The Defeat of Hossman

Before you read my little post here and laugh or cry or punch someone in the face, take a minute to once again go to Circle of Moms and vote for Hossman one more time. The contest ends today. And unless a miracle happens, I can't make the top 25. But I can make the top 50 which is still something that would be cool. Sure, it's like dating the ugly sister. But the ugly sister always puts out. I don't know what that has to do with anything, but I just like the saying. Now enjoy a special edition Tuesday blog as we were back in Texas all week visiting family and creating awkward moments.


I should start this by saying that I did not mean any harm to come to Uncle Bricksalesman. It was not my intention to humiliate him in anyway or to destroy his ego. He's a good man, a great uncle to my kids and to all his nieces and nephews. He's funny, personable and no longer talks about what degree Celsius bricks are baked at. He's the type of guy that would actually listen to you as you tell your story about how you made a funny HTML mistake so your banner ad ran at 10 pixels instead of 100. The rest of us would be cutting ourselves under the table like a jacked up teen girl who had just finished Twilight. The pain means he loves me.

He's a likable guy, a very likable guy. And that is the problem.

So it was with somewhat of a heavy heart that I set out to destroy him. It was intentional and it was premeditated. It was not by accident. It was not by chance. However, it was necessary.

You see, he's too likable. All the nieces and nephews think that he's just the greatest thing in the world. He's the reason that the sun comes up in the morning. He's the reason that Santa Claus can get down chimneys (they are made of brick). He's the Alpha and the Omega to them. And thus, even to my own children, I am not. This is a problem.

I want to be the cool, badass uncle. I can't be though because I have to be the responsible parent. I am Dad and even though dad still kicks ass, he is still Dad. That means that he has to lay down the law, he has to do timeouts, he has to say no. What does Super Great Uncle Fantastic Bricksalesman have to do? Eat a sandwich and be awesome.

But I still want to be the cool uncle, the ones that all the nieces and nephews (including my own children) think is just super awesome. Right now, I'm just big fat uncle Hoss. I think I should be more. Whenever something great happens, even in my own house, my children give Uncle Bricksalesman the credit. That new toy that Dad just bought for them. Uncle Bricksalesman must have told me to do that. The cartoons that I'm turning on? They are Uncle Bricksalesman's favorite so I have to turn them on. And so on, and on and on. After 5 years, I got tired of it.

So I became the Goldfinger to Uncle Bricksalesman's Bond. Except my evil cat was killed by my wife because she got pooped on while sleeping. Different blog, very funny, go find it.

This weekend was a family get together. All the nieces and nephews would be there. And so would Uncle Bricksalesman who would probably come sliding down a god damn rainbow while riding a unicorn. But this time I had his number.

Several weekends ago I visited my niece and nephew whose parents are hippies. They have strict rules in the house. Organic is better, the compost goes in the back and absolutely no T.V. Ever. When they left the kids alone with me for 3 hours, I introduced them to a great thing called the Iphone and Netflix. Ponyo seems to be our favorite. And after that, we enjoyed a nice rousing game of Angry Birds. Top that Uncle Assheel! I am laying seeds of his destruction.

I knew I would get reamed out about it and I did. Within 10 minutes of the family reunion my sister in law tore into me about respecting their parenting choices and claims of being passive aggressive were thrown at my head. It was a bit brutal. But I smiled and I laughed because I also knew that the kids REMEMBERED how cool Uncle Hoss is now! He let us watch cartoons AND he's taking all the heat for it.

Top that motherfucker.

But I wasn't done. No, that was just planting the seed with the children. It was time to play the endgame. Super Uncle Awesome over there can't top this.

We stayed by a river while on our little Texas family reunion. A river that contained fish. Kids love fish. They love the slimyness of fish. They love screaming "ewe" and "gross" and yet they all have to touch them. But how to get the fish? What magic do we use? What matter of tools do we employ?

Hmmmm. How about the 4 brand new sweet ass awesome fishing poles that Uncle Hoss bought! Suck. On. That.

