We are a cliche

Hossmom is disappointed because the birthday card doesn't have flowers on it.  Apparently she asked for flowers on the birthday card and didn't get it.  She is a bit perplexed with me I think.  I do what any good father does, I blamed it on my 9 year old daughter.  Look, I've fulfilled my daughters every wish for 9 years she can take the heat for me on occasion.  Is it cowardly?  Perhaps.  I prefer to think of it as paying off a debt.

We were invited to a birthday party for a young senior citizen.  I will not do her the disservice of disclosing her age because I don't want my wife, or my wife's friends, to throw me out a window.  Let's just say she's over 21.  It was a surprise party but came with an open bar.  The kids were invited which I find normally negates the open bar.  Perhaps it was a trick to begin with.  If so, now I no longer feel bad about the birthday card.

Wait, check that, I don't feel bad about the card at all.  The card we chose instead was freaking awesome.  Was it appropriate?  Define appropriate.  I recall somewhere in the recess of my mind that Hossmom perhaps did give very specific instructions to give an age appropriate card that could be opened at a formal shindig.  She may have said something.  I may have forgotten.

But when Little Hoss and I went to pick up the birthday cards we didn't like the look of the flowers on the card.  Frankly, they were sinister and a bit devilish.  Dare I go against God?  Dare I tempt fate!  No, I do not.  Evil flowers man are evil flowers, you don't mess with them.

So instead my daughter and I picked out a kitty cat card.  With rainbows.  Shooting out of it's eyes.  It's an awesome card.

Now I ask you, would you rather have some wierdo flower card from some weirdo guy or would you rather have freaking rainbow laser kittens?  I think that is an easy choice.

Hossmom sighed and roller her eyes.  In my defense though, she knows not to send me out to pick out pretty things.  It never works out.  I have about as much taste and decorum as a rock in a mud pit.  I admit it.  So really the fault lies with her.  I'm just a product of my environment.

None of these arguments worked on Hossmom either.  So we rallied the kids, dressed them nice and gave a very strict discussion about proper behavior at fancy parties.  They promptly ignored this and preceded to rock some timeouts at a fancy restaurant.  We can do better kids, we can do better.  Maybe you got into the open bar while your dad did not.  Understandable.

We drove downtown to our fancy restaurant, a place named after some sort of legume or bean I think.  Honestly, I can't remember names of things like this very well.  It all gets filed in my head under "that one place", right next to "remember to get a birthday card with flowers on it."

Being downtown, parking was a bit of a challenge but we did manage to find a space.  Apparently downtown on a Sat. night is the place to be.  We wouldn't know really, our Saturday nights are usually spent crying in closets about how we used to be cool and hip.  We are no longer cool and hip.  I am ok with this though as I find today's music to be soulless and the youngsters entitled thus completing the journey to being an old man, much like my father before me who once told me that grunge music sounded like a garbage truck backing up.  I was hip then, he was not.

The parking space we were pulling into was slanted and required you to back in.  Hossmom was driving.

"Stop!" I yelled.  We came close to hitting a car that I'm pretty sure had never had kids in the backseat before.  There were no stains or hand prints on the windows.  Yuppie.

She pulled out again to give it another go..


She pulled out again.


Rinse, lather repeat.


Hossmom was not quite getting the fact that the spot was angled and required you to park angled.  She was trying, probably by force of habit, to back straight in.

"Do you want me to park?" I asked her.

She got out and gave me a kiss and I parked the car.  I was laughing.

It seems, even with our non traditional roles of me being the stay at home parent and her being the account executive, that perhaps we are still the walking cliche that makes for bad sitcoms.  I can't pick out a card and she can't park the car.

Or maybe she was thinking about flowers to much and not concentrating on the rainbow laser cat.


Morning Singing

The kids are off to school and I am once again reminded what happens over the weekend when they and my wife are home.  They destroy the house.  I don't mean they are messy, I mean that they come through like a bullrider yelling "yeeeee-haaaaaa".  Sometimes I make requests like: Please do not get anything on the ceiling.

By Monday, there is something on the ceiling.  

So I do two things on Mondays.  1. I go grocery shopping because they also eat all the food in the freaking house.  To amend my above similie, they are like a bullrider yelling "yeeeeeee-haaaaaa" while eating a sandwhich and drinking all the milk.  2.  I clean up the house.  

What is usually nice though is that I get to do it without to much interference except from Bacon Hoss and his 2 year old fists of fury.  He likes to hit me in the knees alot and I applaud his strategic decisions.  But like the other kids before him I have trained him to be less of an annoyance if not actually helpful.  

