Daddyshome Blog

I didn't write a post yesterday and I'm sure many of you are so disappointed that you considered sending me hate mail and considered kidnapping me and breaking my ankles with a sledge hammer. Please don't do that. I have glass ankles and they would shatter.

But this was by design. I have a new post up at Daddyshome today. Head on over and take a gander and what crap I'm spewing lately for the stay at home dad community.

Actually, I don't think this one is crap, I kind of like it. Which means that when I meet some of you in real life you will make it a point to tell me that it "wasn't your best work."

Fantastic.

Ok, click here to get to the site and I hope you enjoy it enough not to break my ankles.

Shane, The White Trash Easter Bunny

"Daddy, where does the Easter Bunny come from?" My daughter asked me and my wife.

Hmmm, another parenting quandary. She has gotten very inquisitive lately. What is death, where do babies come from, and now where does the Easter Bunny come from. I have done my best to answer these questions without cutting the heads off any more bunnies (see earlier post, I'm not a monster.) But how to answer this one. After all, this is a big one. Here we have to weigh the knowledge of the spiritual and religious. Do I tell her some people's belief in the resurrection and then contrast that with the fertility of the Mother Earth religions? Stigmata vs. Fertility? The question leads into a whole other series of questions that she'll ask and I will discuss with her. In fact, we should probably go sit down for this one, grab alot of resource books and get to it.

"He comes from the dryer honey." My wife says.

"Really?" Little Hoss replies.

"Yup" Hossmom confirms.

I look at my wife. I look like a donkey trying to understand algebra.

"What?" I gently ask.

"The dryer. Santa Claus comes down the chimney and the Easter Bunny comes from the dryer." Hossmom explains. "It's what my mom told us while we were growing up."

Ok, now it makes sense.

But just so I'm straight, so we don't confuse our lies here about Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny lives in our dryer like it's his own personal double wide? And once a year he takes a break from his meth lab bathtub and delivers eggs and candy to good little boys and girls. I just want to be clear. I just to make sure that Shane, the white trash Easter Bunny, jumps his little tramp stamped white butt out of the dryer to do this one good deed.

And the rest of the year, our bunny Shane, just lives in our dryer watching the weather channel for the next tornado? That would explain several things like why our socks go missing and the addition of plastic pink flamingo's on top of the washer.

There's also a broken down yard chair up there, one of the old weird fabric ones, that has a half busted seat. Next to it is an empty bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 and there have been a large quantity of Pal Mall cigarette butts jammed in the lint filter.

So yeah, that all makes sense. It would also explain some of the weird noises that I hear in the middle of the night. Honestly, I thought we might be haunted or something. I was starting to become concerned and was looking at buying holy water in bulk. But I don't need to worry now, now I know what is going on. It's just Shane and his beotch having it out again. She burnt his grilled cheese and ya know, he's got to take care of business. So he puts on his little Easter Bunny wife beater shirt and goes at her. But his women ain't no cupcake. She's a tough little cuss and so she grabs the frying pan. Pretty soon, Shane is missing one of his front teeth and the cops are knocking on my door.

It's good to know that I have house guests as well, I'll have to adjust my shopping. Usually I just buy stuff for 2 adults and 2 kids. But this changes everything. After all, what's Shane going to eat, laundry detergent? So tomorrow I'll make sure I grab a case of Mountain Dew and some Cheetohs. Maybe I'll pick up the weekly Auto Trader guide to and pass it off to him so he can see if they printed his ad right for a 1972 El Camino that he's trying to unload. It's missing some tires and the front seat has cigarette burns in them but he's hoping it will fetch enough so that he can buy that Astroturf for the front of the dryer that he's had his eye on.

One day my daughter will ask about the Tooth Fairy and where he comes from. I'm thinking that we'll call him Earl and he lives in the toilet.

Failure to Communicate

I believe that there is a communication problem in my household. I'm not sure really where I'm going wrong but I know it's just not clicking. For example, I told my son "Please clean up your toys." He took that to mean "Please fuck around for a bit."

Realizing that I had not made my message clear, I again tried. "Please pick up your toys that are in your room." I thought that was pretty clear but apparently I'm an idiot that doesn't know how to get his point across. He thought I said, and now that I think back it's understandable, "Throw your toys over the stairs and aim for the dog while you do it."

Again a fail on my part. "Please pick up your toys on the stairs and in your room. Put them in your toy chest." He heard "Sit in the middle of your toys and play with your junk."