2 Barbie poles for the two girls. A Star Wars pole for my nephew and a Disney Cars pole for my own son. And I made sure that they knew that these were from Uncle Hoss. Boom goes the dynamite.

We take the kids out by the lake. We get some slimy worms. We put them on hooks. We talk about safety. We put our lines in the water and we wait with anticipation. And wait. And wait. Nothing. We change spots. Nothing. I rebait hooks. Nothing.

Until Uncle Bricksalesman shows up.

"Hey kids!" he bellows. Come over here and fish! He's sitting on the dock and of course all four children head his way like the little cult members that they are.

"Why don't we put our hooks right here." Then he shows them how to cast and how to watch. He jokes with them. He plays with them. And within 5 minutes my niece pulls out the first fish. Everyone goes crazy. Everyone is screaming how great Uncle Bricksalesman is. 5 minutes more go by. My daughter pulls up her first one ever. Uncle Bricksalesman gets the hug.

At times Uncle Bricksalesman takes the pole from them while the kids go and play. I see the game he's playing. He is actually catching the fish and then calling them over so that they can pull it up. As soon as they grab the pole he says "look, you might have a fish on there." ever so innocent. And of course they do because he caught it. But they don't know that.

At one point I thought my son had called him on this. He had my son reel up yet another fish but it wasn't' on his pole. So my son refused to accept that this was a fish he had caught himself. What does Uncle Bricksaleman do? He grabs the right pole, grabs my son, sits down, and catches yet another fish. And another . And another. I have been out maneuvered.

And with so little effort I have been vanquished. It is over. During the weekend the kids caught 26 perch and 3 bass. All by fishing where Uncle Bricksalesman told them to, doing it how he told them to do it.

And I see the smiles on their faces. I see the absolute screaming joy of my son when he caught his first fish. I see how my niece cannot contain her excitement or how my nephew lights up each time he holds up a new fish.

Uncle Bricksalesman gives them a hug then picks up the Barbie fishing pole. He sits back down and puts the hook in the water. He has defeated me and my plots by just being who he is.

He is Uncle Bricksalesman. And I sir, am not.


Kitchen Redo

Never watch a home renovation show with a child that likes to destroy stuff. Sage advice.

"Dad! They are tearing up that wall!" Little Hoss says as we watch a kitchen renovation show. I'm actually surprised she noticed as it has nothing to do with Princess's or candy. But then again, she's my daughter, raised by me, taught by me, mentored by me. Things that go boom seem to go over well in this house.

Hossmom and I are watching the DIY network. It's our weekend crap that we watch from time to time. Something that's on in the background other than a cartoon or one of the wonderful Oscar type classics that Hossmom makes me watch from time to time. Like Cutting Edge or Center Stage. Yup, top notch films. Shunned by the academy, I"m sure.

Hossmom and I like to both watch these renovation shows on the weekend together. I like to learn new techniques that perhaps I don't know yet and Hossmom likes to pretend that we'll ever have a "spare" 15K to actually do a remodel of the kitchen. She's so sweet in her delusions.

"Dad! Look! They are punching that wall!" She's getting excited now. It's kind of catching.

"Yes they are honey."

"Dad! Look!" She says again. She is now at the age when she knows that I am answering her without looking at her. She physically grabs my face and lifts it out of my book. I am now looking at someone using a sledgehammer to take down a wall. My daughter is watching this. Probably not a good idea. But she's already running with it.

"Dad! I know something!" She says, more excited than ever.

"Maybe we can hit a wall! And then, and then, and then (she repeats herself when she gets excited) we can build a new wall!" She says.

Hell yeah, I like where this is going. Her excitement is catching.

"And then, and then, and then, maybe you can build us a new great big wall!" She's practically jumping up and down by this time and her arms are spread out wide to show how big of a wall we have to build. "A big new pink wall!"

Shit yeah, I love pink. Pink is an awesome color.

"And Bubba Hoss can help! He can hit the wall!"

Damn right, he can hit the wall too!

"And we can go like this---Smash, smash, smash!" Now she is jumping up and down. I'm close myself.

