To Fly or Not To Fly

"You can't take her up in this wind man! It's insanity!" Papa Scrum shouted

"I can and I will" I answered, my voice eerily calm. The wind blew past what was left of my once magnificent hair, glazing my already perspiring forehead.

"Listen to him!" She wasn't built for this!" Larry Geographic added.

"I listen to nothing but my heart and my heart says that we must fly!"

"You know it's suicide. You know this to be true, don't you? She'll never get off the ground. That'll be on your conscious." Papa Scrum said, resigned to the fact that he couldn't change destiny or challenge my awesomeness.

"The children, Hossman. Remember the children." Geographic said.

"Aye, I will remember the children and that's why I must do this." I would not be dissuaded.

"This is MADNESS" Papa Scrum screamed.

(wait for it..........)

"THIS! IS! KANSAS!"

(and there are the goosebumps.)

We all stood fast, neither giving any ground. The wind picked up, howling it's challenge. A challenge that I could not ignore. Off I went, taking nothing with me but my determination and my 75 cent Walmart kite.

Behind me came 8 children because sometimes only a child can believe in a dream.

The wind screamed louder, protesting creation itself. It cursed, it heaved, it bellowed from it's very soul as we marched toward the field. Little woodland creatures flew by, caught by the mighty onslaught of nature, slamming them into some of the children--my personal guard, my minions.

We scratched and we crawled our way, protecting the 75 cent kite with every fiber of our being. It would fly, oh yes, it would fly. We had to believe that. We had to believe that even though it wasn't bigger than a piece of paper and no where near as sturdy, it would sore into the face of God himself. Yes, we believed. We believed in unicorns and leprechauns and pots of gold at the end of rainbows. And we believed that this kite would fly. We had to believe because sometimes there is nothing else.

By shear force of will we reached the middle of the field and I took out our kite. The minions gathered around, their steely gaze not betraying the fear that must be quaking their hearts at this very moment. Yes, it would most certainly fly.

It would fly because it is a Kite and in Kansas it can get very, very windy. And that's what kites do in wind, they soar like Mercury. Beautiful, majestic, godlike.

"It doesn't have the surface area to handle this wind!" I heard Papa Scrum shouts, just barely audible over the torrent of air rushing past my tanned and beautiful scalp.

"It's not rocket science!" I yelled back. It's a kite for Pete's sake. Seriously, a kite. What else is it going to do?

The minions and I ignored them, Papa Scrum and Geographic, as they watched on. Very well, let them be witness to greatness. Let them record what will power alone can do. Let them see us conquer Nature herself!

We began to unfurl the kite, the excitement was as thick as cream cheese on a day old bagel. Hands groped and pulled, unwinding the string that could be no stronger than dental floss. The string grew and so did our legend. One had the tail of the kite, another the kite itself, ready to unleash hell on my signal.

I looked at them. I looked at everyone of my minions and I swelled with pride. We so kick ass. We would do more than fly here today. We would become immortal.

"Now!" I screamed with fury and delight, almost crazed and manic in the moment.

Immediately the kite was thrown in the air and I pulled back on the string. I was almost lifted off my feet as the air caught the kite. The minions stepped back, not knowing what to expect.

Yes! Yes! The 75 cent kite that I bought at Walmart was starting to gain altitude! Yes!

But it was a difficult assent. 3 feet up and it started to go one way. I tried to correct it but then like a rabid bull it changed directions and went another way. But higher it went still. 4 feet. 5 feet. 6 feet!

Then it started to spin. It started to spin in a circle, faster and faster until I was sure it was going to open a dimension into Hades itself. I pulled the string harder, I stepped back, I started to run with it.

It spun one more time and then hit one of the minions in the head.

"Again! Again I say!" We threw it again.

This time it came crashing down and wrapped itself around the neck of a different minion.

We tried again and failed. We tried after that and failed. We tried even more and it failed even more.

Aye, kite flying is not rocket science. It appears to be more aerospace engineering.

