Five miles in. No self respecting one year old goes to sleep with only five miles in. Five miles in are for rookies, for 6 month olds. No, one year olds make you push it. They want to see the country side. They want to see cows and horses. They want to see how far they can push you before your ever loving brains are caved in by the constant repetitive sound of “I can hear with those things”, which comes from the toy you gave him to help him sleep and he just loves the hell out of that one button.
Fuck that one button. That is Satan’s button. That button was put on that toy by Lucifer himself, who apparently works in a factory in Mexico making toys for Happy Meals. And Lucifer loves his job and hates you. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you can get back to the horses and the cows in the country side.
Bubba Hoss is digging this vacation. He’s having a great time. And it would appear that vacation bedtime is much, much different than normal bed time. He’s just having to much fun running around with dogs and throwing things off the second floor of our host’s house. You have to stay up pretty late to get all your throwing in. Earlier today he actually threw a barrel down those stairs. Practice today makes for perfection tomorrow.
So I have resorted to that age old genius of all parents: the car trip. Every kid eventually falls asleep in the car. It’s common knowledge and the number two weapon to use against your children in the constant struggle for dominance. The first weapon of choice of course is the cookie. But I find that the cookie looses it’s importance to the child if you over use it. This trip I have overused it so I am resorting to weapon number two. Of course these tactics will change as he gets older and I’m am stock piling other parenting favorites. Such as:
Because I said so.
You think you’re big enough to take on your old man?
I don’t see you making any car payments.
The garage needs cleaning.
I told you she had herpes.
Mile 10 and he hasn’t grown tired of the toy. Usually the little man goes to bed around 7:30 every night. Like clockwork. Only recently has he begun to rebel and I’m thinking that it’s because he knew that we were going on this trip. The money bet says that he planned this. Ok, for 20 months I’ll go to bed just fine. Then, on June 20th, I’ll throw a fit and then never go to bed without a fight again. That’ll show them!
The first two nights here on vacation were a struggle. Normally I don’t mind if Bubba Hoss wants to scream his little head off while he’s in the crib. My usual philosophy is that he’s not being attacked by badgers, he’s safe in his crib. But if he is, I expect him to learn to fend for himself and fashion a sling shot out of his crib webbing, slay the badgers, wear their fur as a trophy and smear the vanquished foe’s blood across his chest in a warrior’s show of bravery. It’s how I grew up.
But it’s different when you are with family, especially family that hasn’t seen you in a while. If you don’t attend to your screaming child then you look like bad parents. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure I’ve done a hundred things wrong. I told my kids to “work it out” when they were fighting over a toy then I walked away. I showed my daughter how to appropriately set her artillery for maximum damage to the enemy. I have given out Tums as candy. But the difference is that all that was PRIVATE. This is not so private now.
So now it appears that I am a publically bad father, instead of privately being one. It’s a big difference. On one hand I don’t want to appear to be an out of control dad to an out of control kid. On the other hand, I don’t want to appear weak in his eyes so that his next step is to kill me , marry his mother, and banish his sister to the frozen mines of the distant north.
The result: drive around the Wisconsin country side until he falls asleep and I look like the best parent ever, give me a cookie.
Mile 15 and he’s finally tired of the toy. Either the batteries ran out or I grabbed it and threw it out the window. I can’t remember, it was a blur but one of those two things happened. However, now he wants to start talking. About what I have no idea. He’s one, I have no clue what he is saying most of the time. He could be telling me that he just sharted and needs to change his pants or he could be telling me the true difference between black holes and dead spots in space. No one likes a shart and no one likes a dead spot.
Mile 25. I counter act his jibber jabber by turning on my book on tape. Take that little man, how you like me now? It’s truly an awful story told by a guy with a very deep baritone voice and Grade Z acting skills. If you can’t make it on the big screen, and you can’t make it singing, and you can’t make it on a show called Dance Your Ass Off, read books on tape.
It’s truly a horrible book that we got at the library for this trip, hoping that we can become distracted just enough to forget about the time but not enough to swerve into oncoming traffic. It’s worked, but only because it’s so bad. The main character appears to be, um, how do I put this---dumber than the lint and dog hair that currently resides in my belly button. Nothing like totally missing the obvious the entire book and then have a revelation. Such as “Oh, the sadistic priest is the one who’s been trying to kill me. Rosebud it’s not.
Mile 30. The book didn’t work although our heroine did manage to have some sex. The term “swollen penis” was mentioned. Authors, take note: Do Not Write Sex Scenes In Books. Unless of course you work for Penthouse forums. And if you don’t then just go buy an issue and copy it verbatim. Bubba Hoss is now telling me that he has “no poop, just pee.” I say this to every time we change his diaper. When he poops we say “Whoa, big poo.” Then we all laugh and give a round of high fives. I’ll be honest, I have no idea why we do that.
Mile 35. Bubba Hoss pulls on his hair when he’s tired. He has a birthmark up there. It’s a mole, about the size of a nickel, that is dead center on the top of his head. Out of it grows very black hair that grows twice as fast. The rest of his hair is a blondish/brownish type thing. The result is a streak of black hair right down the middle of his head. Very punk rock. Seriously, it’s bitchin. Most people ask us if we dye his hair that way. Do I look like the type of guy that has the knowledge or the patience to dye the hair of a 1 year old? I bet as he gets older he gets tons of chicks.
Mile 40. He’s out! Victory is mine! Do not mess with dad folks. Because let me tell you a little secret about dad. His desire to obtain peace and quiet far out weighs your desire to drive him crazy. In the end, he’ll win. Until you turn 13 and decide that you don’t like him anymore at which point he’ll wonder where he went wrong.
My money is around mile 13 and the now famous “toy incident.”
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