Now my eye was starting to twitch and I was having to take deep breaths so I wouldn't lose it. I'm as still as a statue just trying to compose myself. I'm chanting to find my happy place. "Please pick up those toys. Right now. Put them here, in this basket."

He thought I said "Go to your sisters room and hit her in the face with a plastic sword."

So obviously, I'm doing something wrong here. I'm not actually sure what it is but the message is not getting across. I think I need to hire a PR team so that I can craft my statements and put them out in a way that a 3 year old boy and a 5 year old girl will understand it. I'm at the point where I will drop 10K on a PR guy just to get some toys picked up.

It's more than just this isolated incident, that's why I know that I have communication problem.

At dinner last night, I told my son "Please be careful and don't spill your milk." He spilled his milk almost immediatly. Chanting begins.

I cleaned up the milk and told him again. Thinking that I was very clear that I didn't want anymore milk being spilled, I thought that everyone at the table understood that message.

His sister then spilled her milk. In the exact same place as her brother. I mean exactly, same fucking pattern and everything.

More chanting. More deep breaths. "Please, for the love of God, do not spill any more milk. Be careful when you are reaching for it."

They didn't hear this. What they heard was "Punch your brother, make him cry. Then everyone spill your milk again while you are fighting." Clearly, the fault is mine.

I need to bring in someone else. Maybe I need to bring in the cruel warden from Cool Hand Luke. I wonder if that guy is dead yet. But he is clear about getting his message out. "What we have here, is a failure to communicate. Some men, you just can't reach, so you get what we got here last week. Which is the way he wants it, well, he gets it!" I bet he does free lance jobs. Maybe the trick is to tell the kids to get that dirt out of my hole?

There is some sort of secret code in my words that I'm not picking up on. Maybe I'm speaking pig latin. For the last 4 months, I have been studying this and have come up with a few things.

"Get in the car" means "Run into the street."

"Let's take a bath" means "Hide in my closet."

"Take the dogs outside" means "Ride the dogs like you are Lone Ranger and Tonto."

I've got charts spread out on my walls trying to decifer what I'm saying. I look like the guy from The Beautiful Mind. I've got thumb tacks with little bits of yarn strung to eachother. I'm not seeing the pattern, but it's there.

Even right now, as I write this, I tell my daughter "Take your basketball goal into the toy room." She hears "Push it into your brother and knock him over."

Me: Go to time out.

Her: Hit your brother again.

Me: NOW!

Her: Do ballet.

Me: For the LOVE OF GOD GO TO TIME OUT NOW!

Her brother hears: Punch your sister as she is walking to the corner.

Me: NO MORE HITTING!

Him: Hit her again.

Me: EVERYONE GO TO TIME OUT SO I CAN WRITE A BLOG AND BE FUNNY!

Them: Throw balls at eachothers head. Hard

And that's when I get it. That's when I crack the code, right now, as I write this.

Everything said everywhere means "Drive your father fucking insane."

That's your Rosetta Stone, make use of it. Then go hit your sister.

The HOA: You Asked For It.

I feel that I have to offer a preemptive apology tonight to our Home Owner's Association. Yes, it does appear that some giant alien weed has infested my yard. It's brutal and has a high level of intelligence and seems to be immune from me cussing at it to get out of my front yard. But that's not the reason tonight of why I'm giving a preemptive apology to the Home Owner's Association. Just so they know though, the weed thing is being handled by the government. I can't remember the names of the gentlemen who showed up, but they assure me that what I saw was just the light reflecting off Venus.

What I need to apologize for is the Armageddon that I'm sure my wife is about to bring at our annual HOA meeting. She is a bit pissed. Well, that's like calling Niagara falls a small bump in the barrel ride. But either way, I wish the HOA board members the best of luck and I'm sorry if she makes you cry.

I have known Hossmom for a really long time and let me give you guys some advice. When she gets like this it is better to hire a contractor to build you a fallout shelter, get about a year's worth of food in there, and then just hunker down until the nuclear winter is over.

But the HOA really brought this on themselves. It's like complaining that you stepped in cow shit when you walk through the pasture. It's best just not even cross over the barbed wire and just let the cows do what they do. But they didn't.

The HOA here isn't really that good. Well, they are pretty awful really. There is no communication, no effort to really do alot. But they do enjoy taking our 400 bucks a year through the home owners fees. But that's not what has got her so riled up. The HOA decided to sell all the common property around our neighborhood. This is a problem as one of those areas backs up to our backyard and we play in it a crap ton. It's a common area that about 10 houses share. We found out almost by accident that they wanted to sell it to. It would appear they were just trying to do it quick. When Hossmom called the President of our HOA he told her that the land had no real value. She was quick to point out that it had value to the people that lived around it. She may have called someone a douchebag. The reason for the sell was that the HOA didn't want to pay to have it mowed anymore.

