomb next to the Mom, not so much.  She didn’t carry you for nine long months so that one day you could fumigate her.

If you are in a small room hanging out with people, do not under any circumstance think that you can pull off the silent-but-deadly attack.  Walk to another room for your bum-blast, wait for a minimum of four minutes, and then return to your company.  Return too early and you risk carrying the exhaust fumes with you.

You can safely deliver your fanny-bubble while standing in line at an amusement park.  While waiting for your favorite roller coaster ride, the outdoor breeze should conceal your dirty-little-secret.  However, if you are standing in line at the grocery store, keep your talking-pants in check.  “Honey, I think you might have picked up a bad cabbage.”

I’m sure there are countless other rules.  The scenarios in which these children will encounter over their lifetime are probably immeasurable.  Although being a good father, I believe I laid out a good foundation for understanding when it is appropriate to cut-the-cheese and when you should mute the trouser-trumpet.  My work here is done.

Buy my rose smelling book.

Swearing

I’m going to crank up the parental guidance just a bit for this blog entry.  Just a bit anyway.  Maybe this one will earn a strong PG-13.  You’ve been warned, you big bastard.

Swearing is on the rise.  You’ll find a cuss here and curse there.  There is swearing on television, in books, and in movies.  You’ll find it in the schools.  You’ll find it on the streets.  You might just find it in your own kitchen…

When my children were still too young to be introduced to foul language, they learned a few of the whoppers on the bus.  On the kindergarten bus.  So our lesson to them was the same lesson that we give them today.  It’s ok to swear and cuss.  You might be frowned upon if you deliver it in the wrong setting.  You may be judged as unintelligent.  But what is never ok is to use words to harm another person.  Calling someone “stupid” is far worse than talking about a bitchin’ car or talking about your shitty day.

Back to the swearing in the kitchen.  My wife had this talk with my two boys.  I was upstairs and they were sitting at the kitchen table.  After she had them on the right page and understanding the difference between needless swearing and hurting someone’s feelings, she wanted to help them get it out of their systems.  They started chanting “shit, shit, shit, shit.”  And it wasn’t a quiet chant either.  I walked down the stairs to be greeted by the “shit shit” chant.  My two boys, four and five years old, were chanting “shit, shit, shit” with the biggest grin on their sweet little faces.  Precious.

Who’s up for a little analysis?  When someone disagrees strongly with a situation, you might get to hear “that’s bull shit!”  How does that make any sense?  Its bull shit?  Like an actual pile of bull shit?  I don’t see the correlation.  If I was walking down the street and saw a real live pile of bull shit, I wouldn’t think “hey, that pile of dung is just so incredibly out of line with reality.”  No, rather, I would think, “hey, gross.”  And then I would no doubt watch where I was stepping.

“Someone just stole my wallet!  Man, that is some serious fecal matter produced by a full grown steer!”

The term “bull shit” is completely arbitrary.  You have a scenario that you are disappointed with and you claim it to be bull shit.  Why?  Why not something else equally as arbitrary?

“Someone just stole my wallet!  Man, that is some serious squirrel piss!”  Maybe that’s not gross enough.  Not likely to draw flies.  How about this?

“Someone just stole my wallet!  Man, that is some serious pig intestines!”  No, I guess bull shit just works better.

Ok, one more.  Douche bag.  In my life, I have not had the opportunity to find myself in contact with many douches.  What I am saying is, I am no expert in the field of douchology.  But I think that it’s been a long time, if not never, since there was a bag involved in this process.  I think the right term would be bottle or canister.  I think what I would like to see is a change.  I like the term bag.  I can work with that.  But let’s use something that actually has a bag involved.  How about an enema?  Would that would use a bag?

“I can’t stand that guy.  He is a real enema bag.”

But remember, it would be wrong to call someone a name.

Haven’t bought my books yet?  That’s bull shit!

The Gross Game

The wife and I are raising two boys.  If you’ve been hanging around my blog or reading my book you are probably becoming familiar with our family values.  We all love each other.  We all have a good time.  We all love to laugh and be goofy.  Some of us act goofier than others.  This just in:  I’ve never typed the word “goofier” before using it in that last sentence.

Boys are gross.  My boys are gross.  If you have boys, your boys are gross.  I’m not talking about their physical appearance or there stench.  Although sometimes those traits rear their ugly heads and it’s hard for even a mother to look beyond it.  What I’m really talking about is the garbage that comes out of their mouths.  Boys like to say gross things.  They enjoy it!  If there is more than one boy present, they will say gross things in competition in order to be crowned the king-of-grossness.  What do you suppose that crown would look like?

In my house this started a long time ago.  My sweet little baby boys are only fourteen months apart in age.  This makes playing the gross game an even competition.  It seems like only yesterday that these cute little boys were playing with little stuffed animals and cuddling with their mommy.  Then wham!  Only a short time passes and the words coming out of their mouths were describing juicy snots, deep dripping bleeding cuts, and destroying the bathroom with gas.

We were pulling through a McDonald’s once when the boys were having a difficult time deciding what flavor of milkshake to order.  Then one of them hit us up with, “My brother wants the dirt ball milk shake.”  The other chimes in, “Oh yeah!  He wants a vomit milk shake!”  I chime in with, “Gross!  You’ll both be having the dead fly milkshakes with a sprinkling of dried spider legs.”  Yeah, as a good dad, I’ll always be playing the game too.  And then my wife tops us all, the new queen-of-grossness, “I’ll have the diarrhea milkshake.”  She knows how to play the game.