He loves throwing things in the trash, loves it.  This is a big help as you can imagine.  My daughter likes to draw and write stories on the weekend.  She gets so caught up in the creative process that she often leaves papers in random places, forgot that she was writing that particular story, and leaves it stashed under the couch cushion or in a kitchen cabinet.  Bacon Hoss throws these away for me.  The catch though, because there always is with a 2 year old, is that you have to watch very closely what he is throwing away.  He gets so caught up in his creative process that he throws away bills and yesterday it was my wallet.  Turns out he is a little bit of a thief.  He took all my money.  He through that way too.  

It's the same with the laundry too.  He likes to put dirty laundry in the washer and the wet laundry in the dryer, you just have to watch him.  Last week we washed all the kids tooth brushes.  I figured that was ok.  

Bacon Hoss knows when we start.  We start when Metallica comes on.  That's our morning horn, that's what let's us know it's time to get it on and clean up after the tornado that I call my family.  This worked for a good two years.  When he was very young, I would strap him to my chest while I cleaned, he was like my little mascot of dirt.  Then he got to be 1 and didn't help clean but tried his best to actually thwart any cleaning to be done.  I would put clothes in a basket, he would take them out and throw them over the stairs.  Now though, now we got it done.  

Except now we don't anymore.  

I put on the Metallica, I grabbed the broom and the floor scrapper that I always keep on me when cleaning.  Yup, I keep a floor scraper as part of my normal cleaning supplies and I use it enough that I always put it in my pocket.  Children are fucking filthy man.  

But this time when I put on the Metallica, he put his hands over his ears and ran away.  He ran away like it somehow hurt him, like it offended his Christian upbringing.  I'm just kidding, we are all heathens here.  So he ran away like it offended his Heathen upbringing.  He wanted nothing to do with Metallica.  

I turned it down, he kept his hands over his ears.  I tried different morning time clean music. 

AC/DC, Nirvana, Primus, Sabbath.  I even went to Pearl Jam and Alice and Chains, something a little easier.  Nope, he wasn't having it.

He kept his ears covered and continued to say no.  No, no, no.  

I have failed as a parent.  I'm not sure how as I usually think of myself as pretty freaking awesome.  So maybe it's not me.  Maybe it's Hossmom.  It can't be me.  I have raised my children on this music. 

My other children no longer listen to Metallica either.  Or Nirvana, Primus, Sabbath.  It's my wife, she has thwarted me and I don't know how.  

I contemplated this while I cleaned.  I turned on a podcast instead.  I could use headphones but that would prevent me from hearing Bacon Hoss and I have learned that if I can't hear him then something is being thrown in the toilet.  So I went about my day wondering if Hossmom can truly be responsible for this.  

The weekend comes and it's time to go to our soccer game.  I coach my son's soccer team.  I got drafted to do it and it turns out it's a lot of fun for me.  We focus on having fun, it's not the World Cup.  But if it was I should be getting some sort of FIFA kickback.  Greedy bastards.  

Normally I would put on some loud music to get my son pumped up.  Something of his choosing that gets him in the mood, something to get his aggression level up.  My boy is a sweetheart, not naturally aggressive at all.  So I use music to get him going.  Hossmom was in the car with us.  Normally he would choose a little Fallout Boy, seems to be popular with the younger crowd these days.  Something a little fast pace, I'll take it. 

But Hossmom grabs control and puts on a Pandora Station.  

"Do you hear the people sing? Singing a song of angry men.  It is the music of a people that will not be slaves again." 

God Damnit woman, we are not doing show tunes on the way to a fierce soccer match!  Les Miserables is good, I'll give you that.  But c'mon, it's show-tunes man.  How can you get your blood up without a guitar solo followed by an out of control beat!!

I'm about to slap her hand away, silly woman this is sports time, when I see my kids in the backseat.  Little Hoss is singing along quietly while she is reading her book.  Bubba Hoss is nodding his head, adding his voice to the chorus that is now going on.  And Bacon?  Bacon has got his hands in the air and is dancing.  

Son of a bitch.  This is how I've been thwarted.  Somehow during the weekends they destroy the house to the sound of showtunes.  So much so that they now relate Les Mis and Phantom of the Opera and Wicked with destructing good times.  This is what happened.  Perhaps when I'm mowing the lawn, or fixing something in the garage.  She waits until I'm no longer the primary parent, jumps to subvert my will, and now the kids are listening to showtunes to get their blood up.   Metallica has been replaced by Rent.  