This lead to Hossmom into a whole other area, that was just the beginning. Before she left the house she wanted a complete audit done of the books and had about two pages of "talking points" that she was going to rip off.

My advice: run. She's hard enough to handle when she is doing a little normal debate. But when she has had 3 months to do research she is pretty much unbeatable. She left with a copy of the bylaws. Who the hell reads the bylaws of the HOA? So yup, you guys might be a little fucked.

As I have been in your hopeless position many, many times, I am going to offer you some advice that my children and I feel works really well when she gets like this.

Look at your feet alot when she is tearing into you. For the love of God do not make direct eye contact. She's like a silverback, she'll take it as a challenge and all of a sudden you will get the verbal charge. So just look at the shoelaces.

Don't stand up. Bad move. It's a move of aggression. She'll take it as an opportunity to put you on stage and further humiliate you in front of a lot of people. My advice is to go the other route. Find a table and just crawl under it. The storm has got to pass sometime.

If Elvis is in fact alive and lives in our neighborhood, you might want to ask him to come to the meeting to serve as a distraction. If we don't have Elvis here, get the circus to detour through the neighborhood. Perhaps a lion tamer to battle my giant weed. My point is that a distraction is truly your only hope. I give Little Hoss 10 bucks anytime she flings food at the wall when I'm getting my ass chewed. It's our standing arrangement.

Don't answer any direct question that she puts to you. She doesn't want you to answer it. She already knows the answer. She's just trying to make you look like an ass. Try the tried and true "mumble" answer that my kids give. And of course, keep looking at your feet.

Maybe those will work, maybe those won't. It's hard to tell with Hossmom when she gets like this. With me, she's pissed for about 2 days so at least you guys know what's coming. And if at all possible, just keep my name out of it. I've got the weed to deal with.

_____________________________________________________

Editor's note: Hossmom returned. I have discovered that I have been nominated for some HOA committees. Great job guys, dragging me into this. Awesome really. Now she can just yell at me again. Well played. Didn't see that one coming at all.

Man's First Discovery

Man is a discoverer by nature. It is what he does. It is what defines him as a man. Man discovered fire. Man discovered the wheel. Man discovered that 11 herbs and spices applied to chicken and then deep fried in lard tastes damn, damn good.

But every man has to start somewhere. He has to make that first discovery that sets his self on the path for future discoveries. Was E=MC2 Einsteins first discovery? Was Columbus' voyage across the great unknown to what would one day called America his first exploration? Did Armstrong walk on the moon first, or did he perhaps go somewhere else to light the fire of discovery?

The irony is that, even though all these men came from different eras of time, each has the same discovery in common. The discovery of something so vastly important that it shines the light on what else can be in the world. It is the reason men explore, the reason for our inquisitive natures.

To describe what that first discovery is requires a greater mind than my own. One that is still full of wander and hope and not one that is as cluttered as mine is by wondering why there is going to and NFL lockout that will totally fuck up my fantasy football season, the league that I have played in for 18 straight fucking years that millionaires are now going to shit all over. So I will turn you over to my son, a man in the making, who himself is making that very first discovery that will bring new understanding to him. I will translate of course as I'm assuming that none of you speak minion.

Let us begin:

Dad! Dad! Guess what!

I found something, something cool! You are not going to believe this. This is better than ice cream wrapped in a Popsicle. I know, don't tell mom about those, but you've got to check this out!

So I was going potty today, like you taught me and things were going pretty well. I wasn't peeing on my pants or nothing. I was just sitting here on my special potty and enjoying some Team Umizoomie, that robot is amazing by the way, and I was peeing, right. So anyway, I get up and look down. And do you know what I saw?

I saw my penis! Where did this thing come from man, look at it! I know that I've always had one but I've never much paid attention to it. Boy was that a mistake.

Because when I saw my penis, for some reason unknown to me, I thought to myself: Self, why don't we give that a yank.

And I did.

Holy crap.

That thing is freaking awesome man! Why I ignored it so much before, I have no idea. I mean, I've always stuck my hands down there and stuff when I'm cold or tired, but I've never really yanked on that thing.

A.W.E.S.O.M.E!