Keep preaching darling!

"Can we build a window in the new wall daddy!" She's yelling now.

"Damn straight we can!"

"Can mom help!" She says, still yelling.

"Hell no!"

"Ok!" She says.

"Ok!" I say

"And then, and then, and then we can cover it all in................................GLITTER!"

"HELLS YES!" Now I'm standing up to doing a fist pump.

"Let's go get the hammer dad!"


And Hossmom is on her feet, blocking the door to the garage. Thus ends our kitchen renovation and the watching of any show on DIY while the kids are up.


A Vote For Hossman Is a Vote for Freedom

Alright Cult, it's time to see if we can mobilize. Maybe we can, maybe we can't. I'm not really sure.

It appears that I have been nominated for one of the top 25 dad blogs. But it's a competition. Your blog receives votes, you move up the list. The current leader has about 2000 votes. I'm ambitious but I'm also realistic. We may not be able to reach 2000 votes. But I would bet dollars to donuts (thanks for that one grampa) that we can crack the top 25 and be named one of the top 25 dad blogs.

You see, I write this thing for free. And it's not easy. There's a lot of work that goes into writing this stuff, it takes a lot of time. It's not all that easy to throw donuts at your children every other morning so you can have ten minutes to write about how you throw donuts at them every morning.

Everyone seems to enjoy it. One fan actually gave me a 5 dollar gift card a while ago thus ruining my amatuer status with the NCAA.

From time to time though, I need to be re-energized. This is the kind of thing that does that.

So if you enjoy the blog and like reading it, help a fella out.

Go to Circle of Mom Top 25 Dad Blogs, click here, and find the Hossman Chronicles. You can vote more than once so if you get a chance, find the NYC Dad's Blog and Daddyshome and give them a vote to.

Then tell your spouse to go to their work computer and ask them to vote to. Stand over their shoulder until they do it. You've got parents? Call them and tell them to vote. Got a friend that owe's you a favor? Time to call it in.

Tweet it, that would be helpful. Put it up on your facebook, that would rock.

Show me the love, give me a little payback for all the stories you've read over the years. If we can just make the top 25, I will feel vindicated that perhaps this thing can go somewhere.

But if you don't, and I know some of you will not, then you automatically get nominated to baby sit Little Hoss. I'll drop her off with a bag of permanent markers and a hammer. If you value your home, I would go vote if I were you. Like, right now. Circle Of Moms Top 25 Dad Blogs


I'm A Liar

"I want that toy!" Little Hoss says. She is pointing at the T.V. screen where previously was a delightful little episode of Jake and the Neverland Pirates. After the kids go to sleep it will be showing a very awful alien type movie but it's ok because there will be boobs. That makes it worthwhile.

The toy she is asking for is some sort of tinker bell thing. I'm not sure which one. As a father of a 5 year old girl, I am very well versed in the Tinker Bell line of take my money. I could write of at least 3,999 different tinker bell products that constantly battle to get into my wallet. It turns out that Tinker Bell is a capitalist pig.

"Sure baby." I tell my daughter. I have no intention of buying this for her.

The next commercial comes on. It's a racetrack. The kids already have a racetrack. They got it for Christmas. I am proud to say that it last a whole month before Little Hoss took a pair of scissors to the power cord. I keep debating to myself if I should rewire it or not. To do so would show how awesome dad is that he can fix anything. To not do so would show that you can't destroy your things and have them magically replaced. This is the debate I am having with myself before I realize that Little Hoss will probably take a sledge hammer to it next.

"Dad, can I have that toy!" my son asks. He has fallen right in line with his big sister.

"No problem son." I tell him. Again, I have no intention of buying this for them.

Again another Tinker Bell toy commercial comes in. But this time it's Tink AND her friends. They seem a joyous lot, full of piss and vinegar as my father would say.

"Dad.............." I tune out the rest and just give the automatic response. I've got a championship level game of Angry Birds going on my phone.

"Yup." She'll never get it.

This pattern will continue until the commercials are over and the pre-requested show comes on. I believe it is Bubble Guppies. I am beginning to hate them.