I'm in disbelief as I drive, I am trying to process what happened and when it happened.  It was so subtle that I didn't see it happening.  When she was making lunch, she was making lunch to the tune of the Inn Keeper's Song.  

The next song comes on and without knowing it I begin to sing with everyone else "There was a time when love was blind.  And the world was a song and the song was exciting."

Crap.  She's gotten me to.  


Steak Dinner

I may have to divorce my wife.  It's a shame really, I am quite fond of her.  We are good together, we are a good team.  My weaknesses are her strengths and vice versa.  We have 3 kids together.  I feel like we have been through a lot over the last 20 years.  She was a minx of an 18 year old when she fell for my charm.  Her laugh caught me quick.  1995, a very good year.

We have had many conversations during that time.  Both have said a lot of things, sometimes hurtful.  However, there reaches a point where one person goes to far.  Somethings some say just can't be taken back.

"Ug, I'm just so tired of steak for dinner."

That's what she said.  Hand to god I'm not making this up.  That is what she said.  And when she said it, and when our friend agreed with her, I knew that it was pretty much over and I would have to hit our friend in the mouth just out of god damn principle.

Our friend came into town on business and went to dinner with us after a hard day of working.  I can only assume he is swindling old ladies out of their church money, given that he too gets tired of steak dinners.  They both decided that we should eat Chinese because I can only assume they both love communism and child labor camps.

It was nice to be out with people, even if the kids were with us.  It was nice to talk about adult things, things that didn't involve school grades or cheerios.  I don't get that level of conversation that much.  But as usually happens when we get together with other people who work, my wife and he began to talk shop and traveling for work.

My opportunities for work travel, as you can imagine, are few and far between.  What I would call a work trip you would call a vacation.  My work travel usually also includes a dirt cheap hotel and a kiddo that just won't go to freaking sleep even though we've been on the road all day.  By 12am I end up calling my wife while hiding in the bathroom.  But you have to whisper because if you wake up the toddler I'm going to kill you.

As my friend and my wife talk about traveling for work, as they both do often, the conversation took a devilish turn.  And I don't mean like a good twist, or a plot point that has sexy consequences with a college bar maid.  No, I mean that by the end of it that I was looking at two satanists, how have I not seen this before.

"Yeah, one of the things that I hate about work travel is the dinner after a full day of work.  It's never a quick dinner, it's like three hours.  It's always at some fancy steak house and I don't get back to the hotel until late.  I get tired of steak."

Right there.  Right at that moment is when she broke my heart and I lost my friend.

So we are clear, when my wife isn't with us our dinners consist of things that can be described as some sort of "wiz" or "Mc".  There are a lot of sandwhiches, corn dogs, nuggets and things in the shape of dinosaurs.  There is no steak.  My "treat" is usually whatever the kids didn't eat.  The dog and I split it.

You can say "Hossman, make yourself a steak then damnit!"

Shut your mouth, you obviously don't have kids.  Cooking up a juicy wonderful steak just right can be difficult.  Cooking one while one kid latches onto your leg, another one is throwing rocks at the third one, a dog that smells the meat and a cat that frankly hates us all, is a chore man.  It's tough.  To get it right you have to ignore someone and some days I like the dog a hell of a lot more than the kids.  If I cooked the steak just right, while remembering to stir the mac and cheese or not burning the nuggets, then one of my kids is going to end up on the roof wondering if they can "make the jump".

And then after I do that, I set the table, get everyone milk or juice, ketchup because that goes on everything, napkins because they are a bunch of dirty bastards, and am lucky enough to sit done to enjoy my still warm steak,  As soon as my butt hits the chair someone will be out of milk, mac and cheese has flipped off a plate, the dog thought it was meat and is licking the toddler, and suddenly the 7 year old decides he's to old for dinosaur shaped food can he have something else?  My steak is now cold, my beer is warm and somehow I have ended up with a green bean in my pants and I didn't even cook green beans.

I look at my wife and our friend and try to make sense of what they are saying.  Just so I understand, can anyone understand?  You get tired of going out to a steak house.  That you don't have to pay for.  That you can order any prime cut of meat you want.  That someone will make for you.  That someone will give you alcoholic drinks and bread so you have something to do before the steak gets there.  That if you don't like, you can send back and get another one??!!  That you can talk about world things, important things that have nothing to do with Paw Patrol.  So that you can go back to a nice hotel and grab all the pillows that you want. That no one is screaming in the middle of the night that they can't sleep.  That you can leave the door open while you poop.

