No Basketball For You

6 weeks in and Bacon Hoss was awesome.  He was a good baby.  He was a baby that went to sleep.  He ate when he was hungry.  He pooped and didn't blow out a diaper.  At night, he would lightly cry to let us know that he was hungry.  We would feed him, put him back to sleep without a fight, and get some good shut eye ourselves.  He never cried all that loud either, almost as if he was respecting the ears of his family.  He was a good baby.

But then he became self aware.  He is skynet.

For 6 weeks he was basically no problems at all.  I got everyone home from the hospital just fine and dandy.  My wife was actually happy again as she was no longer pregnant.  She thus didn't feel the need to punish me anymore.  I was happy.  6 weeks of good times.

March Madness started.  It was the second round.  I love March Madness.  I can't get enough of it.  I love the last second shots.  I love the close calls.  I love the Cinderella teams stepping up to the plate and sending the big dog home.  I love doing brackets, I love seeing my brackets explode.  I love all of it.  I don't watch any college basketball until March Madness and then I am glued to the TV.

Sometime after the first rounds of games though, Bacon Hoss had a thought, possibly his first thought.  Certainly his first profound thought.  Let's screw over Dad.  What a great thought to have.

For 6 weeks I could sit in my chair with Bacon on my chest.  I would pet him, he would make little noises.  We would both fart.  It was good times.  I would eat nachos while trying not to drip any cheese on his head. He would spasm randomly to keep me on my toes.  I would explain to him what a slam dunk was and how I could have done it.  I lied, he listened, life was good.

Then the second round started and he decided that what basketball was missing was some good old fashioned screaming.  Not good fan screaming like you get from a face painted local, but baby screaming that seems to find that last nerve and just jump on it.  For hours.

I would change him, he would still cry.  I would bounce him.  He would still cry.  I would give him his bottle. He would eat it, puke on me a bit, and then continue to cry. I just wanted to watch the game.  I thought we had an understanding.  Him and me and a whole month of college mayhem.  Apparently, he changed his terms of service.

Hossmom would go to bed around 9.  I would pull up the good old DVR and start the games that we had missed, games that I took extra attention to not find the score to.  We would spend the next three hours watching those games and then I would feed him.  I would put him to bed and go to bed myself.  Life would be grand.

He however has decided that I am his father and therefore, his enemy.  I have watched the games, sure, but not in a solid burst, more in ten minute increments punctuated by extreme screaming with the occasional vomit.

I remind myself that I've been through this before, that I got this, that I can remember my Jedi training.  After an hour I realize that my training may be out of date.

I rock him.  I put him in his car seat and rock him.  I stand up and rock him.  I sit down and rock him.  I sing rock and roll to him while I sit Indian style and rock him.  It makes no difference, this kids will is strong.  I don't know what I am doing wrong.  I don't even know if I'm doing anything wrong.  And the more we do this, the more that I am sure that I am doing nothing wrong.

He has just decided that easy street is over and that it's time to liven up the joint.  And I can't blame him, we've been pretty boring over the last couple of months.  We haven't gone anywhere, no fear has been conquered, no foe vanquished.  We haven't been on an adventure yet with Bacon Hoss and perhaps he's tired of that, perhaps it's time for him to meet the world.

Or maybe he just doesn't want to watch basketball?  Maybe he's more of a baseball kid.  That's ok, that season is starting and I've got cable.  I can envision many hours of me teaching him what chin music is and how to steal second.  And if that doesn't work?  Football season is right after that.

If he pushes me, hell, I like all kinds of sports.  Don't think I won't whip out some Nascar or Soccer.  See how he feels about that.  I'll ask him as soon as I get my hearing back.



"That's my junk, Dad" Bubba Hoss says, exasperated from me.  "I have a junk and Bacon Hoss has a junk.  Little Hoss has a koochie."  he goes on to explain.

I am paying for a previous misstatement, a mistake in parental judgement.  Instead of teaching my children the proper names for private areas, I decided to go with "junk" and "koochie".  At the time, it sounded funny.  It also bothered me with hearing my 2 year old daughter at the time saying penis.  It just didn't sit well with me.  It doesn't sit well with me now.  I fully accept I am a Neanderthal that should be frozen in a block of ice somewhere.  I don't care, I'm fine with that.  I just want to make sure that any boy that dates my daughter at any time in the future is considered junk.  That sounds like I gave this a lot more thought than I actually did.  It just made me laugh.

But the time has come to correct that mistake.  The birds and bees talks do not sound right with calling things a junk and a koochie.  Mind you, hearing my daughter say penis and my son say vagina doesn't sound right either but I'm picking the lesser of two evils here.  I'm sure I am repressed in some way, I blame Oprah.

So I am trying to explain to Bubba Hoss that his junk isn't really called junk.  It's called a penis.  And he's right, there are three boys in the house and we all have junk.  But we will call them penises.  Side note, the plural of penis sounds pretty bad as well but it's better than calling it a junkyard.  Well, not really, junkyard strikes me as funny........

No, I must stay on task.  There are two girls in the house.  They both have vagina's.  I explain this to my son in what is the first of many scar inducing talks we will have.  Other topics will involve sex, masturbation, and golden showers.  All of which I'm sure will make him want to die the minute I bring them up.  I am hoping to do it in front of his friends or preferably, his girlfriend.  Then I get to scar two for the price of one and ensure that no teenage pregnancies take place.  Perhaps I am good at this parenting thing.

"Girls have a vagina" I tell my son.  He again looks at me like I am smoking crack.  "Vagina" I say again.  The absurdity of this conversation is starting to dawn on me.

"No Dad!" he says.  "Girls have koochies!"  He seems very sure of himself and it's a bit rough to try and deflate him.

I explain that we do call a vagina koochies when we are little but now we need to call them a vagina now.  I am hoping that I won't have to add that this is because your dad thought it was easier this way when you were smaller and that basically I have turned out to be a complete dumbass.  I think he knows though.  My son and I, we have a special connection.

"Baginas?" he says.

"No son." I correct him.  "Vaginas" I say again slowly.  "Girls have vaginas"

"Baginas" he replays.

"Vaginas" I say correcting him.




"Vagaina, with a V"

"Baginas with a V"

"No son.  Va.  Gin.  A."

"Ba.  Gin.  A."

I am getting a bit frustrated but it's ok, I'm an experienced Dad.  Frustration is just part of the gig.

"Dad" Bubba Hoss says.

"Yes son?"

"Bagina is a very beautiful word"

I stare at him.  I start laughing just for the weirdness of the statement.  In my favor here, this is a step up from koochie.  Yes, girls have baginas and it is a very beautiful word.  Perhaps I do know what I'm doing.