Here are a couple of truths for you. My kids watch way to much T.V. I will not deny it and I will not be one of those people that says "I'm so embarrassed" or try and distort the truth of the situation. They watch a good 23 hours of T.V. a day. The last hour is spent pooping and eating. In between there, I try to teach the children valuable life lessons.

Lesson 1: Always cave before a beat down of a fight that you will never, ever win. I learned this technique with Hossmom over many, many arguments about things that don't matter. Should I disagree with her about politics, what comes next is a 2 hour beatdown of a debate where I'm left shattered and crying in the corner sucking my thumb. Should I suggest perhaps a different parenting strategy I usually end up in a time-out myself. Hossmom loves to debate and I have found that my life is way easier if I just don't engage her. And this of course, just pisses her off more.

The next lesson I'm teaching my children of course is that materialism is good. You should covet everything that you see. And not only that, you should expect other people to give it to you rather than actually work for it yourself. Besides, what else are you going to sell when you have to declare bankruptcy because of your never ending spending? A Tinker Bell doll might get you five bucks. Restraint doesn't give you a pot to piss in. I think my children will be great adults.

I know though that there are a lot of parents out there that are screaming now "But you are lying to your children!" Gasp, shock, Gasp.

Get off your high horse my fellow parents. First off, my children already suspect that I am a baby bunny killer. This is about the worst thing a father can be. Being a liar would probably be a step up for me, a move in the right direction. At least this way I'm not cutting the heads off Snow White's dwarfs and woodland friends.

We all lie to our children, just as our parents did to us. There is a Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy exists, Mommy and Daddy were just wrestling. Should I go on? Ok, answer this question then: How much T.V do your children watch each day? Be honest, just try it.


The Bunny Funeral

I was doing the right thing. I was doing what you are supposed to do even though the act of doing it was very distasteful and unpleasant. Not that is any consolation to the baby rabbit at my feet but I just want him to know that I did feel bad.

I had to end it for the little guy, he was suffering. I found him on our back porch while I was cleaning up. Some animal had been at him, probably my cat, and his gut was torn open pretty fierce. I felt really bad for the little guy as it couldn't have been more than just a few weeks old. There was no way he was going to make it though, he was to far gone. So I got my shovel out and did what I had to do, the thing that we are supposed to do when we see an animal suffering. It was not pleasant.

Then Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss came up the deck stairs. They stopped and looked at me, the shovel still in my hand and a headless baby rabbit at my feet.


I would have given anything at this moment for a distraction or a time warp. When have my kids ever been quiet anyway? What kind of mad sorcery is this? But I couldn't. There is a headless rabbit at my feet and a shovel with a bloodstain in my hands. OJ's lawyers couldn't have gotten me out of this one.

If they would have just turned around at this moment I would have given them anything. Pony, no problem. All you can eat ice cream bar every night the week? Done. A real princess shackled in our basement making her available for tea parties on the whim of a 5 year old girl? I considered it. It's funny, after you find yourself a killer the rest of it gets a little easier.

"Daddy!" Little Hoss said. "What Happened!" She and her brother ran up to me and bent down looking at the headless baby rabbit.

I was about to lie to my daughter. I was going to tell a flat out lie, I admit it. I didn't have many options here. I was thinking about telling her that an evil race of aliens, hell bent on destroying the baby bunny population of Missouri, had come down and destroyed this little precious baby bunny. Damn the evil aliens, damn them to hell.

"Daddy, did a hawk get it?" Little Hoss asked. We decided to go with that.

"Yes honey." I said.

I am raising my daughter to love nature and the outdoors. I don't have anything against hawks at all. I think they are very majestic creatures that deserve our respect. But if the choices are A: Daddy is a killer that chops the heads off defenseless baby bunnies or B: Hawks tear out bunnies entrails and decapitates them for sport. I choose option B, hawks can suck it. And don't tell me I can blame the cat. Little Hoss is known for vengeance and I don't want to see my cat walking with a brand new limp and no tail.

