Pole Dancing

Hossmom leaves the house after giving the kids a kiss goodbye.  She grabs her purse, usually throws a couple of old coupons on the floor, perhaps a receipt, kisses me and leaves.  The kids finish their breakfast and kind of clear the table.  They get dressed for school, dropping pjs wherever they happen to be.  They grab their backpacks, throw some papers out and head out to catch the bus.  Usually I wait with them because going outside is always a good thing.  I head back inside with Bacon Hoss and put him on the floor.  I look at my house. 

In the hour that we have all been up, somehow, it's a fucking disaster. 

If I didn't know that I lived with a bunch of kids and a wife that seems to carry full catalogs in her purse, I would contact an exorcist and insist that some kind of tornado poltergeist has visited my home.  One that has a special hatred for folded clothes or crayons that go in buckets because all of it has somehow ended up on my floor nestled next to some JC Penny's coupon printed on extra thick paper.  In the hour we have been up my living room and kitchen looks like the library scene in Ghostbusters when the ghost pitches the card catalog everywhere. 

But I know who I live with, my family and they destroy clean like they are getting paid to do it, like it's their life long ambition and thank god they majored in "flinging crap" at university.  It's a party school.

So every morning before Bacon Hoss does his  morning nap, he's been up since 6 singing very off key dirty baby limericks right in my ear, we do a clean up.  If we don't then farmers show up at my door wanting to add to my compost pile. 

It's not to bad though, we have a rhythm, Bacon Hoss and I.  First we turn on some very loud music.  Usually of the metal variety, classic grunge or some hair metal 80's.  If you can't rock out to a little Motley Crue, then how can you rock out to? 

My son is walking now.  Started at 10 months and hasn't stopped.  I think he got jealous that he wasn't able to contribute to the morning destruction of my house.  Now that he is mobile, he is practically running to every piece of paper on the floor and ripping it to shreds like it's chum and he's a carpet shark.  He tells me that it makes it easier for the vacuum cleaner. 

When he's not doing that, he likes to climb into the dishwasher because why the fuck not?  We try to make several fun games while we rock out.  One is called don't grab the knives.  This one keeps me on my toes and if he gets on the door of the dishwasher his little monkey hands can grip like a vice.  The other game we like to play in the morning is called "Get Out of The God Damn Garbage Can."  Another family favorite.  For a little guy that just learned to walk a couple of months ago, he can move surprisingly fast on those little hobbit legs. 

The last game we play is dancing time.  Because who doesn't like to dance and create their own little mosh pit at 8:30 in the morning?  I'll throw on one of our songs, like something from Pantera.  He'll hear it and immediately coming running into the kitchen.  He'll find me after a few seconds because apparently a large man is hard for a year old kid to spot.  Once he sees me, he starts his dance. 

He starts swinging his arms like he's a guy at a train station waiting for the next train to arrive.  Not fast and certainly not in in kind of rhythm but like he wants to almost clap but is embarrassed. Soon the squats will start, up and down while looking at me.  I have always figured that he is in training to eventually some Olympic team sport. We haven't figured out one yet but I'm leaning towards something in the clean and jerk weightlifting.  He's got a low center of gravity and some stubby legs, might be his thing. 

I grab the broom, while dancing myself of course, and head to the dining room.  I dare you to not dance when a little squirt is looking up at you doing squat thrusts.  Damn near impossible.  During breakfast more food ends up on the floor than in mouths.  For the baby, I'm pretty sure it's because he likes throwing oranges off his table to the dogs.  And while the dogs do a wonderful job licking up cereal the my other two kids drop, they are not big on oranges.  I keep reminding them about scurvy but you know, they are fucking dogs, they don't listen to me.  If I don't sweep these up quickly, eventually they will get stuck to someones shoe or far baby foot and be traced around the house turning into a very bizarre afternoon of find the orange slice.  Once they dry, they become almost indestructible and seem to stick to any surface better than super glue. 

I start sweeping but I have to stop.  The kid is being cute again and I'm thinking about taking a picture and sending it Hossmom.  She needs cute in her life as most days she deals with HTML JAVA I'm a nerd advertiser stuff.  Bacon has grabbed my broom because he apparently wants to keep dancing.  Squat, squat, run around the broom handle, waive other arm randomly.  He is a good 5 minutes into this.  Squat, run, squat, throw head back and look up at dad. 

It's at this point I realize that I have made a colossal mistake, one that I did not see coming.  It had just never occurred to me, I didn't even think about it.  My wife would say it's because I'm not in tune with feminism and gender equality and that I don't listen to her.  I'm not sure because I usually don't listen to her when she rants about this stuff because I'M A STAY AT HOME DAD I DON'T NEED TO REALLY THINK ABOUT IT.  Come on, seriously, I do my share.  I have bent the traditional roles of society and stay home with the kids so that my executive wife can freely pursue her career.  I say that I've done my part for the cause of gender equality and feminism.  And I really like to watch March Madness. 

But watching my son I realize that he is now in fact "Dancing on the Pole."  All father's everywhere will tell you that their number 1 job is keep their daughters off the pole.  That we don't want to raise a coked out stripper that is "trying to pay for school."  However, we never turn that around to realize that it's just as equally important to keep our sons off the pole as well.  I don't want him running away at 16, living on the streets with a good meth problem, turning 18 and hitting the male escort scene.  From what I've read, and I'd admit its not much, that involves jerking off middle aged married guys trying to score just 10 more bucks for their good friend, the dealer.  Soon he'll end up at some male strip joint down by the bad part of town doing lap dances in some outfit that has a built in pecker purse.  He'll get up on the pole, do his set with lifeless eyes, then head to the back to the champagne room while a lady with extremely long red finger nails wants to make him her "poppy."  He'll do his dance for a handful of ones while wondering why his father didn't love him enough to prevent this from happening.  Basically, every thing that I'm worried that could happen to my daughter that I have now projected onto my son. 

I quickly jerk the broom away in a moment of clarity and panic.  He loses his balance and falls face first onto the floor.  He begins to cry. 

Yes son, dancing on the pole will get you hurt.  Never forget that.  There is just one outcome from dancing on the pole, a faceful of ouch while you wonder what the hell just happened.  I should now go get my other two children and repeat the exact same lesson.  I am a father that cares, very much so.  And this is why I can never sweep the floors at my house. 

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