"Why! What have I done to displease the gods?!" I cried. In my fury, in my shame, I had neglected to keep watch on the minions. Minions are fickle creatures, waiting for one moment of weakness to pounce.

They had gone ferrel.

Like a bunch of shrieking cats they jumped on me. They grabbed for me and the kite.

"You have to run with it, let me show you!"
"No! You have to throw it higher!"
"Out of the way, it's my turn!"

I had failed them and they knew it. And I knew that there would be no pity from them. They wanted the kite and my soul.

The fall is never pretty, it is never easy. Glorious heights that were once reached now grow further and further away as you plummet, as I plummeted that day. What I did next, I had no choice.

I abandoned them.

I threw the kite at them and ran, ran against the wind, against history, against my destiny.

I chanced a look over my shoulder as I reached the safety of Papa Scrum and Geographic. My face ashen with panic and self doubt. Tears that would have rolled down my face were blown aside before they even had a chance to form. It was done. I was done.

"Told ya. To windy to fly such a small kite."

Where Should A Little Girl Sleep

Where, oh where, should a little girl sleep?
What kind of place should the sandman creep?
It should be somewhere safe and somewhere secure.
Some place that offers a special kind of allure.

She starts by asking what would a normal child do?
A normal child aged one, perhaps even two
They probably would want a nice big bed
Like the queen size one where she currently rests her head

But wait, when has she been normal at all?!
When has she conformed, ignored the wild-things call
No, no, no a bed certainly won’t do
Especially for a child older than two

She needs some place majestic and grand
Some place she can call Little Hoss Land
Some place high, where she can say her prayers
Some place exactly like... the top of the stairs!

Where she can overlook everything going on
Where she can manipulate each and every little pawn
Where she can scream and yell and call down the thunder
And fire the cannons mateys, where’s me plunder!

But just at the top of the stairs is not very nice
It needs a certain princess quality, her only true vice
With the proper accompaniment of her grand royal court
And a little red ball, for throwing and sport

It hits her head, this idea that she thought
The perfect accessory, nothing borrowed or bought
Into her room she runs, she shouts with glee
And then she remembered, she really has to pee

Out she comes towing her little brown box
The perfect place to sleep, she’s sly as a fox
At the top of the stairs is where it must go
And in it she climbs; every finger, every toe

She nestles in pulling her little blanket tight
She grabs her “everybody” and it feels just right
She’s got Austin from TV and her little pink shoes
And it just wouldn't be perfect without a Barbie or two

Now this is just fine and just her style
Perhaps she’ll try to stay awake, for just a little while
But try as she might, her eyes begin to shut
All the scenes are done, the director has yelled 'cut!'


Off she goes to dream what little girls dream
About ponies and candy and making little brothers scream
About Melman and toys and Daddy’s homemade kite
About the perfect place for a little girl to go night, night.

The Friday Five

5 Reasons Why You Should Stop What You Are Doing and Follow This Blog.

5. "I'm not internationally known but I'm known to rock the microphone." See, I just quoted some very early rap. I'm old school, biatch.

4. My mom started reading this blog. You see all the cussing and bad grammar I got in this thing? That's right, I'm the bad boy you've always wanted.

3. My fragile ego needs constant reassurance that I don't suck and that I do matter to the world. It's all on your shoulders now, good luck with that.

2. Little Hoss made a shank out of her toothbrush and has promised to cut me like a vato if I don't get my shit together. She's serious man, you don't see the look in her eyes, she's serious man.

1. If everyone else jumped off a bridge, would you? Of course you would because deep down we are all lemmings and want to follow anybody to anywhere. So why not follow me? I promise we'll make stops at strip clubs and laundry centers.

Parent Like Hossman

There are a ton of parental advice columns out there. Blogs, magazines, TV shows, even the bum downtown wants to give you advice on how to be a parent. But there's a problem with that advice--it's intangible.