"Is it dead daddy?" She asked me.

"Yes honey." Let's be honest here. As the bunny is without a head, it makes it really difficult to give the old dad line of "it's just sleeping" that I have used on many lifeless squirrel bodies that always seem to pop up on the road ways.

"Daddy, what is dead?" Bubba Hoss asked me. And there it is. The father question that we all put off for as long as we can but one that we can't avoid forever. The next one will be the sex talk where all parities involved will be scarred for a lifetime. My dad gave me the sex talk while we were slaughtering a hog. We were a bit redneck.

I had thought about this question but have not yet come up with a good way to answer it. It's hard to define death anyway but to make it so a 5 year old and a 3 year old can understand it is damn near impossible. But I'm dad and dad has got to give it a shot. Once the question has been asked, it cannot be unasked.

"Dead is when the body isn't alive anymore, guys." I start. "The little baby bunny does not live in that body anymore, he's gone." I know it's crap but it's the best I got.

"He's gone, daddy?" my daughter asks me.

"Yes honey."

She starts to cry. She asked me why but I didn't have an answer for that. I'm not afraid to admit that I choked up a little bit myself. I ask my kids if they would like to bury the baby bunny and say goodbye. They say yes.

I get a shoe box because that is what the cliche says you do. I pick up the bunny, and it's head, and place it in there. We go out to the backyard, near a tree, and I dig a hole. Little Hoss is still crying. She has her umbrella because she says she needs the shade. Bubba Hoss is trying to figure out what happened as we do our funereal march.

"Maybe he was out looking for his mamma and the hawk got it." He says. Great. Now I know that they are going to have issues with mom leaving for work everyday.

"Yeah." says Little Hoss, picking up the narrative. "He was looking for his mother and food and a mean hawk came and deaded it." I find that it's not really a good idea at this moment to correct their grammar. But the story seems to be giving them some context to understand what has happened here so I let them roll with it.

Once the hole is dug we put the baby bunny inside and I cover it up. Little Hoss is sniffling now, Bubba Hoss is continuing with his story to help him understand what has happened.

I kneel down and give them both a hug. I tell them that it's time to say goodbye to the baby bunny. They do. Bubba Hoss suggests that the Hawk that killed the bunny is friends with the bad witch and she made him do it. I like that one so we roll with it.

I find that life is easier to understand when you can blame the bad witch.


Chicken Fried Steak and Taxes

It's a funny thing. When I lived in Texas I didn't eat many chicken fried steaks. I suppose I took them for granted the same way that you take for granted that a stripper will talk to you if you have a dollar bill in your teeth. It's one of those things that just always seems to be. I could have had chicken fried steak any numerous times but I passed it up for some sweet, sweet Mexican food. Mmmm, heartburn.

But since I have left Texas, I am kind of missing good Southern cooking. That down home stuff that you could always get. Now everything is fancy. Most places here require you to keep your belt on and top button buttoned.

So Hossmom said we needed something special tonight. Some comfort food because we have a big job to do tonight like every other patriotic American. Taxes. I hate doing taxes but I do love chicken fried steak.

Now don't get me wrong, I don't mind paying my taxes. That's fine. I just hate doing them. Because even though my wife and I both have college degree's, have held management positions, and I have actually made some life and death decisions: We have no idea what the hell we are doing when it comes to taxes.

The smart money would be to just find a CPA and let him do it. We did that for many years before we had kids and I became a SAHD. We paid 300 bucks to have someone else do them. But we can't do that anymore because any single income parent knows that you take every opportunity to save money. Besides, our CPA fucked up the last year he did them and we had to pay 1000 bucks in late fees. But don't worry, he did give us the filing fee back for screwing up our taxes. Jerkoff.

Now we do them ourselves to save money. It can kind of be a rough night, which is why we need the comfort food. The deeper we get into doing the taxes the more of a glare I get from Hossmom. Income: all her. Savings: all her. IRA: yup, it's hers. The glare says "You sir, are a drag on the economy."