This thing is great, how come you didn't tell me about it before? So I'm standing there with my pants down, Jake and the Neverland Pirates are on now, and I was holding my junk in my hands. For some reason, I felt oddly relaxed. Well of course I wanted to see where this would go. So instead of pulling my pants up, I just dropped on the floor, butt and all! That's the ticket!

So I sat there for a little bit and things were going pretty good. I was feeling very zen, know what I mean. And I thought to myself again: Why not roll around for a little bit. So I did!

I'm rolling around, holding my junk and I don't even care what's on T.V. anymore. I'm just rolling around with my pants down and smashing my penis up. It was super cool man. I could have done that for ever. But then the dog came over and licked my butt. I didn't like that so had to go to the couch.

You would think that by now I would have pulled my pants up. But guess what?! I didn't! I just went ahead and took them straight off man! I know! How crazy is that!

So the pants are off and the dog has run away and I'm holding my junk. You still with me Dad? I'm doing this for like a good 15 minutes. Mickey is on or some such crap like that but I just don't seem to care anymore. It was a bit weird. This penis thing is pretty great but it kind of makes me stupid if I pay to much attention to it. Weird huh?

Anyway, I'm still holding my junk and now I feel like a sandwich. But I can't make a sandwich because I'm busy slapping around the old one eyed willie, no what I mean? I got stuck there for a little bit. I wanted a sandwich and some chips and something called "beer" and I don't even know what that is. But I couldn't get up. So I sat there some more. For a while more actually. I seem to have lost time.

Pretty soon I'm starting to go blind and I notice that I have to go pee again. So I get up to go pee because man would you be upset if I took a leak on the couch. The last time I thought you were going to have a stroke. So I get up to go pee and sit down again.

But get this, I sit down and this thing is staring me right in the face! WTF man! Did I break my penis Dad? It starts to freak me out, I don't know what to do. I'm just staring at this thing and it's staring right back at me. This goes on for like, 10 minutes man! I was about to cry.

But then everything just went back to normal and I could pee again. I don't know what that was all about. It was scary and it was cool at the same time.

Now let's talk about that sandwich.

The Manifesto Against Peanut Butter

Saturday morning, early. The sun has just come up. It's one of my favorite times of the week. Not because of seeing the sun come up or the early morning silence. It's because I don't have to wear pants and this family enjoys not wearing pants. It's a trend that Hossmom started when we first got married and I try to encourage it.

There is no such thing as early morning silence in this house or any house with young children. The only time it is quiet is at 3 am. I have to set my alarm to enjoy that part of the day. This morning my son decided that sleep is for wimps so he woke up at 6:30 and demanded breakfast. He is so going to pay for this when he is a teenager.

I don't mind getting up early, I let Hossmom sleep in most week end days. I'll get my nap in the afternoon if I'm lucky. I'll sleep curled up in the fetal position so as to protect my groin from any toddler that decides to go Hulk Hogan off the top rope. After a couple of years of practice I find that napping like this is oddly comfortable.

Breakfast is done and now I'm sitting on the living room chair with my boy. We are both rocking underwear this morning. He is sporting the Sponge Bob briefs this morning while I got my pirate boxers on. We make a pretty damn cool pair. One day he is going to ask me to go with him to pick up chicks. I'll decline of course, out of respect for Hossmom, but I'll appreciate the thought.

Jake and the Neverland Pirates is on the T.V. which is fine by me. It gives me time to check the news on my phone. Bubba Hoss doesn't stay immobile long when we are like this. He shifts alot. Eventually he'll go all limp on me and just fall to the floor. He'll pick himself up and climb back on my chest or stomach and we'll start the routine again. I've learned to get used to it and now I can't get comfortable unless a toddler foot is hitting the side of my cheek. All in all, life is good this morning. Calm or as calm as we get in this house. My only complaint is my allergies that have started to go all haywire but I roll with it. I've got a tissue stuck up my nose. Sexy. Control yourself ladies.

I put my hand down on my shirt and that's when I rub my hand in peanut butter. I'm no longer a fan of peanut butter. In fact, I think that I am starting to hate that kid staple. For most kids, peanut butter is mana from heaven. If my children made the food pyramid, it would consist of peanut butter toast, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and then just straight peanut butter out of the jar. This last one would be a the top of the food pyramid and would be represented by one giant gooey finger.

But as I parent, I am pretty close to declaring a jihad on it. Or a crusade or whatever religious war like event that I can because I am pretty damn tired of it. I'll convert to whatever religion that doesn't allow peanut butter. I know it's harsh but I feel that other parents are going to understand the manifesto I'm going to unleash on peanut butter.