That.  That's what your hardship is?  That's what you get tired of??

I can't relate to this conversation that they are having.  I can't join in.  I can't give some witty observation.  I can't because what they are saying makes no sense.  It's like they are speaking in tongues and even in that language, that only tongue speaking people and God can understand, even those people think my wife and our friend are crazy and want no part of your steak hating dogma.

Now this is the part of the blog where I come around and maybe give them some credit, try to see things from their side.  See the hardship placed on them and think perhaps anything in excess can be a bad thing.  I'll learn to be more empathtic and end perhaps with a funny little note of understanding.

Shit no.

Not going to happen.  Steak is fucking awesome.  Steak that someone else cooks for you and brings to you is even more fucking awesome.  There is no lesson to be learned from this story.  I would eat steak every day like that and never get tired of it.  I could have steak and eggs for breakfast, steak fajitas for lunch, a nice strip for dinner.  I could do this every day of my life for as long as I live.  And as I lay down on my death bed at 55 with clogged arteries from all the red meat, as the meat sweats come off me still, as a piece of gristle has replaced my liver, I would look at my wife.  I would hold her hand. My friend would be there with us, comforting me in my last moments.   My breathing would be labored but I could get out one more sentence, just one.

"It was worth it you commie bastards."


This Is Not Working Out

I'm just going to sit down here and type up a funny story.  Maybe make a few jokes, maybe one will get my wife to roll her eyes and then laugh when I'm not looking.  Sure, I got time to do this now a days.  I don't have anything else to do like chores, lawn mowing or binge watching Paw Patrol ALL THE FREAKING TIME CAN YOU PLEASE WATCH SOMETHING ELSE!

And Bacon Hoss is now sitting on me.

It's ok, I can still type and write a funny story while someone sits on my gut and hits me in the face with a sippy cup.  I'm paying attention to him, yup, I am completly not trying to ignore my two year old son just to do a little bit of funny.  I like it best when he is helping me type with his feet.  That is in no way distracting and counter productive.

Alright, I can't type while my son is gut punching me and trying to feed me gold fish crackers.  Let's take this show to the table.

I can find refuge at the table.  If I push the laptop in the middle of the table and type all long arm style, I should be good to go.  Except now he is actually on the table.  Not in a chair, no.  Actually on the table.  He's got his little monkey head looking over the top of the screen to see what's going on.  Now he is pushing buttons with a little monkey finger while making beep boop sounds.  I'm hitting the delete key more than I'm actually writing.  Maybe he can improve my spelling.  I didn't think he could make it to the top of the table.  I watched him do it.  Stood on a chair, belly scooted to the top, came right over.  I have got to admire the determination to not let me do anything.

No problem though, I'm Dad, I got all kinds of ideas.  He can't reach the counter top.  Suck it little boy, Dad's got one on you.

He unplugged my laptop while trying to climb up my leg.  He's pulling my shorts off.  It's actually pretty tough to type one handed.  Pretty slow going.  My right ass cheek is now hanging out to.  He got a fist full of boxers now as well.  Good times.

Screw it.  I have to go drastic.  I have to put all common sense aside so I can get some stuff done.   Bacon has a philosphy of "I love dad so much that no one is allowed to love him at all".  That basically means that he requires constant contact to ward off any other possible people that may want to hug me, touch me, walk near me.  But I have a way out of this.  I'm not proud but screw it.

I just gave him the Ipad.  I know it's a 300 dollar piece of high tech gear that I have just given to a 2 year old toddler so that I may do something.  Anything really, I don't even care.  I just need to feel accomplished and take a break from the world of PAW PATROL WHY WON'T PUPS GO TO THE POUND!

Now I can write.  Now I can be funny.  Now I can listen to the wonderful classic "Let it go" around 1000 more times.


Differences in Parenting

My Wife:

Tomorrow we are going to have both kids write their apology letters.  Bubba Hoss needs to first write how he felt when Little Hoss hit him.  Then he should write why she hit him..  He needs to understand why his sister was embarrased and to understand that by trying to embarrass her in front of her friends was really hard for Little Hoss.  Then he needs to write why he is sorry that was teasing Little Hoss and what he is going to do in the future.

Little Hoss needs to first write how Bubba Hoss must have felt when she hit him.  Then she needs to write what she felt when she hit him and about how angry she was.   She needs to understand that hitting is wrong and that there are other ways that she could have dealt with this.  She needs to write that she hurt her little brother and what she should have done instead of hitting him.