She doesn't really glare at me but it's the way I feel. I offer nothing. Wait, that's not right. This year I did offer something! I did jury duty for 5 days and got paid 30 bucks for 40 hours worth of work. I was happy at the time. Now I find out that we actually get TAXED on that. So now that just makes me feel a little worse.

But every bit of money counts, right? We all make sacrifices to save money, to keep the families goals. I do my part. I am now officially down to two pair of jeans. One I had to cut 3 inches off of the hem because I ripped them and they make me look like some sort of begger. The other pair has a rip on the thigh that is slowing crawling up to the crotch. I find my self very alluring with my suggestive clothing.

But that's it. The other jeans haven't made it through winter as they were all 4 years old. But I haven't bought any new pairs this year because I was trying to save money.

Now I'm getting taxed on 30 bucks and a ticket for indecent exposure.

We filled out the form. Under the part of my occupation I asked Hossmom to put "Homemaker that makes a fucking great chicken fried steak". She tried but the box was to small. Figures.

But I do make a kick ass chicken friend steak. I will sell it to you for 30 bucks.

Under the table of course.


DaddysHome Blog

I have a new post over at Daddyshome today. It's about March Madness so I will understand if a lot of you don't want to read it. However, I do some pretty good trash talking and that's always fun to read. Check it out, leave a comment, kiss an Irish person today.


A Day In The Life.......

My son left a puddle of pee on the floor of Mcdonalds during rush hour lunch time. Not a whole lot mind you. Just what ever could overflow from his shoe and end up on the floor. It didn't help that he walked around in a circle for a minute, tracking it everywhere, before telling me that he had once again peed his pants. Now there is little pee foot prints, size 7.

We are in the middle of potty training and I thought we had turned the corner. We can do it at home and even in public for the most part. But there are times that he forgets that pissing on the floor is a bad thing, like when we are ordering food at McDonald's.

We've had a pretty good day. Hossmom is gone for the day and night so I tried to make today as special as I could. We went to ballet class for my daughter, a good start. Nothing is cuter than my little girl twirling in a tutu and not breaking anything. After that, we went to a St. Patrick's day parade. We made new friends and shared the candy that was thrown at us. Little Hoss's new best friend is named Elise, a very sweet little girl that likes hugs and cats but not loud fire trucks.

I thought I would top the day off by taking the kids to Mcdonalds. This way they play some more and I don't have to cook. But the best laid plans of mice and men......

Now we have a puddle of pee on the floor. I'm trying to talk to my son and order at the same time. Neither goes very well. I didn't have a spare change of clothes on me so we have to get the order to go which causes both kids to start crying. I try to explain that we can't slide down the slide and leave pee trails. It's not polite. But that doesn't make much difference to a 3 year old. We carry our happy meals to the car and I've got everyone loaded up before I remember I didn't actually tell any staff member about the puddle. Now I'm a bad father and a bad consumer. I can only offer my heart felt apologies to all the people that tracked around in my son's urine. It wasn't intentional, I promise.

Normally, this in and of itself is enough for a good blog. A little ha ha, aw gross that I might be going for. But it's only early afternoon, our day isn't even over yet. Come, join me in the rest of my day.

About 3 o'clock we were having break time. A nice snack was had by all. I find that popcorn is really good for any occasion. At some point during snack time Little Hoss decided to get a very big glass of ice water. Normally, I'm ok with this. But right after she got it she decided that there was something very important that she had to tell me. So she started running. Fast. So fast that she tripped and dumped the ENTIRE glass of ice cold water, complete with ice, right on my crotch. I was just sitting in my chair answering some email and then bam, ice cold crotch.

Then Bubba Hoss peed his pants again.

There are moments in the day where sometimes you just have a small desire to check bus schedules. With my incredible shrinking junk, this was one of those moments. I was hoping that ballet class would give my daughter a chance to develop her coordination. I do not think it's working.

It's time to go outside. Let the world feel the wrath of my children and let me just calm down a bit. I know that I'm about to lose it at this point so a public place is probably a good idea. Again, the best laid plans of mice and men........

