She can suck it.
I'll tell you why.
My wife told my son to bring the trash can downstairs. Apparently she meant her little bitty trashcan by her bed. It's a small trashcan, just really a bucket. No problems. But my wife made the mistake of not realizing that she was talking to a child who pays about as much attention to what you really say as does a cat.
He didn't grab the little trashcan. He grabbed the big trashcan in the laundry room. He grabbed the one that sucks up all the gross from upstairs that they don't want to bring downstairs. I'm pretty sure it's a gateway to hell. It's almost as tall as him and certainly weighs more than his little stick self.
He did his best to bring it downstairs and I guess technically he did. He did by dragging it to the top of the stairs and then watching it heavily fall all the way down. Boom, boom, boom, trash is everywhere.
That's what Hossmom wants me to write about. But I won't.
I won't because after this avalanche of trash came descending down, what did she do? She began laughing. She began laughing hard. And that's all she did.
And that's what I'm writing about.
Why is it me that has to clean up this mountain of grossness? Why do have gloves on and a broom in one hand? I was doing yard work all day. I was cleaning the garage. I was about to build a chair! I just came in for some water and a bit of rest as it started raining. I trimmed all the bushes, I pulled all the weeds. It was my break time. I'm going to inform the union. Oh, I have a union. I'm the president and the only voting member. It can get a bit crazy at times.
But no, now I'm here picking up trash before the baby can play in it. And believe me, the baby would play in it. He is drawn to destruction like moth to a flame. If something is going down that involves injury or contagious disease, he knows exactly where he wants to be. Right now he is in Hossmom's arms. Yup, she's playing the mother card on me. Oh, I have to look after the baby, my baby, I have to hold my baby. We can't let the baby play in the trash, what kind of parents would we be. Oh, let me hold the baby, it's truly the harder job. Here, you'll need this new trash bag.
If Hossmom would have said "Bubba Hoss, grab the small trashcan from beside mommy's bed" every thing would have been fine. But no, she made a rookie mistake and gave vague instructions to a boy that thinks every instruction involves twirling in a circle. Tell the boy to get in the car and he'll do it in maybe under an hour, twirling and hopping all over the house until he gets there.
I'm left doing the trash. Now she'll say that she has been upstairs doing spring cleaning all day. She'll say that she's had the kids for the whole weekend while I'm playing outside. She'll say that she gave birth and that trumps everything. She was on drugs when she gave birth, did you know that. Yup, she was on the epidural train, high as a kite. She didn't even yell at me and she originally wanted to name our son Yustus. True story. High as high gets. Thank god I was there or we would have baby Theodore Yustus Penmenship running towards the trash. Now she is mother of the year.
It's the laughing that gets me as I pick this vile crap up. Why is she laughing? Why does she think it's funny? Is it funny because it's exactly something that one of my spawn would do? Is it just in our nature to wreck everything, to repeatedly destroy every possession? Our family motto is "NO WICKER IN THIS HOUSE!" Laugh, laugh, laugh.
And seriously, what kind of kid just throws a full trash can down the stairs? Did he honestly think the top would stay on? Probably. Let's be honest, that's what was going through his monkey brain. He claims it was an accident and he has his mother to back him up. But I know better. He couldn't resist. It's in our genes. I would also bet that his sister was right behind him telling him to do it. I love my kids but I sure as hell don't trust them. Perhaps that's what being a real parent is all about.
So no one can get into trouble here. I don't make my son clean up with me because honestly he would just dance in it and make it worse. My daughter is suddenly incognito and my wife is sitting on the couch laughing like a hyena.
I pick up what looks to be a cross between dryer lint and cat puke. That's what I do. That's how I am providing for my family. It stinks, it smells like, well cat puke wrapped in dryer lint. Let that sink into your brain for a minute.
I'll plot my revenge and it won't be pretty. This summer I'm going to the pool every day, every god damn day. And I'm going to send her pictures of me at the pool every day with little Yustus. And at the pool, I'm going to have a frilly drink with an umbrella in it, non alcoholic of course. Then we'll see who's laughing.
And no more trash cans upstairs. That's the new rule. Pool every day with an umbrella drink, no trash cans upstairs, and no wicker in the house. That's our new family motto.
She was like a drug addict when she gave birth. Just want to throw that out there one more time.
First off, Bacon Hoss is 1. Not old enough to move out on his own but well on his way. I think that he is offended by clean things, that it somehow hits his sense of decency. A clean room is a room that has no life in it, no joy in it. Joy is the mess, joy is the destruction. Perhaps my youngest son is a evil villain and if he is, I am sure he will be very successful at it.