Look at it next time someone gives you parental advice. They say things like "You got to get out more often, get the kids active." or "Get a routine." It's good advice but in the end, it doesn't really deal with the day to day type things that parents have to do. Fine, I'll get a routine. But what does the routine entail? I'll get out, where should I go? What should we do?

One of the best pieces of parental advice that I got was that WD-40 gets crayon marks off the wall. WD-40, how awesome is that stuff? Good for lug nuts, good for child care. Surely the guy that invented that won some sort of Awesome Ass Kicker of the Year award. If not, I hereby award you Awesome Ass Kicker of the Year award. No speeches though, this is my soap box.

With that in mind, I'm going to offer some parental advice that you can actually use. Today. Tomorrow. Next year when you're in tears you will remember this advice from a stay at home dad who once himself won the Awesome Ass Kicker of the Year award. This is practical advice, advice to get you through the day. How do you parent like a Hoss? This is how:

Keep a wet/dry vac in between your dinning room and living room. Have you ever seen a 2 year old eat Cheerios? That shit gets everywhere. And then it combines with the milk, because lord knows that they got to have milk like a big boy, and it never stays in the bowl. Or on the table. Or even in the dining room. Without a doubt that ends up everywhere. And that's where the wet/dry vac comes into play. I leave mine plugged in all the time. I only take it out to the garage when company is coming over and my wife makes me. It will pick up anything. Little Hoss picked up the cat once with it once. Because I taught her how to use it. If she is going to chunk her peanut butter and jelly sand which then she can damn well go vacuum it up. 12.5 HP of Hoss parental awesomeness.

I also keep a beach towel safely tucked away under the kitchen sink. You never know when you are going to need a really big towel for a really big mess. One such as when your son takes the top of his juice cup off and throws it on your feet. Because that's funny to a 2 year old. It's fucking hilarious. I think a timeout is hilarious.

An air compressor, secretly stashed away in an upstairs closet, does wonders with dusting.

Kids getting to loud, maybe whining to much? Turn your music louder. Talk over Metallica? I think not.

A tool belt equipped with Windex, 409, a roll of paper towels and a couple of cans of WD-40 (of course) lets you clean the entire house without stopping. Just reach into the belt and grab the bleach. It's next to the screwdriver.

Maybe your kids have a little to much energy, driving you nuts? Toddler Mosh Pit.

Kids won't eat something? Put it on a stick. Meat on a stick. Who doesn't love meat on a stick? Meat on a stick with Ranch Dressing. Works every time.

Contrary to popular opinion, common sense and the users manual--a 3 year old can in fact use and operate a nail gun quite well. That's just general knowledge, something that you should probably know. I'm not saying I've done it. I'm just saying that I've seen it done while I was in the room and someone said "give it a try."

Never, ever ever hide your porn along side your kids favorite DVD's. You only make this mistake once. It will save you a conversation that I like to call "Transvestite Midget Tossing 4? Really Hossman?"

He who screams loudest wins. Always.

If enough cookies are on the line, a 3 year old and a 2 year old can find a way to work together to learn to fold a sheet properly. And put it away.

It is never a good idea to let your 3 year old drive the car when the cops are watching and the chief of police lives in your neighborhood.

Having trouble reaching that dish on the very top shelf? Your reach will be greatly increased if you put a 3 year old on your shoulders, tell her to stand, and without a doubt remind her that this is one of those things that she is not to tell mom about. It's a high wire act of cool.

Pouring some Pine-sol down the drain gives your house that freshly cleaned smell and will momentarily fool your wife when she gets home thus buying you precious minutes to enter your escape hatch and bug out before she discovers the dog vomit on the carpet that you didn't feel like cleaning up.

There you go, practical real world advice to get the job done. And remember, when life gives you lemons make lemonade and then add half of jug of vodka to it. That will get you through the day.

The Cute Little Girl, the Cute Little Boy, and the Resonably Handsome Man

This is a story about a cute little girl and a cute little boy in the backseat of a car. In the front seat of the car is a reasonably handsome middle aged man. He's not "oh god there's Brad Pitt" handsome but if you were desperate, you might throw your panties at him if he were on a stage.