As we are planting bulbs for spring, Bubba Hoss smacks Little Hoss in the head with a rock. Loud screams and crying ensues. Time outs are given. I should have kept a better eye on my daughter after that as I was sure that retribution was going to come. It did in the form of a bungee cord from my garage that happened to slap my son right in the face. More timeouts are issued. It's time to go inside. I make the kids clean up the front yard. Bubba Hoss somehow runs smack into a parked car and goes down. He's crying. Kid doesn't pay attention. A second later my daughter trips and lands chin first on the driveway. Now everyone is crying and I'm wondering if they post bus schedules on the Internet or if hitch hiking is the better solution here.

We go inside to find that the dogs took a gigantic shit on the floor. Huge. I don't know why. Maybe the family is finally bonding together for the sole purpose of driving me insane. The kids and I begin to clean up the foulness that has come from my dogs ass. Little Hoss does a really good job of just smearing it into the floor. As I am cleaning up the smears, Little Hoss comes and gets me. She says the toilet is broken.

I walk to the bathroom to see it in mid overflow as my son continues to try and flush it. You can really tell when I've had it when I start picking kids up by t-shirts to move them out of the way. It probably doesn't look that good but we have yet another issue that I have to deal with. But at least my son didn't pee his pants again.

Now I am my hands and knees cleaning up the floor from the overflow. This makes the second time I've cleaned up the very same dog turds. I got it stopped and unclogged and feeling like perhaps the worst part of my day is over. Then I hear the crash.

I come out of the bathroom to find my son laying face down at the bottom of the stairs. At the top of stairs I see my daughter in a ballet pose, first position actually, and about to do twirls. I don't even ask if Bubba Hoss was pushed off the stairs. I just play the odds. I clean my son's bloody nose and then put everyone in time out yet again.

At dinner, my daughter drops her corn dog. The dog quickly eats it. My son throws a piece of melon at my head. The dog pukes up the corn dog because it was to hot.

I'm done.

I do the complete father give up that happens from time to time when Hossmom is gone over night and the day has been hard. I tell the kids to get their PJ's on, we are having a slumber party. This is where I let the kids get their sleeping bags and watch a movie in the game room while they fall asleep. They'll but up for another 2 hours but this way I don't have to fight with anyone about bed time. I've got nothing left. It's basically my way of letting the kids put themselves to bed.

I'm not proud of the way things went today. Sometimes one disaster seems to just fall right on top of another one adding up to one glorious shit heel of a day where you come face to face with your many failures. But we all learn from our mistakes and I'm no different. Sometimes you just have to walk away from a puddle of pee and call it even.


Thumbs On The Outside

"No son, keep your thumbs on the outside of your fists."

"Like this Dad?"

"No, not quite like that. Here let me show you. See, isn't that better?"


"Never put your thumbs inside your fist. That way you won't break them."

"Break them?"

"Yup. You'll break your thumbs when you punch if it's inside your fist. Hurts like hell. "

"Ok Dad."

I could feel the glare coming from Hossmom. I refused to look at her. I wasn't going to match that glare, I wanted no part of it. I thought we were having a nice pleasant dinner. Apparently, she did not.

"Hossman! That is not appropriate dinner conversation and even less appropriate to teach our 3 year old son."

"He's 3 1/2 now."

That didn't help.

"Excuse me?"

I should just stop. I'm not going to win this one. In fact, I never win any of these. It's easier to just nod and go watch some SportsCenter. March Madness is almost here.

But I don't. I jump right in because I'm an idiot. I take the dive like a circus freak high diving into a glass of water. We all know that this isn't going to end well.

"Well, how would you suggest he punch? Go ahead, show us. He'll break his thumbs if he listens to you." I'm digging myself halfway to China at this point.

"I would suggest that he doesn't punch anyone!"

Sure, that would be the best course of action. But again, Hossmom is putting words in my mouth. This is how she always beats me at debates. She invents things that I never say. I never told anyone to punch anyone. Never. But let's be honest, these are my kids. Sooner or later, something is going to get punched. It could be a wall or a lion. We all know it's going to happen. At least this way we will have all working digits and no hospital bill.