Washing clothes in this house never gets done. I have no idea why. There is no day that I don't do laundry. There is no day that I don't load at least 2 full baskets. And yet, there is always more. Always more stuffed under beds, behind couches, on top of bookshelves because why the fuck not?
I was doing laundry today, as I do every day. I was attempting to put away Hossmom's clothes. Normally I do not do this. It offends my sense of decency. Not really but I like the excuse better than the real one. I fold them the best I can and put them in her own basket, to be put away by here.
I can't figure out Hossmom's clothes. They make no freaking sense. They are all delicate, lacy and sheer. I feel like my meaty hands are soiling them after I wash them. Jeans and a T-shirt, that I know how to do. A womans work shirt is a puzzle that only a man meditating for 50 years can understand.
They do not fit on any hangers, I do not know why. Who would design a shirt this way? Why??? You get one shoulder on and the other falls off so that eventually you are performing some weirdo balancing trick with a freaking shirt. Multiply this by 20 and that is how I was spending my day. Pants don't fold right, it's like trying to fold a fitted sheet. Eventually you just get frustrated and wad it up into a ball and through it onto some random shelf.
You can imagine that this does not make Hossmom happy when she sees her clothes like this. But I submit that putting away her laundry is like trying to organize friends according to height.
My clothes are easy. I just did them. Jeans fold nicely and go in a drawer. Socks, all white and all match go in a drawer. Her socks are like where weird socks go on vacation and end up staying after giving up on life. Shirts get hung up, they fit on hanger, and hang neatly. Work shirts fold nicely and fit in the drawer nicely. This took me only about 15 minutes for about every article of clothing that I own.
It's taken me a good 30 minutes to hang up 3 shirts in Hossmoms closet. I was trying to get everything finished. A clean house gets me a happy wife. A happy wife gets me other things, things that happen when the kids are asleep. Like foot rubs.
After a while, I realized that I hadn't heard from my youngest in a while. Never a good sign. I assumed that this meant that he was probably in the toilet playing in poo water. He does that. When it's bed time he's loud as hell. When he's doing something he shouldn't, quiet as a mouse. At 1, he understands this.
I go to check on him and go past my chest of drawers. Two of the drawers are open which I find odd because this is one of my pet peeves. In fact, I'm so annoyed that they are open that I don't really register the fact that there is nothing in them. It escapes me. Perhaps I wasn't on my A game today.
I walk into the hallway just in time to see Bacon Hoss toss my last pair of underwear right over the railing, sailing like a kite down the stairs, hitting the last stair like a fluffy cloud, quite beautiful in any other circumstances. They were my pirate boxers to. Just want to throw that out there, that I have pirate boxers. I love being me.
Next to my pirate boxers are the entire contents of both drawers. Right there, on the floor and the steps like my chest vomited after a hard night of chest parties, it drinks to much. I wasn't happy, understandable. And after a few choice words to a toddler that has no idea what I'm saying, I grab a basket and head down stairs and retrieve them all the while still lecturing my child because I couldn't think of what else to do.
I put them on the bed, still annoyed, tired, exasperated. Damn it, damn it, damn it. I just put away most of this 30 minutes ago. Now I'm doing that same job right over again. In effect, I have made no progress what so ever. None. I am an t a 0 for productivity for the day. I am not happy.
I am not happy that I have gotten no cleaning accomplished. I am not happy that I'm doing the same job right over again. I am not happy that I do not see my son, where the hell man. He was right here a minute ago, I was lecturing him.
I hear something snap in Hossmoms closet.
God damn it.
I go inside the closet to see my son pulling Hossmom's shirts off the hangers. The three that I managed to hang up and about 20 more. While I was lecturing to apparently no one, he made his escape into the closet and picked whatever his grubby hands could reach, my wife's clothes.
"Stop!" I say.
The little bastard turns around and looks at me.
Then I swear to god he smiled, the little butt hole smiled, and pulled another shirt off.
And that is when I decided that I would no longer attempt to put Hossmoms clothes away. I put them into the basket. Plus a few more shirts that don't need to be washed.
I am in a field, a large field. I am laying in the grass, it is soft. It contains no bugs, no chiggers, no burrs and no dog poop. There is a breeze, a nice one to offset the amazing sunshine. There is not a cloud to be seen. It's 75 degrees, it's as if God set his thermostat to greatness, just for me.