Tonight I was sending my older boy to bed.  He has been battling a nasty cold for a way too long now.  Tonight he was blowing his nose and wiping the crud out of his eyes.  He then explains to me that the sinus is actually connected and so the crud in your eyes is made up of the same junk in boogers.  Skeptically I rebutted, “I don’t know if that’s true since they both taste so differently.”  I’ve got game!  The gross king reigns on!

I repeated the story to my wife and my other son.  “Dad, that’s so gross!”  My wife, who knows exactly what it takes to be a good mom, immediately added, “I don’t know what eye boogers taste like.”  Wait for it.  Wait for it.  “Aw mom!  That’s so gross!  You’re awesome!”

Buy my very clean booger free books.

PS-  This has nothing to do with grossness.  A fellow blogger (the most awesome book reviewer in the world) has ask for my help in spreading the word about a cause she is dedicated to supporting.  Please visit the following:
Room to Read (www.roomtoread.org) or see her blog for additional details at www.closedthecover.com under the tab “Room to Read.”

Do you smell that?

My boys are both running cross-country for their school team.  Since they are only fourteen months apart in age, they landed on the same team this year—the seventh and eighth grade team.  Our school district is insanely large.  Each of their classes has over one thousand children.  It’s a wild amount of organized chaos.  The cross-country team this year has about sixty boys on it.  More organized chaos.

Since the team practices immediately after the school day, it works out conveniently for me to pick up them up on my way home from work.  A problem arises when the weather is hot.  No, it’s not a problem with how well they did in the heat during practice.  No, that doesn’t bother me in the slightest as I pull up to greet them in my perfectly air-conditioned vehicle.  What really troubles me is when two really stinky children get into your car and it’s too hot outside to roll down the windows.  I cling to the possibility that I can somehow fix the situation.  I roll down all the windows except for my own window hoping that my magical pocket of cold air will hold its position surrounding me with all of its goodness.  It doesn’t work that way.  The evil boy stench infiltrates my area and I am forced to open the last window and let the heat bake me.  I drive the rest of the way home with my nose hanging out the window like a dog.

My boy’s summary of today’s cross country practice is the epic story of the dead fish.  Apparently during their run most of the boys got to lay their eyes upon a big dead fish lying next to the path that they were traveling.  The description coming from my boys was vivid and extremely descriptive.  “It was half eaten and had a ton of maggots crawling in and out of it.”  I’m really glad to be on the receiving end of this news worthy story (so much so that I thought you too should enjoy it too).  They continued with the same excitement that I wished they would have for math and science.  “There was bird crap all around it.  And its head was barely attached.  I saw it first and told everyone to come see it.”

Then my other son objected.  “No, I was there first.”

“No, you were behind me.”

“No I wasn’t.  I saw you coming after I was already looking at the dead fish!”

Hey, hold everything.  Stop, stop, stop.  Are my boys really participating in the I-saw-the-dead-fish-first argument?  Who wins at this debate like this?   What positive outcome results in proving your point?  I put a stop to the argument by pointing out how crazy dumb it sounded.  There is no value in being the one who saw a dead fish first.  None.  But the voices in my head could hear what could have been the next couple of lines.

“There is no way you saw the dead fish first.  I have always been best at spotting dead animals from a distance.  I’ve been doing it for almost seven years now.”

“No way!  I spotted my first dead animal at the age of four years old.  Also, Deer Hunter magazine voted me ‘best dead animal spotter of the year’ for the last four consecutive years!  In a row!”

“But I want to be the first dead fish spotter this time!  You were the dead fish spotter last time!”

You have to pick your battles in life.  There are no winners with this one.  I think it was a lose-lose situation.  Actually, it was a lose-lose-lose situation if you include the dead fish too.

Buy my not stinky book.

Ego Buster

I’m afraid that I am a little short on material.  So once again, I bring you a chunk of words pulled from my book.  Hey, did you know I’m selling a book?  Go to amazon.com and “click inside the book” and read the first fifteen or so pages.  Enjoy!

My Status Update Journey: A Quirky In-Depth Analysis of the World from the Voices in My Head

And when you’re finally holding it in your hands, life will be complete.

Once, when my boys were very small, we were headed out of town.  The snow piled up on the driveway overnight, but I was ready to go.  I was driving a van at the time.  Thinking that this would be even easier than normal since I only needed to go down and not back up again, I set out.  Kids strapped into their car seats and wife buckled in.  I punched the gas and made it all the way down to the mailbox.  At which point I somehow got stuck!  I’m not sure what happened, but the tires were spinning and we were not moving.

I turn to the boys in the back seat and proclaimed that we were stuck.  The reaction that immediately followed was something that I did not predict.  The boys started wailing and crying!  I can’t imagine the horrible image that was going through their tiny little minds.  It’s as if we were stranded in the middle of the field with no signs of human life in any direction.  I tried to explain that we lived about forty-five feet away and that I truly believed that we would be able to make it back home on foot if we needed to.

They only calmed down a little.

So, I started rocking the van back and forth.  Drive.  Reverse.  Drive.  Reverse.  No help there.  Still stuck.  Still crying.

On to the pushing phase.  I opened the passenger door to use it as a place to push and the wife took over at the steering wheel.

Kids still crying.

Now I’m pushing with all I have and the wife is rocking the van and we are starting to make just a little bit of progress when one of my boys yells out, “We need a big strong man!”

Pop!  Did you hear my ego explode?

A big strong man?  Hello?  My self esteem would have kept those boys in their seats for hours while I pushed the van with more than everything I had until we were moving down the road.  A big strong man.

I did eventually get us unstuck and moving.  And I didn’t even need to call the big strong man.

It’s probably a good thing that I don’t recall which of the two boys uttered those hurtful words.  Big strong man…

Buy my big strong book.