I don't even get the response out before the next wave hits.

"Sometimes I just don't understand you." She says

And there is the problem. Hossmom is trying to understand the unique relationship between a father and his children. She can't, sorry, she just can't. I understand that her connection is on a much deeper, life giver type of level. She carried them for 9 months, she nursed them, she sings in a softer voice than me. She is the very vision of comfort and love. But that vision isn't going to prevent you from getting your ass kicked. I'm just saying.

There's tons of stuff like this that can only come from good old dad. Is mom going to teach them to tuck and roll when you jump from a moving car? Probably not. Is mom going to teach them how to throw a perfect spiral and hit the target right between the numbers? Nope. And is mom going to teach them how to take one for the team when you need a baserunner? Nope, mom is going to tell them to dodge. But Dad knows that sometimes you got to take a fastball to the kidney to get on base. It's the way of the world.

I could point out that she uses my other fatherly gifts. She asked me to teach the boy how to spit the other day. We were brushing teeth and he kept on dribbling. She flat out asked me to teach the boy how to spit. Uncouth sure, but something everyone needs to actually know. I was about to tell her this and continue digging myself in.

"Here Bubba Hoss, like this!" Little Hoss says. She then makes a perfect fist.

"Oh my god, you did not!"

"About two years ago."

"How would you like it if I punched you!" Hossmom says.

"You'd probably break your thumbs. Have at it."

I really should just go watch Sportscenter.


Going Native

Boys, we have gone native. I tried to stop it. I tried to keep control. It was no use. I was over run. The tidal wave came and all I had to stop it was a shower cap.

It started when I got sick. It was a weird sick, a sick that you feel that you have to prove that you are sick. See mom, I'm not screwing off here. I feel terrible. Please don't make me go to school.
Do you have a fever?
Go to school.

But I was sick. It started on a Friday for me. A little twinge in my throat, but I was still up and moving. Then Saturday came and I felt worse. By Sunday I was begging for bed, I was begging for sleep. Hossmom helped me out.

Then Monday came. Hossmom had to go to work. And when Hossmom came home? She got sick. That was the tipping point in the house.

Hossmom likes to tell me she's tough, that she can tough it out physically. Then she points out that she gave birth twice and has no problem with toughing out big pain. This is the same woman that I've seen in tears from getting whacked in the face by my 3 year old son. Maybe she should have gotten his beer faster!? Ha, man am I going to pay for that one when she reads this. But I have learned to never, under no circumstances, to question a women and birth. Ever. Doesn't work out well, my friends.

So Hossmom tells me that she is tough and points to birthing our two children. Never mind the fact that she was so drugged up that Charlie Sheen would consider her "winning." But when it comes to sickness, Hossmom is a big pussy. Huge wimp. Gigantic.

Now we are both sick but the kids are not. Other parents reading this will truly realize how awful this is. You still have to parent, no matter how you feel. And out of the two of us, let's just be honest, I'm more functional than the lady curled in the fetal position locked in the bedroom.

I had the kids and I was sick. I did the only thing that I could think of, the only solution that was sensible. I went to ground.

I let the kids run the house. They got whatever they wanted. Poptarts for breakfast. Absolutely, great idea. Wear bathing suits to the store. Even better. Buckets of ice cream for snack time? Why didn't I think of that before?

Two huge bottles of glitter, glue, a pack of markers and a lot of bare walls? Here, go at it. I have perhaps gone to far at this point. But I was on my own, it was a survival instinct. I let the kids basically run the house. They wanted the glitter and glue. I wanted to lay on the couch while not getting jumped on. At the time it seemed like a really, really good idea. It was the beginning of the end.

Our house now looks like a bunch of tinker fairies had a gang bang and then killed a unicorn as a sacrifice. Hossmom went back to work to get a break. I've let the house go at times but even this is a touch much. The glitter just won't come off. Anything. It's everywhere.

But to Hossmom's credit, she didn't even question me when she saw what had transpired. She went back to bed.