They are traveling down a road. The windows are open because the cute little girl likes the wind when it blows in her face. She is giggling and then she is throwing gold fish at the reasonably handsome man driving the car. This makes her giggle just a little bit more. He's saying something but she is choosing to ignore him. She punches her little brother, this makes her giggle, too.

The reasonably handsome man in the front seat is starting to say some more things. Something about behaving, acting right,not throwing things and what she thinks is "Dear God in heaven, so help me....." but she can't make out the rest because everyone seems to be distracted by the pretty red and blue lights flashing behind them.

She's had a very exciting day and it looks like it just got better. The reasonably handsome man is slowing down the car and pulling over to the side. She thinks to herself to ask Momma what "shit" and "fuck" mean.

They stop on the side of the road, the reasonably handsome man, the cute little girl, and the cute little boy. Her window is still down. And then they sit there. They don't do nothing. They don't open the doors, they don't unbuckle the seatbelts, they are just sitting there. The reasonably handsome man has stopped talking but he seems to be trying to strangle the steering wheel. He's so silly.

She turns around and sees the thing with the red and blue lights come up behind them. It looks like it's a tricycle but it is missing it's training wheels. She wants one immediately and asks the reasonably handsome man if the one behind them is "mine". He says no. Oh well, maybe the man walking up to the car will share his.

He's a man in blue and he has a helmet on, the kind of helmet that the reasonably handsome man makes her wear when they go sledding down the stairs. He seems nice enough. "Maybe if I'm nice to he'll let me have his bike." she thinks to herself.

Her window is down so she waits for the man in blue to walk up to the reasonably handsome man, still sitting in the front of the car, still gripping the steering wheel.

"Hi!" She says.
"Hi" the cute little boy says to. He doesn't want to be left out, he wants the bike too.

"Me Little Hoss Daughter." she says introducing herself like the reasonably handsome man has taught her to do.

The man in blue says hi back to her and then continues talking to the reasonably handsome man.

She does not like to be ignored.

"I go play with Emily. Then, then, then, we go swimming and then, then, then, we play at plaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyygrouuuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnd." She says, putting emphasis on the last word. That should get his attention.

The man in blue is not looking at her. The reasonably handsome man is getting something from his butt. It's his wallet. She's not allowed to touch that anymore because this one time, when she was young, she threw it in the toilet.

"I want peanut butter jelly." She says.
"Me, too" says the cute little boy.

Nothing, the man in blue is still ignoring her. The reasonably handsome man is making a lot of hand gestures and may be crying, it's hard to see.

"I pooted! 'Cuse me!" And she giggles some more. Momma says she always has to say excuse me when she poots.

"Look, I have my blankie," she continues, hoping that her soft little blankie will distract the man in blue and he will talk to her now so that she can share his bike.

Nothing.

"Is it my turn?" she asks as the man in blue starts walking away from the car. Maybe it's not her turn. Momma says that everyone has to share, doesn't the man in blue know that?

She looks at the reasonably handsome man again. He's not doing anything now but he's definitely crying.

The man in blue comes back to the car and looks at her.

"Hi sweetie" he says.

"Hi. I'm 3."

"Yes, you are."

"Who's that next to you?" the man in blue asks.

"That's Bubba Hoss boy. He Little Hoss Daughter brother." she says. This is going quite well.

"No poop, just pee!" the cute little boy adds.

The man in blue starts talking to the reasonably handsome man again. It doesn't look like he is going to share.

"Sir," the man in blue says. "I tell you what. This is the last ticket in my book. And your kids are about as cute as I've seen and have been talking to me since I came up. So what I'm going to do is not give you the speeding ticket. I'm going to give you a seat belt fine because it's only 10 bucks and doesn't go on your record. I know you are wearing your seat belt, but this is easier. That ok with you?" he asks.

The reasonably handsome man shakes his head yes.

"Ok then. You have a nice day sir." the man in blue says.

"Bye, bye" the cute little girl says.
"Bye, bye" the cute little boy says.