First off, there is to much weight to anything covered in peanut butter. Toast by itself does not fly through the air that well. Peanut Butter toast flys remarkable well and has the unique ability to instantly stick to anything it's thrown at, like the wall or my head.

Second, dried peanut butter is a bitch. It's like a cancer, you can't get it all. Even if you clean up after every meal like a good parent, cough cough, you'll still miss some of it. You'll miss it because it ends up places that you usually don't clean up after dinner like the underside of tables, more walls and on grandma's antique china hutch. Dried peanut butter works as a great stain stripper. Bet you didn't know that, did you? Works like a charm. It takes off the stain and if you are really lucky, half of the antique molding as well. I keep a putty knife in my kitchen drawer just for this purpose, peanut butter clean up. I have a potato peeler, an apple slicer, and a putty knife. I'm a very prepared dad.

Which brings me to my final point about the evils of peanut butter. No matter how small amount that you use on whatever peanut butter delivery device you've chosen, it will not stay there. For some reason, one of the stickiest substances on earth, refuses to contain itself within it's bread boundaries. I did some research and somehow the very existence of peanut butter bends the laws of physics so that it can't be contained. That's why they don't allow peanut butter in prisons, gives the inmates to many ideas.

So it's no surprise that I find a healthy helping of it on my shirt this morning. I've only been up for 30 minutes and already I need to change my shirt. But I don't want to, I will not give in to the peanut butter menace. Besides, I'm doing more yard work today so I don't think I will be running into the Queen of England in my front yard of dead weeds. So I just start rubbing it in and spreading out the damage. Face it, we've all done something like this. Just rub the stain a little with your hand and like magic, it darkens and becomes only a miner stain. And if not, bam, you have a work shirt. It's truly scary how awesome I am at times.

So in conclusion: I hate peanut butter more than anything in the world. Ever.

Little Hoss finally has woken up at the late hour of 7:30 and comes stumbling downstairs. I know what's about to happen because it happens this way every Saturday morning. She'll say she's hungry and I'll show her the breakfast that I made for her on the table. Then Bubba Hoss will say he's hungry again and I'll do the morning routine all over again.

"Dad" she says. "I'm hungry."

"Good morning baby" I reply. "Go to the table and you can have your peanut butter toast. I'll get you milk in a second."

She walks over and looks at the table. "Dad! Where's the toast? There's no toast, only Chicos (that's what we call cereal. I don't know why.)"

That's odd. Didn't I make peanut butter toast this morning? I must have, I have peanut butter on my shirt that I've spent a good 10 minutes rubbing in.

"Are you sure baby?" I ask, maybe the cat ate it. Wouldn't be surprised.

"DAD! NO! Don't be silly!"

Bubba Hoss jumps off my lap. As he is running towards his sister I see his little Sponge Bob underwear from behind. They are bulging. Then there is a lot more "peanut butter" running up his back.

God Dammit.

In the business, this is what we call a blowout. And it happened in the perfect storm of conditions. Early morning weekend, a tired father who couldn't remember what he made for breakfast, and allergies that have blocked his sense of smell.

I have found something that I hate worse than peanut butter but right now I have to take a shower like the guy in the Crying Game and burn my clothes which, I now notice, are covered with more peanut butter. Oddly chunky peanut butter.

Man Vs. Weeds

It's going to be tough today. I know it, my wife knows it, and the kids sense it. They notice that good old dad isn't talking. They see a worried look on my face, my brows are creased in thought. They hit me in the balls a couple of times and are shocked that I don't react. They look at each other and then run off.

I've got other things on my mind today, I've got a job to do and I'm not feeling good about it. I've got to go out to the yard. I have to face something that so far has gotten the best of me. This is my last chance or I'll lose it. I'll lose it bad. I'll go to a very dark place and I may not come back from it.

It's the weeds. It's always the weeds. They're back. And they're out front. Waiting for me to come back, waiting for the final battle.

When we bought this house, no one had lived in it for 2 years. That means that no one put any weed prevent down either. The first year we lived here I didn't do much. I didn't have time, I was trying to settle the family in a new city. The second year I launched my first offensive. I laid down prevent, weeded, aeratedand laid down new grass seed. Some of it came up to. And the weeds came back up.

About a week ago the dandelions came back followed quickly by the clover. The clover came back in strips so it looks like it was intentionally planted. It's either aliens or my neighbors, I'm not sure. But I am sure that they have allies. But that's ok, because I do to now.