My head in is my wife's lap and she is running her fingers through my hair. We are not talking, just enjoying the day. Occasionally she will make a comment on something that she has read. I'll agree with her because right now I am very freaking agreeable. To anything. My arms are spread wide as I enjoy this.
My daughter is feeding me grapes and cheese cubes while I lay on my wife's lap. I did not ask her to do this and I don't know if she ever saw this being done. She just started doing it. She asked me if I wanted a grape. Hell yea I want grapes. So now she is feeding grapes while I talk to my wife and look at our pristine sky.
My son is flying a kite. He has it well under control. He did not drop it, he did not break it. We even got it up on the first try. My other son, the baby is taking Cheese-its out of a bag and then putting them back in. He has been doing this for 15 minutes. When he gets bored, he runs around the field then comes back to the Cheese-its.
It is here, at this Kite Festival, that I realize that I have attained success. That my work as a stay at home dad has been validated. That if there were awards for awesomeness and for level of success, the president would be pinning this on me. Eating hand fed grapes on my wife's lap, there can be no other criteria for success.
This means of course that every decision that I have ever made in my life is hereby validated. With each grape dropped like manna from heaven into my mouth reassures me that my path, while unusual at times, was the correct one.
The day 6 years ago when I decided to give up my career, leave behind money and importance, is validated.
The day we moved to a different city in a different state, was the right call.
Should we have another child? Today that answer is an unequivocal yes.
Should I have gone to Mexico when I was 20 and then paid a guy five bucks to shock me with a car battery in some weirdo macho show of awesome to impress my wife? Apparently that was the right move because EVERY DECISION I have ever made has led me here, to the Mount Everest of Success.
Should I have let Little Hoss take a leak in the woods when she was 2? Good call. Should I have given my son the mallet and told him to hit something only to realize to late that it was my car? Apparently. Should I have toughed out my first kidney stone so as not to panic my wife? God damn genius.
When looked at through this lens of grapes, cheese and head rubs on a sunny day, every bad decision doesn't seem bad at all. It seems to reveal that even unknown to myself, I'm pretty fucking smart. If my bad decisions led me here, imagine where I would be if I really put some thought into what I do.
Scratch that, I know exactly where I would be. I would be right here sucking on those grapes.
So many apparently bad decisions, all suddenly all wiped out. Do I need to get that looked at? Apparently not. You shouldn't take that road, it's to muddy. Think again. One more drink young college Hoss. Yes, I believe I will. I am living the life of what is written about since the Greeks. I am eating grapes. And cheese. On my wife's lap.
Of course, there is only one direction to go from here. Its a road that is pitted with babies that won't go to sleep, with children that are learning to get a smart mouth, with cars that won't start and with pipes that burst in the middle of winter. I know this.
But I also know that the Kite Festival comes back next year, in the same place, in that same field. I have already put my grapes on lay away.
Although Bacon Hoss has the mental capacity of a chimp at the moment, I am sure he knows that his mother is gone and senses that now is the time to strike. He is trying to display his dominance over me, to break me. My other children have tried and failed but they may have put a crack in the armor. They may have softened me up so that Bacon Hoss can strike the death blows.
His behavior changes when she is gone. Or perhaps mine does. Perhaps I become less patient, more tired by day number 3 of solo parenting. I'm not sure but I know that when she is gone, that's when he's at his worst.
Dinner time. He doesn't want to eat. He wants to scream. I assumed he was screaming initially because he was hungry. I made him nuggets and gave him some slices of cheese. A little amuse bouche prior to the main course that my daughter describes as "gross." I don't think he was hungry so he entertained himself by feeding every god damn thing in front of him to the dogs. He did this while screaming.
Little Hoss is running around me in the kitchen. She's a blur as she goes from one side of me to the next. I have told her to hang back a sec, that dad needs to drain the noodles for the spaghetti. She did hang back, counted to one, and then came right back in. She has questions, she always has questions. And she wants me to see stuff. She wants me to see everything. It can be a bit distracting. Then she stands on my toes the minute I lean back to survey what else I have to do to get dinner ready.
Bubba Hoss is standing at the table. He never sits at the table, his constitution will not allow him to do so. I spend a good 1/3 of my time during dinner putting him back in his chair. Then I lecture everyone on manners and proper etiquette. They nod like they understand me. They repeat what I say back to me that makes me believe that they know what I expect of them. This of course, is bullshit. They have discovered if they just nod along eventually I'll shut up.
I sit Little Hoss down while answering her latest question: Why are there houses, why were they built and why were they built where they were. Can I build a house? Did I ever build a house with my Daddy? I answer as I pour the milk. One day she'll know that I'm just making shit up as I go along but right now she believes me. Or maybe she doesn't and just wants someone to talk to.