Then they both need to write letters of apology to each other.  Hopefully, they will understand the other persons point of view and what they did shouldn't have happened.

What do you think Hossman?

I think we should buy boxing gloves and put them in the basement.


Baked Chicken and Little Genghis Khan

Alright.  I get it.  I need to write again.  Everyone can stop yelling at my wife.  Well, you can actually yell at her.  I'm fine with that actually.  If you yell at her, you won't yell at me.  I don't like being yelled at.

Ok, let's tell a story.

I want to eat my dinner.  Such a simple thing, such a small request.  There is food.  It is on my plate.  I would like to eat it.  That would be great.  It would be the greatest.  It would be a monkey riding a baboon great.

I can't eat dinner however and my food grows cold.  To my right, standing in at a grand total of a foot and a half tall, is the Interrupter.  A vicious fiend that has broken off the shackles of his high chair and now brays at my feet.

He utters no words, nothing intelligible.  He screams, he grunts, he shakes the table of the heavens with his tantrum.  Tiny hands flail in the air, passing through his hair as his frustration becomes my frustration.  I just want to eat.

His own kind, other 2 year old boys of fury, cannot understand his speech.  However, his intention is clear.  I. Want. Up. Motherfucker.

But no, I can not give into his demands.  That would be folly, a fools decision that would perhaps silence the pain of my ears but would never quell the rumble of my stomach.  It's baked chicken.  I would not see it eaten for the sacrifice of the rest the baked chickens of my future.

Bacon Hoss sees that I am ignoring him.  He does not like to be ignored.  In his anger, his ferocity, he grabs the shirt sleeve of my right arm, my dominate hand.   A shrewd calculation of one so little and young.  I cannot fill my mouth if my fork can never reach it.  And If he can't sit in my lap to enjoy throwing my dinner, then he will be damned if anyone else can either.

I continue to ignore him.  It's my only defense, the only one that will work.  Give in to a tantrum now and you will set the precedent for the future.  Never again will a quiet dinner be had.  Only the promise of more little, but surprisingly strong, tiny hands.

I switch my fork to my left hand.  It is awkward, untrained into filling my pie hole with glorious baked chicken.  A piece falls from it, lands perspicaciously on the edge of the table and with last hopes, falls to the floor.  I hear a grumble and slobber as I know that that piece of chicken has been swept from present, never to again adorn my plate.  The dog ate it.

Bacon Hoss does not want the chicken nor does he want the rice that goes with it.  He certainly doesn't want the salad or the broccoli.  He only wants to sit on my lap.  Such a simple request and one must think me a beast for not allowing it.  A father and son sitting in an embrace as we break bread together.  That's how it looks from the outside, to the ones that see nothing but the light of the situation.

The truth is that he wants in my lap so that he may lord over everyone at the table.  You there!  The one with the milk!  I require that!  Woman!  Fetch me my sippy cup!  Fat man, try and drink your water and see it slapped from your hand in futility.  I bet I can break this plate if I throw it to the ground.  Watch!

And he will laugh.  He will laugh.

I don't ask much.  I consider myself a simple father and a good husband.  I attend to my families needs, I engage with them.  99% of the time I am the floor mountain that they must all climb and conquer.  I read books with one hand, I tie shoes with my teeth.  I vacuum with someone hanging on to my leg and another one on my shoulder because someone is afraid of the vacuum cleaner.  I embrace this role, the walking interactive jungle gym.

Just not at dinner.  At dinner, don't touch me.  Don't hang on me.  Don't scream near me.  Don't throw food at me.  I just want to eat dinner.  It's not to much to ask.  Although as he finally utters the word "Daddy!!!!!", it may be.

"Do you want a time out?" I ask him.  My final card, the ultimate judgement for a 2 year old boy.  He stops screaming.  He cannot speak much yet but he understands what I have said.  He hasn't let go of my shirt.  He is deciding.  Does he want a time out or does he want me to not eat.  Those are his choices.

I want a time out.  I want to sit in the corner and eat baked chicken.


Sex or Sleep?

Sleep is awesome.

At no other point in your life do you get a chance to let control go over yourself that completely to anyone or anything else.  And the greatest part of it all is that you give that very control up to the person you trust the most:  you. 

Alright, maybe the crazy you is the one that gets the control.  The you that is convinced, although not talked about, that you are still eligible for the draft because you never gave up your amateur status.  Sure, you are closer to 40 than you are to 30, way closer.  But yet, in the eyes of the MLB, still having that amateur status.  Crazy you never gives up on your dreams.  Nope because he's actually the guy in charge of them.