The reasonably handsome man gets back on the road and the wind is in her hair again. The reasonaably handsome man reaches back and gives her another bag of goldfish crackers and tells her to throw all she wants. She giggles.

He then asks her if she knows what a pony is and would she like one.



*Author's note: completely 100% true. She actually got me out of a speeding ticket.

Playgroup Conversations

As a stay at home dad I often get asked, especially by wives, what the hell do you guys talk about. I get it all the time. My sister, my wife, just about every mother I know asks that question. It seems that many can't imagine what 15 guys talk about when we get together when we are surrounded by future presidents and award winning cancer curing scientists. Well, they aren't that yet but we all have high expectations. My kid in particular. I've her slotted for Ruler Over All. I am hoping that she will let me live in a sweet villa beside the ocean. And I get free steak. That would be awesome.

Do you guys talk about breast feeding? About potty training? About snot and poop? It's like they have a hard time imagining that a bunch of guys, as manly as we are, talk about these things. And I can't blame them. Their experience with men has routinely been guys trying to get into their pants. Including their experiences with us. Except we succeeded. Go us. And now we are stay at home dads with the children to prove our smoothness.


But c'mon, we aren't always ruled by whats south of the border. We have bigger interests than just that. So let me put it all to rest, let's answer that question once and for all. What do we talk about at an all male playgroup when it's just us and the kids?

That chick at the grocery store.
That chick at the gas station.
That chick at the mailbox.
That chick that had to be at least 21.
That chick with that thing at that place.

Potty training.

That chick at Blockbuster getting that romantic comedy.
That chick that looked at me all sexy like when I pulled up to her at the stoplight.
That chick who I bet is wearing a thong.
That chick who found my kid lost at the grocery store.
That chick who was in the swing waiting for her boyfriend.

Finding the right preschool.

That chick at the gym.
That chick that looked like she went to the gym.
That chick in that commercial.
That chick on that TV show.
That chick who was in the commercial and the TV show.

Diaper rash.

That chick who was walking her dog as we came to playgroup.
That chick that was crossing the street as we came to playgroup.
That chick that was doing yard work as we came to playgroup.
That chick that was doing jumping jacks by her car as we came to playgroup.
That chick with the jogging stroller that we passed as we came to playgroup.

The difficulties of breast feeding.

That chick that was all greasy underneath the hood of her car in the short cutoffs.
Those chicks that were in a full out pillow fight at the slumber party.
That chick that was eating that Popsicle.
That chick in the nurses outfit.
The fact that none of those things were scene but it would have been cool if they were.

How to make a quilt for ever lasting memories.

Princes Leah.
Princes Leah and her hair buns.
Princes Leah and her gold bikini.
Princes Leah and her hair buns and her gold bikini and how she seems to like fat guys.
Princes Leah and fat guys and what might be her home phone number.

Recipes for losing weight or becoming an interstellar smuggler.

That chick who reads this blog.
That chick who will no longer talk to us.
That chick who thinks we are a bunch of disgusting jagoffs but yet bad boy sexy.
That chick who thinks that she can fix us.
That chick who wishes we drove a motorcycle with a carseat on the back because that would be cool.

Aprons.

That chick at the zoo.
That chick at Shatto Milk Company.
That chick at the civil war battlefield.
That chick at the Library.
That chick on the hiking trail.

The best way to put in a carseat.

There you go. That's just about all that we talk about. I hope that I have shown our wives that yes, we can be a little neanderthal at times, but underneath all of that is a caring husband who has a nurturing side. Someone that doesn't just think unpure thoughts all day like it is rumored that men do. Someone that can cook you a kick ass dinner and make sure that the kids aren't jumping off the roof.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go sleep on the couch for a couple of days until that chick at the flower shop hooks me up and gets me those roses.

Wow

Where did I put the kids clothes. I just had them? Seriously, where did they go?

There they are, draped over the empty bottle of wine that Hossmom and I polished off last night.

You stay classy San Diego.