Bubba Hoss has discovered the very interesting fact that you can put your fork in the milk and then take the fork out. Yup, that's what he's doing.
I serve dinner. I cool some off for Bacon Hoss. He doesn't want it. He wants to throw it. He does and it leaves his little munchkin hands before I can stop him. Little bastard got quick over the last month. I see the spaghetti sail through the air and hit the back cushion of my chair then roll down into the cushion, between the back of the chair the pillow. I haven't even had a chance to sit down yet.
I get a wash cloth and head to my chair. Silently I'm impressed on the distance he got on it. I remove the cushion to clean up the thrown spaghetti. That's when I see the smashed banana clinging to the back of the chair, out of sight and out of mind. When the holy hell did he do this? How long as that banana slice been there? I have to practically pry it off and it leaves a nice dark circle that I know I'll never be able to get out. The chair isn't that old. It's my chair, it's the chair that I relax in. Now it's my banana chair.
I give up on Bacon Hoss after this. He'll eat when he'll eat. I put some colored cereal in front of him. I think the colors will distract him and at least give me a moments peace.
Bubba Hoss spilled his milk. I make him clean it up as I hear the dogs lapping up whatever hit the floor. This is how the dogs earn their keep around the house and it's a job they do well. Although apparently they don't like bananas. Bacon Hoss doesn't want the cereal I gave him. He throws them at the chair. I'm sure some get in the cushions but I'm to tired to care.
Bedtime is here, finally here. We do stories, we play a bit, I put Bacon Hoss down in his crib. He doesn't want to go to sleep and starts crying. I'll spend the next hour getting him to go down. When my wife is here, he goes down fine. Now that she's not he knows that this is the most opportune time to break me. But at the end of it I give him a bit of a shocker. He starts to cry again. I wish him the best of luck with that and shut the door. If he's crying 2 hours from now I'll go back in there but not a second before.
I spend the next hour of my night dealing with the other two. I do tuck ins twice, I read 30 stories and I check for monsters constantly.
I head off down stairs and sit in my chair and on cereal. I'm beat. I should go to bed but I don't because when the wife is gone I think of all the horrible things that could happen while she is away. I think that a tree will fall outside, come through my bedroom and crush me. No one will know of course because no one is checking up on me. Little Hoss will find me in the morning and ask me why the tree hit me. Hopefully she'll have enough sense to go to school because that's still important.
My wife calls and I tell her about my day. She asks me how I'm going to spend the rest of my night. I tell her that I'm going to watch Frozen and sing along. It's a lie and I think we both know it. I like though giving her little sugar plum images in her head though before she goes to bed in strange place with no kids screaming at her. I wonder how good she is at throwing banana slices.
What I'm really doing is watching some god awful horror flick that is terrible, not even one shower scene. I'm also messing around on the computer thinking that I will probably write some of this down for future generations. I pull the computer a bit closer and I see a flash of light to my right and then the lamp pops. The downstairs goes dead. In my head I'm wondering if a tree is about to fall.
Crap. House stuff like this also happens when she is gone. I think the universe is conspiring to kill me. Hossmom was gone for a bit when we had a water pipe break to. I can't even hide from the world in my own house.
I have to go into the cold, dark garage and check the breakers and discover one has been tripped. I flip it back on and we have power once again. I go back to my computer to figure out what new booby trap is waiting for me. I look at my computer cord, it's exposed and practically in half. Somewhere in this house is a very lucky cat I think, a lucky cat that perhaps chewed on a cord when it wasn't plugged in.
Or Bacon Hoss, maybe this is just the beginning.
Can I make it another two days with no breaks? Probably but what comes out the other side may not be a sane man.
That's what you have to write so there is no confusion when you plan on writing a small little story about how he is also a dick.
How can he be a complete peckerhead at 1 year old? Easy, apparently.
Again, I love Bacon Hoss very, very much.
He apparently loves computer cords, especially the ones that are plugged in. He loves them so very much. He loves them so much that he wants to chew on them. Then he wants to pull them out of the wall. Then he wants to love the wall socket. You wouldn't think that this little person could fit behind a couch that even the cat can't but you would be wrong.
As much as he loves the computer cords, he hates the actual computer. He can't stand that such a thing exists. He hates email, he hates banking websites, he hates this very blog. If I ever try to get on the computer while he is awake, anywhere in the house, he immediately makes a beeline for me. If the computer is in my lap, he grabs whatever toy is available and attempts to break the key board. The little man has quite a swing. If the computer is on the counter, away from his fists of fury, he runs and grabs my pants legs and screams. He wants to know why I am not plugging the computer in to where he can chew on it. He doesn't think I am very accommodating.