I bought a special chemical. Something deadly. Something that I'm pretty sure I'm not qualified to handle. If it was any stronger I think I would need military clearance and an FBI background check. It is the agent orange of suburbanite weed killers. My sperm count goes down just when I hold the bottle.

I do not have good experiences with chemicals but I feel that drastic measures are necessary at this point. I'm losing this battle, this war is not going my way. Those who follow the blog know that I've had a bad experiences with weeds and weed killers. Last year the big war was against the vine killing my evergreen bush. So I took drastic measures then to.

Oh, I won. There is no doubt that I won. But at what cost? At what cost! I killed the vine. I killed it good. And I killed the bush.

It's time, I head outside. I read the bottle. Mix with water, be careful not to get into eyes, blah blah blah. The bottle says that I should add 1 table spoon per gallon of water. I took this to mean to add 1 tablespoon if you had sand in your vagina and liked to sing show tunes. 2 to 3 will work better. Trust me, I've got a good feeling about this. Maybe I can turn the tide right now??

I pour the chemical into the sprayer. I add water. The vapors sting my eyes and I get a little light headed. Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, I'm feeling down right giddy about this. I'm positive that this will work. In fact, I'm feeling damn fine about everything in my life. I'm also a little hungry.

I step out into the lawn and I eyeball the weeds. They eyeball me right back. The clover gives me the finger. I start to cry a little bit. There is no turning back now, I've reached the point of no return.

I grip the sprayer. I walk into the yard with the Ipod blasting. One of us isn't coming back, the only question is which one.

DaddysHome Blog

Hossmom got home very late last night. She spent the next hour telling me about the couple sitting in front of her that brought their dog on the plane. Early 30's couple, hip, that loved to talk to their dog in baby voices. Hossmom had to vent or she was going to track them down and throw diapers at their head. But seriously, what kind of best in show couple bring a dog on a 3 hour flight?

As a result though, I didn't write anything. But don't despair, I've got something for you today. It's more of a helpful hint type of thing.

Go to Daddyshome and check out the post about Garage Sales tips. I'm an idiot when I go to garage sales and am totally willing to pay 50 bucks for a dress. It's hard to find them in my size. But the article is good and written by a friend, so check it out.

Bath Time and Zombies

Teaching a toddler about respecting personal space is like trying to teaching a dog calculus. Sure, it sounds fun to spend hours upon hours upon hours upon hours explaining the theory but in the end, we all know that they just want a cookie. And until they get that cookie, the dog or the child, someone is going to have a lap buddy constantly looking at them with big baby eyes and whining. Occasionally, you might also get peed on.

Normally I am ok with the personal space thing when it comes to my children. I understand that they need the comfort of Dad's rock hard guns to make them feel secure from the world. This doesn't go for the rest of you though. Give me a hug and I'm probably going to punch you. I can't help it, I'm not that into physical contact. Just not my style. I live in the Midwest. For the most part, I'm surrounded by miles and miles of fields. Sweet, sweet fields that are filled with quiet and no 3 year old with a baseball bat whose natural swing is right at the height of your balls.

But with Hossmom once again gone for work, I'm rocking the single parent thing again. This time she is headed to Boston to fuck with some smaht kids. By the way, I can't take credit for that joke, that was her facebook update. She has no ability to tell a good story but can bring you to your knees in 140 characters or less.

So I'm alone with kids and the lack of personal space is starting to get to me. At bathtime I turned around and knocked my son on the ground. I took up no additional space when I moved but he was so close to me that he got a hip check to the head. The kids are just always so interested in what you are doing. I was turning on the bath water. For some reason, that activity rated right up there with fireworks so that they both had to run for a closer view. This may imply that I don't bath my kids enough, which is probably true. But if they would just stop running from the hose they would get pretty clean. We practice what we call "prison bathing" in this house. I throw lye on them.

It's days like this that I reach my true limit. Not just my patience limit, but my space limit. I just want to go into the backyard and lay down. And although I will be surrounded by dog turds, they won't be touching me, pawing me, trying to get the best view of the bathwater. It's just water guys, we literally see this everyday, what's the big deal?

The big deal of course is that Dad is there and Dad is doing something. It comes from me being the center of their universe and I can understand that. It's how I got Hossmom to marry me. I just kept bugging her, pawing at her and occasionally hitting her in the crotch. Then she said let's get married. Bam, a love story you can tell you children.

I just have to remind myself that it comes from a place of love and need. I have to remind myself even more when I start wanting to shove like I'm in a crowd of zombies that crave my brains and bathwater. That's why zombies are always so pissed: they're dirty.