In real life, you would you never put on a viking horned helmet, jump on to some monstrous enlarged my little pony and charge off to fight the evil dark underlords of the underpants?   Of course you would not.  The underlords are some scary mother fuckers you want no part of their underpants kingdom.  But in sleep, crazy you cannot wait to saddle up Rainbow Dash and start giving out wedgies of justice.  Crazy you, the one in charge of your dreams, is the Samuel L Jackson from pulp fiction.  Your wallet says bad mother fucker on it in your dreams.  And in those dreams you would use that wallet to keep your black Amex card that you will surely need as you buy your very own island.  Why an island?  Because you are never going to recreate Jurassic Park in the middle of freaking Manhattan.  I think we all know how that turned out, thank you very much bad sequels.  But don't worry, on your island, crazy you will do it right.  You will start by not cloning any valociraptors or T-rexes.  That was mistake number 1.  Perhaps crazy you is also sensible.  How nice. 

However, sex.  Sex is awesome.

Sex is the primal driving force of our entire evolutionary chain.  It is the very basic instinct that must be met.  It is the dynamic that very much preserves the species.  It is how you leave your legacy, it's how you build something greater than yourself.  And it feels really, really, really super nice. 

That's just one of the great benefits of sex.  But there are many more.  You can have drunk sex where you get a freebie in the regrets department, an automatic pass on a bad decision.  You can have angry sex, where you get to work out your deep emotional scars of your unfulfilled self.  Thus you are saving thousands of dollars in therapy bills just by releasing what nature wants you to release anyway.  You can have break up sex, you can have make up sex, you can have sex for any occasion.  Sex is basically a pinata of pent up emotion.  And boom, you're resolved in 5 to 15 minutes and in an emotionally blank space.  At least for a good 30 seconds anyway. 

Sex counts as exercise.  It gets your heart rate up.  You work muscles, it flattens tummys.  It's a cardio vascular workout for both your physical and emotional self.  It builds intimacy, creates a bond and if you are doing it right, a couple of funny stories to tell the buddies over beers.  Sex is indeed awesome. 

Which is why, as parents, choosing between the two (sex vs. sleep), can be soul crushing.  You're busy, the kids and the house and the wife and the responsibilities.  You don't get enough time for either.  Each day you have to make one a priority.  Sleep is awesome, we've covered that.  Sex is also awesome, been over that as well.  But the nature of our lives as parents don't leave enough room really for both on a Saturday night.  Have some wild sex, you are giving up precious minutes of sleep.  Have some wild dreams and nope, sex isn't on the table.  Sure, you can have sex dreams but crazy you (he's in charge!) always fucks that up.  Right at the good parts and bam, crazy you decides that it's time to throw a picture of cute kitty cat in the mix getting it's head lopped off by a chainsaw.  Crazy you has some serious issues he needs to work out. 

So what do you choose? 

Well as parents, luckily, that decision actually isn't ours.  Nope, we all gave that up.  I gave up that decision 8 years ago.  Yup, I no longer get to choose whether it's sex of sleep.   I don't get to choose because as I'm laying there, making the pros and cons checklist of both, a sick 6 year old boy walks into the room.  He wants snuggles because he has a temperature.  And that means of course that he wants good old dad to put his hand on his back and tell him stories.  And right when you get that done and you think ok, I'll take sleep tonight.  The baby wakes up.  He has decided he can't sleep without making sure dad hasn't been abducted by the Knight of the Underpants so he screams.  Dad gets up and heads into his room to assure him that no Knight of the Underpants can contain him.  Go to sleep while you still have the choice.  Then you go to the bathroom and your oldest daughter wants to know why everyone is up at 3 am.  It's a good question that you don't have an answer to.

And that's the beauty of parenthood that no one realizes until it's already done.  You don't make the choice between sex and sleep anymore once you have kids.  The choice is made for you!  You are free of all responsibility!  The burden is no longer yours to bare, you've given it off!  Others now choose for you.

And what's the choice that is made, the one that you no longer have any input into anymore?  The choice that you gave up without realizing it?  Whats the final decision!  Sex or sleep!

It's secret answer number 3.  It's neither.  You get no sex.  You get no sleep.  You instead get a cat that pukes in your slippers and a dog that farts in her sleep so loud that the other dog barks. 

Or perhaps this is all just another dream and crazy you is actually just a dick.