Sure, if you see him out and about, he's all smiles. He's cute, he'll melt you with his little blue eyes and blond hair. He may laugh a little bit at you. He seems like he is so well behaved. You'll see him walking in the store and not pulling on the shelves. You will not see him scream and throw a fit. You will not see him attempt to headbutt his father while he sits on my lap.
But at home, he's a dick. Away from public view he commonly tries to break my nose to the point where I wonder if I am in an abusive relationship. He laughs as his head screams forward like a little maniacal Aryan. Stupid blond hair. He's drawn blood more than once. There's never any warning just a blond flash of hair and wham, you're bleeding.
If it's not my nose he's trying to break or a computer cord he wants to chew on, it's either the toilet or the stairs. I have many other father friends with kids my son's age. None try to climb stairs. Dad says no, they look and then walk away. My son, on the other hand, is pulling a little baby screw driver from his diaper and trying to pry lose the screws that hold our baby gate in place. Yup, I've had to screw it right into the rails because he pulls himself up on it and screams like he's in a little baby Attica. Unfortunately, the world does not come with baby gates in front of stairs. If we are out and about, and no one is watching but me, he makes for the stairs. Any stairs. I'll stop him, he'll throw a fit unless someone is watching. How does he know how to do this? How can he play public opinion like a seasoned politician? I have no idea and frankly, I'm kind of impressed.
I'm less impressed when he tries to get into the toilet. I wonder if he has some sort of death wish? He loves toilets, he loves throwing things in toilets, he loves to put his hands in the toilet, he loves to watch me on the toilet. It's creeping me out. If the door is shut when I'm in the bathroom he throws a fit like you've never heard. It's louder than he's ever screamed for anyone else but me. He saves his good fits when we are just alone. Half my day is spent peeing while standing on one leg and fending him off with the other. I've tried to sneak around but he knows, good god somehow he knows. And he knows that our downstairs bathroom door doesn't latch that well so if just a little bit of pressure is applied, the door pops open, stupid house. He ninja strikes me so much that now I just naturally pee with one leg hanging in the air waiting to fight off the inevitable attack that I know is coming from someone that is about a foot tall.
I try to remember if I've seen this kind of dickishness in my other children and I'm not sure. Have I just forgotten it all? Little Hoss could be tough, she would cry unless I was constantly moving around. And she loves to break stuff, even as a baby. Bacon does that too. Bubba Hoss though was a pleasure, we would snuggle all day and all he wanted to do was play with Dad. Bacon wants to play with dad, for blood.
Which brings me to my last reason why my youngest is kind of a dick. He woke up from his nap a bit early. I was knee deep in dishes, ya know, so the family wouldn't live in filth and all that. So I didn't immediately didn't run upstairs to get him from his crib. 5 minutes go by and I head up to get him. He didn't sleep much, only an hour or so. I open the door and I am greeted with my little blond boy. My little blond boy with tons of blood running out of his mouth.
Of course, I freak out. He's screaming loud, very loud. He's crying. What the hell happened? Why is he bleeding in his crib. I rush to his side to pick him up. He stops crying but the blood and spit are now mixed together and dripping on me. I don't much care, I'm worried like hell.
He trys to headbutt me. Again. Then it clicks with what happened. I open his mouth and check all his teeth, remembering which one's he has and which ones he doesn't. I'm looking to see if he's knocked out a tooth. He threw a fit in his crib. When he throws fits he headbutts. He's tall enough now that the edge of the crib is right at the level of his mouth. He headbutted the crib edge with his mouth and I'm worried he's lost a tooth. He's got them all, I think. And then I find where the blood is coming from. He cut the inside of his upper lip. That had to hurt.
This is his punishment for me. Since I didn't come running immediately, he is trying to give me a heart attack. I was pretty close. I don't like to see my kids bleed. I can handle blood but I have a tougher time handling when my kids are in pain.
We sit on the couch, we turn on a little music which he loves. He's quiet now and is lightly bouncing his head on my chest. It's ok. I would rather him headbutt me then something else, like the oven, while it's on, disconnecting it from the gas and then lighting a match. He would do it. I can take the headbutting, I can heal and isn't that what fathers are supposed to do? Aren't we supposed to take the pain so our little ones don't have to? He's my son and I love him.
But I don't love going to the toilet anymore. I'm just going to start using his diapers.